The Order of the Lily by Catherine A. Wilson Page A

grate beside the outer wall. Several bodies lay at his feet, the last adorned with his cockscomb. He indicated silently to the darkly-dressed men around him and they split into two groups. Simon and Mouse crept towards the round tower at the rear of the enclosure whilst Guiraud and Gabriel disappeared behind a covered cart.
    They met no resistance, which bothered Simon more than it pleased him. Perhaps the guards were preoccupied by the number of guests arriving. Either that or their plan had been uncovered and a trap set in place. Several soldiers passed them by but failed to look in their direction, which only added to his ill-ease.
    Taking cover beneath the stairs, Simon held his dagger at the ready and berated himself once again for the situation in which they found themselves. He should have known that Catherine would never allow Cecile’s return to the Prince’s bed. He knew the loyalty the girls had for each other and that Catherine would do anything to save her sister, just as he would for Roderick. However, he was a soldier, a man with years of training. And damn it to Hell! She had tricked him and his pride suffered. He swore under his breath. When he got hold of her he would tan her hide!
    He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. Far from satisfying his anger, the very thought excited him and he swallowed hard. She had no idea what she did to him or the men around her. One day she would inadvertently pay for her naïveté with her innocence. If that had not already happened! He prayed to God it hadn’t.

    Catherine and Tariq had taken the longer route, around the outer defences and away from the great hall. The torchlight was barely sufficient and Catherine slipped in the foul-smell-ing puddles that leached from the castle walls. Laughter burst from an approaching group of revellers and Tariq pulled Catherine into the shadows.
    â€˜Quickly.’ He pointed to the darkened corner beneath the outer stairs and Catherine slid from sight.
    The party spoke briefly to Tariq, who claimed he was in a hurry, encouraging the strangers to move on. He waited until their voices were nothing more than whispered echoes in the distance, then called Catherine from the shadows.
    â€˜We must be quick. You are expected at the base of the east tower before the bell strikes eight. I fear that we will not make good time should we be forced to dodge every drunken castle guest.’
    â€˜Perhaps we should run?’ Catherine suggested.
    Tariq raised one eyebrow, a characteristic Catherine had grown to appreciate, for it indicated that he was greatly amused. ‘I suggest we simply cross the bailey, rather than go all the way around. If we are questioned I will explain that we have lost our way.’
    â€˜But if we are seen together, will it not appear that you are complicit in this escape plan?’
    â€˜Yes. Then I, too, will have to leave.’
    â€˜But, Tariq …’
    â€˜No sense in considering that event until it occurs,’ he stated, leading her into the mêlée assembled in the courtyard. Jugglers, tumblers, mummers and minstrels occupied every corner, each practising their own specialty in the space available.
    â€˜Just a small part of the Count of Flanders’ flamboyant entrance,’ he explained and instructed Catherine to don her cloak and hooded mantle to cover her head.
    Tariq grasped Catherine’s hand and led her through the weaving mass, sidestepping a number of exotic dancers with gyrating hips. The portcullis was raised, the drawbridge lowered and the guards distracted as they ogled the erotic women.
    A noisy jester stepped between them, launching into a ribald tale involving a donkey and a monk, and Catherine’s grip was severed. Tariq was now standing on the opposite side of a human wall, constructed of brightly coloured tumblers scrambling upon each others’ backs. Panicked, she sought a way through the entertainers but was almost knocked from her