Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  She had dared dally with this man, knowing that he was totally, completely unavailable. That she was destined to lose him and choosing that, because she imagined she could let him go with no risk of pain or loss.

  Instead, she had begun to care for him. Care deeply. Care so much that to lose him would plunge her into the grey, cruel fog of mourning. Again.

  * * *

  As if his feet had frozen to the dock, Marc stood on the edge of the river, watching the boat carry Cecily away until it was swallowed by darkness.

  Even then, he could not move.

  Too much had happened this night. He was as trapped as he had been in battle when les goddams had closed in from all sides, but this time, no strong sword would save him.

  The salvation he had expected from the king’s arrival had not come. There was no path to freedom. He might live in this hellish limbo for years to come, far from home, and near, but not too near, to Cecily, forced to watch her from afar, forbidden to him, knowing that his hunger for her would only grow stronger, never assuaged.

  Yet after holding her again, to think of escape, to leave her deliberately, seemed impossible.

  Darkness swallowed the boat, even the sound of the oars disappeared, and he turned back to the house. Inside, he was surprised to see young Gilbert, standing in the small passageway, watching him. How long had he been there? How much had he seen?

  Enough, to judge by his frown. ‘She will be another man’s wife, you know. Soon.’

  The bald statement struck like a blow. He knew she could not be his, but he had not, could not, imagine her belonging to someone else.

  Another sign of the idiocy that had grabbed him. Did he somehow think they would part and then each pine alone for the rest of their lives?

  He had learned the fallacy of that fantasy long ago.

  He growled at Gilbert, as if it were the young man’s fault. ‘Yours?’ The colt did not deserve her.

  A shake of the head.

  ‘But you know who it will be.’

  ‘Only rumours.’

  ‘Does she know? Who it is?’ Did she lie beneath him, kiss him, knowing?

  ‘No one knows except the king. I’ve heard a few names. Eastham. Northland. Dexter.’ Names spoken with pride.

  Names that meant little to Marc. ‘Are they good men?’

  ‘All close to the king. Trustworthy.’

  ‘I meant will they be good to her?’

  Gilbert studied him. ‘You do care. I wasn’t sure.’

  The boy might still be clumsy with a sword, but his words pierced Marc’s armour, exposing all the excuses he had given himself. Just a few weeks. Over soon. It means nothing.

  Lies. It meant everything. ‘I care that she will be well treated and taken care of.’

  Gilbert nodded, but asked no more. ‘The king will be sure of it.’

  Instead of comforting him, the words pricked his pride. Another man could do for her things he could not.

  Two royal attendants scurried into the passage and out to the dock. One summoned the barge for Westminster, the other the one for the Savoy. The evening was over. Marc turned for the stairway and solitude.

  As the guests surged to exit, he felt the grip of Enguerrand’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Ah, mon ami, there you are. I have spoken to the king. I have good news.’

  He raised his eyes, knowing he must look as a man who had faced death. ‘I spoke to the king. There is no good news.’

  A moment of compassion in de Coucy’s gaze. ‘I cannot get you home, but I can get you out of the wine merchant’s house. I have arranged for you to share my quarters in the king’s household. You will be among your own people. With me.’ His eyes took in the Picard house entire, so much smaller than the castles he knew. ‘And much more comfortable.’

  Anger almost refused for him. Days, weeks without a word. And now, so late...?

  Enguerrand’s smile was sad. ‘At least as comfortable as a man can be so close to the fires of hell.’

  ‘The princess? Did she...?’ A question he could not ask aloud.

  His friend shook his head. But Marc recognised, unspoken, an apology. He had judged Enguerrand harshly. The pincers of love, duty and honour had squeezed them both. A man must be forgiven. ‘When?’

  ‘Now. Quickly.’

  He had little enough to bring, but as he packed his meagre bag, he wondered whether he would, indeed, be more comfortable with the king’s party.

  I have not seen you at court.

  She would now. Now, he would be tormented with the sight of Cecily day after day.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A few days later, the Earl of Eastham sent a messenger, asking the countess to join him for a game of chess.

  Telling the page she could not answer until she knew whether the princess needed her, Cecily hurried to Isabella’s chambers. Did his invitation mean the king had made a decision? She had said all the right words, worn the correct smile, looked in every way as if she were prepared to take on the role she was born for. And yet, beneath the smile, all she could think of was when she might see Marc again.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Isabella said, looking up from a bench covered with fabrics as Cecily entered the room. The princess seemed near frantic for diversions now. Every day a merchant would appear, tempting her with a new bauble. ‘What do you think of this blue for the Easter gouns?’

  Right now, Cecily could not even pretend to care. ‘Isabella, has the king chosen Eastham?’ What could she remember of the man? Widowed. Quiet. Smelling vaguely of onions. ‘Is he to be my husband?’

  ‘Nothing has been decided. Another portion of the king’s ransom arrived, but they have still barely paid half what is due and the chancellor is harrying Father about expenses. He’s had time for naught else. Mother thought you should spend time with some of the men he’s considering and let her know if you favour one of them.’

