The Gilded Crown (31 page)

By the time Gillet and Griffith arrived, the cathedral was full to overflowing.

‘Alms for the poor on Corpus Crispy?'

Gillet loosened the pouch tied to his belt, removed a coin and knelt before the boy.

‘Can you say
Corpus Christi
?'

The lad's hand struck out to grab the offering.

‘Ah, ah. First the lesson, then the reward. Learning often comes at a price, my little friend.'

The boy's face mellowed into solemn concentration. ‘Corpus Chris … Chris …
ti
.'

‘Excellent!' Gillet flicked him the money and a gap-toothed grin lit up the child's face. He sped off as Gillet and Griffith shouldered their way into the back corner of the long nave. The bells began to ring the noon chimes.

In Vernon, the wild procession – headed by the priest carrying a long, wooden cross – wound its way through the last street and poured into the village square. They were just in time to witness a woman emerge from the hospice and be taken to the pyre. Anticipation for the event had been steadily building throughout the morning and a feral roar exploded into the air.

But the sight of the woman disappointed them. They wanted to spew their hatred onto a fearful, terrified prisoner. Instead, her steps were those of a sleepwalker, blank eyes staring ahead, unseeing. It was as though she saw and heard nothing. Her chemise was covered in filth and her once beautiful hair was a cap of butchered hanks that provoked more pity than anger.

Armand inhaled sharply and his heart skipped several beats when he saw Cécile. It took every ounce of his strength to not fight his way over to her captives and run them through. God, she was so pale! He began to pray hard. Bodies could be healed, hair would grow, but minds were much harder to bring back. He knew that. From his position behind the barrel, he watched her progress and his spirit plummeted further with her every step. He would not be able to count upon any assistance from her. He could only hope she would not hinder her own rescue.

Desultory insults were slung from the crowd as Cécile was hoisted up onto the pyre, her guards leaping onto the piled wood to lash her to the post. Still there was no response from the prisoner. Her gaze wandered vacantly over the gathering with no spark of interest. Nothing.

Armand's gaze was also searching the faces. Where were Adèle and her brother? Armand's stomach lurched. The moment was approaching but still he could not see them. His glance roved to the hilled street down which the lit cart would roll. Where were they?

Father Jacques approached his wooden dais, set to the left of the stake. He stepped up and raised his arms for quiet. ‘Behold the heretic whose poison touched your village, your brethren, your flock and your children! Watch as we burn her! Let her body and blood be offered to the altar of God on this, the feast of
Corpus Christi
. Let us pray.
Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, santificetur nomen tuum
…'

The people bowed their heads, some repeating the Latin they learned by rote. Armand stood on an upturned bucket and peered into the throng. Any minute now the guards would light the fire. It was at this point Armand realised the folly to part of their plan. He knew Adèle by sight only through fevered eyes and her brother not at all. The idea that they would stand together in the centre, she in a red cloak and he in a blue feathered cap, had sounded reasonable when first suggested. Armand had not considered there may have been many red cloaks and almost just as many blue feathered caps! Sweat trickled down his face and he wiped his brow. The prayer was almost at an end and still he had not spied his accomplices. Would Reynaud send his burning cart down the hill without first hearing Adèle's scream? Armand's heart began to beat faster. He glanced at Cécile, noted the number of guards flanking her and, drawing his knife, moved to take his position. He found his passage blocked by two horses. The riders wore a red cloak and a blue feathered cap respectively. Armand's demeanour changed as he recognised Robiérre d'Arques. The squire was clearly gloating over something.

‘Armand-Amanieu d'Albret?' Adèle smiled at him with feline precision, her voice honeyed. ‘I remember you.'

Recognition slammed home and Armand recoiled. ‘Anaïs?'

Anaïs laughed. ‘It's been a long time since I was a maid in Kent, non? You of all people should know I would do anything for Gillet.' She nodded toward the pyre and her expression became ugly with hate. ‘I told him in Broughton I would see that bitch burn at the stake!'

‘But you were helping us?' answered Armand, his mouth agape.

‘You stupid man!' scoffed Anaïs. ‘Whom do you think had your precious
cousin
arrested? And while she burns, Robiérre and I are away to Le Goulet, at your invitation. I do believe there is someone there with whom I wish to visit.' A whiff of smoke caught them all and Armand spun round. The guards had set their torches to the kindling.

‘Please, do not let us distract you, Monsieur d'Albret,' offered Anaïs, merrily, pulling her horse around. ‘I believe you have something else to do?' Anaïs kissed her fingers to the pyre and, laughing, spurred her mount towards the gate with Robiérre at her heels.

‘
Mon Dieu
!' Armand leapt for the pile of wood as flames took a hold.

