Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  She looked up at him then. ‘Can you see anything? Do you think—?’

  The fool had scampered up on a table ‘Now move!’

  He let go a breath and stepped away, but too quickly, the fool called out again, ‘Now stand back to back and lock elbows!’

  He recognised Enguerrand’s laughter, mingled with that of the princess. As the couples broke, he could see Enguerrand, pressing her back to his, reaching for her arms.

  Curse the man for his smiles.

  Before he turned, he looked down into Cecily’s upturned face. Her jaw was square and stubborn. But her eyes, wide-set, with strong, arched brows, swallowed the rest of her face. Her narrowed lips were pressed together with frustration, but then, she parted them, just for a moment...

  He turned his back, relieved to be deprived of temptation.

  Behind him, she turned and pressed her back against his. He reached for her arms. All around him, men and women stood with shoulders back and chests forward. Even though he could not see her, he could imagine how Cecily would look, her breasts in proud relief...

  ‘Now, jump up and down!’

  Instinctively, they both hesitated, then, without plan, jumped in unison.

  Most couples did not. Some tottered on unsteady feet. Others stumbled, tripped over each other and fell to the hard floor, to roars of laughter.

  His heart pounded, no doubt from the jump.

  ‘Stop! Now, gentlemen, your heads to the left!’

  He turned, now catching a glimpse over her shoulder of the bare skin below her throat, disappearing beneath her gown into curves he could nearly see...

  ‘Ladies, turn your heads to the right!’

  And just like that, his lips were close to her temple, close enough that he could have kissed her, close enough...

  All around them, laughter, some delighted, others nervous. He clamped his jaw shut.

  Her lips, he saw, were just as tight.

  ‘Is it not enough,’ he muttered, ‘that we must be defeated in battle? Must you humiliate us as well?’

  ‘I do not see the humiliation being directed at you alone,’ she whispered. ‘The pain is fully shared.’

  ‘Now, gentlemen, whisper a secret into your lady’s ear.’

  For one mad moment, he almost told her the truth.

  Do not worry. You were right. He has no interest in the princess. Only in having his English lands restored. Lady Isabella’s virtue is safe.

  Would she smile, then? Would her worried frown lift?

  No. Or if so, it would be replaced by anger and she would rush to disclose de Coucy’s deceit. Once she did, his lands would stay firmly in the grip of King Edward and the two of them would once again be prisoners instead of guests.

  ‘I don’t hear you,’ the fool called out. ‘If you prefer not to tell the lady, you can tell all of us!’

  All around them, murmurs. He must think of something to say. Something harmless. She knew nothing of him. Anything he said would be unknown, secret from her.

  ‘I hate parsnips,’ he said, quickly, to say something, to say anything except the real secret.

  A moment of silence.

  And then, Cecily laughed.

  Laughed so hard she nearly doubled over, pulling against his arms, almost forcing him to lean back.

  Had he ever heard her laugh so? And yet she laughed at him.

  ‘It is not so comique.’ And yet it was. He near laughed, remembering himself as a petulant five-year-old, pouting at his plate.

  She did not answer, but behind him, he heard her coughing as she tried to subdue her laughter.

  ‘You will not be so merry when you must confess to me.’ He was eager, somehow, to hear what secret she would share. Only because it might be useful to him. Only because it might help him distract her from Enguerrand. But he knew he lied and he was a man used to telling himself the truth.

  ‘I have nothing to confess,’ she said, behind him. Yet the laughter had left her voice.

  ‘Now, ladies. It is your turn.’

  ‘See?’ he said, triumphant as a cock. No one dared cross the fool when he reigned.

  And the fool, for all the wrinkles lining his face, had more years at court and a greater force of will than most of those in the room. ‘First, let go and face each other.’

  He hesitated. It had been difficult to share a secret, even when he spoke without seeing her, but to look at her, to see her eyes when she told him...what?

  They dropped arms and he turned, slowly and reluctantly. Though she faced him now, her eyes stayed downcast, as if she, too, was reluctant to tell her secrets to his face.

  ‘Now put your arms around each other.’

  She looked up, startled, and met his eyes. Both of them were awkward now. When they stood, pressed back to back, they had been protected somehow. But face-to-face again, with her arms around his waist, it was as though their bodies pressed together as lovers’ might.

  Yet they touched with none of the ease of lovers. She looked away again, and though she clasped her arms around his waist, they were straight and stiff, as if she were trying not to touch him. Uncertain where to put his own arms, he rested them, finally, across her shoulders, the sleeve atop the bare skin, where her neck curved into her shoulder. And it seemed as if he could feel the heat of her through the wool. If he leaned forward, just a bit, her breasts would brush against...

  ‘Now, ladies!’ The fool’s voice dragged him back. He was in a room full of other people who, fortunately, were looking at their own partners and not at him. ‘Tell your partner what you find most attractive about him!’

  She lifted her head, dark-green eyes wide with surprise, trapped. Whatever secret she might have shared was lost and he found he regretted it.

  ‘Well?’ he said gruffly. ‘Do you see something you like?’ Disgusted to think that he wanted her to.

  ‘Your hair.’

