The Gilded Crown (32 page)

Gillet met the black stare without blinking. ‘Edward sends an emissary. How do you know I am not he?'

‘Oh, I know.'

‘How?'

The wolfish teeth flashed. ‘
Because I am he
. And now I will tell you what I want. I want you to bring Cécile d'Armagnac to this court. Amanieu and I made a promise to the Prince in London that she would be delivered to Bordeaux.' He raised his brows. ‘And I will see it done.'

Gillet stood, his hand hovering at his belt, his voice low. ‘Let us take a walk, brother. Now.'

Arnaud glared but made no move. ‘I will give you one month, Ghillebert. If she is not at Blanquefort by then, I
will
have you arrested as a traitor. I can guess your true quest and our cousin will not comply. Be grateful I give you this chance to save your skin.' He stood and brushed off his sleeves with nonchalance. ‘And before you storm off, I have one more request.'

‘What?'

Arnaud's gaze was piercing. ‘I want my wife back.'

The smoke blotted out the sky. Cécile could still hear Armand calling her name but she could no longer see him. She began to cough, the persistent burning in her throat coursing down to her lungs and setting them on fire. She could hardly breathe. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,' she rasped, gulping for air. ‘Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.'

A wailing horn rang out across the square as a thunderous clomping of hooves was heard. The villagers were sent scattering, screaming as the leader of the horsemen, hell-bent on reaching the pyre, rode over pedestrians as though they were grapes to be squashed. He drew his sword and yelled, ‘
Hold! In the name of the King! Douse that fire.
'

Soldiers raced to fill buckets and repeatedly threw them over the pyre. Armand watched, terrified of what he might see once the flames had been beaten back. Then he heard her coughing.

The captain, dressed in the Duc's livery, dismounted and strode over to Father Jacques, six of his men in his wake. ‘Arrest him.'

As though waking from a dream, the priest started and squealed ineffectually.

‘Release the men in stocks.'

Cécile was helped down from the woodpile but her legs refused to work. She collapsed and the attending soldier scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his captain.

The young horseman saluted her. ‘Madame, by orders of the Duc de Berri, Castle Vernon opens it gates to you. We are ordered to escort you and your companions there at once.'

In the quiet bedchamber of Vernon castle, Cécile stretched her leg out of the steaming tub. She wriggled her toes and turned her foot left and right before retracting her limb to the cosiness of the scented water. Her hair had been trimmed to a short but neat cap, then washed and rinsed twice. She rested her forehead against her knees wearily and breathed deeply of the lavender aroma. How many baths would it take to wash away the horror of the last month? During that time, she and Armand had both faced death but God, in His wisdom, had granted them life. To what end? Her mind repelled thinking about the issue of Anaïs but she knew eventually she would have to face it. Sooner, if Armand had his way, but the Duc's men had insisted on bringing them up to the castle and it was impolite to slight your rescuers. Cécile let out a long sigh.

The castle's steward, upon hearing of the village's prisoner, had quickly sent word to Gisors. The answer had come swiftly; a contingent of Duc de Berri's personal guard had been deployed. Cécile glanced at the letter sitting on the stool beside the tub. The broken wax held the imprint of the Duc's ring. It contained only three words:
Please forgive me
.

Cécile rose from the water and picked up the note. She threw it onto the fire, watching the parchment curl and shrivel into ashes. She harboured no resentment toward Jean de Berri. It had not been his fault Father Jacques was a zealot.

With the assistance of the maid, waiting silently by, Cécile swathed herself in a soft robe, spinning suddenly as she heard Armand's voice. His hair was still wet, lying sleek against his skull and his skin, freshly scrubbed and glowing, showed signs of new bruising. She smiled warmly at his approach.

‘Armand.'

‘Céci, sweetheart.' He drew her into his arms and brushed her short locks, now curling against her neck, with his fingers. ‘I like it,' he said. ‘Would that you had worn it so when we were young. It might have saved me untangling a lot of fur balls.' At her wobbly grin, he added. ‘It will soon grow, chérie. How do you really fare?'

‘Weary. I could sleep for a week.'

‘Then I must disappoint you. I fear our troubles are not yet over.'

‘But the physician said …'

‘The physician does not know what I do. Cécile,' he raised her chin so she would look at him, ‘be strong when I tell you this but the Duc's men have not located Anaïs or her brother in Vernon, and I think I know why.'

‘Why?'

‘Sweetheart, we must leave and ride hard for Le Goulet immediately. I think Anaïs means to harm your son.'

