The Gilded Crown (16 page)

‘With me atop either a skittish pony or a stumbling mare?' Catherine jested.

‘Well, perhaps not precisely the same.' Simon laughed. ‘But you did take unnecessary risks.'

‘I wanted to be with you,' she shyly admitted.

‘Catherine, we want the same things, you and I. You must trust me. Promise me you will?'

Catherine nodded. ‘I promise.'

Simon rested his palm upon the swell of her abdomen. ‘Other than sickness at dawn, how do you fare?'

‘I am well.' She grinned. ‘I am very, very well.'

‘Our children will bring us great joy.' Simon placed his lips upon Catherine's and gently kissed her. ‘And I will love each without measure, but it is you, my wife, who will always occupy the centre of my heart.'

‘Are we to have many?'

‘We will – ten at least,' Simon teased, ‘and they will be a good deal better behaved than my nephews!'

That afternoon Walter and Beatrix Odistoun removed themselves to court, leaving Simon and Catherine to enjoy the relative quiet of Craigmillar. Simon could not decide whether his sister and her husband's sudden decision to go was as a result of his disagreement with Beatrix about Robert's future or rather, Walter simply wanted to whisper in the ear of his half-brother. Regardless, Simon did not care for it provided him the unexpected opportunity to spend precious time with his wife. Though he suspected the Odistoun's knew of Catherine's condition, he decided not to make an announcement. ‘No need to upset an already unsteady apple cart.' He cut a slice of cheese and passed it to Catherine. They were partaking of the evening meal in the solar, savouring the opportunity to dine alone.

‘I want nothing more than to declare my joy from the highest tower,' Catherine declared, ‘but …'

‘You cannot allow others to steal this away from you.'

‘'Tis not that Simon.' Catherine hesitated. ‘I was thinking of Cécile.'

‘I know your sister will be overjoyed when she hears your news.'

‘Yes, of course, but … but I worry that it will rekindle the pain the she shares with Gillet. Do you forget she can no longer bear children?'

‘Argh! Catherine, she loves you beyond measure. She will not be thinking of herself, only of you.' Simon put down the knife and grasped Catherine's fingers. ‘Write to Cécile. I will have Prescott dispatched to France. He can personally deliver our glad tidings. And trust me, Catherine, they will be happy for us.'

‘What's this? Dining alone?' Roderick barrelled into the room, a swirl of road-dust drawn along behind him. ‘Where are my sister and her pet weasel?'

‘Gone to Edinburgh Castle.' Simon embraced his sibling.

‘Lady Wexford, as beautiful as ever. Could it be you are more radiant than when I saw you last?'

‘She might be,' Simon beamed. ‘Ale, brother?'

‘You need ask? My throat is as dry as a … well, I'm parched.' He winked at Catherine.

‘I will have the maid bring another platter,' offered Catherine as she slipped away to the kitchen. Her husband's mirth could be heard from the outer corridor, along with Roderick's infectious chortle. It would be difficult for anyone to remain melancholic in their company. On her return the men were deep in conversation.

‘Gods bones! It's as impenetrable as a fifty-year-old virgin and just as unappealing.' Roderick swilled the remainder of his goblet then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Took me all the first day just to glean the name of the steward!'

‘And was he obliging?'

‘He was, brother.' Roderick pushed the bench seat with his foot and sat with his back to the fire. ‘I convinced him I was kin to the Wallace, and the coin spent on wine was not to waste for it certainly loosened his tongue.'

‘And?' Simon asked expectantly.

‘The tour of the castle was most informative.' Roderick grimaced. ‘I had to concentrate all my efforts on keeping my hands from his throat as he went on and on, exalting the Wallace prowess. So laborious was his tale that by the time we reached the keep I thought to throw myself from the highest turret!' Roderick stretched out his legs, revelling in the telling of his escapade. ‘So, you can imagine how difficult it was to hide my surprise when the drunken idiot unlocks a large chest and asks me if I wish to view the Wallace sword.'

‘
What
?'

‘I was so taken aback I nearly
fell
out of the turret. Fortunately, Angus was oblivious as he hands me this massive great lump of a weapon.'

‘What does this mean?' asked Catherine, her gazed fixed upon the flushed face of her husband.

Simon shook his head. ‘I can only assume that once the theft was discovered, Sir John de Menteith replaced the “Lady” with a fake.'

Catherine reached for her goblet. The warm mead helped settle the queasy feeling that had flooded her stomach. ‘Sir John? Was he the original custodian?'

‘Menteith was appointed Governor of Dumbarton by King Edward Longshanks, who personally selected him to guard the sword,' Simon explained.

‘If I had been in Sir John's boots,' Roderick paused to fill his tankard, ‘I am damned sure I would have done the same thing.'

‘But how can we return a sword that is no longer missing?' Catherine was perplexed.

‘Perhaps there is no need to take it back,' suggested Roderick.

‘Sorry, brother, I must right a wrong.' Simon frowned.

‘Is there much difference between the two swords?' Catherine enquired.

‘A man with a keen eye would see the pommel and hilt are similar but the blades are different,' said Roderick.

‘What does that mean?' Catherine asked.

'It means the sword at Dumbarton and the one your husband carries look enough alike to be thought one and the same by most common folk.'

‘Until closely examined,' clarified Simon. ‘Which is why I intend display it as my own. I trust the guards on duty will be no experts.'

'Wear it? Are you sure that is wise?

‘Roderick, as my wife so recently reminded me, 'tis much easier to catch a mouse when the cheese is waved before its nose.'

