Perched atop the magnificent chalky cliffs and glinting with brilliance in the morning sun, the majestic fortification of Dover Castle reigned with authority over the bustling port below. In the harbour a vessel was docking, newly arrived from France and flying an unadorned blood-red flag. Aboard the cog Cécile d’Armagnac gazed at the formidable keep as the sea breeze whipped her veil across her pale cheeks and snapped her gown into a sail. She gripped the ship’s rail, her knuckles white. Fear lapped at her breast with the same forceful constancy as the waves foaming against the foreign shoreline.

Beside her, Armand d’Albret, the man she had known as her cousin since childhood, shaded his eyes and squinted. ‘Let us hope John de Beauchamp is still in his chambers at this hour.’ He nodded at the indomitable castle. ‘We would do well not to attract the attentions of Dover’s constable, the Earl of Warwick. How do you feel?’

‘Well enough,’ she answered. ‘Now that we have stopped sailing.’ Cécile stole another glance at the fortification and willed its chief occupant to be oblivious to their arrival. His curiosity would be a dangerous thing. Her hands fell to smooth her impending motherhood, dangerous indeed.

For Cécile, the last twenty-four hours had seen more twists and turns than the Minotaur’s labyrinth. The breeze could not cool her cheeks as she recalled the previous evening before mayhem had turned the night upside down and inside out. In a tiny chamber at the dockside inn in Calais, she had given herself, heart, soul and body to Gillet de Bellegarde only to have him wrenched from her arms by soldiers. She had learned his real name was Albret, and he was from the Anglo-Gascon branch dedicated to serving the Prince of Wales.

Within the space of a heartbeat her lover had become her enemy. It wasn’t until Cécile had been safely delivered into Armand’s custody that she learned the truth. Gillet was Armand’s paternal cousin, Ghillebert, and though born into the illustrious Albret family, he was loyal to France. Simon and Gillet’s companions had arrived at the boat, bearing the unconscious man and in their company was her sister. After being separated for seventeen years, Cécile laid eyes upon her sibling. But once more life played a cruel trick and both loves had been taken from her yet again. Where were they now? A stinking cell for Gillet, no doubt, to await the Prince’s justice. And with no chance to repair the damage from their argument, Gillet de Bellegarde might face death believing she hated him.

And her twin? Catherine would be delivered with great haste into the arms of Edward, he believing her to be his erstwhile mistress, known to be carrying his bastard. How long could Catherine fool him and what vengeance would the Prince impose when he discovered the ruse? Simon had been furious at Catherine’s foolhardiness and wasted no time in his pursuit. He, Roderick, Gabriel, Guiraud and Mouse had set sail in the ship’s rowboat and headed back to France, hopeful of rescuing both Catherine and Gillet. By mutual agreement, Armand was to keep to the original plan and accompany Cécile to Chilham, the Albret family estate in Kent, where Gillet had promised she would be safe.

A seagull’s vibrant squawk startled Cécile from her reverie. The ship had docked.

The horses were fastened, one by one, into a giant sling and lowered into the water as crewmen bobbed amongst the waves, waiting to swim the animals ashore. Inferno, Gillet’s black stallion, attracted admiration from some curious onlookers, but most locals gathered to inspect the barrels of celebrated Gascon wine. The horses were rubbed down and saddled.

The small riding party, consisting of the eight men-at-arms Gillet had provided, took pause outside the fishmonger’s for Armand to adjust his stirrups. Cécile’s veil fluttered like a pennant in full flight and the last hint of sea spray sprinkled the air as the horses, eager to stretch their legs, pranced impatiently. From behind the counter, hedged with barrels of fresh, salt and pickled fish, a portly woman glared. Her cheeks bulged over a tight barbette and she sniffed with disdain at the sight of a woman riding astride.

