Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Even if he does not, he will understand.’

  She nodded, hoping he was right. ‘So we have a few days.’

  Time. Stolen.

  ‘I will stay until...’

  Did she hear a touch of longing in his voice? ‘Until...?’

  Until they were discovered.

  Until he left for France.

  Until—

  A servant knocked. Cecily sat stiff and silent, not looking at Marc, as the man took the food away, then rose and led Marc to the door, making it clear he was leaving her room.

  But before he stepped into the corridor, he paused, his eyes on her, pleading. ‘Cecily...’

  She looked away, shook her head. All the sentences they never finished. The words they would never say. Pretending that to be in sight of each was enough.

  ‘Sleep well,’ she said, loud enough so that her voice would echo in the stairs.

  He grabbed her hands. Startled, she leaned against him, hovering on the edge of surrender, but he did not kiss her.

  ‘Cecily, there will be much work to do, to bring the castle to rights again.’

  She blinked. His words were not what she had expected, but he spoke the truth. She could see already the benign neglect that surrounded her. Not wilful abuse, but after her parents’ deaths, Cecily had fled, thinking she could manage her duties from afar. Instead, she had let them drift.

  Now that she had returned, she could no longer act as a child, expecting home to be a place of play. Now she was the countess and the castle her responsibility, not her refuge. There were dozens of things to attend to. The kitchen, the tunnels to the sea, the garden, the armoury... She must have them in good order before her marriage, lest her new husband find her wanting.

  ‘I know. But it is what I must do.’ What she was born to do. And, finally, eager to do, though the task seemed monumental.

  ‘While I am here, I can help.’

  His offer lifted a burden. What could be done in days? More by two than by one. And if they asked, later, what he had been doing...?

  She would think of something to say then. ‘I would like that.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’ He nodded and went to his own room. She watched until he closed the door.

  He never looked back.

  * * *

  The next morning, Cecily, or the countess, as Marc reminded himself, had meetings with the steward, so he explored the tower and the bailey alone.

  Unaccustomed to the room, he had spent a restless night, knowing that just a few steps away, Cecily slept, her hair unbound...

  He put the thought out of his mind. Her betrothed was on his way.

  And after Marc had gone, her reputation would depend on making their pretence believable so she would claim, later, that he had forced her to come home with him so that he could escape. And that while they had been here, her safety had depended upon not exposing his plan. That meant they should not risk being seen as too friendly.

  He vowed to keep himself busy.

  So he prowled the castle, looking for things she would not notice, for weaknesses in defence so that he could warn her to set them to rights before the man who was to be her husband arrived. He would not let the man think ill of her, or find her wanting in her duties.

  Grey stone walls dotted with towers protected the inner bailey. Strong, straight, square, yet each tower was different. From the land, as they had approached, it looked impregnable, though a small, isolated tower stood guard on the land side, outside the walls. In the other direction, on higher ground towards the sea, stood an older, smaller tower. A watch tower, he thought, perhaps originally with lights to guide friendly ships and guards to warn of an enemy approach. Here, stones had fallen, leaving its shape ragged, as if it were dissolving, slowly. No longer straight and proud, it seemed to lean against the building next to it.

  A church.

  No mass was in process, so he stepped inside. It was empty except for a small man, smoothing a red-and-gold cloth over a raised stone base.

  The tomb.

  The man looked up, expectant, but his face fell when he saw only Marc. ‘The Lady Cecily. She is not with you?’

  Marc’s steps echoed as he walked down the aisle. Not yet, she had said. The sculptor would wait in vain another day. ‘No. Is the work complete?’

  The man shook his head. ‘It waits only her blessing. I simply look at it each day and polish a portion sometimes.’ He touched the stone base with a hand too large for such a small man. ‘Do you want to see it?’ He reached for the cloth, eager for someone to witness his work.

  Without thinking, Marc stayed the man’s hand. It seemed wrong, to view it before Cecily did. ‘She must be the judge. I did not know the man or his wife.’

  ‘That is not always necessary,’ the man said ‘to create a likeness.’

  A truth. In death, men became idealised versions of themselves, in stories no less than in stone, by those who knew them, as well as by those who didn’t. Already, his dead king had been spoken of with reverence befitting a saint. ‘You have spent a long time on these.’

  The mason shook his head. ‘Lady Cecily’s mother was confounded when her husband died. Decisions, arrangements all took time. Yet I was near finished with the earl’s figure and then she, too, was lost and the Lady Cecily...’ He sighed, leaving much unsaid. ‘When the king sent a call for stone carvers for Windsor, I was glad of the opportunity.’ A proud smile touched his lips. ‘You have seen it? Windsor?’

  ‘You did fine work. You and all the others.’ Easy now, to acknowledge that the English king had created a beautiful palace. ‘And with their likenesses as well, I am sure.’

  A smile, but then, he looked back at the tomb with a sigh. ‘She must be the judge and she will not even look.’

  So the man knew, just as Marc did. ‘It has not been easy for her. To approve the work would mean—’

  ‘That they were truly gone.’

