Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  And as she stood before him, he bowed, deeply.

  ‘I was told once,’ he said, the words stumbling over the catch in his throat, ‘that it is customary for a knight to acknowledge a lady.’

  She bowed her head, slightly. ‘I see you have learned much during your time in England.’

  ‘I have learned, Lady Cecily, things that I hoped never to know.’ And would never forget.

  For once, the sadness of her smile mirrored his. ‘As have I, chevalier. As have I.’

  Safe. Here among this crowd, they were safe. No one would wonder at a knight and a lady, standing before the fire for a moment’s warmth.

  ‘I did not think to see you again,’ she said, in lower, more urgent tones.

  ‘Nor I you, Lady Cecily.’

  ‘You did not...’ She sounded hesitant. ‘I thought you would be already gone.’

  ‘No.’ He could not answer the expectant arch of her brow that asked What happened?

  He was not on his way home. And worse, he did not know why.

  From the moment the king stepped ashore, Marc had waited for the words that would mean his freedom. Waited at the port of Dover, but all he heard from the king was gratitude to the English for his royal welcome. Waited all the way to Canterbury, where all he heard was the king’s thanks to God and Saint Thomas for his safe journey. Then waited all the way to the gates of London.

  And when he heard those gates close behind him, all Londoners’ cheers of welcome for King Jean could not disguise the fact that Marc was back in prison, with a wild moment of regret that he had not left honour behind and run when he’d had the chance.

  ‘But I did not see you when the king came to Westminster,’ she said. ‘Are you not with his household?’

  Lord de Coucy had joined King Jean’s exiled court at the palace on the river, but there had been no room for Marc there, nor at the Tower, where the rest of the king’s men were now housed. ‘I am now a permanent guest of our host for the evening, Henri Picard.’

  Her eyes widened and she looked towards the table where their host, a prominent wine merchant, was toasting his royal guests with his finest vintages. ‘Is he French?’

  ‘Perhaps his family came from Picardy, long ago. Now, he is a merchant who appreciates a few extra shillings in his pocket for housing a hostage.’

  She touched his sleeve. ‘But why are you not with Lord de Coucy and the others?’

  He turned his back on the rest of the room, creating the illusion of privacy, and covered her hand with his, wishing he could do more. ‘Ah, but he is one of the greatest lords of France.’ Stark truth, reminding him of all that was impossible. ‘I am but a simple chevalier.’

  And yet, her eyes met his, her lips parted, and if he moved closer, if they were but alone—

  ‘Ah, Lady Cecily, there you are.’ The booming voice of the lady of the house interrupted. ‘The Lady Isabella already waits in my chambers, ready for the entertainment. Leave the men to their dicing and join us.’

  Her fingers tightened under his. She took a breath and he feared that she would argue. He wanted no unwelcome attention. Not now. For tonight, he and his king were under the same roof.

  Tonight, he would confront the man and demand an answer about his future.

  A deep bow. Farewell. ‘Lady Cecily,’ he said. ‘Dame Picard has made special plans.’ Calm, polite words. False as a disguising.

  Her fingers slipped from his arm. She inclined her head, once again acting the countess, and followed the wine merchant’s wife up the narrow wooden stairs.

  He did not watch them.

  ‘Ah, there you are, mon ami.’ Enguerrand’s voice, one Marc had not heard in days. ‘It has been too long.’

  A clasp of hands. Backs pounded. As if nothing had changed. And yet, the easy camaraderie they had shared had been shaken.

  On the journey to London, he had tried to talk to Enguerrand. About the king. About the princess. About his plans to return to France. And how Marc might do so as well.

  His friend’s path to freedom was complex. It might take a few weeks to ensure that treaty obligations were met. But Marc? His release should have been a simple matter.

  Enguerrand had left all the questions unanswered. And since they had reached the city, they had seen each other not at all.

  Was his friend, too, trying to forget? Or was there something more?

  ‘Our host has a fondness for dice and hazard.’ Enguerrand nodded towards the other end of the room, where the Kings of England and France were casting die. And, from what he could tell, losing.

  ‘And a talent for it as well.’

  ‘Will you join the game?’

  ‘I am waiting,’ Marc said, ‘for a chance to speak to King Jean.’ He said the words slowly, to be certain Enguerrand heard. ‘About my freedom.’

  A troubled frown, now. ‘Marc, there are things you need to understand. The Treaty, the king—’

  He wanted no meaningless excuses. ‘I want only what I was promised by the compte before I came.’ By Easter, the man had said. Barely eight weeks away. ‘Do I have your support?’

  An answer seemed long in coming. ‘What you want is in the hands of kings.’ He nodded towards the group in the corner. ‘Not mine.’

  As if he should join the game and pretend merriment, all the while trying to coax King Jean with honeyed words, the way Enguerrand had coaxed the princess.

  And despite it all, Enguerrand had neither his lands nor his happiness. Well, each man had a way, a path that was his own. And close though they might be, de Coucy’s was not the way of Marc de Marcel.

  ‘Then it is the king I will ask. Honour should demand he fulfil what was promised. And are you not ready? To leave England?’

