The Order of the Lily (40 page)

December, though cold, was much wetter than expected, the roads becoming increasingly difficult to traverse. Simon had been forced to push the cart as the wheels became stuck in the deepening quagmire. He persevered, insisting that their transport, borrowed from Gabriel's stable, would be a necessity once they collected the babe.

The physical pain of their consummation had quickly ebbed and Catherine blushed as she recalled the event. Since then they had slept in each other's arms, but Simon had not attempted to repeat the exercise, telling her that he would rather allow her time to heal. That had neither stopped his roving hands, nor the enjoyment he had brought to their bed, which only served to increase her blossoming desire.

Once accommodation was found in Abbeville, they parted company with Armand, Mouse, Gabriel and Guiraud, who claimed they were required to return to duty. However, Catherine suspected that the men were journeying to England, though none said as much. She had passed Armand a letter for Cécile, which he promised to see safely delivered. They had not spoken alone since the incident at the villa and she worried for him.

‘Armand is lonely. I look so much like Cécile that I believe my presence rekindled long ago memories.'

‘Ahh, my worldly wife,' Simon laughed, drawing her towards a sheltered booth by the fire. ‘Fret not. Armand will soon be back with those who love him best.' He summoned the maid and ordered a large jug of mulled wine and a tray of victuals. ‘We are fortunate.'

‘How so?' she asked, wrapping her chilled fingers around the heated goblet.

‘The boys are gone and Roderick is gaming the night away, leaving us to our own company.'

‘Oh … that is … fortunate,' she blushed.

‘I had a mind to ask the innkeeper …' He was interrupted by a cry at the door as a young man stumbled into the room, his eyes wide.

‘Help … please,' panted the lad, ‘my master lies gravely ill.'

‘Who is your master, boy?' inquired the innkeeper, finger-ing the youth's expensive doublet.

‘Thomas … Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent.'

Catherine gasped, unable to conceal her shock.

‘Say nothing,' warned Simon as two gentlemen in the corner answered the squire's plea.

‘Simon,' begged Catherine, as the party left.

‘No, it is too dangerous for you. Let me investigate. Wait for me within our quarters. I promise I will return soon.'

Catherine stumbled up the stairs and pushed open the door to their chamber, but was unable to find peace in the solitude within. She paced before the hearth, pondering the many possibilities of the situation. What could have happened to her father? And what was he doing in Abbeville? Cécile had only just written of his visit to Kent. She pushed open the window and stared down into the street below. All was silent. Unable to wait longer she snatched up her cloak and tiptoed down to the front door of the inn.

Catherine stepped out into the deserted street and could clearly see by tracks in the mud that numerous persons had taken a path beside the cathedral. She covered her head with her hood and set off in that direction. She paused beneath the main door of the impressive church, then quickly retreated into the shadows at the appearance of the same youth she had seen earlier. Catherine waited for him to pass, then made her way to the door he had left ajar, closing it quietly behind her as she entered the building.

The dark interior was miserably cold, and her hands trembled as she slipped off her hood. Finding no inhabitants on the ground floor, she ascended the stairs. The dim light of a candle spilled from only one room and, as she moved closer, she could hear the low murmuring of those inside. Her heart lurched at the familiar sound of Simon's voice, so she entered without hesitation.

Her husband was on his knees, his palm flat on the brow of a man crumpled upon the floor. Simon's look of displeasure soon changed to anger as he rose and stormed towards her. He took hold of her elbow and swung her away, blocking her view.

‘What are you doing here?' he demanded in a hushed tone.

‘How can you ask me that? Is it not obvious?'

‘I told you to wait for me. I thought you had more sense.'

‘Is that my father?' she pleaded, ignoring his comments. ‘Is that my father?'

‘Yes,' he admitted reluctantly, releasing his grip.

Catherine swiftly bridged the distance between herself and Lord Thomas Holland. His eye was closed, the patch covering the other held firmly in place by a leather thong. He moaned softly, grasping his belly, as his legs curled up to his chest. A trail of spittle had escaped his mouth and was dribbling onto his doublet. She was struck by a surge of pity, for, if nothing else, the man was in extreme pain. Catherine knelt beside him and taking the cloth he had screwed up, wiped his stained chin. His eye flickered for a moment but quickly shut.

Simon was beside her, his brow furrowed.

‘What is wrong?'

‘I suspect he has been poisoned,' he replied, bending to listen to the man's chest. ‘I sent the squire for my box but, I must be honest, I do not know if there is much I can do.'

‘I saw the boy leave, but he ran past our inn!'

Simon swore a terrible obscenity.

‘Cecily,' moaned Thomas, reaching for her.

‘No, Father, it is Catherine.'

‘Catherine,' he whimpered, his one good eye opening for the first time. His feeble hold on her wrist did little to pull her closer as he struggled to sit up.

‘Lay still, Sir Thomas,' directed Simon.