‘As long as you don't step too close to the trap!'

‘Do you have a better suggestion?'

‘None of which I can think.'

Simon placed his arm over Roderick's shoulder. ‘It has been more than fifty years since Wallace's death. There would be few alive today who could remember his face, let alone the cast of his sword. Only the thief would recognise that which he had stolen.'

Cécile sat down to evening supper and grimaced when she noticed the table was set for three. The Duc de Berri was still in residence then. It had been a week since Gillet's departure from Gisors and she had assumed the Duc would follow her husband's example soon after. He had not. Nor had any soldiers been dispatched to collect her son as promised, she reminded herself. She would raise the subject again tonight for her arms ached to hold her little boy. No more than she wished to hold her husband and at the thought that Gillet had been sent on a mission to find one “Ghillebert d'Albret,” she smirked.

‘Those must be merry memories.' Blanche d'Évreux glided into the room. Her cheeks were daintily flushed and a light danced in her eyes as though she enjoyed her own secret. ‘That's the first time I've seen you smile since your husband left us.'

‘Forgive me, Vicomtesse. I succumbed to a private moment of reflection.'

‘Do not apologise, Lady de Bellegarde.' Blanche lowered herself into a chair. ‘Sometimes those moments are what hold us fast when we are all alone. I am sorry, my dear, that we had to deprive you of your lord but rest assured it is for good cause.'

Heavier footsteps sounded. ‘You should not apologise either, Vicomtesse.' Jean de Berri bent to kiss Blanche's hand and her complexion grew rosier. ‘It is an honour we bestow upon Lord de Bellegarde, for what more can a man ask than to serve his Crown, hmm?' He sat down heavily and turned his sherry gaze full upon Cécile. ‘I trust the evening finds you well, Lady de Bellegarde?'

‘Very well, your Grace,' replied Cécile. Her eyes fell to her plate. She did not much care for his regard of late. It had been too forthright since Gillet's departure. Perhaps Jean de Berri needed reminding that she was another man's wife. She looked up in time to observe the Vicomtesse and the Duc exchange glances but, as the meal progressed and Jean de Berri's attention shifted, Blanche d'Évreux became sullen and withdrawn. Not wishing to be the cause of any dissension, Cécile excused herself as soon as courtesy would permit. Besides, the Duc was drinking heavily. It was only as she bolted the door to her bedchamber, tucked Cinnamon into her basket and climbed between the sheets that Cécile realised she had forgotten to ask after her son. Tomorrow, she thought, as sleep overtook her.

Cécile awoke abruptly, her skin crawling. The candle in the grate flickered though no breeze could be felt. Instantly awake, she lay perfectly still, her heart drumming. Then she saw the shadowy outline standing at the foot of her bed – Jean de Berri, casually attired in shirt and chausses. He moved to her bedside.

‘I had not meant to wake you.' His gaze dropped to where the ribbon of her chemise had unwound. His eyes grew wide and he licked his lips at the generous showing of soft, pink flesh.

Cécile bolted upright, hauling the covers up to her chin. ‘Your Grace, I … you …'

Jean sat down and held a finger against her mouth. ‘Hush.'

The stench of stale wine washed over Cécile and her stomach churned. ‘Your Grace, please,' she pleaded in a whisper, gathering her blanket tighter.

Jean de Berri nodded. ‘I should not be here.' His hand poised mid-air but giving way to temptation, he ran his fingers down her cheek. ‘You are so beautiful. Night after night I sit across the table from you and I cannot forget you were supposed to be mine.' With a sigh, he lowered his arm. ‘It is true what they say. The more you are denied a thing, all the more you shall wish for it.'

Cécile glanced at the open door connecting her chamber to the one Gillet had occupied. It was how the Duc had gained access to her room, and was also her only means of escape. As though reading her thoughts, the Duc clamped his hand to her wrist. He was not a tall man, but nevertheless a man; his strength outmatched hers. Cécile began to wriggle and the Duc tightened his grip.

Enjoying this new sport, he laughed softly, and pulled back the covers to take his fill. The earlier swilling of wine to soften his hurts had served only to sharpen his senses, not dull them, and the show of fleshy thighs as she struggled was too much for Jean de Berri. He lost all reason.

‘You should have been mine.'

Jean tore open her chemise and pressed himself against her. She screamed, but there were as many as eight thicknesses of stone walls to muffle her cries.

His teeth bit into her neck and he drew the tender skin into his mouth, not with intent to shed blood but to place his seal upon her.

That his partner was unwilling was, for Jean, irrelevant. He was a Duc, the Prince's brother, and he was used to acquiring what he desired – and he desired this woman. He smothered her screams with his hand, replacing it at intervals with his lips to catch what frantic kisses he could. He pinned her down and gazed into her wild eyes, whispering, ‘Did they really think a child-bride was going to appease me? But we must all do our duty for the Crown, Cécile. Your husband does his, I have done mine, and now you will do yours.'

‘Please, Milord,' sobbed Cécile. ‘
Please
, do not do this.'

‘Cécile, I swear I have supped all evening with the Devil himself. Temptation is upon me but I know my priest will purge me of all wrongdoing at the confessional.'

‘But not so my husband! I beg of you, your Grace, do not make him your enemy.'

‘Then help me to resist, Cécile. Turn me away.' Despite his breathless words, he held her fast with one hand and began to strip her torn chemise with the other, groaning as her breasts came into view. He caressed one, felt the plumpness and his own heated flesh burned for release.