‘Since love is no basis for marriage, and the church forbids adultery, why, then, does God give us hearts at all?’ Cécile bent her head against the timber grille separating her from the priest. The stone floor of Chilham’s chapel was icy cold but so was the fear her father had instilled.

‘You must trust in the Lord, my child,’ came the soft reply. ‘Only He knows what will be required of you. Saint Jude always has an ear for a desperate cause. You might try praying to him.’

Cécile decided that it would be imprudent to confess to the priest that she was sick of praying.

‘Our Lord often demands sacrifices, striking the most favoured hard, only to reward them more richly,’ he continued. ‘We are all God’s servants and live to do His bidding. You must keep faith, my child.’

It would be easier to keep faith, thought Cécile miserably as she stumbled her way back to the manor, if there were no princes and long-lost fathers to complicate her life.

‘We will find a way,’ Gillet had whispered to her the previous night as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms after a session of tender love-making. But he said it with no real conviction.

Cécile paused to stare up at the grey clouds. She could hear the rumbling sound of a storm. ‘Lord, just send me some sort of sign, something to help me keep faith.’ The thundering burst into an explosive clattering of hooves that spilled into the courtyard. Cécile’s mouth fell agape and she crossed herself.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ Next she was waddling as fast as she could towards the herd of horses, her pattens clacking against the stonework as she squealed excitedly, ‘Armand!’

Gillet emerged from the new, partly-built stable, beaming as his grinning cousin leaped from Panache. The two men exchanged hearty greetings. Guiraud, Gabriel, Mouse and their squires dismounted and spilled over in wondrous dis-array. Two accompanying mules, fully laden with chests and cloth bundles, brayed excitedly.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ yelled Armand above the din, his face shining like Saint Michel after defeating Lucifer, ‘but we invited ourselves for Noël. It will be like old times,’ he laughed. He spun around to see Cécile and caught her in his grasp, swinging her around as though she weighed no more than a feather. ‘ Mon Dieu, I have missed you, ma petite.’ Soundly he delivered a smacking kiss to each of her cheeks.

‘Not so petite anymore,’ gasped Cécile as her feet found the earth again.

Armand held her arms wide, his appraisal thorough. ‘You look well, ché rie,’ he clucked. ‘I am pleased to see that my cousin is looking after you.’ He playfully pummelled Gillet’s arm. ‘Or else, sir, I would be forced to remove her from your care.’

‘Be my guest,’ snorted Gillet. ‘She is excessively difficult and squanders my hard-earned coin far too liberally. She would even spend God’s penny.’

Armand’s newly-bristled smirk grew wider. ‘Ho! You keep her, then.’ His hair was longer and he had not shaved recently, making the resemblance between the cousins even more remarkable. Cécile wondered again how she had not seen it on their escape from Paris.

Guiraud, Mouse and Gabriel tumbled towards them, each taking their turn with greetings, Guiraud registering surprise at Cécile’s motherly shape.

‘Faith be, lad,’ roared Mouse, delivering a hearty slap, ‘you gawk as though you have never seen a woman in child.’ The two older Albrets burst out laughing, as the youngest fiercely spun around.

‘Of course I have, you dotard! My sister can birth children faster than you can down ale. I just did not realise Cécile was so, so …’ He squinted, grasping for the elusive words as stead-fastly as a drowning man reaching for an overhead branch. ‘So far ahead in her time.’

Gabriel raised Cécile’s hand to his lips and bowed cour-teously. ‘And so fair a mother has not shone since the Holy Mother herself.’

‘God’s bones! Apart from the belly, your likeness to your sister is remarkable,’ boomed Mouse.

‘Oui,’ replied Armand, ‘I thought so too but, trust me, one is a kitten and the other a tiger. As to which is which,’ he winked, ‘I leave it to your own experiences to decide.’

The squires began to organise the removal of the luggage, under the direction of Alfred who had appeared from the stable.

‘We would have been here sooner, mayhap this morning,’ chirped Guiraud, ‘but for these two mules.’

‘Oh? Did they give you some trouble?’ asked Cécile, looking over to the animals. They seemed biddable enough, now that they had quit their incessant braying.

‘I’ll say,’ affirmed Armand. ‘Insisted on arguing at every bend in the road until, at last, swords were the only answer.’

Leaning against the quintain post, Gillet chuckled, but Cécile was confused. ‘Swords? For mules? Whatever did you do?’

‘Not those mules, Céci,’ spluttered Guiraud indecorously. He poked his finger into the air towards his companions. ‘Those two mules!’

With unspoken tenacity Mouse drew his sword and lunged at Gabriel, screeching the cry of a berserker. ‘Aha!’

Gabriel unsheathed his weapon, deftly blocking the thrust and parrying. Continuing their swordplay, they wove a path to where the real beasts of burden eyed their approach warily. Gabriel sprang and Mouse fell backwards, stumbling over an unloaded chest. His blade smacked flat against the beast’s rump and it bucked furiously, braying. The poor squire unloading it dived for cover. One box, half un-roped, crashed to the ground, and the men ceased their foolery to inspect the spilled goods. The hapless squire struggled in vain to settle his mutinous charge.