Cécile shifted uncomfortably and chose to observe the surrounding countryside. It was a serene tapestry of variegated green hills rolling down to slide over the glistening cliffs. The lush paddocks were dotted with white, fluffy specks, a far cry from the barren, war-cindered fields she had ridden in France. England’s truce had come too late for some. Winter would see a populace of French bellies go hungry. A nearby lamb, separated from its flock, lost and alone, bleated miserably. Cécile knew the feeling. She glanced over her shoulder for one last look across the sea, and sent a prayer to St Antony, worker of miracles, for the salvation of Gillet and Catherine, and her own speedy return to her beloved homeland.

His stirrups adjusted, Armand mounted Inferno, but the horse, aware that his owner did not occupy the saddle, tossed his head savagely and kicked. ‘Whoa, boy, whoa,’ soothed Armand. ‘Good thing he and I are old friends.’ He grinned, rubbing the steed’s neck. ‘’Tis rare he will suffer another upon his back.’

Cécile reached over and fondled the stallion’s ear. ‘He is like his owner – proud, fickle and full of bad temper.’

Armand laughed. ‘Now that is a charred pot calling the cauldron black!’

The fishwife was busy weighing a basket of eels but Cécile could still feel the sharp stab of her accusing stare. ‘How long before we reach the Albret manor, Armand?’

Armand tested the length of his stirrup and noted the sun’s position. ‘We should be there by mid-afternoon.’ Inferno snorted and sidled a nearby gelding, impatient to be off. ‘That’s if I can hold Inferno in check.’

‘He knows the way then?’

‘Gillet often called into Chilham when making deliveries between France and England. It is also his responsibility to take charge of the family estate during the winter quarter if his duties permit. His eldest brother, Amanieu, resides there during the summer months but the manor should be empty now, save for a handful of servants. Do not worry,’ he added, noting Cécile’s frown. ‘You will be safe and even when the Prince discovers he has been cozened, he will never think to look for you under the roof of his own Gascons!’

‘What if one of Gillet’s brothers should come calling?’

‘They won’t. And anyway, as far as they are concerned, you are Cécile d’Armagnac, my cousin.’ He glanced at her thicken-ing waistline, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak and his eyes grew hard. ‘They need not know you carry the Prince’s bastard.’ With a burst of petulance his nature not often displayed, Armand dug his heels into his mount. Eagerly Inferno leaped to the fore.

By early afternoon, a tired group rode over the drawbridge leading to the manor’s gatehouse. The long hours of the previous day and the tension of escaping France were beginning to take their toll. Round-shouldered and drooping in her saddle, Cécile forcibly straightened as admittance by the gatehouse porter was granted.

They rode up to the main house, a grey stone construction in the shape of a letter H, the east and west wings poised at either end of the hall like huge bookends. A set of massive oak doors opened and, like bees disturbed from a hive, a swarm of servants flew out.

Armand dismounted and passed his reins to the gap-toothed stable boy. ‘Alfred, see to the housing of the soldiers and make sure Inferno is well stabled.’

‘At once, milord.’

A silver-haired servant with bandy legs hobbled his way over the cobblestones. ‘Milord Armand! What a surprise! We saw your troop’s banner from the road but if you sent forewarning of your arrival, sir, none arrived.’ He eyed the black stallion as it was led past, the question dying on his lips as Armand crushed the gnome-like creature in an affectionate hug.

‘Symond! My good friend! I trust this will not be too much of an inconvenience?’

The aging servant bowed respectfully. ‘Your visits were ever a pleasure, milord.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘The child I knew has grown into a man.’

‘Ha! Well you have not changed one jot. It does my heart good to see you again.’

Symond flushed with pleasure and raised his bushy brow at the blonde-haired woman hovering a few paces behind. The chestnut mare she had just relinquished was trotting with determination after the stallion. Armand tugged Cécile forward.

‘Symond, meet my cousin, Cécile d’Armagnac. She is to be Gillet’s guest for a while.’

The old man bowed. ‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle d’Armagnac.’

‘Symond used to look after me when I came to visit Gillet as a child,’ explained Armand. ‘He would fuss over our scrapes and bruises when our swords were nothing but wood and our ponies were barrels on pulley ropes.’