  ‘Yes.’ And that she was the countess in truth. ‘How long ago did you start?’

  A crinkle in his forehead. ‘Two years? Three? I am ready to go home.’

  Poor man. He, too, was a sort of hostage. ‘I cannot promise to persuade her, but I will try.’

  Perhaps it was the most important thing he could do. Not to prepare the walls of the castle, but to prepare her for what was to come.

  * * *

  They had finished supper before Marc raised the subject.

  Their first evening meal in her rooms had been a respite after the weeks at court. To have escaped, to be able to look at each other without other eyes on them, had been sweet relief.

  Tonight, he was no longer at ease. To be alone together was seductive. Last night, they had resisted. But what about tonight? And tomorrow?

  She seemed to have recognised the danger as well. Tonight, her braids still firmly framed her face. A veil, held in place by a circlet, cascaded behind her as her hair had done last night.

  Tonight, she was no longer Cecily. She was the countess.

  So he listened, silent, as she spoke of her meetings with the steward and the cook. Stories that did not ask for answers. And her eyes, too, cast down at her food, instead of at him.

  When the food was taken away and they were alone again, the silence grew long. Awkward.

  ‘We will take our meals in the Hall tomorrow,’ Cecily said. A pronouncement, as a countess might make, then rose, as if to dismiss him.

  He had waited, all through the meal, not certain how to begin. Every phrase that teased his tongue sounded ill formed. Now, he must speak, despite that. ‘I saw the mason.’

  She became still. ‘Oh?’

  No more hint than that. He wished for de Coucy’s gentle tongue, but he was a warrior, and knew only that he must advance. ‘You must approve his work.
And let him go home.’

  Only yesterday, she had refused, so he braced himself for her anger. Or tears.

  But that was not what came next.

  ‘But I am not...’ Grief, still echoing in her voice, she looked away. ‘I have not...’

  A pause. And he waited, silent.

  Then, she turned on him. ‘Look at me. Here. Now. Alone with you. I have brought the enemy inside the very castle France must never take. I have violated all their training, all their trust. And their tomb... What if it is ill done because of me? How can I face them again?’

  Them. As if the stone would come to life and point accusing fingers.

  She did not speak to him. Her words, he thought, were more of a prayer to the dead. For their blessing. For their forgiveness.

  Accustomed to war, Marc had not been a man attuned to motives or subtleties. He had not searched for things beneath the surface. Perhaps that was why he had not seen his king’s weakness, nor his lover’s deception.

  But with Cecily, somehow, he knew, as clearly as if he could see inside her soul.

  ‘They cannot have expected you to know how to do everything the right way. Not from the beginning,’ he said, softly.

  ‘You do not understand.’ Now, her straight back, her lifted chin, trembling. ‘I am the Countess of Losford.’

  As if the title was a suit of armour that did not fit. And hiding behind it, a child who had been cared for by parents so loving, so demanding, that they had not permitted her to stumble and fall. Had never allowed her to make a mistake and recover, learning in the process that she could. So that now, she believed in duty, in Losford, but not in herself.

  He came closer and took her hands. ‘Even God does not expect us to be perfect.’

  ‘My parents did. And I failed them.’ Nothing but a whisper now. More to herself than to him. She drew her hands from his and went to the window, staring out at angry, red clouds that signalled the day’s end.

  Nothing he had said had helped her. Why had he thought it would? He only knew one way to comfort and that was to stand between her and danger. To say I will protect you. But her family had done the same and it had left her weak instead of strong.

  But he had seen her strength. Strength she, and perhaps even her parents, had never believed.

  ‘You did not have to be perfect,’ he began, ‘to save me from a wild boar.’

  A catch in her breath, as if he had taken her by surprise. And though he could not see her face, her shoulders relaxed. A smile, then, as she looked over her shoulder. ‘I violated all the rules of the hunt.’

  ‘The boar was just as dead. And I, just as alive.’ He took a step closer. ‘That is the woman I know. That woman can do anything.’

  She turned back to face him. ‘Do you believe so strongly?’

  Her expression was hard to translate. Had his assurance helped? Was she perplexed?

  ‘In you?’ He took her in his arms, pulled her close, and she let him. ‘Oui.’

  Her smile... He had never seen her smile that way and he could not believe that something he had said, simple words, had made such a difference. A triumph greater than victory in battle.

  And then he kissed her. Not thinking. Not wanting to think. Thinking would only remind him of the future.

  Her lips on his were soft, eager. And he wanted more. Mon Dieu, he wanted more.

  ‘Cecily,’ he said, when he could grasp a breath again. ‘We have this night. Perhaps a few more. Do you... Will you...?’ He was a man of deeds, not words. But when he looked at her, all he wanted must have shone in his eyes as he waited for her answer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Yes.

  Cecily kissed him, without thought or plan, yet knowing, this, and all that would follow, was what she had wanted for longer than she had been willing to admit.

  She had guarded her feelings as Losford guarded the sea, as if she were only a countess and not a woman at all. Feelings had no place where duty must rule.

