Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  She sighed, chastened by Isabella, and gazed back out on the field. With a helmet covering his face, the blond warrior in the blue-and-gold surcoat looked even more threatening, as if he were not human at all. She could only hope he would not wound Gilbert. Of course, this was not war. No one died in a tournament.

  At least, not very often.

  The herald gave the sign, she sent up a prayer for Gilbert’s safety and braced for another drawn-out contest with lance and sword.

  The horses charged, hooves pounding the turf, blue and gold galloping towards green and white. Atop his horse, Gilbert sat off-centre, unsteady, while the Frenchman rode as solid and immovable as Windsor’s walls. She held her breath, as if that would make a difference. They were going too fast, what if the Frenchman really—?

  Lances clattered on steel. Something flew across the field. A lance tip? A glove? Gilbert’s horse reared.

  Then, Gilbert lay flat on his back, his green-and-white surcoat covering the earth like spring grass.

  She jumped to her feet. Was he wounded? Or worse? Not another loss, please...

  The Frenchman backed his horse away, so the beast would not accidentally trample the boy. As Gilbert’s squire scampered on to the field, Gilbert sat up unaided and removed his helmet. Without the protection of his armour, shadowed by the man towering over him on the horse, he looked as young and thin and untried as he was.

  But, thank God, unhurt.

  Isabella arched her brows. ‘I fear your scarf is a lost cause.’

  ‘It was hardly a fair match. And since it was not, the French knight should have been chivalrous enough to spare the boy.’

  ‘I don’t think that one cares for courtesies. His friend, however...’

  And as Isabella spoke, the French knight, the warrior Cecily had wanted to see toppled, turned his horse and left the field.

  This time, there was no applause.

  Westminster Palace—that night

  Cecily scanned the cavernous Hall of Westminster Palace from the edge of the dais as servants bearing flambeaux wandered among the crowd. Torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the faces, and she studied each one, searching for her future.

  Would the tall earl from the West Country be chosen as her husband? Or perhaps the stout baron from Sussex who had recently buried his wife?

  Yet French hostages dotted the crowd as well, marring her mood. She was not inclined to feign politeness to more of her father’s killers. At least, surely, the one who bested Gilbert would dare not show himself tonight.

  Determined to impress the visiting kings with the full power and glory of his court, King Edward defied the darkness of the night. The high table was crowded with bronze candlesticks and dozens of twinkling flames.

  Yet, for Cecily, memories lurked in the shadows. When her father was alive, he sat at the king’s table. When her mother was alive, they whispered their judgements of the ladies’ gowns. The scarlet that Lady Jane was wearing, her mother would have admired—

  ‘Cecily? Did you hear me?’

  She leaned forward to catch Isabella’s whisper. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’

  A frown creased Isabella’s face. ‘Attend. Father has had good news about Scotland. He’s in a bounteous mood and not as clear-headed as usual,’ Isabella whispered. ‘You may find yourself promised to the nearest available lord before the night is over.’

  Cecily looked around the hall, steeling herself. ‘Has he mentioned anyone in particular?’

  Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not to me.’

  She did not know who she would marry, yet she knew he would be an Englishman, loyal and strong. A man the king could trust as implicitly as he had trusted her father, for Losford Castle, Guardian of the Channel, was the most important bulwark in all of England, the one that could keep England’s enemies away from her shores.

  It could only go to a man for whom duty was all.

  As it was for her.

  She had grown up knowing this would be her lot, always. She was the only child of the Earl of Losford and sole holder of the lands and title. She would marry as her parents, and the king, decided.

  ‘Do you think about him?’ Isabella’s question brought her back.

  ‘I think about my father every day.’ Not that she had seen him every day while he lived. Like all men, he had spent much of his life at war in France.

  ‘I meant your husband. Who he might be.’

  Strange question to come from a woman long unmarried. Yet Cecily’s father had not hurried her marriage, either. Even as she passed an age to be wed, her world had remained her parents, their castle and the court.

  She’s not ready, her mother had whispered to her father.

  But the death of her parents had rent her world so thoroughly that she wondered whether even a husband could make it whole again. ‘I think only that I will accept the king’s choice.’ As was her duty.

  ‘Well, Father demands that a man acquit himself well on the tournament field,’ Isabella said, ‘and he was more impressed with those hostages today than with any of our men.’

  Resentment wrestled with relief. At least a hostage would not be a prospective husband. ‘The dark one I can understand,’ she admitted, grudgingly. ‘He conducted himself according to the rules of chivalry, but the fair-haired Frenchman was a disgrace.’

  ‘Perhaps, but Father said he would be a useful man to have on your side in the midst of a battle.’

  A surprising admission, for a king who modelled himself and his court on the ideals of King Arthur’s Round Table.

  ‘Look,’ Isabella said. ‘Over there. There he is.’

  ‘Who?’ Relieved at Isabella’s wandering attention, Cecily followed her gaze. ‘Where?’

  ‘The French knight. The dark one. There by the fire.’

  The man was standing comfortably beside his blond friend before one of the hearths, halfway down the hall, as if they were lounging in their own hall instead of the king’s.

