The Order of the Lily (51 page)

Cécile drew a sudden breath as she realised their purpose. ‘Non, you … you … do not understand,' she stammered. Like the planets and stars on Gillet's charts, her thoughts began to shift into alignment, making sense at last – the physician, the Prince's court, her rightful place.
Mon Dieu
.
They meant
to send her to Edward
.

‘No!' Cécile wanted to scream in terror but, as in a night-mare, her voice was barely a whisper. ‘You cannot do this. You cannot! Gillet will come. He will stop you.'

Amanieu's frown and Arnaud's inane grin began to swirl, Cécile's vision blurring as more sounds came from outside the hall, footsteps descending the stairs at a run.

‘Ghillebert will present himself,' said Amanieu calmly. ‘He understands his duty.'

Arnaud sniggered. ‘Why, Cécile, did Ghillebert not tell you that he met with us in London?' He hovered above her, practically drooling. ‘Did he not inform you that King Edward, much pressed by the Earl of Kent, has secured for him a betrothal? Our youngest brother is to marry the King's own niece.' He hung over her like a cloud of sulphurous fumes, choking her.

‘No,' croaked Cécile. ‘No. Gillet would have said something.'

‘Imagine our surprise,' continued Arnaud, clearly enjoying himself, ‘when, upon discovering Amanieu's and my presence in London, Lord Thomas Holland requested our audience to present our sovereign's recommendations. Mary is the daughter of Eleanor, the Countess of Gueldres, and the King's own sister. This marriage will secure the future of the Albrets with strong ties to the throne of England, and richly so. For his service, Ghillebert will be accorded a title and inherit enormous wealth.'

‘No. I don't believe you!' Cécile felt faint.

‘Believe this!' Arnaud slapped a parchment bearing the royal seal onto Cécile's lap. Her hands trembled as she unrolled and read the contractual agreement, Gillet's name leaping from the pages.

Amanieu refilled his goblet and Arnaud took advantage of the moment to whisper malevolently in her ear. ‘How much do you love my brother, Cécile? Hmm? Do you love him enough to let him go?' His hate beat down upon her like the desert sun and any resolve she had crumbled into dust.

‘You can appreciate, Lady d'Armagnac,' said Amanieu, returning to stand beside his brother, ‘that with the Princess Mary arriving here soon, it is inconvenient to have Ghillebert's mistress in residence. The name of Armagnac is not welcome here, and the burden you carry is no longer our concern.'

Another wave of nausea hit Cécile and the rest of Amanieu's words writhed through a distorted haze. ‘The banns will be called in March, and the wedding is to take place on the twenty-eighth. Be assured that our brother knows from which loaf his bread is torn.'

‘I hear that Princess Mary is very beautiful,' added Arnaud. ‘And I suspect she will strongly object to Ghillebert keeping a mistress.' He scooped his cup from the mantel and raised it triumphantly. ‘Did I mention that she is untouched? A pure bride who eagerly awaits a husband's loving caress.'

The goblet slipped from Cécile's grasp, spilling its blood-red contents over the rug. She felt her throat closing in and struggled to draw breath. A powerful pain surged through her body as though Arnaud had driven his own fist into her.

‘Enough, Arnaud!' said Amanieu. ‘You can see that this has come as a shock to the lady. Lady d'Armagnac?'

Cécile closed her eyes tightly, each breath sounding like a tortured animal as she fought this new dread.

‘Lady d'Armagnac?

The acute pain in her lower half was easing, but her chest was constricting. Cécile knew if she were to avert an attack of asthma she had to stay calm.

‘Arnaud, bring Lady d'Armagnac another cup of wine.' Amanieu kneeled beside her, a look of compassion softening his features as he studied the pained blue eyes. ‘Ghillebert could never have married you, Lady d'Armagnac. You do know that, don't you?'

A knock sounded at the door and one of the servants appeared, pale-faced. ‘Milords, the lady's chest is packed.'

Cécile's head began to spin.

‘Come,' invited Amanieu kindly, offering his hand. ‘It is time for you to take your leave.'

She took his hand, placed one foot in front of the other and pitched headfirst into blackness.

Cécile awoke to a constant rocking. Beside her, Minette sighed with relief.

‘God be praised, milady.'

They were jolted at intervals, and then thrown sharply sideways.

Cécile doubled up in agony. ‘
Mon Dieu
,' she gasped, clenching her teeth. She fell back onto cushions, the breath still tight in her chest, and took note of her surroundings. Leather curtains hung on either side, barely discernible in the glow of a small candle wedged into an iron holder. She was lying on a makeshift straw mattress, supported by a wooden chest beneath. Another pain wracked her body.