  A pause. As if de Coucy was not certain what to say.

  And then, he nodded his head and backed away. ‘I wish you well.’

  Marc watched as his friend joined the noisy group in the corner, as much at ease with the English as with his countrymen.

  Enguerrand’s answers, and his silence, left Marc more uncertain than ever. And yet, the compte had promised. And King Jean, of all the world, was a man who upheld honour.

  Perhaps he was a fool, expecting the king, the others, to uphold the principles he had seen violated too many times. But he wanted one chance, to put his case before King Jean, clearly and simply. If the king was a man of honour, there could be only one response.

  He tried to keep his thoughts in line, but he knew that Cecily was upstairs. She might reappear at any moment, and thoughts that should have been fixed on the king and what he would say kept drifting...

  * * *

  It was another hour before King Jean stepped away and went outside to visit the privy house. As he returned to the house through a small passage, Marc knelt before him.

  Though he had journeyed with the group since they landed, he had only seen the king at a distance. Up close, the man looked older than Marc remembered. It had been eight difficult years since Poitiers. The king had been in his prime then and Marc had been newly knighted, bursting with the pride of chivalry.

  Things had changed. For them both.

  Now, he looked at this king and could not help but compare him to Edward, who ruled with strong, sure grace. His king, now that he looked carefully, seemed troubled, as if he were staring at a jumbled stack of mismatched bricks, uncertain how they were to be fitted together.

  What was France like now, with such a ruler? Was it a place to which he wanted to return?

  Too late to wonder. He bowed. ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘De Marcel? Is that you? I did not know you were here.’

  The words said everything he had feared and told him all he needed to know. But his hope, stubborn, refused to be dislodged. ‘I was sent as a substitute for the Compt
e of Oise, Your Grace, with the promise that I would be home by Easter. Did he send the ransom payment with you? Or perhaps a new man to serve in his place?

  He held his breath then, hoping, expecting the king to leap forward, to stake his own honour on the promise Marc had been made.

  Instead, there was silence. And a shake of the head. The answer he already knew.

  So only Enguerrand would be the free man. ‘So your return means only the release of those who were held surety for you under the Treaty.’

  ‘I am here, yes, but not as a substitute for the other hostages.’

  ‘But...’ Marc’s voice splintered like a shield struck too hard.

  Treaties and kings, de Coucy had said. No longer the victory or defeat of a simple battle. And here, the strong arm so honoured in war seemed useless, unable to slash through the confusion to reach freedom, either for him or his friend.

  Disappointment must have been clear on Marc’s face.

  ‘Easter is still before us. There is time yet.’ The king put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you not comfortable? Well treated?’

  I’m a prisoner, Marc wanted to yell. Unable to look Cecily in the eye as an equal.

  Why should he think of that now? Even if he were free, he never could. She was a countess. He was a chevalier, with nothing but a strong arm and the remnants of his honour to offer.

  ‘Why did you return, Your Grace?’ He doubted, now, whether honour had been any part of it.

  ‘The terms, the treaty. France’s life bleeds away as money is drained by the unending demands of the ransom. I hoped...if Edward and I could talk together, if we could agree...’

  To scale back the ruinous ransom. To keep the gold in France’s grip. That was the king’s concern. Not one lowly chevalier. And not the idle demands of honour.

  ‘And have you?’ A question too bold, but what did that matter now?

  ‘Not yet. But I have hope. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow, when there would be another feast and dancing and dicing and the kings would live like kings no matter what the treaty terms. Perhaps the king had returned for no nobler reason than to relish Edward’s hospitality.

  The king’s attention waned and he wandered back to the room. Marc rose from his knees, as weary as if he had spent a day in battle, and climbed the stairs.

  But as Marc returned to his small sleeping room, he faced a stark truth he had known and tried to ignore. Hostages had been held for three years and King Jean spoke only of talk and tomorrow. He would see no ransom. There would be no rescue.

  He would grow old here, rotting in the clutches of les Anglais, abandoned by men to whom honour was only a word.

  At once too near and too far from Cecily. Unless...

  Unless he, too, decided to violate the laws of chivalry.

  After all, if the king’s son was willing to escape his captors and dishonour his vows, why shouldn’t a chevalier without a sou do likewise?

  * * *

  Trapped in Dame Picard’s chambers before a fire constantly fed, Cecily wanted only to escape. Marc was here, under this roof. His very nearness had dissolved all her resistance, leaving only the urgent need to see him again.

  She did not question why. Or ask herself what would happen when she did.

  But Picard’s wife was determined that the ladies of the court hear every note of the entire repertoire of the minstrels she had hired for the evening. Music, dense and loud, filled the crowded room. Isabella’s fixed smile remained unmoved. Cecily struggled to match her, but she kept glancing at the door, on the other side of the room.

  He had said he was going home, and yet, here he was. She wanted an answer for that, at least. Just because she was curious, she told herself, knowing she lied.

  Finally, unable to breathe, she whispered to Isabella and rose, all attempts at discretion useless. They would have to assume she needed to visit the privy.

