Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  The queen paused. ‘A boar hunt.’

  The words stole every good intention. She gripped the queen’s hand, afraid her legs might give way. ‘I thought,’ she began, sounding tentative even to her own ears, ‘there were no more boar.’

  ‘The huntsman swears he saw one in the park last week. Now Edward insists we have a boar’s head for the Christmas feast.’

  Cecily nodded, but could not speak.

  In all things, her mother had been dutiful. In all except for this one foolhardy pleasure. Women, of course, rode on stag hunts, but very few hunted the boar. Fewer still did so with her mother’s reckless passion.

  The queen’s voice, light and steady, gave Cecily time. ‘I, for one, plan to stay warm by the fire. You’ll join me, won’t you?’

  She had little love for the hunt before her mother’s death and had loathed it since. When had she last ridden? She had not even been beside her mother that day.

  And now, duty did not require her to ride. No one would think less of her if she huddled around the fire with the queen, listening to sweet music.

  No one except Cecily herself.

  ‘I thank you for your invitation, Your Grace. But I will join the hunt.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘As you said, I must enjoy the season.’ Enjoyment, she was certain, was beyond her. But fear was no more acceptable than grief.

  Too often, it seemed, thinking about it now, her parents had allowed her to escape her responsibilities. She’s not ready, her mother would whisper, thinking Cecily could not hear. Will she ever be ready? her father would reply.

  She must be ready now. And must prove it. To herself.

  And to Marc.

  She refused to fear any animal.

  Or any man.

  Especially a French chevalier.

  * * *

  As the men gathered for the hunt in the dim, dawn light, Marc wrapped the extra length of fur-lined cloth over his shoulder. For once, he did not mind rising before the sun.

  Here, in the open air, away from the confines of the castle, he felt fully himself again. He had had his fill of courtly games. And of the Countess of Losford.

  He had avoided her since the unmasking, two nights before. The Lady Cecily had not forgiven him, young Gilbert said. The sentiment was mutual. He had nothing more to say to her. At least, nothing a chevalier should say to a lady.

  He was ready for a day among men, with a weapon in his hand. He could do battle with a boar, much as he could with a man. There was no disguising here, no hidden motives.

  Only life. Or death.

  And when the foe was a wild boar, well, death was possible. The beast was large and strong, with tusks that could spear a man through.

  Beneath his cloak, Marc rubbed his arms for warmth, then mounted his horse, eager to ride. De Coucy, sociable even at this hour, moved among the others, always with a smile.

  Lady Isabella was not among them. Thankfully, for this day, both he and de Coucy would be away from the temptation of the women.

  The king rode up beside him and pulled his mount to a stop. ‘You’re de Marcel.’

  So surprised that the king would approach and know him, it took a moment for Marc to locate his tongue. ‘Votre Majesté.’ He did not bend his neck, but took the chance to look the king in the eye.

  ‘Honourable. To give young Gilbert his vengeance.’

  Marc’s cheeks burned despite the cold. ‘I must credit Lady Cecily with the idea.’

  ‘Are you as good at hunting boar as you are at the joust?’

  At that, he could not help a smile. ‘Some say so.’

  ‘Good,’ the king said. ‘Then ride with me.’

  A compliment, even if it came from an enemy king. ‘I have ridden to battle beside le roi, but not to the hunt.’

  ‘Then you know that the spear of a knight is as deadly as that of a king,’ Edward answered.

  And for all his hatred of this land and its people, he smiled. He would show this king what the men from Picardy were made of.

  So Marc fell into place with the group as King Edward conferred with the huntsmen and set a plan for the day. It gave Marc a new appreciation for the man. If he conducted his campaigns with the vigour that he conducted the hunt, well, his victories were understandable.

  This, this would be a good day. A day devoted to the hunt would clear his mind of the countess and kisses and imaginary jousts. That was all he needed. He and Enguerrand both had been confined too long in this world where there was nothing but women’s frivolity to pass the time.

  He had just convinced himself that he would think no more of Lady Cecily when he saw her.

  She was bundled so thoroughly that he could not see the familiar curves, but he recognised her eyes, that same sharp glance that had caught him the day of the tournament, as if the distance between them were no obstacle.

  He turned to the king. ‘Do your women ride to hunt the boar?’ It was one thing for a woman to hunt hare or deer. But at the end of a boar hunt, the hunter must dismount and face the animal with his spear. If he did not strike cleanly and quickly, he would have no second chance.

  It was no place for a woman.

  The king glanced at the countess and frowned. ‘Her mother did. And died doing so. I have not seen Cecily ride to the hunt since.’

  Her mother died during a boar hunt.

  The very brutality of the image took his breath. He had seen many ugly forms of death on the field of battle. Men came to expect it. But not a woman. Never.

  Excusing himself, Marc rode over to Cecily. Fierce determination framed her face and she watched him approach as if daring him to interrupt her.

  ‘You said you did not like the hunt,’ he began, ‘so why are you here?’

  ‘I do not need your permission.’

  ‘I would not have given it.’