‘We have yet to discuss names.'

Simon swatted at an annoying midge and looked down at his wife. Catherine was lying on the plaid rug supplied with the picnic basket, as organised by Lady Dunbar. ‘What did you have in mind?'

‘I do not know. I thought you might have a preference, a family name perhaps?'

‘I suppose it depends on whether it is a boy or a girl!' Grasping a small knife Simon began to peel a large green apple. ‘The most oft used is Charles.'

‘Would you like to name our son for your father?' Catherine reached for a slice of the fruit.

Simon considered her offer. Did he want his first born to share the same name as the man he had idolised? Would it be a joyous gift or a painful reminder? ‘It may be a wee lassie,' Simon teased, invoking a thick Gaelic accent.

‘If it is a girl we could call her Matilda for your aunt.'

Simon chuckled. ‘I would like that.'

‘Or perhaps Cécile,' Catherine suggested.

‘Both of which I approve.' Tossing the core into the long grass, Simon rose to his knees to look over the small mound obstructing his view. Roderick had escorted Lady Dunbar, Tiphanie, English Mary and Girda down the hill to a stream. He could hear Gabby above the cackle of the women as Tiphanie allowed the baby to wiggle his toes in the water. The Marshall household had increased by four in a very short period of time and it would do so again when the new babe arrived. How quickly his life had changed. It was no more than a year since he departed London on Gillet's request, hung-over, tired and depressed, his life filled with misery and loneliness. Now he was married, had rekindled the enduring friendship of his brother and was enjoying the loyalty of a gaggle of happy servants.

‘I would like a little girl,' he mused. ‘She would complete the ring that circles my heart.'

‘We are blessed, Simon, in so many ways.'

‘If only we were enjoying all this in Cambridge, for though I appreciate your sentiments, we are living under the goodwill of a foreign monarch.'

‘Nor have I forgotten, Simon, that we have a task to complete. The sooner we rid ourselves of that horrible sword, the better,' Catherine pondered. ‘I hate that I am deceiving Lady Dunbar.'

‘The king has given me permission to visit Doune – a perfect ruse. Together Roderick and I will return the Lady and be back in Edinburgh within the week.'

‘Does that mean I may remain here?' Catherine asked.

‘I see no need to drag you halfway across Scotland.'

Catherine's smile warmed his heart.

‘When will you go?'

‘It will take Roderick several days to organise, so not until next week.' He laid his hand on the crest of her belly, his fingers spreading over his child within. ‘What about Hilda? Or Godit?'

‘Simon!'

‘Alright, then perhaps Morag!'

Catherine sat up and slapped his wrist. ‘I think not!'

The ladies bower was proving popular with many of the titled wives squeezing their way into the inner sanctum. Catherine sat down on the cushioned bench to observe. In the far corner, a small crowd sat, mesmerised, as Margaret Logie retold a ribald tale as shared by the King at dinner. Gathered in the centre of the room, ladies clucked around Euphemia like chickens in a coop.

Lady Dunbar was absent, struck with a megrim, and Tiphanie, much taken with Gabby, was assisting Girda. For the first time in many weeks, Catherine felt a pang of loneliness. She had not spoken with Simon since their picnic two days ago. He rose early each morn and returned to their bed well after she had fallen asleep. And here, in this women's haven, she was neither invited to Margaret's circle nor join Euphemia's ladies, who made her feel very much the intruder.

Catherine gazed out the opening at the billowing clouds. The evening breeze was warm and salty and immediately evoked the memory of her first sea voyage, the night she had held Cécile in her arms. The pain of separation was no longer as sharp, but she still missed her sister. She missed Gillet and Armand and the boys also. She even had to admit that she missed France!

Thoughts of impending motherhood sent her mind racing in the opposite direction. What if the babe was born in Scotland? Would it matter? Would she be safe? Travelling back to Cambridge with two infants would require a great deal of planning, but that was preferable to attempting the journey late in her pregnancy. Either way, a decision needed to be made and soon.

Catherine was enjoying the warmth of the sun on her cheeks when a shadow fell across her face. It was the younger Agnes Dunbar. ‘Lady Wexford, may I join you?'

‘Of course,' said Catherine, gathering up the folds of her gown to make room for the girl.

‘I have been looking forward to speaking with you, but find that my aunt holds sway over your company.'

‘Lady Dunbar has been most kind. I am not sure I would have survived my visit here without her help and advice.' Catherine clutched the crucifix around her neck. ‘It is not always easy to find such generosity in others.'