‘No harm done,’ yelled Gabriel, his blonde head emerging from the rubble. ‘Were there any breakables in your luggage, Albret?’

Armand’s face turned almond-white. ‘ Sacré bleu.’ He raced over to inspect the wreckage.

Gillet affectionately cuffed Guiraud’s shoulder. ‘Come. I will organise some refreshments. How long do you all have?’ The cousins looked to where Armand was merrily scooping up what looked like apples from the ground.

‘At least three weeks,’ replied Guiraud. ‘Captain du Guesclin has granted our company Yuletide leave.’

‘Three weeks?’ Gillet stroked his chin thoughtfully, but Cécile could see that he was delighted. ‘Well, then. I shall have to organise a lot more than just refreshment.’

‘Oui,’ replied Guiraud. They glanced back to where Mouse and Gabriel were wrestling on the ground, swords forgotten as Armand refereed, juggling the apples jester-style in between bites. ‘Much more.’

Dinner in the hall that evening was a rowdy affair and exactly what Cécile needed to lift her spirits. Margot had performed miracles in the kitchen, rousing the staff to fever pitch. Several removes worthy of the Palais Royal had hit the table hot from the oven, baked eel and garnished turnips, roasted veni-son served with several caramelised sauces, platters of pike coated in cinnamon onion, and trout in ginger to be followed by a selection of sugared fruit fancies. The wine flowed freely and the men recounted the highs and lows of their trip to Paris.

Minette and Veronique, now elevated to maid-companions, had been allowed to join the revelry and Cécile noted with delight how her young friend’s cheeks were warmed by more than just wine. Griffith, standing behind Gillet, re-filling his master’s goblet, cast numerous fleeting glimpses in her direction.

Gillet was in high spirits and, feeling generous, loudly claimed by the third remove that they were ‘men enough’ to fill their own cups. The delighted squires found themselves relieved of duty and seated alongside at the board.

Gillet glanced down the two rows of bobbing heads, upended tankards and cheerful faces. He smiled at Cécile. ‘I think it is going to be a long night.’

Gabriel drew up a stool next to Gillet and as they entered into a discussion, Cécile found herself under Armand’s cyanic gaze. He winked at her.

‘Reminds me of Arras, after the tourney, oui?’ He picked up her hand across the table and shook it. ‘Put aside your troubles for one night. Neither Gillet nor I will let Sir Thomas take you from us.’ His eyes slid to Gillet meaningfully, ‘He may be my cousin but I would have the truth. Are you happy with him?’

Cécile drew Armand’s sun-bronzed hand within hers and nodded. ‘Yes, Armand, very happy.’ Gillet burst out laughing as Gabriel’s fingers danced mid-air in some imitation, and she smiled warmly. ‘In fact, I have never been happier.’

Armand squeezed her fingers tightly. ‘So you do love him?’

‘As you knew I would.’

‘Then I am content.’ His grin disappeared into the depths of a tankard.

There was a sudden crash from the far end, a high-pitched scream, and a roar of accompanying mirth. An eyeball from the suckling pig platter had found its way into someone’s cup. Mouse thumped his arm onto the table, and the brawny soldier opposite him promptly took up the challenge. A vicious bout of arm wrestling began and, after five competitors’ knuckles had hit the board, Mouse bawled for another and singled out Griffith. ‘Come, lad!’

Griffith accepted, somewhat hesitantly, and Cécile whispered something to her maid.

‘I know that look,’ crowed Gillet, as Minette slid from her seat. ‘What did you just tell her?’

‘Hush. Your behemoth is about to be bested by a slip of a girl.’

‘Minette get the better of Mouse?’ cried Gillet, truly astonished. ‘I’ll wager you a new gown against it.’

‘A new gown? Done!’ Cécile spat on her palm and slapped it against Gillet’s.

Minette sidled up to the contestants with a jug of ale. Mouse welcomed the refreshment and drank his goblet dry. Then, arms bent at the elbow, the men grasped hands. Muscles bulged as forearms swayed, first one way and, with shifting strength, the other. Everyone held their breath, each person inhaling or exhaling sharply as their bet constantly shifted. Suddenly there was a piercing scream and Minette leaped onto the nearby bench, lifting her skirt and pointing at the floor.

‘A mouse!’ she screeched.

Griffith’s strength suddenly gained the upper hand. He slapped Mouse’s arm to the table only to find himself wrenched aside as his giant companion scrambled onto the board, scattering debris in all directions.

Furore ensued, with the current position of the non-existent creature heartily reported, until one wit declared it running out into the open. Mouse peered out from beneath the fruit bowl at the empty space. Calmly, Alfred announced, ‘I believe Griffith is the winner.’

Realising he’d been duped, Mouse rolled red-faced from the table. He swept Minette from her perch and spun the terrified girl around, bellowing good-naturedly. Griffith swiftly shot to his feet and drew his dagger, no longer humoured.

