The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘No, in this you are wrong, for I did not know. I suspected and that is a very different thing. Anything Lady St Pol told me was given in the strictest of confidence and even then it was merely implied. I was under no obligation to share it. My duty is, and always has been, to protect you’

  ‘Oh, really? Do the names Sir Eustace and Lady Elizabeth d’Aubedcicourt mean anything? Simon invited them to dinner for Catherine’s amusement.’

  Bellegarde blanched.

  ‘Your friend had Catherine dine with the aunt of the Black Prince! Is this your idea of protection?’

  He strode a few paces, his fists clenching, and let fly a ripe oath. Spinning, he stormed back, his temper as fired as mine.

  ‘Do you honestly believe that Simon would place Catherine in danger? Lady Elizabeth is a harmless old gossip who has little contact with her sister and spends even less time in London. Jesu! Simon was attempting to help, more fool him. He has inadvertently uncovered a dangerous truth, which, may I remind you, was hidden for reasons that we have yet to discover.’

  ‘Catherine did discover it. The truth is our father!’

  He at least had the decency to look shocked. ‘Your father?’

  ‘William of Salisbury!’

  Bellegarde froze, his complexion turning a whiter shade of pale.

  ‘Oui, you may well stand there like a plaguey statue! Hopefully a flock of pigeons think you are one. Mon Dieu. I am “Cécile of Salisbury!”’ Incensed by Bellegarde’s lack of response, I pummelled his chest, my anger and tears finally spilling over. ‘Do you realise what an insult this is to my papa? I never would have lain with Edward had I known. ’

  He grabbed my wrists to still my pathetic pounding and stared, unseeing, into the clouds. ‘Saints preserve us.’

  My fury vented, I pulled away. ‘Cécile of Salisbury,’ I choked. ‘And she has the effrontery to be called a “maid!”’ I thumped my forehead. ‘ Jesu! Her hair! What colour is her hair?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joan of Kent, fool. What colour is her hair?’

  ‘I … I … dark … auburn.’

  ‘God’s sake!’ I stumbled back and doubled in half as though I had been struck by a blow.

  ‘Cécile,’ Bellegarde came to his senses and quickly moved to my side but I palmed him off and stepped away, helpless, as oceans of mistrust ebbed and flowed within my breast.

  ‘Edward knew. He plaguey well knew.’ I swayed with dizziness and grabbed the nearby wattle framework, the thorny roses biting into my flesh. ‘God grant me mercy! Let me wake from this nightmare.’

  A shadow floated behind me, but it was hands, real enough, that gently prised mine from the sharp vine and wiped the bloodied scratches. Soft lips brushed against my torn skin. ‘Please, Cécile, do not be angry with me. I would have done all to have kept you from Edward.’

  ‘How can you utter such a lie?’ He visibly stiffened. ‘Edward spoke of marrying me to one of his lords. A man whose outstanding debts would ensure he turned a blind eye to his new wife spending her nights in the royal bed. He sent for Salisbury. I thought Edward meant for me to marry him but he must have guessed Salisbury was my true father.’

  Bellegarde turned ashen. ‘You were to be married?’

  ‘Yes but it was merely an embroidered coverlet to hide the blood stained sheets.’

  ‘Mercy, Cécile.’

  ‘Mercy? Who showed me mercy? You were supposed to be protecting me, remember?’

  His anger rekindled and bequeathed some colour to his cheeks. ‘Yes but I saw you, remember? In Edward’s arms, lolling half naked! And if I recall correctly, I did not see you object. You were wearing his rubies, the gift he bestows upon his favourites. I believed you were already his mistress.’

  ‘Oh!’ I recoiled as if I had been hit by a crossbow bolt.

  ‘Cécile!’ He grabbed my arm as I stumbled.

  ‘Gillet, I am not French. My blood is English!’

  He scooped me into his arms as I faltered and strode to the stone bench. He set me down gently. A strangled sob escaped me and I gripped his doublet.

  ‘Everything that is dear to me, everything that I have grown with is French. All that I know and love is destroyed. Every morsel in which I ever believed. I have lost it all! What Frenchman would have me now?’ I buried my head, crying as though my heart would break.

