Free The Lily and the Lion by Catherine A. Wilson, Catherine T Wilson Page A

‘Ah yes, there are the Princes to assuage. But, Lady, just as you consider yourself a subject of the Dauphin, your sister is one of mine.’
    I blinked up at him, slow to understand. His smile, which I had at first thought perfect, now appeared dangerous as his knuckles lightly brushed against my cheek.
    â€˜I could have her located and brought to my bed in place of that which I have missed.’
    My heart raced in panic.
    â€˜And my courier,’ Edward mockingly shrugged, ‘he must be punished for his interference.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t dare!’
    Edward cocked his eyebrow. ‘Oh, but I would. You must have heard the stories about me. The French revel in them. I’m a brute with no thought of consequence, a havoc-wreaker, laying waste to the countryside and its maidens, taking what I want. Who am I to prove the stories false? Would you know your countrymen for liars?’
    I went cold as his tone became more threatening, his fingers dangling around my throat.
    â€˜And I have heard the Parisian executioner has a fine hand for fair faces and the Constable, Monsieur Lunoir, will be only too glad to receive word of my courier.’ He tilted my chin, his eyes glittering. ‘Or you could save everyone a considerable amount of trouble and become my mistress.’
    If I thought our executioner could teach Monsieur de Bellegarde some manners, I would hire the delivery conveyance myself, but in truth not many leave that butcher’s attendance alive and I will not suffer that upon my conscience. Neither can I let you, one of God’s own, be taken in my stead. This mischief is of my making and so I must accept the consequences. My deepest regret is the shame I bring upon my Papa, for my future is now compromised. He always told me the purity that a woman brings to her marriage is the sweetest of God’s gifts. No husband of mine will ever know such a blessing. And what man will want such royally soiled goods?
    With the completion of this letter, I shall write to my Papa and beg his forgiveness and understanding. Odette will see both consignments slid beneath the courier’s door this evening. Then the Prince of Wales will be informed of my decision. When an opportunity presents itself, I shall escape.
    If my innocence must be taken, then I have some small satisfaction in knowing it will not be entirely in vain. Monsieur de Bellegarde will have time to escape this vile threat and you, Catherine, will be safe from harm. Therein lay my punishment, for I risk losing contact with you, and for the first time I realise just how much I shall miss it.
    God keep you safe, Mary Catherine, with His love and mine. I shall pray that we may meet again some day. I raise my cup in salute to the irony of it all. In accepting my fate, tonight I shall become the whore that Monsieur de Bellegarde already believed me to be.
    Written by Cécile d’Armagnac, Thorn and Thistle Inn , Paris, Feast of Saint George, 23 April 10 Jean II.

    Damn the Prince. Gillet de Bellegarde angrily thrust his foot into his boot. He filled his goblet and drained it. This was not the first time but by God’s Holy Rood it would be the last! He picked up his goose-feather quill and stroked the plume, his eyes glazing. Memories stirred of auburn-red hair, aquamarine eyes, widening innocently as he’d lowered her to the hay. A tiny feather, shed by the resident birds, had caught amongst her curls and fluttered in dance with his breath upon her cheek. Her laughter had delighted him, but she’d tensed like a doe about to take flight. He’d promised patience. She promised nothing. He’d almost allowed himself to lose his heart. Then Edward of Woodstock had stolen her kisses and her maidenhead. Gillet uncurled his fist to reveal the crushed fledge that was his pen.
    Relinquishing that perfumed beauty to Edward had not ended their friendship. Nor had her successors. Another affair had, a thorn driven so deeply