‘Griffith!’ Gillet’s stool toppled as he stood. The room fell deathly silent.

But Mouse was not so easily upset. ‘No need to lock horns, my young bull,’ he chortled. ‘Here, put away that piece and hold out your arms, son. To the winner go the spoils.’ Mouse relinquished his pale-faced trophy, who blushed beet-red as an equally cherry-faced squire gently set her to the ground. Unable to cope with being at the centre of attention, Minette fled like a startled doe.

‘Agh,’ roared Mouse, dropping his arm around a disappointed Griffith, ‘you let her get away, man! Now, there is a maid who needs bedding, if I ever saw one. Come, lad, join me in your victory ale, and I promise you, if she does not return by the time we finish, I’ll go fetch her back myself.’

For the next couple of days, life was nothing short of mayhem in the Albret household. Gillet was elated as the men pitched in to complete the remaining tasks. Game was slaughtered and pickled or smoked, grain crushed and stored, and the partially-rebuilt stable would now offer sufficient protection against the coming of winter.

The cousins undertook the training of several horses, Griffith assisting, while, perched on the fence like Noël turtledoves, Mouse, Guiraud and Gabriel offered well-meant but useless advice. They all agreed upon one thing only. Their disputes would be settled in a quintain session, in full armour, on the day following Christmas.

By two days before Christmas, all minor repairs to the tenants’ cottages had been completed and stores of fuel, meat and grain were replenished, ready for winter quarter. Gabriel and Guiraud hunted with the gamekeeper, while Armand and Gillet ferreted through the armoury. Mouse offered his assistance and had been very successful collecting the quarterly rents. With pantries and cellars bursting, grain sheds overflowing, and enough wood to burn until summer, prayers of thanks for such abundance were offered up in the chapel.

The evenings in the hall were filled with revelry. The Yule log was lit and whole, succulent beasts slow-roasted on spits. The ale flowed and so did the tales, the most popular the recent hunt for the Yule boar, an event that Gillet and his companions had richly anticipated. With copious bantering they related the final trapping, and how the beast, cornered and spent and riddled with spears, made a last desperate stand.

‘The spiny pig charged,’ declared an animated Armand, as his owl-eyed audience gasped. ‘And to avoid the needle-sharp tusks we scrambled up the trees. All except Mouse, here.’

‘I do not hide under skirts! Not even those of an oak,’ blustered Mouse, gulping his ale.

‘What happened?’ Too young for whiskers, the fledgling listeners gaped in awe.

‘Bah! Damned beast ran out of wind and collapsed at my feet.’ There was a disappointed chorus of, ‘Oh.’

‘But,’ rang out Armand, and instantly shoulders straightened, ‘not before yon friend here had breathed upon it, a most foul, heinous breath, more fearsome than that of a dragon!’

‘Ooooohh.’

‘Not likely to be from his mouth,’ spluttered Guiraud, who received an elbow to the ribs.

The young charges were dismissed and the men regrouped. Cécile watched. So, this then was comradeship – the laughter that spills over between men, the humour that abounds, the many friendly punches – a brotherhood which carries an indefinable quality. It is what is taken into battle and if not for the sting of death that war delivers, Cécile thought it an enviable thing.

Noël began with ‘the light of salvation,’ the Angels’ Mass at midnight, followed by cups of mulled wine and spiced honey cakes. Cécile yawned sleepily as they rose again at dawn for the Shepherds’ Mass. With religious observances all but complete, the hall filled with the estate’s tenants, each paying tribute to Gillet as the various removes of soups, roasted game, fish sautéed in herbed butter, breads and puddings were served throughout the long day. The celebration of Christ had begun. The ale flowed steadily; so, too, the goodwill. A riotous cheer exploded near midday as the roasted Yule boar, minus its quills, was carried in by four bearers. Another separate platter followed in the regal procession. The head of the beast, now dressed and stuffed with spiced meat and complete with an apple in its mouth, was presented with much pomp and ceremony to Mouse. Another wild roar hailed the roasted bird centrepiece carried in next – ten birds, boned out and cooked one within the other; a lark, woodcock, quail, par-tridge, pigeon, pheasant, hen, duck and a goose were bound within a swan, the feathers reapplied and its head and neck still intact.

When the bell rang for the last Mass, they all filed into the chilly chapel once more. The spirited congregation conducted their hymn singing with gusto, and afterwards re-entered the warmth of the manor, the gaily decorated hall within, a stark contrast to the grey gloom outdoors.

Armand secured two full jugs of ale for his table as Margot sank beside Cécile, sighing wearily. ‘I have accepted my dis-charge from the kitchen. I am told not to return.’

‘The food has been truly magnificent, Margot,’ replied Cécile.

Gillet added his appreciation as Armand, beaming ludicrously, pushed a full tankard in Margot’s direction. ‘I can honestly declare that is the best banquet of which I have ever partaken.’ He patted his bulging stomach in acknowledge-ment and let go a gurgling belch.

