The Gilded Crown (4 page)

Cécile thanked him politely, and turned back to watch. Gillet had been training Griffith, but this ‘D'Arques' was also competent. It went to three passes but, being an older squire, Griffith's build and strength triumphed. As he rode back to the Bellegarde contingent, Robiérre spurred his horse towards the Normandie encampment and, deliberately enticing his beast, spun it to kick a wooden rack. Precious helms spilled into the dirt.

‘Whoever that upstart is,' murmured Cécile to Margot, ‘he possesses a most foul temper.' They watched as an older knight strode over and cuffed the young man as he dismounted.

‘'Twould seem the Knights of Normandie agree with you,' replied Margot.

The squire pointed accusingly across the field, and Cécile's brows rose in surprise. Griffith had been a flower of chivalry. The knight thumped D'Arques' shoulder and, incensed, the younger man kicked a nearby stool before stomping into the tent. Cécile considered that the knave's temper might be the reputation of which Gillet had heard. She had little time to wonder long for Margot grasped her arm.

‘Gillet!' she hissed.

Gillet de Bellegarde rode to the marker. A chorus of admiration echoed from the stands but the gentleman next to Cécile shook his head disparagingly. A hefty knight in bright gold, with a black lion rampant, had just ridden to the opposite end.

‘That was ill luck for your husband, Madame. The Comte de Flandre is favoured to win this tourney. ‘'Twould seem your lord is to be his first sacrificial lamb.'

Cécile smiled with more confidence than she felt. ‘If I know anything of my husband, Monsieur, he will concentrate on beating instead of bleating.'

But moments later Cécile's heart grew heavy when Gillet struggled to bring his horse under control. Inferno had picked a fine time to display an attack of rebelliousness, while, at the other end, the Comte de Flandre's huge destrier pawed the earth like a provoked bull. Inferno was unwilling to stand his ground, and broke twice before the flag dropped, much to the crowd's chagrin.

‘I have never seen Inferno like this,' confided Cécile to Margot. The horse simply refused to do his master's bidding and, worse, it was obviously making Gillet nervous. Inferno flung his head without warning and the rein slipped through Gillet's gauntlet, further stressing the horse when it trod upon the dangling strap. Inferno reared and Cécile watched, horrified, as her husband slipped backwards in the saddle, grappling madly at the horse's mane to stay on. To be unseated before running the list was to wear a jester's crown indeed. Gillet secured the rein, his head hovering above Inferno's ears, no doubt swearing a torrent of abuse through the slit in his helm. His cussing must have found its mark, for Inferno obeyed and held still.

Gillet's head spun around angrily and, with dismay, Cécile realised he was looking for Griffith. His squire should have been waiting, ready to pass the lance but where was he?

Within the folds of her skirt Cécile's hands curled into fists. ‘If Minette has distracted Griffith at such a moment,' she hissed, ‘I will flay her senseless!' Fear was turning into desperate anger.

Margot paled and glanced at Cécile just as Griffith ran onto the field, lacing up his chausse. The crowd sniggered. He hastily grabbed the weapon from the nearby stand. The rack toppled and spilled over. The audience laughed outright; they could have been watching a mummer's play. When Cécile thought it could get no worse, Griffith let go the lance before Gillet could secure his grip and it fell uselessly to the ground. The crowd laughed harder and some hooted at such a display of clumsiness.

Finally the flag dropped and the two knights charged, Inferno slower to start than Flandre's snorting beast. With despair, Cécile realised that the Comte would meet Gillet in his own territory – well past the halfway mark. Her heart sank further as Gillet's grip on his lance did not seem assured. It wavered in the air, veering off course to slide ineffectively against the Comte's shield. Contrary to all his teaching, at the crucial moment, Gillet dropped his head too far and lost sight of his target. The black lion on the Comte's chest rose in defiance and Gillet was slammed back in his saddle, the weapon striking hard and heavy. Gillet fell forward and dropped his lance. He scrambled to release his helm, tore it off, and holding one arm across his chest, trotted back to the starting post.

In the stand Cécile felt a toe kick at the back of her gown.

