The Order of the Lily

By Catherine T Wilson and Catherine A Wilson

When valour and duty stand above a heart's desire...

Separated as infants and rediscovered by chance, sisters, Catherine Pembroke and Cecile d'Armagnac solve the mystery which forced them apart (The Lily and the Lion) only to find their reunion all too brief when the Prince of Wales seeks to reclaim his mistress.

With an unbreakable bond forged between the girls, Catherine chooses a perilous path to shield her sister. But has the faith in her protector, Simon Marshall, been misplaced? Who is the mysterious Lady of Scotland and why is Simon so determined to locate her? Caught in a web of conspiracy, Catherine must unravel the secret Simon has worked so hard to conceal.

Exiled to Kent, Gillet de Bellegarde takes up residence at his family's home, offering Cecile d'Armagnac the respite she desperately needs. But rest does t come easy in England and hour and trust becomes a double-edged sword. Cecile and Gillet's relationship is severely tested by a Welsh vixen, Cecile's burgeoning pregnancy and both families' determination to separate the lovers. Knowing his last hope lies in the restoration of his name, Gillet resumes his quest to be granted an audience with the French King but in his absence, Cecile is uprooted from her safe haven and confronted with a devastating choice.

Enraged by failed attempts to capture either girl, William of Salisbury seeks the support of a new benefactress - one who only has eyes for the Crown. Their powerful alliance proves a dangerous combination as they plot to destroy anyone who stands in their way.

The Order of the Lily will draw you back into the fourteenth century lives of Gillet and Cecile, Catherine and Simon as they strive to reconcile their pasts and accept a future ne of them could have possibly foreseen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648060239

Book preview

Prologue

1358

The Abbey of Mont Saint-Michel

Bretagne, France

Milord Grand Master.’ The knight’s gloved hand swept over the stitched cross on his surcotte to press against his heart as he kneeled, awaiting permission to speak. A chill sea breeze ruffled the scattered leaves and hurtled them into the pristine cloister garden.

‘What news do you carry?’

‘Lady Mary St Pol is the administrator of Denny Abbey in Cambridgeshire, Milord. It is an institution dedicated to caring for the sick and homeless. She has been its patroness since the death of her husband. She resides in private quarters within the grounds.’

Bertrand du Guesclin rubbed the dark stubble on his chin with irritation. ‘Is that all?’

‘It is true that Lord Salisbury seems to harbour some personal interest in the abbey. His retainers keep it under constant surveillance. Unfortunately, in the short time we had, we could not ascertain why.’

Du Guesclin’s eyes gleamed with interest and he fell into contemplation.

The young knight waited with reverent patience, his concentration wandering to the large statue of a winged Saint Michel, sword raised ready to strike the dragon lying supine at his feet. The older man followed the gaze of his disciple, staring for a moment at the alabaster effigy – holy protector of warriors.

‘We need a miracle,’ whispered Bertrand du Guesclin, Captain to the Pontorson soldiers and Grand Master of a secret Order of knights. ‘Eyes and ears within the abbey would suit our need well. But how to place them? And whose?’

Understanding the questions were rhetorical, the young man remained silent.

The stillness was broken by the clattering of steel-shod feet. Bertrand swivelled to see an armoured giant coming toward him, a battered helm tucked beneath his arm. ‘Jean d’Armagnac?’ Bertrand’s surprised smile was filled with genuine warmth as the large man kneeled before him and kissed his proffered hand. ‘What brings you so far from Gascogne?’

‘A matter of grave concern to us both, Milord,’ replied Jean gruffly. ‘I bring news of the Jacquerie rebellion in Paris. Charles of Navarre has killed their leader, and our Dauphin is set to execute the rebellion’s prisoners, who are in his custody.’

Bertrand du Guesclin frowned. ‘In what way does this concern us, my friend?’

‘It is of no significance to the Order, only personally. Among their number is Ghillebert d’Albret, my sister’s nephew, and trusted soldier to you, Milord.’

‘Ghillbert?’ exclaimed du Guesclin. ‘But I recently granted him leave. He claimed business of a private nature and was, so he told me, on his way to Larressingle.’

‘So his message informed me,’ Jean growled, ‘but when he did not arrive, I sought explanations. It would seem that he fell foul of the Comte de Foix in Paris during the rebellion and was falsely incarcerated as one of its leaders.’

