The Gilded Crown Read Online Free PDF Page A

husband’s abilities or skill. Be assured his “parts” will never require services from the likes of you!’ With her nose primly stuck in the air, Cécile marched away from the open-mouthed putains. Beside her, Margot stifled her splutter.

    From inside her pavilion, Cécile listened to the crowing of Orléans’ roosters as Jean Petit suckled at her breast. Through the breach in the front flap, she watched as Armand slapped a beaming Griffith between the shoulder blades.
    â€˜When you dropped the lance I thought I was going to rust my armour,’ he choked.
    â€˜Oui. Have you ever seen such an inept display of squiring?’ bellowed Mouse. ‘Or horsemanship? When Gillet threw down his lance, I swear I could hear Flandre laughing behind his helm. Conceited bastard!’
    â€˜Oui,’ chortled Gabriel, wiping his eyes, ‘but I bet he is not laughing now. Where is Gillet, anyway?’
    Cécile was wondering the same thing herself.
    â€˜He ran across an old friend in the crowd. He said—’
    Jean Petit’s wail drowned out Armand’s words. The babe’s face screwed, and he screamed, thrusting a fist into his mouth. When ten minutes later he was still performing, having drunk very little, Cécile stepped from the canvas to breathe sanity. The men were in deep discussion, sprawled around a stump which served as a table for a chessboard. Upon it two armies seemed hopelessly entangled, straggled in peculiar positions, though no pieces had been surrendered.
    Armand smiled at Cécile’s approach then grimaced as Jean Petit let fly another howl. He jumped up and held out his arms. ‘Would you have me take him for a while? You look a little worn.’
    â€˜He refuses to settle,’ complained Cécile, ‘I think he is teething.’ She nodded at the board. ‘What do you play?’
    â€˜Warfare,’ answered Armand. ‘We are planning our strategies for tomorrow’s mêlée.’
    Smiling to the others, Cécile noted Gillet’s absence and the lengthening of the shadows. ‘Is Gillet not back yet?’
    â€˜No, but I would not be overly concerned, sweetheart. He has probably been waylaid at every campfire, with many congratulatory tankards.’
    â€˜Then I think I will take Jean Petit for a walk. The cool air might ease his discomfort.’
    She left the men to their scheming and, with Margot supervising the evening meal, Cécile jiggled and danced Jean Petit to a nearby grove of trees. Thinking herself alone, she jumped when a woman stepped out from behind a bush. Her hair was hidden beneath a snow-white coif and her tailored gown of expensive blue brocade hung slackly on her shoulders. She struck out long fingers to capture the baby’s chin, the dirty, broken nails at odds with the rest of her appearance.
    â€˜What a fine child,’ she purred. ‘A boy?’
    â€˜Yes,’ confirmed Cécile, swinging him away from her avaricious reach. ‘Your pardon, Jean is overset today; teething troubles.’
    â€˜Oil of cloves,’ she replied. ‘Rub it into his gums.’ The twitch of the woman’s lips revealed tidy teeth, though grimy from ill care. Dark circles smudged the skin above her gaunt cheeks but her green eyes sparkled like gems. If not for her emaciation, she may have come close to beautiful. The flawless bone structure of her face would excite a sculptor but her colour was high, suggesting an ailment of some kind. Her gaze fell upon the chain around Cécile’s neck and, with a gasp, she struck out again. Before Cécile could move, her silver medal was nestled in the woman’s palm and she was studying it as though it were an insect in amber.
    â€˜What an unusual medallion,’ she murmured.
    â€˜It is Saint Gilles,’ explained Cécile, feeling uneasy. She wondered if the woman meant to tear it loose. The silver could buy food for a month and,