She shook her head. ‘Not at all. They were not even certain...’
Will she ever be ready?
She did not want to think of that now. She had only a few more minutes here with Marc in the darkness of day’s end. Where she was not the countess, but only Cecily. Only a woman.
She lifted her hand to his golden hair, twirling her fingers through the waves as if she truly were a common woman. Or a wife who had the right. ‘What is the worst thing,’ she whispered, ‘that you have ever done?’
Even in the dim light, she could see the softness leave his face. ‘I watched other men do their worst and I let them.’
His memories, dark with horrors she would never know and was afraid to discover.
A noise. Voices. Two men. Squires? Kitchen boys?
Marc took her in his arms, hiding her from their sight, and she clung to him, as if her touch could smooth away his memories and comfort him as he had tried to comfort her.
She closed her ears to the rude remarks. The men passed and they were alone again.
‘I must go,’ he whispered.
She nodded. But before she let him, she pressed her lips to his once more, no longer pretending to be anything other than herself.
And beginning to realise, as she returned to the life of the countess, just who she might be.
No, she must not risk being alone with Marc de Marcel again. The next time she saw him, they must again be surrounded by members of the court.
Safe.
* * *
Cecily had worried, but the princess recovered quickly and was once again herself. Laughing. Full of gaiety. The Isabella of old. Cecily could read nothing behind Enguerrand’s expression and when she asked Marc, he had only shrugged.
Men do not talk of those things.
Yet Isabella was once again planning to entertain the court with Lord de Coucy.
‘We are preparing a new entertainment, Enguerrand and I!’ A flush touched Isabella’s check, delicate as a schoolgirl’s.
Cecily tried to remember what they had done for the Christmas entertainment. Her attention had been elsewhere that night. ‘Will you sing one of Machaut’s songs?’
‘Not this time, though he sings so beautifully.’ There was that silly sigh. And then a smile. ‘We have something else planned. This time, we shall perform a scene from the stories of King Arthur.’
Cecily frowned. Isabella’s smile gave her a sense of unease. ‘Who will you portray?’
‘Guinevere.’
Her dismay became a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘And Enguerrand?’
‘Lancelot, of course.’
Guinevere and Lancelot. Ill-fated, adulterous lovers. She was afraid to ask exactly what they would be doing. ‘But if you hope to persuade your parents—’
‘Mother has given her blessing.’
Shocked, Cecily tried to collect her thoughts. ‘You did not tell her! Not about the...’ She did not finish the sentence.
‘No. But she promised to persuade Father.’
It was the king’s approval that was needed and Edward had always listened to his wife more carefully than most kings. Besides, he had indulged Isabella, his favourite daughter, beyond all reason for most of her life. If he allowed her to break a marriage agreement, why would he not allow her to enter into this one? ‘Has she asked him yet?’
Isabella shook her head. ‘Mother thought a portrayal from the stories of Arthur might put him in a receptive mood. Father loves the tales of Arthur.’
‘I know that,’ she retorted. The story of King Arthur had been engrained in the court for as long as she could remember. It motivated the king, she thought, in a direct and personal way that even the Biblical stories did not. But Isabella was being deliberately obtuse. ‘But why not Guinevere and Arthur?’
‘Because Enguerrand is French, of course.’
And at that, Cecily laughed. Laughed at herself for ever thinking she could stop Isabella from having her way.
* * *
And later, when the king saw Guinevere and Lancelot sing and dance with coy smiles, he nodded with satisfaction and leaned over to listen when his wife touched his arm.
So, Cecily thought, unable to meet Marc’s gaze, although love had made fools of them all, only Isabella and Enguerrand would reap love’s rewards. Her own duty, which had been of such import a few months ago, now seemed a dry, dusty thing, too paltry to sustain her for the rest of her life. And yet she hoped the man of the king’s choice would be one she could look on without longing, touch without passion, and lose, if the time ever came, without tears, for she could bear to lose no one else.
Chapter Seventeen
Easter came again, the fourth since her father had died, and with it, the spring.
The snow melted. No cruel hail pounded down from the sky. French and English courts mingled in celebration instead of riding to battle. For Easter, Edward and Jean wore new suits of murray longcloth, making them look like brothers instead of enemies.
Whatever kings spoke of, whatever negotiations dragged on, she knew little but whispers. King Jean had not returned solely as a hostage, it seemed, but to persuade King Edward to reduce the amount England demanded of France by the terms of the treaty. Even Cecily knew King Edward would not agree, but it turned his attention from her marriage and the result was to keep Marc close and the spectre of her husband distant, so she was content. She felt almost whole again.
So when the French king fell ill, just after Easter, it was a cruel reminder. Nothing could last for ever, neither the good, the bad, nor the indeterminate limbo in which she and Marc had existed.