Bertrand du Guesclin inhaled sharply. ‘You were right to come. How much time do we have?’

‘Two weeks, no more.’

The Grand Master turned to the younger knight. ‘Tell Dubois to ready the men. We ride for Paris immediately.’

‘Yes, Milord.’ The man scurried through the arched portal.

‘As it happens I have another concern to raise with the Dauphin, a small matter of unpaid troops. We shall find out what we can.’ Bertrand du Guesclin sucked in his breath and released it with a slow grin. ‘I believe you were wrong, Jean. It would seem to me this could be of great significance to the Order.’ His eyes sought the soft grey ones of his comrade. ‘Know you the Lady Mary St Pol?’

‘I do, Milord. Through kin to my wife.’

‘Well enough to be granted favour?’

Jean d’Armagnac pushed back his knitted metal coif and the two men made their way from the cloistered walkway into a nearby chamber. They were seated at the scrubbed table with cups of wine in hand before the answer came.

‘Oui,’ Jean replied, huskily, ‘there is goodwill between us, a matter from long ago.’

‘Would she take a man into her service upon your recommendation?’

‘I believe so.’

Bertrand du Guesclin nodded, satisfied. ‘Good, but be warned, young Ghillebert may resist what I have in mind, for he will need to be reconciled with his family.’

Jean d’Armagnac grunted. ‘Then let us hope he considers that preferable to death.’

Du Guesclin rose and began to pace, his hands crossed behind him. Though shorter than most, his stature did not lack stock and he possessed an ethereal quality which commanded respect. ‘The Order shall rescue him from his current tribulation and in return he will become our informant at Denny Abbey. Ghillebert will be introduced back into the English court.’

Jean gave a low whistle. ‘You ask much of the lad. He renounced his English connections after the horror of Poitiers. What need is there for all this?’

Du Guesclin stilled his footsteps and looked up. ‘The Scots are becoming restless, Jean. Someone has let loose a flea in royal beds and the bites blister with English rebellion. Salisbury is sniffing around Denny abbey and we think his sights are upon the Lady.’

‘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.

One

September 1360

The English Channel

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 commandeered, 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.

‘What gives a prince the right to play God with people’s lives?’ hissed Armand d’Albret. Desolately, he watched as the two people he loved most in the world disappeared into the bowels of the royal vessel.

‘Gentlemen.’ The English captain was the last to leave. ‘You are free to resume your voyage though if any of your faces are sighted in Calais in the short term, you will find yourself a guest of the Prince. Adieu.’ He boarded his ship and the grappling hooks were released.

‘What now?’ asked Mouse, pulling his doublet back into shape and wiping blood from his mouth. He’d knocked out two men before they had subdued him.

Simon nodded to the stern. ‘Untie the crew then meet me below.’

Simon lowered himself gingerly onto the ladder and down into the hull.

‘Catherine?’

Inferno’s whinny greeted him. ‘Hey, boy,’ he replied fondly, limping to the great, black stallion. ‘I will see your master returned, I promise you.’ He patted the broad, strong neck. A rustling of straw from behind the barrels saw him draw his knife with lightning speed.

‘Simon? Where’s Gillet? Is he awake?’ Cécile rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I thought I heard some noise but I do feel better now.’

Simon’s eyes bulged. Realisation settled upon him and he roared, ‘Goddamn that girl to Hell.’

Two

Port of Dover, England

Perched atop the magnificent chalky cliffs and glinting with brilliance in the morning sun, the majestic fortification of Dover Castle reigned with authority over the bustling port below. In the harbour a vessel was docking, newly arrived from France and flying an unadorned blood-red flag. Aboard the cog Cécile d’Armagnac gazed at the formidable keep as the sea breeze whipped her veil across her pale cheeks and snapped her gown into a sail. She gripped the ship’s rail, her knuckles white. Fear lapped at her breast with the same forceful constancy as the waves foaming against the foreign shoreline.

Beside her, Armand d’Albret, the man she had known as her cousin since childhood, shaded his eyes and squinted. ‘Let us hope John de Beauchamp is still in his chambers at this hour.’ He nodded at the indomitable castle. ‘We would do well not to attract the attentions of Dover’s constable, the Earl of Warwick. How do you feel?’

