The Lily and the Lion (19 page)

‘But you must tell me how it is that you knew the identity of my mother?'

‘Gillet told me that he believed your mother to be Joan but was unable to discuss the matter with me. Considering what you were told by Lady Elizabeth, I assume this to be correct. I cannot imagine why you have not had this conversation with Gillet.'

‘Thank you, Lord Wexford,' I said, ‘for your advice and for giving up your quarters for Anaïs. I will take great pleasure in the solitude.'

‘I imagine you will, but you may join me at any time in the library if by the smallest chance you discover that you miss my company.' Once again he smiled, knowing full well that this was highly unlikely. ‘And I will be most offended if you continue to address me in such a formal manner for I have told you previously, my name is Simon.'

What a strange man, so brusque and rude. Yet he can also be so considerate and caring. Are all men this way inclined?

By the time I had reached my room, Anaïs and all her parcels, bags and bits and pieces had been miraculously removed. Even my bed, so recently pushed to the back wall, had been returned to its former place under the window. I retrieved your letters, holding them against my breast before returning them to the chest that was now solely for my use. At last I could read them whenever I liked, without fear of prying eyes.

There is much more to Gillet than we believe and I feel sure I have uttered such words before. I have thought long and hard on Lord Wexford's comment. Have I never discussed our mother with Gillet? I believe I have. Possibly not directly but to a point and at no time did he offer any advice or reveal that which he obviously thinks to be true, that the Maid of Kent is our mother.

I implore you to speak with him. You must make him see that by concealing information from us he does more harm than good.

I wanted so much to write further to you but because of what I have just discovered I know that I must dispatch this letter with haste.

My dearest, take care, take due consideration in all things and pray as I do for your safekeeping. Above all, may the Lord's blessing be upon you each day and night that we are separated, one from the other.

Your devoted sister, Catherine

Written at Blackfriars, London, 12 July, the Feast of Saint Jason, 34 Edward III.

Closing the door to his library, Simon returned to his desk. Salisbury! No wonder she had swooned. Lifting her crumpled body, he had almost cried out with despair. She was so slight. Though he had asked the maids to provide numerous tempting delicacies, she had refused all, continuing to punish herself by eating only bread, fish and the occasional slice of cheese. Clenching his fist, his temper rose to choke him. Given the opportunity he would like nothing more than to wring Mary St Pol's skinny little neck. God only knew what wicked mischief she had played out.

But what to do?

He had fought the urge to hold Catherine, to comfort her, for surely she would misunderstand and push him away, particularly now that Anaïs had filled her head with foolishness. How could he make her understand that he meant no harm? He had to find a way to rebuild the bridge torn down by religious zealots. He was, after all, only offering friendship. Of that he was sure.

To Catherine Pembroke, guest of Lord Wexford, London, be this letter delivered.

We arrived in Amiens on the eighth day of July after a discouraging journey. Never have the effects of war been pressed upon me more harshly than by the sight of the districts through which we travelled. Barren farm-houses, abandoned mills and desolate churches, most of them all but destroyed. The charred wastelands stretched as far as the eye could see, a desert of scorched earth to remind us of the recent English occupation. I doubt the village will celebrate Lammastide next month. No crops have survived this devastation.

In his true fashion, Armand tried to cheer our dour company by saying that our destination of the Artois region, protected under Burgundy's rule, would not display such wanton destruction. Bellegarde grunted his agreement but I could see his heart was as heavy as mine. As Amiens came into view, by one accord we drew rein to stare forlornly at the burned sections of the town. I almost cried.

Bellegarde ordered the soldiers to decorticate the Albret regalia. It would be impolitic to ride in bearing the Anglo-Gascon colours. The banners were folded away, their blood-red surcottes stripped and the horses divested of their fringed caparisons. For some, that meant removing the saddle first and the vocal disgruntlement at this task was quickly silenced by their Captain. Upon completion, the hoary bearded man, whose name was Alfred de Verdon, commanded his soldiers to kneel in the dirt whilst he recited a prayer to offer thanks for the peace treaty. He begged God to show mercy and restore the ravaged land.

We located an inn on the outskirts, its undamaged beauty almost an insult to the nearby desecrated buildings. The soldiers made their way into town to seek lodgings more suited to their taste.