‘I hope he is better with his lance in bed,' the whore snorted crudely. ‘At least with his looks you don't have to blow out the candle.' A burst of ribald guffawing sounded.

Margot slid her arm through Cécile's. ‘Pay them no attention. Everyone has a bad pass now and again.' Cécile smiled her thanks but the truth was even she had seen squires on wooden barrels joust better.

They were ready for the second run. Inferno danced uneasily at the marker, but Griffith neatly passed the lance this time. The flag went down and the riders broke together, but Cécile was mortified. Inferno had broken before Gillet was ready. His weight was flung backwards, almost out of control. He wobbled in his seat, trying to heave the cumbersome weapon into position. Flandre was closing fast, his lance poised for a deadly strike, and Gillet had not yet managed to hook his into the cradle! In a last desperate effort, Gillet threw his weight across his saddle and over calculated. His lance was aimed nowhere near his opponent, whilst the Comte bore down upon him with deadly accuracy. Cécile covered her face and peeked through her fingers. Gillet had no option but to abandon all hope of a strike and, in order to save his seat, he dropped his lance in favour of holding fast to the saddle. His shield was raised in time and Flandre's lance struck the blazoned bell dead centre to ring out a victory. Cécile let her breath out slowly. It had been his only option, she told herself. The Comte would have most certainly unhorsed him otherwise.

The Comte of Flandre yelled, ‘Enjoy your last ride on that horse, Bellegarde. Tomorrow will see him farting in my stable!'

Cécile burned. She clenched her fist and watched as Gillet rode slowly back to his end of the field, his shoulders drooping. He seemed so defeated. The crowd enthusiastically hailed the Comte de Flandre. A toecap nudged Cécile less than gently.

‘I was going to say that he could ring my bell anytime, but the only bell he should be ringing is a leper's. Even then, a leper could hold onto his parts better!'

Amidst the squeals of amusement Cécile spun around, tears springing at the cruel jest but Margot stilled her.

‘They are not worth it.' She glared over her shoulder at the women disdainfully. ‘What would they know of decent men?'

A breezy voice retorted, ‘I hope his lance has better direction under the sheets. Mayhap he should take lessons from his squire.'

‘Mayhap he already does!' Another wild squeal went up.

‘Madame, pay them no attention, I pray you,' Cécile's neighbour sympathised. ‘Though, I must say that I have never seen Monsieur de Bellegarde joust so poorly.' He was frowning, probing the field with a scholar's intelligence, but then he lifted his head, beaming as though he had just discovered the Holy Grail. ‘
Mais oui!But of course
!' He slapped his forehead. ‘Your husband has never given such a poor sampling.
Ever.'

If this comment was intended to provide some comfort, Cécile found it sadly lacking. The man chuckled, his eyes lighting with smug anticipation. He watched Gillet ready himself for the third and final pass. He nodded towards the riders. ‘The Comte de Flandre is a most diligent jouster but your husband, Madame, has just played him for the conceited fool he is.'

On the field, Griffith passed the lance and Gillet flashed him a grin before snapping down his visor. The flag fell, and Inferno reared into the air, snorting as fiercely as any worthy warhorse. Gillet's balance was perfect. The riders thundered down the pass, clods of torn earth spewing in their wake, Inferno's snorts in cadence with his hooves. Gillet leaned into his mantle and expertly cradled the lance; his head bent, his body poised, his arm steadied. On the far side, the Comte de Flandre's start was insipid; he was running the list with an almost casual air of indifference. It was then Cécile understood her neighbour's comment. Gillet had duped Flandre!

As though he could hear Cécile's thoughts, the Comte realised his error and tried to alter his position. He struggled. The Bellegarde knight lowered his shield and brought his lance down with timely precision. There was a resounding crash as the two jousters collided. The crowd shot upright with a bellow. The bulky Comte was thrown, his feet flying over his head as his lance speared the clouds like a shaft of straw escaping a pitchfork. He landed heavily, a huge boulder avalanching over the tufts of grass, while his destrier, confused by the slipped saddle girthing its belly, bucked furiously.