  ‘It is time we met,’ the princess said. ‘Go. Bring him to me. I would congratulate him on today’s joust.’

  ‘I refuse to speak to that man,’ she said, thinking of the blond one. What was his name? Somehow in the noise and chatter of the tournament, neither she nor Isabella had heard either of the knights announced. ‘After the way he treated Gilbert...’

  Isabella twisted her mouth.

  Cecily’s frown twitched.

  And then, they both gave in to laughter. ‘Poor Gilbert.’

  After initially appearing uninjured, Gilbert had developed blossoming bruises and left the hall early, limping. At least Cecily would be spared the need to feign an interest in a detailed account of his embarrassing performance.

  ‘Send one of the other ladies,’ she said, after she stopped laughing. ‘Or a page.’ That would be a proper insult to the man.

  Isabella shook her head. ‘Speak to the man or snub him as you choose. Just bring me his friend.’

  Sighing, Cecily stepped off the dais and started down the Hall. And as she made her way through the crowd, her resentment grew. She lived in England, under an English king and in an English court, yet French music surrounded her. When she danced, French steps guided her feet. Even the words on her tongue were French. No wonder the hostages looked so comfortable. But for sleeping on this side of the Channel, they might as well be at home.

  Isabella was right. They shared culture, language and even, in some cases, blood. Yet all that had not been enough to keep them from killing each other.

  Just as she reached the two men, the dark one slipped away. She paused, thinking to escape, but she had moved with too much purpose. The fair-haired knight looked up and met her gaze.

  Now, she could not turn aside.

  He leaned against the wall, seemingly at ease, but when she c
ame closer, she could see that despite the sweet music and laughter all around him, he seemed coiled and ready for battle.

  Cecily paused, waiting for him to acknowledge her and bow. Instead, he looked down at her, silent.

  ‘It is customary,’ she began, through gritted teeth, ‘for a knight to acknowledge a lady.’

  He shrugged.

  Could nothing stir this quiet barbarian? ‘I am attached to the royal household.’

  ‘So am I to bow not only to the English royals, but also to those who serve them?’

  ‘I am no serving girl,’ she snapped at the demeaning suggestion. But he could not have mistaken a woman wearing velvet for a serving girl. He wanted to make her furious, that was clear. Worse, he was succeeding. She unclenched her fingers and forced a shrug to match his own. ‘You have proven again that French chivalry is vastly overrated.’

  He stood straight, then, as if her words had been the blow she’d intended. ‘Chevalier Marc de Marcel at your service.’ A slight inclination of his head, its very perfection a mockery.

  ‘Chivalry is more than courtly manners. A chivalrous knight would have allowed an untried opponent to hold his honour on the field.’

  He glanced at her violet gown and an expression she could not decipher rippled across his face. ‘The favour he carried. It was yours.’ Something in the timbre of his voice reached inside her, implying that she and Gilbert...

  But it didn’t mean what you think. ‘I would have said the same even if it was not.’ Pinned by his expression, she had trouble taking a breath. The anger in his eyes matched her own. Or was it something besides anger? Something more like hunger...

  He smiled. Slowly and without mirth. ‘You would have frowned at me the same way if I had been the one unhorsed.’

  True, and she blushed with shame to be thought as rude as he. A countess should be above such weakness. Assuming the disguise of polite interest, she reached for her noble demeanour. ‘You are newly come?’

  The scowl returned to his face. ‘Weeks that seem like years. The Compte d’Oise pined for home. Before your king allowed him to leave, he demanded a substitute. C’est moi. Now you have your answer. You may leave.’

  ‘The king’s daughter would like to meet you.’ A lie, but one that would explain her presence.

  ‘She takes a lively interest in her father’s prisoners.’

  Only the handsome ones, Cecily thought, but held her tongue and turned, praying he would follow.

  He did.

  Lady Isabella suppressed a smile as they approached and Cecily could only hope she would be spared the humiliation of being teased for returning with the man she had sworn to snub. ‘The Chevalier Marc de Marcel, my lady. He has come only recently.’

  His bow to the king’s daughter showed little more deference than the one he had made to Cecily. ‘May a hostage be presented to his captor, my lady?’

  An edge to his words. As if they had two meanings. Well, Isabella would enjoy that. Her lady was always ready for laughter, and if it held a suggestive edge, all the better. All for show, of course. A princess, and a countess, must live above reproach. Still, Isabella’s light talk and her constant stream of diversions had kept Cecily from being devoured by despair.

  But strangely, the man was not looking at Isabella. He was looking at Cecily.

  ‘Yes,’ Isabella said, drawing his eyes to her. ‘In fact, it is required. And your friend...’ she inclined her head, regally, in the direction of the other knight, who had reappeared in the hall ‘...has not yet been presented. And he, I believe, has been in England much longer than you have.’

  As if he had heard her request, the dark one approached. As if he had expected this. As if this was what the two of them had been planning when they put their heads together.

  And when he arrived before the king’s daughter, he did not wait for permissions or introductions. ‘Enguerrand, Lord de Coucy.’ No explanation. As if his name and title were enough.

