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sailed past. ‘I am going to sleep in the women’s tent.

    Cécile threw her blanket into the corner and blinked back tears as Minette and Margot stared wide-eyed. Veronique was blissfully snoring. ‘I thought I should sleep closer to Jean Petit, just in case he needs me,’ she offered.
    â€˜He’s teething, Cécile, not ill,’ stated Margot.
    â€˜Well, Gillet’s snoring is keeping me awake.’
    A large shadow loomed over the front flap.
    â€˜Do you not need to be asleep in order to snore?’ observed Margot, poking Veronique until she rolled.
    Gillet swooped through the opening like a wraith rider from Hell, his black cloak lending respectability to his braies. He bowed to the women, his countenance stony-faced and grim as his fingers manacled Cécile’s wrist. ‘Excuse me, ladies. I believe this belongs in my tent.’
    An hour later, Cécile smiled up at her husband. By the light of the glowing moon she saw his answering grin. ‘If making up after an argument is always to be like this, I think we shall argue more.’
    â€˜We argue enough as it is! Do you honestly think I would dare to lie in the arms of another? Or more to the matter that I would want to?’ whispered Gillet, pulling her close. The familiar tears welled in Cécile’s eyes and he kissed them away. ‘Put aside such thoughts. We have our son. If he is all God wills us, then I am content so long as I have you.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’ Her concern was genuine but it would take time for both of them to accept the harsh reality.
    On the night before Cécile’s father, Jean d’Armagnac, had taken his leave from the wedding, the entourage of Maison des Fleurs had gathered around the table to argue the best course for the future. Out of this discussion there arose a united, solemn oath, binding family and servants alike. The world would know Jean Petit as Gillet’s son and Edward of Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, would not learn of his illegitimate child until the time was deemed right. Gillet steadfastly refused to give the heir-apparent any excuse to recall his wife to the royal bedchamber. They all agreed.
    Cécile snuggled into her husband and sighed sleepily. Every night she still offered up prayers that Gillet would become a father by her womb. So far her plea remained unanswered but she would never give up hope.

‘Mallard or snipe? Take ya pick,’ screeched a peddler as the small travelling party made their way through the centre of Cambridge. ‘All fresh kills, I promise ya. I don’t do scavenging,’ he persisted, waving the long-dead birds in front of Lady Catherine Wexford.
    â€˜Move along. M’lady is not interested in your wares,’ instructed the sergeant-at-arms, positioning his horse between Catherine and the growing number of nosey vendors.
    â€˜Is it always this busy?’ she asked her husband, Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford, who had been conversing with several of his soldiers.
    â€˜No. I believe my return has whipped up additional excitement,’ Simon replied as he waved to a number of well-wishers.
    â€˜I believe they may be more interested in your bride,’ quipped Roderick of Guildford, Simon’s half-brother. ‘And by the look on their faces, I think I can safely say they are somewhat surprised!’
    â€˜Surprised? Why would they be so?’ asked Catherine.
    â€˜Well, to begin with, you don’t have two heads, nor breathe fire,’ laughed Roderick as he closed the space between the sergeant in front and several of their guards caught in the ensuing throng.
    Catherine’s mare shied as the bystanders pushed forward. Stall-holders were joined by peasants and noblemen alike, all straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the new Lady Wexford. Catherine grasped the reins tightly, fearful for the first time since they departed Denny Abbey.
    Simon could see his wife struggling to