The Gilded Crown (30 page)

Cécile crouched low against the cold stone of her cell, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wrapped her arms around her legs and slowly rocked, shivering as the cool breeze taunted her hacked scalp. The short, stumpy clumps bore little resemblance to the fine golden mane she had possessed. Why had God forsaken her in such a manner?

She closed her eyes and tried to recite her rosary, keeping a mental picture of her fingers moving over the beads. But her mind began to race and, freed from the captivity of prayer, it ran with total disregard down the path of her childhood. She remembered the scoldings from her maman, time and again, when she'd failed in her tasks: embroidery, needlework in general, her flippant attempts to learn the lessons of running a household, being a submissive wife, counting linens and re-stocking a pantry. She'd thought it all a waste and she'd been right. But how, in this moment, she would have loved to be wrong.

Cécile glanced around the small cave cell. Carved out of the earth's bowels, the rancid odour fouled the air and clung with spite to the defecated rock. Housed beneath the far end of the hospice, the same tunnels which had seen Gabriel, Minette and Margot escape with Jean Petit, now incarcerated her. She was fettered by the ankle in a stinking pit. The thought of loved ones brought a stab of pain but she fought the urge to give in.

‘Strength, Cécile,' she muttered to herself. ‘You were raised Armagnac.' She lifted her chin and relaxed her shoulders. ‘And Armagnacs do not fear.'

The sound of the door being unlocked at the end of the tunnel alerted her. Slow, dragging footsteps made their way to her cell and Rinaldo, her dim-witted gaoler, appeared with a wooden bowl.

‘Food,' he barked, and slid the dish toward her with his long stick. The dish caught on the uneven surface and tipped. The gruel sloshed over the rock floor.

‘You fool!' exploded Cécile. ‘Look what you've done. Get me another.'

Rinaldo cocked his head and smiled leisurely. ‘Lick it up.' He took his stick and poked her. ‘Lick it up, kitty-cat or you can go hungry.' The pair glared at each other. ‘Suit yourself,' he drawled, ‘but I ain't bringing no more. Starve for all I care.'

Cécile's stomach grumbled and she looked at the stodgy mess pooling on the stone. She crawled across and crouched low until her lips reached the porridge. The aroma caught in her nostrils made her mouth water. She was so hungry.

‘Meee–oooow.' On the other side of the bars, Rinaldo squatted in front of her. ‘Meee–ooow.' He laughed raucously. ‘There's a good kitty.'

The following day Rinaldo poked her bowl through and as Cécile crept to the dish, he hooked his stick under her chemise and flicked it over her back. She gave an indignant shriek but the brief view of her fleshy, fair-skinned derrière had Rinaldo round-eyed. He swallowed uneasily. ‘Tomorrow you show me more,' he warned. His eyes glittered. ‘I want to see what a witch's hole looks like.'

Cécile grabbed her bowl and shifted back against the rocks. ‘I'd rather starve,' she snarled.

Rinaldo shrugged his simpleton shoulders. ‘Then you shall.'

For the next three days, Cécile had nothing to eat. The first day she stoically refused to acknowledge Rinaldo's presence – and his demand. Disappointed, he took her dish away. The second day Cécile's stomach protested at her stubbornness. She fought a blistering headache but she held on. By the third, she was seeing stars in front of her eyes and a low buzzing filled her ears. She knew Rinaldo meant to keep his word. He would let her starve. With no contact from the outside world, she had no idea how long they intended to keep her in the cell. Counting her keeper's visit as once a day, a week must have already passed. She knew if she was to have any chance at survival, she had to eat.

With an acute sense of timing that almost convinced Cécile she bore the sorcerous ability for which she was accused, she heard the creature of her thoughts coming down the tunnel. He held out a dish enticingly. A piece of meat and a collection of vegetables had Cécile salivating. She had not seen such fare for weeks.

‘Provisions for the town finally arrived,' announced Rinaldo. He stretched his arm further so that the aroma caught her.

Cécile's mouth watered.

‘Lift your dress for Rinaldo.'

Cécile stared at him, then back at the food.

‘I said lift your dress.' He swayed the bowl in front of her. ‘No food until you give Rinaldo his fun.'

Cécile swallowed heavily. ‘No.'

Rinaldo turned and walked away.

‘No! Wait!'

He stopped and turned.

Cécile rolled her skirt over her calf.

Rinaldo returned to his position and sneered. ‘You'll have to do better than that, much better.' He held up the dish and put his nose to the edge, inhaling. ‘Hmmm.'

Cécile felt almost faint she was so famished. Gripping the hem of her gown, her knuckles white, she slowly raised it.

‘More.'

‘God have mercy,' she croaked.

‘
More
.'

Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew her chemise up over her knees.

‘Open your legs.' Rinaldo stared his fill. ‘Wider.' The seconds ticked by. ‘Well, look at that,' he said, slowly sliding the dish towards her with his stick. ‘A witch's hole looks exactly like a whore's!'

Dropping her skirt with a sob, Cécile pawed her way to the food. Her tormentor was still watching. Ravenous, she fell upon the bowl and stuffed the meat into her mouth. Oh, God! The sweetness! She felt a soft point of contact below her shoulder and a warm, liquid splash against her cheek; a jet of urine arched, then changed direction to fill the dish. Cécile fell back with a cry and watched, helpless, as Rinaldo pissed onto her food.

‘That meal was more than you deserved, bitch,' he said, adjusting his linens. ‘Next time you'll do what I say.' He retreated, his cruel laugher following him down the tunnel.

