Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  Enguerrand shook his head. ‘Your voice would curdle milk, mon ami.’

  ‘How can you stomach this?’ Yes, the English king was hospitable, and their detention truly a prison courtoise as Lady Cecily implied, created by a shared sense of honour that required a hostage to submit, according to the rules of chivalry, rules which all pretended to follow.

  Yet Marc resented the disguise.

  His friend looked puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

  Marc sighed. It was a question too large. ‘How can you be so gracious to your captors?’ De Coucy had been here for three years. Perhaps he had become accustomed to it.

  ‘Better to get along with all men when you can.’

  ‘And women, too?’

  ‘Bien sûr. Avec les femmes most of all.’ His friend laughed.

  So easy for de Coucy to do as he was expected, to cloak his warrior’s sins with the charm of a courtier. And so hard for Marc, though that was the way of the world. Chivalry said one thing. Chivalrous men did something different and all the while, the code winked and smiled.

  Enguerrand lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes, a more subtle assault can obtain the objective when a frontal attack cannot.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Now Marc saw the smile with a plan behind it. ‘If I...befriend the Lady Isabella, she might persuade her father to restore my lands, n’est-ce pas?’

  He had heard Enguerrand speak of the English lands, soil he had never seen in places with strange names like Cumberland and Westmorland. Northerly lands, near to Scotland, where a de Coucy great-grandmother had gone as a bride. The holdings had been forfeited to the English crown years before.

  ‘Why would King Edward relinquish holdings to a hostage?’

  A shrug and a smile. ‘How do I know if I do not try? In the meantime, the months grow long. I’ve been told the princess creates gay entertainments for those of her circle. Better that we enjoy more nights such as this than moulder in the draughty tower, eh?’

  Ah, that was his friend, still viewing himself as a guest instead of a prisoner. ‘I want to spend no more time with the court.’

  ‘Not even with the lovely countess?’

  ‘Particularly not with her.’ Yet, unbidden, he searched the room, catching sight of her purple gown, and let his gaze linger. She had stirred a dangerous mix of anger and desire. One to be avoided.

  He turned his back on the hall. ‘You do not need me for this campaign.’

  ‘Not tonight, mon ami. But soon, there will come a time. And when I do...?’ A raised eyebrow. Waiting.

  Duty. Honour. Little more than empty words. But loyalty? A man was nothing without that. ‘When you do, you need only ask.’

  ‘Now come.’ Enguerrand rested a hand on Marc’s shoulder and turned him towards the crowded hall. ‘Sing. Dance. Make merry. Make friends.’

  ‘I leave that to you, mon ami.’

  With a wave and a laugh, Enguerrand left to do just that. He moved through the Hall with a nod and a smile, as gracious as if he were at home in the Château de Coucy.

  And why should he not? De Coucy and the other French hostages all lived in certainty that some day, the ransom would be raised, money exchanged and they would go back to a castle very much like this one to sing and dance.

  He did not.

  The Compte d’Oise had promised to return, or send the ransom, or send a substitute, by Easter. Marc would have to stay in Angleterre only six months. Less if the Count could make arrangements more quickly.

  But in retrospect, replaying the conversation, the man had not met his eyes when he described his promises and plans. Options and timing had been vague.

  So why had he come? Why had he chosen to put himself in enemy hands? The debt of fealty. The chance to see his old friend, who had been held by the English for three years.

  His own foolish attempt at honour?

  But tonight, the only person in the hall whose bitterness seemed to match his own was the Countess of Losford.

  * * *

  Gilbert, Cecily was pleased to see, had rallied by the next day, walking stiffly, but all of a piece. Feeling guilty for her laughter with Isabella, she approached him after the morning mass, but he refused to meet her eyes.

  ‘I am sorry I did not uphold the honour you bestowed on me,’ he said, as they walked from the Abbey back to the Palace. His head held slightly down, a shock of brown hair almost in his eyes, he looked as young as a squire, though he was two years older than she.

