I have taken a few liberties with the location of the royal court at any specific time. At this era, the court moved between palaces regularly, often staying only a few days in one place. For simplicity’s sake, I have streamlined some of their movements and limited their locations, including those related to the return of King Jean to England.
If you’ve read Secrets at Court, you’ll recall Windsor Castle was undergoing extensive remodelling during this period. Detailed records do not exist for exactly which parts of the castle were completed each year, so I have used my best judgement and information available. If all the rooms I mention were not fully complete and operational during the Yuletide season of 1363, I hope historians will forgive my impulse to show them as Edward had intended.
Cecily’s castle is firmly modelled on Dover Castle, but the specifics of her life and family are not those of the Castle’s holders. Surprisingly, there were very few castles on the English coast at this time. It was not until the reign of Henry VIII that a series of defensive castles was built for protection along the eastern and southern coasts of England. Dover, only twenty-one miles across the English Channel from Calais, really did stand alone.
As the ‘key to England’, Dover was owned by the crown, not an individual family, and the king would then install a trusted associate as a constable. At this time—1361-1364—it was Sir Richard—or Robert—de Herle, also warden of the Cinque Ports and Admiral of the Fleet.
And though I invented the Earl of Losford, there was an English lord—Lord Guy Beauchamp—killed in the Black Monday shower of hail, as Cecily’s father was.
King Edward did visit Dover Castle in 1364 to consult about a marriage. Alas, it was not the one I described.
As for the story of de Coucy and Isabella, I have tried to adhere to the generally accepted wisdom. Her extravagance and his courtly charm are generally accepted and she was clearly her father’s favourite daughter and very attached to home and family. The background of her attempted marriages is accurate. Lord de Coucy’s English lands were restored, though that has been variously reported as early as 1363 or not until it was part of the marriage settlement in 1365. He was created the Earl of Bedford by Edward III, to give him an English title to go with the lands, and he was even named a Knight of the Garter. Edward did create such titles several times during his reign, so doing so for Marc de Marcel would have been possible.
For Enguerrand and Isabella, there was no lifelong happy ending. They moved to France, but when Edward III died in 1377, de Coucy gave up his English title and lands and returned his loyalty to the French king. Isabella, who had travelled back to England frequently, returned home for good with their two daughters and the couple lived apart for the rest of her life. She died in 1382. After her death, Enguerrand remarried, another Isabelle, this one the daughter of a French duke. They also had a daughter, who did not live to adulthood.
De Coucy spent the rest of his life in wars and fighting, finally dying of the plague in 1396, after being taken prisoner while on Crusade in Turkey.
For those who have read my earlier books, Isabella and Enguerrand’s second daughter, Philippa, became the wife of Robert de Vere, ninth Earl of Oxford, who plays a prominent role in my book The Harlot’s Daughter. Philippa appears only offstage.
The situation of the French hostages in England, strange as it may seem to us, was well documented. Chivalry and greed seemed equally mixed and certain among them really did socialise with the court on a regular basis. The party at the ex-mayor’s residence is recorded by history. It is sometimes said that four kings, not two, attended, but the best information I could find showed that King David of Scotland and Peter of Cyprus had left London by this time. Even the hospitality of King Edward for King Jean is described in detail in the chronicles, and King Edward gave his fellow monarch a major funeral before sending the body back so that France could do the same.
But King Jean’s death in 1364 did, eventually, change the situation of the hostages and of the treaty. Though the last hostage was not released until 1367, King Edward seemed to lose heart and interest, and there were hostages who just disappeared, as Marc tried to do.
As the French historian Edouard Perroy writes in his book The Hundred Years War, by this time, ‘There remained in London as hostages only the small fry of petty barons and burgesses. Individual measures of clemency set some free, and others married and settled permanently in England...’
Others, including Lord de Coucy and, perhaps, even someone like Marc de Marcel.
My story ends with England and France at peace, but it did not last. Indeed, as Marc suspected, the death of the King of France unravelled everything. Gradually, fighting began again, and the French king, Charles V, declared the Treaty of Brétigny void in May of 1369. The war resumed, not ending conclusively until the next century. Eventually, it would be known as the Hundred Years War.
A note on word usage: Chaucer did use the term ‘princesse’ in a manuscript composed in 1385, some twenty years after this story, but it did not appear widely used until the fifteenth century. I have used it here for Isabella because it is likely to have been in use at that time and is more familiar to the modern reader.
A count, or compte in France, was the same title as an earl in England. However, the female equivalent was countess in both countries.
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE CHAPERON’S SEDUCTION by Sarah Mallory.
Chapter One
Richard Arrandale had been in Bath for less than two weeks and was already regretting his promise to stay. It was not just that Bath in August was hot and dusty, it was exceedingly dull for one used to a hectic social round. He thought of the numerous invitations lining the mantelshelf of his rooms in London, including one from a dashing matron who had been putting out lures for some time. She wanted him to spend September with her at a house party in Leicestershire, where she promised him the hunting would be excellent and the evening entertainments more to his taste than anything he would find in staid and respectable Bath.
