Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the blur of the gathering of a procession to accompany the king’s body on the first stage of its journey home, Marc formulated a plan. He, too, would be bidding England adieu.

  But first, he wanted to see Cecily.

  It was the closest he had been to her in days, yet without having to discuss a plan, they slipped out of the hall and found a quiet alcove with a window that overlooked the Thames. Below them, the river flowed calmly and the sky reflected the golden light of the sunset.

  He did not touch her. Any moment, someone could come by, they might be discovered. And yet for a moment, they simply drowned in each other’s eyes. He must memorise them. Wide-set, green, tilted up and, tonight, unutterably sad.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Thinking, foolishly, that he might fix it.

  She lifted her head, once again the countess. ‘The king has chosen my husband.’

  All this time, he had known this would come, and yet when it did the blow nearly felled him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Robert, The Earl of Dexter.’

  He searched his mind, trying to place the man.

  She shook her head. ‘You have not seen him. He has been with the king’s son in Ireland.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘He served with my father. I knew him and his wife.’

  His wife. The man must be much older. ‘It is better, then,’ he said, forcing the words, ‘that you will not have to marry a stranger.’

  ‘Or a man I despise.’

  ‘Like me?’

  Together, they smiled.

  Then, she sighed. ‘I know my duty. But I understand now why I was always warned...what happens when feelings become...’ She looked away. ‘I tried. I tried so hard...’

  And so had he. Futile. For both of them.

  ‘If he is in Ireland, the wedding cannot be soon.’ As if that might make a difference.

  ‘He returns in weeks and the banns will be read as soon as he arrives.’ She looked out of the window, towards the east and Dover. ‘I wanted time to go home. I was ready to see the tomb was complete. To finish saying farewell.’ Her eyes met his again. ‘As you and I must do.’

  How certain he had been, when he had whispered to her that he would be escorting King Jean’s body home. ‘Things...did not go as I expected. I was not chosen. To go home with the king.’

  ‘So you will be in England until the ransom arrives?’

  Did he hear the lilt of hope in her voice? Yet he shrugged, as if he would be going home. Some day.

  She sighed, and shared a sad smile. ‘You and I both—trapped by the schemes of kings.’

  Trapped here. And worse torture than his confinement would be to know she was near, and belonged to another man, sharing his bed, night after night—

  An idea flickered. ‘Unless...’

  There was a way that he might give her time and himself freedom.

  ‘Cecily, you promised once to help me return to France. Will you still?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘What if you could go home to say goodbye? What if I could give that to you?’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘We can escape together. I can take you hostage and take you home. Tonight.’

  * * *

  Cecily looked at Marc, waiting for the grip of shock or fear or horror.

  Instead, a shiver of excitement rippled through her.

  Yes.

  She almost said the word aloud. ‘But what will happen to you? The king will never let you go without payment of the ransom.’

  ‘There is no ransom. There will be no ransom.’

  ‘What?’

  There was something in his expression, as if by telling her this, he had trusted her with a long-hidden, secret shame. ‘I was to go home by Easter. Now that the king is dead, not one of my countrymen has any reason to hand over good gold coin to retrieve a simple chevalier.’

  ‘But King Edward...’ She had opened her mouth to argue that the king would not agree, but who knew what negotiations would transpire with the new king of France? And if he would not uphold the treaty honourably, the only way to enforce it would be by arms. To start the war anew. ‘What about Lord de Coucy?’ Had Isabella succeeded?

  Hesitation. ‘He will accompany the body only as far as the ship. I do not think he wants to leave.’

  No. He did not want to leave. The impossible, it seemed, was about to happen. Isabella was going to be allowed to marry for love, a privilege denied the Countess of Losford.

  The countess who was about to violate a direct order of the king.

  ‘If I take you hostage,’ he said, ‘the blame will fall on me. And when the cortège reaches the coast, I will tell them they must let me on the ship or I will harm you. You’ll have a few days, before they find us.’

  She looked into his eyes again and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes.’ The man she had thought without honour had arranged all so she would not be dishonoured. ‘A few days. That is all I need.’

  He nodded. ‘To say goodbye.’

  And she did not ask whether he meant to her parents or to each other.

  * * *

  In the end, it proved not as difficult as Marc had feared.

  King Jean’s body was carried out of London that night, accompanied by a mass of mourners, including most of King Edward’s court and every Frenchman in England.

  Torches, thousands of them, lit the way as the procession passed through the streets of London and into the countryside like a moving creature of light.

  At Dartford, before dawn, they paused. Most of the court was to turn back, leaving one of King Edward’s trusted knights and Lord de Coucy in charge of the remainder of the journey. From here, they would go on to Canterbury and then Dover. A few selected chevaliers would accompany the body back to France while the rest, those who had been held in lieu of their sovereign, would be here still, their future as uncertain as his.

  In the darkness and the confusion, no one was looking closely at Marc de Marcel.

  Lady Cecily, on the other hand, was at the princess’s right hand.

