Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘I want him to know. We’ll speak of the rest...after.’

  A servant entered and they fell silent. ‘Lady Isabella, Lord de Coucy and Chevalier de Marcel.’

  Isabella raised her brows.

  ‘He must have wanted Marc with him,’ Cecily said. ‘I’ll keep him occupied so you can talk to Enguerrand.

  The servant left and the men entered. With a warning glance at Cecily, Isabella moved to Enguerrand’s side, putting a hand on his arm and leading him to her chamber. ‘Come. I’ve something to tell you.’

  Alone, she and Marc looked at each other and then away, suddenly awkward. Had a week passed since she saw him last? It seemed as months.

  In the next room, she could hear Isabella’s voice, but not her words. ‘Here, Marc.’ She must be sure he heard nothing. ‘Come look’

  He came closer, looking over her shoulder. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The design for my parents’ tomb.’

  Without a word of surprise, he picked it up and studied it, as if he were truly interested. ‘It honours him. A worthy warrior.’

  She warmed at his praise of a man he had never known. An enemy.

  But as she looked back at the drawing, the figure wearing armour seemed a stranger to her as well. And when the face was finally sculpted, it, too, would be that of a stranger. The sculptor had not known her father. Only her mother.

  Marc pointed to the figure beside him. ‘What about your mother?’

  Beside him, with no detail, was a shape that was to have represented her mother. But it had not been important, then, what that one looked like. There would be time for that later, or so they had thought.

  ‘She chose something, but...’ She leafed through the chest, but found nothing in more detail. ‘I don’t know what she wanted.’

  ‘So what did you decide?’

  She put the drawings back in the box and shut the lid. She had not decided, of course, once again letting her emotions override her duty. ‘I told the sculptor to do as he thought best.’ And when she returned home, she would be forced to look at their graven images and say farewell all over again. She walked away from the box, as if it were a live thing. ‘Just looking at those reminds me they are gone.’

  ‘But if God is good, parents die before their children.’

  And yet she had not forgiven God for taking hers. ‘Did you think God so good when your parents died?’ A cruel and bitter question.

  The shock of it reflected in his face. ‘No.’

  Once again, she had lashed out of her own feelings, forgetting his. She put her fingers on his sleeve, hoping he could sense her regret, and gentled her words. ‘Forgive me. I must sound like a witless child. I did not mean to raise old sorrows.’

  ‘I left home when I was seven. I have lived without them for a long time.’

  That was the way of men who trained to become knights, but still, she could barely imagine it. Her parents had been a never-ending constant in her world. Or so she imagined they would be. ‘So you don’t remember them?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ A belligerent tone. As if by asking she had accused him. ‘My father gave me a sword before I was seven and told me I was strong and brave and must make my way in the world for he was a knight, but held no land. And then he sent me to the Lord de Coucy, Enguerrand’s father. He must have believed in me very much to persuade such a great lord to take on my training.’

  So many words together. And then he fell silent.

  Was that Lord de Coucy’s voice coming from the next room? Steadier than she had expected. She must drown the sound. ‘And then you lost him.’

  ‘At Crécy.’

  ‘So your father was killed in a battle with the English. Perhaps even by my father.’ She could barely accept the truth. She had hurled countless accusations and he was the one who had lost a father to the enemy, not she. ‘And all this time, all the things I said...and you said nothing. Why?’ A warrior and yet he had never struck back.

  He shrugged. ‘You had battles enough to fight.’

  But instead of fighting her own battles, her inner demons, she had turned her fury on him. And if he had lost his temper, even for a moment, and bludgeoned her with the truth of his own loss instead of letting her discover it in her own time, could she have borne the blow?

  ‘You are good man, Marc de Marcel, though you pretend a lack of honour.’

  She had struggled so hard against her own feelings, yet, with a few simple words, this immovable man had shown himself more gentle with such weakness than she had been. She sighed, grateful for the sounds of music and laughter from the other room.

  He shook his head. ‘When you let go of what has sustained you, the first step is shaky. As is the second, and the third. And just when they become more steady, you will trip over a stone in the path. That is when you must take another step.’

  Wisdom learned from a difficult journey. All this time, she had thought him callous. Instead, his silent perseverance was the way he had chosen to meet life. He, at least, had met it, while all this time, she had hidden away, as if by clinging to the past she could make it live again.

  ‘Not only good, but wise.’ Wise enough to help de Coucy, though she could not speak of that now. ‘I am sorry that I did not realise it earlier.’

  If she had expected him to smile, she was mistaken.

  ‘Wise?’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps stubborn.’

  ‘And brave. Brave enough to meet life head on.’

  He rose and left her side to stare out on the faded winter sky. ‘Except for you. I have not been brave with you.’

  And suddenly, she felt brave. Brave enough to risk feeling joy, even knowing it would not last. Knowing that this, too, would be torn away. ‘Should we be brave together? Just for a few weeks?’

  Foolish. Irrational. Any day, perhaps as soon as tomorrow, the king would name the man she must wed. And even if they escaped unscathed and unnoticed, wouldn’t it be harder to let him go, after having had...more?