‘So, when does the afternoon’s entertainment begin?’ asked Gillet, glancing suspiciously at the false wall and the manger of hay occupying the dais. He turned to Cécile. ‘A Mummer’s play? I believe this is your doing?’

‘If yonder “Joseph,” over there, is any indication,’ noted Armand, in between gulps, ‘I think there may be some problem.’

A harried man in costume was gesticulating madly in their direction, and Cécile reluctantly rose. ‘Oh dear, I do hope the donkey is not being difficult.’

‘Donkey?’

Gillet was neatly sprayed with his cousin’s ale.

Half an hour later Cécile had the gist of the matter. After much high hand-flinging, hair-wrenching and blasphemous insults that seemed rather out of place from one playing the father of Jesus, the actor explained that the young man who had been hired to perform the role of Mary had not arrived.

‘Madame, without Mary, this play simply cannot continue.’ He eyed Cécile’s condition with interest. ‘Unless, of course, there is someone else willing to take on the role, hmm?’

‘Oh, but you cannot mean me!’

He turned and calmly began to pack his equipment. Horrified at losing the Mummers she had employed for a surprise treat, Cécile grabbed his arm. ‘Wait!’ His smile would have launched a fleet of ships and sent them happily to war. Ten minutes later Cécile was suitably robed, veiled and reciting her four lines.

The raucous din from the hall subsided abruptly when the first actor strode into the crude setting of Bethlehem and began his portrayal of the prophet, Micah.

‘And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, art not the least among the princes of Judah: for out of thee shall come a Gov-ernment that shall rule my people Israel.’

Nervously perched sideways on the beast, for the Mummers had been appalled at Cécile’s suggestion that the mother of Jesus should ride astride, she rehearsed her four precious lines. ‘Oh, Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night? Oh, Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night?’

Henri, the largest of the wise men, sidled over to Cécile with some last minute advice. ‘Take heed, good lady, one of an actor’s greatest achievements is to make himself believable. To do this, the audience must, must be able to hear your words. Remember to throw your voice. Throw your voice.’ Demonstrating, his hands splayed from his mouth in an exaggerated fashion resembling a waterfall. ‘You have a noisy hall tonight, Madame, so you will have to work hard to reach the four corners.’

Cécile nodded resolutely, determined that Gillet would be proud of her portrayal of the delicate Mary. Under her breath she chanted, experimenting with different emphases, ‘Oh Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night? Oh Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night?’ How? Or would ‘where’ sound better?

It was time. The prophet introduced the first scene of Mary and Joseph arriving at the inn. Cécile’s robed companion urged the compliant animal forward.

‘Oh, Joseph,’ rehearsed Cécile. ‘The inn is full. There is no room. Where shall we find a bed for the night?’

‘Remember, milady,’ whispered Henri, ‘throw your voice.’

‘Throw my voice. Oh, Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night?’ She was ready.

Joseph led Cécile out into view and made his way to the ‘inn door.’ A boisterous outburst from one particular table greeted her entrance. A quick sideways glance confirmed Gillet’s stunned look, his head, shaking in disbelief, descended to nestle into his outspread palm as the other four guffawed loudly.

As Joseph conversed with the innkeeper, Cécile ignored her ungracious spectators, and watched intently as he projected his voice. She would do the same, and muttered nervously to herself. ‘Oh, Joseph! The inn is full. There is no room. How shall we find a bed for the night?’ Was it how or where?

Joseph tugged his signal on the rein. It was Cécile’s turn. In her peripheral vision she saw Monsieur Waterfall spill over again, but the heckling from the front table unnerved her. Gillet grinned absurdly, Armand winked, and Gabriel, Guiraud and Mouse blew kisses, saluting with their cups. Cécile’s heart began to pound and to her greatest horror, her mind went blank.

Joseph whispered frantically, ‘Madame! The inn … the room … the bed.’

Memory flooded back just as she caught Gillet’s eye. She threw her hand to her brow in a dramatic portrayal and proclaimed in her loudest voice. ‘Oh Gillet! There is no inn. The room is full. Where will you bed me tonight?’

The hall fell deadly silent, stunned … then burst into ear-splitting chaos. Gillet doubled over in a fit of convulsions, Mouse collapsed onto the board, his head quivering in the crook of his arm as one fist hammered the table, and Gabriel gripped his stomach and howled at the moon. Guiraud and Armand had fallen from their seats, in a frenzy of fists and feet. Joseph was gaping open-mouthed and Monsieur Waterfall, his eyes like two full moons, had dried up.

Cécile watched it all in confusion. What had she said?

The boys were having trouble regaining control. Gillet was first, and he wiped his eyes, his voice high-pitched. ‘I thought there were supposed to be three wise men in this play,’ he puffed, out of breath. ‘Oh, oh. I could have told them it was not very wise to use Cécile.’ Another riotous round of laughter burst forth. ‘Oh, Céci, you are precious!’

