But there was Marc’s strong arm, bracing her.
He led her to the fallen log, let her cling to his hand so she could sit with dignity instead of tumbling to the ground in a heap.
‘Ça va bien?’ Marc’s voice, somehow comforting.
Without the strength to speak, she nodded. Looked down at her hands. Wiggled her fingers. Stretched her toes.
Alive. She was alive.
In all her months of grief, first for her father and then for her mother, the thought of her own mortality had never crossed her mind. Only the idea of the long years ahead, uncertain that she could fulfil her parents’ expectations.
But today she, too, could have died. As quickly and unexpectedly as her mother.
‘I owe you my life,’ Marc said. His eyes showed none of the wary cynicism she had come to expect.
She shook her head. ‘You risked your life to save me.’
And that realisation violated everything she had believed of him, or wanted to. She had wanted to think of him only as a Frenchman. As one of those who had, or could have, killed her father.
Suddenly she did not know the world she lived in. And that, in its own way, was as terrifying as the face of death.
An attendant rushed over with wine. Gilbert, ashen, babbled apologies. De Coucy started searching for her missing horse and the king told an attendant to fetch a litter so she could be carried back to the castle.
‘No,’ Marc said. ‘She will ride with me.’
‘Can you?’ The king’s question to her seemed large, important.
She gripped Marc’s hand, forcing herself to stand, back straight, head high, feeling for the first time as if she might be worthy of her title. ‘Yes.’
And not until she mounted his horse did Marc let go of her hand.
* * *
That evening, when Marc entered the Hall, alone, congratulations were forced on him from all sides. Fellow hostages, courtiers, even a few who had not deigned to speak to him before now, all clapped him on the shoulder and lifted a goblet in his direction.
He tried to explain, at first, that they had it all backwards, that Cecily had saved her own life and his besides, but no one wanted to hear. He began to wish she would join them, for he was certain she would never allow him to receive such undeserved praise.
He did not expect to see her tonight. She had not spoken on the ride back and had disappeared without a word as soon as he helped her down from the horse. No doubt she had collapsed on her bed and might not rise until Christmas.
Yet he could still feel the size of her, the way she fit within his arms as he held her snug on the saddle before him. No words. They were not needed. And before he dismounted, he had felt, for one wild moment, that he must keep her close, hold her near, and make certain that harm would never find her again...
And then, as if his thoughts had summoned her, she entered the Hall, trailing fashionable tippets of fur from her sleeves, looking as calm as if she had spent the day before her own hearth. As if the privilege of her rank gave her an ease in facing death as well as moving through life.
Lady Isabella was with her, he noticed, belatedly, and together, they came directly towards him, the crowd giving way for the progress.
‘I understand,’ the princess began, ‘that we all owe you our thanks for saving Lady Cecily. Has she properly conveyed her gratitude?’
Puzzled, he looked at Cecily. She did not meet his gaze, but kept her eyes fixed somewhere beyond his shoulder.
‘C’est moi,’ he said, ‘who must make a merci. I tried and failed to slay the beast. It was Lady Cecily’s spear that killed him. Did she not tell you?’
Lady Isabella raised a brow. ‘Not in every detail. So it seems that you, chevalier, must bow in thanks to the lady.’
Cecily frowned, yet the princess ignored her and inclined her head, as if waiting for Marc to do so.
The courtly insinuations, the turns of language, the suggestions with a wink and a smile hidden in the words. All these awkward games came near to dragging feelings too fragile to be understood into public view.
‘A man is always grateful for his life,’ he said, hoping a quick nod of his head would suffice.
‘As is a woman,’ Cecily answered, finally meeting his eyes. ‘If the chevalier had not bravely stepped before the beast, I would not be standing here.’
He waited, expecting her to say more. To replay the entire drama until everyone knew exactly how close she had come to a death like her mother’s.
She did not. And although she had avoided his gaze before, now that she looked at him, she did not take her eyes away. And he, too, felt unable to move, unable to look away—
‘Go. Both of you. Express your thanks away from prying ears.’ Lady Isabella pointed to the door. ‘The fireplace in the gate tower is lit and the room is empty.’ She smiled. ‘But don’t stay too long.’
Cecily started to protest, but the king’s daughter had turned her back and left.
Commanded by the princess, they stood, stiff and silent. Cecily no longer looked at him, but at the floor, the room, at anything else. Finally, at the same moment, both took a step, then walked side by side out of the Hall.
He followed her through twisting halls and stairs to a small, welcoming room in the gate tower, warmed by a crackling fire and a floor of bright red-and-yellow tile. The snap of burning wood seemed loud as he waited for her to speak.
She did not.
‘I have been commanded,’ he said, ‘to encore say merci. And so, merci.’ Done. His obligation fulfilled.
Did he wish her to say she was glad he had lived? Did he wait to hear her thanks for his effort, too? Did he simply want her to look at him again, as if he were a man?
She did none of these things. Not a word, not a glance. She only stared out of the window, into the dark. And finally, the smallest lift of her shoulders. As if it all were nothing.
