The Lily and the Lion (45 page)

Written by Cécile d'Armagnac, the Oar and Anchor , Calais, 18 September 10 Jean II.

18 September 1360

The kitchen servants removed the tub as Cécile d'Armagnac tied the laces to her blue velvet gown. It had not escaped her attention that she and Gillet were to spend the night in adjoining rooms, unchaperoned. She sat down to wait.

When Gillet returned to the
Oar and Anchor
, she noticed immediately that his pale and brooding countenance had not improved. They sat in his chamber to eat and Gillet selected a small knob of cheese from the plate. He began to cube it. Then he quartered the pieces without taking a bite, but when he began to halve again, Cécile reached out to stay his knife.

‘Do you plan on providing platters to a fleas' banquet? What ails you, Milord? Did all not go well at the boat?' She had not expected his answer to be delivered with such brutal honesty.

‘We are in readiness for our departure, but 'tis you who ails me.' His observance of the mashed cheese remained steadfast, lines of worry etched into his face. Alarum bells began to sound in Cécile's head.

‘Milord?'

He pushed back his stool and kneeled at her side, winding his arms around her waist. He lowered his head into her lap with a deep shuddering breath.

‘Gillet? You are scaring me.'

‘Cécile, I am sworn to protect you but when I heard the physician's words today, never have I felt so helpless. How can I protect a woman from the birth of her own babe?'

Soothingly she combed the long, damp locks, fresh from his visit to the soldiers' bath house. ‘I will not allow a child spawned by Edward to separate us now.'

He shifted uneasily and tightened his hold.

‘Gillet,' whispered Cécile, with sudden insight, ‘have you known someone who died in childbirth?'

His eyes lifted slowly, an intense pain swirling in the ebony depths. ‘Yes. Well, no, not exactly.'

Cécile's fingers, entwined in his black tendrils, stilled. ‘What do you mean not exactly?'

He buried his head, his heavy sigh heating the skin beneath her skirt. ‘My mother died a few months after I was born.'

‘Oh, Lord! For what reason was she lost?' Cécile felt the tremor that passed through him.

‘
Mea culpa
,' replied Gillet harshly, ‘she never recovered from my birth.'

Seeking to ease a pain he obviously had been made to bear, she gently smoothed the hair from his brow. ‘You will not lose me, Gillet. Not that way.' They sat for a long moment, Cécile's thoughts with a family of whom she knew nothing, at a time when she had not even existed. Of such hardships she had heard before, where the curse was passed to the child. Cécile tried in vain to lift Gillet's head. ‘Does your family blame you for this?'

His hands tightened around her waist. Cécile's heart bled anew for the innocence of a young boy made to suffer for the inconvenience of his existence.

At length, he raised his head, his voice constricted. ‘My father hated me for the loss of his wife. The shame of it is, here and now, I begin to understand what he must have felt. But at least the child was his.'

‘No,' breathed Cécile, ‘No! You must not think such thoughts. You must never blame yourself for the loss of your mother, and your family was wrong, so very wrong to do so.' Tenderly, she brushed the damp cheeks. ‘Gillet, I will not let Edward's child come between us.'

She drew his face towards hers and kissed him gently. The scent of his freshly scrubbed skin rose to tease her senses, the taste of him, his very essence. She allowed the kiss to deepen.

Slowly Gillet unbound her hair, drawing it around him like a curtain, shielding them both from the world outside. Only the two of them existed.

Cécile moved away but their gazes were locked. She unlaced her gown and let it fall to the floor. Her chemise and stockings followed. Gillet's eyes slowly meandered over her body as she stood wearing nothing but a yearning to relieve his pain. Her hands slid over her belly. ‘Do not see the child,' she murmured, ‘see only me. Let me prove to you that I am yours. I will not leave you, Gillet.'

‘Cécile,' he whispered hoarsely.

‘Hush.' She stepped toward him and began to remove his clothing. Gillet said nothing. He lifted each limb obligingly, moving as though in a trance. It was only when he wore nothing but his braies that a flicker of life sprang into his eyes. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He kissed her ardently, and she responded with equal fervour, both of them slaking the devils that haunted their souls.

Gillet lifted his head. ‘Cécile, my beautiful Sprite.' He covered her breasts with kisses, his lips as gentle as the brush of butterfly wings. Cécile arched beneath his long, sweeping caresses, helpless as she plummeted into an abyss of sinful enjoyment. Gillet's mouth plunged onto hers and with a soft growl, he lowered himself. Cécile felt as though her body knew its rightful master and welcomed him home. Together they rode the waves of delight, and then soared to touch the heavens.

‘
Mon Dieu
!' Crumpling beside her on the bed, Gillet brushed his knuckles down Cécile's moistened cheek. ‘I have made you weep.' Dimples appeared in his smile and he gathered her to his breast. ‘Lady, you cannot know how long I have wished to make you mine.'

Cécile glowed up at him. ‘I love you, Gillet de Bellegarde.'