  And yet, in making that hard admission, he took a step towards being a man, a man who regretted not his own humiliation, but that he had disappointed her.

  ‘The fault was not yours, but de Marcel’s,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a violation of the rules of the tournament.’

  Uneasy, she refrained from telling him she had danced with the man the previous evening. His hand on hers had been rough, but sure. Implacable.

  The warmth of the memory touched her cheeks and she searched for the dignity of her title.

  Gilbert, fighting his own disappointment, did not notice. ‘I was ill prepared. A good lesson.’

  ‘Are you not angry?’ She was. Easier, better, to channel sorrow into anger. Anger had righteous power. Grief was an open wound.

  ‘At myself,’ he said. A hard confession. ‘I will do better next time.’

  She shook her head. ‘Think of him no more.’ She certainly wouldn’t.

  * * *

  In the coming days, as the tournament celebrations ended, the hostages were returned to their quarters and preparations began for the court to move to Windsor for the Christmas season.

  Cecily put the rude Frenchman out of her thoughts.

  Well, perhaps she thought of him once or twice, but only because Gilbert replayed the entire joust in great detail every time she saw him, each time suggesting what he might do differently, should he ever face de Marcel again.

  And if she, once or twice, replayed her own private joust with the man, it was only to scold herself, as her mother would have done, for losing her temper and her dignity. She would not see him again, of course, but she vowed to maintain her calm the next time she was confronted with any of the hostages.

  A week later, as she watched the tailor unpack Isabella’s Christmas gown, she had more immediate concerns.

  Although her family had spent Christmas with the court for as long as she could remember, her mother had always been the one to make the plans. Cecily had helped, of course, but now the season loomed before her, only three weeks away.

  She must make the preparations, alone. She must demonstrate that she was not only an eligible heiress but would be a competent wife. The problem was, she was not quite certain what she should be doing.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Isabella held up her new dress, so heavy with ermine she could barely lift it.

  The train piled on the floor of the princess’s chamber, nearly as high as her knees. ‘Fit for a queen,’ Cecily answered.

  ‘Not quite,’ Isabella said, handing it to the tailor who spread it carefully across the bed. ‘Mother’s has ermine on the sleeves as well.’ She smoothed the dress, her fingers caressing the fabric. ‘But this one is paid for by Father’s purse.’

  Cecily bit her lip against the sudden reminder. She had no father, now, to dote on her and shower her with gifts. No mother to advise her on which gown was most flattering. Yet sometimes she would hear the door open and think she heard her father’s step or her mother’s voice—

  ‘Cecily, attend!’ Isabella’s voice, jolting her back to the present.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  Ah, that was one of the things she should have done. ‘I...don’t know. I have nothing new.’ Deep in mourning, she had ordered no new Christma
s clothes except for the matching gowns she shared with the other court ladies. ‘Perhaps no one will notice.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool! You must look ready for a wedding, not a funeral.’

  She looked down. While she had not put on widow’s garb, she had chosen colours dark and subdued since her mother’s death unless she was wearing the royal colours. ‘I could recut one of Mother’s gowns. The green one, perhaps. Mother liked me in green.’

  ‘That shade is too strong for the current fashion.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I thought this might happen.’ She waved to the tailor. ‘So I had something made for you.’

  Eyes wide, Cecily watched him lay out a fur-trimmed sideless surcoat. Worn over her current gowns, it would make them look new. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Isabella laughed. ‘Just try it on, you silly goose.’

  And with the help of the tailor and the maid, she pulled it over her head. It fitted loosely, with a large, curved opening from shoulder to hip, revealing the dress beneath and the curve of her waist and hip.

  She slipped her hands beneath the surcoat, where the soft, sable lining tickled her fingers, and tried not to tally the cost. Isabella never did, which was why she regularly exceeded her household allowance. The king grumbled, but always covered his daughter’s debts. ‘My lady, how can I thank you?’