Armand lifted his head and gulped. ‘Oui, precious! Like gold, ooohhh, but she has no frankin-sense.’ His voice rose hysterically as tears rolled down his face, ‘But she gives us plenty of myrrh-th.’ He held his stomach and groaned as though in pain. ‘Oh! Oh! Gillet, you are truly blessed; she’s all three gifts in one!’ Another outburst of laughing exploded. Gillet jerked forward, almost touching his boots as he gripped his waist, his shoulders rocking. Armand rolled, pounding his fists onto the floor, hooting like an owl, and both Mouse and Gabriel buried their heads beneath the cloth. It was then that the donkey spied the hay in the corner.

‘Sacré Bleu,’ squealed Joseph, spinning out of its way as it bolted across the floor with Cécile hanging on for dear life.

Somehow, the Mummers managed to finish their recital. They warmed to their now passionate audience, but for Cécile, it had been a Pyrrhic victory.

Gillet welcomed her return to the table and drew her onto his lap. ‘It was the best play I have ever seen,’ he exulted, still sparkling with unbridled amusement.

Peals of laughter broke out as Mouse scuttled towards Cécile on all fours, braying. Upon his back rode Gabriel, a cloth wound around his hair and held, with no finesse, under his chin. Armand almost choked.

‘Oh, Gillet,’ shrilled Gabriel, one hand mockingly flung to his forehead. ‘Where will you bed me tonight?’ His lashes fluttered with exaggeration. Gillet could not contain himself and burst out laughing yet again.

Further along, heavily encouraged by ale, voices were heartily raised in song, and the hall rattled as tankards were thumped upon the board. ‘Boute, boute, boute … boute compa-gnon … vide nous ce verre et nous le remplirons … l’eau ne vaut rien, que pourrir les poumons … Boute, boute, boute … boute compagnon … vide nous ce verre et nous le remplirons. Parle Norman! That water will rot your lungs, so drink, drink, drink this cup, my friend, and we will fill it up again for you.’

By evening, families began to trickle from the hall, sleeping children draped over their fathers’ shoulders like well-worn cloaks. Several chessboards slid onto the tables.

Cécile left Gillet and Gabriel to their game. Her intention to retire was waylaid as she caught sight of the gently crackling fire in the solar. A few moments to catch her thoughts then. She sank blissfully into the chair and toed off her slippers, musing upon the events of the day and eyeing the gift boxes decorating one corner. They would be opened the following morn, but Cécile decided that, in choosing to spend the season of joy with them, Armand and the boys had already given Gillet the greatest gift of all. She had never seen him so animated. Her thoughts moved to the play and she frowned. Alone, in her own company, she could at last admit her bitter disappointment.

‘Such a face is not warranted for the hostess of a wonderfully successful day, ché rie.’ Armand bore a smile that only babes and angels possessed. ‘I did not knock in case you had fallen asleep. Gillet and Gabriel are still involved in their game, so I offer you my company. May I purchase the thought that was so poorly reflected upon your face just now?’ he asked, dropping into the chair at her side.

‘Armand,’ she sighed. ‘If the King’s jester hears of my performance tonight, he will hire me for his apprentice. But the truth is that I did not care for everyone laughing at me.’ Though she fought it, her eyes began to well.

Armand looked surprised. ‘At you! No, Céci, you have it all wrong. You gave them cause to laugh, that’s true, but that is something very different. It is a gift. And if the King’s jester were to hear, he would pack up his bells in disgust at such a noble usurper.’ Despite his well-meaning words, Armand laughed. ‘I swear, it was so entertaining. Oh, no sweetheart!’ He slid to the stool and took her hand. ‘Listen, Cécile. Tonight I saw a miracle, and it had nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. For the first time ever I witnessed my cousin really enjoying himself, and it was all thanks to you.’

‘You call making Gillet laugh a miracle?’ asked Cécile, brushing her cheeks.

‘Sometimes it is. Look, that cup of wine in your hands, how does it differ from the one you drank this morning?’

She gazed into the dark, murrey contents. ‘It is mulled and spiced?’ Her answer was tentative for she was unsure of Armand’s meaning.

‘Exactly! Until you came along, Gillet’s existence was an ordinary cup of wine. Now he delights in a warmed, aromatic concoction. Sweetheart, to bring joy into someone’s life is a gift beyond reckoning and you are the seasoning, the spice that Gillet sorely needed in his cup of wine.’

‘Was his childhood really so harsh, Armand?’

‘It certainly was not like ours, Céc. But I have never seen him look as happy as he does now.’ He bent to kiss her hand. ‘And that, ma petite, is because of you. So, no more mooching around. You’ve had a busy day and another due tomorrow. Off to bed with you!’

The following morn, after the manor’s fires had been prodded to life, an intimate group gathered in the solar and the ritual of swapping goodwill gifts began.

