Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘And what,’ he asked, in a tone devoid of approval, ‘do I gain from this bargain?’

  He did not pull away. Worse, he moved closer.

  She refused to step back, refused to look down, but his very gaze seemed an assault. All the risk of this course shimmered between them. In helping Isabella, she might jeopardise herself at a time when all would be watching her, waiting to see the man the king would choose.

  ‘You gain the satisfaction of saving your friend from disaster!’ Now she could put distance between them. Now she could breathe again. ‘Is that not enough?’ If it were not, she was at a loss, for she could think of nothing she could offer this man except what she must not give.

  He took a step closer and again something—desire—emanated in a wave, washing through her, hot and sweet. Oh, if Isabella felt this for de Coucy, they were all doomed.

  ‘No, Countess. It is not enough. I live as your prisoner and now you want me to dance like your puppet?’

  His anger broke the spell. Relieved, she could match it with her own. Anger was permitted to a countess. Fear was not. ‘I am helping you to accomplish something you also want and cannot get alone. Do not expect too many mercis!’

  ‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that if I do this, you will help me return to France.’

  She was glad she had not faced this man when he carried a sword in battle. ‘How can I do that? Treaties and ransoms are in the hands of the king.’

  ‘When the time comes, I will tell you.’

  What could that mean? She was promising to do...she didn’t even know. But that was in some distant future. The celebrations at Windsor were an immediate threat. ‘When the time comes, then, I will do my best.’ Not exactly a promise.

  He stared, silent, as if trying to read her face.

  Did he believe her? Should he?

  ‘Even our kings have called a truce,’ she said. ‘Can’t we?’

  She refrained from saying it was a truce only because her king had bested his. And yet, Jean, not Edward, was King of France. The thought gave her pause.

  ‘D’accord,’ he said, finally, as if they had shaken hands on a battle plan.

  It was as close to a truce as they would get.

  But as she called the guards and they led him away, she wondered what she had promised. To help him return to France? But that, after all, was the ideal solution. Send both men back, and quickly. Yet by treaty, a hostage returned home when his ransom was paid or a substitute sent. She could not change that. There was no other way.

  Except the dishonourable path the French king’s son had taken.

  Tucking her hands inside her fur-lined surcoat, she gritted her teeth against the chill. Surely de Marcel did not expect her to help him escape.

  She would see him freeze in hell first.

  * * *

  ‘So I will come to Windsor after all,’ Marc told Enguerrand that evening as they sat across the chessboard before a dying fire.

  His friend looked up, brows lifted. ‘I’m not sure which surprises me more. That you changed your mind or that you found a way to change your refusal.’

  Marc shrugged and pushed his pawn to the next square.

  ‘You can’t just say that without telling me more,’ Enguerrand said, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘I know the Lady Isabella did not press you to come.’

  He knew, Marc thought, much too much about the Lady Isabella and her plans. ‘No. But her friend the countess did.’

  ‘The countess? I did not think you impressed her so highly the other night.’

  ‘I didn’t. But you did.’

  ‘Moi?’

  ‘She is worried that you have developed a tendresse for the Lady Isabella.’ He watched for Enguerrand’s reaction, for any hint that the Lady Cecily might be right.

  ‘Ah, then my plan is working.’

  ‘Working well enough that she fears the Lady Isabella might not be safe in your company.’

  ‘Safe? From de Coucy?’ The shocked look was undercut by his wink. ‘How can she worry?’

  How indeed? But Marc had not realised until today how serious this was to the Lady Cecily. Here was a woman as loyal to her friend as he. ‘She is worried enough that she begged me to come to Windsor and help her keep you and the princess apart.’

  And now, a wicked grin. ‘Which is exactly what you will do, mon ami, bien sûr.’

  They shared a smile that held the trust of years. A smile which meant Marc would do no such thing. He was glad to help his friend, and yet... ‘You know that I am no good at subterfuge. I may do you more harm than good.’

  ‘You will do me a great deal of good just by keeping the Lady Cecily entertained.’

  Marc groaned. ‘How do I do that? I have no more use for the woman than she for me.’

  ‘You’ll find a way. Just don’t let her know I seek Lady Isabella’s influence, not her virtue. I can do the rest. Once I get my lands back, the countess will find all her worries disappear.’

  His own, Marc was certain, had just begun.

  Chapter Four

  Windsor Castle—December 1363

  On a blustery December afternoon, Cecily left London for Windsor Castle, fighting memories. Last year, her mother had been with her. This year, she was alone.

  Yet Gilbert rode beside her and she was grateful for his company, though all his thoughts were on how he might redeem himself for his tournament disgrace.

  ‘You were sitting near the king,’ Gilbert said, as Windsor came into sight. ‘What did he say about me?’

  She swallowed. There was no disguising the truth. ‘I’m afraid the king was disappointed.’

  He nodded, as if the answer were exactly what he had expected. ‘I don’t blame him. Those men, they were hardened during war. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘You served my father in France! You were...’ The words would not come. You were there when he died.

