Three
The turret room of Calais Castle was inordinately opulent. The carved coffer and canopied bed with its dark crimson curtains bespoke royalty.
Catherine had not intended to sleep, so had lain upon the richly embroidered coverlet dressed in Cecile’s travelling cloak. However, fatigue had eventually conquered fear until the call of a nearby sentry woke her. Now she lay terrified, expecting the Prince to arrive at any moment to claim her. Perhaps this was the manner in which the condemned spent their last hours as they awaited the executioner, she pondered, her fingers tightening around her rosary.
After disembarking back in France Catherine watched helplessly as Gillet was roughly tossed onto a litter and carried away. She had been escorted through the large gate of Calais Castle by two soldiers, the full weight of her rash decision settling upon her like a heavy shroud. How was she to going to convince anyone that she was Cécile? How long would she have to endure the attentions of the Prince? It had been folly and madness to take her sister’s place but, Catherine knew if she were to do it over, she would make the same choice.
She expected her arrival to be immediately announced to the Prince, but was instead paraded through the great hall and led towards the turret staircase. She lowered her eyes from the many stares and ignored the hushed whispers. Catherine mounted the steps and found herself directed to the royal heir’s chamber. She tried in vain to steady her breathing as the guards outside the heavy wooden door stepped aside, the sound of the heavy bolt dismissing any hope of a possible escape.
Catherine sank down upon the bed. She had to think quickly. She threw back the cover and removed the smallest bolster, then unwound the cloak that had so far successfully hidden the shape of her body. She lifted her skirt and the seams of her chemise protested as she forced the pillow under. The tight fit kept it secure and by arranging the surcote and cloak to the front, her pregnancy appeared reasonably convincing.
She laid back, closed her eyes and sought to conjure an image of her rescuer, Simon, but the strawberry-blonde hair of her guardian deepened into the russet tones of England’s heir. She had been told of his wicked temper and feared it would not be long before she would witness it for herself.
Heavy footfalls on the landing shook Catherine from her reverie. She sat up quickly and slid her stockinged feet into her boots as the door flew open.
William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and right hand to the Prince of Wales, stepped into the room. ‘We meet at last, Lady d’Armagnac. I have been looking forward to this moment for some time. I have been directed to escort you to the Prince.’
At the sight of the man she first met at Denny Abbey, Catherine fought off the terror that threatened to choke her.
Salisbury offered his arm and smiled with feigned gallantry. His gaze travelled over her and settled on the protrusion of her forthcoming child.
Catherine grasped his wrist. She immediately regretted the action as he winced in pain. She had forgotten the injury he had sustained under Simon’s blade.
‘Pay no heed, my Lady, it is naught but a scratch inflicted by a flea-bitten dog,’ he explained as he slid her grip to his fingers. ‘It would be beneficial, I believe, for both you and I to be … friends.’
Catherine stiffened at the suggestion but Salisbury did not appear to notice as he directed her towards the stairs.
‘As you would well know, a royal court is an intriguing place and England’s is no different. There are those who have the ear of the prince and those who wish they had. Many will pay homage, Lady d’Armagnac, in the belief that you hold sway over your lover.’
Catherine paused on the landing. The noise of the revelry below heightened her growing distress