  ‘Do the women of France cower behind their castle walls?’ She was again the woman he knew. The one who sparred every sentence with him.

  Yet he felt as if she spoke not to him, but to herself, as if sheer force of will could banish her fear. If controlling her fear took that much attention, she would be unable to concentrate on the animal. A dangerous combination.

  ‘The king told me,’ he said, ‘about your mother.’

  She gripped her reins so tightly the horse jerked his head against her hold. ‘It has been near a year.’ As if time alone could heal her.

  Torn, he looked at the king, then back at her. ‘You should not ride without someone at your side.’

  She smiled, then, with a sweet warmth she had never shown him before. Reward enough for his offer. But as she nodded to an approaching rider, he realised the smile was not meant for him at all.

  ‘Sir Gilbert will be with me.’

  Pride gilded Gilbert’s grin as he took his place beside Lady Cecily, as if the brief truce after the disguising was over.

  And try as he might, Marc felt, for no good reason, as if the boy had unhorsed him again. ‘Take care of her,’ he said and whirled his horse away to join the king.

  Chapter Nine

  As she watched Marc ride away, Cecily took a deep breath, surprised she could do so.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Gilbert asked.

  She nodded.

  Worry bent his brow. ‘I was wrong to chide you. Perhaps de Marcel is right. It is too soon. The tomb, this, it can all wait.’

  And for a moment, she wanted to agree.

  Come, Cecily. Show them the strength of a countess.

  She shook her head. ‘I am ready.’

  Seeing Marc had steadied her, forcing her to feign the courage she lacked. She could not avenge her father’s death with a sword, but she could honour her mother’s death with her courage. A
nd Marc de Marcel would be a witness. She would prove to him that no English man, or woman, could be bested.

  Strengthened, she put a gloved hand on Gilbert’s arm. ‘Do not worry.’ He was kind and sweet to witness her ride, knowing what it cost. For that, for his gentle company, she was grateful. ‘I will stay well back.’

  They walked the horses towards the others, their hooves beating the snow into mud, their breath turning into puffs in the frigid air.

  A small party today. And she, the only woman.

  With all of them gathered, she and Gilbert would ride close to the king.

  But not as close as Marc. For the king, to her shock, had invited Marc to his inner circle.

  ‘If I had won the joust, I would be the one beside His Grace,’ Gilbert muttered.

  Seeing Marc favoured, she waited for the familiar resentment to rise and choke her anew. Instead, something quite different welled within her. Pride, coupled with something more earthly, suggesting another of the deadly sins. Now, she could not look at his arms without feeling their strength around her, could not see the curve of his lips without feeling them move hungrily over hers.

  And now, his eyes seemed to do the same. Was it anger or desire that lit his gaze?

  Marc glared at her, then leaned over to whisper something to the king, who looked back at her, frowning.

  ‘The wind is cold,’ the king called out. ‘You need not ride today.’

  His sentiment? Or Marc’s? Either way, it was not the wind that worried them. ‘A knight who falls from his horse mounts again, Your Grace. It is time I did the same.’

  A pause. A quick nod. And the group headed into Windsor Forest.

  As the hours wore on, they kept riding until it seemed they would reach the very limits of the forest before they found the prey. Traitorous relief lifted her spirits. Perhaps, after all, there were no more boar in England. Perhaps, just facing the ride had been courage enough.

  But the royal huntsman would not have led them this far unless he was certain, for the king would not be satisfied unless, on Christmas Day, the boar’s head, its mouth stuffed with an apple, was held aloft on a golden platter and carried into the Hall.

  Yet riding at the rear of the hunters, well shielded, she breathed more easily as the day went on. Gilbert, on the other hand, kept edging himself forward, closer to the king, frustrated that de Marcel had toppled him from the king’s favour as well as from his horse. No mock revenge would be enough.

  Once, she caught Marc, near swivelled on his horse, looking back at her. She smiled and waved a gloved hand, as if there were nowhere else she would rather be.

  But when she heard the distant howls of the bay dogs, she held her breath. The prey spotted. The chase begun. This was the moment her mother had loved. Last year, her mother must have urged her horse forward, riding without hesitation into the chase until—

  The hunters galloped ahead, even Gilbert. She tried to force herself to follow, but even the horse could sense her fear, her tight hands on the reins holding him back, and the beast refused to move as the others disappeared into the trees, fading from sight.

  Coward. You are not worthy of the title your parents left you.

  The sounds of hooves and harness faded, leaving her alone amidst bare trees and trampled snow. For a long time, she stayed in the saddle, listening, until all she could hear was the rattle of branches in the wind.

  Discouraged, she dismounted and sank on to a fallen log, pulling her pelt-lined cloak closer.

  Gilbert had ridden off without a backward glance and would not miss her until after the kill. She lifted her head and looked behind her. If she followed the tracks they had left, perhaps she could find her way back alone. Inside the castle, the royal ladies would still be gathered by the fire and she could join them, claiming the cold alone had chased her within doors.

