The Lily and the Lion

Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

ABN: 46 119 415 842

23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria 3150 Australia

Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

E-mail:
[email protected]

First published in Australia February 2012

This edition published April 2012

Copyright © by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson, 2012

Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

The right of Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T. Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Wilson, Catherine A. and Wilson, Catherine T.

The Lily and the Lion

ISBN: 978-1-921829-87-1 (pbk)

Digital edition published by

Port Campbell Press

www.portcampbellpress.com.au

ISBN: 9781742981741 (ePub)

Conversion by
Winking Billy

Cathy T

I dedicate this to my mother; she was my greatest fan, as I was of her.

And for my nephew, James, a warrior taken from this earth far too early – both lost within 8 weeks of each other but still very much alive in my heart.

For George, Luke and Tina, and all my family whose love and support has been beside me every step of the way

Cathy A

To Dave, Adam and Katrina, three of life's most
precious gifts – where would I be without you?

And to all my family, thank you for your continued
unwavering support.

In France:

Comte Jean d'Armagnac
– Count of Armagnac, Father to Cécile

Cécile d'Armagnac
(Sayseel Darmunyack) – Eldest daughter to Comte Jean d'Armagnac; Cousin to Armand-Amanieu d'Albret

Gillet de Bellegarde
(‘Jillay' with a soft ‘J') – Steward to Lady St Pol and secret envoy to the Black Prince

The Black Prince
– Eldest son of King Edward III

Armand-Amanieu d'Albret
(Armond-Armunyer Dalbray) – Cousin to Cécile d'Armagnac

Madame Rosetta Duvall
– Chaperon for Cécile, engaged by Gillet de Bellegarde

Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise
– Companion-in-arms to Armand

Mouse (Martin de Brie)
– Companion-in-arms to Armand

Dame Violetta Duvall
– Sister to Rosetta

Guiraud d'Albret
– Younger brother to Armand

In England:

Catherine Pembroke
– Ward of Mary St Pol, Countess of Pembroke

Anaïs d'Arques
(Anna-ees) – Maid to Catherine Pembroke

Lady Mary St Pol
– Widow of Earl of Pembroke and Patroness of Denny Abbey

Lord William Montagu
– Second Earl of Salisbury

Lord John Moleyns
– Salisbury's knight

Lord Simon Marshall
– Earl of Wexford and a Knight Hospitaller

Roderick of Shalford
– Half-brother to Simon

Lady Matilda Holland
– Sister of Sir Thomas Holland

Bertram
– Lady Matilda's gardener

‘Poxy, whoring, conceited bastards.'

Cécile d'Armagnac spun to confront her father, her anger far from spent. ‘My betrothal to the Duc de Berri is severed without explanation. Am I to greet this news with lines of poetry, Sir? The Dauphin craves the alliance of Armagnac and I
know
his brother desires me, so what malady ails them?' She slammed her gem-encrusted goblet down. ‘
Merde
! I was to wear gold Luccan brocade and the finest rubies in France. Instead I shall be the laughingstock of the court!'

‘Sheathe your tongue, girl! I am yet your father.' Jean d'Armagnac's stomach churned at his own words. He sank onto the stool and stared for a moment at the rich tapestries decorating his daughter's royal chamber. Then he drew a deep breath. ‘The Dauphin still requires the alliance of Armagnac. Duc de Berri will marry your sister, Jeanne, and I am here to give you explanations.'

‘
Jeanne?
Mother of God
. She is a milksop! A snivelling baby. She's more likely to wet the Duc's bed!'

‘Céci,' groaned Comte d'Armagnac, ‘give me a little peace.'

Cécile heard the defeat in her father's voice and sharply swung around. This parent was everything to her. With growing alarm she noted his drooping shoulders and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. His whole bearing slouched rather than sat.

‘Papa! You are ill.' Almost tripping over her velvet hem she kneeled at his feet and laid her cheek in his lap. She gently kissed his hands. ‘Forgive me, Papa. Forgive my wicked temper. Tell me what grieves you so.'