He grabbed her arms then, turned her around and forced her to face him, needing something more. ‘Your mother died in a hunt,’ he said. Blunt words. He knew no others. ‘And you nearly lost your life the same way today. Yet you show...nothing.’
The straight spine, always her response. After the first, startled jump at his touch, she had again drawn inward. ‘I am the Countess of Losford. What I feel, or do not feel, is not to be trailed before all.’
Especially before you. She might as well have spoken the words aloud.
‘Well, I feel—I feel grateful to you and glad to be alive and glad you are alive.’ He should have let her go, but instead, he moved closer, wanting to see her eyes. Wanting to see her. ‘Aren’t you? Don’t you feel any gratitude?’
Regretting the words immediately. Yet at the question, her face transformed, and he saw all the pain and uncertainty he could have wanted.
‘Yes,’ she said, quietly, meeting his gaze. ‘And it seems a betrayal. To be alive because of you. To be alive at all.’
He let her go. Gave her room. ‘I have seen more than one man fall at my side in battle from a blow that could have taken me instead. Not one of those men begrudged me my breath.’
‘Maybe not. But envied, certainly they envied.’ She pursed her lips, a gesture he had learned meant she was holding back more than words. And then, in the warm intimacy of the room, something shifted. ‘Do you remember the death of your parents? I mean, were you there when they died?’
A strange turn. He shook his head. ‘My father died at Crécy beside Enguerrand’s.’ At eleven Marc had been too young for battle.
‘And your mother?’
‘I barely remember her.’ She had died in childbirth, along with the babe that would have been his brother.
‘I was not there when either of my parents died.’ She whispered now and he was not certain whether she spoke to him or to herself. ‘B
oth of them suddenly were just...gone. Other people have stories. Other people can tell you about their last moments with loved ones. Even those taken by the Death, there were a few hours, to prepare. Praying with them, the priest there, ensuring the last rites were said.’ She shook her head. ‘They would not even let me see her.’ A slight shudder.
‘It was for your protection.’ How much worse would it have been if she had seen the body, seen the pain?
Now, she looked at him, the grief in her green eyes visible behind the steely strength she assumed when she cloaked herself in her rank. ‘I have been protected from too much, I think.’
And then he realised, truly, how sheltered she had been. They had given her no armour against life’s constant blows except duty itself.
He took her hands, wishing he might be that buffer, knowing no one could. ‘There is no protection from death. Nor from life.’
The grief, the pain, the determination, subtly altered. Her lips softened. And she looked at him, finally, with eyes that saw him as something more than an enemy.
‘Nor, Marc de Marcel, from you.’
And the defences, the hate, all the barriers he had built against les Anglaise, against her, were suddenly no protection at all.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, as if that alone would keep her safe from everything that threatened her body and her heart. She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, where he was certain the thump of his heart was so fast and loud she must hear it.
‘Cecile. Je veux t’embrasse. Je peux?’
He was not a man accustomed to asking, but to kiss her now, when she was so fragile, seemed a betrayal larger than the ones she had accused him of. This time, the decision would be hers. She would not be able to say later that he, or the fool, had forced her to submit.
And then, miracle of miracles, she lifted her head, met his eyes and smiled.
His lips met hers, gentle as a benediction. More than dalliance, less than desire, the kiss said something he could not. Something of—
‘Well that seems a very sincere “thank you”.’
Isabella’s voice.
Cecily stiffened. Marc dropped his arms. At the door, Enguerrand and the princess leaned against each other, smiling.
The empty room. The lit fire. Don’t stay long. He noticed now the waiting wine. The pillowed bench.
‘We are finished.’ Cecily, speaking as if nothing were wrong, yet so distracted by the interruption that, faced with proof that Isabella and Enguerrand planned their own private Christmas games, she walked out without even frowning at them.
And they did not spare a glance for Marc. As if the room were already empty and theirs, Isabella poured a goblet of wine and lifted it to Enguerrand’s lips.
And Marc saw clearly what he should have noticed before. Cecily had complained that his friend had a tendresse, but it was not de Coucy’s feelings that had worried her. Seeing them together, like this, it was clear.
Lady Isabella was besotted.
Shaken, he stumbled out of the room. Despite Cecily’s warning, Marc had counted Enguerrand’s guilery a harmless diversion. One that would keep him amused during their imprisonment. The return of his lands, the prize, a way of scoring that he had won.
Not something worth dying for.
He felt his own body stir, thinking of Cecily. The kiss had been gentle, yes. But what if they had not been interrupted? He could imagine her hair coming lose, the surcoat sliding to the floor, her lips hungry and welcoming. Another kiss, two, three, and he could easily be a man lost in this woman.
A serving girl might lift her skirts. An unmarried countess, never. And a princess? Unimaginable.
A harmless public dalliance was one thing. Yet what if, some night soon, in a room more secluded than this, the Lady Isabella offered more than kisses? What if, in a moment of madness, when the wine was drunk and kisses no longer satisfied, the princess forgot herself and offered more?
What man in the throes of passion would say no?