15 July

The week of respite has been beneficial to us all as we await the arrival of the courier, Bertrand. Our spirits, somewhat revived, received an unexpected boost but it was a double-edged sword. It happened this morning when the bells of Amiens began to chime between the hours, the town criers spreading the news faster than a plague. King Jean le Bon reached Calais on the same day we arrived in Amiens and though it is English territory it is at least French soil. Until his ransom is secured, he remains in custody and within the company of the Prince of Wales.

Bellegarde greeted this declaration with insipidness. ‘Well, at least we have the Prince's location confirmed.' As the townsfolk began to rejoice the imminent return of their monarch, Bellegarde retired to the stable to inspect Inferno's ulcerated gum.

17 July

True sister of mine own, of that there is no more doubt. Your letter arrived today and brings much news to digest but it lies in my stomach as heavy as bread baked from sour grain, one kernel in particular. If Bellegarde has known the identity of our mother all along, why then did he not say?

I sought the privacy of the garden to examine your letter more thoroughly. Though the skies were laden with grey clouds, it was nothing to the storm that brewed within my breast. As I read your words for a third time Bellegarde found me and, with the conceit of a rooster mindful of his hen house, seated himself at my side.

‘Ah, Cécile, I see your sister's news has arrived. I hope she is well?'

‘You impertinent cesspit of deceit!' Before he could reply I stood and struck each of his cheeks in turn. ‘Did you think I would not learn of it? Defend your honour – if you have any!'

He rose, and with a sweep of his arm, dismissed the gaping gardeners. ‘I assume broadswords will suffice? The first cut? Or would you rather cross lances? No, wait – daggers are your preference, are they not?' He rubbed one cheek, testing his jaw. ‘For a woman you display a fine hand but perhaps you should inform me of what I stand accused.'

‘You should have told us,' I hissed.

‘Told you what? Pray be more specific.'

‘Three words, Sir, just three words –
Maid
…
of
…
Kent.
'

‘Ah, I see. Your sister has discovered something of your parentage and you are angry with me. May I ask why?'

‘Do not play the innocent! You allow Catherine to reside in London beneath the shadow of the Crown, under the King's very nose, and all the time you knew.
You knew
.'

‘No, in this you are wrong, for I did not know. I suspected and that is a very different thing. Anything Lady St Pol told me was given in the strictest of confidence and even then it was merely implied. I was under no obligation to share it. My duty is, and always has been, to protect you'

‘Oh, really? Do the names Sir Eustace and Lady Elizabeth d'Aubedcicourt mean anything? Simon invited them to dinner for Catherine's amusement.'

Bellegarde blanched.

‘Your friend had Catherine dine with the aunt of the Black Prince! Is this your idea of protection?'

He strode a few paces, his fists clenching, and let fly a ripe oath. Spinning, he stormed back, his temper as fired as mine.

‘Do you honestly believe that Simon would place Catherine in danger? Lady Elizabeth is a harmless old gossip who has little contact with her sister and spends even less time in London.
Jesu
! Simon was attempting to help, more fool him. He has inadvertently uncovered a dangerous truth, which, may I remind you, was hidden for reasons that we have yet to discover.'

‘Catherine did discover it. The truth is our father!'

He at least had the decency to look shocked. ‘Your father?'

‘William of Salisbury!'

Bellegarde froze, his complexion turning a whiter shade of pale.

‘Oui, you may well stand there like a plaguey statue! Hopefully a flock of pigeons think you are one.
Mon Dieu
. I am “Cécile of Salisbury!”' Incensed by Bellegarde's lack of response, I pummelled his chest, my anger and tears finally spilling over. ‘Do you realise what an insult this is to my papa?
I never would have lain with Edward had I known.
'

He grabbed my wrists to still my pathetic pounding and stared, unseeing, into the clouds. ‘Saints preserve us.'

My fury vented, I pulled away. ‘Cécile of Salisbury,' I choked. ‘And
she
has the effrontery to be called a “maid!”' I thumped my forehead. ‘
Jesu
! Her hair! What colour is her hair?'

‘What?'

‘Joan of Kent, fool. What colour is her hair?'

‘I … I … dark … auburn.'

