The Gilded Crown (53 page)

‘But had I been a few days earlier.'

‘And if I could sprout wings and breathe fire, I would be a dragon!' Roderick lifted the large flagon he had perched on his knee and gulped down the ale. ‘It's not your fault, Armand.'

‘What do you suppose—?'

Roderick thrust his hand towards Armand, cutting him off. They could both hear the disturbance in the courtyard. Armand drew his sword and eased open the stable door.

‘What do ya mean ya were told ta bring 'er here?' The stable-master was shaking his finger at a man atop a cart.

‘She said Lord Odistoun would pay.'

‘Pay for what?' Armand stepped forward, his blade glistening in the sunlight.

‘For 'er safe delivery.' The man climbed down from the cart and threw back the cover.

Roderick looked over the side and gasped. ‘Good Lord, it's Tiphanie!

Roderick scooped the young woman into his arms and carried her into the hall. Agnes immediately appeared, along with Simon, Walter and Beatrix.

‘The merchant said she hailed him down on the road outside Leith and begged him to bring her to Craigmillar.' Armand closed the door behind him.

Roderick sat the battered girl in the high-backed chair by the fire.

‘Lady Wexford …' Tiphanie's eyes fluttered open as she struggled to sit unaided.

‘Lady Wexford is asleep.' Agnes reached for Tiphanie's hand. ‘What happened?'

‘Lady Dunbar?'

‘Yes, Tiphanie.'

‘I … I rolled out of the cart. I had to get away. I had to warn Lady Wexford.'

Agnes turned over Tiphanie's arm. Her wrist was ringed with deep-purple bruises and her sleeve encrusted with dried blood. ‘Where are you injured?'

‘A man and a woman came to our room and demanded we give them Gabby. I tried to stop them but was struck down.' Tiphanie reached for the side of her face, lifting her hair to reveal a large gash to her temple. ‘I remember waking to the cries of an infant, but I could not get up. Girda was lying beside me. She was tied up.' A trickle of blood ran down her cheek and soaked into the neck of her gown. ‘I heard them talking about Lady Wexford and her sister, so when the cart slowed, I rolled to the rear and Girda pushed against me until I fell out. The merchant found me on the side of the road and agreed to bring me to Craigmillar.'

‘And you were near Leith?' Roderick asked.

‘The man said the inn was close to the river. I remember because the woman was complaining that their last accommodation was not sufficient for her taste.'

Roderick snorted. ‘Sounds like Anaïs!'

‘Beatrix, can you please order a bath and victuals for Tiphanie?' Simon placed his hand on the young woman's shoulder. ‘I will have Agnes look you over and dress your wound.'

‘Lord Wexford, the baby who was crying … it was not Gabby.'

‘Are you sure?' Simon asked.

‘Gabby rarely causes much fuss and this child was bellowing.' Tiphanie closed her eyes. ‘They will find it difficult to appease an infant in such distress.'

‘Roderick, saddle the horses,' Simon instructed his brother.

‘I am coming with you.' Catherine stood in the doorway, her cloak in her hands.

‘No. It is far too dangerous.'

‘Gabby and John Petit will need me,' Catherine pleaded.

Simon looked at Catherine and sighed. ‘Armand, would you escort my wife? It will allow me to ride ahead with Roderick.'

‘I am at your service,' Armand agreed.

‘I will go with them,' Walter offered, his face displaying genuine concern.

Simon nodded his consent but was regretting his decision even before he reached the stables.

Gillet watched his servants pass through the gatehouse at Blanquefort castle. The leather-sided carriage trundled over the moat bridge and out onto the road. Griffith was taking them to the inn where Gabriel resided. The idea had been Odette's and, with Arn's assistance, Gillet had procured a conveyance to carry everyone's baggage, their departure disguised as an urgent visit to the dressmaker by the Mistress of the Wardrobe.

‘I cannot be delayed in the repair of these outfits,' bawled Odette to the gate's porter. Two of Cécile's gowns were strategically laid out covering the Albret household's luggage beneath. ‘I will not be held responsible just because neither their wearers nor creators can admit to the garments being one size too small! And the incompetence of the castle's seamstress is beyond belief. Now, let us pass.'

Griffith rode Inferno, the cantankerous steed concealed beneath a caparison of green chevrons but attracting no more attention than a guard's smirk for his bad behaviour. The squire's own placid beast was harnessed to the cart. Minette was atop Ruby, her mare in the possession of the new page boy who still had not uttered a word. He rode with his head bowed on his chest.

When the carriage had been lost to sight, Gillet strolled idly to the stables. There he sat down on the well and permitted himself a sigh of relief. He dipped the ladle into the fresh water and glancing at the sun, judged it to be approaching Nones. The apt ringing of the monastery bells confirmed the suspicion. His focus shifted to a low bank of clouds gathering on the horizon and he was unsure whether to hope for an evening storm. The cover of darkness would see Gabriel waiting at the southern wall with a rope for his and Cécile's escape and Gillet could not decide if bad weather might assist or hinder. He threw the ladle back into the bucket and headed for his wife's chamber to wait in secluded safety. With their possessions gone, they had little with which to amuse themselves for the next few hours. Gillet's indulgent smile curved his cheeks. He could think of a way, or a few ways to pass the time.

The corridor outside Cécile's chamber was empty so Gillet dispensed with the pleasantry of a knock and let himself in. He knew he was expected. He just didn't realise by whom.

Standing alongside the far wall, Bonneuil had his arm around Cécile, pressing her against him like a shield, his dagger poised on the pulse in her throat.

‘Come in, Albret. We've been waiting.'

