The Gilded Crown (5 page)

‘What an unusual medallion,' she murmured.

‘It is Saint Gilles,' explained Cécile, feeling uneasy. She wondered if the woman meant to tear it loose. The silver could buy food for a month and, hampered as Cécile was, with a babe in arms, she would hardly be able to give chase. ‘It was a gift from my husband. He is close by,' she added, hoping her sentiment would be understood.

Sparks of fire raced through the emerald eyes, and the woman dropped the medal as though the heavenly protector of darkness had just set a candle to burn beneath her fingers. ‘
Husband
?' Her expression turned demonic. She bared her teeth, hissing, and curled her fingers as though she meant to claw Cécile's face.

‘
Mademoiselle
!'

An elderly man pushed through the nearby brambles. He scowled at the woman and his gloved hand neatly caught her arm. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. You know you are not supposed to be out on your own.' His tone became apologetic. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Milady. My, er, niece has taken it upon herself to wander when she should not.' He turned the woman's cheek so that she looked at him. ‘Come, Adèle. Do not bother this good lady.'

‘She was not bothering me,' offered Cécile, feeling sorry for her.

Without warning, the woman threw her head back and began to laugh, a harsh, cackling sound. ‘She called her son
John!'

The man bowed to Cécile. ‘Forgive my ward. She has recently recovered from a grave illness and it has left her out of sorts. Come now, Adèle. You need your rest.'

‘But what of
my
John?' Her look became vacant. ‘Where is he?'

‘You know where he is,' her uncle said, spacing his words. ‘Try to remember why. Come.'

At a loss to answer such a pitiful display, Cécile felt relieved when she heard her own name called out loud. Griffith was looking for her. ‘Please excuse me,' she said to them, anxious to be away. ‘May God grant your niece a complete recovery.'

Griffith's voice rang out louder. ‘
Lady de Bellegarde.
'

Adèle's eyes popped and she stiffened, her arms ram-rod straight and her hands curling into fists, her complexion turning blue as she held her breath.

‘Monsieur,' cried Cécile, alarmed. ‘Is she not well?'

‘An apoplexy. Go, quickly, Madame! I implore you.'

Adèle's growl sounded like a hound from Hell. She sprung, claws slashing, but was neatly captured and held down by her uncle, though it cost him dearly – bruised ankles and torn skin as she wildly kicked and bit in a savage outburst of rage.

Cécile sped across the furrows, offering thanks to whichever saint had seen fit to deliver her at such a moment.

After supper Cécile sought the solace of her bed, feeling as malcontent as her son. Gillet still had not shown. She grunted into her pillow. If the victorious knave thought to throw a drunken leg over her tonight, he could think again! A hooting chorus from outside belied the appearance of her husband. Cécile peeked through the tent flap and watched as Gillet drew Armand aside and they entered into a private discussion. He did not look happily intoxicated. In fact, he appeared quite the opposite.

Fifteen minutes later Gillet strode into the tent, and knotting the ties, spun around to glare at Cécile.

‘God's Holy Rood! I have just been informed you walked alone before supper. And what in Heaven's name did you think you were doing this morning? Did I not tell you to have a care when picking your seat upon the stand?'

Peeved over his long absence, Cécile was ripe for quarrelling. ‘By the Pope's intestines! It is hard to judge one's character, when
no one
is sitting there! The merchant you sent fleeing sat
after
we did. Why? Does he own skirts that you have raised? Where the devil have you been all evening?'

Gillet stepped to the small table and poured a goblet of wine, draining it at a gulp. He set the cup down with a decisive thump. ‘De Loudeac is a scoundrel and a lecher!'

‘De Loudeac?'

‘Yes. De Loudeac. His reputation is as coloured and as widely known as his brocade!'

‘Well, pardon me. 'Tis not as wide as you seem to think. I have never met him in Larressingle, and the Royal Palais had its own merchants for silk and weave. Perhaps his name is recorded somewhere for me to find? The cloth merchant's guild, maybe? I go there every second Tuesday around noon.'

‘Curb your tongue, woman! My head pounds enough as it is.'

‘Pray be that is all of yours that has been pounding tonight.'

Gillet ignored her barb. ‘The man's scandalous reputation precedes him. He preys on the weak – namely gullible women. He has been arrested several times for petty theft and indecent fondling, but witnesses declare it is impossible.'

Cécile blushed as she recalled Margot's observation of a stuffed glove sewn to the fleeing merchant's kneecap and her own breast being ruthlessly squeezed. ‘No, not impossible,' she murmured. Hidden by his cloak, the merchant's flesh counterpart had been free to rove, and squashed together in the stands, the distance between them had been negligible.

Gillet's eyes narrowed at his wife's rosy cheeks. ‘If I thought he had laid a hand upon you, I would run him through.'

‘Merde,' snapped Cécile. ‘Just what we need – another noose around your neck!'

The black gaze stared down her resistance. His voice was low and malevolent ‘Lady, tell me true that he did not touch you.'