  His arms enfolded me as I wept for years of deceit, his voice agonisingly gentle. ‘Cécile, your heart is French. All that with which you have grown cannot be swept away so quickly. A lifetime of memories and a loving family are far more valuable than the country of your birth. No one will love you or see you as less, no one will ever know, save if you choose to tell them. Lady, the way you stand, your southern accent, your manners and charm, they are all French and will forever be so. No one can take that away.’

  ‘Do you truly believe that?’

  ‘Lady, I do, with all my heart and so should you.’ He thumbed away the tears. ‘You may have started life as Salisbury’s grain of sand, but you have grown into Armagnac’s pearl. Cécile, you will always be French to me.’

  For a moment time stood still as our eyes locked. I read the acceptance in his, and something more, something indefinable, as though a curtain had parted and I caught a glimpse of his soul.

  He smiled slowly. ‘We should go in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood and pulled me to my feet, brushing a wayward curl into obedience. ‘And you do Frenchmen a terrible injustice.’ His hand slid behind my neck and he drew me into an intimate embrace. What started as light but lingering intensified. He pressed me firmly against his strong body, his tongue parting my lips and enticing a rising passion. The headiest of wine could not compare to the sweet intoxication of this man’s kiss. Leisurely, he withdrew but his eyes, dark and heavily lidded, held me captive. I could scarcely breathe. He smiled. ‘Truce?’

  ‘Truce.’

  20 July

  The weather turned foul and two days of pelting rain saw Gillet and Armand stranded in the village. That left me ensconced in Madame Duvall’s company. Huffing impatience, I flung my loathed needlework lesson onto the chair and walked to the window of the inn’s salon. She would do better trying to teach a snake to fly! I stared morosely at the bleak mist beyond as my chaperon continued to work her tapestry. The silence hung between us more ominous than the thunderclouds outside.

  ‘Twill do you no good to brood,’ she eventually commented. ‘They will return when they return and not a moment before. No doubt bearing more gifts to pamper your every whim.’

  She was referring to the new set of vair tippets that graced the sleeves of my pink bliaut, and the beaded, cordon leather belt.

  ‘They spoil you needlessly, those two. Now, were you my ward, I would not put up with such nonsense. Nothing wrong with good homespun.’

  ‘Then I count myself lucky that I am not your ward.’

  She harrumphed into her sewing. ‘You poke at your food, waste candles burning them all night and you are far too outspoken. No wonder Monsieur de Bellegarde hired me!’ She poked her finger into the air and the underside of her arm wobbled. ‘Then you go fluttering your lashes and these men turn to custard and indulge you all the more! Don’t think I haven’t seen the looks.’

  I turned to stare at her. ‘What looks?’

  ‘You and Monsieur de Bellegarde.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  She eyed my new accessories pointedly. ‘Men! Humph! More money than sense.’

  I examined her own, recently acquired ensemble, a costly, deep brown brocade trimmed with cony. ‘And I suppose you cursed that “sense” this morning when you dressed. I think not, Madame.’

  ‘Be that as it may, their brains are still located in their essentials! At least I know they are exercising those parts elsewhere.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Where do you think they go on their little trips to the village, hmm?’

  ‘They visit their informants t
o gather the latest news – Armand told me so.’

  She stilled her needlework and glared at me. ‘And what sort of place houses such folk? Think they chat over needles and threads at the haberdashrye? In Amiens it’s called The Mews.’ She set to her stitching again. ‘Aptly named for its rooms above, mewing being the state of hawks when they shed their feathers.’

  ‘You mean it’s full of …?’

  ‘Whores. Precisely.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  With my hand clamped firmly over my mouth, I ran to my room in desperate need of the privy pot. To think I had actually let him kiss me!

  The door squeaked open and a cold cloth was placed into my hands as I bent over the bowl.

  ‘You are immature and headstrong and have much to learn about the ways of men.’

  I took the wet cloth and collapsed onto my bed. ‘Well, you shall be spared that task, Madame,’ I said breathlessly. ‘You take your leave of us in Arras.’

  She sat down on the stool and patted her wild hair into place with a sniff. ‘I will take my leave of the Messieurs.’

  I peeked out from under the cold compress. ‘Would you care to explain?’