Jean d'Armagnac withdrew his warrior-calloused palm and stroked her honey-blonde hair. ‘The truth, daughter. And it is you who must forgive me. The Dauphin was right to break your troth, and the fault is mine alone. For years I have lacked the courage to speak.' He lifted her chin to meet the clear, blue gaze. ‘Cécile, you were a gift to me beyond my expectations, but you come not from my loins. Your blood is not Armagnac.'

Cécile stared in open-mouthed bewilderment. She drew back slowly, her eyes glazed. ‘I am not Armagnac?'

‘No.'

‘Then Jean le Bossu and Armand …'

‘Are not your true brother and cousin.'

‘And you …' The breath caught in her chest and was squeezed from her in a murmur. ‘God have mercy.' She rose unsteadily and walked to the casement to stare beyond the palace walls, her hands clutched over her heart, a shield against the pain. ‘You are telling me that for nineteen years I have lived a lie?'

‘Seventeen. You came to me in your second summer.'

‘Tell me,' she whispered.

Comte d'Armagnac watched the hurt on his daughter's face and muttered an oath. God knew he loved her as his own. No. That was a blatant lie. He loved her more but only God, his priest and he were privy to that. Had he been compensating for this one day all along? He'd allowed her uncommon free will in her youth and suffered the ridicule of his neighbours. As her sisters had toiled over needlework, this unfettered daughter had ridden the countryside in play with her foster brother and cousin, her eloquent tongue the result. He had never wished to curtail her spirit. He knew one day she might need it.

‘It was long ago,' he began, ‘when I received a message from a Lady Mary St Pol, Countess of Pembroke, urging me to meet with her. Her father, Guy de Châtillon, was from one of the most notable families in the north and Lady Mary had a strong connection to the Clermonts, my wife's kin. Fearing some scandal was about to fall upon us, I agreed.' The Comte stared, his attention rooted to the wall as if apparitions had suddenly appeared upon the grey stones. ‘I will never forget it. We met at the Abbaye de Flaran by Larressingle in the dark of night. I can still see Mary standing there clutching her cloak against the wind, her lips pressed tightly as plainsong echoed from the chapel. She beckoned me to follow her through the cloister, up a stairwell to a private chamber, her finger raised in a gesture for silence as she stepped to an alcove and swept aside the curtain. There, fast asleep on the paillasse, lay a tiny girl shrouded in a mantle of golden hair.' He smiled warmly at the memory and a twinkle danced in his eye. ‘She was a scrap of a child but Mary knew how to ensure success. “Her name is Cécile,” she said, “and I want you, Jean d'Armagnac, to keep her for me, in honour of our families' ties. She has nowhere else to go and I could wish for no other to care for her. The world must know her as your own. Silence any tongues that beg to differ. You must ask me no questions and your goodwill shall be handsomely rewarded.”'

A shadow of tenderness darkened Jean's eyes as they fastened upon his daughter. ‘My mother's name was Cécile. She was a princess. I had no need of questions. I loved you upon the instant.'

With a sob, the young woman flung herself into his arms, their tears mingling as he rocked her. ‘Forgive me, child. I should have told you the truth long ago but I could never find the right moment.'

Cécile slid her arms around her father's neck and felt his love engulf her like a warm, soft blanket. Granting the forgiveness he craved, she tenderly kissed his roughened cheek.

‘
Mon père
. I love you.'

‘And I you, Princess.'

Comte d'Armagnac exhaled with relief. The worst was over. There was more, but he would ease it to her gently. She was no – what had she called it? – milksop, but he knew his next revelation would sting. Her recent introduction to court had been a triumphant success. She possessed a radiant beauty that attracted men as surely as syrup drew ants and, raised more tomcat than kitten, she was something of an enigma to them. The gentle-born ladies had immediately despised and shunned her but Cécile reacted to their malicious resentment in her own stoical fashion, with cool disdain. Jean knew that inside the cocoon that was his daughter, there was a butterfly but her jaundiced gender chose only to see the caterpillar.