  ‘My hair?’ A man expected to be admired for his strength, his prowess, his bravery, his skill with the sword. Not his hair.

  Shocked, he put a hand to it. He had never paid attention to his hair unless he had gone so long without bathing that his scalp itched. Tonight, as he touched it, he was surprised to find it soft on his fingers, but unruly and curving in its own direction. ‘What about my hair?’

  She shrugged and looked away. ‘I had to say something. It was the first thing I saw.’

  Something kicked his shin and he looked down to see the fool. ‘Put your hand back on her shoulder, where it belongs.’

  He lowered it, slowly, forced, this time, to place his palm on the bare skin of her shoulder.

  ‘Now, ladies,’ the fool shouted, his voice around Marc’s waist, ‘put your hand on the part of your partner that you like!’

  She flushed and he felt his cheeks go hot as well.

  And he held his breath as she lifted her hand to reach for his temple.

  * * *

  Cecily held her breath as her fingers brushed a rogue curl, then tangled in his golden hair. Soft. Perhaps the only soft thing about him.

  The heat of his temple warmed her fingers.

  Close. Too close. Might not lovers touch so in bed?

  She drew her hand away, but her fingers trailed the curve of his cheek bone, then followed the sharp contours of his face, as if by touching him she could see beneath the stubborn jaw and the belligerent lips and glimpse what lay behind the light-brown eyes that pierced her with a glance.

  Forced so close, for just this moment, she felt as though they were alone. Did other couples crowd the room? She saw only him.

  And if the fool had demanded she tell a secret, she might have even said...

  ‘Now, ladies.’ The fool again. His commands as compelling as if he were the hand and she the puppet. ‘Lean
forward.’

  She did. Marc’s hand on her neck drew her to him, a touch as intimate as her fingers in his hair.

  ‘Closer.’

  And so she came closer. And so did he.

  ‘Close enough to whisper.’

  She leaned forward, falling into him. His lips drew near...

  ‘Now whisper what you would like him to do.’

  And before she could think, kiss me passed her lips.

  He did.

  Shielded by his arms, warmed by his lips moving hard over hers, she surrendered. He tasted of French wine, as intoxicating as the kiss, and everything else fell away but the two of them, private as lovers.

  Or, as she had imagined lovers might be.

  Laughter brought her to.

  She jerked away and covered her mouth with her hand as if she could erase what they had done. You would do nothing that would disappoint your parents. And yet, she had kissed a man, a French hostage, in full view of the court. How many had seen her?

  Embarrassed giggles floated in the air and shrieks of laughter echoed off the stone walls, joined by a few masculine growls and belly laughs.

  A few quick-witted ladies had ordered their men to hop or laugh or sing, though she had heard none of it. But she saw more than one couple breaking a kiss.

  Including, reluctantly, Isabella and Enguerrand.

  She looked back at de Marcel. He, too, frowned. Regretful? Angry? So was she. Angry at Isabella and her heedless folly that had forced Cecily into the kiss, into something she would never have done otherwise.

  No, no one had seen her kiss. And, she hoped, they had missed that of the princess, too. For it was Yuletide and the world turned upside down, just as she had feared. And not just for Isabella.

  The fool’s voice again. ‘Now step away from each other!’

  A suggestion so welcome she did it with a sigh of relief.

  Marc did not move. Nor did he take his eyes from her face. What was he thinking?

  What was he thinking of her?

  His chest rose and fell, as if he had run a long race, but the proud and angry look remained, as if stamped on the shape of his face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. It was true. It must be. Her heart pounded still, but only because she had jumped and twirled.

  ‘I should not...’ He shook his head. ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What secret were you going to tell me? Before the fool changed the game.’

  That I wanted you to kiss me. What could she say instead? ‘I do not like hunting, particularly boar hunting.’

  A moment of puzzlement. ‘Why?’

  Too painful to tell. ‘Why do you hate parsnips?’

  A question without an answer, but one that broke the spell. He shrugged and, together, they turned to survey the room.

  All around them now, couples were by turns moving closer or scurrying away from each other. Happy with the havoc he had created, the fool somersaulted across the floor and the minstrels began to play, signifying the end to the game.

  She looked at Isabella and Enguerrand, both smiling, flushed and looking as much shy as aroused. And the look on Isabella’s face was one she had not seen before.

  If Isabella were to glance her way and de Coucy look at Marc, standing beside her, what, then, would they see?

  Things they must not.

  For when Marc had kissed her, Cecily had thought no more of the past and grief or future and duty. She had thought only of now. Of this...

  No. She had let weak emotion intrude. It was only the Yule foolishness that Lady Isabella had planned. It meant nothing.

  And yet... What if it did? For Isabella. For her.

  If the fool had not saved her, a fool she might have become. A man such as de Marcel would not stop at a bow or a dance or a kiss. He might not stop until he had taken that which above all things must belong to her husband, whoever he might be.

  Chapter Seven

  Beside the Lady Cecily, Marc looked out over the room, feeling as if he had been unhorsed.

  When he held her in his arms, kissed her, there had been nothing in the world but her.

  Dangerous, to be so taken with a woman, particularly this one.

