The Gilded Crown (40 page)

Thanks to the gold in the hem of one of Cécile's plainer gowns, courtesy of the Vicomtesse, the first order of business Gabriel had taken upon their arrival in Bordeaux was to make sure ‘Lady Holland' and her maid were suitably attired. He was highly amused at their reaction.

‘If only the disagreements of war could be so easily settled – with silk and velvet.' He leaned back in his chair to enjoy the female jubilation, adding, ‘And if only I had known I was carrying a small fortune all this time. I could have saved myself hours of latrine digging in Le Goulet!' He pretended a bad back as Cécile shot him a sidelong glance.

Avidly clutching a green velvet gown, she knelt at his side. ‘I was so worried about Armand I forgot to tell you I had some coin sewn into one of my gowns.'

Gabriel rolled his eyes. ‘
Some
coin? Madame, you had enough to buy and feed an army hidden in your skirts. Jesu! Just as well no one had an inkling or we would have landed in the bottom of a ditch with our throats slit.'

Cécile giggled and draped a lacy veil over her face. ‘But, gentle knight, surely you know I had no conception of its worth?' Her expression suggested otherwise.

‘I heard about Gillet's lessons,' chortled Gabriel. ‘He said once tutored, you were as astute as a Scotsman mustering supplies for a campaign.'

Cécile looked into the weather-tanned face, the deepening crinkles around Gabriel's eyes, the hollow cheeks and dark rings. They had ridden hard to make Bordeaux as quickly as possible but he had pushed himself the hardest, at various times taking her or Minette upon his horse when they could go no further. She rested her hand on his knee. ‘I hope you ordered some garments for yourself while you were about it.'

‘Me?' He grinned cheekily. ‘As it happens, Madame, I did. Although I have no intention of being presented at this court,' he smelled the sleeve of his shirt, ‘I must still find a way to live with myself.'

Cécile lowered the veil and sighed. ‘I think I have left a collection of clothes all around France by now. I should have thought to tell Duc de Berri to redirect my belongings at the palace to Bellegarde.' She looked up and pulled a face. ‘Although, knowing of the Duc's generosity, they have probably long ago been distributed amongst the poor.'

‘Then it is only your clothing from Paris which suffers such indignity, milady. Your robes from Arras, ergo Chilham, are en route to Bellegarde as we speak. Gillet made the arrangements before we left.' He looked around the tiny chamber. ‘You will not stay here long either. The steward at court shall see you have suitable rooms at Blanquefort and, as soon as business is concluded, we may all go home.'

Cécile grasped Gabriel's hand and squeezed it. ‘You have been a tower of strength these past weeks, Gabriel. I know not how I should have pulled through without you.'

Gabriel bowed his head. ‘It has been my honour, Madame, to escort the wife of my companion-in-arms to him.' He returned the pressure on her hand. ‘Would that I could have done more for your son. I am so sorry.'

‘No, Gabriel, no.' Cécile reached out to cup his cheek, drinking in the soft blue-green warmth of his gaze. ‘Do not berate yourself for events out of your hands. You are in no way to blame for Anaïs and I thank you from the bottom of my soul for what you have done for all of us. Margot and Minette would never have made it out of Vernon were it not for you.'

Gabriel lifted her hand and gently kissed her fingers, his voice husky. ‘Still, would that I could have done more.'

Cécile's heart melted. ‘How is it you have no one special by your side?'

Gabriel smiled, the tell-tale dimples appearing. ‘Since our first meeting, fair lady, I have had precious little spare time.'

Cécile felt a new ambition excite her. It swirled through her blood, tingling her skin, making her feel more alive. ‘Then, Sir Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise, I shall scour this court for you. I will make it my duty to find you a bride.'

Gabriel burst out laughing. ‘Marry a daughter whose father lives under English rule? I think not, Cécile de Bellegarde. Let us wait until we return to the court in Paris then you may shoot Cupid's arrows to your heart's content. And now, if you will excuse me, I am currently more suited to the sties of pigs than any court of princes. By your leave, I shall take myself down to the bathhouse.' He kissed her hand again and then let it go. ‘Do not fret for me, Cécile. I may not be as fortunate as Gillet but neither can I cry loneliness. And I hear there are many available beauties to be found in Bordeaux.' With a wink, he bowed to them and vacated the chamber.

The gaze of both women followed him through the doorway, each privy to their own thoughts and quiet sighs.

One week after their arrival in Bordeaux, Cécile stood at the base of the steps leading into Blanquefort castle. She inhaled a deep breath to steady herself. Her heart beat rapidly, both with the excitement of finally seeing Gillet and with trepidation for his reaction to her unexpected appearance. The page boy stood at the entrance and glared at the unescorted woman. His foot began to tap. He was waiting to take her name to the Master of Ceremony. Another couple jostled past to engage the lad and Cécile took a moment to calm herself. With trembling hands she brushed away imaginary specks from the midnight-blue velvet of her low-cut gown. Her throat was adorned by a string of pearls upon which one brilliant sapphire hovered tantalisingly above her breasts, her cleavage delicately enhanced by the daring scoop of the gold embroidered neckline. The fine cut of cloth clung to her bodice and hips, accentuating her svelte figure, before flaring into an abundant skirt. Such bold attire was entirely due to her own mother, Joan, Fair maid of Kent, whose latest whim set the standards throughout the English courts. And here, in Bordeaux, this new court was eager to please as it prepared itself for the imminent arrival of the heir-apparent. Cécile brushed nervously at her head, her shorter hair cleverly entwined into false pieces that were plaited on either side in ‘rams-horns' and contained within gold cauls. The fillet was adorned with tiny sapphires and pearls across the brow, the headdress complete with a frothy veil joined under her chin. She was a picture of beauty but she had needed no reflection in polished silver to know. Gabriel's eyes and low whistle had spoken volumes.