Cécile's neighbour was beside himself. ‘Hola! I would love to see Flandre's face when it stops ploughing the furrows.' He sat down with a chortle. ‘His complacency, Madame, has taught him a valuable reminder, and earned your husband the Comte's horse and armour.'

‘Are my husband's method's not a little unscrupulous?'

‘Heavens, no! The first lesson taught is to
never
underestimate your opponent, though I must say your husband took a risk. He left himself with but one pass, his only option to entirely unseat his quarry. That, Madame,' he declared with bravado, ‘takes great skill and courage.'

The pinching beneath her bodice reminded Cécile that back in their tent her son would be wailing his hunger. As the field was cleared of Flandre's debris, she and Margot took their leave. After farewelling her new companion, she turned to the row of harpies behind.

‘Ladies,' she acquiesced, ‘you are as crude as you are witless. I never once doubted my husband's abilities or skill. Be assured his “parts” will never require services from the likes of you!' With her nose primly stuck in the air, Cécile marched away from the open-mouthed putains. Beside her, Margot stifled her splutter.

From inside her pavilion, Cécile listened to the crowing of Orléans' roosters as Jean Petit suckled at her breast. Through the breach in the front flap, she watched as Armand slapped a beaming Griffith between the shoulder blades.

‘When you dropped the lance I thought I was going to rust my armour,' he choked.

‘Oui. Have you ever seen such an inept display of squiring?' bellowed Mouse. ‘Or horsemanship? When Gillet threw down his lance, I swear I could hear Flandre laughing behind his helm. Conceited bastard!'

‘Oui,' chortled Gabriel, wiping his eyes, ‘but I bet he is not laughing now. Where is Gillet, anyway?'

Cécile was wondering the same thing herself.

‘He ran across an old friend in the crowd. He said—'

Jean Petit's wail drowned out Armand's words. The babe's face screwed, and he screamed, thrusting a fist into his mouth. When ten minutes later he was still performing, having drunk very little, Cécile stepped from the canvas to breathe sanity. The men were in deep discussion, sprawled around a stump which served as a table for a chessboard. Upon it two armies seemed hopelessly entangled, straggled in peculiar positions, though no pieces had been surrendered.

Armand smiled at Cécile's approach then grimaced as Jean Petit let fly another howl. He jumped up and held out his arms. ‘Would you have me take him for a while? You look a little worn.'

‘He refuses to settle,' complained Cécile, ‘I think he is teething.' She nodded at the board. ‘What do you play?'

‘Warfare,' answered Armand. ‘We are planning our strategies for tomorrow's mêlée.'

Smiling to the others, Cécile noted Gillet's absence and the lengthening of the shadows. ‘Is Gillet not back yet?'

‘No, but I would not be overly concerned, sweetheart. He has probably been waylaid at every campfire, with many congratulatory tankards.'

‘Then I think I will take Jean Petit for a walk. The cool air might ease his discomfort.'

She left the men to their scheming and, with Margot supervising the evening meal, Cécile jiggled and danced Jean Petit to a nearby grove of trees. Thinking herself alone, she jumped when a woman stepped out from behind a bush. Her hair was hidden beneath a snow-white coif and her tailored gown of expensive blue brocade hung slackly on her shoulders. She struck out long fingers to capture the baby's chin, the dirty, broken nails at odds with the rest of her appearance.

‘What a fine child,' she purred. ‘A boy?'

‘Yes,' confirmed Cécile, swinging him away from her avaricious reach. ‘Your pardon, Jean is overset today; teething troubles.'

‘Oil of cloves,' she replied. ‘Rub it into his gums.' The twitch of the woman's lips revealed tidy teeth, though grimy from ill care. Dark circles smudged the skin above her gaunt cheeks but her green eyes sparkled like gems. If not for her emaciation, she may have come close to beautiful. The flawless bone structure of her face would excite a sculptor but her colour was high, suggesting an ailment of some kind. Her gaze fell upon the chain around Cécile's neck and, with a gasp, she struck out again. Before Cécile could move, her silver medal was nestled in the woman's palm and she was studying it as though it were an insect in amber.