The Order of the Lily by Catherine A. Wilson Page B

it, Gwynedd bared her nails and hissed. Ruby lashed out and Cécile was flung against the stall.
    â€˜Cécile!’ Gillet ran down the aisle to throw open the gate as Gwynedd disappeared into the shadows. ‘Whoa girl, whoa.’ He caught Ruby’s mane and, running his hand along her neck, soothed the skittish mare. ‘Jesu,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You know better than to stand behind a horse! Are you hurt?’ He helped Cécile to her feet. ‘You are trembling.’
    â€˜Gillet, Ruby has never, ever lifted a hoof to me before.’
    â€˜Well, maybe she was stung by something – a gadfly perhaps.’
    â€˜Or a witch’s curse,’ mumbled Cécile, dusting off her skirt.
    â€˜You are as pale as whitewash!’ Gillet took the brush from Cécile and gave it to Llewellyn. ‘Have Trefor finish the grooming.’
    â€˜As ye wish, Sire.’
    Gillet took Cécile’s arm and assisted her from the stable. Once outside, where the light was better, he lifted her hem to inspect her leg. Her stocking was torn and blood from the wound trickled to her ankle. He scowled and lifted Cécile into his arms. ‘Lady, can I not let you out of my sight for even a minute? You are a disaster on two legs! What were you thinking? Suppose Ruby had kicked higher – that is no miller’s son you carry!’
    Embarrassed and hurt by his scolding, Cécile struggled with tears as she slipped her arms around his neck. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Gillet.’ A cold shiver made her look back and she saw Gwynedd watching them from the shadows. The girl smiled triumphantly.
    â€˜No, it never is,’ snapped Gillet as he strode towards the manor. ‘But I, at least, can prevent it from happening again. For the safety of this child I think you should refrain from entering the stables until after your confinement.’
    â€˜No!’ cried Cécile. ‘Ruby would never deliberately hurt me. Something scared her.’
    â€˜Exactly! One can never predict such moments, so I forbid you to take the chance. Griffith shall groom Ruby and I will hear no more upon the subject. It is high time you took responsibility for the seed you carry!’
    Stung by his vehemence, Cécile glimpsed once more over her shoulder. Gwynedd had gone. ‘You said the Welsh are very superstitious. Do they practise charms and incantations?’ They had reached the rear door of the manor and Gillet set her down gently.
    â€˜Wiccan? Now you are beginning to sound like the villagers. Llewellyn’s daughter disappears into the forest from time to time but she simply collects herbs and berries for healing. This is a small town, Cécile. Do not be lured into the gossips’ tales.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you that Llewellyn’s oldest son, Griffith, can work magic with horses but that doesn’t mean he is a necromancer. Now go, attend this wound and do not forget, I forbid you to enter the stables.’
    Cécile limped through the arched portal. She paused to watch Gillet striding back to the horses. She suddenly felt very cold, or was it her imagination? Gillet was planning extensions, work that would require his daily attendance. And she had just learned that Llewellyn’s daughter also worked in the stables, a girl definitely besotted. And from where had she just been excluded? Was it coincidence, clever manipulation or ancient Welsh sorcery?

    Over the next few days, Cécile felt her fear turn to foolishness as Gillet’s attentions became fixed upon repairing the estate’s mill. He rode out daily, returning late in the evening, content that his efforts would see the huge stone wheel grind flour before winter. The serfs were jubilant.
    With Margot still recovering, Cécile was left to her own devices and, exploring the manor, she chanced upon a room hiding a trestle table and old patterns. Though sewing was hardly her forté,