Symond cleared his throat with the dignity of a privileged servant. ‘Speaking of ponies, milord, I could not help but notice you rode in on Milord Ghillebert’s horse. I trust all is well, sir?’

‘Gillet was due to sail with us but was recalled to the Prince’s service at the last minute,’ replied Armand. ‘Since my horse had not boarded, it was easier to swap beasts rather than unload Inferno. Gillet will be joining us soon.’

‘He is taking up winter residence this year?’ The servant’s voice had risen on a note of surprise.

Armand frowned at the varlet’s expression. ‘I believe that was his plan. Is something amiss?’

The aging servant stroked the sides of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. ‘I just thought, sir, naturally that with the arrival of Lord Arnaud that …’

Armand’s eyes grew wide. ‘Gillet’s brother is here?’

‘Yes, milord. Monsieur Arnaud and his wife arrived last week. They intend upon staying, er, until spring at the very least.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Symond saw Cécile shudder. ‘Perhaps you should come inside, milord. The Mademoiselle is cold.’

Armand allowed the servant to gain a discreet lead before grasping Cécile’s elbow. ‘This could be good news,’ he whispered hurriedly, ‘for it means that I can return to France immediately, but say nothing of your predicament – none of it! The truth will serve no purpose here.’

They were led to the main hall and Cécile’s eyes widened at the opulence. The walls were sumptuously decorated with rich, colourful hangings and polished shields. Panelled coffers stood against one wall but her eyes were drawn to the magnificent carved rose marble fireplace. It befitted royalty.

Two high-backed chairs were strategically positioned before the generous hearth and, at Symond’s announcement, a body occupying one unfolded and stood. Cécile gasped. The likeness to Gillet was remarkable, slightly taller but the same bone structure and black hair. This older version was thinner though, lending his face a gaunt, haunted look, even when taken in surprise.

‘Armand! God’s bones! What are you doing here?’

‘Greetings, cousin.’ The men embraced with a formal restraint. ‘Gillet had not thought the manor inhabited,’ said Armand as if that explained his presence well enough.

A glint of displeasure flashed in the other man’s eyes. ‘One cannot leave an estate this size unattended. The servants will run amok! Amanieu wished for his winter retreat and we had received no word as to whether Ghillebert was coming home.’ His eyes strayed to Cécile with frank curiosity.

‘Gillet has been granted leave from court,’ replied Armand, ‘but he is delayed, and so, in his stead, I escort my cousin who is to be Gillet’s guest for a while. May I present the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac.’

‘Armagnac?’ Cécile watched as the man’s eyebrows shot up with such force she thought they would fly off his face. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You are a long way from home, Mademoiselle. What brings you so far north?’

‘Cécile stayed the summer in Paris,’ offered Armand, ‘but with England’s goodwill in releasing our king, I was commissioned to Calais before I had chance to return her home. Your brother, whom she met in the city, has offered his hospitality until suitable arrangements can be made.’

‘Really? How admirable of him. Paris in the winter is not to your taste, Mademoiselle?’ Arnaud’s lip curled sardonically as he offered a seat.

‘No, Monsieur. The bloodshed was not to my taste.’ Cécile tipped her head in acknowledgment and gratefully took the weight from her feet. Gillet’s brother returned to his chair, bellowing for Symond to bring wine. He crossed his parti-coloured stockinged legs and rocked the upper one, a habit Cécile instantly found annoying.

‘So, how is my little brother? Still licking the Prince’s arse like an affectionate lapdog and fetching royal bones from all over the countryside?’ The soft leather-padded soles swung closer and Cécile firmly clamped her mouth lest she be tempted to snap at the conceited, pointy toes.

‘The last I heard he was,’ said Armand, arranging himself on a velvet cushioned stool, ‘but then, employed as envoy to the Prince of Wales is bound to keep a man busy … and rich.’

