The Gilded Crown (55 page)

Back at the castle, a long table had been set in the open barn, the Lady Dercé, St Loup's chatelaine, kindly providing a simple supper for the occasion. A pig had been slaughtered and turned on a spit all day by the kitchen boy. The delicious aroma, combined with that of freshly-baked bread wafted to them as they walked back from the village. Cécile's hunger was gnawing at her stomach. They headed to the barn to enjoy an evening of festivities under a black velvet sky filled with twinkling stars. Gillet and Cécile had been given the ground-floor chamber in the keep upon arrival, but for tonight, they would give up their bed for the newlyweds and sleep on the hay in the barn with their companions. When the time arrived, Griffith announced he had no wish to put Minette through the bedding ritual. Gillet concurred and the group allowed the lovers to discreetly retire.

Cécile leaned against the short stone wall edging the pea-green moat and watched them go, Minette's head leaning upon Griffith's shoulder as they walked to the tower. The gardens were laden with mid-summer blooms and the heady scent after the rain was intoxicating. Cécile breathed deeply of the perfumed air with satisfaction.

Gillet's hands slid around her waist and he squeezed. ‘What say you, wife, to finding a dark corner in this paradise?' he whispered into her ear.

‘Will the others not miss us?

Gillet turned to watch Gabriel telling a story. Odette and the boy were listening to him, enraptured. Gillett smiled warmly. ‘I think not for a while. Gabriel has them under his spell. He's done wonders with the boy. I think he might succeed in drawing the lad from within himself.'

Cécile spun inside her husband's embrace and wound her hands around the back of his neck. ‘Then the world is at peace tonight and I say do with me what you will, milord.'

Gillet bent to kiss her mouth and swept her into his arms. Purposefully, he carried his wife into the dark recesses of the orange grove.

Gillet and Cécile sat on a garden bench, sipping mead and watching Gabriel play stick-ball with Humphrey de Bohan's chamber boy. It was the cool of evening and the breeze whipped up a mixed scent of floral perfume and stagnant moat water. Just as contradictory was the temperature of the gusts, a lazy warm flow blasted now and again with a burst of icy air.

‘Storm's coming.' Gillet tipped his head back and surveyed the horizon. A low grumble sounded as a pageant of whirling leaves paraded past. ‘I think we should depart for Moncontour tomorrow,' he announced suddenly. ‘The Vicomtesse d'Évreux has an agent posted there, awaiting our arrival. Do you agree Odette is fit for travel?'

‘Her weeping is done and her body heals. Yes, she is fit.'

Something in Cécile's tone made Gillet look at his wife. He reached for her hand, his voice gentling. ‘If we have no word from Armand by the time we reach Bellegarde then I shall go to Scotland myself.'

Cécile nodded without answer, her eyes welling.

Gillet lifted both her hands and carried them to his lips. ‘Listen to me, Céci. Anaïs took the child as a bargaining tool so she will not harm him. There would be no purpose in that.'

‘I hope you are right but you speak of logic. The woman I met was evil and unsound.' She wiped her face and sighed. ‘All that time in Vernon, it was Anaïs.' Cécile stared out at the dark sky, intermittingly lit by flashes, her voice wavering. ‘I've not let myself think of that until now; weeks of facing the plague, imprisonment, having my head shorn, missing my husband, losing my child, no news of my sister, trying to be strong …' Her voice broke. ‘Well, I can do so no more.'

Gillet sensed a different storm approaching and pulled her into his arms.

Cécile wept broken-heartedly for a few minutes, the release of weeks of tension wetting Gillet's shirt. When her tears slowed, Gillet kissed her brow.

‘Céci,' he whispered tenderly. ‘You have been so courageous, Lady Mine, and the good Lord knows you have every right to weep for a month. I know it is harsh of me to ask but can you not remain strong for just a little while longer?'

Cécile sniffed loudly. ‘Now is not the time, is it?'

‘Nor the place,' agreed Gillet. ‘Here.' He pulled out a kerchief and held it to her nose. ‘Blow. I swear by all that is holy, Armand will do everything in his power for your son. Simon and Catherine will be there to help.'

Cécile nodded. ‘I know. I feel a little better now.'

The sound of laughter came to them from across the lawn where Gabriel wrestled the lad to the ground and tickled him mercilessly. The squeals were a welcome distraction and made Cécile smile. ‘Has he spoken yet?'

‘No, not yet,' replied Gillet. ‘But I do not think it will be long before he is talking again.'

Later that evening, Cécile checked on the lad, as she did every night before retiring. Griffith and Minette were not in the barn but Odette was snoring softly beside the boy. Cécile gazed at the dishevelled crop of his straw-coloured hair, still decorated with grass seed from his tumble at Gabriel's expense, and beneath the unruly thatch, the angelic face in sleep. A maternal rush had her folding the boy's discarded tunic and she neatly straightened his boots at the end of the pallet. Frowning at his careless disregard for the eating-knife strewn on the travelling chest, she picked it up and looked for its sheath. She saw the leather laces protruding from beneath the boy's pillow and eased it out to slide the knife in. It would not fit. Something blocked its passage. Curious, she peered into the scabbard, surprised to see a crushed piece of parchment. Cécile glanced back at the two sleeping servants and then pulled the obstruction free.