Not even Lord de Coucy.
And afterwards, after the reckless moment had passed and the sun rose and they faced each other would come the realisation that they had just created a cleft in life itself.
King Edward had been gracious, but that would change if he discovered his daughter had been dishonoured.
The man who bedded a king’s daughter could not be allowed to keep that knowledge as a weapon to be used. There must be no fear that one night, in his cups, a man might spill the secret.
That secret would have to be buried for ever.
Along with the man who knew it.
* * *
Cecily did not sleep that night.
Visions of death and kisses, of being caught by the princess in Marc’s arms, made her thrash and turn. And only later, when she had berated herself once again for her foolishness, did she remember to worry about what had happened after she left that room, leaving Isabella and Enguerrand alone.
But as she faced the princess the next morning, she held her tongue. After last night, she could scarcely criticise Isabella for stealing moments alone with her chevalier.
If she had hopes that Isabella’s own liaison amoureuse had made her blind to Cecily’s, the princess’s first words dashed them. ‘I’m glad to see you are finally enjoying the season with someone foolish and inappropriate.’
‘The way you are?’ Her sharp tone was for herself as well as for the princess.
‘Are you uneasy about my chevalier or yours?’
‘He is not mine.’
‘He saved your life! And you saved his! You are a story from the courtly poems come alive!’
The worst thing she could imagine. ‘We are no such thing! What if such rumours reach my prospective husband?’
‘Then he will think you even more desirable!’ Isabella wagged her finger. ‘No more sad faces. I want to see you make merry with Marc de Marcel!’
The very thought made Cecily laugh. ‘Getting him to be merry is like pushing a boulder uphill.’
‘Well, it’s a task to keep your mind off the past. Now let that handsome chevalier lift your spirits!’
Cecily waited for the familiar anger and sorrow. It did not come. Marc was a dangerous enemy, yet, now, having bested certain death, this morning she saw the world as sweet and new. Perhaps she had judged herself, and Isabella, too harshly. She had ridden a hunt, killed a beast. And if a handsome chevalier honoured her with a kiss, why should she not take it? As long as she did not let him come too close...
The doubt, the hope, must have shown on her face. Isabella put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You have this chance. Don’t refuse a sweet when it is offered.’
‘A sweet that will be a moment on the tongue and then gone.’ Would she even remember the taste, later, of his lips on hers?
‘But without it, you will have nothing but a sour taste.’ Isabella’s tone turned urgent. ‘You have only these weeks of Christmas. After that, the chance will be lost.’
Was she trying to convince Cecily, or herself? Yet the argument tempted. Soon, she would be married, locked into duty and away from feelings for the rest of her life. Where she would never see Marc de Marcel again.
The thought was more painful than she had expected. ‘It is only a few days.’
‘Good.’ Isabella smiled again, as if the matter were decided. ‘Now go. Find your chevalier. Enguerrand is coming.’
Enguerrand again. ‘Here? Again? What will your parents think of...after...’ She must ask, but she feared to state the words.
‘After my brother’s wedding, you mean?’
Cecily nodded. The prince had wed less than two years before, without the church’s permission, and it had taken months and a papal intervention before the sins were erased. ‘Won’t your parents worry?’
Cecily was jealous for a moment that Isabella had parents to worry over her. And she had no doubt that family was more important to the princess than any temporary tendresse.
‘Mother is still haunted, thinking she should have known something or done something...’ Isabella shook her head and then sighed, as if to let go of a painful thought. ‘Do not worry on my behalf.’ The familiar, light smile returned and she reached for Cecily’s hands and squeezed them. ‘Now go. Find your chevalier.’
Cecily left, but not to find Marc. No, there was something else she must do first. She had faced a charging boar. It was time to face Peter the Mason.
Chapter Eleven
Marc woke before Enguerrand the next morning. A bad sign.
In the aftermath of the previous evening, no word was spoken between them of the princess, of the countess, or of kisses. Every time Marc had tried to frame a question, he could not hammer his thoughts into anything other than a blunt sword.
Does the princess mean more to you than just the land? Do you know the risk if you, if she...?
To even suggest such a thing seemed impossible.
And yet, later that day, as they faced each other over a chessboard borrowed from the Lady Isabella, Enguerrand did nearly that. ‘Well, mon ami, are you, perhaps, developing a tendresse for a certain femme Anglaise?’
‘What? Who?’
Enguerrand laughed at Marc’s clumsy attempt at denial. ‘The lovely countess is a beauty, did I not say?’
‘I thought her cold.’
‘She did not seem cold to you last night. Last night, she seemed—’
‘I’m surprised you could see anything but the princess,’ he said, shoving the carved jasper pawn to the next space. He did not want to revisit last night. It raised questions he did not want to answer, not only about Enguerrand. ‘I have spent time with the countess only to distract her from your campaign.’
‘Ah, I see.’
Marc waited, but Enguerrand said no more.
‘She thinks your attention to the princess threatens the woman’s heart.’
‘Ah.’ A move of his carved crystal rook.
Whispers at Court Page 11