Not wishing to admit her gullibility, Cécile instead recalled a well-learned lesson. Gillet had once educated her on the importance of placing emphasis upon words and having people hear only what you wished them to hear. She met his angry stare and declared, straight-faced. ‘Milord, I tell you true, the man did not lay a solitary finger upon me.'

Gillet exhaled slowly. ‘Just as well.'

‘Now, I ask you,' said Cécile. ‘Where have you been all evening?'

Gillet unbuckled his belt and threw it into a corner before reefing his surcotte over his head.

‘Does your ill temper have something to do with this d'Arques?' insisted Cécile.

Gillet's fingers stilled upon the knots of his padded jupon but he did not look up. ‘Why would you ask that?' Abandoning the stubborn fasteners, he attempted the tangled laces of his chausse. Usually, if his squire was absent, Cécile would assist her husband with such tasks but tonight she no move to help.

‘Do you know him?' she persisted.

‘No. I know his sister. Will that suffice?'

Cécile's heart flew against her ribs and she gazed at her husband anew. Would stray kisses and caresses leave marks upon the skin? It was said an astute wife would always know.

A flush rose in his cheeks under her inspection and, surly, Gillet snatched his dagger and slit the laces. ‘It is not what you think.'

Her tone was cold. ‘Is it not?'

‘
Merde.
'

It was the only feminine quality that Gillet de Bellegarde possessed – his ability to blush like a young maiden.

Beneath her breast, Cécile's heart pounded. ‘Where have you been all this time, Gillet?'

‘You are being ridiculous, Cécile.'

‘Am I? What bothers you more? The fact that some strange man may have laid a hand on me, or your guilt from spending the evening laying your hands elsewhere?' Cécile drew a breath knowing she was about to overstep her boundaries. ‘Have you ever lain with this sister of d'Arques?' she whispered.

Gillet's head jerked. ‘
God's sake, woman
. I refuse to dignify that with an answer.' He didn't have to – his cheeks did it for him. ‘Cécile? What are you doing?'

Clutching a blanket against her breast, Cécile sailed past. ‘I am going to sleep in the women's tent.

Cécile threw her blanket into the corner and blinked back tears as Minette and Margot stared wide-eyed. Veronique was blissfully snoring. ‘I thought I should sleep closer to Jean Petit, just in case he needs me,' she offered.

‘He's teething, Cécile, not ill,' stated Margot.

‘Well, Gillet's snoring is keeping me awake.'

A large shadow loomed over the front flap.

‘Do you not need to be asleep in order to snore?' observed Margot, poking Veronique until she rolled.

Gillet swooped through the opening like a wraith rider from Hell, his black cloak lending respectability to his braies. He bowed to the women, his countenance stony-faced and grim as his fingers manacled Cécile's wrist. ‘Excuse me, ladies. I believe this belongs in my tent.'

An hour later, Cécile smiled up at her husband. By the light of the glowing moon she saw his answering grin. ‘If making up after an argument is always to be like this, I think we shall argue more.'

‘We argue enough as it is! Do you honestly think I would dare to lie in the arms of another? Or more to the matter that I would want to?' whispered Gillet, pulling her close. The familiar tears welled in Cécile's eyes and he kissed them away. ‘Put aside such thoughts. We have our son. If he is all God wills us, then I am content so long as I have you.'

‘Are you sure?' Her concern was genuine but it would take time for both of them to accept the harsh reality.

On the night before Cécile's father, Jean d'Armagnac, had taken his leave from the wedding, the entourage of Maison des Fleurs had gathered around the table to argue the best course for the future. Out of this discussion there arose a united, solemn oath, binding family and servants alike. The world would know Jean Petit as Gillet's son and Edward of Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, would not learn of his illegitimate child until the time was deemed right. Gillet steadfastly refused to give the heir-apparent any excuse to recall his wife to the royal bedchamber. They all agreed.

Cécile snuggled into her husband and sighed sleepily. Every night she still offered up prayers that Gillet would become a father by her womb. So far her plea remained unanswered but she would never give up hope.

‘Mallard or snipe? Take ya pick,' screeched a peddler as the small travelling party made their way through the centre of Cambridge. ‘All fresh kills, I promise ya. I don't do scavenging,' he persisted, waving the long-dead birds in front of Lady Catherine Wexford.

‘Move along. M'lady is not interested in your wares,' instructed the sergeant-at-arms, positioning his horse between Catherine and the growing number of nosey vendors.

‘Is it always this busy?' she asked her husband, Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford, who had been conversing with several of his soldiers.

‘No. I believe my return has whipped up additional excitement,' Simon replied as he waved to a number of well-wishers.

‘I believe they may be more interested in your bride,' quipped Roderick of Guildford, Simon's half-brother. ‘And by the look on their faces, I think I can safely say they are somewhat surprised!'

‘Surprised? Why would they be so?' asked Catherine.