  Yet so certain this man was the enemy, she had allowed her hate to flow without a fence, not noticing until too late that the hate had become its opposite.

  Now, it was too late to hold back, too late to pretend. She loved him and he was going to leave.

  ‘I wanted to hate you,’ she said, when the kiss was broken.

  ‘Why?’ His question, simple.

  ‘So I wouldn’t be hurt.’ So foolish, when said aloud.

  Puzzled, at first. ‘I would never hurt you. How could I?’

  And in the way he understood it, he wouldn’t. But he was a soldier, thinking only of swords and arrows. The wounds she feared were those you could not see. ‘Because you must leave.’

  And at her words, something invisible, more than his flesh, touched her, as if to protest, to say no, he would not let her go.

  She shook her head. She must speak clearly. No more disguises. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You must. The time will come, the boat will be ready and you will shove off from the shore and I’ll never see you again and I’ll never know whether you touched the shores of home or perished beneath the waves, but either way, you’ll be gone for ever, and I’ll hurt for the rest of my days because I must stay...here.’

  Here. As much a part of the castle as its stones and tunnels. She laughed, without mirth, at the thought.

  He shook his head, confusion on his brow. ‘Ce n’est pas amusant.’

  ‘No. Because I knew my duty would be to marry and there was no room for feelings that might interfere. But then, I spent time with you. A man I knew I could never love, like, or even tolerate. A man I was certain would never threaten my isolation. A man I knew I would part from without a twinge of sadness.

  ‘And that, you see, is what is funny. Because I tried to avoid caring for anyone I would lose and ended up caring for you.’

  ‘I am here now,’ he said. ‘And we can create memories instead of regrets. But I must be certain that you want it as well.’

  What he suggested was madness. What if there was a child? But her marriage was close, close enough for there to be confusion. And she thought again of the moment she had envied Isabella for having taken Enguerrand to her bed. Her regrets would be deeper if she refused this chance.

  Perhaps he had taught her the courage she needed to say yes, even knowing all the pain that would come after. ‘And later? Will I be worth missing?’

  He winced, as if she had struck a blow. Did he not think she would remember his words about the miller’s daughter? And yet he had, finally, forgotten that woman.

  Because of this one.

  ‘I will be missing you as I take my last breath.’

  * * *

  They stumbled towards the bed and Marc searched for a way in. A woman’s clothes, as impenetrable as armour. Outer garments cut away to show a gown beneath, but no way to reach the gown and her skin. Even her hair, tight in braids, the fashion.

  He paused, frustrated. ‘What happened to dresses simple as a sack?’

  Although she breathed heavily, still, there was a smile. She looked over her shoulder. ‘You must play handmaiden. It is not easy to get in and out.’

  ‘Tell me how,’ he said, as determined as if the enemy’s hill stood before him, ready to be conquered.

  And so she tried. Showing him the buttons. Untying the hose. All the elaborateness forcing him to hold back, to restrain himself from ripping it all away to reveal the body he had dreamed of.

  But then, he discovered the delight of slow discovery. And while he traced the curve of her bare calf, his anticipation built. And while he let his fingers stroke the bare skin of her neck, shoulder, back, he watched her, tangled in the tippets of her sleeve, becoming as impatient as he.

  Finally, she stood before him, one dark braid fallen from her head and lying across her pa
le shoulder. Speechless, he savoured the sight of her: dark hair, pale shoulders and then the curves below the waist, where the hip flared. Curves suggested, exaggerated by the clothes, but more beautiful, more vulnerable, without the cloth covering.

  He still sat on the bed and she stood naked before him, all the hurry slowed. He was still eager, yes, but this sight, this moment, was one to savour.

  He had imagined her like this. But imagination was a poor thing compared to what was before him. He had seen her in his dreams, but dreams did not carry the drift of the scent that was Cecily, the sweetness of wild flowers and the tang of the sea that permeated the very air of this place.

  Nor had he heard her breath, moving faster, even, than in the dance. And now, as she watched him watch her, the catch of a moan, deep in her throat. A sound that said I want you more clearly than words.

  And then he touched her.

  * * *

  Cecily felt his touch, more gentle than she had expected from a warrior. And Cecily came to the bed, to lie beneath him and surrender. To him. To desire. And to the truth.

  The truth that was she had lied. To him, but mostly, to herself. Pretended hate, then indifference.

  And now, she told herself one final lie.

  That she would be able to let him go.

  But that was not tonight. Tonight, the fullness of him was enough. Of him, filling her arms. Of his tongue, filling her mouth. And, finally, of him between her legs, filling her. Filling all the empty places in her heart.

  And if in the incoherent murmurs that lovers make, she nearly said I love you, yet carefully, holding that last shield against hurt, she did not.

  But somewhere in the rush of words, lips, touches, fingers, some time as she drifted into sleep, safe in his arms, a few words echoed in her dream.

  Je t’adore. Toujours.

  * * *

  Cecily rose the next morning, the scent of him still on her skin, and slipped away, thinking he would sleep still, wanting to watch the sun rise and the world turn new again.