The Order of the Lily (63 page)

‘You have my men surrounded and yet you hesitate,' observed the English monarch. ‘Strike now and victory is yours.'

‘There is no rush,' replied the Scottish King. ‘I like to weigh my choices carefully, prior to making my final move.'

‘That would explain your lack of success on the battlefield. Death waits for no man, not even a sovereign.'

David laughed. His gaoler certainly enjoyed baiting him, perhaps more so than playing their regular game of draughts. His hand hovered indecisively before he selected a counter and jumped two pieces.

Edward raised his eyes to Heaven. ‘Once again you have ignored the more aggressive strategy and taken the safer option, giving me the opportunity to capture all your markers!'

‘I surrender, I am beaten,' announced the Scotsman as he began to reset the board.

Edward stayed his hand. ‘We have more pressing matters to discuss.'

David Bruce rose from his seat to collect the jug of wine left by the retreating chamberlain. ‘I'll no be givin' her up. Regardless of what your sister might say, I'll no be givin' her up!' He glanced to the corner of the room where the tussled bed linen was a tacit reminder of the afternoon he'd spent in the arms of his mistress. So hurried was her departure that she failed to retrieve her cloak, haphazardly discarded on the flagstone floor. David smiled warmly. He counted himself very fortunate for though a prisoner, his surroundings were sumptuous. He was granted numerous liberties and attracted enormous respect but, most surprisingly, in his thirty-first year he believed he had finally fallen in love.

‘I don't give a fig about Katherine, or any of your dalliances for that matter. But Joan is my sister and I am tired of her lamenting and weeping.' Edward III was stern.

‘My wife has not entertained my company for nigh on three years, and though I may be incarcerated, I am still Scotland's King!'

‘Yes, but you remain under my roof.' Edward smirked. ‘And how long has it been? Ten years?'

‘Perhaps you should have taken my head.'

‘But we are friends, are we not?'

David shrugged. ‘Will you ever relent and allow me to return home?'

‘One hundred thousand marks, twenty-five noble hostages and your oath of allegiance. That's all I ask.'

‘As I have said many, many times – I haven't the coin.'

‘Instruct your Stewart nephew to raise the taxes.'

‘Ha! Robert wouldna' raise his kilt to piss on my feet!' David refilled Edward's goblet then sat opposite him. He studied the tablier and grimaced. If just once he could retire the winner. ‘I dinna suppose you would accept twenty-five marks and one hundred thousand disloyal noblemen?' he joked.

Edward scratched his chin as though considering David's offer. ‘One hundred thousand noblemen you say? Would that not include most of Scotland's titled families?'

‘I would think so,' replied David. ‘'Tis only the peasants who wish to see the return of their monarch. Robert Stewart and his followers enjoy unbridled patronage in my absence. My release would not suit them.'

‘But it would allow you the sweet taste of revenge?'

‘I have nothing with which to broker an agreement,' winced David.

‘I disagree.' Edward stroked his beard, then lent against the table. ‘You have something I have long wished to acquire.' He withdrew a large parchment from his doublet, opened the document over the draughts board, and turned it for David to view. A scribe had taken his time, so neat was the script, and he'd included a magnificent depiction of both David and Edward's insignia in the top left and right corners.

David sucked in his breath and let it out in a slow whistle as he read. ‘If I were to entertain your suggestion I would never again be able to set foot in my homeland,' he murmured. He glanced up at his adversary. ‘I may be many things, Edward, but I am no traitor.'

‘Your wife is planning to leave London, removing any chance you have to produce an heir. Your countrymen jest behind your back and have deliberately ignored the many opportunities I offered them to secure your release.'

‘They will hang me!'

‘Robert the Bruce would have signed it.'

‘That's a lie!'

‘Is it? He would have dribbled ink on anything placed in front of him if it meant he could reclaim his throne.'

‘My father did not always take the time required to think things through.'

Edward snatched up a fistful of David's discarded playing pieces. ‘And one day your hesitation will cost you your life.'

The two men stared at each other for several long moments.

‘You bastard!'

‘You cannot rule your country from my dungeon,' stated Edward.

David considered his options. ‘I want your word that this will never reach the ears of my clansmen. Time enough for them to know when I am dead.'

‘I offer you my oath.'

David picked up the quill and scrawled his name across the bottom of the parchment. For once he
would
be the victor.

April, 1361

Arras, France

Resplendent in his armorial surcotte Gillet de Bellegarde stood upon the tourney field at Arras and folded his arms. His weight rested nonchalantly on one leg, his manner cool and confident as he laughed with his friend, Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise.