She took it over to the candle-light, her face skewing with perplexity as she unrolled it, then looking as though she had been struck by one of the storm's lightning bolts. Her mouth fell open and she hurriedly covered her gasp as she began to understand the magnitude of what she held in her hand. She spun to stare at the lad and very quietly tip-toed to the door whereupon she ran across the yard as fast as she could.

Inside the keep Gabriel and Gillet were busy sharing a wine-skin. Both men looked up in surprise as Cécile fell into the room, breathless.

One look at his wife and Gillet grabbed his nearby sword. ‘What is it?'

Cécile waved her hands madly at him in negation. ‘No, no,' she panted. ‘This is good news. You did it!
We did it!
You shall be free. No more hiding.' She splayed the parchment onto the table before them. It was a document bearing two seals, a Scottish thistle and a sprig of broom – insignias of the kings of Scotland and England.

Gillet read it with Gabriel looking over his shoulder, their eyes widening at every word.

‘The bloody, old goat!' breathed Gabriel. ‘
Merde!
King David promised Scotland's throne to John of Gaunt!'

Gillet reread it, as yet unable to believe his luck. ‘I hold within my grasp, my freedom,' he whispered. Beaming, he turned to Cécile. ‘The Dauphin will know me as a loyal subject when I present him with this.'

‘We must hurry to Moncontour,' concluded Cécile, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘The Vicomtesse's agent must deliver this with all speed.'

‘Yes, yes,' agreed Gillet, reading over the parchment again. He raised his head to frown at Cécile. ‘But where did you find it?'

‘It is mine.' The boy stood at the open door. He lifted a loaded crossbow and pointed it at Cécile. ‘And I shall require its return.'

Simon knelt behind the stack of crates and peered through a small gap. Roderick was behind him, watching the alleyway where their horses were tethered.

‘Are you sure we have the right inn?' Roderick asked as a noisy group of revellers entered the establishment across from them.

‘No, but it is the only one perched over the river.' Simon cast his gaze along the area known as The Shore. Several ramshackle buildings sat abandoned on the water's edge and a small number of boats had been tied to the only nearby buoy. ‘My gut tells me this is it.'

‘Shall we wait for Catherine?' Roderick asked.

Simon closed his eyes. He pictured himself rushing the backstairs and confronting Anaïs, thrusting his sword through the witch and her brother, snatching Gabby and Jean Petit before Catherine even arrived. But something was holding him back. ‘We have no idea of the layout of the building and I am not sure that they are travelling alone. At least with Armand and Walter we have the greater strength of numbers.'

Roderick scoffed. ‘Walter can stand by the door.'

Simon smiled. ‘He can hold a blade and look menacing. That may be enough.'

‘I will wait by the bridge and direct the carriage here.'

Simon watched Roderick slip away then turned his attention back to the unnamed inn. A light shone brightly from the room above the main entrance, whereas the remaining windows were dark. Waiting alone was frustrating. Simon considered whether he could slip unnoticed into the tavern, at least then he could ask the inn-keeper a few questions. But there were risks. There were always risks. He shifted his weight and moved closer to the wall. Perhaps he could find a better vantage point. Bending low, he crept beneath a side window and made his way to the rear of the building. The shrill cry of a child rang out through the darkness and Simon was immediately on his feet.

He knew his actions were irrational and unplanned, but he could not control his desperate need to save the boys, his boy, his son. Vaulting the backstairs, two at a time, he dashed along the corridor and wrenched open the door to the only room that exhibited light, his sword drawn.

Taken by surprise, Anaïs jumped upright, screeching in distress.

Simon swung his weapon towards Robiérre, the blade striking the top of a high-backed chair that the Frenchman ducked behind. Simon kicked out at the leg, toppling the seat, but Robiérre was nimble and recovered quickly. He drew a dagger and snatched Jean Petit from the cradle by the fire, pressing the tip of the weapon into the little boy's cheek.

‘One more step and I will drive this right through his skull.'

Simon stood motionless, his weapon raised. ‘Only a coward uses a child as a shield.'

‘You think you can dissuade my actions with insults, Wexford?' Robiérre laughed. ‘It is Lord Wexford, is it not?'

Simon nodded. A small bead of sweat ran from his brow down his cheek. He had made a very stupid mistake.

‘Drop your weapon and take a seat. I think it is time for you and me to have a little talk.' Robiérre dug the dagger harder into Jean Petiti's face and the little boy let out a loud shriek as a droplet of blood appeared on the blade.

Simon immediately placed his sword on the table, righted the chair and sat down. ‘If you harm that child I will see to it that you roast in the fires of hell for eternity.'

‘I think not, for God forgives sinners and when my time comes, I will be
so
sorry.'

‘Then what do you want?'

‘You are a rich man and, as you point out, I shall need to buy my way into Heaven. What can you offer?'