The Gilded Crown by Catherine A. Wilson

Doune. He writes to inform me he has had a visit from Walter,’ said Simon, skimming over the letter.
    â€˜Leave us,’ commanded Roderick to the men. They gathered up their goblets and jugs of ale, and departed through the side door of the hall.
    Catherine placed a reassuring hand on her husband’s arm.
    â€˜Walter of Odistoun is the husband to our sister, Beatrix,’ explained Simon to Catherine. ‘It seems he is considering a proposal to hand over part of our family estate to the Scottish crown.’
    â€˜I never trusted that little weasel,’ hissed Roderick
    â€˜Sorry Catherine, I know I promised we would have time to rest in Cambridge,’ Simon lamented as he gathered his wife into his arms, ‘but I must depart immediately for Scotland.’
    â€˜Leave Lady Wexford here,’ Roderick suggested. ‘I am more than happy to go with you. I would like nothing more than to have a quiet word with that skinny little viper.’
    â€˜No, I want to come with you!’ pleaded Catherine. ‘Besides, we have yet to visit Dumbarton Castle.’
    When Simon located the Wallace sword in Denny Abbey, he had decided to return it Dumbarton Castle, from whence it had been stolen, rather than take it to France as instructed by the Templars. Roderick agreed to the arrangement but Simon had not discussed his decision with Gillet, Armand or the other members of the order formed to locate and return ‘The Lady,’ the mystical sword of William Wallace.
    â€˜The quicker we are rid of that hunk of metal the better,’ Roderick complained.
    Simon tossed the parchment into the fire. He had much to consider and little time in which to decide. But one thing of which he was sure, he did not want to part from the woman who stubbornly stood by his side. ‘Roderick, inform Hargraves that he, Prescott and twenty of his best soldiers will be accompanying you and me,’ he peered down at Catherine, ‘and Lady Wexford to Scotland. We leave at noon tomorrow.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Catherine mouthed to her husband.
    â€˜I’d best arrange a better mount for you, and you will not thank me, woman, when you realise how far we must ride!’

A pale morning sun gleamed rays of pink and gold over the colourful pavilions nestled on the Arras tourney field. Dew sprinkled the grass and the air was filled with a crisp, clean scent.
    Inside her tent, at the Bellegarde encampment, Cécile d’Albret twirled a bracelet of plaited wires around her wrist. It was a gift from Catherine. She snapped the lid of her jewel coffer closed. ‘What time do you suppose it is in Scotland?’
    Gillet ruffled his hair sleepily and gave a jaw-breaking yawn. ‘Dusk.’
    â€˜Dusk?’
    The coverlet rocked as he scratched somewhere below his navel. ‘It’s always dusk in Scotland.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    Gillet dragged himself from the straw mattress and headed outside. His outline became a shadow on the back wall, followed by a trickling sound. He returned, stepping lively on bare feet as he shivered. ‘You’re up early,’ he noted, pouring fresh water from the ewer into a basin. He plunged his face into the icy depths.
    â€˜Yes. Jean Petit was hungry.’
    Gillet reached for a cloth and wiped his face. ‘Jean Petit is always hungry! How are his gums?’
    â€˜Better. The oil of cloves seems to have worked.’ Cécile opened a small wooden box. She had decided to wear the Bellegarde colours and selected a blue ribbon to match her gown. As she threaded it through one of her braids, Gillet leaned over and stirred the contents with his finger. He selected a red ribbon. Cécile looked up in surprise. ‘Would you prefer I wear the Albret colour?’
    Gillet’s teeth flashed. ‘That will depend, Milady, upon whom you wish to support. There’s every chance I shall meet Armand in the list today.’
    â€˜Really?’
    There