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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.’
    â€˜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.

The turret room of Calais Castle was inordinately opulent. The carved coffer and canopied bed, with its dark crimson curtains, bespoke royalty.
    Catherine had not intended to sleep, so had lain upon the richly embroidered coverlet dressed in Cecile’s travelling cloak. However, fatigue had eventually conquered fear until the call of a nearby sentry woke her. Now she lay terrified, expecting the Prince to arrive at any moment to claim her. Perhaps this was the manner in which the condemned spent their last hours as they awaited the executioner, she pondered, her fingers tightening around her rosary.
    After disembarking back in France Catherine watched helplessly as Gillet was roughly tossed onto a litter and carried away. She had been escorted through the large gate of Calais Castle by two soldiers, the full weight of her rash decision settling upon her like a heavy shroud. How was she to going to convince anyone that she was Cécile? How long would she have to endure the attentions of the Prince? It had been folly and madness to take her sister’s place but, Catherine knew if she were to do it over, she would make the same choice.
    She expected her arrival to be immediately announced to the Prince, but was instead paraded through the great hall and led towards the turret staircase. She lowered her eyes from the many stares and ignored the hushed whispers. Catherine mounted the steps and found herself directed to the royal heir’s chamber. She tried in vain to steady her breathing as the guards outside the heavy wooden door stepped aside, the sound of the heavy bolt dismissing any hope of a possible escape.
    Catherine sank down upon the bed. She had to think quickly. She threw back the cover and removed the smallest bolster, then unwound the cloak that had so far successfully hidden the shape of her body. She lifted her skirt and the seams of her chemise protested as she forced the pillow under. The tight fit kept it secure and by arranging the surcote and cloak to the front, her pregnancy appeared reasonably convincing.
    She laid back, closed her eyes and sought to conjure an image of her rescuer, Simon, but the strawberry-blonde hair of her guardian deepened into the russet tones of England’s heir. She had been told of his wicked temper and feared it would not be long before she would witness it for herself.

    Heavy footfalls on the landing shook Catherine from her reverie. She sat up quickly and slid her stockinged feet into her boots as the door flew open.
    William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and right hand to the Prince of Wales, stepped into the room. ‘We meet at last, Lady d’Armagnac. I have been looking forward to this moment for some time. I have been directed to escort you to the Prince.’
    At the sight of the man she first met at Denny Abbey, Catherine fought off the terror that threatened to choke her.
    Salisbury offered his arm and smiled with feigned