The Order of the Lily (2 page)

‘The Lady of Scotland!' exclaimed Comte d'Armagnac, his eyes growing wide. ‘She has been located?'

‘That is what we need Albret to confirm.' Bertrand du Guesclin sighed and looked to his friend. ‘Aptly named, is she not? A wanton whore slicing through hearts without feeling, and for whom those Scottish devils would fall upon bended knee to serve.'

‘'Tis not for what she is but rather for whom she represents. No Scot worth his blood would refuse a call to arms in her name,' replied Jean.

Bertrand sat heavily upon the stool and stared into the murrey depths of his goblet. ‘France cannot afford another war and if those kilted highlanders were able to gather masses to fight for a piece of stone called Destiny, then there's no telling what they would do with this. Such a rebellion as could be caused would not be beneficial to France. It is the Order's sacred duty to prevent it. We must find this Lady at all costs.'

‘So you wish the boy to become a spy for the Order? If he is caught, he will hang.'

Bertrand blinked at the Comte. ‘Did you not just say the Dauphin is about to hang him for being a rebel?' His hard look dissolved. ‘I see your affection for the lad but he will not be alone in England. Another member of our Order has recently returned to London from the East, a Lord Simon Marshall. I believe Albret served under him in the past. If Marshall can be roused from his perpetual state of pickled mourning, he might provide some assistance.'

Bertrand's gaze swept to the statue of the archangel, just visible through the casement – deliverer of justice. ‘Keep to your prayers, Jean. God is always listening.' His moon-shaped face split into a grin. ‘I believe I have just been granted my miracle.'

Cécile d'Armagnac closed her eyes and waited for death to take her.

She lunged at the wooden bucket and buried her head in its depths. Every muscle in her body ached and, in between retching, her stomach undulated mercilessly to the rise and fall of the boat. She hoped God would forgive her blasphemy but never, in all her life, had she felt so ill.

Catherine held back her sister's hair and waited, damp cloth at the ready. ‘She is turning green, Simon. Can you not do something?'

Simon Marshall pored over his medicinal box and leaned forward to grasp a bottle. The chain around his neck slipped from its confines to swing free. Quickly he seized the gold wedding ring and settled it back out of sight. Roderick had retrieved it from Anaïs and handed it to him earlier without a word. Simon surreptitiously glanced at Catherine but she was too busy with her sister. He smoothed the tiny bump beneath his tunic and took up a phial.

‘Cécile did not want to take the mandrake but I fear we have no choice. The strain she puts upon her body is dangerous and these conditions,' he indicated their present surroundings in the hull, ‘are hardly suited to a birthing chamber.'

‘Lord have mercy, it is far too early for the baby to come! Just do it, Simon,' ordered Catherine with a newfound authority. ‘Cécile only wishes to remain awake for Gillet's sake but she cannot keep voiding her fluids. There will be none for the child.'

Simon glanced over at his other patient, Gillet de Bellegarde, still unconscious from battle wounds, and his own stomach rolled. It was not from the motion of the cog upon the waters, but the recent news from above deck, where Gillet's cousin, Armand, kept watch. A royal vessel had been sighted but Simon had not told the girls. Cécile had been correct when she said the Prince of Wales would waste no time in finding them. It would seem their escape from France was in vain. His immediate concern though was for his patients and resolutely he took up the little bottle of mandrake. Far better the prince find Cécile lifeless than one-life-less.

On deck Armand and his younger brother, Guiraud, struggled to secure the rigging on the square sail as Gabriel, with the agility of youth, scaled the ropes to the crow's nest.

‘What do you see?' yelled Mouse, his feet planted squarely on the deck.

‘Water!' Gabriel shouted back. ‘Lots of water!' He pointed to the horizon. ‘And the royal cog gains upon us.' They all turned to watch the growing speck, the Prince's vessel. The fore and stern castles could now be identified.

‘It will overtake us long before we reach England's coast,' noted Armand with dismay. Gabrielle shimmied down the single mast. ‘Do we fight? We've only a handful of men plus the crew but one of them has a bow.'

‘It will take more than one archer and a few swords to stop them boarding,' replied Armand. ‘We shall be ready but do not draw first blood.'

Catherine pulled a cloak over her sister, who was now in a drug-induced sleep. Cécile had managed to keep the mandrake down and though her complexion was still pallid, at least the green tinges had faded. Catherine lay beside her, their straw bed hidden from view behind barrels of Gascon wine. She did not know what to do so she resorted to the only thing she knew, the one constant in her life which had never failed her – she prayed. Even though they returned to England, Catherine knew in her heart she would not resume her life as a novice, nor would she take her final vows. She gazed upon her twin and her heart filled with joy. She had a new path now. She closed her eyes and asked for God's forgiveness in her decision and she pledged to protect her sister at all cost, for as she saw it, was that not why He had sent her?

Her eyes flew open at the sound of Simon's voice. He sounded agitated.

‘Catherine, listen to me. Whatever you hear, stay put and remain out of sight. We are to have company.' The boat suddenly jerked sideways, followed by the metallic clank of grappling hooks. ‘God damn!' Simon raced for the hatch.

A voice rang out from above.
‘This vessel has been comman-deered, by order of the Prince of Wales.'

For the next half hour, Catherine nursed her fear alone, both Cécile and Gillet oblivious. Numerous thuds sounded from above, the clashing of metal and one unearthly scream. Cécile stirred and moaned. The horses shifted with fear and Inferno whinnied loudly.

‘Throw down! To your knees!' ordered a voice from atop. ‘The demoiselle, Cécile d'Armagnac, is on board this ship. You have two minutes to produce her or the throat of every man will be slit. And you two, find Ghillebert d'Albret!'

Catherine gasped as the hatch was flung open and light streamed in.

‘Down here! I found Albret.' Men clambered down the ladder and, with no finesse, hauled Gillet through the opening to the soldiers waiting above. Catherine heard Simon's loud protestations as Gillet groaned. Beside her, in answer, Cécile moaned and rolled over. Catherine clapped her hand to her sister's mouth.

All but one man climbed out and he began circling the walls. Catherine's stomach knotted.

‘Lady d'Armagnac, you may as well come out,' he taunted in a sing-song voice. ‘I know you are down here and I will find you.' He stepped closer to the barrels. ‘Don't make me use my knife.' The horses moved restlessly and Cécile stirred again, her eyelids fluttering. The English soldier unsheathed his dagger and grinned. ‘There, boy, there's a good horsey.' He grabbed Inferno's rope halter and pressed his blade to the horse's gullet.

Catherine screamed.

The cog's sail rattled upon the mast and the salt spray stung Simon's eyes. The pain in his leg was abominable but no permission had been given for them to stand. He moved his weight from his injured knee to the other and grimaced. It seemed the Prince's interest was only for Gillet de Bellegarde but then his heart sank as he watched a blonde head emerge from the hull. Cécile was wrapped in her dark cloak and rubbing her eyes. Her complexion was still milky white and she moved with the slowness of a sleepwalker but then he'd only given her a mild dose of sedative. She must have woken during the paltry battle. Damn the Prince! Damn him to Hell! Gillet had been hoisted aboard the Prince's vessel, and now they were pushing Cécile up onto the rail. Beside him Armand stirred.

‘Don't give them a reason,' growled Simon, stalling his companion as Armand searched for his dagger. He could feel the palpable wave of anger and empathised.