  Well, they were. The de Coucy family was well known, even on this side of the Channel. Once, the family had even held lands here.

  Silent, Isabella inclined her head to acknowledge him. She did not need to tell him who she was. Everyone knew she was the king’s oldest, and favourite, daughter.

  The minstrels’ horns signalled the beginning of a new dance. Isabella rose and held out her hand to de Coucy, forcing him to lead her to the floor. He did not look reluctant.

  Cecily searched the room, hoping for rescue. She should join the dance with a partner who might become a husband, not with a hostage.

  And the hostage did not offer his hand.

  Well, then, if she were trapped, she would attempt to be gracious. She pursed her lips. ‘You are from the Oise Valley?’

  A frown, as if the reminder of home had angered him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do they dance there?’

  ‘On occasion. When les goddams give us a pause from battle.’

  She blinked. ‘The what?’

  He smiled. ‘It is what we call the Anglais.’

  ‘Why?’ Did they wish to curse the English with every name?

  ‘Because every sentence they utter contains the phrase.’

  She stifled a smile. Her father, indeed, had been known to swear on occasion. She could imagine that he would have had many more occasions in the midst of battle.

  But she held out her hand, as imperious as the princess could be. ‘If you can dance, then show me.’

  ‘Is this part of a hostage’s punishment?’

  ‘No,’ she retorted. ‘It is one of his privileges.’

  ‘Then, pray, demoiselle, tell me your name, so I may know my partner.’

  He shamed her with the reminder. Anger had stolen all her senses. She was acting like a common serving girl. ‘Lady Cecily, Countess of Losford.’

  The surprise on his face was gratifying. He looked at her uncovered hair and then glanced behind her, as if expecting an earl to be hovering close behind.

  ‘I hold the title.’ Both a matter of pride and sadness. She held it because the rest of her family was gone. Held it in trust for a husband she did not yet know.

  His nod was curt, yet he held out a hand, without hesitation now, as if that had been his intention from the first.

  Surprise, or something deeper, unfamiliar, stirred when she put her fingers in his. She had expected his hands to be soft, as so many of the knights’ had become now that war was over. Instead, his palm was calloused; his knuckles scraped. Wounds from today’s joust, she thought at first, but in the passing torchlight, she saw he carried scars of long standing.

  They joined the carol circle. On the other side, de Coucy and Isabella smiled and whispered to each other as if the evening had been prepared for their amusement. That man showed not a whit of resentment at his captivity, while beside her, de Marcel glowered, stubbornly silent as the music began.

  They could not have been more unlike, these two.

  Carol dancing, with its ever-moving ring of dancers holding hands, did not lend itself to talk. And he moved as he spoke, with precision, without excess, doing only what was necessary.

  She wondered whether this man enjoyed anything at all.

  Certainly he did not enjoy her. When the dance was done, he dropped her hand quickly and she let go a breath, suddenly realising how tense she had been at his touch.

  He stood, silent, looking around the Hall as if searching for an escape. And yet this hostage, this enemy could, if he wanted, lift a goblet of the king’s good wine, fill his belly with the king’s meat and his ears with sweet music played by the king’s minstrels, all the while alive and comfortable while her father lay dead in his grave.

  ‘What did you do,’ she asked, ‘to earn the honour of substituting for the other hostage?’

  �
�Honour?’

  ‘You were defeated in battle, you killed my...countrymen, yet the king welcomes you to his court where you have food and wine aplenty and nothing to do. It seems a generous punishment for defeat.’

  ‘A prison with tapestries is no less a prison.’

  ‘But you are safe. You may do as you please.’

  ‘And if it please me to go home?’

  And yet her father would come home no more. ‘You must pay some penalty. We conquered you!’

  As the words escaped, she saw his expression change.

  ‘No! Not conquered. Never conquered. We were betrayed by cowards. Lord de Coucy and I were not among them. We would have fought until the last goddam was dead.’

  This time, it was a curse he hurled.

  ‘So you hate the English,’ she said. Blunt words, but he was a blunt man.

  ‘As much as you the French,’ he answered.

  ‘I doubt that,’ she said, sheer will keeping her voice steady. ‘But since you detest us and disdain the king’s hospitality, I hope your time here will be short.’

  He bowed then, the gesture a mockery. ‘In that, my lady, we are in accord.’

  Chapter Two

  Marc watched the countess walk away, his eyes lingering on her swaying hips longer than he intended.

  De Coucy, relieved of his attendance on the king’s daughter, rejoined him and followed his gaze. ‘Ah, she is lovely, is she not, le belle dame de Losford? The way her head balances on her slender neck, that cloud of dark hair...’ His voice trailed off to delights unseen.

  Marc had a momentary vision of sweeping the woman into his arms for a kiss, erasing the frown that turned her lips when she’d looked his way, even before they had met.

  She would think even less of his honour then. Of course, if she knew all he had done, and all he was willing to do, she would think nothing of it at all.

  Marc forced his gaze away from Lady Cecily’s retreating form and shrugged. ‘I’ve no interest in les goddams, men or women.’ Yet he lied. The countess, by turns ice and fire—he had an interest in her. An interest of the wrong kind.