  Isabella waved the servants out of hearing. ‘This is your last Christmas season as an unmarried woman! You can thank me by enjoying it!’

  Last as an unmarried woman and the first without her mother.

  Her father had been gone for three years; her mother not yet a year. The loss was still new, raw. Still, she must convince the court that she was ready to look to the future and her duty instead of wallowing in her grief. There must be no tears this season.

  She lifted her chin and twirled, making her skirt sway. ‘So you would have me sing and dance and smile at all the men from now until Twelfth Night!’ The light words, the forced smile were an ill-fitting mask.

  Yet, Isabella laughed and clapped in approval. ‘Yes! By then, every man at court will hope to be the king’s choice as the new guardian of Losford. Even the hostages!’

  Cecily stumbled at the memory of de Marcel’s eyes. Angry. Hungry. ‘What?’

  ‘Father has invited some of them to Windsor.’ Isabella’s smile, normally so bright and open, turned shy. ‘Including Lord de Coucy.’

  Cecily bit her lip. How was she to smile when her father’s murderers could dance and sing beside her?

  But Isabella did not notice. ‘Lord de Coucy is a very good dancer. And handsome, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think of the French as little as possible.’ And it was not the dark-haired hostage Cecily thought of now. She turned away, hoping Isabella would not see her blush. ‘Will there be other hostages there, as well?’

  ‘Other Frenchmen, you mean?’

  ‘Have we any other hostages?’

  ‘Have you an interest in any one in particular? His fair-haired friend, perhaps? What is his name?’

  ‘Marc de Marcel, and, no, I have not,’ she answered, dismayed. Could Isabella see her thoughts?

  ‘De Marcel, yes! A delightful distraction for you.’

  ‘No!’

  But Isabella was not listening. ‘The perfect answer. One for each of us.’

  ‘Totally unsuitable!’

  ‘Exactly! That’s why they are the right companions for the season. To be enjoyed, to make your suitors jealous, and then, tossed aside.’ Laughing, she plucked a riband from a pile, tied it in a bow, then tossed it the air and let it fall to the ground, where she kicked it away. ‘Like that! In the meantime, for a few weeks, Lord de Coucy’s attention can be devoted to me alone. And de Marcel’s to you.’

  The words Marcel and alone made Cecily shiver. Even in a crowded hall, his eyes had near devoured her. What would happen if she were close, day after day, to a man who had told her clearly he cared nothing for honour.

  ‘My lady, Lord de Coucy appears to be a man of the code while de Marcel has proven quite the opposite. What if your trust is misplaced? What if...?’ To finish the question would be an insult.

  And the expression on Isabella’s face proved it. She was suddenly the princess again, her haughty frown as regal as her father’s. ‘Do not mistake my meaning. I would permit nothing unseemly.’

  Cecily nodded. ‘Of course not, my lady.’

  There could be no suggestion, ever, that either of them had been less than chaste. By deciding to remain unwed, Isabella had chosen a life of chastity as pure as a nun’s. And as for Cecily, her title was not the only gift a husband would expect. He would demand her purity, as well.

  Isabella’s stern frown dissolved. ‘We will both be quite safe, Cecily. And a little romance will be guaranteed to lift your spirits. I will make certain Marc de Marcel is also invited to Windsor.’

  ‘Invite him if you must, but do not expect me to waste my time with him.’

  No. Marc de Marcel was the last person she wanted to see this season.

  * * *

  Suddenly awake, Marc blinked, peered out the window of the Tower of London at the frigid London morning and shivered. Their gaolers were not ones to squander money on firewood to warm French hostages.

  ‘Arise, mon ami! Did you hear what I said?’

  Marc rubbed his eyes and turned to look at his friend. ‘You’re doing what?’ He must have misheard. It was too early in the morning for anyone to be awake and so talkative. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We have been invited to join the court as guests of the king. We shall celebrate Noël at Windsor Castle!’

