The Gilded Crown (36 page)

‘No, nor will I again until my head rests upon an English pillow.'

Simon laughed. ‘If only it were that easy.'

A stable was positioned behind a row of trees at the rear of the old building and a troop of kilted soldiers stood, mingling beside a covered wagon. Simon untied his destrier and led it into the sunlight where he addressed an older gentleman, his grey beard stretching down to the middle of his chest. ‘Thank you for providing safe accommodation for our horses.'

‘You're welcome, laddie. ‘'Tis good to see you,' the Scotsman drawled. Lifting his gnarled walking stick, he pointed it in Catherine's direction ‘And who is that fair thing? Surely not your wife?'

‘Catherine, this is Sir Symon Locard. He has offered to conceal our small party at Craiglocard Keep, at least for the time being.'

‘Thank you, Lord Locard, we are in much need of reliable friends,' Lady Dunbar added as she took his proffered arm.

Catherine rubbed the small of her back. ‘It will not be long before I am no longer able to travel at a moment's notice.'

‘I think you will be much happier once we return to Cambridge,' Girda surmised.

‘Most certainly.' Catherine grinned as she caught sight of Roderick. He had retreated to the barn to change, but now stumbled into the courtyard struggling as the gown stuck firm over his head.

‘Wexford, it is not necessary for your maids to discard their clothing!' Locard disapprovingly announced.

Giggling like a young girl, Lady Dunbar whispered the circumstance to Lord Locard, who covered his mouth and coughed in an attempt to disguise his mirth.

‘For the love of God, can you not help me, brother? My braies are untied and are about to find their way to my ankles!' Roderick bounced back against the carriage, the offending garment wrapped around his body.

Simon unsheathed his dagger and slid the blade through the material, releasing Roderick's arms.

‘Next time you wear the dress,' Roderick joked as he tossed the ruined cloth at Simon.

Margot d'Albret tiptoed to the straw-filled box, the sleeping baby in her arms. Unable to resist one last token of affection she kissed his petal-soft forehead.

Jean Petit scrunched his face in reply and, grunting, began to squirm.

Cursing her lack of self-control, Margot placed the infant in his bed before he woke completely. He was such a fractious child; the merest disturbance could set him off. She should have known better than to press her luck and she watched anxiously as his eyelids fluttered, then settled once more into sleep. Margot exhaled slowly as she gazed at her charge, her heart filled to overflowing. She had never known such complete happiness. If – God forbid – Cécile did not return … Margot crossed herself quickly. God punished uncharitable thoughts! But – she paused to consider it more carefully – if such circumstances were to arise, she would gladly take upon the mantle of motherhood.

Over the last week she'd dropped subtle hints that it was time they departed Le Goulet but Gabriel would hear none of it. Since
La Peste
had seen fit to ignore the hamlet, he stood firm in his decision to wait until the gates of Vernon reopened. Margot pulled the cover over the child, still smiling with adoration. Perhaps God had sent her this baby to replace the one she'd lost. She caught her breath. Maybe,
just maybe
, this had been His plan all along and she would receive special sanction to look after the Prince's son, and in doing so, collect a healthy pension.

Margot fell back onto the bed and fanned herself with a nearby parchment, ashamed at the twisted path her thoughts had taken.

Minette glanced up from her needlework. ‘Milady? Are you not well?' The loyal maid was making a gown for Jean Petit – cream and blue, edged with green embroidery.

‘I am well, Minette, thank you,' wheezed Margot. ‘No need for your concern.' All the same, Margot sat a moment longer, the better to still her racing heart … and her head.

Gabriel, Margot, Minette and Jean Petit had settled to their existence in Le Goulet in a tiny abandoned cottage with the permission of the hamlet's council. The house belonged to the son of a thatcher but after his father's death, the young man had bolted to Paris with dreams of finding greatness at court and left the dwelling to rot. Gabriel offered his services to the hamlet's governing board by way of payment for his keep and that of his “two sisters” during their temporary stay. He had not mentioned the baby. Some days Gabriel collected rents for the council, other days he dug latrine trenches. He was also given license to hunt in the nearby forest and, for a fee, could sell the meat and fur to pay for their food.

So when a young couple arrived late on the afternoon of Corpus Christi, asking for the giant blonde-haired knight they were directed accordingly.

‘The thatcher's cottage,' informed Theirn le Bois whose sister daily left a bucket of milk in the dwelling's tiny barn before dawn. He pointed down the mossy laneway. ‘You can't miss it.' The two horses headed toward their destination.

Margot peeked into the makeshift cradle but Jean Petit was fast asleep. Her thoughts strayed to the boning-out of the rabbit for the evening stew when she heard Minette's gasp and looked up to find a couple standing at the front door of their cottage. Without invitation they stepped inside, the woman's eyes darting over the interior with reptilian alertness. It was a wonder her tongue didn't flick.

‘May I help you?' asked Margot, thinking they were from the hamlet's council.

The man bowed in greeting. ‘My good and righteous Lady, we are sent from Vernon, by the Lady d'Albret, to collect her child.'

Both Margot and Minette started, the latter dropping her embroidery and rising to her feet as she exclaimed. ‘Milady is well? And Monsieur Armand?'

‘Indeed,' answered the young squire, ‘both well, else I would not be here now asking for the child.' As he spoke, the woman moved towards the box, her face lighting up as she spied the contents.

Deftly Margot blocked her path. ‘Then why does the Lady Cécile not come herself?'

