The Gilded Crown (17 page)

Something flew across the room as though fired from a trebuchet; an ear-splitting yowl pierced the gloom as it landed upon Jean de Berri. Cécile's scream was echoed by the Duc as he leaped from the bed, fitting convulsively, his cheek streaked with blood. A ball of bright orange fur dislodged itself from his back and landed beside Cécile. Nutmeg, his form rampant and hackles raised, emitted one long, ominous growl.

‘God's nails!' The Duc wiped his face and held out trembling, blood-stained fingers. ‘What sort of company do you keep, Madame? Look at my face!'

‘Milord,' gasped Cécile, grappling with the covers. She moved further from the Duc's reach. ‘This is a male cat, and he abides no fondness for other males in his domain. My husband will bear witness to this.' She lifted Nutmeg into her arms, fearing the Duc would draw a superstitious conclusion from her cat's intervention. ‘Your Grace, his female sleeps beneath my bed. He was protecting his mate.'

‘No!' Jean de Berri pointed a shaking finger. ‘He is protecting
you! You are in league with the Devil.
And that creature is … is … his servant. You …
you seduced me
!'

‘No, your Grace, please no.'

Nutmeg yowled again, his tail swishing.

Jean de Berri hastily stepped back. Clearly suffering shock, he staggered to the door, his complexion pasty. ‘Go with God, Madame,' he rasped, ‘but He does not exist in this room, not on this night!'

Cécile saw the stripes across the Duc's back, the blood beading through his shirt as he stumbled from her chamber. She held her breath and felt the blood pounding around her body.

‘Oh Nutmeg,' she whispered, stroking the still-growling cat. ‘You saved me but at what cost?'

Unable to sleep, Cécile sat beneath the bedcovers, hunched over her knees, rocking. She listened long and hard for any sign of guards coming to arrest her or her cats. But none came. Perhaps the Duc had taken to his bed, and maybe, after a good night's sleep, he would see reason.

By dawn Cécile's nerves were on edge. Somewhere an early curlew squawked, returning to its nesting mate, and she almost screamed. There was only one place that would soothe her now. She rose, dressed quickly in a simple gown, and headed for the chapel. The familiar scent of candle wax and incense was comforting. She kneeled in the first pew, head bent, hands pressed against her forehead, her fingers clutching her rosary. Her lips moved silently in prayer as she beseeched the protection of Saint Christopher for Gillet, and Saint Jude and the Virgin Mary for herself. It was here that the soldiers of Gisors found her. The Vicomtesse had commanded her immediate presence.

Escorted through the outer courtyard, Cécile's attention was diverted to a small, leather-sided conveyance and to the scrawny priest climbing aboard, his grumbles hitting the crisp air in puffs of steam. ‘God be with us all on this journey!' He waved the driver on and, as the tiny carriage passed them, his eyes widened as they clapped upon Cécile. He crossed himself several times in succession.

Still musing upon his behaviour, Cécile found herself abandoned at the doorway of the Vicomtesse's chamber. She knocked and was bid entrance. The former Queen stood by the window, her back turned, her shoulders stiff.

Cécile sank to her knees. ‘Madame, I can explain.'

‘You may save your explanations, Lady de Bellegarde,' was the curt reply. ‘I already understand more than you know.' Blanche d'Évreux turned, her cheeks blotchy from weeping. ‘I told Jean de Berri he received no more than he deserved. Please rise and come sit with me. We have much to discuss.'

Cécile stood, her emotions a whirl as the Vicomtesse sat with a sigh.

‘You must think me a foolish, old woman.' She held up her hand. ‘No, do not protest. I know what I am. Jean and I … well, let us say that when Jean came to me with his ridiculous story, I know him well enough to convince him otherwise. Unfortunately, he took it into his head to go to confession first, but you need not worry. Father Jacques has been called away urgently to a village south of here. They are in dire need of a priest.' She looked directly at Cécile. ‘Father Jacques is a little zealous. He would have most certainly made something of Jean's claim that you keep a familiar within your company. I told Jean it was nothing more than a protective cat.'

‘And he believed you?' asked Cécile.

The Vicomtesse's hand covered hers. ‘Yes, he did. He owes me that much. But listen now, I have news of a far more urgent nature, and one closer to your heart. How would you like to join your husband in Bordeaux working as my agent?'

Cécile's mouth fell open. ‘Whaaa …?'

‘You could not present yourself as the wife of Gillet de Bellegarde,' continued the Vicomtesse, ignoring her gaping guest, ‘nor could you enter as the wife of “Ghillebert d'Albret”.' Blanche smiled as Cécile's brows rose and her jaw dropped further. ‘As I said upon your entrance to my chamber, Lady d'Albret, I know more than you think.'

Cécile's mouth snapped shut as she scowled. ‘Did Gillet know this?'

‘Yes, and Jean has no idea he sent your husband to chase rainbows, although the mission itself is real enough. We wish to secure the alliance of the Albrets before oaths are spoken for England and Gillet is our best chance. But now a new and disturbing piece of information has just come to light.' The Vicomtesse rose and poured two cups of wine. ‘Gillet will enter the realm of the English in Bordeaux, protected by his Albret façade. It is not the first time he has worked thus for us.' She held out the goblet.

Cécile accepted her wine. ‘Us?'

Blanche d'Évreux looked taken aback as she sat. ‘Gillet told me you knew about the society of which he is a member.'

‘We have never spoken of it directly, Madame, but I do believe I know your meaning. You are referring to the Order of the Lily, yes?'

