The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  An astronomer, with a chest full of celestial maps, would have laboured to decipher the emotions that eclipsed his face before a shutter of indifference was lowered. ‘Wishes are a child’s game,’ he replied stiffly. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a green silk ribbon. ‘Here, send this to Catherine in your next letter. You may, of course, say that it is from you.’

  ‘I hope you do not intend to eat all of those, Céci!’ Two tankards of ale and a cup of perry were set upon the table, accompanied by Armand’s smiling face.

  ‘Oh, oui!’ spluttered Bellegarde. ‘And pork is harvested from the treetops. Your cousin eats like a sparrow. What news?’

  ‘We are safe for the nonce,’ announced Armand, lowering his voice. ‘There is no word in this district of anyone searching for a young woman.’ My sigh of relief was echoed across the board.

  ‘Still, to be sure, we shall not linger,’ replied Bellegarde. ‘And what of you? Are you recalled?’

  Armand wiped a coating of froth from his top lip. ‘Non, not yet.’

  ‘Good. As soon as the horse arrives, I will take it and Cécile back to the inn. You send word for Bertrand to meet us in Amiens.’ He glanced at me. ‘He is the man who has been entrusted to our service and will carry your sister’s letter.’

  ‘Aah, here she is now. Look, Gillet, come see her.’ A stableman led a large, thickset horse towards us. ‘For Madame Duvall,’ added my cousin, winking mischievously. ‘Do you think it is broad enough?’

  Armand stepped down to greet the farrier and Bellegarde drained his tankard. As he walked past me he stopped to press something into my hand. ‘In case you should choose sackcloth, you can decorate it on Sundays.’

  As the two men inspected the horse, I stared at the prettiest deep blue ribbon looping my palm.

  And so I finish this letter, Catherine, for we make our departure tomorrow for Amiens. It does not escape my attention that every league north brings me closer to you.

  May God keep you in His merciful care.

  Written by Cécile d’Armagnac, The Golden Horseshoe Inn, Compiègne, 5 July 10 Jean II.

  Gillet de Bellegarde tossed restlessly and thumped his bolster as though it were his pillow’s fault he could not sleep. The family in the market place – the mother with the infant – had disturbed him. He rolled onto his back, lacing his hands beneath his head, and stared at the low, beamed ceiling. A simple life, a home, a wife, children. Why had it evaded him?

  But then his childhood had not yielded sugared plums. He’d been the curse that had killed his mother. She had lingered feebly for only a handful of months following his birth. Shunned by his father, he’d been raised by the servants. His older brothers, following the patriclinous example, had ignored him. His sisters had merely wanted him to fetch and carry. At a mere four years of age he’d been set beneath the gate of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, to enter page service. It was a wonder they had not left him on the doorstep in a basket.

  With height yet to give him advantage, and the youngest boy in service, he’d been easy prey for the other lads. Gillet lowered his arms and idly ran his finger over the rippled scar on his forearm. That was when he’d learned that his fists could become weapons but, sent home for Yuletide, his father’s belt had suggested otherwise. There had been no love beneath those rafters. Returning to his duties, he’d faced further taunting, cruel tricks and more beatings than the parlour’s rug for the wet linen on his bed. Then one boy had decided it was time he learned the ways of the world. Seven years older, the swaggering bully had ordered him held down while his clothes had been stripped. Forced spread-eagle across the woodchopper’s block, his innocent mind was quick to grasp the concept. He’d seen animals mated but this was against God’s plan. He’d watched in horror as his tormentor had loosened his braies, his hand pulling at his groin. Struggling madly, he had screamed loud enough to wake the dead. His prayers had been answered. An archangel had appeared, hurtling his offender so hard against the stable wall and driving him with earthly fists that bones had cracked. The rest were dispatched with equal fervour and from that day forward the fifteen-year-old squire had become his guardian and mentor. Gillet smiled into the darkness. It had been the start of a lifelong friendship and he was the first man Gillet respected. The sandy-haired saint had not descended from Heaven but he did bear the name of an apostle – Simon.