  ‘Only that Monsieur d’Albret is expecting to be recalled to his soldier’s duties and Monsieur de Bellegarde will return to London, just as soon as he sees you settled.’ She picked up the privy pot and walked to the door. Her face suddenly softened. ‘Silly child. Where did you think the Monsieur intended to leave you?’

  Stunned, I lowered my head onto the pillow. Gillet was planning to leave me in Madame le Dragon’s lair while he returned to Anaïs? He had said nothing of this to me.

  My insides twisted but I realised it was not my stomach. It was my heart. The door pushed open and Desirée, one of the two resident cats, ran in and leaped up onto my bed. She settled herself beside me and, discovering the salted butter from my meal encrusted beneath my nails, set about gnawing my fingers. Her purr was comforting.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t understand the needs of men,’ I told her emphatically, stroking the midnight fur, ‘and it’s certainly not as though I belong to Bellegarde.’ A tear trickled to the end of my nose and hung like a lost raindrop. ‘It’s just that I thought … I thought …’ Another joined it and, embracing each other, they splashed onto the cat. ‘I thought he actually liked me,’ I whispered. Desirée meowed in complete empathy. ‘Well, he doesn’t, Cécile d’Armagnac! And what did I expect? He blames me for my weakness as a woman. He does not know how the Prince threatened. But I will not be forced to stay with Madame Duvall. I will not! Unless she were to be persuaded to change her mind. Then Armand would have no choice but to take me with him.’ Desirée had lost interest. She was too busy chewing at my thumbnail.

  Gillet and Armand returned the following day. The sun rose brightly and a strong north wind had driven away the clouds. As I came downstairs and rounded the corner, I saw Gillet dropping coins into Thomas, the innkeeper’s, palm. Flinging myself back against the wall, I beckoned the cat in my grasp to be still.

  ‘No more than two servings and always watered down. Ale and cider is permissible.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur de Bellegarde. Mulled wine is favourable?’

  ‘Mulled is fine, but watered down. I do not want to find Madame Duvall in her cups, ever, or there will be hell to pay.’ Thomas bowed as Gillet stepped toward the salon.

  So, Madame has a ‘little problem.’ I sat on the stairs and tickled Danette’s ears. Desirée padded around the corner in search of her furry counterpart and leaped onto my lap. They rolled in play as the first stirrings of an idea unfolded. Hearing footsteps approach, I shooed the cats and stood, brushing down my skirt.

  ‘There you are, Cécile. I was coming to collect you to break our fast.’ Gillet sidestepped two retreating dark streaks. ‘I see you have made some friends.’

  ‘Oui,’ I remarked dryly, ‘one never knows when one may need two new companions.’ I slid past him, Madame Duvall’s revelations of the day before still stinging.

  Gillet and Armand could not fail to notice the tension that presided at our table. Neither the Madame nor I would be drawn into conversation. They shrugged their shoulders and lapsed into silence, each intent upon devouring their meal.

  Tactfully retiring to my room, I was adding to this letter when a knock sounded at my door. It was Gillet and with cool detachment I returned to my table without sparing him a second glance.

  ‘You were unusually quiet this morning. Has one of Thomas’s cats stolen your tongue?’ He settled himself with eminence upon the edge of my bed. My quill scratched on regardless. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘Should it not be?’

  ‘I am not sure. I thought … well, you might have decided that you are angry with me for some reason. Would you please put that down?’

  I instantly dropped the quill. ‘And what reason would I have to be angry? Can you think of one?’

  ‘I suppose you might be out of sorts because we stayed in the village the last two nights but at least The Mews was dry and preferable to a solid soaking. Armand was on a winning streak and reluctant to leave.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘So you were at The Mews!’ Abruptly I turned and took up my quill. It would be too much to hope that the plume would fan the ruddy hue from my cheeks. ‘What you do in your own time is your business.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Then is it because of what happened in the garden?’ An uneasy silence prevailed. ‘God’s nails, Cécile! Do you want me to apologise?’

  I slammed my fledge to the table and ink splattered in all directions. ‘You need not worry, Monsieur. Your behaviour the other night is already forgotten.’

  ‘I see. Pardon me for disturbing you.’ He stood and brushed the cat hair from his chausses before placing a small purse next to your letter.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It occurred to me that you may wish to make some personal purchases from time to time.’

