The Order of the Lily (39 page)

Sir Thomas snorted with indifference. ‘The Armagnacs must live in barren lands, indeed, if no stick was to be found in seventeen years! Little good they have done you, lass.' His fierce gaze slid to her hand and then to Gillet. ‘I see that no ring of marriage binds you. Is this why I am bidden? To make good a bastard?'

Cécile stumbled backwards, her eyes welling, her hand pressed against her face.

‘Please, milord,' interceded Gillet. ‘You know not of what you speak. Nor will I have you treat Cécile thus whilst under my roof.'

‘You dare to threaten
me
?' Thomas rounded on Gillet, his one eye bulging in its socket. ‘Boy, I have been through more battles than you have fingers and toes. And I am twice your size. You would not stand a chance.'

Gillet bowed, respectfully. ‘I am sure, Sir, that Goliath thought the same of David.'

Lord Holland's mouth pursed. He paused to scratch his stubbled chin and his eye searched the young man with interest. ‘Ghillebert d'Albret, isn't it? Beraud's youngest cub, eh? Your father was lieutenant to my wife's sire, did you know that?' He rocked back on his heels. ‘Aye, the Albrets have long served the Earls of Kent but never before have I been challenged by one. Faith be,' he chortled suddenly, ‘it does not entirely displease me to see you defend my brood. Mind you,' his gaze shifted to Cécile, ‘I will not tolerate insolence from my own flesh and blood. You would do well, Albret, to keep your own rod handy if you think to marry her.'

‘Please, Sir Thomas,' urged Gillet, ‘be seated, for there is much that requires discussion.'

Thomas Holland nodded and placed himself, none too gently, into the chair before the hearth. Cécile took up her own place in the other chair. Gillet filled three goblets of wine and, after distributing two of them, pulled up a low, squat stool to sit beside Cécile.

‘Before I hear your tale, Albret, tell me where exactly in France is my other daughter? Matilda was hardly forthcoming with information.'

‘Lady Matilda told you Catherine was in France?' spluttered Cécile.

‘Yes,' Sir Thomas gulped his wine and wiped his lips. ‘But only after I threatened to expel her from my home and cut off her allowance.' He leaned forward, his demeanour malevolent. ‘Now kindly inform me of her whereabouts. I have great plans.'

‘The truth is, milord,' answered Gillet, carefully hooding his expression, ‘that we are unaware of her present location. Her last correspondence stated they were about to travel.' Gillet's statement was not entirely untruthful.

Thomas looked up surprised. ‘They? To whom do you refer, boy?'

‘Why, Lord and Lady Wexford, Sir Thomas,' answered Gillet, puzzled. ‘Your daughter, Catherine, married Lord Simon Marshall, Earl of Wexford a few weeks ago.'

‘By St Swithin's bones!' blustered Thomas, thumping the chair with his fist. His cheeks coloured to a vivid purple. ‘Matilda might have mentioned
that
. Since my permission was neither sought, nor granted, mark me, I shall be sending my objections to the King forthwith!' Thomas raked Gillet with an angry eye. ‘You wished to discuss something more?'

Gillet shifted uncomfortably but began in a clear, steady voice. When he mentioned Edward, Thomas Holland became even more agitated. He rose from his chair to pace in front of the fire, but as Gillet's story progressed, Thomas began to rub his jowl thoughtfully. He swung around and glowered at his daughter.

Cécile was disturbed by her father's gaze. It was void of any parental sympathy for her plight. Instead, it was an avaricious gleam.

‘When Cécile escaped, she almost drowned, Sir Thomas,' Gillet was saying. He glanced at Cécile, unsure of how much to reveal of more recent events, and at the imperceptible shake of her head, he shrugged. ‘I am unsure how the Prince currently feels.'

‘God's nails!' boomed Thomas. ‘Are you telling me
she
ges-tates a royal bastard son of England in her womb?'

‘Sir Thomas,' Gillet stood and swallowed nervously, ‘if I may be permitted to speak. I would offer your daughter my name and protection. If you would grant your approval, the name of Holland need not be sullied. We could be married immediately, with your consent.'

Thomas Holland's cyclopean gaze flicked between the two and flooded with understanding. ‘Ah, I see.' He strode to the window and stared over the landscape, his hands clasped behind his back like a magistrate weighing new evidence set before him. ‘Your offer is most honourable, Lord d'Albret,' he finally announced. ‘And I thank you for bringing my daughter's situation to my attention.' Thomas pivoted on his heel to face them. ‘However, I cannot accept your proposal.'

‘I do not understand.' Gillet paled.

‘I daresay you do not, lad.' Thomas marched back to reclaim his wine. He held it aloft in salute. ‘Another time I would have gladly given my consent to the house of Albret, and any asinine fool can see you are attracted to the girl, but you are missing some facts. Did you know that my daughter strikes a vivid resemblance to her mother?'

‘I suspected they were alike,' answered Gillet.

‘Yes, enough alike that Edward consoles himself between the sheets with his cousin, Joan …
my wife
.'

‘What?'
echoed Gillet and Cécile as one.

‘Ah, they were much thrown together as children but you present me with the perfect solution. I shall offer the Prince my daughter, already seeded with his child, in return for my wife.' He gulped at his wine. ‘No need to sully the name of Albret raising Edward's bastard. You see why I refuse your suit. I am doing you a service, lad.'