To Cécile’s astonishment Arnaud burst out laughing. ‘I forget how well you protect my brother’s back, cousin.’ He leered at Cécile, one eye turning independent of the other. She glanced away, disarmed by this unsavoury trait, and resisted a strong urge to cross herself. Upon further inspec-tion though, she understood something she had not hitherto realised. In a family renowned for its ‘devilishly handsome looks’, vibrant blue eyes and hair of raven black, some saying the ancient Gascons of Albret had ‘sold their souls to the Devil himself,’ small wonder she had never considered Gillet connected. His eyes were of the deepest brown.

‘Did you know, Lady d’Armagnac,’ Arnaud was saying, ‘that Armand visited us many times in his youth?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, unsure which eye to direct her gaze upon. ‘My loss was ever your gain.’

‘Ah, but of course.’ Arnaud stroked his top lip and glanced back at Armand. ‘You were serving under Armagnac at the time. It’s as well that you bring the lady yourself, Armand,’ he conceded with a strained laugh, ‘otherwise I might have thought there were hidden motives.’

‘Political conjuring?’ Armand laughed in reply. ‘I vouchsafe that plays no part.’

Arnaud’s attention was distracted as a willowy girl entered the hall. Her autumn green gown was of the finest Flemish wool and beneath a ruffled cap, strawberry blonde hair curled with discipline over her ears, held in place by a crispinette. The accompanying barbette framed the delicate features of her young, pretty face.

‘Marguerite! Come, meet your cousins.’ Arnaud stood, his eyes glowing possessively as they rested upon his wife’s maternal carriage. ‘May I present the Lady d’Albret, Marguerite de Narbonne. As you can see, she has finally consented to do her duty and provide me with an heir.’ He presented the mien of a doting husband as he led her to the nearby alcove seat but Cécile’s skin prickled at his condescending tone. She slid into a curtsey as Armand bowed.

‘Armand-Amanieu d’Albret from Labrit, and his maternal cousin, the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac,’ introduced Arnaud. Cécile warmly returned Marguerite’s shy smile, wondering what Gillet would think when he learned the nursery of his home was to have two new inhabitants. It took all her willpower to refrain from rubbing her own small protuber-ance, hidden by the cut of her surcotte.

‘As you can see, Marguerite will soon be in confinement. We intend to spend the winter quarter here.’

Armand raised Marguerite’s hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I am sure Gillet will be pleased to learn of his new nephew,’ he grinned, ‘or niece, as am I for greeting a new cousin. Madame, you are as radiant as Mother Earth herself.’

‘Ha,’ scoffed Arnaud. ‘Tilled soil she was but fertile she was not!’ He grabbed Marguerite’s chin and turned it to face him. ‘But even the poorest field, when regularly ploughed, must eventually yield a crop, eh, my love.’

Marguerite blushed and cast her gaze to the floor. Armand still held her hand, and tactfully she withdrew it.

The men’s attention was redirected to the arrival of the wine. Three things did Cécile notice in that one moment. Marguerite’s hand was misshapen, the smallest finger jutting out at an odd angle. Her rapid blush had paled to a sickly grey, and when she glanced at her husband’s broad back, it was with fear.

‘No, I must return to France on the first tide,’ Armand was saying as he returned with two goblets of wine. He handed one to Cécile with a wink. ‘I have a pressing duty to which I must attend.’

‘My wife will be grateful for female company,’ replied Arnaud, seating himself once more as Armand furnished Marguerite with a drink. ‘I scarce have time to play wet nurse. Ghillebert should have been here a month ago. There is much to be done before the onset of winter.’ The men’s talk shifted to trade and the latest consignments. England’s court had established a fondness for Gascon wine and the Albret vine-yards in France were profiting well.

Cécile relinquished her chair to Armand and moved to the alcove seat. ‘How long before you expect your babe?’ she asked Marguerite, smiling warmly. To her amazement, the young woman turned away, tears filling her eyes. Some moments elapsed as she struggled for control.

‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, turning back. ‘I am all of a dither lately. I believe it was three to four weeks at the last reckoning. And please call me Margot.’ She glanced at her husband again, only this time, instead of just fear, there was hate. ‘My name is Margot.’