  The words made no more sense the second time. He sat up and looked at his friend. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I would be fou indeed to refuse the invitation of a princess.’

  Ah, the princess that de Coucy saw as the key to the restoration of his lands.

  A vision not of the princess, but of the countess drifted into his sleep-fogged brain, as if she were a leftover dream. Her dark hair, her square jaw.

  The hatred in her eyes.

  His friend was fou indeed. But it was none of Marc’s affair. ‘Then accept and leave me out of it.’

  ‘Ah, but she specifically asked me to bring you.’

  Strange. Certainly the Lady Cecily had no desire to see him again. Why would the princess? ‘Pourquoi?’

  De Coucy shrugged. ‘Perhaps she wants to be certain I am not isolé.’

  Marc laughed. The thought of his gregarious friend being lonely was absurd. ‘You do not need me to press your cause with the Lady Isabella.’

  ‘It is no sin to find some joy in our captivity.’

  Perhaps not, but the one joy Marc had found in England was the chance to be reunited with his long-time friend. Other men had wives and families. Marc had only Enguerrand. ‘If I did not know you so well, I would think you cared for nothing but pleasure.’ His friend was a man of extremes. Dancing or fighting, he would do both with all that was within him. And the time for fighting was over. For now.

  ‘And you do not care enough for pleasure.’

  Marc had never been a man accustomed to soft comforts and pleasure seemed even more discordant in the face of defeat. To dance and sing seemed to imply that the deaths in battle had been only an illusion and that the dead would rise and join the carol ring. ‘I do not celebrate my enemy’s victory.’

  ‘No, you celebrate Noël. You will feast on English mutton and drink Gascon wine and, for a few weeks, they will pay the cost.’

  It was the final insult. Every day he ate and drank in England would be added to the required ransom, as if he had to pay for the privilege of being held hostage. ‘Tempting, my friend, but English food sours my stomach.’

  ‘Would you rather sit in this cold tower and c
hew tough meat?’

  With so many hostages to be housed, the city gates and the Abbey were full, so he and Enguerrand had been given quarters in the grim and impregnable Tower of London. And as the winter cold crept through the stones, the vision of Noël without even Enguerrand beside him seemed bleak.

  But not bleak enough that he could force himself to smile with cheer at les goddams. To say yes would make him sound ungrateful. And yet... ‘Yes. I would.’

  Enguerrand sighed, clearly exasperated. ‘The princess will be désolée.’

  ‘All the better for you to console her.’ He turned over and pulled the covers up. ‘Joyeux Noël, mon ami.’

  There would be three masses on Christmas Day. He might even arise in time for one of them.

  And if the guards decided to celebrate too heartily, perhaps a prisoner might roam the halls freely and unnoticed.

  Perhaps, he might roam even further.

  * * *

  Cecily should have paused when she heard the soft laughter beyond Isabella’s door, but she was hurried and distracted and had important news, so she knocked and opened quickly, as she had so many times before, only to see Isabella standing close to Lord de Coucy.

  Too close.

  For a moment, they looked at her, guilt gilding the silence.

  Cecily looked away and scanned the room. Alone. The two of them had been alone. Smiling, relaxed, and standing so close they could have—

  She opened her mouth, but could summon no words.

  ‘Ah, the beautiful countess,’ de Coucy said, bowing so smoothly that before she blinked, he had moved a safe distance from the princess. ‘A reminder I have overstayed my welcome, my lady. The guards will wonder where I am.’

  He took his leave with all the proper deference, then paused before Cecily with a knee bent slightly less deeply than the one for the princess. Another bow, a smile, an exit. As if nothing were wrong. As if a young, French hostage had every right to stand too close to the king’s daughter and whisper bon mots.

  Cecily looked at Isabella, a hint of accusation in her gaze. To dance and laugh together in public, that was allowed. When the music and the wine flowed, many a couple kissed and embraced, a moment’s passion, but always in a place too public for true indiscretion.