Whispers at Court

by Blythe Gifford

  He himself had not been a chevalier parfait and gentil. Yet when he had once thought he owed nothing to a code that had forsaken him, to leave now, to dishonour his promise to his king and hers, seemed wrong. It would make him no better a man than all those who had broken their vows while he watched, doing nothing. And he wanted to be better than that. Now.

  So as he watched the coming dawn day after day, he realised, gradually, that he must stay.

  Oh, he would not have Cecily, no. That could never be. But to leave, to escape, seemed now as if it would dishonour not only himself and his king. It would dishonour her. If his love for her had meaning, then his vows, the promises he had made on the honour of chivalry, must as well.

  Otherwise, she could think that this time together meant nothing. Had been no more than flesh meeting flesh.

  He did not know how to explain it to her. He was a man of swords and shields, not words. The deed would have to speak for itself. But as he saw the sun appear on the horizon one morning, he knew he had made up his mind.

  He would surrender to the king.

  * * *

  A few days later, Cecily woke to a pounding on her door.

  She opened her eyes, blinking. Was it still dark?

  Next to her, Marc, accustomed to the sudden changes of war, was already out of bed and half-dressed, but there could be no pretence about where he had slept. She pointed under the bed, hoping he would hide, but he had already picked up his sword.

  An intrusion at this hour could not be good news.

  ‘My lady. Are you awake?’

  She held the sheet to her shoulders, looking frantically for her discarded dress, then called for the steward to enter. She and Marc had been less careful than they should have been and it was too late to fool the servants now.

  Henry barely glanced at Marc. ‘Sir Gilbert is here, my lady. With a message from the king.’

  He had sent for her. She had not expected that. ‘The earl has returned from Ireland, then?’ To find her in bed with another man?

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet, my lady.’

  She near swooned with relief.

  But the man looked at Marc. ‘The king is coming for him.’

  This, she had not expected. If he had come all this way, the king was angry. There would be no comfortable quarters for a hostage who had tried to escape. There would be prison. Or worse. ‘How did he know? How did he know you were here?’

  Marc’s face looked as it did, she imagined, right before he rode into battle. With death stamped on it. ‘Enguerrand. When he found me gone...’ A shrug. ‘Tout compris.’

  ‘But even if he did, why would he tell the king?’

  ‘Because of her.’

  Isabella. An intimate conversation between them. Whispered speculation. Their loyalty was to each other now. And strangely, she could see how that might be.

  The steward interrupted. ‘He says, my lady, that the king will be here before we break our fast.’

  So she gave the steward hurried instructions and sent him away to tell Gilbert she was on her way.

  She had known this moment would come. Had known that she would lose him. Yet every day, she told herself just one more day and she would be ready.

  What a fool she had been.

  She threw back the covers and swung out of bed, searching for clothes, a comb, a mirror and some sense of the situation.

  ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘I will tell Gilbert you are coming and then act surprised when you do not. There is a small boat.’ One they used occasionally for fishing. ‘Take it.’ She looked outside, trying to assess the weather. Fog, but a light one. She could only pray the sun would melt it. ‘Henry will bring food and water and meet you down on the beach. My people can be trusted. I will keep Gilbert busy. I’ll give you time—’

  ‘Cecily.’

  His voice commanded her to look. And yet, she could scarcely bear it, to see his face, to know it would be the last time. She had always thought there would be one more time, one more day. And now, there was not even time for a kiss. ‘You must hurry.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going.’ The blackness on his face again. ‘I am going to surrender.’

  She heard the words, but could not believe she understood. ‘But he will lock you away.’ There will be no ransom. The French would leave him here to grow old, knowing no help would come, until he became a burden on his gaoler and it would be more convenient to have him dead than alive. And all because she had been so greedy as to want a few more days. ‘You escaped. This time there will be no parties, no court celebrations.’

  A small smile, for he had never been comfortable with the court. ‘Then that is as it must be.’

  ‘But why?’

  Something in his face, determined, prepared, and yet, at peace. ‘I was a hostage. I escaped. I violated my honour. I must make that right.’

  ‘As your king did.’

  He nodded.

  No, that had not been the plan, but nothing between them had been what they planned.

  ‘Without you,’ he said, ‘my honour is the only thing left to me.’

  She threw herself into his arms then, not wanting to let him go to the sea or to the king. Thinking to hold him, to keep him, to keep this, just a few more moments...

  But he was the strong one. He put her away from him, lifted her chin, and kissed her, not with the passion of their nights, but softly and gently and with the finality of farewell. ‘Adieu.’

  ‘No.’ She stood, fully a countess now. If he had grown into his honour, she had grown into her strength. ‘Please. Give me time. There must be something. There must be another way.’

  All she had to do was to think of it.

  * * *

  Letting Cecily think he was heading for a hiding place, Marc dressed and went down to the Hall, hoping for a moment alone with Gilbert before the king arrived.

  He would surrender to the young knight, recompense for the wrong he had done months ago. And before he did, he would make certain that the story was firmly planted. He had forced Cecily to bring him here. She was blameless.