When Armand departed the following morning Cécile felt desperately alone. Not since their parting in Arras had she felt so miserable. Margot kept to her chamber and Arnaud took up his duties on the estate, content to ignore her. Cécile saw them only at supper, a brief affair in which they ate in silence and the void of conversation was filled with Arnaud’s slurping and belching.

The days dragged on, each hour clawing at its predecessor’s heels with indeterminable slowness. Cécile visited Ruby and Inferno but even these visits began to irritate her as the stable boys regarded her with mixed awe and suspicion. The sight of her hand-feeding their most difficult charge, and he, nuzzling with the docility of a unicorn in a myth, gave rise to nervous whispers and many signings of the cross.

‘Your master will come,’ whispered Cécile, ignoring the stable boys as Inferno snuffled into her hair. ‘He will not abandon us.’ But each day dawned and darkened with no word.

By the fifth day Cécile seated herself on a bench beneath an aged oak, her soul steeped in melancholy. Her humours felt out of balance or perhaps, she thought, her stars had come into Saturn’s orbit and the malicious planet was executing its baleful influence. She took stock of her life in the hope of counting good fortune. She was alive, albeit in her enemy’s land with no family, and the man she loved, wrongly accused as traitor, was held prisoner – or worse. She was afflicted with a malady of the lungs; carrying a bastard child to the heir of England; barely reconciled with her twin sister, who was also in grievous danger; the Earl of Salisbury hunted them with accusations of retribution, wrongdoings in his life for which he held them accountable on behalf his former wife, their mother.

Cécile had recently learned that she was only the foster-child of Armagnac, her true sire being Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent, in whose province she was now hiding from the Prince of Wales, father to her unborn child. And the manor she was in belonged to his staunchest supporters, the Albrets, of whom she had just learned her beloved was one! The current occupants of the house ignored her, and the stable boys thought her a spectre from the underworld. Cécile could hold back her tears no longer.

‘Lady d’Armagnac.’ A shadow fell across her misted vision and Margot eased herself onto the seat with the help of her maid. She dispatched the girl to the kitchen to fetch two hot possets. ‘Veronique has the ears of an elephant and chatters like a monkey,’ said Margot, watching with affection as her maid sped off, ‘but she is loyal to me.’ She held out a linen square to Cécile. ‘I am not supposed to leave my chamber but I had to come. I saw you from my casement and you looked so lonely. Forgive me for not having made you feel more welcome. I have come to make amends.’

Cécile took the kerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘No, forgive me. I am an ungrateful guest. You should not take such trouble.’

‘Nonsense, we have been deplorable hosts.’ Margot’s hand alighted on Cécile’s arm. ‘But I can make it up to you.’ Her voice lowered and, switching to Languedoc, the language of the south, she whispered, ‘I have come to warn you. Arnaud does not wholly trust his cousin’s explanation. He is not stupid. You travel with no provision of any kind, no servants, no wardrobe and you are Armagnac.’

‘But my gowns are all in Paris and some in Arras,’ spluttered Cécile. ‘I am sure as soon as Gillet arrives he will make arrangements to have them delivered. And Armand is testament to the friendship Armagnac has for Albret. My papa, Comte Jean, practically raised him!’

‘You have no need to convince me,’ smiled Margot. ‘Armagnac is friend to Narbonne but, unlike you, I have no reason to love the Albrets.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘I have watched you walk through the garden each evening and I can tell that you are in love with Gillet.’ Her hand moved to Cécile’s midriff. ‘I used to walk along hugging my stomach, too. But you must not let Arnaud know that you carry Gillet’s child.’ She slid back against the tree trunk and sighed, rubbing her own swollen belly. ‘It’s this place, you see. The older brothers have not yet decided to whom they will bestow it, and my husband, having uselessly squandered my dowry and gambled my lands, is anxious that it be him. He had hoped that beating Gillet to an heir would secure the matter, but the elder brothers are in disagreement. Arnaud continues to convince Amanieu that he should be the rightful successor.’