Armand presented Cécile with a beautiful setting of Venetian glassware, blessedly intact, and, in turn, he proudly strutted in a thickly padded doublet the rich deep blue of lapis lazuli. Mouse and Gabriel sported new chaperons, the belled liripipes threatening to upend the goblets as they played ‘the fool between the holly,’ and Guiraud was well pleased with his enamelled platelet and Cordovan belt.

Gabriel abandoned his horseplay and, winking at Gillet, placed a striking shell comb into Cécile’s lap. ‘For when you tie your hair using a certain blue ribbon. Jesu, Albret,’ he straightened. ‘I still choke when I think how close I came to facing your sword in Arras. You might have warned me!’ A look of comradeship flew between them. ‘I am still honourably owed a kiss, though. Do you suppose I might collect it now?’

Gillet’s eye’s flashed menacingly. ‘No. You may not.’ It was Gabriel’s cheek that received Cécile’s thanks.

‘Eh, bien,’ sighed the blonde giant wistfully. ‘I shall save it for a more fitting occasion.’

He withdrew gracefully to where Mouse was tossing chestnuts into the fire. Gillet kneeled at Cécile’s side and slid a small jewel-cask onto her lap. ‘Thank you for the hawking glove,’ he whispered, ‘and the falchion.’

‘You have already given me a gift,’ she cried, tracing the carved lid of the cask nervously. A writing slope, complete with ink, quills and wax sat beside her, buried under a dark mantle, fully lined with sable.

‘This one is special,’ he replied. ‘Open it.’

Cécile released the catch and gasped as she withdrew an endless rope of shimmering droplets, their blue sheen glowing iridescently.

‘Moonstones,’ said Gillet. ‘It is said they carry properties believed to protect a mother and child and these particular ones are rumoured to have been made from the moonlight itself.’

‘Gillet, they are the most beautiful gems I have ever seen!’

Gillet’s hand gently closed over hers and he whispered, ‘Better than rubies? Moonstones represent “new beginnings,” and are the true gift between lovers.’

She flung herself at him, half-laughing and half-crying. Cécile knew much thought had gone into the gift, and the significance was not lost on her.

By early afternoon the men had consumed a great deal of both food and ale, and a desire to stretch their muscles had them searching for more vigorous entertainment.

‘Quintains!’ Mouse and Gabriel thumped upon the board, the cups dancing as the men chanted. ‘Quintains! Quintains! Quintains!’ There was a mad dash up the stairs to don armour and, by the time Cécile waddled into Gillet’s chamber, he had torn apart every chest.

‘I can’t remember where I stowed my armour!’ Four eager, boyish faces appeared at the threshold, Armand already suited, the other three haphazardly pulling on pieces.

‘Come on, Gillet!’

His desperation grew and he spun around in circles, flinging out his arms, growling with frustration.

‘Did you not send it for cleaning after we returned from Broughton?’ Cécile remarked calmly.

‘Mai oui. I remember now! I stored it in the other chamber.’ Hastily bestowing a kiss upon her, he raced from the room, his playmates fast behind him, but there was soon a loud burst of reverberating laughter.

‘Saaayseeele!’

Wondering what new disaster had occurred, Cécile trudged to the door, one hand smoothing her motherly condition. She had only a handful of weeks left.

‘Saayseele! Cécile.’

‘Gillet, I am moving as fast as I possibly can!’

She was greeted by the sight of Armand, doubled over, his metal-plated arms wrapped around his stomach as he choked with laughter. Guiraud and Gabriel were similarly postured, the latter squatting and threatening to topple in his mirth. Gillet glowered at them, holding out his helm, which was dripping water. Only Mouse appeared rational, his face illuminated by wonderment as he bent over the remaining armour.

‘Cécile,’ snarled Gillet as she entered. ‘Did you not tell me that you prepared a basket for Cinnamon?’

‘Oui. It is in my room.’

He swept his ‘hooting comrades’ with an icy glare. ‘Well, did you explain that to Cinnamon?’

‘Come on, Gillet,’ gulped Armand hysterically. ‘ Hurry up, it’s kitten late!’

There was another raucous outburst, and Gabriel’s gauntlet fisted the floor. ‘Oui,’ squealed Guiraud. ‘Before the weather changes and it starts raining cats and dogs!’ All three fell backwards, howling, and Gillet threw down his helm in disgust.

‘Merde! Griffith will labour all afternoon to clean this mess. I need my mail now.’

‘This mess,’ Cécile had just discovered, was Cinnamon’s bundle of new arrivals, and the cause of Gillet’s ill temper. The cat had seen fit to deliver her young within the confines of his armour. It would seem that she had taken refuge first in his helm, then sought his breastplate, conveniently thrown upside-down, shell-like, upon the floor.

‘Oh, Gillet,’ Cécile purred with delight. ‘She preferred your steel to my silk.’

Gillet raked his hair in annoyance. ‘That much is obvious. Can we at least move them to the basket?’

‘Non,’ exclaimed Mouse in horror, his finger tenderly running over the pelt of a tiny kitten. ‘You cannot move newborns.’