‘God's sake!' I stumbled back and doubled in half as though I had been struck by a blow.

‘Cécile,' Bellegarde came to his senses and quickly moved to my side but I palmed him off and stepped away, helpless, as oceans of mistrust ebbed and flowed within my breast.

‘
Edward knew
.
He plaguey well knew
.' I swayed with dizziness and grabbed the nearby wattle framework, the thorny roses biting into my flesh. ‘God grant me mercy! Let me wake from this nightmare.'

A shadow floated behind me, but it was hands, real enough, that gently prised mine from the sharp vine and wiped the bloodied scratches. Soft lips brushed against my torn skin. ‘Please, Cécile, do not be angry with me. I would have done all to have kept you from Edward.'

‘How can you utter such a lie?' He visibly stiffened. ‘Edward spoke of marrying me to one of his lords. A man whose outstanding debts would ensure he turned a blind eye to his new wife spending her nights in the royal bed. He sent for Salisbury. I thought Edward meant for me to marry him but he must have guessed Salisbury was my true father.'

Bellegarde turned ashen. ‘You were to be married?'

‘Yes but it was merely an embroidered coverlet to hide the blood stained sheets.'

‘Mercy, Cécile.'

‘Mercy? Who showed me mercy?
You
were supposed to be protecting me, remember?'

His anger rekindled and bequeathed some colour to his cheeks. ‘Yes but I saw you,
remember
? In Edward's arms, lolling half naked! And if I recall correctly, I did
not
see you object. You were wearing his rubies, the gift he bestows upon his favourites. I believed you were already his mistress.'

‘Oh!' I recoiled as if I had been hit by a crossbow bolt.

‘Cécile!' He grabbed my arm as I stumbled.

‘Gillet, I am not French. My blood is English!'

He scooped me into his arms as I faltered and strode to the stone bench. He set me down gently. A strangled sob escaped me and I gripped his doublet.

‘Everything that is dear to me, everything that I have grown with is French. All that I know and love is destroyed. Every morsel in which I ever believed. I have lost it all! What Frenchman would have me now?' I buried my head, crying as though my heart would break.

His arms enfolded me as I wept for years of deceit, his voice agonisingly gentle. ‘Cécile, your heart is French. All that with which you have grown cannot be swept away so quickly. A lifetime of memories and a loving family are far more valuable than the country of your birth. No one will love you or see you as less, no one will ever know, save if you choose to tell them. Lady, the way you stand, your southern accent, your manners and charm, they are all French and will forever be so. No one can take that away.'

‘Do you truly believe that?'

‘Lady, I do, with all my heart and so should you.' He thumbed away the tears. ‘You may have started life as Salisbury's grain of sand, but you have grown into Armagnac's pearl. Cécile, you will always be French to me.'

For a moment time stood still as our eyes locked. I read the acceptance in his, and something more, something indefinable, as though a curtain had parted and I caught a glimpse of his soul.

He smiled slowly. ‘We should go in.'

‘Yes.'

He stood and pulled me to my feet, brushing a wayward curl into obedience. ‘And you do Frenchmen a terrible injustice.' His hand slid behind my neck and he drew me into an intimate embrace. What started as light but lingering intensified. He pressed me firmly against his strong body, his tongue parting my lips and enticing a rising passion. The headiest of wine could not compare to the sweet intoxication of this man's kiss. Leisurely, he withdrew but his eyes, dark and heavily lidded, held me captive. I could scarcely breathe. He smiled. ‘Truce?'

‘Truce.'

20 July

The weather turned foul and two days of pelting rain saw Gillet and Armand stranded in the village. That left me ensconced in Madame Duvall's company. Huffing impatience, I flung my loathed needlework lesson onto the chair and walked to the window of the inn's salon. She would do better trying to teach a snake to fly! I stared morosely at the bleak mist beyond as my chaperon continued to work her tapestry. The silence hung between us more ominous than the thunderclouds outside.

‘Twill do you no good to brood,' she eventually commented. ‘They will return when they return and not a moment before. No doubt bearing more gifts to pamper your every whim.'

She was referring to the new set of vair tippets that graced the sleeves of my pink bliaut, and the beaded, cordon leather belt.