The Gilded Crown (3 page)

The younger knights learned that Orléans had claimed Bellegarde and, disappointed, they retired, wishing the men well.

Lord Montargis crowed with a Midas glee.

‘Bellegarde and his companion-in-arms are valued lances and highly sought on the competition field, Madame,' confided Lord du Sully to Cécile. ‘Anyone who survived Poitiers is worth their weight in gold, and I believe that your husband and Beaumont de l'Oise cut their battle-teeth as young pups at Crécy.' He surprised her with a charming wink. ‘Even if they fought on the wrong side!'

By mid-morning Margot and Cécile made their way to the stands, having left Jean Petit in the care of the maids. Almost a month had passed since the wedding and neither Gillet nor Cécile had been eager to quit the comfort of their new home in Arras, the Maison des Fleurs.

Enjoying her respite from motherhood, Cécile watched as knights mounted and rode to the holding lines where a profusion of gaudy pennants fluttered. She shuffled closer to Margot as a man squashed in beside them. He wore a cloaked tunic that fell to his hips, the split sleeves of the expensive brocade edged in soft beaver. He accorded Cécile a courteous smile and, tipping his matching fur hat from his sparsely-haired head to Margot, squirmed closer.

‘I fear we shall be packed like salted herring afore long, and smelling just as ripe.' Cécile obliged him with a nod as Margot excitedly dug her in the ribs.

‘They begin.'

The field sorted into groups and two contestants rode to opposite ends for the first joust. Cécile immediately recognised the silver and red stripes of Lieven, and the blue and gold diagonals of Beaupre.

‘Ha! Knights d'Artois,' she announced. Cécile outlined to Margot the tactics of Beaupre, sounding much as Gillet had at the last tournament. She surprised her company on both her left and right flank when her prediction came to pass.

‘You would think Lieven would know by now,' snorted Cécile, smugly.

‘Madame, that was astonishing,' voiced her cloaked neighbour. ‘I apologise for being so forward, but you leave me in awe. Monsieur Maroeuil at your service, Madame. I own a stall in the Place de la Merchands, fabrics and furs.'

That accounted for the brocade and beaver, thought Cécile. Her gaze fell to his right hand which sat resting comfortably on his knee. And for the expensive kid gloves.

‘I do not recall seeing you before, Milady. Yet you are acquainted with our local knights?'

Cécile's cheeks coloured. ‘Your pardon, sir, you have caught me out. I only recently arrived in Arras, but my husband and I visited last year during a tourney. It was he who accustomed me with the strategies of which I spoke.'

The man's gaze lifted to Margot, and then past her to the crowd beyond. ‘And your husband?'

‘Is presently occupied elsewhere in the grounds, Monsieur. No doubt he will join me later.'

The merchant nodded affably.

Another set of knights rode forward and, realising that she would be hard pressed to distinguish the blazons, Cécile considered her options.

‘Do you attend tournaments often, Monsieur?'

‘Oui,' he answered, jovially. ‘I would not miss one.'

‘Then, perhaps you will not mind acquainting me with some of the other knights. I am quite lost without my husband present to explain.'

‘It would be my pleasure, Lady, er …'

‘Lady de Bellegarde,' she informed him. Gillet had warned her that to remain in France they would have to leave the name of ‘Albret' behind.

‘My pleasure, Lady de Bellegarde.' He shifted closer to make himself heard above the sudden roar of the crowd, his left hand striking out to point. ‘Andre d'Auchy and François Desvres, lads in service locally; Desvres should win.'

The two knights thundered across the ground, clouds of dust in their wake. The lances struck heavily. Cécile's companion was correct. D'Auchy tumbled onto the grass, unhorsed in the first pass. The merchant's gaze was fixed firmly upon the field but Cécile could have sworn he slid closer still. For his intelligent and accurate commentary, she forgave his intrusion and for the next hour or so, happily listened as he explained the devices and their wearers. A poking of Margot's elbow hit Cécile's left rib as the woman squealed tremulously. ‘Look!'

Armand was riding to the list. Monsieur Maroeuil peered down his nose and Cécile pulled her light cloak further over her shoulder, with an indulgent smile. ‘Our cousin,' she offered. ‘A Gascon.'

Panache pranced in agitation as Michel, Armand's squire, handed up the lance. The spiral ribbon of red paint, curling from tip to end, teetered for a moment as Armand secured his grip and controlled his mount.

‘Monsieur Maroeuil, who is his competitor?' asked Cécile.

‘Longueville from Normandie,' he replied, ‘a noble knight who likes to win.'

‘Ah, but so does my cousin.'

The horses charged, and the crowd leaned forward in their seats, eager for the outcome.

‘Observe.' Monsieur Maroeuil pointed. ‘Longueville will push hard and hope to unbalance your cousin by changing his direction at the very last minute.'

Cécile watched, breathless with excitement when she felt a gentle pressure against her breast – a tingling sensation. She was shoulder-to-shoulder in the crush and glanced suspiciously at her neighbour, but his left hand was suspended in the air, and his right was still casually sitting on his far knee.

‘There!' yelled Monsieur Maroeuil. He stabbed the air jubilantly. Longueville's lance shifted. It glanced off Armand's shield and hit his shoulder, knocking him backwards. Armand held firm as he delivered a similar blow. The crowd roared their approval. A heat accompanied the tingling feeling at Cécile's right breast, and she drew breath sharply, spinning in her seat. Monsieur Maroeuil was rubbing the back of his right hand and he grinned broadly.

‘A fine pass by your cousin, though I think he may have been surprised by the move. He made an excellent recovery and I think he has given his foe much to consider.'