  ‘But only as a squire. I was never in battle as a warrior. Now all I have is this pretend fighting. I want something that matters. Something of life and death.’

  His very eagerness clutched her heart. ‘The war is over now. You can stay safe.’

  He looked at her as if she were a babe. Or a woman who lacked all wit. ‘I don’t want to be safe. I want to prove myself. The King of Cyprus is recruiting knights for a Crusade. Perhaps I will join him.’

  ‘So you, too, can die in battle?’ A question more sharp than she intended.

  He looked at her, some sort of realisation in his eyes. ‘You have not buried your father.’

  She turned away from him and looked to the Castle. ‘Of course I did.’ She remembered it all. They had brought the body home in a sealed, stone coffin. The funeral mass was said on a bright summer day, with the sea breeze wafting into the church and ruffling the black cloth covering the bier. ‘You were there.’

  ‘But his effigy is unfinished.’

  A stark accusation of what she had left undone. She winced. She had allowed grief to interfere with her duty. You have not buried him. She had not buried either of them.

  There should be a carved image of her father and her mother, side by side, as if they had been turned to stone in death. It was her duty to see it completed.

  To honour them both.

  Her mother had begun work on her father’s effigy, soon after he died. She chose the stone, had it shipped all the way from the Tutbury quarry, and selected a sculptor, one of the best alabaster men from Nottingham.

  And when the man arrived, her mother had spread his sketches on the table, but Cecily could barely see them through her tears.

  Her mother sighed. I can see you are not yet ready. Her tone, sharp. Go. I will look at them first.

  And so, while Cecily stared at the sea and took long walks alon
g the cliffs, her mother was left to sort through the choices so she could give the sculptor approval to begin.

  Peter the Mason was a careful man. The work proceeded slowly, or so her mother said. Cecily refused to look.

  And then, early in this year, nearly three years after her father’s death, her mother said the carving was all but complete. Shortly after, she had ridden on a boar hunt again for the first time since the earl’s death. Left with the rest of the court, smiling again at last.

  And never came back.

  The grief that had just begun to ebb smothered Cecily again, worse this time. She, who had been expected to take command, to make decisions, could not face the cold stone. She put aside the sculptor’s sketches of her mother’s effigy. She had not picked them up again.

  Disgraceful weakness. Unworthy of a Countess of Losford.

  But that was not the excuse she gave to Gilbert. ‘The king needed the sculptor. You know that.’ Indeed, for the last several years, there had scarcely been a stone cutter or a carpenter to be found beyond Windsor’s walls. The king had called them all to work on the renovations and punished any man who sought to pay the workmen enough for them to leave their work on the palace. ‘I loaned the sculptor to the king.’

  No need to explain that the king would have made an exception to let the man continue to work on the tomb of his old friend.

  ‘It has been three years,’ Gilbert said.

  ‘It’s been less than a year since Mother died.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Waiting won’t bring her back.’

  ‘I know.’ Yet she felt as if to cast them in stone would be to admit they were truly gone.

  They passed through the gate to Windsor and she was spared the need to answer as servants converged to take care of horses and trunks. A welcome to the Christmas season the same as every year, and yet, this year, different.

  You will be the countess some day, my dear. The honour of the name will rest in your care.

  And yet, she had failed to uphold the simplest duty, to complete their tomb. Now, she must prove that that she was ready, willing, able to take up the mantle of Losford with the man of the king’s choosing.

  Leaving the chests for the servants, she and Gilbert ran for the shelter of the castle and the warmth of a fire. Inside, she took a breath, glad not to be fighting the cold. And as she soaked in the heat and loosened her mantle, she put a hand on Gilbert’s sleeve.

  ‘I will ask if the sculptor can be released,’ she said.

  He did not simply smile, as she had expected.

  ‘When?’

  Ah, and with that question, Gilbert proved he was no longer the youth she remembered. Now, he spoke as a man who would hold her to her word. Yet she could forgive the lack of deference in his question, for he had loved them, too.

  ‘Soon. Before Twelfth Night.’

  And with the completion of the effigies, her mother, and her father, would finally be laid to rest.

  Her feelings about the men who killed him, men like de Marcel, would never be.

  * * *

  Marc rode beside his friend, surrounded by the king’s knights, as the walls of Windsor Castle emerged in the distance. He had seen castles across the whole of his own country, beginning with the stronghold of the de Coucy family, one of the strongest châteaux in France. He did not expect to be impressed by anything les goddams had to show him.

  But he was.

  ‘Well sited,’ Enguerrand noted, as the walls rose before them.

  Impregnable was the word Marc would have used.

  Like the Château de Coucy, Windsor perched atop a hill above a river, the steep approach making an assault nearly impossible. Parts of the walls seemed hundreds of years old, as if they must have been built when the Norman-French bastard had crossed the Channel to become England’s ruler.

  Yet as they rode inside, Marc saw handsome buildings of freshly cut stone flanking the inner walls. This king was a builder, he thought, with grudging admiration, though he suspected French crowns had paid for most of it.

  He had not expected a royal welcome, but the Lady Isabella herself received them graciously, as if the castle were solely hers. And Enguerrand greeted her as if he were the most honoured guest attending.