‘I would hazard to say, brother dear,’ said Margot, sauntering in, full of smiles, ‘that, come morning, you will find Cinnamon has moved them by herself, now that her hiding place is discovered. And, though Cécile lovingly prepared a wonderful basket, I should have told her that the cat probably would not use it.’ Amidst the tyranny of Cinnamon’s bad behaviour, Cécile did not miss Armand’s wink to Margot. ‘Is quintain practice so dangerous that you must don armour?’ she asked, her cheeks reddening.

‘We were going to pass lances and cross swords as well,’ came Gillet’s petulant reply. ‘And unless you prefer a brother full of holes, yes, it was.’

‘And, in a manor so well appointed as this one, you have no other mail?’

‘Armand and I sorted the pieces last week. Most have gone to the armourer for repairs.’

‘Then, with all your companions in residence, are there not a few pieces that might be borrowed?’

‘I have a camail,’ said Gabriel. ‘Or perhaps I should say cam-eeowl!’ There was a barely suppressed splutter.

‘And I have a spare pair of steel mesh kittens,’ chortled Guiraud. ‘Sorry, I meant to say mittens.’ Quivering lips were drawn tight.

They were all perched on the brink of an abyss, filled with side-splitting laughter, and they knew it. Only Mouse seemed to share Gillet’s feelings for this untimely predicament.

‘Agh, come on, lads.’ He rose and clapped his meaty paw on Gillet’s shoulder. ‘This is no time for joking. Ill fate has befallen our comrade’s armour. This is no trifling thing. ’Tis a terrible cat- astrophe!’

A wild bellow of long overdue laughter burst from everyone. Gillet finally capitulated, grinning as Mouse lifted him in a crushing bear hug.

Cécile woke unexpectedly before dawn the following morning, feeling famished. Assured the heavy breathing beside her meant Gillet was still sound asleep, his exertions at quintains the previous day having taken their toll, she slipped from the covers to raid the kitchen’s pantry. As she was smuggling her illicit consignment back to her room, Margot’s door cracked open and Armand furtively stepped out. He lacked a doublet, the laces of his chausses were indecently loose, and his bedraggled hair looked as though he had just rolled from the Cotswolds to Dover. Stupefied, Cécile stared as he blew a kiss back into the room before quietly closing the door. He turned and, finding himself observed, blushed rosily.

‘Armand! What …?’

‘Sshhh, Céci. Hush, please.’ He guided her to her chamber door.

‘Armand, the last time I looked, your bed was in there,’ she hissed, stabbing the air towards the room on the far side of Gillet’s. ‘That,’ she pointed up the hall, ‘is Margot’s chamber.’

‘I never could fool you, ché rie,’ he simpered.

‘Armand!’ She stamped her foot softly, but her voice elevated with each syllable. ‘She is the wife of Gillet’s brother. Your own cousin’s wife. Do you realise what you do?’

‘Ssshhh! Please lower your voice.’

‘My voice is lowered. ’Tis my temper that rises!’

‘Please, Céci. It just happened. It was not planned.’

‘Do you mean to say that you two actually …’

He gripped her elbow in agitation. ‘ Sacré bleu. Hush. After you and Gillet retired last night, we all began to play chess and, well, after a few ales, Margot and I entered into a silly wager.’

‘What wager?’ whispered Cécile venomously.

‘Aaah …’ He pressed his finger against her lips, but she bit it. ‘Ow!’

‘Ssshh,’ she hissed, panic-stricken that they would wake Gillet. ‘What wager?’

Armand sucked his injury resentfully. ‘A chivalrous knight does not tell.’

‘Armand, you will have more than my plaguey teeth after you if Gillet learns of this. Mon Dieu.’ She felt almost faint at the thought. ‘ What if Arnaud should find out?’

Armand frowned sulkily. ‘There is no reason that he would. Margot is hardly likely to tell him, is she now?’

‘So that makes it above board, does it? Did you even consider the consequences? Do you not think Arnaud will notice if Marguerite is swollen like a steeped plum when he bids her return?’

‘Merde, Cécile! You are acting the shrew. Do you think me so foolish? There are ways, you know,’ he retaliated.

‘Do not “merde” me! I am not stupid, but I hardly think Margot has prepared herself. A vinegar sponge will not work after the event. Even I know that!’

Armand smiled with a hint of sadness. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart. I sometimes forget how innocent you are still.’

Cécile glowered indignantly. ‘Not so innocent, Armand-Amanieu d’Albret. Grant Gillet with some expertise on the subject. He is an excellent tutor.’

Armand’s grin flashed. ‘Beneath the sheets? But of course, he’s Albret! But, in your case, he had no need to teach you this.’

The chamber door opened and Gillet appeared in his braies, scratching his head sleepily. ‘Teach her what?’ He gave a jaw-breaking yawn. ‘What am I lacking in teaching Cécile?’

Armand raked his cousin with a glance and snorted at Cécile. ‘So, it is permissible for you.’ He faced Gillet. ‘Keeping her nose out of trouble.’