  To my most beloved sister, Cécile d’Armagnac.

  Beloved sister, your letter of early July arrived safely this very morn, handed to Lord Wexford by Monsieur Bertrand as arranged by Gillet. My new guardian then called me to his library in order to provide me with sufficient privacy to read it, for Anaïs has, as I had feared, invaded the sanctuary of my room.

  I am sure that she does not believe Lord Wexford when he requests my assistance with the reorganising of his books. However, I do not think she has realised that this is a ruse to provide me with the opportunity to correspond with you. I believe that Anaïs has convinced herself that the Earl and I are currently engaged in a rather sinful relationship. This somewhat amuses Lord Wexford. I am appalled by such a suggestion and wish I could rigorously defend my honour but circumstances dictate otherwise. Nevertheless, I refuse to rise to her bait and give her no quarter. I simply cannot imagine myself attached to a man! In fact, I wish I could refuse his invitations but as this is the only way I can correspond with you, my dearest, then it must be borne.

  I send prayers of thanks to our Lord, for your health appears much restored and I will continue to offer penance for your soul.

  11 July

  Lord Wexford informs me that Anaïs has been accompanied to the market, for she requires new clothing, her expanding girth making her present gowns too small. She is to spend the evening with a reputed seamstress before returning late today or early tomorrow. So, my dearest, I am blessed, for I am alone in the library and have all afternoon to sit and write to you.

  I must admit, at first I was quite distressed by the prospect of spending many hours with the Earl. However, I quickly understood the need to curtail my emotions, for when I am in his company I do not feel Anaïs’ constant barbs digging at me. She uses her condition and newly elevated status to manipulate every situation and constantly interrupts my sleep, crying out for my assistance. It may be a drink, a wet cloth, a pillow, a blanket or any other item that has mysteriously moved out of her reach.

  I am resolved to bear it all. I pray to the Virgin to help me find the strength to repel the sinful feelings I experience in these moments. But my piety may be slipping. I had thought my many years of training would have prepared me for such tasks but it would seem that Lady Mary St Pol was correct. She thought me ill-suited to the convent.

  I previously wrote of Sir Eustace and Lady Elizabeth d’Aubedcicourt. Elizabeth is the widow of John, the Earl of Kent, younger brother of Joan. Lord Wexford has arranged for them to dine this evening and, as Anaïs will be conveniently absent, I am looking forward with much excitement to their visit. Sensing my keen interest, my guardian has recently provided me with a little more information about Elizabeth and her marriage to John.

  It would appear that John was born posthumously, his father, Prince Edmund, having been beheaded for supporting the deposed Edward II. He was tricked into believing that the former King was still alive and needed rescuing from the clutches of Mortimer. Raised in exile with his mother, Margaret, Baroness Wake of Liddell, John later married Elizabeth, the granddaughter of Count William V of Holland and sister to our Queen Philippa. He died several years ago and Lady Elizabeth has but just remarried. For such a lady to agree to dine with Lord Wexford, it does display the esteem many hold for his company. However, given her connection to the court, I am sure that my conversation will be less than entertaining.

  So I will lay down my quill and take time with my ablutions, brush out my hair and then sit and pray for the courage to face Lady Elizabeth. You have my promise I shall faithfully record all that I learn.

  12 July

 
; Due to the circumstances by which I took to my bed last night I decided to wait until this morning to tell you everything I was able to discover from Lady d’Aubedcicourt, but I must make haste for Anaïs is to return shortly.

  Upon returning to my room last evening I discovered the most beautiful of gowns laid out across my bed. It was emerald in colour, similar to that of the ribbon you so very thoughtfully sent and of a material so soft and so fine. I simply could not truly describe it to you for I have never before seen anything like it. Understanding that I needed to be well-attired for the evening’s occasion, I supposed Lord Wexford had taken the liberty. I washed and changed hurriedly, my expectations building, for I could not imagine myself garbed in such an exquisite piece. The feelings I experienced as I slipped my head through the opening were bordering on sinful, so wide was my grin, but it did not take me long to realise that I needed assistance to tie the laces.