‘Amanieu?’ gasped Cécile. ‘Amanieu d’Albret is Gillet’s brother? The same Amanieu who married Margaret of Kent, eldest daughter of Prince Edmund?’

‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘Good Lord! He married my aunt!’ She clamped her lips tightly over her careless words but fortunately Veronique’s arrival had taken Margot’s attention. The girl delivered the hot possets to her mistress and Cécile held out her hand for the steaming cup.

‘Arnaud and Gillet’s father, Beraud, was an independent banneret and lieutenant to Prince Edmund,’ said Margot between sips, ‘but Beraud’s own father disinherited him when he refused to take up arms against King Edward II. When Edward of Windsor became King he reinstated Beraud to his rightful inheritance and rewarded his loyalty with this estate. Upon his death, Arnaud’s older brothers claimed the titles and lands in France. This manor they dangle as a bone to the younger siblings but Renaud has already been given to the church, so that only leaves Arnaud and Gillet.’

‘Gillet’s father was a lieutenant to my grand … Prince Edmund?’ Cécile’s voice rose incredulously. She took a hurried sip of the hot, wine-spiced milk and immediately choked, coughing with a splutter.

‘Cécile! Do be careful!’ Margot reached out to steady the cup that was dangerously teetering over both their laps. In doing so, her sleeve rolled back to reveal a large bracelet of purple bruises just above the wrist.

‘Margot!’ cried Cécile, horrified.

Quickly Margot covered her arm. ‘Hush. It is nothing, I beg you. I … I bruise so easily.’

Cécile looked far from convinced. ‘What happened?’

Margot gave a humourless laugh. ‘I was married to Arnaud d’Albret, that’s what happened.’ She sighed miserably. ‘I was twelve when the Black Prince swept our lands in his terrifying chevauchée of ’55. My father died beneath the stroke of his sword and I was delivered to the Albret captain who had “taken a fondness for the girl with green eyes.” I was kept as a ward and then when Arnaud’s first wife died, he married me. It sounds like a romance out of a troubadour’s tale but I assure you it is not. I often wish I had shared my father’s fate.’ She looked at Cécile and her face softened. ‘But not all Albrets vent their temper as does my husband. Gillet has a kindness about him that is greatly lacking in his brother.’

‘You mean your husband beats you?’ Cécile entwined her fingers with Margot’s.

‘It is called discipline and I am slow learner. I can abide my own mistakes but when others suffer on my behalf, I … I … I had a squirrel once, called Mimi,’ whispered Margot. ‘And the cook left a roasted chicken stuffed with chestnuts on the table, uncovered. It was meant for our supper but Mimi found it. What squirrel could resist the nuts? Arnaud caught her eating it. He banished me to my room, informing me that I could sup alone in my chamber. That night he had a tray sent up for me.’ Her eyes glazed. ‘When I lifted the linen covering my plate I found the charred body of my squirrel.’

‘Oh, my Lord,’ choked Cécile. ‘How could anyone do such a thing?’

Margot’s eyes flickered with hatred. ‘Arnaud could. His justice is swift and cruel, and he does not like to be defied in anything.’ She gave a strangled laugh and peered down at her belly. ‘And I am about to royally defy him.’ She suddenly grasped Cécile’s hand. ‘You must leave here now. Find Gillet and warn him. I overheard Arnaud talking with Amanieu before he left. They plan to petition the Crown for a lucrative marriage contract for Gillet. The Albrets are high in favour these days, and the brothers have convinced King Edward to consider his own niece. Gillet will have no choice for it will come as a royal decree. It suits my husband well, for then he would inherit this place and we will remain here.’

‘Marguerite.’

Both girls jumped as a dark shadow loomed over them. ‘You are required in your chamber.’ Arnaud bowed politely, but he squinted at his wife with barely concealed anger. ‘Now.’