Cécile's eyes stung from the smoke. As though the grey spiral column, wending its way to the clouds, held astringent properties, her presence of mind snapped to attention. To the entertainment of everyone she began to squirm and struggle. They cheered as she let out a long scream.

A small hand-cart was set rolling. Down the hill it careened, sending people scrambling as fully lighted, it tipped its precious cargo of red-hot coals and burning straw into the mob. Licks of flame greedily devoured clothing and hair and the crowd became a frenzied, squealing herd.

Guards began scooping water from nearby barrels and threw it haphazardly over the burning villagers, fearful the whole town centre would soon be ablaze. Taking advantage of the disarray, Armand threw his own bucketfuls onto the bonfire, enough to staunch the flames and raise a smoke cloud which allowed him climb up unnoticed. He raised his dagger to slit the ropes when his arms were suddenly slammed by a spade and two guards nabbed him. It was over before he could sing out to Cécile.

Dragged over the stones, Armand d'Albret was an offering to the disgruntled mob and they kicked, clawed, and spat. He landed heavily at the foot of the dais, sprawling next to Reynaud, similarly caught, bruised and torn. Both men found their hands and neck snapped into a stock. Father Jacques looked down upon them with distaste.

‘Think to save the prisoner?' he screeched. He shook his cross in the air. ‘God will not be cheated on this day!' A roar of approval greeted this statement as the villagers regrouped. Dusted and plumped, they were ripe for a show.

‘We will have our day of reckoning.' Father Jacques' fist shot up high and another cry went up.

‘God has condemned and so have we. Relight the holy fire. Burn the heretic!' He thumped his long-handled cross upon his raised platform and set a beat. ‘Burn the heretic! Burn the heretic!'

The crowd immediately took up the chant.

Cécile screamed in terror, struggling with all her might. ‘No!'

Armand fought to his feet and yelled, his voice lost in the chanting. ‘Cécile!'

The guards dipped fresh torches into a pitch barrel and lit them.

‘Cécile!'

Cécile heard Armand's cry and, sobbing, strained against the ropes, her fingers stretched out towards him. ‘Armand! God help us!'

‘God help us, Cécile!' choked Armand. Tears ran down his grazed cheeks. ‘Be strong, Angelique! I love you!' The torches were thrust into the dry rushes.

‘So, what next?' Griffith tightened the drawstring at this waist, feeling the absence of his sword's scabbard. He patted the knife at his side, hidden from view and felt some satisfaction. His gaze shot around the taproom to observe the collection of the evening's ale-sodden wretches, most with scantily dressed harlots decorating their laps.

‘We wait. The boy said “our visitor” would come to us here.'

Griffith frowned. ‘Did you not think that street urchin looked familiar?'

‘Oui,' replied Gillet, adding another frown to the table. ‘He was the same lad begging at the cathedral earlier today, the boy with the lisp.'

‘He did not lisp tonight when he delivered his message.'

‘No.' Gillet gulped at his ale. ‘He most certainly did not. Clearly we are within someone's sights.' He felt an inexplicable sensory perception, gooseflesh along the back of his neck, and knew their guest had appeared behind him. Griffith's expression confirmed their mystery visitor was known to them. Before he could turn, a voice slithered past his ear.

‘Brother.'

Griffith stood and, with a cursory nod to Gillet, went to find himself another table. Arnaud d'Albret slid in, the spider-thread scars on his face glinting silver in the candlelight. ‘How fortunate to discover you in Bordeaux. Surprised to see me?' His arm shot across the board, his voice low and malevolent as Gillet went for his dagger. ‘Not here, brother. Surely, we taught you better than that.'

‘What do you want? Innocent women to frighten and set upon the road? I doubt you'll find pregnant ones though.'

Amused, Arnaud released his hold. ‘Well, certainly not ones infused with royal seed. You must have spewed bile when you learned that.'

Gillet shrugged. ‘I was only the caretaker of Armagnac's daughter.'

Arnaud squinted. ‘That's not what her twin said when she came blathering at our doorstep in Kent. She, at least, seemed convinced the two of you were lovers. Made enough of it to send Mary packing. So, what brings you here?'

Beneath the table, Gillet's fist curled. ‘You do, remember? You told me to meet you here. I repeat, what do you want?'

Arnaud leaned back, enjoying his brother's discomfort. ‘Several things; I made a list.'

A serving maid appeared but Arnaud waved her away. He set his hand upon his chin and stroked the stubble, his gaze marching over every curve and crevice on Gillet's face. ‘You really do amaze me, Ghillebert. You are as enduring as a bog stench. Just when the air clears, there it is again.' He leaned upon the board and snarled. ‘What are you doing in Bordeaux? Could it be that you are here to meet with our dear cousin?'