‘She,' the man's gaze flew to his companion, ‘is a little tied up.' He giggled and his sister glowered at him.

‘She is busy.'

‘Too busy to collect her own son? What is she doing?' demanded Margot, her hands perched at her hips with authority. She squinted at the woman – fair-skinned, green-eyed, slender build with long, dark hair. ‘I never saw you in Vernon.'

‘Madame, there were many you did not see in Vernon and you were lucky to do so. I should have escaped with you that day. My name is Adèle, friend to Reynaud, the blacksmith.'

‘Oh. Then you are the woman who was trapped in the city after us?'

The stranger sidled closer. ‘Vernon's gates have reopened. We are here to collect the child.' She held out her arms expectantly.

Margot's stomach rolled. The act of giving up the baby had come far sooner than she imagined and she was shocked to find she was not ready to do so. She had expected a co-habitation with Cécile, more time to share the child, but this ‘handing over' was not what she wanted. Grasping for reasons to hang on she scowled as suspicious thoughts gathered like a flock of frightened sheep before a storm. ‘Why has Cécile not come herself? And why does she want the child to return to where the plague has rifled among the living?'

The girl's expression darkened and turned sullen. ‘I cannot tell you what brings Lady d'Albret to such an arrangement, only that we are sent to collect him.' She nodded to the improvised cradle where Jean Petit had begun to stir.

Minette joined Margot, adding herself as a buffer between the visitors and the child. ‘Do not trust them, Madame. These folk are not sent by Milady.'

Margot shot Minette a sideways glance. ‘How do you know?'

‘Because since her marriage Milord instructed Milady to always call herself “Lady de Bellegarde”, and twice now they have referred to her as “Lady d'Albret”.' Minette tossed her head at them. ‘How do they even know she is Albret?'

Margot realised the astuteness of Minette's reasoning. She straightened her back with the haughtiness of aristocracy. ‘How do you know Cécile?'

‘I see you need convincing. Brother, go get your sword.'

Robiérre's answering grin sent chills down Margot's spine. His sister stepped closer, her voice low and venomous. ‘I am Anaïs d'Arques and I am the
true
wife of Gillet de Bellegarde or Ghillebert d'Albret, by whatever name he wishes to be known in France.'

Both women guarding the cradle gasped. Margot searched for something she could use as a weapon. She spread out her arms in a protective manner. ‘You will not take this child. He is … he is …'

Anaïs cocked her head and sneered. ‘The son of a prince, I know. And he will do nicely to trade with that bitch's sister in Scotland for
my son
.' A fleck of spittle landed on Margot's cheek. ‘The child Gillet and I created together! Did those Holland whores think I would not find out?' She paused to lick her lips, her breath coming in short pants. ‘And when I have my son, I shall claim my rightful place beside
my
husband.'

‘But the baby is not Milord's,' burst out Minette.

Anaïs rounded on the maid, her eyes flashing dangerously. With her lips drawn back, she leaped on Minette, her teeth and nails bared.

Minette screamed as they fell, entangled, and Anaïs, grabbing a fistful of the maid's hair, drove the girl's head hard against the stone wall. Minette slumped. Anaïs was quick to her feet and, whipping out a knife from the folds at her belt, glared demonically at Margot. She crouched like a wolf about to spring.

Gabriel appeared at the door and stamped off his boots. ‘I'm home, Margot. Good Lord!' His glance took in Minette sprawled unconscious upon the floor and a strange woman with a blade flashing in her hands.

From her position near the cradle, Margot turned a frightened gaze towards Gabriel, her sudden look of horror the only warning he had. It was too late. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground in a dull thud. Robiérre stood behind him, leering like a festival fool. He twirled his sword pommel to sit once more in his palm.

Margot rushed at Anaïs, her fingers spread to gouge her attacker's face but with a mad woman's strength, Anaïs captured Margot's arm and twisted it behind her back. Anaïs held her knife against Margot's throat.

Robiérre watched, fascinated, his own face illuminated. ‘Go on!' he urged, his eyes glowing. ‘Do it! Do it! She'll never let you take the baby. As soon as we ride from here, she'll scream the hamlet down. '

Anaïs' gaze locked with her brother's and she saw his eagerness. Without a second thought, she pulled the knife across and felt it bite into the soft flesh. She heard the blood rush, first to ooze though the opening as air was sucked in, then to pour, sticky and hot, over her fingers. There was a grotesque gurgling sound but she held on tight as the woman in her arms jerked until it slowly became a dead weight. The body slid to the floor.

Anaïs d'Arques dropped the knife and with the manner of a waking sleepwalker, wiped her hands on a nearby blanket. She shuddered, the glazed look clearing, then she tiptoed to the box of straw and lifted out the tiny, cocooned bundle.

Cécile urged her mare to go faster. Beside her, on Panache, Armand was scowling as they galloped. On his far side rode Reynaud, the large blacksmith's solid presence a welcome addition. And following them, such as could be spared from the Duc de Berri's retinue, were two soldiers, swords at the ready.

‘There!' Armand shouted above the noise of beating hooves. ‘Le Goulet.'

The sleepy hamlet lay nestled in a grove of trees, a shroud of night mist hovering over the nearby river. With one accord, they pressed the horses harder.

‘How do we find them?' shouted Cécile.

‘Knock on every door until someone identifies them,' answered Armand. ‘They've been resident for a month now. Somebody will know their description.'