  Gilbert would believe it. Or pretend he did.

  As he entered the Hall, the young man speared him with a glance. ‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’ The belligerent set of his jaw said he was prepared to ride against Marc all over again.

  If so, this time, Marc had no doubt, the boy would cling to his mount for more than one pass.

  ‘I did nothing to harm her.’ At once a lie and a truth. ‘But I forced her to bring me here and shelter me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that I could go home.’

  Confusion covered his face. ‘And yet, you are here.’

  ‘I surrender to you, and to the king, where I will stay until the ransom is paid.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  He shrugged. ‘Then I will die in Angleterre.’ He wondered how long it would be before he longed for that end.

  ‘For the sake of honour?’ As if even an untried knight could not believe the folly of it.

  Honour. He had searched for its meaning in kings and in codes, disappointed time after time. Finally, he had found the only meaning of the word that mattered.

  ‘To honour her.’

  Some mixture of admiration, resentment, confusion and understanding touched the young man’s face. He would learn some day. Marc hoped the lesson would be less painful than his own.

  ‘And does she agree? Is she honoured?’

  He smiled, quick and sad. They both cared for Cecily. Marc hoped she would understand, some day, what he had done. ‘I would not presume to speak for the countess,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to take me to the king before she appear
s.’

  ‘You ask too much, Marc de Marcel. And too late.’

  * * *

  Cecily looked from one guilty face to the other, uncertain whether passion or fury drove her. ‘You did not wait.’

  Yet Marc had not obeyed a king. Why had she expected him to obey a countess?

  Gilbert stepped to her side. ‘Did he harm you when he forced you to bring him here?’

  Ah, so Marc had wanted to make sure he told the story. That she was protected. Well, now, it would be her turn. ‘Is that what he said? The truth is quite the opposite. I was the one who compelled him to bring me home.’

  Gilbert looked from one to the other, clearly confused. ‘I would have come with you.’

  She shook her head. ‘The king had ordered me to stay at court. I could not ask you, or any king’s man, to flout him.’

  Marc frowned, his expression black with fear for her.

  She smiled. Trust me. Did he hear her thought?

  Beside her, Gilbert still wrestled with his understanding. ‘Why was it so important for you to come?’

  ‘There were things I needed to do before my...marriage.’ Marriage. A word now near impossible to say. Impossible to imagine surrendering herself to the earl when she belonged to Marc.

  ‘That work,’ Marc said, in a voice as gentle as he had used when they were alone, ‘is now at an end.’ Words that carried the ring of finality.

  No. What had ended was any possibility that she could pretend to be another man’s wife. She might be ready to be the countess, but she would never be ready to let Marc go.

  ‘And,’ Marc continued, speaking to Gilbert, but looking at her, ‘when the king arrives, I will surrender myself to be held again.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t allow—’

  ‘My lady!’ The steward’s voice cut through her words. ‘The king!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Marc watched Cecily turn to face King Edward with the familiar lift of her head and set of her spine he had come to know.

  His shoulders squared, matching hers.

  The end had come. The king might have admired his skill with a spear, but would mete out no gentler punishment as a result.

  He was prepared, as long as Cecily was safe.

  The recitation of the king’s titles was not complete before the man stormed into the Hall, leaving his men trailing, and stood towering over Cecily.

  ‘Are you unharmed?’

  The question more of a loving uncle than an angry sovereign. Marc let go a breath

  She smiled and dipped a shallow courtesy. ‘Welcome to Losford, Your Grace. I am well and I hope you are the same.’ She raised her hand to the steward, just running in from the corridor. ‘Henry, please see that the king’s men have bread and cheese and ale. I’m certain they are hungry. And then bring some for us. And, Gilbert, please join them to break your fast.’

  As the men were shepherded away and Marc and Cecily were left alone with him, the king shook his head, hands on his hips, still looking at her. In the pause, Marc stepped forward, then dropped to one knee before the king. ‘I surrender, Your Grace. I am once again your hostage.’

  ‘No!’ Cecily reached for him, but he could not look at her, though her hands were on his shoulders, as if willing him to rise.

  ‘And if you rule death as the punishment for my escape, I am prepared.’

  The king narrowed his eyes, now fully attending Marc instead of Cecily. ‘Why should I kill you and forfeit your ransom?’

  Now he must speak truth. ‘Under the new king, Your Grace, I do not expect a ransom will come.’

  He met the man’s eyes and saw understanding. Marc had said aloud what the king must have known, but not admitted. Not only was Marc’s ransom at risk. The new king had little reason to hand over good gold coin when he already possessed the king’s corpse.

  ‘We speak of honour, of chivalry,’ the king said, as if to himself, ‘and yet—’

  ‘This man’s ransom will be paid,’ Cecily said. ‘I will pay it.’

  Marc was uncertain which face held more shock—his or the king’s.