He did not doubt it, but he had given his word to his great-aunt Sophia, the Dowager Marchioness Hune, that he would remain in Bath until she was feeling better, even if that took him into the autumn, and he would not break his promise. Sophia had been the only one to support him in his darkest hour, when the rest of the world had seemed to be against him, and now that she needed him he would not walk away.
And it was not as if she expected him to dance attendance upon her at all times; she was quite content to see him every morning before she went off to the hot baths with her nurse, and for the occasional dinner at Royal Crescent. Apart from that he was free to amuse himself. Which was why he was now whiling away the evening playing hazard in a small and select gaming hell. From the outside, there was nothing to distinguish the narrow house in Union Street from its fellows. The ground floor was a tobacconist’s shop but the curtains on the upper floors were rarely drawn back, the proprietor, one Mr Elias Burton, being determined not to distract his clientele by giving them any clue of the time of day.
Richard finished his wine before casting the dice on to the green baize.
‘Seven,’ called Henry Fullingham, leaning closer to peer short-sightedly at the ivory cubes. ‘Trust Arrandale to cast a main with his first throw.’
‘Well, I am not going to wager against him matching it,’ laughed George Cromby. ‘His luck’s in tonight.’
Richard said nothing, merely picked up his glass, which had been replenished by a hovering waiter the moment he had put it down.
‘I won’t bet against him either,’ grumbled a thin, sour-faced gentleman in a green coat. ‘Luck, d’ye call it? His throwing is too consistent by half.’
At his words a tense silence fell over the table. Richard scooped up the dice and weighed them in his hand, fixing his gaze upon the speaker.
‘What are you trying to say, Tesfo
rd?’ he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Fullingham gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, he doesn’t mean anything, Arrandale. It’s just the drink talking.’
Richard glanced around. They had been playing for some hours with the wine flowing freely. Tesford’s face was flushed and his eyes fever-bright. He was glaring belligerently across the table and for a moment Richard considered pressing the man, forcing a confrontation. After all, the fellow was questioning his honour. And a duel might alleviate his current ennui.
‘Well, I ain’t afraid to place a bet,’ declared Fullingham cheerfully. ‘Come along, Arrandale, throw again, we’re all waiting!’
The murmur of assent went around the table. Wagers were being placed and Richard shrugged. Everyone was drinking heavily and it would be bad form to call out Tesford when it was clear he was in his cups. He cast the dice again.
‘Deuce!’ Fullingham laughed, a measure of relief in his voice. ‘He’s thrown out.’
Richard smiled and signalled to the hovering servant to fill his glass once more. Hazard was a game for those who could calculate the odds and he was good at that, but it was inevitable that sometimes the dice would fall against him. He did not like losing, but he was philosophical about it.
* * *
However, after another hour’s play he was considerably richer than when he had arrived.
He was a gambler, but he knew when to stop and he was just gathering up his winnings when a noisy group of young bucks burst into the room. At their centre was a fashionably dressed gentleman, slightly older than his companions, whom Richard recognised as Sir Charles Urmston.
‘They’ll have come from the Assembly Rooms,’ observed Cromby, looking round. He raised his hand and hailed the party. ‘What news, my lads? I see young Peterson isn’t with you, has he breached the defences of the fair Lady Heston?’
‘Aye,’ replied Sir Charles. ‘He is escorting her home.’
‘We won’t be seeing him again before dawn then.’ Cromby chuckled.
‘And there’s more news,’ declared a red-faced young man coming closer to the table. ‘A new heiress is coming to Bath!’
‘And are you looking to this heiress to restore your fortunes, Naismith?’ drawled Sir Charles. ‘I doubt she would even look at you.’
Young Mr Naismith’s face flushed an even deeper crimson.
‘At least I’d make her an honest husband, Urmston,’ he retorted. ‘Everyone knows you played your late wife false.’
There was general laughter at that, but Richard saw the shadow of annoyance flicker across the older man’s face.
‘So who is this new heiress?’ demanded Fullingham. ‘Is she young, old, a beauty?’
‘Young, definitely, but as for looks no one knows,’ responded Mr Naismith. ‘She is the daughter of the late Sir Evelyn Tatham and she is coming to live with her stepmama, Lady Phyllida Tatham, until her come-out next year.’
‘A virgin, fresh from the schoolroom,’ murmured Sir Charles. ‘A plum, ripe for the plucking.’
Cromby frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘I remember old Tatham,’ he said. ‘He was a nabob, bought his knighthood after he made his fortune in India.’
Mr Naismith waved one hand dismissively. ‘No one cares about that now. The thing is, Miss Tatham is his only child and she inherits everything!’
‘Then she may look like old Tom’s prize sow and she would still attract suitors,’ put in Tesford, draining his glass.
Sir Charles called to the waiter to bring them more wine.
‘It seems a pity to have such a prize in Bath without making some attempt to win it,’ he drawled.
Cromby grinned. ‘Aye, by Gad. If I were not a married man I think I’d be making a push myself.’
‘If the girl is so rich she will be well protected,’ said Fullingham. ‘Her guardians will be looking out for fortune-hunters.’
