Salisbury managed to secure lodgings close to the centre of the city and, on numerous occasions, identified several of the French soldiers accompanying his nemesis. Yet he stayed his hand and instead indulged his senses with fine wine, cheap women and willing boys, all the while considering his options.

The most effective method would be to simply slit Catherine’s throat and cast her body at the feet of his royal patron but, though that would please Joan, it would not provide him with the best outcome. Edward was more likely to hand over larger quantities of gold for a living whore than a dead nun. And there was always the possibility that the Black Prince would discover their ruse. But in the ensuing days of boredom, he identified a third possibility. If he succeeded he would receive the recognition he craved and the respect he deserved. Edward and Joan would not dare interfere, not once he had the King’s gratitude bestowed upon him. He no longer required the manuscript. He could recall every detail by heart, but Catherine was a different matter. She may know more than she had let on, and locating the Lady of Scotland for the King would be worth far more than she and her sister together.

Salisbury crouched behind the bushes outside the city gates and watched as the covered cart approached. Satisfied his men were in position, he drew his sword. Now he need only bide his time.

Catherine sat atop a palfrey, procured by her husband for the ride to Calais. Simon had informed her of their imminent departure only the night before. She attempted to discover their ultimate destination, but he would not tell. She sincerely hoped that it was England.

It was midmorning by the time they crossed the Grand Pont. The streets were busy as shoppers jostled between the many stalls, piled high with seasonal fruits, smoked meats and live fowl in baskets. Catherine took a deep breath. How she longed for the wide, open spaces between the sleepy villages, where the air was sweeter, the sky clearer and the sun brighter. City life did not suit her. Lost in her own thoughts, she was oblivious to the accident on the road ahead until they were all but upon it. A cart had tipped and lost its load across the centre of the path and the poor beast pulling it had broken a leg and had been mercifully put out of its misery. She gave the creature a silent blessing as they made their way through the throng of onlookers.

Suddenly Armand grabbed her reins and pulled her mount towards his, yelling at her to make haste and ride away. English soldiers were pushing their way through the crowd towards them. A gap appeared to her right and kicking the mare’s flank she attempted to push her way through, but just as quickly it was gone as a determined soldier on horseback blocked her path. Catherine had difficulty controlling her skittish mount as an English foot-soldier grabbed her skirts. She lashed out, her boot splitting his lip. The soldier bellowed an obscenity and swung his sword. Catherine pulled hard on her reins and screamed as the man fell to the ground, Armand’s blade in his back.

Locating Simon in the mêlée she turned her horse in his direction but from the midst of the chaos, like some evil spectre from Hell, Salisbury appeared, blocking her route. Simon yelled out and, raising his sword, charged at Salisbury. Their blades clashed repeatedly as they struck out at each other. A slicing blow sent a soldier at Salisbury’s side spiralling to the ground, his body rolling beneath Simon’s mount. Salisbury’s horse reared, toppling him from the saddle but he leapt quickly to his feet and grabbed at Catherine’s ankle, dragging her to the ground, his dagger at her throat.

‘Where is she?’

‘Who?’ croaked Catherine, swallowing hard.

He forced the weapon up under her jaw. ‘You know very well who! Where is she?’

‘I will never betray my sister.’

‘I don’t care about your precious sibling,’ he spat. ‘I want the Lady of Scotland.’

‘Who?’ she protested.

Salisbury pressed the blade tighter and a bead of blood glistened. ‘Do not underestimate me!’

‘Let her go.’ Simon dismounted and thrust his sword in Salisbury’s direction.

Holding Catherine as a shield, Salisbury spun around, to reveal his knife. ‘Do not move a muscle, Wexford.’

The two men glared at one another.

‘We have company,’ Armand shouted as a regiment of the Dauphin’s soldiers rode into view.

‘What’s it to be, Salisbury? Freedom or a foreign cell?’ offered Simon. ‘Some say the truce was signed in blood and the French are still stinging.’

‘I will not go willingly,’ Catherine threatened as she struggled against him.

Salisbury’s looked to the alleyway and back to Simon before pushing Catherine to the ground and making his escape.

Simon held Gabriel and Roderick back. ‘Let him go.’ He nodded at the approaching soldiers. ‘We’d do better to follow Salisbury’s example.’ He helped Catherine to her feet as the men gathered the horses. Several alleys later they took refuge behind a large stack of barrels, the surprised cooper happy to pocket the gold coins for his silence.

It was several hours before they regrouped on the outskirts of the city. The men were still excitedly swapping accounts of the fight but Catherine, weary and depressed over her encounter with Salisbury, allowed her mare to fall back. Gabriel was leading them to his family home which was not far. Simon rode close by, observing the boyish enthusiasm in silence and Catherine smiled, warmed by his maturity and protectiveness.