  ‘How kind of her.’ And yet, a gesture only. In the end, it would not matter whether Eastham’s smile pleased her or whether Northland made her laugh. Or whether she dreamt of a French chevalier while the castle slept. The king would choose a man to match the castle, not to please the bride. ‘Then I will say yes, of course.’ In words that lacked enthusiasm.

  When will I see you again?

  Barely a week had passed.

  ‘Mother is more than kind,’ Isabella said, holding her hands close to her stomach. ‘I spoke to her. About Enguerrand.’

  How had she dared? ‘How much did you tell her?’

  A blush. ‘Not all, of course. I mean...’ She looked down, as if trying to see if the bump of a babe had appeared. ‘I do not yet know...’ She let the words trail, unable to speak the unthinkable. Then, she brightened. ‘But after much suasion, she said she would consider the idea that we might be...together.’

  ‘To wed?’ Impossible. ‘And Enguerrand? Does he want the same?’

  A shy smile. ‘I think so. But he cannot speak until he knows...until it is safe...’

  Of course. To declare himself, to speak of marriage before he knew it would be permitted would be as foolhardy as rushing to battle without knowing how the enemy was arrayed. Yet Isabella’s dalliance had been as forbidden as Cecily’s dreams. Did the princess suddenly have all within her grasp?

  ‘Nothing is certain. But I have hope.’

  Cecily swallowed her envy. Isabella was daughter of a king. Her duty should have been as clear and strong as Cecily’s. No hopeless yearning could supplant her father’s ambitions. Yet now she spoke of marrying for love. ‘I am happy for you.’ And yet it made mock of Cecily’s duty. She turned to leave. ‘I must give Eastham’s page my answer.’

  ‘And, Cecily?’ Isabella beckoned her back. ‘Your chevalier will be at tonight’s gathering.’

  ‘He is no
t my chevalier.’ Yet her smile escaped before she could stop it. Soon, he had promised.

  Isabella raised a brow. ‘But you do like him.’

  She could admit nothing when a prospective husband waited for a reply. ‘My duty is elsewhere.’

  Isabella’s folly had made the risks of indiscretion stark and clear. It had only been one time with Enguerrand, she said, and now, she was counting days and watching for signs a child grew. If Cecily, too, had succumbed...she and Marc had come so close...

  The princess smiled again, as if she knew a secret she could not wait to share. ‘Well, until Father names your husband, you can at least enjoy his company.’

  And despite all the danger, that was what she wanted, fiercely, to do for the final few weeks left to her.

  * * *

  Plunged into the court of King Jean in exile, Marc found himself in the midst of an unending season of Noël. Today a dinner at the Savoy. Tomorrow, a celebration at Westminster. The river was clogged with barges ferrying the royals and the court from one palace to the other, almost as if these events had become the battles by which the negotiations would be resolved.

  So within less than a week, he was back at Westminster, at one of those gatherings Isabella and Enguerrand loved so well, standing at the edge of an alcove, watching Cecily across the room.

  She was standing much too close to a burly Englishman.

  Marc beat back a streak of jealousy. She was not his. Could never be his. And yet...

  Would that man, or whoever the king chose, be good to her?

  He must be certain of that. Then, perhaps, he could let her go.

  Finally, with subtle grace, she made her way in his direction. She seemed even more beautiful tonight. When he looked at her lips, he remembered the little catch of ecstasy that had escaped when he held her. As fair as her green eyes were, he also knew, now, how they looked, half-closed, when she was overcome with want.

  And when she stood before him, it was all he could do to keep his arms at his sides.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I am glad to see, Countess, that you are recovered from your illness of the other evening.’

  ‘Not fully, I’m afraid.’ She did not look at him, but her fingers, clasped before her, tightened. ‘It seems this illness...lingers.’

  ‘I understand. I, too, have been touched by that malady. Is there no cure?’

  ‘None that I have found. Even being removed from the source of the infection does not relieve the symptoms.’ She lifted her eyes to his. ‘I have thought, instead, I should stay close to the source. Perhaps over time, it will lose its power.’

  ‘A few weeks, only,’ his words, whispered, drunk on the yearning in her eyes.

  She nodded. ‘A few weeks more.’ She was silent for a moment, then looked over her shoulder before her words dropped to a whisper. ‘What happened? I thought, you had expected, when King Jean returned...’ She took a breath and looked at him, not as a lady making passing conversation, but with a gaze that tried to burrow into the truth. ‘Why did you not go home?’

  There had been no time to explain it at Picard’s and now he was near as loath to speak of it as he was to bare his feelings. ‘The king did not bring my release with him.’

  ‘Nor did he bring his own.’ Her voice held an edge of annoyance he shared. ‘I feel as if nothing has changed.’

  ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that before any hostages are freed, our two kings have many things to negotiate.’

  ‘Do you know what?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘A lowly chevalier is not privy to such things.’

  ‘I know what it is like, to wait for kings.’ A sigh.

  ‘Is it that one?’ He glared at the man she’d been with earlier, now telling tales to a man on the other side of the hall. ‘The one the king has chosen for you?’