‘Well enough,’ she answered. ‘Now that we have stopped sailing.’ Cécile stole another glance at the fortification and willed its chief occupant to be oblivious to their arrival. His curiosity would be a dangerous thing. Her hands fell to smooth her impending motherhood, dangerous indeed.

For Cécile, the last twenty-four hours had seen more twists and turns than the Minotaur’s labyrinth. The breeze could not cool her cheeks as she recalled the previous evening before mayhem had turned the night upside down and inside out. In a tiny chamber at the dockside inn in Calais, she had given herself, heart, soul and body to Gillet de Bellegarde only to have him wrenched from her arms by soldiers. She had learned his real name was Albret, and he was from the Anglo-Gascon branch dedicated to serving the Prince of Wales.

Within the space of a heartbeat her lover had become her enemy. It wasn’t until Cécile had been safely delivered into Armand’s custody that she learned the truth. Gillet was Armand’s paternal cousin, Ghillebert, and though born into the illustrious Albret family, he was loyal to France. Simon and Gillet’s companions had arrived at the boat, bearing the unconscious man and in their company was her sister. After being separated for seventeen years, Cécile laid eyes upon her sibling. But once more life played a cruel trick and both loves had been taken from her yet again. Where were they now? A stinking cell for Gillet, no doubt, to await the Prince’s justice. And with no chance to repair the damage from their argument, Gillet de Bellegarde might face death believing she hated him.

And her twin? Catherine would be delivered with great haste into the arms of Edward, he believing her to be his erstwhile mistress, known to be carrying his bastard. How long could Catherine fool him and what vengeance would the Prince impose when he discovered the ruse? Simon had been furious at Catherine’s foolhardiness and wasted no time in his pursuit. He, Roderick, Gabriel, Guiraud and Mouse had set sail in the ship’s rowboat and headed back to France, hopeful of rescuing both Catherine and Gillet. By mutual agreement, Armand was to keep to the original plan and accompany Cécile to Chilham, the Albret family estate in Kent, where Gillet had promised she would be safe.

A seagull’s vibrant squawk startled Cécile from her reverie. The ship had docked.

The horses were fastened, one by one, into a giant sling and lowered into the water as crewmen bobbed amongst the waves, waiting to swim the animals ashore. Inferno, Gillet’s black stallion, attracted admiration from some curious onlookers, but most locals gathered to inspect the barrels of celebrated Gascon wine. The horses were rubbed down and saddled.

The small riding party, consisting of the eight men-at-arms Gillet had provided, took pause outside the fishmonger’s for Armand to adjust his stirrups. Cécile’s veil fluttered like a pennant in full flight and the last hint of sea spray sprinkled the air as the horses, eager to stretch their legs, pranced impatiently. From behind the counter, hedged with barrels of fresh, salt and pickled fish, a portly woman glared. Her cheeks bulged over a tight barbette and she sniffed with disdain at the sight of a woman riding astride.

Cécile shifted uncomfortably and chose to observe the surrounding countryside. It was a serene tapestry of variegated green hills rolling down to slide over the glistening cliffs. The lush paddocks were dotted with white, fluffy specks, a far cry from the barren, war-cindered fields she had ridden in France. England’s truce had come too late for some. Winter would see a populace of French bellies go hungry. A nearby lamb, separated from its flock, lost and alone, bleated miserably. Cécile knew the feeling. She glanced over her shoulder for one last look across the sea, and sent a prayer to St Antony, worker of miracles, for the salvation of Gillet and Catherine, and her own speedy return to her beloved homeland.

His stirrups adjusted, Armand mounted Inferno, but the horse, aware that his owner did not occupy the saddle, tossed his head savagely and kicked. ‘Whoa, boy, whoa,’ soothed Armand. ‘Good thing he and I are old friends.’ He grinned, rubbing the steed’s neck. ‘’Tis rare he will suffer another upon his back.’

Cécile reached over and fondled the stallion’s ear. ‘He is like his owner – proud, fickle and full of bad temper.’

Armand laughed. ‘Now that is a charred pot calling the cauldron black!’

The fishwife was busy weighing a basket of eels but Cécile could still feel the sharp stab of her accusing stare. ‘How long before we reach the Albret manor, Armand?’