  Marc gave his horse into the care of the stable master, then stood a safe distance from the couple, giving them time to exchange whispers and smiles. And when he looked around, he saw the countess wrapped in a mantle against the cold, watching them as well.

  She shifted her weight and took a step, as if to interrupt their greeting. A sharp wind swept over the walls, sending her mantle flapping. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and tried to pull the edges close again.

  She looked up, surprise parting her lips.

  Tempting. The way her head balances on her neck...

  Dark hair set off her fair skin and her square jaw drew his attention to her slender neck, now hidden by layers of wool.

  Meeting her eyes again, he tugged the cloak closed and let his hands fall to his sides. He must be careful of his hands around the countess, careful they did not come too close, or be too bold. ‘Your island is the coldest place I have ever been.’

  She shivered. ‘Truly, it is the worst winter I can remember. Frost came in September and has not left us since.’

  ‘So we agree on the miserable weather of Angleterre.’

  She smiled. ‘Do you blame us for the cold?’

  He wanted to blame them for everything, but standing this close to her, he was warmed by unwelcome desire. Mon Dieu. Did he not have obstacles enough?

  Trying to speak, he had to clear his throat first. ‘Even a king cannot control what God sends.’

  His words seemed to summon some private grief, but she quickly looked away, peering over his shoulder, trying to see what was going on behind his back. ‘You must move. I cannot see what are they doing.’

  Instead of giving her clear sight, he moved to block her view. This was why he had come. Not to help her, but to keep her at a distance. ‘You cannot make your intentions so plain.’

  She sighed. ‘I know, but the princess—’

  ‘Cecily!’ And there was her voice. ‘Attend!’

  ‘Come,’ she said and he let her turn him to see. ‘The princess herself is taking you to your quarters.’

  Cecily walked quickly, no doubt intending to catch up with the couple and interrupt their private conversation. Marc deliberately slowed his stride, so that when she turned to see where he was, Enguerrand and Isabella pulled ahead, disappearing inside the great tower in the centre of the castle grounds.

  Lady Cecily was forced to wait for him at the door.

  Together, they stepped inside the stone gatehouse, blessedly away from the cold wind, and started up a long, enclosed stairway, climbing steeply up the mound to the tower. The walls sheltered him from the wind, but they also felt as close as his prison in London.

  ‘Are you taking us to guest quarters or to gaol?’

  ‘If it were not for me, you would still be in the Tower of London. These were the royal quarters until recently. You should be honoured.’

  ‘You are always telling me I should feel honoured at things that honour me not at all.’

  Ahead of them, out of earshot, the princess and Enguerrand had their heads together. Then, a feminine laugh echoed off the stone walls.

  His friend was having success already. He could see why the Lady Cecily might be worried. But he was there to keep her occupied so that Enguerrand would be free to win the princess’s support for regaining his lands. At the same time, he must make her think he was working with her to keep them apart.

  He sighed, wishing instead to be leading a battle against an enemy of overwhelming force. It would be simpler.

  He put a hand on her
arm to slow her. As in battle, he must delay the enemy’s arrival to give Enguerrand as much time to advance as possible.

  She frowned. ‘We are falling behind.’

  Unfortunately, he could not take the forthright approach and physically hold her back. He must be subtle.

  And Marc de Marcel was not a subtle man.

  ‘We cannot simply force them apart,’ he said. ‘We need a plan, just as if we were in a battle.’

  She frowned again. ‘The plan is for you to keep your friend away from the Lady Isabella. That is why I brought you here.’

  He gritted his teeth, wishing that he was back in London. ‘In order to do that, I must know something about her.’

  Still watching the couple mounting the stairs far above them, she sighed, exasperated. ‘She is the king’s oldest and favourite daughter, generous and loving to her friends and family and to the poor. She enjoys all manner of entertainment and gaiety.’

  The princess sounded no different from any other noble man or woman he had known. ‘Why is she not yet wed?’ He had not wondered at it before, but now that he did, the question was baffling. He was not a man privy to the plots of kings, but such a woman would be an important chess piece. The right marriage, to the right ruler, could have secured an unbreakable alliance. From what he knew of Edward, he was not a man to let such an advantage go unclaimed.

  Cecily slowed her steps and dropped her voice. ‘There were many suggested. I don’t even know them all. And finally, there was a Gascon noble she wanted to marry.’

  ‘She chose her own husband?’

  She nodded.

  He looked back up the stairs. Enguerrand and the Lady Isabella were no longer in sight. ‘I did not know she was a widow.’ That could change many things. A woman who had already known a man’s touch...

  ‘She isn’t. The king consented and all the arrangements were made, but when she went to board the ships, she...could not.’

  ‘She refused?’ He could not comprehend such a thing. The court of le roi Anglais was truly a strange place. ‘The king allowed that?’

  ‘The man had been her choice. So her father allowed her to change her mind.’ A rueful smile touched her lips. ‘The Lady Isabella is accustomed to getting her way in all things. No one tells her no.’