The Gilded Crown (7 page)

‘Whether I sell him at the wharf or into a brothel, 'tis naught to do with you, Wexford.'

Simon glared at the man before him, dressed in stinking rags, his teeth blackened and gagged as he visualised the life he would force upon Gabby. ‘That's where you're wrong, Moleyns, as it has
everything
to do with me,' Simon replied as he thrust his dagger into the unsuspecting man's chest.

Moleyns gawked, taken completely off-guard, his snide features softening as death swept through his body and he slumped to the floor.

Simon plunged his hands into the bucket of ice cold water. He searched for a flicker of remorse in his own reflection but could not find one. He should have finished the bastard as he lay wounded in Salisbury's stable all those months ago but he had hesitated. Then, as now, Catherine was his priority and she had been deeply traumatised, believing herself responsible for wounding Moleyns.

Simon sluiced the contents of the bucket across the flagstones before handing it back to the steward. ‘Have him buried in the churchyard,' he ordered.

‘Yes, M'lord.'

He accepted a cloth and rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘Speak with Prescott if you require assistance.'

The servant nodded, collecting Simon's blood-stained doublet before departing.

There was no joy in the taking of a man's life – not even one as vile as Moleyns – but it had to be done. Simon had seen the pleasure some men took in the torture of young boys and it made him sick to the stomach. He had simply rid them of a problem that would continue to raise its ugly head. He stared at the pink water. Catherine need never know.

When Simon climbed the stairs and entered the solar he found his wife fast asleep on their bed. He had not intended to wake her but could not resist the urge to brush a stray curl from her forehead. Catherine woke instantly.

‘Where have you been?' she enquired sleepily.

‘I had to speak with my seneschal and his stewards. It is difficult for a lord to run his estate when he is absent for most of the year,' he lied, without guilt.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.'

‘Do you approve of Girda?'

‘From first appearance she seems … competent,' Catherine answered as she tugged on her husband's arm and encouraged him to lie beside her.

‘Competent! Is that all you have to say?'

‘She appears clean and she is not …'

‘A prostitute,' clarified Simon.

‘I was going to say not taken with drink.' Catherine snuggled up against Simon and tucked her hands under his doublet.

‘Lady Wexford! I am shocked. Woman, it is the middle of the day!'

‘Very funny.' She laughed. ‘I just want to talk with you.'

‘About?'

‘Gabriel.'

Simon remained quiet for several minutes, recalling his earlier confrontation with Moleyns. He knew she had been waiting for the right moment to broach the subject of the boy and he was well aware of what was in her heart. ‘You wish to keep him?'

‘Cécile is kept more than busy with the care of Jean Petit and I can't imagine there would be any reason why Gillet might want us to return Gabriel to France.'

‘Gillet may feel an obligation, as I do, Catherine, to do what is right.'

‘But what is that, Simon?' Catherine rose up on her elbows and stared down into Simon's deep grey eyes. ‘Anaïs is unable to care for her son and I doubt Moleyns would take responsibility for him.'

Simon stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘All right, with one condition,' Simon began but was smothered by Catherine's kisses.

‘Thank you, thank you.'

‘You have yet to hear what I have to say.'

Catherine leaned back. ‘I am listening, husband.' She grinned.

‘You may tell whomsoever you like that he is our son, and that we
chose
to keep him but Gabriel must be told the truth of it from the start. Agreed?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Good. Then it is decided.'

‘I love you, Simon.'

‘And I, you, Lady Wexford.'

A small welcoming supper was served in the great hall that evening. The fires filled the room with a warm glow and as the meal concluded several members of the Cambridge guard gathered around the high table with Simon, Catherine and Roderick.

‘So how many times did you draw your sword, Lord Shalford, and how many men did you cut down?' one young squire asked when the topic turned to France.

‘Often and,' Roderick paused, ‘hundreds.' Simon's brother puffed out his chest and pulled a ridiculous face that brooked a huge round of laughter.

Simon glanced over at Catherine. She appeared uncomfortable in the presence of so many strangers and had chosen to stand back amongst the shadows.

Roderick placed his arm around her shoulders and pushed her forward, into the conversation. ‘Lady Wexford can tell you much more of our adventures.'

‘Oh no, no,' she spluttered, settling herself on the seat beside him.

‘Is it true you dressed Lord Wexford as a monk?' inquired an older knight known as Hargraves.

‘Yes, and I was made to resemble a leper,' Catherine added shyly.

‘Is this so, Lord Simon?' asked a young, blonde soldier named Prescott.