But rather than return the endearment, he frowned. ‘Cécile, there is something about my family that I should tell you. Perhaps it would be easier over a goblet of wine.' Rolling from the bed, he donned his abandoned braies and had taken only two steps when there was a reverberating crash coupled with the sound of splintering wood. Cécile screamed as three men burst into the room and two helmed soldiers in French uniforms hauled Gillet aside.

A large, burly creature with an unkempt beard casually strolled to where Gillet struggled frantically. ‘Well, well, well … look what we have here – the special envoy of the Black Prince. Lord d'Albret, himself!'

The bustling dock of Portsmouth teemed with life. Sailors, soldiers, merchants and mercenaries rubbed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow alleyways.

‘Watch your step, Catherine!' Simon's fingers wrapped possessively over hers as they pushed their way through the crowded market place. The smell of fish mixed with the stench of humanity and Catherine's eyes watered with disgust.

‘The captain said he was moored at the end of the wharf.' Roderick was two paces behind them, dragging the gibbering Anaïs along. One of the maids at Broughton had kindly gifted her a crude wooden doll and she clung to it with a strange obsession.

‘I hope to God he is still there and hasn't sailed with my gold tucked in his belt,' remarked Simon.

Avoiding as much mud a possible, Catherine lifted the hem of her blue gown over the worst of the refuse. It was pooling like excrement in every depression. Numerous small boats were lined up against the pier, each secured to the timber posts and bobbing in the shallow water.

‘Ahoy! Step lightly, the tide is turning.' Tossing the last of the chests aboard the vessel, the captain encouraged the group aboard.

Roderick jumped over the rail. He assisted Anaïs and Catherine and left the crewmen to help Simon, whose leg was causing him some difficulty.

‘Where are we going?' demanded a suddenly lucid Anaïs.

‘To Ireland,' winked Roderick.

She cradled her dishevelled doll. ‘Did you hear that, little sweetie? Mama's off to Ireland!' Her eyes glittered and she twisted the neck sharply. ‘Whoops! Baby lost her head.'

It was not long before England was a shadow shrinking towards the horizon. Catherine paled as the vessel dipped. She gripped the rail as her stomach tumbled.

‘Are you all right?' asked Simon.

‘Yes, I think so. I am not at all sure about the business of sailing,' she admitted as he draped his arm about her shoulders.

‘The nausea will pass.'

‘But not the fear,' she clarified.

The breeze picked up and whipped Catherine's hair across her eyes. Simon wrapped his cloak around her, shielding her face from the wind.

‘What do you fear the most?'

‘That we will not reach them in time, that I will never see England again, that I will drown in the middle of this vast sea!'

‘Attacked by a serpent perhaps?' he asked.

Catherine pulled a face, unhappy with his flippant attitude.

‘Catherine, you will return here one day and I am a very good swimmer, so you shall not drown. As for Cécile and Gillet, we cannot get there any faster no matter what we do.' He tucked her hair behind her ear. She shivered as his finger lightly brushed her cheek. ‘Besides, Gillet is no fool. I imagine he took precautionary steps to protect both himself and your sister.'

The large soldier viciously drove his fist into Gillet's stomach and Cécile screamed again. Gillet doubled over, struggling for breath, but slowly drew himself upright.

‘Albret?' Cécile echoed, the man's words exploding in her head. The room began to spin. ‘No, no! You have made a mistake!'

‘Mistake?' growled Bonneuil. He swung again and Gillet's head flew sideways, blood spattering. Then he punched his prisoner in the gut a second time for good measure. ‘I would know this foul vermin in my sleep!
Captain
d'Albret, commander of forces under King Edward. The most sought after agent of the Black Prince and traitor to all France! His own father was a lieutenant. Their entire family is loyal to the English crown.'

Clutching the sheet in desperation, Cécile scrambled along the bed, shaking her head with disbelief. ‘No! No! This cannot be!' she screamed.

Gillet's gaze fastened on hers and she saw the truth in his eyes. Air whistled back into his lungs. ‘I … can … explain. Aagh!' His head was cruelly wrenched up by a fistful of hair.

‘You don't explain to
putains
.'

‘You … bastard … Bonneuil!'

Cécile was reeling. Albret? And she had trusted him.
Mon
Dieu
. They had just … Dizziness overcame her. Had Gillet brought her to Calais for the purpose of handing her over to the Black Prince? Her stomach heaved. All this time had Gillet been working
with
Anaïs? Cecile felt faint as Bonneuil's attentions refocused.

‘Who is she?' he snarled.

‘She's … no one,' wheezed Gillet. ‘Just an expensive whore … with whom I have been amusing myself.'

Tears sprung to cloud Cécile's vision and she choked, ‘This has all been a game to you!'

Stony-faced, Gillet shrugged. ‘It passed the time.'

Bonneuil laughed. ‘Still playing the high and mighty. Well, your games are about to end.' He took a step back and his voice took on an official tone. ‘You are hereby charged and arrested for crimes against the French Crown, including intent to do harm upon the royal family, inciting and leading the unlawful existence of the gathering known by the name of The Jacquerie, conspiring against our King, and evasion to stand trial for the above crimes.' He paused before snarling. ‘I bring upon you the charge of treason, most foul, and spit on the name of Albret.' To make good his word, a greenish gob landed on Gillet's foot.