When Margot did not appear for supper that night, Cécile began to worry. The revelations of Arnaud’s temper riddled her with all sorts of imaginings. Finally she worked up enough courage to ask after her health and Arnaud threw down his spoon.

‘My wife has retired for the night,’ was the curt answer. ‘Her little jaunt this morning left her exhausted. She is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.’ Arnaud glared at Cécile. ‘Do I make myself clear, Lady d’Armagnac? And now, since my brother deems I should play host without having the courtesy to return home, I have some tasks that must be completed before dark.’ He stood and bowed. ‘Good night, Mademoiselle.’

Feeling less than content with the explanation, Cécile paced the floorboards in her room before deciding a quick visit surely could not hurt. She crept to Margot’s chamber and, laying her ear against the panel work, tapped lightly.

‘Margot?’

Unable to hear anything within she drew a steadying breath and opened the door. It was richly decorated and a cloying aroma of incense hung in the air. A huge bed, draped in red and gold curtains, majestically soared to the rafters. It was empty. A large carved chest sat at its foot. By the window was a high-backed chair, turned to face the world outside, but the casement’s shutters were firmly closed. It was then Cécile heard the soft weeping.

‘Margot?’ She crept closer. ‘Marguerite? It is I, Cécile.’

The crying ceased immediately. ‘Go away.’ The voice was muffled, but the terror was unmistakable.

‘I am worried for you,’ persisted Cécile, moving closer. ‘Your husband said … a Dieu ne plaise!’

She drew back gasping, her eyes wide with horror. Margot’s head was encased in a small cage, with an extended metal piece slotting into her mouth and an ensemble of straps winding over her face.

‘Mon Dieu!’ Cécile’s revulsion gave way to rage and with quivering hands she began to unfasten the buckles. ‘Never in my whole life have I …’

Margot pulled back, distorted noises gurgling in her throat as she struggled.

‘Keep still!’ Gently Cécile slid off the metal monstrosity.

Freed from her affliction, Margot buried her head into her hands and wept without restraint.

Cécile dropped the hideous contraption to the floor and gathered Margot’s trembling body into her arms. She allowed the flood of tears to take its course. ‘Hush now, hush. I will not let him hurt you anymore.’ A cup of wine had been placed nearby to taunt the woman. Cécile passed it to Margot and the young wife drank thirstily. Fresh bruises coloured her neck and wrists and her tongue had been cut by the prongs of the bridle plate.

‘What kind of man would do such a thing?’ growled Cécile. ‘And why?’

‘A husband may do such a thing, Lady d’Armagnac. Marguerite must learn obedience, as should you.’

Both women started as Arnaud’s tall frame filled the doorway. His chilling tone sent shivers down Cécile’s spine and Margot clung to her in panic.

‘My wife had no right to discuss our family dealings.’ He stepped into the room, menacingly holding out his hand. ‘Just as you have no right to be in here now. Give me the bridle.’

Deftly Cécile scooped up the metal contraption, her eyes flashing with indignation. She pushed open the shutters and held the mask out.

‘Give it to me,’ growled Arnaud.

‘Oops.’ Cécile let it go. ‘Your pardon, milord. I dropped it.’

Margot rose from the chair with a groan. ‘No, Cécile, no.’

Cécile stepped in front of her and held out her arm in protective fashion. ‘I have seen your wife’s bruises. You are not fit to call yourself a husband!’

Arnaud’s lip curled. ‘And you have had so many, you would know?’ A tic beneath his wayward eye began to pulsate. ‘You tread where you ought not. Step aside, Lady d’Armagnac, or I shall be forced to teach you a lesson. One, I daresay, the Comte should have taught you a long time ago.’ He plucked a switch that lay upon the bed chest and swished it through the air. ‘You are under my roof, and I will have your obedience.’

‘Arnaud, no! Please!’ cried Margot. ‘She meant no harm. She does not understand.’

‘Gillet will hear of this,’ gasped Cécile, her courage rapidly waning beneath Arnaud’s manic glare.