  Opening my door, I peered down the hallway where normally a bevy of maids could be found. But not tonight for the hall was deserted, most likely as a result of the increased workload in the kitchen. Deciding the best course was to tiptoe down to the rear stairs, I lifted the hem and set off. I did not get far.

  ‘I see you like the gown.’

  His voice was unmistakable. How could I have forgotten the likelihood that he would be in his private chamber?

  ‘But I must advise you that in the interest of modesty you should tighten it.’

  I froze. I was so embarrassed I could not turn and let him see my now flushed cheeks. With two strides he was upon me and I stiffened as his hands brushed my lower back, his fingers making light work of the laces, pulling at both sides so that my bust was forcibly repositioned into the snugly fitting bodice. He did not wait for me to turn, simply walked around to face me, staring for a moment before taking hold of the skirt just above my ankles. He tugged it down several times. This action only helped reveal more of my cleavage than I had ever before exposed. I was mortified!

  ‘Well, now it suits you fine – the colour I mean and I am not referring to the green,’ he said before smiling broadly and marching away.

  Oh, my dear sister, all the burgeoning confidence I had been building simply disappeared. What kind of man is this Lord Wexford to take such liberties with a woman? I’m sure I will never know. I had thought I was going to faint away but it did not happen. I merely stood and gasped for air. I longed to return to my room but to do so would have risked losing the best chance we may have had to discover more of our parents. I closed my eyes, prayed for strength and continued downstairs.

  At first, Lady Elizabeth appeared to be quite demure and reserved for she hardly spoke during supper – only two or three words when addressed. Sir Eustace, on the other hand was intelligent and charming, a man whose conversation was light and enjoyable and who took every opportunity to encourage me to partake.

  Late in the evening Lord Wexford invited Sir Eustace to view his library. Feeling this to be my signal I led Lady Elizabeth over to the deep-set window seat in the hope that I could draw something from her. Imagine my surprise to discover that once her husband had left the room she became most lively and keen to learn of my circumstance.

  ‘The Lady Philippa tells me that you are the guest of Lord Wexford?’ Her eyebrows rose in a quizzical manner.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘How do you find him?’

  ‘He is a kind and considerate gentleman.’

  ‘Really?’ she smirked. ‘There are not many who would believe that!’

  ‘I am not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Well, I have known Lord Wexford for a great many years, far longer than I think you have, and I know him to be extremely arrogant and rather offensive.’ Her smile was unmistakable. It was as if she had been harbouring these questions all evening. Was she testing my loyalty or looking for gossip?

  ‘Yes, he can be rude, but I have not found him to be offensive.’ I could not believe my own ears. I was actually defending him!

  ‘Mayhap you find him attractive, for he is handsome, verily so, but his pride and conceit are nearly as large as his girth! There is no room in his heart for love of anyone other than himself.’

  I turned away from her, hiding my indignation for though he may be fond of his own company, he has also provided Anaïs and me with sanctuary. ‘Have no fear, I could not feel anything but gratitude towards Lord Wexford, for he is but providing me with much needed accommodation, whilst I seek knowledge of my family.’

  She put down her goblet and placed her hand over mine. ‘Yes, he has told me of your situation.’

  ‘Has he?’ I was a little taken aback and somewhat fearful that he would reveal our secret to none other than the aunt of the Black Prince.

  ‘Do not worry,’ she replied, noting my concern, ‘for I do not believe there are many in London much interested in the plight of an unwanted ward.’

  So he had told her something, but not the truth. Was it possible that he did not trust her completely? If that were so nor should I. ‘I suppose you are correct. However, I would not want my situation to tarnish the good name of Holland.’

  ‘Oh, of course not. Now tell me, what is it that you would like to ask?’

  Slipping my hands from under hers, I fetched the wine jug, refilling both drinking vessels before once more sitting next to Lady Elizabeth. Her smile was patient but I did not like her, the connection to Woodstock too close to contemplate. And there was something missing, some hint of discretion, which I knew a lady of substance should have exhibited.

