The Gilded Crown (25 page)

‘My sweet wife, never, ever trust a Scot.' Simon squeezed her hand, then sat back down beside her. ‘I want you to promise me something.'

‘Anything.'

‘You are not to go anywhere within the precinct of this castle or Edinburgh without an escort. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Simon.' Catherine frowned. ‘Of course. And Gabby?'

‘I have already assigned Girda an armed guard.'

‘Is that necessary?'

Simon leaned forward and kissed Catherine. ‘I should never have brought you with me.'

‘I wanted to be here.'

‘I will not lie to you,' Simon admitted. ‘I worry for your safety. You must take heed of those around you and never allow yourself to be alone. If I am required to depart Edinburgh for any reason, I will leave Roderick with you.'

‘But how will we return the sword?'

‘The fate of that Lady is, at present, the very least of my concerns. I need to discover what David is up to and then get you and Gabby as far as possible from this place.'

There was so much blood! Far more than Cécile thought possible. It was pooling at her feet and she shifted smartly, the weapon responsible for such brutality still clutched in her hand. She glanced at the gaping hole where she'd slashed his throat. She'd been mercifully quick and as a result the suffering had been kept to a minimum. He was at peace now and she murmured a prayer of thanks, her weariness set to overcome her but she had to be strong. She'd give him a decent burial later. It was the least she could do.

Cécile put down the cleaver and left the hapless rooster, who'd become something of a pet in the last couple of days, to bleed out before she gutted it. She collapsed onto the garden bench and like one of the border daisies, turned her face toward the sun, letting the morning rays warm her. She spied her red-crusted fingers and grimaced. The poor creature had wandered into their courtyard and with food becoming scarce, Cécile knew his stay would be cut short – literally. It was unlikely that anyone would come looking for the bird. Stray animals foraging were a regular sight now, their owners too sick to care for them. She paused for a moment to recall her last attempt at killing a chicken and the memory brought a faint smile to her lips. She'd been in Kent with Gillet and his intervention and consequent, untimely ripping of feathers on the drugged bird had seen him knocked flat on his back, soaked with egg batter and two cats licking his face. He had not been amused. Cécile chuckled, the brief moment of levity bringing much needed relief to her flagging spirits. This time she fared better in the killing of the poultry, learning from the last occasion that to hang the bird upside-down rendered it compliant. This one had even obligingly stuck out its neck as she'd lowered it to the chopping block. One swift stroke saw the deed done; her courage and tenacity borne out of necessity. They had to eat. And this would make a fine broth to spoon down Armand's inflamed throat. She walked back inside to the coolness of the cottage. Plus Reynaud was to visit tonight.

Cécile looked over at Armand and frowned. He was worse, his temperature rising by the hour. She'd sponged him relentlessly and fed him cabbage soup, his protestations at her presence gradually weakening as he slid further into darkness. The smithy had warned her Armand would deteriorate yet more before his body would expend the last of his energy in a thrashing fit of delirium brought on by fever and pain. Cécile lifted his sweat-soaked shirt to look at the plague boil. It was a hideous colour, pus-filled, swollen and angry.

Armand groaned and opened his eyes. ‘Were I not already a marked man, I would be when Gillet hears.'

‘Hush,' snapped Cécile. She lowered his shirt and fetched the bowl, wringing out the cloth to lie upon her cousin's forehead. ‘Think he will lay blame on you if you die?'

Armand gave what passed for a smile. ‘Yes, if you die as well. Or when he hears the Duc dared to lay his hands upon you.'

Cécile's head jerked up. ‘What?'

‘I saw your neck, Céci. You did well to hide it.' He coughed, the air sucking back into his lungs with a long wheeze. ‘But you can't fool me.' Armand closed his watering eyes, then reopened them, forcing the strength he'd mustered into a wobbly grin. ‘Since when do you wear a wimple? And those stables …' He hacked again, his face pinching white. ‘… to be built at Bellegarde. Blood money?'

‘Saints alive, yes! And if you live long enough to breathe one word of it, I shall run you through myself!' She busied herself mopping his brow but his hand crept up to stay her. His feverishly bright eyes bore into hers until she gave way. ‘Oh, Goddamn you, Armand Amanieu-d'Albret!'

Armand grimaced. ‘I believe He already has, sweetheart.'

Cécile's face crumpled and Armand quickly relented.

‘Don't Céc,' he whispered. ‘Tell me what happened. I shall be your confessor and the secret will die with me.'

Cécile swiped her tears and exhaled. With Armand's hand captive in hers, she related the evening days after Gillet's departure, how her cat had saved her from Jean de Berri's attack and, in the telling of it, she felt a tight inner coil unwind.

Armand let his lids drop again as he listened. ‘And this,' he croaked,' after the disastrous dinner of the previous week?'

Cécile nodded. ‘Yes, but Gillet must never know. It was a mistake, Armand, a bad error in judgement on behalf of Jean de Berri. I'm sure he regrets his actions. He has been absolved by his priest and by me, and there lies an end to it. No need for Gillet ever to know.'

‘I agree.' Armand's lids flickered open. ‘He would only do something foolhardy like challenge the Duc and ruin every chance for a royal pardon. Best it is left behind though it's a pity Gillet won't hear of the cat's intervention. I wish I could have seen his face at learning that.' He drifted into sleep again, and Cécile tiptoed from his bedside, mollified by his humour.

By late afternoon, Armand took a turn for the worst. His arms roved over the blankets, his fingers plucking at the wool as he uttered gibberish. Gillet and Cécile's names were repeated several times but Armand did not see his cousin sitting there, nor the tears she wept.