The interior of the fortified keep exuded style and sophistication, from tapestries, fur rugs, the cushions and covers, to the furniture, collected over many generations. Catherine lan-guished in bed, listening to the sound of birds and enjoying the scent of lavender from the kitchen garden. She considered herself very fortunate. Other than a ruined surcote and a bruised derrière she was relatively unhurt. It could have been so much worse.

She struggled to her feet and examined her travelling outfit. It was certainly salvageable, but she would need to wash and mend it.

The washhouse was hot and stuffy, filled with steam rising from the tubs of boiling water. Catherine tossed her surcote, cloak and chemise into the vat, swirling the contents with the large wooden paddle. There were a few tasks at which she had been successful whilst at Denny Abbey. Assisting in the laundry house was one of them.

Simon appeared at the door, a small bundle of soiled attire tucked beneath his arm. ‘I have been informed that a newly acquired maid has offered to complete the laundry!’

‘I take it that you think it improper for me to wash my own clothes?’ A lock of hair had escaped her hastily constructed braid and she was forced to blow it away each time it dropped into her eyes.

‘Not at all, but I had thought you to be at rest.’

‘I cannot take to my bed all day. I am not used to such liberties. Besides, I draw contentment from completing such tasks.’

‘Well, if that be the case, I will happily contribute to your joy.’ She watched as he added his garments to the pile on the table, unrolling numerous dirty shirts, chausses and braies. ‘I’ll wring.’

He pushed up his sleeves and began squeezing the water from one of her older chemises.

‘I did not know you possessed the skill,’ she teased, fighting with the heavy load.

‘One must learn to help oneself when there is no one else to do it for you.’

Catherine was puzzled, for he was a man of wealth and surely never need undertake such things.

‘Moroccans do not wash their clothes in the same manner as we do and, as I did not want my garments thrashed over a rock, I had to take matters into my own hands.’

Her arms ached with a fury and she could feel the sweat on her brow, for the fires beneath the great cauldrons were burning in earnest, as was her curiosity. ‘Why does Salisbury pursue me?’

‘He may hope to claim a reward for your capture. Edward would pay handsomely for your return.’

‘If I were Cécile,’ she replied. ‘But he quite clearly called me Catherine.’

‘Then your deception has been uncovered.’

‘But he is not dissuaded!’

‘It would seem not. Perhaps he has decided upon financial return from one of your many prospective husbands.’

‘Then why not inform Salisbury of our marriage? Would that not rectify the situation?’

Simon dropped a wet shirt into the bucket and rounded the table to stand beside her. ‘Your argument is sound, but a little naive.’

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘It may be that he is motivated by something other than greed.’

‘Yet it is of his financial circumstance that he constantly whines …’

‘There are some things that you do not understand,’ Simon interrupted, tucking the wayward curl behind her ear.

Their eyes locked. She was spellbound by his touch and unable to look away.

‘Catherine and her ugly washing maid,’ declared Armand, his untimely entrance breaking the moment. ‘Surely you could have found a servant to complete such an arduous chore.’

‘Perhaps,’ she mumbled, colouring under his gaze.

‘Then it is a good thing that you convinced your devoted husband to assist you.’

Simon coughed a mumbled reply. She could not make out what he said, but Armand openly laughed. ‘Oh, come, old man, you are too serious!’

‘What do you want?’ inquired Simon, his exasperation obvious.

‘I have been recalled to duty and must return to Calais. I had thought this might suit your plans, for we could travel together.’

‘Please excuse me,’ Catherine said politely. ‘I imagine you have much to discuss.’

Simon bowed his head respectfully as she departed.

She stopped in the hallway and took several deep breaths. Simon had not seemed the least surprised by her revelation that Salisbury knew who she was. Nor was she satisfied by her husband’s explanation. But then she had not revealed everything, had she? She had not told Simon that Salisbury had asked about the mysterious Lady of Scotland.

Catherine flattened herself against the wall and sidled back to the open doorway, sure that both men were unaware of her presence. Armand spent several minutes discussing his soldiers before talk turned her way. ‘Have you questioned her?’ he asked Simon.

‘I have not, nor do I intend to, not yet anyway.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I doubt she knows anything,’ replied Simon.

‘What about the manuscript? Perhaps if you showed it to her?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think Salisbury will continue his pursuit?’

‘Of that I am sure. Catherine tells me that the bastard called her by name.’

‘Interesting,’ replied Armand. ‘I wonder if he has informed his master.’

‘Knowing Salisbury, I doubt it. He views each piece of information as a valuable commodity. The Prince will have to pay highly for that little gem.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Carry on as planned,’ Simon explained. ‘You make your delivery whilst I complete my commission. With any luck we shall depart sooner than originally envisaged.’

‘What do you intend to do about Salisbury?’ Armand questioned.

‘Desperate men make mistakes.’

‘And the Prince?

‘Leave Edward to me. We shall beard the lion in his own den.’