  ‘Why? Is that the cost of kisses these days?’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘Your pardon, Lady. How thoughtless of me. Your preference is rubies, non? Good day to you.’

  He marched to the door and threw it open. The innkeeper’s two cats raced in with accompanying yowls. ‘I wouldn’t accept milk from her,’ he quipped as they jumped onto my bed. ‘She has a way of turning everything sour!’

  I have stayed the hours in my room, preferring the company of Danette and Desirée. They have taken to sleeping the nights with me and since the rain the days as well. However, upon learning from Armand, who called to see me mid-afternoon, that Gillet was venturing out again, I decided that tonight I would sleep alone.

  After dinner, Bellegarde slid out from the table, gulping the dregs from his tankard in a surly manner. ‘I am away.’ His gaze slid over me. ‘I am sure you will welcome your cousin’s company tonight.’

  Armand winked at me, unaware of the dissension between myself and the courier. ‘I hope to improve her skills at chess.’

  ‘Then be careful what you teach her.’ Gillet threw his cloak around his shoulders. ‘She is a fast learner and has a rare grasp of a conspirator’s mind.’ He nodded to Armand. ‘I shall return by midnight.’

  With a good measure of resentment for the female arms that must be awaiting him, I watched Gillet quit the inn.

  As anticipated, Madame Duvall joined us and Armand set up the chessboard. Excusing myself on the pretext of needing the garderobe, I went into the taproom to see Étienne, the inn’s barkeep. With Gillet gone, it was time to put my plan into effect.

  The barkeep’s eyes lit up when I leaned over the counter, the cut of my bodice nicely in view.

  ‘Étienne,’ I crooned, ‘we wish to celebrate tonight. It would please me very much to have some of your best wine.’

  A shadow crossed his face and he stammered awkwardly, ‘Ma–Ma–Mademoiselle, Tom–Thomas said the Ma–Madame must have only watered wine, as you know.’

  I slowly ran my fingers d
own my neck to plunge into my cleavage and drew out a coin.

  Étienne’s eyes followed eagerly.

  ‘I know. But you can trust me.’ I leaned further. ‘I will make sure to add water.’

  Étienne’s eyes gleamed and he coughed, scratching behind his ear. ‘I don’t know, Ma–Mademoiselle. Mon– Mon–Monsieur de Bellegarde was very precise.’

  I scooped another coin and dropped it next to the first.

  Étienne licked his lips.

  I continued until there lay a small pile of gold. Three jugs of wine appeared on the table. Returning to the salon, I puffed out my cheeks with a sigh of relief. I had no idea what value lay in the coins but as Étienne’s eyes had shifted from my breasts to gaze intently on the growing mound, I knew it had been more than enough.

  For the next few hours Armand, Madame Duvall and I debated, rather than played chess, and I kept their cups full. We laughed and joked and finally, at my deliberate ploy, pushed the board aside and took to recounting chilling folklore. In the dimness of the now deserted room, I implored Armand to tell us the tales of Long Lankin, the beast that lived on the English moors, and Bean Seidh, the wailing banshee who howled a warning of death. When he fell quiet, I begged him to tell us more, knowing he would choose the Adh Seidh next. As a child, I had cringed into Jean le Bossu’s lap many times whilst listening to my cousin’s repertoire.

  His voice grew quiet and I could barely contain myself as I watched Madame le Dragon shrink into her cave. Her eyes were glazed and she swayed in her seat, her jowls falling slack as she listened intently. Armand’s face was animated in the telling.

  ‘Adh Seidh are the most gruesome spirits of the Irish. To encounter them is to face death itself. They are terrifying in appearance with black hair and witch-like fangs that can strip the flesh from your face,’ he hissed. Madame Duvall’s jaw dropped as Armand clawed the air. ‘They are hungriest after midnight, and move in pairs, thriving upon the guilty and the weak-willed, to rid the world of sinners. Bite upon bite,’ Armand gnashed his teeth and I had to pinch myself hard to keep from laughing, ‘slowly they devour their victim. Ripping flesh from bones and sucking every last drop of blood they start at the top,’ he ran a hand over his cheeks,