Cécile gaped at the vegetables floating in a yellow puddle, then collapsed to the floor and wept without restraint. When the weeping finished, she dragged herself to her corner and curling up, stared ahead, not blinking, her eyes vacuous.

‘Merciful God! How much longer must we wait? It's been days since they called an end to the plague.' Armand thumped his fist to the table, making its pottery occupants jump. ‘She must be half-crazed with fear by now.'

Reynaud pressed his hand to Armand's shoulder. ‘Easy, friend. At least we managed to get some food smuggled into her. The guard promised its delivery.'

‘And how long since any of them saw a freshly baked loaf? I'll warrant most of the basket doesn't make it to her. She'll need her strength if we are to succeed.'

Reynaud glanced at his companion, murmuring, ‘We'll need more than that. We'll need a bloody miracle.' He looked through the cottage window to where a handful of men were working to construct a pyre in the village square.

Armand's plan was simple – maybe too simple, but what choice did they have? The hospice was well-guarded and the distance the prisoner would walk to the stake was minimal, making any kind of rescue en route impossible. Their only hope lie in distraction at precisely the right moment.

‘Are you sure of the time?'

‘Yes,' responded Reynaud. ‘Tomorrow is
Corpus Christi
and Father Jacques plans to lead his procession through the streets until he reaches the town centre at midday. Then he will offer blood and body on his fire in honour of the feast of the Holy Eucharist.'

‘Hasn't he burned enough flesh of late?' Armand turned away, unable to stomach looking at the pyre any longer. Their plan had to work. It simply could not afford to fail. ‘Do Adèle and her brother know their parts?'

‘Yes.' Reynaud kept his patience for he understood his friend's anxiety. ‘They will appear in the crowd as a married couple, determined to offer thanks for their deliverance from the plague. Just as they begin to light the fire, Adèle will create a distraction, beginning with an ear-piercing scream. That's the signal for me to send a burning cart down the hill towards them and create more confusion.'

‘Right,' agreed Armand. ‘Please convey my thanks to Adèle and her brother. I doubt we could do this without them.'

‘Humph!' snorted Reynaud. ‘Convey it yourself when we are done. As for me, since Adèle found her sibling, she has avoided my company.'

Armand slapped Reynaud's shoulder. ‘Then, this too, we shall rectify. I promise. So,' he continued reciting his quest, ‘when the mob is distracted, I will climb the back of the woodpile and cut Cécile free. The horses will be in position and we shall have only minutes to make our escape. You will meet me at the top of the hill and after the dust has settled, Adèle and her brother will slip away and join us in Le Goulet. You are sure the town gates have been reopened?'

‘Yes.'

He stopped pacing and stared earnestly at Reynaud. ‘Have I forgotten anything, anything at all? Because this
has
to work.'

Gillet and Griffith held their horses in check and watched from the cover of thick bushes as the barge on the Gironde estuary was unloaded. The golden lions of England blazed the presence of an emissary but neither man witnessed the Black Prince stepping ashore.

‘It would seem Edward did not come,' mumbled Gillet.

Griffith shaded his eyes and looked over the landscape, the fresh greens and golds of an early summer saturating the countryside. He stared at the stone fortification on the next rise.

‘Blanquefort,' offered Gillet. ‘One of King Edward's residences, probably gifted to his son for his move to Aquitaine.' He pointed to the opposite shoreline, across the large estuary where the flow and ebb of the Gironde merged with the sea. ‘Lormont is situated just beyond that stretch. The prince's sister was en route to Castile for marriage when she broke her journey there at her father's castle. It was during the last outbreak of plague and she had not the foresight to move out of its path. It took her, along with all her retainers and, in order to curtail the spread, the mayor ordered the castle burned with all the bodies still inside. I had not long been in the service of Richard FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel, when it happened and the King's anger was immeasurable.' Both men crossed themselves. ‘Plague makes no distinction between rich and poor, English or French, father or son.'

Griffith turned back to stare at the white castle on their bank. ‘Will your cousin come to Blanquefort?'

‘Probably, but I'm guessing Chandos will accept the oaths of fealty at the Bishop's palace.'

‘Chandos?'

Gillet's lips twitched in memory. ‘Sir John Chandos, one of Edward's knights. He is here as Edward's hand.' His weary sigh carried on the sultry air. ‘You know just because men fight on opposing sides does not necessarily make them bad.'

Somewhere in the distance a church bell chimed. It was a reminder of other obligations and Gillet nudged Inferno into motion. ‘Come, we ride back to Bordeaux for the noon service. 'Twould not do to miss the feast of
Corpus Christi
.'

? ?

The crowd gathered for the Mass, piling into the cathedral of St André, its western side situated hard up against the city wall. One man halted in his steps to stare up at the magnificent rose window, reputedly the most beautiful in France. Unimpressed, his attention was easily diverted to a young lad pulling at his doublet. He held out a grubby hand.

‘Alms for the poor on Corpus Crispy,' he lisped.

‘Out of my way!' Salisbury pushed the youth aside and marched under the sculptured portal to enter the cathedral. He wanted to be near the front. For some reason the sermon on the holy Eucharist always thrilled him. Maybe it was hearing about the body and the blood of Christ or today perhaps it was the anticipation of the boy awaiting him in his room. The Earl's hairy brows arched. Perhaps he should have given closer inspection to the beggar child outside. Peasant children were always expendable and a threesome would not have been unwelcome. Salisbury almost hardened in God's sanctuary.