Having the opportunity to explore the grounds, Catherine discovered the true heart of France, the garden of the world. The manor had been built close to a lake, its reflection sparkling like a mosaic window in the midday sun. It appeared all the more picturesque by the timber bridge that spanned the centre. Leaning on the handrail, admiring God’s work, Catherine was surprised when Armand appeared suddenly.

‘Your presence evokes vivid memories of my childhood and adolescence,’ began Armand. ‘But I must remind myself that you are not Cécile and we share little commonality.’ His smile was wistful. ‘There are moments when I forget.’

‘You miss her?’

‘Yes, very much.’ Armand linked his arm through Catherine’s and led her back towards the house. ‘I have never denied my love for Cécile. It is more that I realise how much I took it for granted.’

‘I believe that may be the case for many of us, for such knowledge is often gained in hindsight.’

Armand smiled. ‘I know you have been told just how alike you are. But it is more than just your appearance, your smile. The dimple in your cheek, the way you narrow your eyes when you are angry.’

Catherine scowled playfully, for she was rarely cross.

‘The way you look at me now, I see Cécile and my heart is warmed. You do not often smile,’ he said. ‘Are you so very sad?’

‘I am not sad at all.’

‘Really? I just can’t imagine that Lord Pompous is much fun!’

‘That is unfair, Armand. Simon is … Simon is …’

‘Is what?’

‘Jovial. At times he is jovial.’

Armand scoffed and then laughed as Catherine pulled a face.

‘You should not tease him so.’

‘Why not? I assure you, he gives as good as he gets.’

‘True,’ Catherine giggled, ‘but he does not enjoy it as much as you.’

Captivated by their mirth, neither saw Simon’s approach. ‘Where have you been? I have been calling you.’

‘I … I … took a turn of the garden … and I …’ Catherine attempted to explain.

‘We were simply enjoying each other’s company …’

Simon did not wait for Armand to finish. Instead he curled his fist and knocked him to the ground. ‘Leave her be!’

‘Simon!’ shrieked Catherine, appalled by her husband’s behaviour.

Armand rose, wiping his mouth. ‘It was nothing, you stupid jackass!’

‘I am much aware of your preferences,’ fumed Simon. ‘You forget yourself, Armand d’Albret! Catherine is not available for your dalliance.’

Embarrassed by Simon’s outburst, Catherine lifted her skirt and fled, Armand’s and her husband’s harsh words following her into the orchard.

Simon found her sitting on an upturned bucket, talking to several foraging wood pigeons.

‘May I?’ he asked, indicating a nearby straw bale.

She nodded and hastily looked away.

‘I apologise for Armand. I simply misunderstood,’ he began, but Catherine continued to stare in the opposite direction.

‘May I ask you something, M’lord?’

‘You may,’ he replied, touched by the grief he saw upon her face.

‘Do you think you will ever want me as your wife?’

‘I cannot answer that.’

‘Why?’ she replied.

‘Because I fear that I cannot be honest.’

‘I do not understand. Why can you not be honest with me? I do not lie to you,’ she declared stubbornly.

Simon cocked one brow, remembering the white lie she had told him in Paris.

‘You are timid and easily distraught,’ he began, rising to his feet, ‘and I care sufficiently that I do not wish to cause you pain.’

‘I do not believe you. I think you do want me as your true wife but are more fearful of causing pain to yourself than to me!’

‘You speak from inexperience,’ he blustered, then marched away.

‘That might be the case, but I know my own heart,’ she spoke aloud to his retreating back.

Salisbury stabled his horse and slipped into the building by the rear entrance. He tossed the innkeeper a small bag of coins. His day had not gone as planned. He was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than a jug of ale and the comfort of his bed.

He was not expecting the visitor who awaited his return. ‘Your Grace.’ Salisbury dropped to his knees and studied the soiled boots before him.

‘A mutual friend informs me that you have been attempting to locate a certain missing demoiselle?’

‘Yes, M’lord.’

‘Is the news good?’ The edge to Prince Edward’s voice was ominous.

Salisbury dared not look up. ‘It is not as we had thought, Sire.’ Edward’s silence was unnerving and finally Salisbury mumbled, ‘It was Catherine, M’lord, not Cécile.’

‘I have been told as much,’ the Prince replied, ‘but I wished to hear it from your lips. How long have you known?’

‘I did not, M’lord, not until I had her within my grasp,’ he lied, clenching his fist in mimicry. ‘Then I knew.’

‘How so?’

‘Her companions called her by name.’

‘So, Wexford is a traitor.’

‘Yes, M’lord.’

Edward kicked the table, toppling the jug of ale and scattering the tankards. ‘When did the girls change places?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Then find out!’ he bellowed and stormed from the room.

‘Bitch!’ spat Salisbury, retrieving the jug and hurling it at the wall. Joan had betrayed him to her lover and God only knew the benefits she was now enjoying. Once again he would be seen as the snivelling second. But that was going to change. Once he had his hands on the Lady of Scotland things would be different. Perhaps Wexford’s head on a platter would better his position.