Armand tested the length of his stirrup and noted the sun’s position. ‘We should be there by mid-afternoon.’ Inferno snorted and sidled a nearby gelding, impatient to be off. ‘That’s if I can hold Inferno in check.’

‘He knows the way then?’

‘Gillet often called into Chilham when making deliveries between France and England. It is also his responsibility to take charge of the family estate during the winter quarter if his duties permit. His eldest brother, Amanieu, resides there during the summer months but the manor should be empty now, save for a handful of servants. Do not worry,’ he added, noting Cécile’s frown. ‘You will be safe and even when the Prince discovers he has been cozened, he will never think to look for you under the roof of his own Gascons!’

‘What if one of Gillet’s brothers should come calling?’

‘They won’t. And anyway, as far as they are concerned, you are Cécile d’Armagnac, my cousin.’ He glanced at her thickening waistline, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak and his eyes grew hard. ‘They need not know you carry the Prince’s bastard.’ With a burst of petulance his nature not often displayed, Armand dug his heels into his mount. Eagerly Inferno leaped to the fore.

By early afternoon, a tired group rode over the drawbridge leading to the manor’s gatehouse. The long hours of the previous day and the tension of escaping France were beginning to take their toll. Round-shouldered and drooping in her saddle, Cécile forcibly straightened as admittance by the gatehouse porter was granted.

They rode up to the main house, a grey stone construction in the shape of a letter H, the east and west wings poised at either end of the hall like huge bookends. A set of massive oak doors opened and, like bees disturbed from a hive, a swarm of servants flew out.

Armand dismounted and passed his reins to the gap-toothed stable boy. ‘Alfred, see to the housing of the soldiers and make sure Inferno is well stabled.’

‘At once, Milord.’

A silver-haired servant with bandy legs hobbled his way over the cobblestones. ‘Milord Armand! What a surprise! We saw your troop’s banner from the road but if you sent forewarning of your arrival, sir, none arrived.’ He eyed the black stallion as it was led past, the question dying on his lips as Armand crushed the gnome-like creature in an affectionate hug.

‘Symond! My good friend! I trust this will not be too much of an inconvenience?’

The aging servant bowed respectfully. ‘Your visits were ever a pleasure, Milord.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘The child I knew has grown into a man.’

‘Ha! Well you have not changed one jot. It does my heart good to see you again.’

Symond flushed with pleasure and raised his bushy brow at the blonde-haired woman hovering a few paces behind. The chestnut mare she had just relinquished was trotting with determination after the stallion. Armand tugged Cécile forward.

‘Symond, meet my cousin, Cécile d’Armagnac. She is to be Gillet’s guest for a while.’

The old man bowed. ‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle d’Armagnac.’

‘Symond used to look after me when I came to visit Gillet as a child,’ explained Armand. ‘He would fuss over our scrapes and bruises when our swords were nothing but wood and our ponies were barrels on pulley ropes.’

Symond cleared his throat with the dignity of a privileged servant. ‘Speaking of ponies, Milord, I could not help but notice you rode in on Milord Ghillebert’s horse. I trust all is well, sir?’

‘Gillet was due to sail with us but was recalled to the Prince’s service at the last minute,’ replied Armand. ‘Since my horse had not boarded, it was easier to swap beasts rather than unload Inferno. Gillet will be joining us soon.’

‘He is taking up winter residence this year?’ The servant’s voice had risen on a note of surprise.

Armand frowned at the varlet’s expression. ‘I believe that was his plan. Is something amiss?’

The aging servant stroked the sides of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. ‘I just thought, sir, naturally that with the arrival of Lord Arnaud that …’

Armand’s eyes grew wide. ‘Gillet’s brother is here?’

‘Yes, Milord. Monsieur Arnaud and his wife arrived last week. They intend upon staying, er, until spring at the very least.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Symond saw Cécile shudder. ‘Perhaps you should come inside, Milord. The Mademoiselle is cold.’

Armand allowed the servant to gain a discreet lead before grasping Cécile’s elbow. ‘This could be good news,’ he whispered hurriedly, ‘for it means that I can return to France immediately, but say nothing of your predicament – none of it! The truth will serve no purpose here.’

They were led to the main hall and Cécile’s eyes widened at the opulence. The walls were sumptuously decorated with rich, colourful hangings and polished shields. Panelled coffers stood against one wall but her eyes were drawn to the magnificent carved rose marble fireplace. It befitted royalty.