Days passed and King Jean did not rise from his bed. Warmth, life crept into the land. No one noticed. King Edward sent his own physicians to attend le roi Français. The French gathered close to their monarch. The court held its breath. Marc, when she did see him, looked grim. Once, when no one was looking, she threaded her fingers in his and squeezed his hand in reassurance.
And they waited for the king to recover.
* * *
Marc was with Cecily and the princess when Enguerrand came with the news.
‘Le roi et mort.’
‘Dead?’ His mind fought with his mouth. ‘The king is dead?’
Beside him, Cecily turned pale. ‘But just a few days ago, he was well. How...?’ Her words trailed to nothing.
Marc took her hand. She, of all people, knew the shortness of life and the injustice of death.
His first thought was anger at this accursed country and its cold. He wanted to lash out and blame...who? Cecily was right. The cold was not the fault of her king or her countrymen. Her father had died on his land. Now his king had died on hers.
And despite his admiration of the man, as he had watched him these last few months, he had begun to wonder whether the king was truly honourable or simply clinging stubbornly to a world of his own imaginings. That day at Poitiers, Marc had admired his valiant fight to the end. But if he had retreated, if the battle could have been joined another day, perhaps France would have won after all.
Even his return to England, seen closely, now seemed less a matter of honour than of comfort. Yes, he had tried to persuade Edward to adjust the treaty terms, but he also had spent days and nights enjoying food and drink and music, fêted as much as imprisoned.
Whatever the truth, it had died with him.
‘I must go to Father,’ Isabella said, gathering her skirts and heading for the door. ‘He will be mourning his royal brother. He will need help with arrangements...’
She looked to Enguerrand, but Cecily was the one who came to her side and led her from the room.
The door closed, leaving Marc and his friend alone in the room, and they exchanged glances. ‘He mourns for more than that,’ Marc muttered.
‘He has just lost his most valuable hostage.
De Coucy nodded. ‘Why should France pay millions of écus for a dead king?’
‘Because two kings pledged their honour on the signing.’
‘Charles will be king now. His honour is not jeopardized. There are many who opposed the treaty all along. This could allow them to consider it dissolved.’
The words sank into quiet air. Marc’s first thoughts had been of the king. Now, he faced a more personal question. He had told himself the king would bring his ransom. And when that failed, he thought that the honour of the king would ensure that the compte kept his promise.
But Easter had come and gone. Why should the compte come for him now? He, and the new king, had better uses for their coin than to pay for the release of a lowly chevalier.
Enguerrand’s hand on his shoulder brought him back. ‘But before all that, we must honour him in death. King Edward plans a royal funeral.’
‘But he cannot be buried here, on enemy soil.’
‘No. He will go home.’
Home. Even in death, the king could return home before Marc de Marcel. Unless...
Two hundred chevaliers had come to England with him. Let some of them stay here for a while. Marc had suffered long enough.
He gripped his friends arm. ‘I will go. We can both go. We can take him home.’
* * *
The final notes of the French king’s funeral mass still echoed in her ears as Cecily hurried through Westminster’s corridors on her way to King Edward’s chambers.
He has decided.
The past few days had been a blur, with hasty preparations for a grand procession and service for King Jean. The French community had been in mourning and she had seen little of Marc. When she did, he was solemn and silent, grieved, no doubt, by his sovereign’s death. She hoped that he had been comforted by King Edward’s honours, for the procession and the funeral had been grand, befitting a monarch related by blood and honour and a fellow warrior in Christ.
But as she entered and curtsied before her king, still wearing his black, fur-lined funeral cloak, the cold fear of loss gripped her again. He was older than the dead king. Was there a droop in his shoulders? Could he be taken as quickly as King Jean?
Or her parents?
She had never known a day without King Edward on the throne.
She stood, head high, feeling as if she awaited a death sentence. This was her duty. She knew that. Had always known it. She had no choice but to be ready. And yet...
‘A sad day,’ the king said, finally.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘I have selected a husband for you.’
True, then. ‘So soon?’ All this time. All the waiting, and it seemed as if no time had passed at all.
And all she could think of was Marc.
‘Ah, Cecily, you are young. To you, it seems as if life is long.’
The king’s death must have reminded King Edward that days were not promised to us. That he should act now. ‘Alas, Your Grace, I know it is not.’
‘I miss him still.’
‘As do I. I miss them both.’ And yet, she had attended King Jean’s funeral without tears. Perhaps she was healing, finally, after all. Was time the only healer? Or was it also Marc de Marcel?
‘Your new husband will help to fill that void.’
Husband. The word came too close to her thoughts of Marc. ‘And whom have you chosen, Your Grace?’
‘The Earl of Dexter.’
She tried to remember the man. She had not seen him in years. Honourable. Old enough to be her father. Not someone strong and vital, like Marc.
She must not think of Marc.