‘As well he might,’ drawled Arnaud, ‘but he, at least, was raised to understand the order of things. It would seem that you have yet to learn. Clearly Armagnac did not teach his women their place.’ He advanced slowly, flicking the rod, and both women backed away, moving crablike towards the door. ‘Stay where you are, wife.’

‘Run, Cécile!’ Margot pushed her friend and, terrified now, Cécile leaped for the open space. Arnaud was quicker. The rod struck her shoulder, tearing her sleeve and biting into flesh. She cried out in pain. He hurtled her into the hallway but with the instinct of a trapped animal Cécile clawed at his face, raking her nails deep down one cheek. Arnaud fell back with a howl. Cécile’s chest heaved in fear as she watched him wipe the blood from his torn skin. He studied his fingers in disbelief, the muscle beneath his eye twitching in a madness of its own.

‘You vicious, little bitch!’ he roared. ‘How dare you defy me.’

He lunged at her and they tumbled against the railing like two drunkards, the wood splintering dangerously beneath the force. Cécile screamed, her arms flailing to protect her face as Arnaud wielded the rod, over and over. She fell to her knees and scrambled on all fours, past the stairwell, trying to reach the safety of her chamber. There sounded a wild, unearthly shriek as Margot threw herself at Arnaud. He twisted, bellowing like a demon, and threw her off. With an ear-splitting scream, she pitched headfirst down the stairs.

The next few hours were the worst in Cécile’s life. She was locked into her chamber where she paced relentlessly, shed-ding countless tears as the tormented howls of a woman echoed down the hall. That Margot had survived the fall was a miracle in itself but the pains of an early labour had begun immediately. Cécile fell to her knees beside her bed, her fists clenched, her stomach in knots.

‘God please help us! Please let Margot and her babe survive.’ Her lash-beaten shoulders shook as she wept. ‘Gillet, please come. If the babe dies it will be my fault, and I am afraid. Arnaud will show no mercy. Oh God, someone save me from this Hell!’

‘Mademoiselle d’Armagnac?’ The door rattled and Veronique’s voice sounded thickly from the other side. Cécile jumped up as the door was unlocked and the maid’s pale face appeared in the gap. ‘Veronique, how is she? How is Margot? Oh, my Lord! Forgive me. This is all my fault.’

‘Hush. Calm yourself, Mademoiselle.’ Veronique pressed her finger to her lips and lowered her voice. ‘The Madame progresses well and her injuries are blessedly minor, considering the fall she took. But that devil of a husband will not leave her side. She is to have no peace at all. Not even in her delivery hour.’ Veronique spat in disgust. ‘He is a beast in human skin! For every month Madame did not conceive, he broke her little finger as penance for her disobedience.’

‘Oh, my Lord!’

Veronique nodded. ‘Oui, always the same finger so that it would not heal. It was to be a constant reminder.’ The maid collapsed onto a nearby stool and crossed herself. ‘Holy Mary, mother of God, protect us for what is to come.’ She peeped up at Cécile. ‘Madame has sent me to warn you. She fears the worst and wishes for you to be safe.’

‘The worst?’ bellowed Cécile. ‘What could be worse than this?’

Veronique grabbed Cécile’s sleeve, her voice rasping. ‘Lady d’Albret has not felt the babe move for days now. There may be no question of the child surviving this night. Not if it is already … please, Mademoiselle d’Armagnac, his first wife and son already lay in their graves.’ The maid quickly crossed herself. ‘His fury would know no bounds. You must be gone. The Madame could deliver any hour and she begs you to leave for the safety of your own child.’

Panic seeped into Cécile’s breast and she grabbed Veronique’s hands. ‘Then you must find Alfred, the captain of my soldiers. Tell him to ready the men and saddle Ruby and Inferno. Then come back and get me. I shall not leave without first having written a note to Margot.’

‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’

Veronique flew down the stairs with the speed of a racing gazelle. Cécile locked her door from the inside and leaned against it, her skin crawling as a wild howl of pain, louder than all the others put together, engulfed the manor house.

Then there was silence.