  He was here only because of his friend. He had no other reason to even speak to the countess. Best he keep his attention where it belonged.

  ‘And where,’ he muttered, ‘did the princess put her hand?’

  He studied Enguerrand and Lady Isabella, trying to read the connection between them. It kept him from thinking of how close he had come to losing himself in the woman next to him. How much he had wanted the kiss. And more.

  Damn the fool and his foolish friend who, he had no doubt, had instigated the frolic.

  ‘More the question,’ Lady Cecily answered, ‘is where Lord de Coucy placed his.’

  The familiar edge had returned to her voice. The one that reminded him they loathed each other. The one that protected him against the pull of her lips, her body, her—

  He inhaled, then tightened his lips, as if putting a shield firmly in place. ‘We fight each other to defend their honour, while they ignore us and take their own pleasure.’

  Her smile, for once, was not reluctant. ‘Forgive me. I am not always cruel.’

  ‘Don’t believe her.’ The voice of the princess floated over his shoulder as Isabella and Enguerrand joined them. ‘She has a tongue sharp enough to puncture a chevalier’s shield. As I recall, the first thing she said about both of you was at the tournament when she wanted to see you in the mud.’

  He remembered that moment, when her hatred had reached across the field. He knew now what bred it. ‘Then she was disappointed,’ he said.

  Relieved, he saw hatred flash across her face again. Easier to handle her hatred than her rare moments of sympathy.

  Marc looked to Enguerrand, expecting a smile that would signal his plan was going well. Instead, his friend was smiling at Isabella.

  And the princess was chatting again. ‘Well, next week, we must all sing for our supper.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Each guest must find a way to entertain the court.’ Cecily said.

  A gay laugh from the princess. ‘We have three weeks of amusement to provide. Every guest must do something. Sing, dance, or provide diversion in some other way!’

  Bad enough he had to appear and be sociable. Now, they expected him to sing or dance or act the fool. He was a fighting man, not a travelling minstrel.

  Isabella turned adoring eyes on Enguerrand. ‘I know you sing beautifully.’ Then, she turned to Marc, with a glance calculating and sharp. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cecily said. ‘What are your talents, other than unhorsing young knights?’

  Ah, she did have a sharp tongue when she chose. The familiar edge had definitely returned to her voice. The one that labelled him an enemy to be distrusted. He welcomed it. It reminded him to keep his distance. ‘I leave singing to others,’ he said, grimly as if he were discussing a battle.

  ‘And we are thankful that you do,’ Enguerrand said, with a laugh and a smile and the playfulness that just enough wine and the right woman can bring. ‘He has the voice of a frog.’

  Marc, who could face swords and arrows without fear, wished he had done as he threatened and stayed in London, chewing bad meat, and leaving Enguerrand to woo the princess alone.

  Isabella laughed with the careless cruelty of the royal. ‘I’m sure you will think of something.’

  Cecily looked Marc up and down, assessing. ‘Perhaps a disguising?’

  A disguising. To dress up in robes and masques and prance the room. What could be worse? He took a breath to protest, but felt a slight squeeze on his arm. Ceci
ly, warning him to silence.

  Lady Isabella clapped her hands in delight. ‘Perfect! Father will love it. Remember, Cecily, the year he and your father dressed in monks’ robes? Even Mother did not recognise him. And they were both so ribald that when she did figure it out, she gave him a scolding!’

  He had not realised her father was so close to the throne. A man so trusted by the king that they could be fools together...

  But Cecily, at the mention of her father, stilled, as if the shadow of death had fallen over her.

  In the silence, Lady Isabella looked to Enguerrand.

  ‘A disguising, oui,’ he said, smoothing over the awkward moment. ‘What will you do, mon ami?’

  Cecily, beside him, shrugged off her gloom. ‘It will be a surprise.’ She waved her hand to heaven, as if to conjure an answer. ‘But I promise you, I cannot turn this man into a monk.’

  And she laughed, lightly, as if to dismiss both death and kisses.

  Lady Isabella looked directly at Marc now, with an arched brow. ‘She said she did not care for fair-haired men. I see she has changed her mind.’

  Cecily blushed. Deeply. And Marc wished, for a moment, for dark hair.

  ‘See?’ Isabella said to Enguerrand. ‘She doesn’t deny it.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Cecily said. ‘I still prefer dark-haired men.’ She looked directly at Enguerrand with a smile so forced that even Marc knew she lied.

  And by her laughter, Lady Isabella did, too. ‘Well, you can’t have this one.’ She linked her arm in Enguerrand’s. ‘Come. We must plan our own surprise for the entertainment.’

  As soon as they stepped away, Cecily dropped Marc’s arm. ‘I did not think to give them an excuse to plot in private.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ he said, more sharply than he intended.

  ‘I was thinking to save you embarrassment. It seems I should not have bothered.’

  Should he be grateful? Too much unknown and unsaid lay between them. In a battle or tournament, he knew the rules, confident which to follow and which to ignore. Of this court, this woman, he knew nothing at all. A stumble threatened every step. ‘I will not be paraded like a minstrel’s monkey.’