‘We are in a charette, milady, a carriage,' said Minette angrily. ‘Those filthy animals are sending you to Calais.'

Cécile dragged herself up with a sense of bewilderment, dark memories tugging at the corners of her mind. ‘Calais?'

‘Oui, milady. May those devils rot in hell for what they have done!'

‘Minette, what is happening?'

‘We are dispatched to Calais, milady, where an escort awaits to accompany us to Bordeaux.'

‘Bordeaux?'

‘Yes, to the Prince of Wales. He is there on his father's estate.'

Cécile's gasp was cut short as she held her breath against another wave of pain. As it eased, the women stared at each other in horror.

‘
Sweet Jesu
. We are out in the open,' wailed Cécile. ‘Oh, dear Lord, I have no midwife.'

‘Hush, milady, hush,' soothed Minette. ‘As soon as this carriage stops, I shall inform them your baby comes and you can travel no further.'

Cécile reached out to grab Minette's arm. ‘No. Some women lie in labour for days so pray we make it to the ship. I would have my child born on French soil or even open sea rather than this Hell!'

Minette nodded. ‘Then be comforted to know that Captain de Vernon is amongst those in our attendance. As soon as we arrive in Calais, he plans to ride to Paris to Monsieur Ghillebert.'

The women passed the journey in prayer. Cécile's pain abated and with this comfort they slept a little. The miles rolled by, the bleak winter sun fading in the marbled sky. At the port the winds were favourable and the captain was anxious to set sail.

Cécile and Minette were locked into the Captain's cabin. As they boarded, Alfred had coughed his presence and managed a wink. Cécile was grateful for the loyalty of her servants, but alone and able to think at last, she grieved her losses, her horses, Ruby and Starlight, and her cats, Cinnamon and Nutmeg. Under her sable cloak she nursed the small chest of moonstones that, thanks to Minette's quick thinking, had been smuggled aboard the charette, though almost everything else of value to her was left behind.

The passage over the sea that night elicited a host of memories for Cécile. As she hovered over the wooden bucket, she began to wonder if she had travelled any further on the path of her life, or was she merely sailing in circles? Was it inevitable that she would end up back in Edward's arms? It was in the smallest hours of the morning that the first real pain gripped her. She clambered from the cot, alarmed by its severity. Minette was instantly at her side, supporting her as she walked the boards, trying to gain relief. At its conclusion, Cécile fell to her knees to pray in earnest, knowing full well her time had come. Her babe still had not turned.

As the hours dragged one into the next, Minette wiped Cécile's damp brow and offered encouragement. By dawn the pain ceased and Cécile fell into an exhausted slumber only to be woken by the bustling noise of a port. Minette's tired smile greeted her.

‘We have arrived, milady.' She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Your babe will be born on French soil.'

The women were escorted down the gangway and, despite her impending ordeal, Cécile's heart leaped with elation. She was back in France! She was home.

She had only reached the bottom of the ramp when suddenly she felt faint. Thinking it to be the sea sways, she reached for the rail but she felt a warm surge. Mystified, she lifted her hem to find her shoes soaked and water running down her ankles.

‘'Tis the birth waters,' gasped Minette. ‘Milady, your babe is coming with all haste.'

The next hours of Cécile's life were some of the darkest she had ever known. Carried by a litter to the closest inn, heavy sums of coin were exchanged and a midwife hurriedly engaged. Cécile was installed into a chamber and, although the concern had been that she would deliver on the dock, it was far from the way of things. She lay in a tormented haze of pain for hour upon hour, with vague memories of Minette sponging her. She underwent a constant and hurtful poking and prodding and by the time the midwife threw up her bloodied hands in desperation, Cécile was in fever.

‘I cannot deliver. Get a physician and hurry!'

In the early hours of the twenty-seventh day of January, God granted her mercy, and Cécile d'Armagnac delivered a healthy son. His entrance into the world extracted a heavy toll, but the previous hours fell away when the tiny newborn was placed into her arms. Cocooned in blankets, her baby blinked up at her with clouded eyes. Never had she felt such a rush of affection. His tiny features were wrinkled like an old man's, screwed in anguish, his skin turning the colour of boiled beets, and toothless gums quivering as he wailed a most unholy noise.

Cooing softly, Cécile answered a call as old as Eve and guided him to her breast. He latched on hungrily and she hissed at the sudden clutch of pain.

‘'Twill ease the more he drinks,' said the midwife, standing by the physician as she watched approvingly. ‘The milk will come in a day or two, but what you have now will see him through. Make sure to feed him from each side.'

‘Take what rest you can, Lady d'Armagnac,' added the physician, ‘you have done fine work this night, but we must still lower your fever.'