‘Is it really you, Catherine? I did not think I was to see you.' He moaned as a wave of pain struck him and he doubled up again.

‘I need my box!' exclaimed Simon.

‘Go, I will remain here.' Catherine suggested, grasping her father's hand more tightly.

‘No, I don't like it.'

‘Please, Simon, he needs your help.'

He hesitated before rising and disappearing through the door. Thomas' pale countenance had become a deathly grey, his lips an icy blue. A single tear slid down Catherine's cheek and fell upon his.

‘I thought to have more time with my daughters and … and their mother,' he whispered, a smile playing briefly over his mouth, only to be replaced as he grimaced in pain.

‘You will, Father, you will.'

‘Too late … to seek the last sacrament from a priest.' He coughed a loud, hawking noise. Catherine's stomach heaved at the sight of the blood that poured from his mouth. ‘Sorry Catherine, I am so very sorry,' he gagged. ‘If I could but … but … retract what I said … did …'

‘Father, stay with me. I need you, I need you …' she begged, now openly weeping. ‘I have missed so much, my childhood, by brothers and sisters, my family. Please, Father, please …'

‘I am not worthy of your tears, daughter.' His gaze locked onto hers and she watched as the brightness dimmed and he slipped away.

‘No, please God, no!' She wiped his face clean with the cloth, tears clouding her vision as she lifted his head onto her lap. She ran her fingers through his long locks, wayward and curly, much like her own. ‘I wanted to tell you that I was married, about my life, my journey,' she whispered, ‘and now it is too late.'

She took his hand in hers and turned it over, placing his atop her own, so much smaller. Desperate to find a likeness, she ran her finger gently along the jagged scar on his cheek but already the heat from his body was ebbing. Bending forward, she granted him her first and then last kiss, her lips lingering for just a moment between the two.

Catherine retrieved a blanket from the only bed in the room and covered her father, then blessed and commended his soul to God.

The slamming of the door took Catherine by complete surprise, as did the man whose eyes searched her face and then travelled to her torso.

‘Your Grace.' She curtseyed, deliberately tilting her chin away from his scrutiny.

‘So, pray tell, which sister do I have the pleasure of discovering this evening? The wayward Mademoiselle Cécile d'Armagnac, or is it Lady Catherine Wexford?'

She was unable to speak, fear coursing through every fibre of her being.

‘Catherine then, for your sister would have dispatched a tart reply.' As he stepped closer, his attention turned to the body upon the floor. The Prince stretched forward and grasping a corner of the blanket, threw it back to reveal the man beneath.

‘Thomas Holland!' he gasped.

A whispered moan escaped Catherine's throat. She sank to her knees in a flood of tears. ‘He … he … was poisoned, Sire.'

Edward cursed and wiped his mouth. ‘What have you to do with this?' he demanded, his cheeks flushed with anger.

‘Nothing, I swear.'

‘And where is your gallant husband, Lord Wexford?' He re-covered the knight at his feet.

‘He went for help.'

Edward placed a linen square over his nose and assisted Catherine to her feet. ‘I am deeply sorry for this. Your father was a brave man, loyal to me and to my own father, his king.'

She nodded, opportunely retreating from him.

‘I promise you that his death will not go unheeded. I will discover the truth and punish the perpetrator, but your involvement here is of great concern.'

She turned away from his penetrating stare, as panic gripped her stomach and nausea rushed to her throat.

‘You have great talent when it comes to trickery. As I recall you recently duped me into thinking you were Cécile!'

‘Forgive me, M'lord,' she sobbed, terrified as his anger rekindled.

‘Is that all you can offer, a whimpered apology?'

‘'Tis not as it seems.'

‘Oh, I beg to differ, I think it is exactly as it seems.' With two strides he was upon her. ‘I imagine that you and Wexford uncovered your father's arrangement and, rather than honour his wishes, married without permission and chose to poison him instead!'

‘No,' she cried, confused by Edward's statement.

‘What substance did you feed your father?'

‘I gave him nothing.'

‘You lie.'

‘No, M'lord, no.'

‘And what of your sister and the child she carries?' he snarled. ‘Where are they now?'

Catherine's mind raced. She saw a golden opportunity and took it. ‘M'lord, I am so sorry. The … the babe … is no more,' she sobbed.

‘What?
Are you telling me … that my heir …?' Edward released his hold.

‘Céci … Céci fell on the boat,' she gulped. ‘That is why I took her place. I am so very sorry.' Catherine wept without composure. She fell to her knees and grabbed for his ankle. ‘I beg you, M'lord, I had only my sister's wellbeing at heart when I chose to dress as her.'

‘I could have you hanged for treason!'

‘No!' Catherine dared to look up. ‘Céci would never forgive you.'

Silence, like a heavy cloak, enshrouded him, softening his stiff composure. Striding to the bed, he grasped the post with such ferocity that a cloud of dust was shaken from the torn canopy. He laid his head to rest upon the wood, his breathing ragged.