  There had been little time to think. Their whispered plan could easily go awry in this small, dark town, where they were surrounded by hundreds of King Edward’s men.

  From the shadows, he watched as Cecily, head close to Isabella, waved in the direction of the inn. She needed to pause, to find a privy before they began the trip back to London.

  He held his breath, hoping Isabella would not join her.

  The princess yawned.

  Do not wait for me. That was as she rehearsed it. I will return with one of the other knights.

  She turned her horse towards the inn.

  With a pang of regret, he looked back at Enguerrand, who would be accompanying the body of the king as far as the ship. After all the years together, there would be no farewell. He would not ask his friend to divide his loyalties. When they discovered Marc was missing, Enguerrand would not need to lie. He would know nothing.

  He led his horse away, slowly, towards the inn, and let him drink, along with the other mounts.

  Marc gripped the reins, tightly. The waiting was harder than battle.

  The horse, sensing his tenseness, lifted his head and pulled back. Marc forced his breath back to an even count and stroked the horse’s neck.

  ‘The horse is fatigué, oui?’ said one of the chevaliers who had come to England in January.

  Marc, deliberately, yawned. ‘It’s been a long night. I’ll be glad to get back to London.’

  ‘Though I wonder how long they will let us stay at the Savoy, now that the king is gone.’ He crossed himself.

  Marc shrugged. ‘So we must enjoy the time we have.’

  Inconsequential words. One
s that implied he, too, was looking forward to a soft bed beside the Thames. Nothing must draw attention. He must mingle with the others so that they had seen him, would assume he was there, had ridden back to London with the rest. Only later would someone notice he was gone.

  He mounted and followed the group. The dirt muffled the horses’ hoofbeats. The sky lightened behind him. Now was the time. Before it became full light.

  He slowed the horse.

  A side street. That had been the plan. In full faith that they would both find the same one. But it was dark. The town unfamiliar. And the arrival of hundreds of knights and nobles and the funeral cortège of a king had wakened the entire village. They clogged the roads and opened shutters, gawking.

  He could only hope that amidst the multitude of men and horses, no one would notice them slip away.

  One of the chevaliers glanced back. Marc raised a hand, then gestured at the horse’s leg, as if he needed to remove a stone from its hoof, waving the man ahead, as if he would catch up.

  He dismounted and lifted his horse’s hoof. Then, as the others rode west, he walked the horse back to the inn and circled it, looking for her.

  Around the back, in a little half-street that led nowhere, she was standing beside her horse, waiting.

  He had not thought, fully, how much courage it would take for her to do this. She was wearing what he had come to think of as her ‘countess stance’, but when she saw him, the relief, the joy on her face said that she had not been sure, quite, whether he would appear or whether she would be left alone in the dark in a strange town.

  And though it was mad, in the soft dawn light, he pulled her to him, tightened his arms around her and took her lips with a kiss that was a promise.

  Then they mounted and rode away, swinging clear of the road the king’s body would travel on its way to Canterbury.

  * * *

  And late in the morning, they paused and looked around. The long, cold, endless winter that had kept the rivers frozen was over. Spring spread across the earth. Green leaves. Pink buds. Everything was fragile and fresh and new.

  He felt a crazy sense of hope.

  It was April and the sun was shining and they had escaped and for just a few days, who knew how few, he was free.

  And they were together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the walls of Losford Castle came into view mid-morning a few days later, Cecily tried to be content.

  I have come home, she thought, to bury them at last.

  But the castle windows stared at Cecily like unblinking eyes, judging her story, knowing it to be an excuse.

  You came not for duty, but because of your weakness for this man. You bring the enemy within our walls.

  Marc rode beside her, showing no fear and no doubt, as if he had full faith that she would keep him safe here, just as he had done for her these few days on the road.

  Because King Jean’s procession continued to Canterbury by the main road, Marc and Cecily had swung to the south to avoid them, riding into the downs of Kent. Marc had stashed some extra food into his bag, but they had little else but a silent, shared desire to reach the coast as quickly as possible.

  She had not kissed him again, yet she wondered, as the gates opened, whether the steward and the captain of the guard could see what shimmered between them.

  If they did, they raised no questions.

  Henry, the steward, stepped forward as Marc helped her dismount. ‘Welcome home, my lady. We did not expect you.’

  Long ago, as a child, she would have hugged him. Now, she gave a gracious, detached smile of recognition, as her mother would have done. ‘There are things here I must do before...’ Before my marriage, though she could not bring herself to say it. To admit that a husband had been chosen, to speak his name, would summon him before them all now. She was not ready for that. ‘This is Chevalier Marc de Marcel.’ Marc stood tall and close, as if ready to stand between her and any threat.

  She said nothing more of who he was or why he had come. As countess, she could not be questioned. Yet as Marc and the steward exchanged words about the horses, she knew his accent must make them wonder.

  As the mounts were led away, Henry’s brow creased, puzzled. ‘You brought nothing more?’