  ‘His name has been mentioned. Along with others.’

  He shrugged. ‘Does the princess give you no hint of your future?’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘The princess,’ she said, ‘has been occupied with other things.’

  The edge in her voice jolted him.

  You’ve been with her.

  He glanced across the room. Enguerrand and Isabella were standing at a carefully measured distance from each other. Their smiles were strained.

  ‘Has he spoken of her?’ Cecily, whispering.

  He met her eyes and knew, unspoken, that she, too, knew what had passed Christmas night. What had happened since? ‘Men keep such things even closer than kings.’ Was there a child? The question would be a betrayal. ‘But it seems all our efforts accomplished nothing.’

  ‘Nothing except to bring us together.’ An outcome worthy of a fool’s jest. If they had not tried so hard to keep Enguerrand and Isabella apart, they would not have spent so much time together.

  But life was not made of what if, but of what is.

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘The Earl of Northland is expecting me. I must...’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded, quickly.

  And yet she did not leave.

  He could not hold back the words. ‘When will I...’

  See you again?

  A plea as plaintive as hers had been.

  ‘Soon.’ Her smile, gentle with compassion for both of them. ‘Lord de Coucy visits often.’

  And so, he thought, he and Enguerrand would ride side by side into love, as silently as they had ridden to war. And Marc knew that neither would emerge without wounds.

  * * *

  Held too long within castle walls, Marc needed the release of swinging a sword, even if it were made of wood and the opponent no more than the painted wooden pell, stuck in the ground for pages to practise their strokes. Generous, King Edward had opened his training yard to the hostages, but when Marc hefted a wooden sword and stepped into Westminster Castle’s frozen yard on a late January morning, the only other person there was neither page nor squire.

  It was young Gilbert.

  He was hacking at the motionless pell stake with a familiar zeal, mindless to all but the battle before him. Marc watched, silent, assessing the young man’s skill. He had a sure eye and a willingness to work and with the right guidance, and a bit more heft in his shoulders, Sir Gilbert might become a formidable opponent.

  If he had the will.

  ‘Lift from your back, not your shoulders.’

  Startled, Gilbert stumbled, but he kept his hold on the sword and whirled to face Marc, crouched and ready to strike, both hands firmly on the grip. When he saw who had spoken, he paused, then stood. ‘Teach me.’

  ‘What?’ A question to allow him time to think.

  ‘Teach me.’

  The words were a challenge, not a request, but Marc grinned. ‘I taught Lord de Coucy. Do you think to be his equal?’

  A lift of the chin, undaunted. ‘I think to be yours.’

  Words de Coucy might have said, so long ago. Though Marc was only five years older than the young lord, Enguerrand had wanted the comfort and guidance of another male after his father died. And Marc? Perhaps he was looking for a younger brother to replace the one his mother lost.

  What was he looking for from this jeune homme? Well, if he had to leave Cecily, perhaps he could prepare Gilbert to watch out for her in his stead. ‘Then let us begin.’

  And so they spent the waning hours of the day, crossing heavy wooden blades, sweating despite the cold. The practice swords could not cut as the real ones did, but they were heavier and so helped a man build strength that would make the metal blades seem light. A few other men drifted into the yard, both his fellows and les goddams, calling out a combination of advice and taunts that forced both of them to fight their best.

  And when darkness fell and they put the weapons away, he and Gilbert walked i
nto the castle together, speaking of sword and shield makers and how well a man could sleep on hard ground after riding all day.

  ‘How soon can I be ready?’ Gilbert asked. ‘To join the Crusade?’

  And the first word that tempted Marc’s lips was never.

  Oh, a man’s body could be trained. Easily. He could build his strength and size and stamina. But it was the spirit that could never be fully prepared, the spirit whose invisible wounds would scar a man as wholly as a spear or a sword.

  And he had a moment’s regret for what he had lost. And for what this man would, eventually, become.

  ‘Ça depend.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  * * *

  A few days later, Cecily unpacked the last of the chests that had been sent from Windsor to Westminster with the advance party and found a small box, unfamiliar. ‘Is this yours, Isabella?’

  ‘No. What’s in it? Some jewels you’ve forgotten?’

  Only Isabella would have so many jewels she could forget some. ‘Probably a report from the steward at the castle on the state of the armoury.’ One more thing that should have received her attention before now.

  No lock held it closed, so she slid the hook away from its clasp and opened the lid. Inside, a stack of parchment sheets. Her hand shook as she lifted them from their little tomb.

  The drawings of her father’s effigy.

  She remembered now. She had last seen them just before her mother died. Her mother had given the mason a few instructions on final changes to her father’s figure, then put the drawings safely away, where she could find them.

  But what about the drawings of her mother’s figure?

  ‘Lord de Coucy will be here after the midday,’ Isabella said. ‘I must...tell him.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ There were no signs she could see. A woman might miss a monthly time, even two, for other reasons.

  Yet Isabella, serene as a Madonna, seemed to cup her belly as if she could feel a babe within. ‘I can tell.’

  Did she know or only wish it to be true? ‘But what will you do? Your parents...you can’t...’