The Gilded Crown (21 page)

‘Father Jacques?' Cécile's head flew up. ‘He's the priest from Gisors! The one who took Jean de Berri's …' She checked herself abruptly.

‘Took Jean de Berri's what?' Armand frowned at his cousin.

‘His suggestion of coming here,' amended Cécile. ‘The Vicomtesse told me one of her villages was in urgent need of a priest.'

‘Well she might have warned us it was the plague,' grumbled Gabriel. He turned to Armand. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘We leave now.'

They backtracked through the hedge and quickly made their way up the hill but as they approached the tree they saw two men pulling their wagon away.

‘Hey! Stop! Thief!' yelled Armand as he and Gabriel broke into a run.

The men put down the cart and one wearing a smithy's apron looked affronted. ‘'ere, I ain't no thief. Magistrate 'as commissioned all manners of conveyance for the use of the clergy.' He folded his huge arms and glared indignantly.

‘For what purpose?' raged Armand.

‘See for yourselves.' He pointed to another cart trundling towards them, pulled by two more men, heads bent as their muscles strained. It veered round the curve and Cécile watched, clutching her veil tighter around her mouth as the odious load of half-clothed, bloated, blood-streaked bodies bounced lewdly, sightless eyes gazing, limbs and torsos covered with purple and black sores. Behind it walked a man dressed in a white cloak, his face concealed by a mask with a long, curved beak, and swinging a thurible, the escaping wisps of burning incense hiding little of the foul stench.

Cécile swung to her cousin. ‘Armand, we must get out of here now!'

‘Too late,' said the blacksmith, taking up his hold upon their charette once more. ‘Gates were closed an hour ago when the bells started chiming. No one enters, no one leaves,' he nodded to the dray, ‘'cept by cart.'

Cécile felt herself spinning into blackness and grabbed Armand's doublet. ‘
Get me out of here.
'

‘The innkeeper has bolted his door against visitors but if you've nowhere to stay, yonder cottage is vacant,' offered the smithy. He nodded to his partner and they pulled the wagon. ‘They were the first lot to be taken. The house is clean. They died in the fields. Rose in the morning and fell down dead at dusk. I'll let the Reeve know, shall I? Call it compensation for your cart 'ere. Doubt he'll be around to collect rents anyhow.'

‘Wait, friend,' called Armand. ‘Run the cart past the cottage door and allow us to take out our belongings. The child, at least, must eat.' He nodded to Margot and she pulled back her cloak just enough to show the babe cradled in her arms.

‘Struth!' The smithy spat on the ground. ‘You lot and that other woman 'ave got the luck of Saint Jude 'imself ridin' in 'ere just as they close the gates.'

‘What other woman?' asked Gabriel.

‘I dunno. Some girl rode in just as after you lot did, 'ere to visit her brother. But I'll tell you what I told 'er. Hide your 'orses or they'll be requisitioned next.' He nodded to his accomplice. ‘We stop at the cottage first.'

‘Armand!' Cécile grasped the cloth between her fingers tighter. ‘We
cannot
stay. I cannot expose Jean Petit to pestilence.' She lowered her voice to rasping whisper. ‘
He's the son of a prince.
'

Armand swept his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, his lips in her hair. He felt her shivering. ‘I know,' he said quietly, kissing the top of her head. ‘Be brave, ma petit. I play for time until I can find a way out for us.'

The cottage was clean as the blacksmith promised. All the same Armand and Gabriel ripped the sheets from the boxed frames and burned them. They would have done likewise with the straw mattresses, save Margot put her foot down.

‘Would you have us sleep on the dirt floor like animals?'

The men left the women to female devices and went in search of such rations as they could secure. They returned by dusk, peeling off their doublets to sit in the evening heat of July, nursing large mugs of perry.

‘Should we be sitting out here in the open air?' asked Margot, glancing around as though she would be able to spot the plague approaching. They'd reconvened in the tiny courtyard at the back of the cottage. Jean Petit slept peacefully inside.

‘God's bone's woman! I shall die of heat exhaustion if you make me go within,' complained Armand.

‘They are soldiers, Margot,' quipped Cécile brusquely. ‘They live in the open.' She turned to her cousin. ‘When do we leave?'

Armand peered over the rim of his cup. ‘We met with our blacksmith friend again. His name is Reynaud de Tosny and he was a most helpful fellow.' Armand leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘It seems the governing body of this town have laid an indenture upon their craftsmen, citing the “statute of labourers” law that King Edward passed in London after the last plague.' At her blank look, he explained, ‘Put simply, it prevents the craftsmen and labourers from raising their prices due to dwindling numbers of workers during this crisis, but moreover they are bound to the town.'