  ‘No!’ He stood to protest. ‘I won’t allow—’

  But she pulled him to his feet and laced her fingers in his, not bothering to hide their joined hands. ‘And, Your Grace, there is something else you must know. I desire to wed him.’

  Had she said it? Did she mean to defy the king? And yet he recognised that slant of her jaw that meant her mind was set. And amidst the certainty that the king would surely strike him dead, he could feel only joy.

  The king, at first as stone silent as Marc, now raised his hands...

  Marc moved to block a blow. ‘You will not harm her.’

  ‘Harm her?’ The king’s howl was proof she had stirred the royal temper. He flung his arms towards heaven, then started pacing the Hall. ‘After telling me for months you were not ready to wed, now you ask this? The Earl of Dexter will be here within days! What will I tell him?’

  To go to the devil, Marc thought, but Cecily squeezed his fingers before he could speak.

  ‘You are allowing Isabella to wed the hostage she loves,’ Cecily said, in a voice more calm than either he or the king could summon. ‘I ask for the same privilege.’

  ‘My daughter does not hold the castle that is the key to England!’

  Marc felt her fingers tighten. If the king asked her to give up Losford for him, which would she choose?

  Instead, the king turned his eyes to Marc, measuring him. Silent, Marc thought over the past months. What had the king seen of him, after all? A joust. A boar hunt. And too many gatherings at Windsor in which he had stood, silent, at the edge of the company.

  Suddenly, he wanted to prove he was worthy. Of Cecily. Of this man.

  Of this country.

  He dropped to his knees again, this time, for a different kind of surrender. ‘I swear, Your Grace, that I will be as loyal to you as to Cecily. And I will defend either of you, and this castle, with my life.’

  The king shook his head. ‘What am I to do with you women and your men from the Oise Valley?’ Exasperation tinged his voice, but laughter lurked at the edges. At least, Marc hoped that was what he heard.

  Next to him, Cecily breathed more easily. ‘You are to allow us our hearts, Your Grace.’

  ‘Isabella tried to prepare me before I came. She and de Coucy both warned me of this.’

  ‘I will keep my word,’ Marc said. ‘On my honour.’ A vow he finally understood.

  ‘The Earl of Dexter,’ the king said, shaking his head, ‘is going to be greatly disappointed.’

  Epilogue

  Windsor Castle—July 27, 1365

  ‘Cecily, you must help me!’ Isabella reached up to steady her crown, looking as shy and nervous as a girl.

  ‘Shh,’ Cecily said, with a smile. ‘Hold still.’ The princess and all her ladies were clustered out of sight of those gathered in St George’s Chapel. It was no surprise that Isabella was nervous.

  It was her wedding day.

  The wedding had taken near a year to plan and the nuptials were as lavish as if Isabella were marrying the King of Castile or the Count of Flanders instead of a Lord de Coucy.

  ‘Here,’ Cecily said, standing back and surveying the bride. ‘You look beautiful. And the crown is très beau.’

  The crown, only one of the king’s many wedding gifts, sparkling with diamonds and sapphires, was as extravagant as if Isabella were assuming a throne.

  Cecily, too, had had a wedding, a much quieter affair. She and Marc exchanged vows in the small church at Losford, where her parents, in spirit, could witness it.

  Today, all of the nobility of England was here to see the king’s daughter wed the French count.

  They
entered the chapel and Cecily smoothed her skirt over her growing stomach. She looked over to where Marc stood and flashed him a smile.

  When the ceremony was over, tonight, she would tell her husband the news. Next year, they would be celebrating a christening in the church at Losford Castle.

  * * *

  Marc looked at his friend, ready to be wed, glad their time of estrangement was well behind them.

  After all, a man in love could act as one mad.

  So could a woman. Cecily had, indeed, paid Marc’s ransom. If the money ever came from France, she would be recompensed, but in the meantime, as she occasionally reminded him with a smile, Marc belonged to her.

  And nothing could have made him happier.

  As Marc had expected, France’s new king had proved less eager to abide by the treaty terms than his father had been. Some money had crossed the Channel, but less and less as time went on.

  With his marriage, Enguerrand was to receive the gift of his freedom. His portion of the ransom was forgiven and once again, the Count, now the Earl of Bedford, was a man free to come and go.

  Yes, powerful and strong as this king was, he had a weakness for his children. And, it seemed, for love. In order that Marc have the stature to marry a woman with one of the most powerful titles in England, the king had awarded him an earl’s title of his own. Marc felt he had found a new king, worthy of his loyalty.

  And a woman worthy of his honour.

  * * * * *

  Author’s Afterword

  History does not record when Enguerrand, Lord de Coucy, and Isabella of Woodstock actually met. He arrived in England in 1360 and they married, as I show here, in 1365. The chroniclers do record specifically how charming de Coucy was when King Jean II of France returned to captivity. According to Jean Froissart, recorder of all events of King Edward’s reign, ‘...the young lord de Coucy shined in dancing and carolling whenever it was his turn. He was in great favour with both the French and English...’

  What woman could help but notice such a man?