  Stepping out of the room, she looked down the empty stairway, thinking to go back to the ground floor, but then, a sound, behind her. She turned to look up the stairs.

  And saw Marc.

  For a moment, neither moved. And then, she mounted the stairs, her body knowing her intention. He watched her come, and though it was too dark to see his eyes, she knew they held a hunger that matched hers.

  And when she reached the landing and stepped inside the small room, she wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his chest.

  He hesitated, then, he held her close, his hand on her head, gentle as a caress, but holding her fast as if he would never let her go.

  ‘I thought I would never see you again.’ She was unsure whether he could hear her words, spoken into his tunic.

  ‘I did not intend...’ And instead of finishing the sentence, he shut the door.

  Alone. They were alone.

  No hesitation now. No attempts at words. He lifted her chin and kissed her.

  Kisses. Nothing but kisses. As if each was a word and they had much to say. Everything else abandoned, as if they were of one mind that wanted them to merge into one body.

  He trailed kisses down her throat and she searched, in turn, to find the warmth of his skin beneath his tunic.

  He stepped back, never letting her go, stumbled, and in the next moment they were lying on a bed narrow and hard. Nothing more but his body, hers, somehow matched, knowing...

  How easy it was, to merge her lips with his, to caress the bare skin of his back, warm on her palm. Nothing but now and here and...

  And then, below them, applause.

  Both of them stilled. ‘Listen,’ he whispered.

  Stools and chairs and feet upon wooden boards. Women’s laughter and chatter in the stairway. The performance over.

  And with that, the madness lifted and she knew again who she was, what she was doing.

  And with whom.

  He moved first, rolling to his side, standing, shoving a stool in front of the door and then holding a hand to help her rise.

  She looked down in horror. One of the braids framing her face swung free. One of her pearl buttons was dangling by a thread and the stitches at the shoulder of her surcoat had pulled away so the skirt dragged uneven on the floor.

  If she walked out of this room this way, everyone from the king to the serving girl would know what she had been doing. ‘What am I to do?’

  Moments before, Marc had been a man in the clutches of love’s delirium. Now, he commanded as if he were again a warrior in the midst of battle. ‘I found you taken ill and brought you here to rest. I will find a boatman to take you back to Westminster while the others linger here.’ He reached for his cloak and covered her with it, settling it on her shoulders, his hands lingering just a moment too long.

  She closed her eyes and raised her lips. His hands tightened on her arms...

  And then, he let go.

  And without a glance or a sweet word, he turned to the door, listening. All attention. Only about the task that faced him.

  To save her.

  Men’s voices, shouts, from the lower floor. He opened the door a crack, peered out, then motioned her to his side. And before she could ask more, he opened the door and lifted her into his arms.

  Then he pulled the cloak together to disguise her rumpled gown. ‘Now clutch your stomach and moan.’

  He stepped into the corridor.

  She dared not look around, but kept her chin on her chest, as if too weak to even lift her head. Who was there? Had anyone seen them coming out of Marc’s room? If the queen found out...if one of her prospective husbands saw her... Disgrace. The end of all.

  And yet, here, held by him, she felt safe.

  ‘What is it? What is wrong?’ The merchant’s wife, whispering.

  Cecily shut her eyes more tightly and moane
d.

  ‘I found her collapsed on the stairs,’ Marc said, ‘clutching her stomach.’

  ‘Not the plague?’ in tones so full of horror Cecily almost regretted having to deceive her.

  ‘Perhaps something she ate...’ Marc said, with a slight question at the end of his words.

  Now the woman gasped. ‘But all the food was carefully prepared, I ate it myself. No one else seems ill.’

  ‘If I can just get back to my bed,’ Cecily said, her voice weak and low. ‘My chambers...’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Dame Picard. ‘My own boatman will take you. This way. We must not disturb the others.’

  There must have been stairs directly to the dock on the river, for she felt the sway of them as Marc carried her, then the winter air cut her cheeks and the river’s sharp smell told her they were close to the barge.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Cecily,’ the woman said, in a voice near tears. ‘I can’t imagine what it might have been...’

  Cecily struggled a bit and Marc set her on her feet, careful that she clutched the cloak around her. ‘I’m sure it was nothing you did, Dame Picard. The princess was indisposed a few days ago. Perhaps the same thing...’ She held her stomach and coughed a bit.

  The woman leaned over to give instructions to her boatman and Cecily raised her eyes to Marc’s face. In the darkness, near impossible to read his expression.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ A whisper. It seemed so urgent now, that they not be parted.

  He traced the curve of her cheek with cold fingers. ‘Soon.’

  And then, steadied by his hand, she stepped into the boat. It moved away from the dock and on to the dark river and she looked back. Marc’s dark shadow, rimmed in faint light from the house, did not move for as long as she could see it.

  Suspended in a rocking boat between Marc and Westminster, she saw herself clearly, as weak and befuddled as she had feared. Another moment, if the applause had not interrupted, lust would surely have triumphed and she would have joined with him.

  And that was not the worst. For as the oars bumped against the dock at Westminster and she stepped carefully out of the swaying barge, she admitted that the worst was something even more dangerous.