Two high-backed chairs were strategically positioned before the generous hearth and, at Symond’s announcement, a body occupying one unfolded and stood. Cécile gasped. The likeness to Gillet was remarkable, slightly taller but the same bone structure and black hair. This older version was thinner though, lending his face a gaunt, haunted look, even when taken in surprise.

‘Armand! God’s bones! What are you doing here?’

‘Greetings, cousin.’ The men embraced with a formal restraint. ‘Gillet had not thought the manor inhabited,’ said Armand as if that explained his presence well enough.

A glint of displeasure flashed in the other man’s eyes. ‘One cannot leave an estate this size unattended. The servants will run amok! Amanieu wished for his winter retreat and we had received no word as to whether Ghillebert was coming home.’ His eyes strayed to Cécile with frank curiosity.

‘Gillet has been granted leave from court,’ replied Armand, ‘but he is delayed, and so, in his stead, I escort my cousin who is to be Gillet’s guest for a while. May I present the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac.’

‘Armagnac?’ Cécile watched as the man’s eyebrows shot up with such force she thought they would fly off his face. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You are a long way from home, Mademoiselle. What brings you so far north?’

‘Cécile stayed the summer in Paris,’ offered Armand, ‘but with England’s goodwill in releasing our king, I was commissioned to Calais before I had chance to return her home. Your brother, whom she met in the city, has offered his hospitality until suitable arrangements can be made.’

‘Really? How admirable of him. Paris in the winter is not to your taste, Mademoiselle?’ Arnaud’s lip curled sardonically as he offered a seat.

‘No, Monsieur. The bloodshed was not to my taste.’ Cécile tipped her head in acknowledgment and gratefully took the weight from her feet. Gillet’s brother returned to his chair, bellowing for Symond to bring wine. He crossed his parti-coloured stockinged legs and rocked the upper one, a habit Cécile instantly found annoying.

‘So, how is my little brother? Still licking the Prince’s arse like an affectionate lapdog and fetching royal bones from all over the countryside?’ The soft leather-padded soles swung closer and Cécile firmly clamped her mouth lest she be tempted to snap at the conceited, pointy toes.

‘The last I heard he was,’ said Armand, arranging himself on a velvet cushioned stool, ‘but then, employed as envoy to the Prince of Wales is bound to keep a man busy … and rich.’

To Cécile’s astonishment Arnaud burst out laughing. ‘I forget how well you protect my brother’s back, cousin.’ He leered at Cécile, one eye turning independent of the other. She glanced away, disarmed by this unsavoury trait, and resisted a strong urge to cross herself. Upon further inspection though, she understood something she had not hitherto realised. In a family renowned for its ‘devilishly handsome looks’, vibrant blue eyes and hair of raven black, some saying the ancient Gascons of Albret had ‘sold their souls to the Devil himself,’ small wonder she had never considered Gillet connected. His eyes were of the deepest brown.

‘Did you know, Lady d’Armagnac,’ Arnaud was saying, ‘that Armand visited us many times in his youth?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, unsure which eye to direct her gaze upon. ‘My loss was ever your gain.’

‘Ah, but of course.’ Arnaud stroked his top lip and glanced back at Armand. ‘You were serving under Armagnac at the time. It’s as well that you bring the lady yourself, Armand,’ he conceded with a strained laugh, ‘otherwise I might have thought there were hidden motives.’

‘Political conjuring?’ Armand laughed in reply. ‘I vouchsafe that plays no part.’

Arnaud’s attention was distracted as a willowy girl entered the hall. Her autumn green gown was of the finest Flemish wool and beneath a ruffled cap, strawberry blonde hair curled with discipline over her ears, held in place by a crispinette. The accompanying barbette framed the delicate features of her young, pretty face.

‘Marguerite! Come, meet your cousins.’ Arnaud stood, his eyes glowing possessively as they rested upon his wife’s maternal carriage. ‘May I present the Lady d’Albret, Marguerite de Narbonne. As you can see, she has finally consented to do her duty and provide me with an heir.’ He presented the mien of a doting husband as he led her to the nearby alcove seat but Cécile’s skin prickled at his condescending tone. She slid into a curtsey as Armand bowed.