Tethered beside them, swathed in a matching azure, fringed caparison blazoned with a large silver bell, was Gillet's horse, Inferno. The tar-black stallion lifted his head and drew back his top lip to expose his teeth as he sniffed the air.

Admiring glances from female passers-by were directed in abundance at the two knights and when Armand-Amanieu d'Albret joined them, his blood-red tunic eye-catching for the lack of heraldic device, one may have thought the sons of Nar-cissus had gathered for a briefing before being let loose on a village of virgins. The women began to loiter in the hopes of being noticed, the bolder ones even daring to pat the steed. But, unlike the son of the Greek river God, whose vanity had been his downfall, these men were unaware of the many sighing gazes intended for them. It was the two outrageous looking men, striding across the grass in their direction, who captivated their attention.

In 1360, Edward of Woodstock would have been thought of as the next king, Edward IV, but since he did not outlive his father, Edward III (and history later saw an Edward IV take the crown), he became known as ‘the Black Prince' – a title we loved and chose to use anachronistically.

There seems to be a difference of opinion between well-known academics as to whether or not women could read and write in the middle to late Middle Ages. Also whether the availability of parchment for letters was plentiful or could be afforded. It is best summed up by another researcher who declared, ‘It may be taken as axiomatic that any statement of fact about the Middle Ages may (and probably will) be met by a statement of the opposite or a different version.' Certainly this has been our experience.

We simply wish to say that this is not an historic account but a romance novel using history as its background. We have tried at all times to remain faithful and accurate but it is a fictional story.

It is what
could
have happened.

Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, did marry Thomas Holland when she was very young. It has been suggested she may have been carrying his child and that is why they married in secret, without permission. We gave our women education and the wherewithal to procure parchment for their letters so they could tell their story. Couriers did run private services if you had the coin and both families to whom we refer, did not lack fortune. Edward of Woodstock did have bastard sons. We draw from references and weave our story with fact and interpretation.

The rest is imagination.

References to the songs/poems

Chapter 12 – Gillet recites a sonnet from Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)

Chapter 26 – ‘Rose Red' – this is a song that I first heard during my SCA (Society of Creative Anachronism) days and it fit perfectly for Cécile, particularly the haunting, melancholy melody that was used. I have tried to locate the origin of the version I applied but to no avail. Other versions appear on the internet though various threads seem unable to locate its origin for sure. I did read where it was thought to be a 14thC song. (Cathy T)

Chapter 26 – Armand's bawdy ballad – written by Catherine T Wilson. The ending is altered from the version on the Lions and Lilies website for the purpose of the chapter.

We would like to express our gratitude to the following people who have made our journey a part of their lives.

Firstly, we wish to thank our publisher Kerry Collison at Sid Harta; Les Zig, our editor; and Luke Harris from Chameleon Design for our covers. To see our dream in paperback was truly a special moment.

To Gary Schweikert, (Big Hat Pictures) and to Peter Enright (EnrightOgraphy) for making the documentary of how we met, first online, then eventually in person. Your support in our project has been unwavering and uplifting.

To Dr Ingrid Berling for her advice on all matters medical. Should discrepancies occur, they fall within the writers' scope of imagination.

To Jean-Louis and Hazel in France, who made time available to show Cathy T and her husband around Bellegarde and surrounding districts. The time spent at Azincourt was amaz-ing, an experience not to be forgotten.

To Count Charles-Henri, Chateau de Saint-Loup, France, who took time away from a busy schedule to show Cathy T, in person, the keep where the Black Prince kept King Jean le Bon prisoner.

To Andrew Hill-Male for our fabulous website and to Luke Wilson for his wonderful, original artwork on the home page.

But the biggest thanks must go to our readers for their support. If this story fills your heart, makes you laugh, makes you cry, and brings some pleasure into your life, we will have succeeded in our dream, and for that, we thank each and every one of you.

Arras:
A tapestry of Flemish origin used especially for wall hangings. A screen of tapestry.

Bliaut:
An over garment featuring a voluminous skirt and horizontal puckering or pleating across a snugly fitted abdomen. The sleeves are long and loose. It was worn with a belt or stomacher.

Braies:
An undergarment tied about the waist, a form of men's underwear to which the chausses were tied.

Camail:
Also called aventail – a curtain of mail attached to the helm, covering the shoulders.

Caparison:
The decorative covering for a horse bearing his owner's colours and heraldic device.

Chaperon:
The fashion of a hood with a thick roll at the base and a liripipe draped around the chin.

Chausses:
Individual leggings (not joined with a gusset) usually made of wool and tied at the top to the braies. Some knights wore gamboised (padded) chausses for protection in battle.

Chemise:
Linen undergarment for women. The shift beneath the gown, sometimes visible at the neck and sleeves.