  ‘I am unsure being that I know so little about my background. I would like to learn more of the Lady Joan and Sir Thomas, as it appears that I am connected in some small way to their household.’

  ‘Certainly, my dear.’ Placing her goblet on the window ledge, she turned her full attention to me. ‘Joan Woodstock is the granddaughter of King Edward I and beloved daughter of Margaret Wake. She is married to Thomas Holland, a Knight of the Garter,’ she continued before sipping on her wine. ‘They have five children, the youngest, Matilda, born only last year. They reside at Broughton but spend much time in France.’

  ‘I had learned that,’ I replied, desperately wishing she would reveal more. ‘They seem to be a very respectable family.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but it wasn’t always the case.’ Shifting closer to me, she lowered her head as if to reveal something sinister. ‘There was a scandal, many years back,’ she whispered, her speech now slightly slurred as she turned to check that the room was, indeed, empty of all other ears but mine. Once again she refilled her empty cup and, taking several deep gulps, she continued, ‘It was about the time that Thomas returned from the Prussian wars. He stated that he had married Joan when she was not more than twelve years, and he not much older, but whilst he was away she had bigamously married another.’

  I gasped.

  ‘Yes, my dear, quite terrible it was. Thomas went to the King and then the Pope, demanding the union be annulled.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ I replied. ‘How awful.’

  ‘It was the talk at court for many months.’ She nodded her head, as though reinforcing her story, before finishing her fourth goblet of wine. ‘My mother told me that Joan had been forced into the second marriage as her condition could no longer be hidden.’

  ‘Her condition?’

  ‘She was with child!’ Elizabeth snorted her disgust. ‘You’d think she would have been pleased by such a judicious union, but that was not the case. But then I cannot imagine I would be happy living with that formidable family?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What family do you mean?’

  ‘Why, Salisbury, of course! She was with child to that cruel little William of Salisbury.’

  I suddenly felt quite ill as though I had eaten something bad, my stomach lurching in a sickening manner as the colour drained from my face. ‘What happened to the babe?’ I whispered.

  Elizabeth flicked her hand. ’Apparently she lost it! No one knows for sure. Oh, my
dear, are you unwell?’ She rose from her seat.

  ‘Please forgive me, Lady Elizabeth,’ I gasped, fighting to gather as much air as I could into my lungs.

  ‘Stay here.’ She stumbled to her feet and dashed from the room.

  The walls swayed and the colours swirled as his face reappeared in front of me. Those words, in the corridor at Denny Abbey, I heard them again so clearly – ‘I know what you are, you and your sister! Teasing whores! Just like your mother!’

  Cécile, I could not believe it. My last thought, before blackness enveloped me, was could this be the truth? Is Joan our mother and Salisbury our father? I awoke later upon my bed. It was dark with only a single candle bringing the barest of light to the room. I could hear nothing, no movement below and no Anaïs in the corner. I assumed that our guests had gone home and my maid had yet to return. Lifting my head I felt a new wave of nausea assail my senses. But I was not alone and immediately regretted the moan that I had just uttered.

  ‘At last you are awake.’ Lord Wexford sat rather impetuously upon my bed. ‘I thought you of all people would be aware of the sin of overindulgence. In future I will have to keep the wine with me when you are unsupervised.’ I could clearly imagine the smugness on his face. How delightful he must have found my situation but, lacking skills or the confidence to defend myself, I was unable to reply.

  ‘However, a number of things I have been left to ponder,’ he continued. ‘I found the wine jug to be more than half full, much like your goblet, yet Lady Elizabeth, when she burst through the doors of my library, appeared very unsteady on her feet. She was a little ashen of face and even, dare I say, a little guilty? Could it be that she was responsible for your condition?’

  He rose from the bed and, as I peered out through half closed lids, I could see him standing near to me. Very gently he placed a sweet smelling cloth upon my forehead, patting it several times and drawing the blanket up over my shoulders before he turned and left the room.