‘Well?’ the king asked. ‘Have you nothing to say?’
Could she argue with the king? And if she did, what would she say?
I have fallen in love with a French hostage...?
She should speak of nothing but her gratitude, yet she could not form the words. ‘He has not been at court, Your Grace. I did not know he was under consideration.’
‘He has been with my son Lionel in Ireland, but they are coming home. He should be here within a month. Or less.’
‘So soon?’ Her voice, faint. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to envision a life beside Eastham and Northland and the others, but she could not even remember Dexter’s Christian name.
Just as she had wanted, she would be marrying a man she barely knew and would not care if she lost.
Decision made, the king rose. ‘We’ll have the banns read as soon as he arrives. You can be married within weeks.’
Weeks. Too soon. She had told herself she needed just a few more days, weeks, months and then she would be ready. She had been telling herself that for years. Telling herself she could do her duty, as her parents would expect, but faced with the truth of it, she knew there was one duty she owed her parents before she wed. ‘Your Grace, my parents...the tomb...’
He frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘The sculptor resumed his work in January. May I have permission to return home and review his progress? All should be complete before my...marriage.’
The past, all of it, well and truly buried before she became a bride.
The king shook his head, no longer even looking at her. ‘The funeral procession to accompany King Jean’s body leaves tonight. After that, you’ll be needed here, to prepare for the wedding. When you and Dexter go home, you can approve the sculptor’s work together.’ A wave of dismissal.
‘Your Grace, before I go—can you tell me his Christian name?’
‘Robert. His name is Robert.’
She dipped her farewell.
Wed within weeks. Now it was too late. Too late for everything.
And all she could think of was that she must find Marc.
* * *
Preparing himself to leave England to escort King Jean’s body back to France, Marc had forced himself to keep his distance from Cecily during the ten days leading up to the funeral.
He no longer trusted himself.
Since the day they had wandered London’s streets, Marc had danced by her side in the carol ring, laughed with her as the fool played tricks and ridden beside her to hunt the deer, careful always to stay within sight of the rest of the court. Both knew the risk if they were alone together again. A risk neither could take.
He, of course, was not the only man at her side. Eastham, Northland, others he didn’t even know bowed a knee before her, shared a jest with her and boasted of their prowess in war until Marc thought he would go mad with it. Which of them knew the depth of her grief or the height of her courage?
He was discovering he needed new courage of his own. Watching Cecily with one prospective husband, then another, required more bravery than he had ever needed in battle. Each day with her was one day less ahead. Each day chipped away another piece of his heart.
And yet, he did not want it to end.
But now, with farewell close enough to touch, he became a coward, unable to stand at her side and pretend. He would see her just once more, he decided. To say goodbye.
And that would come late in the day. With the funeral and the procession over, the court would accompany the king’s body as far as Dartford. Then, a smaller group would take him on to Canterbury and, finally, to the coast. Within days, Marc would be on a ship, crossing the Channel.
‘I have just a few things to gather,’ he said to Enguerrand, as they walked out of St Paul’s and followed the procession back to the Savoy. ‘In less than a fortnight, we’ll be home.’
In France. Back at de Coucy’s castle. And then...
‘No, mon ami. We won’t.’
‘What do you mean? I thought all had been settled. Who must I speak to? Who is making the decision?’
‘Is not among them.’ Disbelief first. Followed by rage. A lowly chevalier. Easy to leave behind. ‘And yours?’
He shook his head. ‘I will accompany the body only to the port. No further.’
‘What?’ He studied de Coucy’s face, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Why?’
‘It was my choice. To stay here.’ He smiled when he said it.
‘The princess?’ He could think of no other reason the man would stay.
‘Shh!’ De Coucy looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘That, and other things. The king has given his permission, though we cannot speak of it yet. After the wedding, my lands are to be restored and I will be made an earl. The king has agreed, but no one else knows.’
So, it had come at last, everything his friend had wanted. Sharp envy gnawed. A woman he loved. Respect and land. Ah, de Coucy had, had always had, everything a man could desire in life, so much so that even with his property and land in France, he was content to stay a captive.
Marc was not. He must go home to... To what? France was a broken country, depleted and exhausted and led by an untried king he was not certain he could trust. And without his friend, life would be different. While he might still be a chevalier for the de Coucy family, he would be alone. And if war were to come again, would he and his friend now be on opposite sides?
But all that seemed better than what awaited him if he stayed in England, where he would have to stand by and see Cecily become the wife of another man. And that, despite all the battles he had faced, was the one thing he could not do.
It had become more important to leave England than to go home to France, even if he had nothing to return to. Once there, the memory of Cecily would fade. Surely.
A struggle, for months, but he had kept his part of the bargain. Despite that, he had been abandoned.
And so the choice he had resisted became clear and inevitable.
He would have to escape.
Whispers at Court Page 19