‘I have been required, from time to time, in certain circumstances, to conceal my identity by changing my manner of dress. But, I might add, never have I attempted to look like a
woman.
' Simon laughed, clanking his mug down on the tabletop.

‘No need to bring that up,' huffed Roderick. He reached for the jug and refilled his goblet.

‘Look good in pink you do, Sir Roddy,' revealed Hargraves, as he spilled his wine in his lap.

‘Better than having one's throat slashed,' Roderick quipped.

‘I wouldn't know about that,' gasped Prescott.

‘I'm sure the men don't mean to be wicked, Roderick.' Catherine felt somewhat sorry for her brother-by-marriage as he squirmed in his seat.

‘Lady Wexford, my brother does not need your sympathy and should you discover why he had to don a chemise to make his escape, you may discern that he deserves our ridicule.' Simon laughed.

Prescott jumped to his feet and using his hands, indicated a well-rounded figure of a woman slowly removing her clothes. Hargraves stood beside him and mimicked the movements. However, it was easy to see he was struggling with the laces atop his braies. Both turned as though hearing a noise. Prescott raised his hand to his mouth in a feminine gesture and feigned a look of surprise before pretending to flee, leaving Hargraves to dress in the discarded, imaginary undergarment.

‘Roderick!' Catherine exclaimed, colouring at the lewd insinuation.

‘I am not as saintly as my brother here,' Roderick jested, hoisting his eyebrows at Simon.

‘I can assure you, Roderick, Simon is
very
far from a saint,' Catherine declared.

The men laughed with renewed vigour, Prescott rolling from his seat onto the floor, taking with him a full jug of ale.

The merriment ceased when the door to the hall flew open and the arrival of a courier was announced.

‘Lord Wexford, a message from Scotland,' gasped the young man. He held out a parchment. Simon snatched the document and hurriedly examined it. Roderick tossed the boy a coin before turning his attention to the worried demeanour of his brother.

‘It is from the seneschal at Doune. He writes to inform me he has had a visit from Walter,' said Simon, skimming over the letter.

‘Leave us,' commanded Roderick to the men. They gathered up their goblets and jugs of ale, and departed through the side door of the hall.

Catherine placed a reassuring hand on her husband's arm.

‘Walter of Odistoun is the husband to our sister, Beatrix,' explained Simon to Catherine. ‘It seems he is considering a proposal to hand over part of our family estate to the Scottish crown.'

‘I never trusted that little weasel,' hissed Roderick

‘Sorry Catherine, I know I promised we would have time to rest in Cambridge,' Simon lamented as he gathered his wife into his arms, ‘but I must depart immediately for Scotland.'

‘Leave Lady Wexford here,' Roderick suggested. ‘I am more than happy to go with you. I would like nothing more than to have a quiet word with that skinny little viper.'

‘No, I want to come with you!' pleaded Catherine. ‘Besides, we have yet to visit Dumbarton Castle.'

When Simon located the Wallace sword in Denny Abbey, he had decided to return it Dumbarton Castle, from whence it had been stolen, rather than take it to France as instructed by the Templars. Roderick agreed to the arrangement but Simon had not discussed his decision with Gillet, Armand or the other members of the order formed to locate and return ‘The Lady,' the mystical sword of William Wallace.

‘The quicker we are rid of that hunk of metal the better,' Roderick complained.

Simon tossed the parchment into the fire. He had much to consider and little time in which to decide. But one thing of which he was sure, he did not want to part from the woman who stubbornly stood by his side. ‘Roderick, inform Hargraves that he, Prescott and twenty of his best soldiers will be accompanying you and me,' he peered down at Catherine, ‘and Lady Wexford to Scotland. We leave at noon tomorrow.'

‘Thank you,' Catherine mouthed to her husband.

‘I'd best arrange a better mount for you, and you will not thank me, woman, when you realise how far we must ride!'

A pale morning sun gleamed rays of pink and gold over the colourful pavilions nestled on the Arras tourney field. Dew sprinkled the grass and the air was filled with a crisp, clean scent.

Inside her tent, at the Bellegarde encampment, Cécile d'Albret twirled a bracelet of plaited wires around her wrist. It was a gift from Catherine. She snapped the lid of her jewel coffer closed. ‘What time do you suppose it is in Scotland?'

Gillet ruffled his hair sleepily and gave a jaw-breaking yawn. ‘Dusk.'

‘Dusk?'

The coverlet rocked as he scratched somewhere below his navel. ‘It's always dusk in Scotland.'