  Unheard of, to travel without chest or trunk. ‘Does my own home not offer all I need?’

  He bowed. ‘I will prepare rooms. And send for the mason so you can review his progress.’

  In those few words were all the reasons why she had stayed away so long. The tomb where Peter the Mason had worked these last few months seemed to lie in wait, like a monster in a cave, waiting to pounce. She had just vowed to finish it, told herself she was ready, but now...

  ‘No. I do not want to see him yet.’

  The steward frowned. ‘You do not want to look at his progress?’

  Poor Henry. It was his duty to manage her affairs. He should not be punished for her fears. She swallowed and tried again. ‘I am weary. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘You have spent a great sum on the work,’ Marc whispered, as they followed the steward up the stairs. ‘What if it is ill done?’

  ‘If he has cut it wrong, it cannot be fixed.’ This was said too sharply. She had told herself she was ready. For her marriage. To face the tomb. Was she so wrong? She sighed. ‘I will look in time. First, I have more important things to do.’

  He raised his brows. ‘What?’

  No. He did not believe her lie. ‘I must tell the steward of the king’s plans so that they can prepare for their new lord. Then, I must meet with the steward and the cook will want to talk about...’ Something. Innumerable things she wanted to do before she could face their deaths again.

  Just when your steps become more steady, you will trip over a stone in the path. That is when you must take another step.

  Coming home was that stone.

  ‘Cecily.’

  She turned then, because in the simple syllables of her name he had expressed his total understanding of what she feared. All the courage, suddenly gone again.

  What if it is ill done?

  Then she would have proof beyond doubt that she had failed her last duty to her parents.

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ Then she lifted her skirt and climbed a safe few steps before him. ‘Come. I want to show you.’

  Pausing to give the steward instructions on the chambers and their meal, she climbed faster, Marc behind her, until she reached the top of the tower. Stepping on to the roof, she took a deep breath of air tinged with salt.

  ‘Here,’ she said, as Marc joined her. ‘Look.’ She flung her arms wide.

  The sea stretched out before them, welcoming her back. To the left, the endless expanse of water. To the right, the sheltered harbour, where a French ship waited peacefully to take King Jean to his final rest. And with a breath of salt air and a view of the water, she was, finally, home.

  How had she stayed away so long?

  Did he see it as she did? His face showed none of the joy she felt. Instead, he studied the view as he might have a battlefield, then pointed beyond the harbour. In the distance, a ripple of low hills and cliffs formed a wall at the edge of the water. ‘And that is France?’

  ‘Yes.’ In sight of that land, all her life, inside strong, square stone walls whose sole purpose was to defend against it.

  ‘So close,’ he murmured. ‘When I came over, I did not realise...’

  If it were earth, a man, or an army, could cross it in a day. But water was not so easy.

  ‘What will you do?’ The wind battled for her words. ‘When you leave?’

  His expression turned solemn. ‘I will do my best never again to see the shores of England.’

  A good reminder. He would leave. As soon as next week. And she would be le
ft with the life she had always expected.

  And her duty.

  * * *

  Cecily’s arrival was unexpected and the staff did not have time to produce a proper meal, so, instead of sitting in an enormous, empty Hall, she and Marc ate cockles and pickled herring alone before the upstairs fire in the forechamber of her rooms.

  And instead of having the eyes of the court, or her parents, watching her every move, there was only Marc.

  She had expected him to admire the tapestries shielding the stone walls or comment on the size of the hearth, generous for a room so small. Instead, his eyes stayed warm on her.

  ‘It is simpler than court,’ he said.

  ‘For now,’ she said. It was a relief, in her chambers, to walk without shoes and to let her hair flow down her back without braids or circlets. Inappropriate, to appear so before him, but it seemed a small sin, compared to the rest.

  He smiled. She smiled back, wordless, for a moment, content.

  The very contentment was a threat.

  You cannot become accustomed to him. You cannot get close again. Soon, he will be gone and you will have to explain that he had kept you hostage, forced you to remain silent. You must be able to face the Earl of Dexter without guilt.

  She tried to remember what the earl looked like.

  ‘We should plan.’ She must keep looking towards the end. ‘Isabella will have missed me by now.’ Enguerrand, at least, would be riding on with the escort to Dover, unaware that Marc had disappeared. Yet.

  ‘And when she tells the king?’

  ‘He will think I disobeyed him and came home.’

  ‘Will he come after you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eventually, though, she would have to face his anger. ‘But King Jean’s party will stop in Canterbury only a few days. Then they will be here, ready to sail, they will come to the castle and then...’

  ‘And then I will show them my knife at your throat and tell them I will release you once I am on the ship. All the blame will be mine.’

  ‘But what if, after that, they decide to punish you?’

  ‘No Frenchman will fault me for wanting to go home.’

  Simple. As long as no one looked too closely. ‘Then we must act in such a manner that my people would believe such a story.’ If they did not, if they accused her of helping a hostage escape, the penalty would be harsh. Even for a countess. ‘Will Enguerrand believe you?’