‘The time has come.' Reynaud stepped into the cottage carrying a fistful of linen ties which Cécile observed suspiciously. ‘We must bleed him but first some poppy syrup.'

‘What are you going to do with those?'

‘Tie him down. He will have the strength of Hercules when the blade touches his skin.'

‘You do not mean to use leeches?' She wiped her eyes upon her sleeve.

Reynaud pulled out a stool and sat. ‘Do you remember what I told you in the cellar before Gabriel and the others left?'

Cécile nodded. ‘When the time comes, I must be strong.'

‘He will scream as though I am disembowelling him and you will beg for me to stop but needs must. It has to be done. Now, be brave and help me tie down his limbs.'

Reynaud tied Armand's good arm to the pallet at his side, secured his legs and ankles and wound a length around his middle. He stretched out the infected limb and strapped it to a board, in turn, anchoring it to the bed head. Then he unrolled a set of chirurgeon's instruments. There were several types of pincers, two of which had rounded tong-ends covered with miniscule teeth, some hooked scalpels, one in the shape of a fleur-de-lis, knives with sharp, curved blades at both ends in varied sizes and one misericord.

Cécile shuddered at the sight of the tiny dagger. It was the implement used when there was no hope left. One swift blow to the heart and the patient would be released forever. Many knights took them onto the battlefield, trusting their enemy's chivalry would free them from a lingering death.

‘Do all blacksmiths attire themselves so?' she asked, picking up the innocent-looking dagger. A childish whim to hide the misericord seized her. If it could not be found, it could not be used. But then would Madame Fate take up the challenge? Quickly she returned it to its pouch.

‘My father believed that chirurgery went hand-in-glove with being a smithy but never more so until he met a man in Avignon, called Guy de Chauliac, whose great talents serve the Pope still. He went to my father's shop to have special instruments made and, in turn, my father, God rest his soul, became interested in surgery.' While he spoke Reynaud cut away Armand's shirt, exposing the purplish-black bubo. The crusted top was a creamy-yellow and as the rank, rotting odour reached Cécile's nose, she gagged.

‘It will smell a lot worse when I cut it,' said Reynaud. ‘But for now, we wait.'

‘For what?' Cécile sat beside Reynaud and covered her nose with her wimple.

Reynaud looked at her with a sheepish mien. ‘My mistress,' he answered. ‘Forgive me but she has offered to help and since it was all I could do to calm her when we did not leave, I allowed her request. She will bring more sheets. We will need them.'

‘Why would she offer to help?'

Reynaud shrugged. ‘She is still trying to locate her brother. I think she hopes if she helps another, God will grant her mercy.

Armand groaned and his arms strained against the ties.

‘What chance does he have, Reynaud?' asked Cécile, her gaze swallowing her cousin whole as though it would be her last. Her tone conveyed her spent energy too well, her feeling of hopelessness.

Reynaud studied Cécile's pale face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the glistening lashes, the pursing of her lips. Tears were not far away. He slipped his arm around her. ‘He is in God's hands, Milady, as are we all. We should never fear that.' Silently he pressed a kiss to her hair, sharing a moment of hope. Above Cécile's veil a movement caught his eye. ‘Adèle!'

The young woman stood stock-still in the doorway. Her gaze twitched from Reynaud to Cécile and back several times, her mouth pressing into a tight line. ‘You asked me to bring these,' she said and held out a bundle of sheets.

Reynaud collected the linens and introduced the women to one another. Cécile and Adèle nodded politely, the latter tiptoeing to the bed to bend over the patient. Cécile had the oddest impression of knowing the woman but she was bereft of recall. Reynaud's mistress was immaculate in a fresh homespun gown, a clean cap, and healthy, glowing cheeks and for the first time in days, Cécile realised how ill-kept she must appear.

Adèle flashed her a look, the fire in her green eyes blazing an ancient, female warning.

Understanding flooded through Cécile and she realised how it must have appeared upon Adèle's entrance. She stood abruptly, anxious to put time and distance between them. ‘Excuse me, I must check on the soup.' Armand's lids fluttered open but his pupils were constricted. ‘Céci?' The droplets across his forehead spilled down to his neck. Cécile rinsed out the cloth and laid it against his skin. He blinked, his gaze going from Cécile to Adèle and back, his open mouth working furiously but no noise emitting. His body stiffened in a sudden spasm of pain. He let out a scream that froze Cécile's blood.

‘It is time,' said Reynaud, taking a blade from the flame. ‘His fever is too high. Get me a sheet.'

For the next hour Cécile cajoled, soothed, cried and even screamed once herself as Reynaud attacked Armand's skin with the knife. Armand thrashed wildly against his bonds until the two women had to bodily hold him down while Reynaud cut away the last of the putrid flesh. The stench was unlike anything Cécile had ever smelled as blood and pus spewed from the wound. The sheets were torn into cloths and filled with the purulence.

‘Place them directly into the fire and do not get any on yourselves,' warned Reynaud, whose own forehead was saturated with sweat. Satisfied at last, he liberally spread a thick paste and bound the remaining strips of cloth around Armand's torso. Armand had blissfully passed out. ‘Go wash up,' Reynaud instructed Cécile and numbly, she stumbled to the door.

Once outside, she scrubbed her arms in the pail of water until she threatened to remove her own skin. Then she vomited onto the grass and fell upon the garden bench, exhausted. ‘Heavenly Father,' she gasped, ‘please let Armand heal. Do not take him from me yet.' She saw Adèle moving in the kitchen and spared a thought for the girl. She had performed admirably, assisting Reynaud at every turn, her pretty chiselled face set in stone. In the distance the tolling of the bell could be heard. The cart was making its nightly rounds.