The blood drained from Gillet's face. He shut the door and held out his hand. ‘Easy, Bonneuil. Our fight is between us. It has nothing to do with Lady Holland.'

‘Ah, but you see,' retorted Bonneuil, ‘this has nothing to do with our fight and
everything
to do with Lady Holland. She knows where Odette went and will not say.' Time suspended itself and though Gillet was missing two guards to hold him down, for a moment he could have sworn they were back at the inn in Calais.

Bonneuil realised it also. He tore Cécile's head around by the hair and inhaled sharply. ‘By the blood of Christ! If I am not mistaken, is she not your whore from Calais?' His gaze rolled down her front. ‘What happened to the child?'

‘Lady
Holland
was never a whore,' stated Gillet, evenly. He took a step closer. ‘And I'd be asking
whose
child she carried before you make any rash moves, Bonneuil. The Prince of Wales does not like his mistresses skewered onto the end of a steel rod. It tends to peeve him.'

Bonneuil looked confused. ‘But in Calais you were …'

‘Taking advantage of the situation, I grant you, but why else do you suppose the Lady is at this court? Think about it. I was merely delivering her to the Prince, remember? Your burst of heroism cost me dearly in Calais and I do not forget we have a score to settle but not now and not in this room.' Bonneuil's bewilderment stayed his hand and Gillet pressed further. ‘Let Lady Holland go, Bonneuil.' Gillet took another step.

Bonneuil drew himself upright and tightened his grip. Cécile gave a strangled groan as the weapon's tip scratched her. ‘No! You are trying to confuse me.'

For the first time Gillet dared to look at his wife. Her face was bleached, her eyes wide and frightened and his heart smote. He edged his foot forward, hoping Bonneuil was clueless to his mission of seducing the Albrets back to the French crown. ‘As Albret I am no traitor on Bordeaux soil, but if it were known you are a French soldier, you would be arrested and tortured.'

It was too much for Bonneuil. His expression wild, he snarled over Cécile's shoulder. ‘I have no French loyalties! I work for Moleyns now.'

Gillet stilled his advance and exchanged stunned glances with Cécile.

‘What?' panted Bonneuil. ‘I saw that.' The dagger slid sideways, the sharp edge grazing across his captive's skin. Cécile let out a terrified gasp.

‘No!' Gillet forced down his fear and compelled himself to speak gently. He realised Bonneuil was a man on the brink. ‘Bonneuil, Moleyns is dead, weeks ago in Scotland. For whomsoever you work, it is not Moleyns. I give you my word of honour as a knight.'

Bonneuil began to blink rapidly, a film of sweat forming on his brow.

‘Listen to me,' continued Gillet, ‘no good can come from harming the Lady Holland. Let her go and we can discuss whatever ails you.'

Bonneuil's pupils shrank to tiny dots and his face turned ugly. ‘Odette Duchamps has something belonging to me. That whore tricked me. I want what is mine and I need it now!'

Cécile suddenly drove her elbow into Bonneuil's stomach. With her teeth bared, she twisted and slashed the surprised face with her nails. As Bonneuil heaved, she sprung free, her own countenance distorted by disgust. ‘Odette had nothing when she came to me and even if she did, I would not tell you! She was covered in blood and dying, you sick bastard!'

With a furious roar Bonneuil leaped towards her, his weapon raised. In lightning speed Gillet pushed Cécile out of the way and drew his own dagger. He gripped the roundel pommel tightly, the blade lying flat to protect his right forearm, his fist reinforced by his left palm as he braced himself to block Bonneuil's strike. The force of the blow jarred him to his teeth but he rolled his wrist and swept the sharpened section over Bonneuil's skin as they withdrew. Bonneuil hissed and ignoring the cut, began to circle. Gillet moved with him and a rhythmic dance began, each man balanced, poised ready to attack. Bonneuil chose his moment. He was desperate and stretched to reach a target but he was unable as Gillet captured his wrists. A tussle of strength ensued and even though Gillet was taller, Bonneuil was sturdily built and held his own.

With neither yielding, they were at an impasse and Gillet broke, realising he could not take any advantage. Again they circled. Gillet shielded against Bonneuil's next attempt but a miscalculation saw Bonneuil's dagger score a hit. Cécile screamed and Gillet felt the explosion of pain in his upper arm. Undeterred, he forced himself to remain calm and concentrate. The blood trickled down his skin but his focus never shifted from his target. He beat off two more attacks which left his shield arm scored and bleeding. Bonneuil sneered, sensing his win imminent. Their gazes locked and Gillet saw the triumph on his enemy's face. Bonneuil launched himself for his winning blow. Gillet grabbed Bonneuil's wrist and pushed against his enemy to hold him off. Muscles straining, both men were sweating with the effort when suddenly Gillet sidestepped, his opposing force letting go. Bonneuil threw his head up in surprise, the shock exploding in his expression as he toppled forward, caught by the oldest and most effective move. Gillet's dagger was strategically waiting. It sank into the soft flesh and tore its way up behind the ribcage.

‘That's for Calais,' growled Gillet, gritting his teeth. He jerked his wrist hard and the blade sunk deeper. Bonneuil turned white and Gillet was forced to take the man's weight. ‘That's for Lady Holland,
my wife
.' The staring eyes widened with incredulity and then began to cloud. One last push and the weapon was all the way in. Blood sluiced over Gillet's hand as he whispered into Bonneuil's ear. ‘And that's for Odette, you lying, thieving son of a bitch!'

Bonneuil's mouth twitched, his lips moving noiselessly as blood seeped between his teeth. A wheezy exhalation was the only reply as Bonneuil slumped to the floor.