‘You cannot be serious, Sir Thomas,' spluttered Gillet.

Cécile's hand clapped over her mouth in horror.

‘And why would I not be?'

Gillet's gaze lifted to scrape Sir Thomas. ‘You would sacrifice your own daughter?'

‘Good God, man! She's not a sacrifice. She's a gift to him! And I shall see you compensated for your loss. As you say, I have the King's ear and I can secure you a profitable match, a wholesome, untouched maid and a fistful of manors, eh?' He slapped Gillet on the shoulder, laughing. ‘Heavens, if you must, you two can conduct an
affaire de cœur
at court, so long as you are discreet and there are no offspring.'

‘It was all for nothing,' rasped Cécile as her hand slid from her mouth down to her chest. She was having trouble getting air into her lungs. Thomas frowned at the noise but Gillet flew to her side as she held her breast in pain.

‘Symond,' yelled Gillet.

Cécile slumped in her chair, gasping as Gillet caught her.

‘Symond!'

‘Good Lord,' exclaimed Thomas. ‘She is not going to lose the child, is she?'

‘No, sir,' snapped Gillet. ‘At least not before she loses her own life!
Symond
.'

A bucket of steaming water, laced with lavender oil, was hastily brought from the kitchen, and Cécile was buried beneath a heavy cloth. Gillet held her over the rising steam and though Cécile felt like her skin was peeling from her bones, she began to breathe easier.

‘It's a lung condition, Sir Thomas,' explained Gillet. ‘And if you wish to further your knowledge of it, ask Tariq ibn Córdoba, the court's new physician. We visited with him a few weeks ago.' Gillet stood to face his guest as Cécile peeped from beneath her covering. ‘He impressed upon us the urgent need for your daughter to be kept rested. I hope you do not entertain any idea of her travelling at this time, for I must tell you it would be impossible.' He stared coldly at Thomas. ‘That way lies ruination for her and the child she carries.'

Sir Thomas was visibly disappointed and he scowled. ‘I care not for your tone, Albret. I admit I hoped to present her to the Prince of Wales immediately.'

‘Might I inquire whether you plan to send word ahead to the Prince of your gift?'

Thomas' face darkened. ‘No. This is one message I will rel-ish delivering in person.'

‘Cécile cannot travel until after the child is born.'

As if on cue, Cécile rose from the bucket, flushed as a smithy, and staggered to her seat.

Thomas regarded her carefully, his finger skating over his bottom lip. ‘How long do you have you left until welping, Cecily?'

‘Cécile,' she corrected.

‘Eh?'

Within the folds of her gown, her fists clenched. ‘My name is Cécile.'

‘Your name, girl, is whatever I say it is. How long?'

‘Some time between the first two months of the King's new year as near as I can tell.'

Gillet turned from Thomas' myopic view and kicked a teetering log back into the flames, clearly vexed.

Cécile looked up at her father with new loathing. ‘How can you be so cruel? Have you no thought for my suffering?'

Thomas Holland clearly looked surprised. ‘Suffering? I'm handing you a crown, girl! Your feelings are unimportant. And do not think to disobey me, daughter.' He glanced meaningfully at Gillet. ‘I shall be calling upon the local parish before I leave. If you think to furnish yourself with a husband after I am gone then you would quickly find yourself widowed.' He looked over to where Gillet leaned upon the mantle. ‘Until then, do I have your word, Albret, that you will do all to protect my daughter until I send for her? I shall add a generous amount to your compensation for her keep.'

Gillet bowed stiffly. ‘Your daughter's protection has ever been my mission, Sir Thomas.'

‘Excellent! Then I take my leave. There is much to do in London. Wexford's marriage must be annulled and Cecily's future assured.' He grasped Cécile's jaw and twisted it left and right.

‘Remarkable,' he gloated. ‘Just remarkable.'

When the door closed behind Thomas Holland, Gillet sank to his knees beside Cécile's chair and wrapped his arms around her legs. He lowered his head into her lap. ‘What damage have I done? Your aunt assured me Sir Thomas would accept my suit. I had not expected this outcome.'

Cécile immersed her fingers in his thick strands of black hair. ‘But how could you or Lady Matilda have known about Edward and Joan? Do you think after the deception we played upon Edward, he will accept my father's offer?'

Gillet's shoulders shrugged despondently. ‘Why would he not? What better way to bring Armagnac under his banner and you to his bed?'

‘My papa! Oh, Gillet, what will Comte d'Armagnac think if I am given to his enemy?'

Gillet sighed wearily. ‘I should have let Holland believe the child you carry is mine. That mistruth would have been an easier road for everyone.'

Gillet roused himself and, collecting the jug, refilled their cups. He sat on the floor, leaning against Cécile's legs and stared miserably into the flames. ‘I have only one hope left. When Armand was in Paris, he went to the palace and submit-ted a petition to King Jean le Bon on my behalf. But winter is coming, and Kings are unpredictable.'

‘Not only Kings,' replied Cécile. ‘Fathers too, it would seem. Gillet, why do you suppose Thomas is set upon annulling Catherine's marriage?'

‘He must have a higher bidder in mind. In fact, I'll warrant he doesn't stay in London long but heads for France. He cannot wait to spill his news.'