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

casement and stared out into the gloom. ‘Yes, you should. The water was freezing.’ Once more I felt his underlying displeasure. ‘If you are unable to sleep,’ he said, turning suddenly, ‘I have your sister’s latest correspondence within my room. Would you have me fetch it?’ At my nod he moved to the door but paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘The bravest of men would not have dared cross the swirling torrent that night. You showed great courage, Mademoiselle.’
    He disappeared into the corridor. I had paid quite a price to earn some praise from the St Pol Steward, but at what cost to my future?
    Closing my eyes for a moment, the alarming visions that had disturbed my sleep danced into order and played out before me as in a well-rehearsed performance.

    At the Thorn and Thistle Inn I had stood in front of Edward’s chamber and prayed to Saint Christopher for the safe delivery of my letters in the courier’s pouch. Bellegarde had thundered from the courtyard on his great beast an hour earlier. I wondered which saint would now best serve me – Saint Geneviève was not answering. Saint Anthony, then? The patron saint of things lost? How appropriate it should be the feast day of Saint George. I was about to be devoured by an English dragon. Perhaps Ignatius of Antioch, thrown into the Colosseum for the sake of imperial games, would appreciate my situation.
    Resigned to my fate, I lifted the latch and stepped into the lion’s arena that would see the loss of my innocence.

    Scooped up into royal arms and laid reverently upon Edward’s bed, my petals were carefully plucked one by one. He stirred a delight that I had long waited to discover and it was not in me to play the tortured martyr. Encouraged, Edward was zealous until he realised the truth behind his less than easy possession. His eyes widened in disbelief, tears welling in mine as I stifled a whimper of pain. He stilled for a moment and gathered me in his arms.
    â€˜Cécile!’ His lips upon my lashes smudged the pearled droplets. ‘I shall be as gentle as I can, my love.’ With tender patience he swept me along a new tide of emotion until the heat from his victory seared my womb.
    â€˜Why did you not say?’ Wrapped in his gown, Edward sank onto the bed and held out a goblet of wine.
    â€˜Would it have made a difference, Milord?’
    â€˜To your presence here? No, but Lady, there are ways to approach the first time and you allowed me to believe they were not necessary. I thought you and Bellegarde had been intimate.’ He broke into cheerful laughter and kissed my fingers. ‘It matters not. You have made me very happy and I shall treasure your gift. Although, as vanquisher of your maidenhead, I suddenly find myself in a very tenuous position with regard to Comte d’Armagnac.’
    I was struck with a sudden pang of guilt, for I had just lain with my father’s enemy and the experience had not been entirely unpleasant.
    â€˜So, Cécile d’Armagnac, what am I to do with you now? Hmm?’
    â€˜Let me go home, Sire?’
    â€˜Sweet Jesus! You are asking me to pull the sword from Arthur’s stone. No, I will find a way to placate your father.’ He paced to the hearth, rubbing his chin in thought. ‘Marriage then, to a family Armagnac himself could not censure.’ His head lifted and for the first time I felt the strength of purpose he carried and it frightened me. This was no fledgling youth of sixteen years who had led the attack onto the fields at Crécy. He was twice the age now and steeped in confidence.
    â€˜An Albret-Armagnac alliance would serve me well and since your father has raised one of their pups, he could hardly refuse.’ He returned to sit beside me, his voice gentle. ‘Or perhaps an elderly lord, the payment of whose debts would ensure his obedience. Either way you need not fear. The marriage will be in name only.