‘They cannot leave by free will?' gasped Margot.

‘No one can leave!' retaliated Cécile. ‘Is this not the problem
we
have?'

‘Exactly. And since our friend also wishes to leave, we find ourselves with an ally who has in-depth knowledge of the town.
We
have the horses and he knows the way out. But,' he warned his cousin, ‘we will need patience. Our escape must be meticulously planned and even more carefully executed.'

Cécile put her mug down and stood. She pulled at the wimple clouding her neck, so great the temptation to tear it off. It was too hot! But her hand dropped. Instead she took a weary breath to calm her panic and paced to the shade of the pear tree. By the time Armand's arms crept around her, she was trembling.

‘I miss Gillet more than I ever thought possible,' she croaked. Cécile bowed her head and her shoulders shook. ‘What if I am never to see him again? Armand, I am so afraid. I miss Catherine too, some days so much my heart hurts! Will I live long enough to see her again? What if that one time we held each other was all we shall have?'

‘Hush,' crooned Armand. He spun her around and hugged her tightly to his chest. ‘I will see you out of this, I promise. Remember Angelique? That beautiful, brave young woman of our childhood games? Be her now and let her Roland come to her rescue once more. Do you remember when I returned from war and you nursed me? Like Roland's cousin, Astolpho, you went to the moon to fetch back my brains because I had gone mad.' He kissed her temple. ‘I made a vow to always look after you, Cécile d'Armagnac, and I shall not fail you now.'

She nodded her head, the tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘Forever together, always and ever.'

He lifted her chin and softly kissed her. ‘And together we shall reunite you with Gillet.'

Cécile threw her arms around her cousin. ‘Armand, I love you to the moon and back, and unlike the legends, this Angelique will not leave your side.'

‘Good. Then it is decided. You shall follow my direction in everything.' He gesticulated towards the courtyard. ‘Our friends await us. Let us make our plans. It will ease your mind.'

For the next four days the group held fast. The castle of Vernon closed its doors to all, fearing the plague more than the wrath of the Vicomtesse. The letter of introduction Cécile had would serve no purpose now. Armand and Gabriel met with the blacksmith, Reynaud, several times at his smithy. His stables hid their horses and a trapdoor beneath the straw led to a cellar where the men planned their escape without fear of discovery. Here Reynaud unrolled simple drawings of the tunnels concealed beneath the Hôtel-Dieu, which housed the sick. Reynaud had once been called to fix a broken grate which led to the ancient Roman sewer channels but what he discovered was a complex system of tunnels lay beneath the hostel. From memory he'd sketched the layout.

‘How many know of this?' asked Gabriel, poring over the documents.

Reynaud shrugged his wide shoulders.

‘Here,' pointed Armand, ‘if this is correct, it leads directly to the river.'

‘Then that's our way out,' agreed Gabriel. His finger tapped the wiggly outline of the hostel. ‘All we need now is a way
in
.'

Back at the cottage, Cécile clenched her jaws tight as the creaking wheels of another cart passed their door, the clanging of the bell jarring her nerves.

‘Bring out your dead!'

‘Seven more houses on the east side,' Margot informed her. ‘People have begun to carve crosses on their doors in contrition. Cécile? What's wrong?' Margot rushed to friend for the latter had collapsed onto a stool, her hands clamped to her ears. ‘Minette! Wine, hurry.'

‘Margot, we have to get out of here before I lose my mind! This pestilence creeps closer and still we do not move.'

‘Hush, now. The men do what they can.'

‘I saw one of the faces close up,' whispered Cécile. ‘The last cart to pass here. The blank eyes staring at me … and his tongue … Heaven forbid! His tongue was black! And not just his tongue – his lips, his fingers, his toes!'

‘Hush. You are scaring your maid. You must be strong. Jean Petit will feel your fear when he drinks. Be thankful he, at least, is content.'

In a desperate move Cécile scooped her son from the bed and, pressing her nose against his tiny head, breathed deeply.

Margot opened her mouth to protest for the babe had only just fallen asleep, but she swallowed her words. They all took their comfort or drew strength in different ways. She hunted down a goblet and poured a cup of wine for herself, her hand trembling. If her own son had lived, he'd be just slightly older than Jean Petit. How would she have felt? She had witnessed the cart of which Cécile spoke, and Margot knew what her sister-by-marriage had really seen. Next to the man with the black tongue lay a tiny, lifeless baby, covered in purple pustules. Another clang sounded further down the street and Margot shuddered. Cécile was right. They were running out of time.