(Jean d'Armagnac talking with Cécile)

'We met at the Abbaye de Flaran by Larressingle in the dark of night. I can still see Mary standing there clutching her cloak against the wind, her lips pressed in a tight smile as plainsong echoed from the chapel. She beckoned me to follow her through the cloister, up a stairwell to a private room. With her finger raised in a gesture for silence, she stepped to an alcove and swept aside the curtain. There lay a tiny girl, shrouded in a mantle of golden hair, fast asleep on the palliasse.'

'I was raised not far from Condom, the seat of power of the Armagnacs, at Larressingle, a grand fortress perched high upon a hill that commands a spectacular view across lush fields of green and gold.'

'Following a single width bridle path from the rear of the monastery, we were led into a nearby copse that would shield our escape. Armand’s soldiers were to meet us in a village halfway to Compiègne, where we would stay the night. The lay brothers were working in an adjoining field, robes tucked into belts, their backs as bent as their scythes, and I sent a prayer of thanks for the admonishing they had delivered to Edward’s horrified soldiers only days before. How many new pots of dye, by way of payment, had recently appeared in the illuminator’s cavern on my behalf? The sunlight glinted on Bellegarde’s shield. No doubt he had supplied the means but the coin for such protection would have been my father’s, surely?'

'The manor house is respectable in size and draped in dense ivy. Sadly its condition is  deteriorating, the peeling paint competing with the cracked daub. If not for this, it would be a most pretty sight. Shuttered casements are scattered over three floors and though fireplaces are numerous, smoke drifts from only one chimney. There are gardens aplenty, and plenty overgrown! Large sprawling bushes, rambling vines and a veritable carpet of weeds cover the rolling patches of lawn. But even with its unkempt appearance, or mayhap because of it, I loved it immediately. It is wild and untamed.'

‘Whilst the Mesdames secured supplies in the village, I attacked their domain with the ruthlessness of a warrior on a raid. Cleaning floors and scrubbing tables, scouring pots and pans until they shone; the kitchen began to gleam like a newly-minted coin. By mid afternoon the aroma of oatcakes permeated the air and the kettle hissed cheerfully from its hook by the fire. An army of vegetables, stripped of their coats, lay patiently awaiting execution in a pot. Returning the oven paddle to its corner and poking the freshly baked cakes with satisfaction, I turned with a sigh of simple contentment, wondering if such domestic serenity could be more than just a paragraph in the pages of my life. That was when I saw Gillet standing in the doorway.

He was clean shaven and neatly groomed, his blue velvet shoulders stiff with resolve, but he had the appearance of a wrung out sheet rather than freshly aired linen. He stepped tentatively into the room, his expression taut and drawn. ‘Cécile, we must talk.’

‘Pusillanimous pig!’ He quickly ducked as a jug, half-filled with barley water, smashed into the wall above him. Resentment for the nights of endless lamentation flared anew and anger uncoiled, as dangerous as any striking serpent. 'Knave! Hypocrite! Licentious scoundrel!' He sidestepped a flying missile that was Madame Duvall's pottery bowl. 'Whoremonger!'

"I need some air. Drink up. Armand told me there was a woodland nearby that you would enjoy.’

With some balance restored to our senses, I found myself being guided from the back of the rose garden, down a winding path no wider than a bridle track. Bordered by tall hedgerows of hawthorn, it led to a clearing of immense beauty. Soaring pines tickled the sky, the thickly interwoven branches overhead dangling the sun’s rays in ribbons of pink and gold. 

‘Armand discovered it and thought it would please you. He made me promise to bring you here.’ Gillet smirked indulgently as I gaped, my hands clasped childlike beneath my chin.

‘C’est magnifique!’

‘Oui, a perfect home for a sprite.’

'I was, in God's good grace, a novice at Denny Abbey, awaiting my time to take Holy Orders, having not yet been able to prove my worthiness. Left at the mercy of my benefactress, Lady Mary St Pol, Countess of Pembroke, and the Poor Sisters of Clare when I was only a babe, I had been led to believe that I was a waif with no family; poverty and piety my hand fast friends.' (Extract from Catherine's letter)

'As I peer from my window over the green meadows, I imagine you looking back at me, my dearest, and this brings me great joy.' (Extract from Catherine's letter)

'I sit now, my dearest, within this quaint little inn, in the highest room overlooking the meadows. The neat squares of green intersected by fields of wheat remind me of the many tapestries adorning the walls of Lady Pembroke’s private chamber. I can see the whole of the village and its accompanying manor house, the home of Lord Roderick of Shalford, half brother to Simon.' (Extract from Catherine's letter)

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