Armand took up his second lance. Longueville was ready, his horse stamping impatiently. The flag dropped and they streaked across the field. Cécile observed Armand, true to Gillet's teachings, firmly fix his gaze on Longueville, and then, at the last moment, lower his lance and twist in his seat.

‘Hola!' cried the merchant, merrily. ‘That was ingenious work by your cousin.' Unsuspecting, Longueville accepted a vicious blow and was thrown back in his saddle, his own lance failing to connect. ‘Oh,' Maroeuil laughed, ‘Longueville will
not
like that! He prides himself for not missing a pass.'

Margot jumped excitedly on the seat, and the mob yelled encouragement for the newcomer garbed in blood-red. They waited eagerly for the last pass, unsure of the outcome. In one row bets were hastily changed and more coins changed hands. The horses charged, and almost immediately Cécile felt a dense pressure at her ribs. As the lances crashed together, splintering into the air, Cécile squealed as a hot palm smothered her breast and ruthlessly squeezed. She jumped to her feet. ‘Monsieur!'

Maroeuil blinked up stupidly, and Cécile stared at his two hands neatly sitting on his thighs.

Margot pulled her back down, crowing with elation. ‘Armand won!'

Cécile glared at Monsieur Maroeuil, peeved that she had missed the pass.

‘Your cousin is a fine jouster,' he chortled. ‘From where did you say he came?'

Cécile swallowed uneasily and told herself that she was being ridiculous. After all, the man's hands had not moved from his knees. Perhaps the groping had come from behind. She turned to find that only women were seated in the row above her.

‘
Mon Dieu
!' one of the women cried. ‘The Red Devil! He can bring his lance to my house any day.'

Her friend giggled and swigged from a wineskin. ‘Don't be greedy, Isabelle. You always take the handsome ones. Let us have our turn.'

‘Gascogne, Monsieur.' Cécile gave the cloth merchant an apologetic grimace. ‘My cousin comes from Gascogne.'

‘Ooooh,' trilled another voice behind her, ‘I would not mind wrapping a red ribbon around
his
lance!'

Maroeuil smirked over his shoulder, and leaned close to Cécile. ‘Ladies of the night,' his head jerked, ‘from the local tavern. Your cousin is a long way from home.' Maroeuil scratched his nose absentmindedly. ‘The truce, I suspect, has left him this far north.'

Cécile nodded agreement just as her ribs were dug again. At least she could be sure about that feeling.

‘Look,' breathed Margot, ‘Gillet comes to the list.'

Cécile forgot all else as she gazed upon the tall, dark form of her husband, his helm still tied to his saddle, his black hair – longer now – bobbing freely across his shoulders as Inferno trotted onto the field, tossing his head and snorting.

‘Ooohh.
Sacre bleu
!' shrilled the female trio. ‘Look at that one dressed in blue.
He's
mine.' A burst of giggling sounded. ‘Demons together! Oh, look! He knows the knight in red.' There was a chorus of plaintive sighs as Armand rode to Gillet and leaned across his saddle to talk.

Cécile noticed then that all the knights had shifted from their anchor. ‘Why do they break rank?' she asked the merchant.

‘To stretch the horses' legs and prevent them from stiffening,' he answered. ‘This is the end of the first quarter. They will have a five minute interlude.' A prickling heat burned just below Cécile's right breast and quickly she glanced sideways, but Monsieur Maroeuil was absently scratching his nose again. His other hand still rested upon his knee.

‘Gillet is riding our way,' announced Margot. The merchant shuffled and coughed. Gillet approached and Cécile was taken aback at the fury sparkling from beneath his scowl. Inferno snorted as they drew level, the women behind Cécile shrilling elatedly, but Gillet blatantly stared at the merchant. Unsmiling, he spurred Inferno to rear and the great beast rose onto his back legs, his front hooves punching the air in warhorse fashion. Gillet spun Inferno around and repeated the action, his gaze never leaving the merchant's face. Then, quite deliberately, he lowered his gauntlet to hover ominously over his sword. Monsieur Maroeuil turned a pasty hue. Inferno was kneed forward, and Gillet bowed, touching his hand to his lips, then clamping his steel fingers over his heart before extending his arm towards Cécile. It was the most gallant gesture Cécile had ever seen.

With a yelp the merchant took to his heels. Gillet grinned wolfishly at the retreating figure. He tipped his head to Cécile's new neighbour and, with a genuine smile, blew his wife a quick kiss before galloping back onto the field. Cécile was tapped on the shoulder from behind.

‘Do you know him, Mademoiselle?'

‘It's Madame,' said Cécile. She held up her ringed hand. ‘He is my husband.'

‘Hard luck, Isabelle,' sniggered her companion.

‘I must say that was bizarre,' said Margot, still watching where the merchant had disappeared.

‘Gillet certainly took a dislike to our companion,' said Cécile.

‘No. That is not what I meant. I mean it was odd that Gillet should react so, but what was even stranger was the man's clothing as he ran away.' She jiggled her fingers in the air. ‘He had a fat glove hanging off one knee!'

The tourney reconvened and it was the squires' turn. Griffith rode to take his place at the marker. He was dressed in the Bellegarde insignia and sat tall and confident as Ramon, Gabriel's squire, handed up a lance. The flag dropped and the two horses raced across the field at breakneck speed.

Curious about Griffith's competitor, Cécile spoke to her new neighbour. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, but do you know the man who bears the white castle flanked by two towers?'

‘He's from the Normandie company, Madame – Robiérre d'Arques.' The man spat onto the dirt. ‘A conceited, brash, misfit with high expectations beyond his station. He clings to the Comte de Rouen like a dag of mud on a hem. I hope your man defeats him and if he has been trained by your husband, then he stands every chance.'