Blanche nodded. ‘Yes, of course, your sister was with Lord Wexford when they discovered the sword. But I speak now of the body of men behind that order called the
Prieuré de Sion
. I am held deep within their trust and, Cécile, your own father, Jean d'Armagnac, holds a seat upon their council.'

Cécile nodded. ‘That was how my papa knew to save Gillet when he fell afoul of Gaston de Foix during the Jacquerie uprising.' Her head snapped up to meet the keen gaze of the widow. ‘Then you know! You already
know
Gillet is innocent. You were one of those who helped him escape!'

Blanche nodded. ‘Yes, and when the time comes, I shall see that Jean de Berri honours his word to speak to the Dauphin on your husband's behalf.'

Cécile's face fell. ‘But what if his Grace changes his mind after last night? I hold no favour with him now.'

Blanche arched a brow. ‘No, but I do. Let us just say that France can do without another scandal in the royal family. It was enough that I was whisked away from Jean's father to wed his grandfather. I'm sure the gentle folk of our court would not take kindly to stories of the grandson seducing his grandfather's lonely widow.' Blanche rose to peer out her window with a sigh. ‘You see, Cécile, in sacrifice or in pleasure, we all do our part for the good of the Crown.'

Cécile sipped her wine, her mind reeling. ‘You and Jean?'

The Vicomtesse turned with a sad expression. ‘Is it so impossible to believe? A greater number of years separate Jean and your sister yet they are man and wife. He cannot take up his marital duties for she has not yet bled.' She returned to her seat. ‘He may be a Duc but he is still a man first and foremost. Our companionship is mutual and benefits us both. But let us now talk of reuniting you with your husband. One of our agents in London reported the departure of a party from the White Tower, which is currently journeying to Bordeaux under heavy guard. At great risk and loss of life, we know that they carry a parchment which bears the royal seal. This particular item has been lifted from King Edward's personal chest and is being sent to Bordeaux to be placed within the family vault. That means it is of great importance and too precarious to stay in London.' Restless again, the Vicomtesse rose to refill her goblet and paced as she spoke. ‘Four years ago Edward released King David of Scotland from his ten-year imprisonment and allowed him to return home. Why? For what reason did Edward let David go?' Blanche spun to face Cécile. ‘No ransom was raised nor delivered and so France would know if we are about to lose our greatest ally. David shows no interest in the begetting of an heir. We think Edward struck a deal for David's freedom. The rumour for the last four years is that Edward's second son, John of Gaunt, shall inherit the Scottish throne.' The Vicomtesse paused to allow Cécile to process the information. ‘Madame, France would know if the proof of such a foul arrangement lies within this heavily guarded chest bound for Bordeaux.'

Cécile's head flew up. ‘And you want
me
to … to what? Find it? Madame, I am not made of such mettle!'

The Vicomtesse was amused. ‘Goodness, no! We have trained agents for such things. I merely want you to tell your husband. You need only recite the names of our contacts already entrenched within the Bordeaux court. Our men will do the rest.'

Cécile's eyes grew rounder. ‘You have informers within the new court at Bordeaux?'

‘Of course, as we do in London and Scotland, and as they do, here in France. My dear, did you not know? You can trust no one at court.'

Surrounded by a contingent of Gisors guards, Cécile waved her farewell to the Queen Consort, Blanche d'Évreux, that afternoon. In Cécile's possession were letters of introduction to the Vicomtesse's castles – enough to ensure a good night's rest for the first stage of the long journey ahead. On her middle finger was a silver ring, the filigree encompassing a dull, green stone and cleverly disguising hinges which allowed the gem to be pushed aside, revealing a compartment beneath. The base of this hidden section was engraved with a tiny shield painted bright red with a star pattern of connecting gold lines and dots; the insignia of Navarre, birthplace to the Vicomtesse and her personal emblem.

As they rode along the road to Beauvais, Cécile's lips moved in whisper as she repeated to herself, over and over, the names of the contacts in Bordeaux. Some things could not be committed to parchment. In her baggage, sewn into the hem of one of her plain gowns, was a handsome sum of coin; the maids of Gisors would be sucking their needle-pricked fingers that night. And deep inside her, Cécile felt a glowing warmth, fuelled by the knowledge that she was not only helping France, but her husband as well. The Vicomtesse had asked for complete discretion with regard to Duc Jean de Berri. The price had been set and the women had sealed their own deal. Cécile's grin grew wider as she rode along. She couldn't wait to see Gillet's face when they finally arrived at their new home in Bellegarde and he saw a grand set of stables and outbuildings awaiting him.

Catherine, Lady Wexford, I bid you good grace.

I know you will be quite shocked when you receive this parchment and I am sorry for the hurt it may cause. I should have written sooner but was only recently made aware of your location and circumstance.

I must start by congratulating you on your marriage to Lord Wexford. I am told he is a man held in high esteem by many and has amassed a large fortune so should keep you well.

It is my sad duty to inform you of the untimely death of your father, Lord Thomas Holland. He was a man for whom I had much respect and he was, at the time of his passing, within the retinue of Prince Edward. I believe it was my grief which brought me to the attention of the prince, who has helped heal my broken heart and encouraged me to deal with unresolved matters from my past.

So saying, I pray you will consider honouring me with your presence at court so that I may clarify any misunderstandings that might remain between us.

Dedicating my prayers to your good health.

By your grace, Joan, Lady Holland