  None of those arguments could stop her heart from pounding in her ears as she waited for him to speak.

  From the next room, Isabella’s laugh.

  ‘They seem to do well enough,’ Marc said.

  ‘So could we, as long as we are not...’

  ‘As long as we do not....’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Just until...’

  Until she was married or he was ransomed or something they could not control tore them from each other. And if, then, she had to listen again to the endless voices of judgement in her head, she would pay that price. ‘Easter?’

  They fell silent as Enguerrand and Isabella walked into the room. Nothing more was said, beyond polite farewells.

  But, as Marc looked over his shoulder to smile, Cecily counted the scant weeks before Easter and found herself wishing that the whole of winter stretched long and bright before them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Days later, Isabella lost the babe.

  She had retired to her chambers, weary, complaining again of her stomach, and called Cecily to sit with her as night fell. Later, the aches, the pains, and then the bleeding came. More, heavier than a monthly flow, though later, that was how they explained it.

  And after, the princess cried, her face such a mixture of pain, sadness and relief that Cecily was not certain which was the strongest.

  ‘You must go,’ she said, exhausted and ready to sleep after the sheets were changed and the morning came. ‘Find Enguerrand. Tell him...what happened.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ Murmured words to reassure.

  But Isabella gripped her hands. ‘Now. You alone. Let no one see you.’

  Cecily wanted to protest that was impossible for her to go skulking through the streets alone. Yet she could have been the one l
ying in that bed. If Marc had not been strong...

  And so she left the room, knowing that to do as the princess asked, she must go to the Savoy not as the countess, but as an ordinary woman. One who would be unnoticed. Unseen.

  And if she was discovered? What would she say?

  Or would it be worse not to be discovered? To be thought a woman available to any man she passed on the street?

  Fingers trembling, she put on her plainest wool, covered her hair with a linen kerchief and her skirt with an apron as the washesters would. Then, she stuffed a bag with clothes, wrapped a length of wool to shadow her face, and slipped out of the castle.

  The countess would have called for a boatman to take her to the Savoy, but a laundress must walk, following the curve of the river between Westminster Palace and the Savoy Palace, and she hurried through the streets, careful to keep within sight of the river so she would know where she was. Blessedly, the sun came out, warming the day and melting the frozen street, and by the time she reached the home of the French court, she felt like a laundress indeed.

  At the palace, they directed her to the postern gate. Too dangerous to go directly to Lord de Coucy, and so she asked for the Chevalier de Marcel, ignoring the ribald comments about the chevalier’s need for a laundress in the middle of the day.

  When they took her to him, he was with Enguerrand. Their frowns replaced by surprise when they recognised her.

  Enguerrand cleared the room of attendants. Alone with them, she pushed the headcloth away and set down her sack.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Marc not waiting for his friend to speak. His voice full of surprise. Concern.

  She looked at Lord de Coucy, uncertain how to begin.

  His face carried the sharp expression of a falcon. As if he knew. As if he had been waiting. ‘Isabella.’

  It was not a question.

  She nodded, glancing at Marc. Did he know? Did men speak of such things? The secret was not hers to share with him, yet Isabella had shared all with her. Had they done the same?

  The two men looked at each other, then Enguerrand nodded at her to continue.

  She took a deep breath. ‘She has lost the babe.’

  Suddenly Marc was at her side, as if afraid she might fall.

  Enguerrand’s face turned pale. ‘But Isabella, is she...?’ As if he could not speak his fears.

  ‘She is weak, but will recover.’

  Then he did not try to disguise his relief, slumping in the chair as if only force of will had held him upright until now.

  ‘You came alone? Through the streets?’ Marc now, his voice rich with concern for her.

  ‘We could trust no one else.’

  He nodded and asked no more. Her parents would have judged her. A countess did not disguise herself and walk the streets alone. Yet Marc, a man accustomed to the duties of war, did not question her decision. She had done what was needful.

  Yet he did not move from her side. ‘You should not go back alone.’ He hesitated, looking at Enguerrand, still unmoving.

  Cecily tried to read his face. Concern? Relief? Isabella would ask.

  Without raising his head, Enguerrand waved them away. ‘Go.’

  A moment’s pause, then they did.

  ‘You knew,’ she whispered, when they left the room. Was it an accusation? She wasn’t sure.

  He nodded. ‘Enough.’

  Men do not talk of those things, he had said. Yet some things took few words.

  ‘I must thank you again. If not for you, that night, if you had not been a man of strength and honour...’

  I might have been like Isabella. Or worse.

  Silent, he cupped her face in his hand, a gesture that said without words, I cherish you. ‘My mother...died... She and the babe, my brother...’

  Such a strong man, and yet, hard for him to speak of the danger that women faced every day. ‘I’m sorry.’ So many ways to lose a loved one.

  He dropped his hand, as if suddenly aware of her sympathy. ‘It was long ago. I no longer think of them.’

  ‘Truly?’ And for a moment, fierce envy bit her. Would that she could be so strong.

  Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. ‘No more than once a day.’

  A confession.

  Together, they descended the stairs in silence.

  As part of the king’s household, Marc had more freedom to come and go, and as they stepped into the streets, Cecily felt strangely free, too. Dressed as she was, walking beside an unknown, ordinary knight, who would know, or care, who she was? Who would judge or condemn her?

  The day’s unexpected sunshine had brought all manner of Londoners into the streets, lifting their faces to the sun, near giddy with the reminder that the world would not be white and cold for ever.

  Cecily had processed through London many times, for ceremonies, on the way to a tournament or travelling between castles. But she had never been in them, part of them. Now, she was eye to eye with people selling firewood or food. No longer on a horse or in a litter, she attracted no special glances. For once, she felt blissfully invisible. No longer wearing the disguising of a countess, but only an ordinary woman, doing things that any woman might.

  She touched his sleeve. ‘Do we have to return right now?’

  ‘Won’t the princess expect you?’

  ‘The night was difficult. She will be sleeping, at least for a while.’

  He smiled. A grin as wide as a boy’s. ‘What would you like to do?’

  Be ordinary. ‘Be with you.’

  And so they turned away from Westminster, and towards the city.

  Neither of them knew the way, but she was not afraid because he was there.

  And because, today, she was not the countess.

  No one gave them more than a glance. No one looked at her, waiting, expecting. So she could gaze at Marc, with a smile as wide as his, brave to feel joy. And to show it.

  And when her stomach growled, loud enough that he looked down, they both laughed. And she was certain she had never heard him laugh before.

  ‘But I haven’t eaten since the princess...’ Her laugh faded. No need to tell the tale again. The night had been dark and long and she had near forgotten that a day could overflow with sunshine.

  As if in answer, the cries of ‘Hot sausage!’, ‘Cheese!’ and ‘Pie!’ rang out ahead of them. They could see the stone quays along the river now and food sellers lined the street.

  She dug into the purse hanging from her waist. Normally, she would have sent a servant to fetch such food, but she felt strangely powerful as she herself gave the seller a penny, then cupped two warm meat pies in her palms.

  ‘No parsnips,’ she said, as she handed one to Marc. ‘I promise.’

  And he smiled. Smiled as if no one in his life had ever remembered, or cared, that he hated parsnips.

  They ate as they walked, and when she was done, Cecily licked her fingers clean.

  Clouds had moved over the lowering sun and a gust of wind blew the smell of the river towards the street. ‘I should go back,’ she said, reluctant.

  He nodded. And without words, they turned back towards Westminster, walking so close together that the wind could not slip between them. He took her hand, safely hidden by cloak and skirt, and they slowed their steps. Fewer buildings lined the road near the palace and instead of blending with a crowd, they walked alone.

  Far enough from the gate she would not be recognised, she let go his hand and pulled the woollen cloth forward, shadowing her face. ‘I must leave you now.’

  He looked ahead, at the postern guard. ‘They will not let you enter unchallenged.’

  ‘If I could get a message to Isabella.’ Foolish idea. Any servant would see her and wonder.

  ‘I have an idea.’
He put his arm around her and pulled her close so that her face was hidden against his chest. ‘Follow my lead.’

  His gait turned uncertain, as if he had drunk too much ale, and she stumbled, keeping up with him. He laughed, then whispered in her ear. ‘He will think I have cupped too much and brought back a common woman.’

  Her cheeks burned off the last of the cold and her nervous laugh sounded false, but she wrapped him close, as she imagined a whore might do, and did not raise her face from his chest as they came close enough for him to hail the guard.

  ‘Take pity on a man on a cold day,’ he called, staggering from one foot to another as if he could barely stand. ‘My bed is far away and I need to warm myself with this one.’

  Then, he lifted her chin and kissed her. Long, slow and deep as if they had been alone in all of the world.

  And she let him. Kissed him in return. Told herself it was only another disguising and knowing she lied. And even forgot for a moment who and where she was and let her hands roam his back as if...

  ‘Come on then.’ The guard laughed. ‘Get inside before you scare the animals.’

  Laughter escaped her throat and her knees gave way. Marc’s arm stayed at her back and he swung her up in both arms. Giving the guard thanks and a wicked grin, he carried her inside and out of sight of the man.

  Her arms clung to his neck and she dared not raise her head until he said, ‘It’s safe’, and let her down to her feet, which were now truly as unsteady as she had pretended.

  They were in a corridor she did not recognise, alone for the moment, her back safely pressed against the wall, with Marc between her and the rest of the world.

  ‘If you see anyone coming,’ he whispered, ‘start kissing me again.’

  She resisted the temptation to kiss him anyway, feeling as if she had been truly as drunk and mad as they had pretended. She took a deep breath, searching for the Countess of Losford.

  ‘I think,’ she said, trying to steady herself, ‘that this must be one of the worst things I have ever done.’

  He smiled, indulgent, kind, as if she were beloved and could do no wrong. ‘If this is the worst thing you have done, you must have been a perfect daughter.’