Cécile was ready to draw blood. ‘Keeping my nose out of trouble?’

Gillet frowned, his observance darting between Cécile and Armand and, noting the state of his cousin’s undress, he glanced sideways down the hall. Armand had the grace to blush. Gillet sighed heavily. ‘I thought we agreed, Armand.’

‘Ah, well,’ he pointed to Cécile’s haul, ‘you should have kept her bedside aumbry full. Mayhap a “horn of plenty” would be a better investment.’

Gillet surveyed the collection of food in Cécile’s hands. He tugged her into the room, grimacing wryly. ‘It was full last night. Get some sleep, Armand, you look terrible.’

‘You knew? You knew.’ accused Cécile, the minute the door was closed.

Gillet resurfaced from under the bed, having located his missing chausse. He sat down to draw it on, his lips pressed in a tight line.

Cécile eyed him with suspicion. ‘But how could you have known? According to Armand, we had already retired.’ Her eyes widened. ‘This is not the first time, is it?’

Gillet’s face remained passive but his cheeks grew pink. ‘No.’

‘And you accept this?’

He glanced at her briefly. ‘What is to accept? Two people, both lonely during the season of giving and sharing.’ He paused in tying his laces. ‘What is so wrong, Cécile? It happens all the time.’

‘Not under my roof!’ she exclaimed, collapsing beside him.

He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. ‘ My roof, sweetheart.’

‘But what of Arnaud? He is your brother.’

‘A misfortune of fate, and one of which I care not to be reminded. Do you forget what he did to you?’ Gillet tied the final knot on his chausse and then sighed. ‘Sweetheart, any keep that is left unprotected will eventually be plundered and, whether or not you approve, Armand is a free lance. He can bed any or as many women, maids, whores, and it happens, wives, as he likes. If he chooses to run a dangerous list that is his concern, not yours.’

‘The list is not his to run. What of the physical consequences?’

Gillet smiled briefly as he secured his second chausse. ‘There are ways to avoid complications.’

‘Oh, oui! Armand was quick to inform me,’ she chided peevishly. ‘You have been neglectful in some of your teachings, mon amour.’

‘Ah. I begin to understand the conversation I interrupted. It is nothing so imaginative, Cécile, simply “coitus interrup-tus”. The man withdraws before any seed is spilled into the womb.’ Gillet pulled his lacing taut and then, capturing her chin, pressed a kiss against her mouth. ‘No seed, no child.’ Disappearing under a billow of linen, he wriggled into his shirt and scooped up his doublet. ‘I must meet with Llewellyn but if you would like I shall return with some suitable refreshment.’ He eyed her stolen sugary treats.

‘So you do not perceive any wrongdoing in Armand tup-ping a married woman?’

Gillet shrugged his shoulders. ‘It happens. We did not tell you because Armand did not want you to worry.’

‘And the fact that Margot is married?’

Gillet’s face split in a teasing grin. ‘I do not know why you find this so disturbing. You lay nearly every night with a married man!’ He ducked quickly and sensibly quit the room before a custard pastry splattered against the door at head height.

By early afternoon, Armand slid sheepishly next to Cécile at the board. ‘Still friends?’ he smooched, kissing her cheek. ‘Come on,’ he pinched her leg playfully, ‘forgive me.’

Gillet’s eyebrows slowly rose in question and Cécile’s will crumbled. He leaned toward her. ‘What would you say if I told you that our conversation this morning has inadvertently helped solve a problem?’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Our guests shall take their leave soon and, while Mouse accompanies Gabriel to visit with his sister, Armand goes to Arras to see the Mesdames. I was considering that Margot should accompany him. Since Arnaud has deserted her, I will declare her abandoned, and take her into my custody. Lord Felton is still anxious to make amends for the mishandling of your case, and he would gladly agree.’

Cécile knew that the bailiff had been at pains to repair his relationship with Gillet and, consequently, a successful confession was squeezed from the men arrested at the mill. Gillet learned that Humphrey de Bohun, the man whom Cécile outbid at the auction, was responsible for orchestrating the destruction. His father, William, had passed on recently and the young Earl of Hereford thought to make himself more powerful by sabotaging the Albrets’ mill. He had been severely reprimanded and Gillet was left with no doubt that losing the Andalusian had not sweetened Bohun’s temper.

‘Margot will be happier in Arras,’ said Gillet, returning his thoughts to the topic at hand. ‘And she will be far from her husband’s whips and bridles.’

Cécile gave a long sigh. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

Gillet squeezed her hand. ‘Perhaps Arras will be your salvation from Sir Thomas also, once you deliver of the child?’

She could see that the festive interlude had not entirely prevented Gillet from dwelling upon their problem. Cécile gazed around the cheerful, noisy hall. It had been a wonderful, warm and happy Christmas. Her heart leapt at the suggestion of seeing the Mesdames again but thoughts of her impending lie-in and her father’s threat snapped her back to reality. A sudden cold chill crept over her.