‘Armand-Amanieu d’Albret from Labrit, and his maternal cousin, the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac,’ introduced Arnaud. Cécile warmly returned Marguerite’s shy smile, wondering what Gillet would think when he learned the nursery of his home was to have two new inhabitants. It took all her willpower to refrain from rubbing her own small protuberance, hidden by the cut of her surcotte.

‘As you can see, Marguerite will soon be in confinement. We intend to spend the winter quarter here.’

Armand raised Marguerite’s hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I am sure Gillet will be pleased to learn of his new nephew,’ he grinned, ‘or niece, as am I for greeting a new cousin. Madame, you are as radiant as Mother Earth herself.’

‘Ha,’ scoffed Arnaud. ‘Tilled soil she was but fertile she was not!’ He grabbed Marguerite’s chin and turned it to face him. ‘But even the poorest field, when regularly ploughed, must eventually yield a crop, eh, my love.’

Marguerite blushed and cast her gaze to the floor. Armand still held her hand, and tactfully she withdrew it.

The men’s attention was redirected to the arrival of the wine. Three things did Cécile notice in that one moment. Marguerite’s hand was misshapen, the smallest finger jutting out at an odd angle. Her rapid blush had paled to a sickly grey, and when she glanced at her husband’s broad back, it was with fear.

‘No, I must return to France on the first tide,’ Armand was saying as he returned with two goblets of wine. He handed one to Cécile with a wink. ‘I have a pressing duty to which I must attend.’

‘My wife will be grateful for female company,’ replied Arnaud, seating himself once more as Armand furnished Marguerite with a drink. ‘I scarce have time to play wet nurse. Ghillebert should have been here a month ago. There is much to be done before the onset of winter.’ The men’s talk shifted to trade and the latest consignments. England’s court had established a fondness for Gascon wine and the Albret vineyards in France were profiting well.

Cécile relinquished her chair to Armand and moved to the alcove seat. ‘How long before you expect your babe?’ she asked Marguerite, smiling warmly. To her amazement, the young woman turned away, tears filling her eyes. Some moments elapsed as she struggled for control.

‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, turning back. ‘I am all of a dither lately. I believe it was three to four weeks at the last reckoning. And please call me Margot.’ She glanced at her husband again, only this time, instead of just fear, there was hate. ‘My name is Margot.’

When Armand departed the following morning Cécile felt desperately alone. Not since their parting in Arras had she felt so miserable. Margot kept to her chamber and Arnaud took up his duties on the estate, content to ignore her. Cécile saw them only at supper, a brief affair in which they ate in silence and the void of conversation was filled with Arnaud’s slurping and belching.

The days dragged on, each hour clawing at its predecessor’s heels with indeterminable slowness. Cécile visited Ruby and Inferno but even these visits began to irritate her as the stable boys regarded her with mixed awe and suspicion. The sight of her hand-feeding their most difficult charge, and he, nuzzling with the docility of a unicorn in a myth, gave rise to nervous whispers and many signings of the cross.

‘Your master will come,’ whispered Cécile, ignoring the stable boys as Inferno snuffled into her hair. ‘He will not abandon us.’ But each day dawned and darkened with no word.

By the fifth day Cécile seated herself on a bench beneath an aged oak, her soul steeped in melancholy. Her humours felt out of balance or perhaps, she thought, her stars had come into Saturn’s orbit and the malicious planet was executing its baleful influence. She took stock of her life in the hope of counting good fortune. She was alive, albeit in her enemy’s land with no family, and the man she loved, wrongly accused as traitor, was held prisoner – or worse. She was afflicted with a malady of the lungs; carrying a bastard child to the heir of England; barely reconciled with her twin sister, who was also in grievous danger; the Earl of Salisbury hunted them with accusations of retribution, wrongdoings in his life for which he held them accountable on behalf his former wife, their mother.

Cécile had recently learned that she was only the foster-child of Armagnac, her true sire being Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent, in whose province she was now hiding from the Prince of Wales, father to her unborn child. And the manor she was in belonged to his staunchest supporters, the Albrets, of whom she had just learned her beloved was one! The current occupants of the house ignored her, and the stable boys thought her a spectre from the underworld. Cécile could hold back her tears no longer.

‘Lady d’Armagnac.’ A shadow fell across her misted vision and Margot