The Lily and the Lion by Catherine A. Wilson, Catherine T Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

sister.’
    I nodded, keeping my eyes upon Gillet, for the accompanying stranger leaning against the mantel was all but concealed beneath a dark cloak, though it failed to hide his ill humour.
    â€˜Simon has been my friend for many years and will guard you as I would.’
    I glanced at the tall gentleman who seemed somewhat disinterested, his stare fixed upon the empty hearth.
    â€˜Catherine, this is important. I expect you to follow his directions. Do you understand?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I whispered.
    â€˜Good, done then,’ Gillet addressed Lord Wexford.
    â€˜Done,’ the stranger replied, turning his gaze upon me.
    I was instantly struck by the intensity of his stare. His eyes, though grey, shimmered in the dim light like stars against the night sky. Older than Gillet, his face was wise rather than weathered. He did not smile. His lips pursed yet there seemed a hint of amusement, perhaps annoyance, I cannot say. Struck by a deep sense of vulnerability I turned away, fearing that he had the power to peer within me, to search my soul, and I involuntarily drew a sharp breath.
    â€˜I intend to ride out on the morrow. Can you have a letter ready for Cécile?’
    So I finish here, my sister. I pray for your safe keeping and beg you to take care. Now that I have found you, I could not bear to lose you.
    I do not know what to say to you of my new protector. He is certainly the biggest man I have ever seen and his girth is also reasonably expansive. He is to be housed in the room next to the one I share with Anaïs. So I am a caged animal, a lamb, sleeping in a den full of lions. I pray the Lord will deliver me.
    By your good grace, Sister Mary Catherine.
    Written from the King’s Arms, village of Aylesbury, Feast of Pope Saint Julius, 12 April 34 Edward III.

    Simon Marshall leaned on the mantel and tried not to stare at the girl. In truth, he was exhausted. The ride from the city had been far more strenuous than he remembered. Since settling in London he had spent most of his time at court, sampling exotic wines and playing sedentary games. He’d initially enjoyed the attention, flirting with politics and several attractive widows. But it had worn him down, the gossip, the innuendo, and eventually he shunned the establishment, bored and disheartened. Overweight and unable to find pleasure in life’s luxuries he had resorted to keeping his own company, ending most nights sprawled across the day bed, an empty tankard in his hand. Without purpose there was no direction, and each day followed on from the last, fatigue as debilitating as the boredom that had become his life.
    He longed for change. But when Gillet de Bellegarde had knocked at his door, had he jumped without looking? Not that he could refuse the lad, but the novice was no more than a half-starved waif, dressed in nothing but rags and as timid as a church mouse. Good Lord! What had he been thinking?

To the righteous and reverend Sister Mary Catherine be this letter delivered.
    Dark days have been upon us. Like a young sapling bent double by the winds of destruction, Paris has withstood the storm of Edward III’s fury, and although her leaves are shredded, her roots remain steadfast. Their attack was fixed upon the far side near Porte de Buci, but unable to sack the rampart that is protected by two crenelated towers, they burned and pilfered the outlying districts.
    I am told that King Edward, frustrated at his failure to penetrate the walls, departed for Chartres but on Monday the thirteenth an immense storm bore down upon the English troops and hail the size of walnuts fell from an angry sky. They trudged across the open plain, battling fierce gales and unseasonal sleet, the towers of the great cathedral within their sight. One after another, the baggage wains tumbled in the muddy ruts, spilling precious supplies. The dispirited soldiers lost all heart. Yielding to the heavens as God’s decree, the King called a truce