‘Madame?' The page moved to her side and offered his arm. ‘Your name, if you please?'

‘'Tis Mademoiselle … Holland,' muttered Cécile.

‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I cannot hear you.' His tone held a touch of insolence and a rush of pride flowed through Cécile's veins instilling her old confidence.

‘Cécile Holland,' she answered louder, ‘daughter of the late Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent.'

The boy stopped in his tracks and stared hard. ‘Holland,' he repeated. ‘Really?' With impudence he looked her up and down.

A spark of indignation lit Cécile's blue eyes until they glowed as bright as the sapphires she wore … and as cold. Holland, Armagnac, Albret, in truth she could take her pick of aristocratic name. She straightened her back and glanced at him frostily. ‘I said “
Holland”
, did I not? Are your ears in need of cleaning, boy? If so, be off to the latrines and send me someone who can pay attention. Your imbecilic nature is as offensive as your incompetent countenance!'

The boy paled and stiffened his arm formally. ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I … I had not been told you were attending.'

‘And who are you to know the ins and outs of every move?' retorted Cécile, peering at him. ‘Do your duty and see me from these steps. I grow colder by the minute.'

The page did not question the validity of her last statement, given the balmy conditions of the evening, but prudently escorted her within, his lips pressed tight.

Inside the noisy hall, Arnaud-Amanieu d'Albret gave a hearty guffaw and shook his finger at the pretty blonde attached to his arm. Beside him, Gillet d'Albret, dressed in a dark green doublet and black silk chausses, smiled affably. The woman at his side slid closer and possessively hooked her fingers around his elbow. Arnaud moved to whisper in his cousin's ear, nodding at Gillet's escort.

‘Her companion says she's already under your spell. Another goblet of wine and she'll gladly be under you. But I am thinking she'll have to lure you first. What is wrong, cousin? You do not enjoy yourself?'

Gillet looked around the hall. ‘'Tis nothing, Arn. I think I have been away from court too long. All this jabbering hurts my ears and I prefer the scent of fresh grass in open fields.'

Arn laughed and slapped his cousin's back lightly. ‘You have slept beneath the stars for too many nights, my friend. Come, put aside your peasant instincts and enjoy whilst you may. Ah, here is another introduction. Maybe this beauty can tempt you. Christ's nails! Forget what I just said. I'm tempted myself!'

The Master of Ceremony thumped his staff upon the wooden boards amid the noisy chatter and announced loudly. ‘The court introduces the Lady Cécile Holland, daughter of the late Sir Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent and Lady Joan Holland, beloved friend to the Prince of Wales.'

There was instantly a hush, a creaking of necks and the turning of heads from every corner of the room.

Cécile floated to the man's side, her gape whisking over the sea of figures before alighting on two. For a moment she was confused as she looked upon twin heads of identical black hair but she soon recognised the face she hunted. What she saw made her stomach drown in its own acid. Gillet, along with the others, stared, open-mouthed but it was the verity he had a red-headed woman hanging off his arm which filled Cécile with spite. She caught her husband's gawk but she saw no shame. Instead, there burned a fiery anger.

‘Lord! But it cannot be true! And yet I know it to be true. Mademoiselle, you are the image of your mother and your hair is the colour of your father. Sir Thomas Beauchamp, fair lady, at your service.' The middle-aged man bowed.

‘Thomas!' A woman, gently greying with age, rushed to his side. ‘Can it be possible, Thomas? This is a daughter of Holland? Oh, the travesty of having no proper formal introduction into court. But this is terrible!'

Sir Thomas bid his wife to calm herself. He ran his fingers through an immaculately groomed beard. ‘Well, I must say, Katherine, you were only saying how you wished for some excitement tonight. I think, my dear, your prayers might have been heard. Lady Holland, may I introduce my wife, Katherine Mortimer.'

Cécile dipped in a curtsey. ‘Sir Thomas, Lady Katherine, it is my pleasure.'

‘Isn't this remarkable?' gushed Katherine. ‘I was only telling Thomas tonight that Elizabeth – she's my former sister-by-marriage to my brother, Edmund Mortimer, my darling brother's passed now, and yes, before you say a word, our father was
the
infamous Roger Mortimer,' she paused as her husband rolled his eyes, ‘that Elizabeth was saying Humphrey, that's her son by her second husband, William de Bohan, may his soul also rest in peace, was only just saying that Lord Holland visited Chilham just before Yuletide. Imagine that! And here you are, his daughter, in the flesh. But dear, oh dear, what a terrible thing for you to have to present yourself at court. Did you not know of anyone who could introduce you?' She did not pause for an answer. ‘No, I suppose not. The story goes you have only just left a nunnery. Silly me, but I am so glad you are here.' She turned to her husband. ‘Thomas, we really must find Lady Holland an escort for the evening. She cannot be allowed to wander the corridors of Blanquefort upon her own.'