  Hunching her shoulders against the wind, she looked up. The sky had turned winter white. Snow threatened. And the distant cries of the baying hounds grew alternately soft and loud, as they chased the prey.

  She should turn back soon, before the tracks were covered.

  * * *

  Marc heard the howls of the bay hounds, as welcome as a battle horn. He spurred his horse, racing with the king, glad to leave Cecily safely behind with Gilbert.

  The chase was long and the beast wily, staying so far ahead that they could not send the catch dogs to corner him for the final kill. In time, they seemed to turn full circle and the huntsman called a pause to confer with the king.

  In the lull, Marc looked back for the first time, surprised to see Gilbert on his horse, pausing with the rest of the men.

  He squinted, thinking Cecily would be close behind, but he saw only trees edged with snow.

  Turning his horse, Marc rode directly to Gilbert. ‘Where is she?’

  Gilbert looked around, dazed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know? You were to watch out for her.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to tell Lady Cecily what to do?’

  Young fool. He had no idea of the dangers that lurked even in this most royal of forests. ‘She might have fallen from her horse, or...’

  ‘The king rides again!’

  Kicking his horse, Gilbert joined the hunt, leaving Marc behind, forsaken as thoroughly as his duty to Cecily. In the heat of this final chase, no one thought of her.

  No one but Marc.

  He paused, trying to get his bearings. Clouds now covered the sky. The forest was unfamiliar and with all the turns they had taken, he could not retrace the ride. To search for her alone would only ensure he would be lost as well. By the sound of it, the hunt was near over. As soon as the boar was killed, he would raise a search party. The king, he was certain, would be as troubled as he about her disappearance.

  With a final, worried glance at the empty forest, he spurred his horse to catch the others.

  He did not have to go far. Finally, they had the boar trapped. The beast was young and powerful, but the chase had sapped his strength. The kill was at hand.

  One of the chase dogs got too close and the beast gored his shoulder, sending the pup screeching in pain. The huntsman let lose four catch dogs, who attacked, chomping on the beast’s ears and head and legs, holding him fast.

  Marc, Enguerrand, Gilbert and the rest watched as the king dismounted and took a spear from the hand of a waiting attendant. The honour of the kill would be his and he approached the pack of screeching, growling animals, looking for an opening. He could spear the shoulders, but the boar’s hide was strong there, and the spear might not go deep enough to kill. A surer spot was to spear the throat, but that meant biding his time, waiting for the right moment.

  The king crept closer and pulled back to thrust the point home.

  And then, the boar, with desperation born of knowing death was near, tossed off the dogs as if they were fleas, charged past the milling horses and men, and disappeared into the forest, back the way he had come.

  Where Cecily must be.

  Marc, still on his horse, whirled and gave chase.

  * * *

  The distant howls of the baying hounds came closer.

  Cecily raised her head, muscles coiled. How long had she been slumped here, searching for the strength to mount? Long enough for silence. Long enough that she thought the hunt must have ended.

  Which direction were they coming from? She tried to listen and that was when she heard, more frightening than the dogs, the snort and the pounding hooves of the boar.

  She leapt to her feet. Her horse had wandered out of easy reach, searching for a blade of grass beneath the snow. She tried to run, but her gown and boots, wet from the snow, slowed her steps. Then, the horse, too, heard the sounds. Head lifted, ears flicking back and forth, searching for the source. Then, riderles
s, he bolted into the trees.

  The howls, the hooves, came closer, as if Death itself, inevitable, had finally come for her, too.

  And then, louder, faster, a galloping horse, overtaking the boar.

  The horse burst into the clearing. Marc hurled himself off the saddle and drew his sword. Before he could speak, the beast crashed through the brush and into the clearing and stopped, looking right at her.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Marc said.

  She could not. She could only stare at the bloodied beast, near exhausted, his breaths pumping his sides and frosting the air.

  In the distance, the baying dogs approached. Knowing he was still chased, the beast summoned his strength and ran towards her.

  And between her and the boar, came the point of Marc’s sword.

  Impaled, the beast staggered, and turned his wrath away from Cecily.

  Towards Marc.

  The sword was designed to kill a man, not a beast. Stuck firmly in the boar’s chest, it would do its deadly work eventually, but now, in the animal’s last, desperate moments, anything within reach of his sharp, curved tusks was in jeopardy.

  Marc drew his dagger and stepped closer.

  Chapter Ten

  Later, she could not explain what had happened.

  There was a long, endless moment. She, Marc, the wounded boar—none of them moved.

  Then, dogs, horses, huntsmen, chaos, invaded the clearing.

  The boar, desperate, ran towards Marc.

  A quick-thinking attendant raised a spear for the king, but Cecily grabbed it and, with strength that must have come from heaven, thrust it through the beast’s chest.

  In the throes of death, the beast’s movements ripped the staff from her hands, but unlike the sword, it still pierced the boar’s body through. With a final lurch, the boar staggered, then dropped to the ground.

  Dead.

  Now Cecily swayed, afraid she, too, might fall. Whatever mad spirit had fuelled her left as suddenly as it came and she could barely stand.