‘There are ways to persuade a guardian,’ put in Sir Charles, polishing his eyeglass. ‘If the heiress was to lose her virtue, for example...’
‘Of course,’ exclaimed young Naismith. ‘They’d want her married with all speed if that were to happen.’
‘So shall we have a little wager as to which one of us will marry the heiress?’
Cromby banged on the table, looking up with a bleary eye. ‘No, no, Urmston, that is unfair on those of us who are already leg-shackled.’
Sir Charles spread his hands.
‘Very well, if you all want to have a touch, let us say instead, who will be first to seduce her.’
‘Much better,’ agreed Cromby, laughing immoderately. ‘Then we can all have a pop at the heiress.’
Fullingham raised his hand. ‘There must be witnesses, mind—a trustworthy servant or some such to confirm the prize is won.’
‘Naturally.’ Urmston smiled. ‘Waiter, tell Burton to bring the betting book and we will write this down.’ His hooded eyes surveyed the company. ‘But there is one here who has not yet agreed to join us, one whose reputation as a devil with the ladies is well known in London. What say you, Arrandale? I should have thought you eager for this little adventure.’
Richard did not allow his distaste to show.
‘Seducing innocents has never appealed to me. I prefer women of experience.’
‘Ha, other men’s wives.’
‘Not necessarily, just as long as they don’t expect me to marry ’em.’
There was general laughter at his careless response.
‘What, man?’ exclaimed George Cromby. ‘Do you mean you have not left a string of broken hearts behind you in London?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Best leave him out of it,’ cried Fullingham gaily. ‘He is such a handsome dog the ladies can’t resist him. The rest of us would stand no chance!’
‘Certainly I have not heard of Arrandale being involved in any liaisons since he has been in Bath,’ murmured Sir Charles, swinging his eyeglass back and forth. ‘Mayhap you are a reformed character, Arrandale,’
‘Mayhap I am,’ returned Richard, unperturbed.
‘Or perhaps, in this instance, you are afraid of losing out to the better man.’
Richard’s lip curled. ‘Hardly that.’
‘So why won’t you join us?’ demanded Fullingham. ‘You are single, if the chit took a fancy to you there is no reason why you shouldn’t marry her. Don’t tell me a rich bride wouldn’t be an advantage to you.’
Richard sat back in his chair, saying nothing. As a second son he had been expected to find a rich bride, but his brother’s disastrous marriage had made him shy away from wedlock and he was determined to remain a bachelor as long as possible.
He was fortunate to have inherited Brookthorn Manor from his godfather. It was a neat property in Hampshire that included a home farm and substantial estate. Without its income he would have been obliged to seek some form of employment by now. As it was, Brookthorn gave him independence, but he knew it could not support his lifestyle for much longer. It needed careful management, but when had the Arrandales ever been good at that? Their name was synonymous with scandal and disaster.
Sir Charles was standing over Richard, a faint, sneering smile on his face. He said quietly, ‘A thousand pounds says I can secure the heiress before you, Arrandale.’
Surprised, Richard looked up. ‘A private wager, Urmston? I think not.’
‘Very well.’ Sir Charles looked at the men gathered around the table. ‘There are eleven of us here.’ He gestured to the hovering proprietor to put the betting book, pen and ink down on the table. ‘How much shall we say? A monkey from each of us?’
‘What had you in mind, Urmston?’ demanded Tesford.
‘We will each stake five hundred pounds that we will be the first to seduce Miss Tatham. Burton shall hold the
money until one of us is successful.’
‘Capital! But we should set a date on it, Urmston,’ cried Henry Fullingham, his words slurring a little. ‘Can’t have this going on indef—indefinitely.’
‘Very well,’ Urmston looked around the room. ‘Shall we say the next Quarter Day?’
‘Michaelmas,’ nodded George Cromby. ‘Just over a month. That should be sufficient time for one of us to succeed.’
‘Very well. Five thousand pounds to whoever can seduce the heiress by September the twenty-ninth. And of course the added prize, the possibility of marriage for those of us who are single.’
Cromby laughed. ‘And if I should be successful...’
‘The way would be open for one of us bachelors to snap her up,’ Tesford finished for him. ‘And her family would be grateful for it, too. By Jove that is an excellent suggestion. I’m not averse to spoiled goods, if they come with a fortune.’
‘Quite.’ Urmston placed the book upon the table and quickly wrote down the terms.
‘Well, Arrandale, what do you say, does five thousand pounds hold no appeal? Or perhaps you prefer to run away, like your brother.’
A sudden hush fell over the table. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Richard show how that remark angered him. There was a mocking smile around Urmston’s mouth, challenging him to refuse. Richard looked at the pile of coins before him on the table. A thousand pounds. He had been planning to use some of it for vital maintenance on Brookthorn Manor, but now, dash it, he would show Urmston who was the better man! He pushed his winnings back to the centre of the table.
‘Let’s double it.’
The tense silence was broken by gasps and smothered exclamations. One or two men shook their heads, but no one walked away.
‘Very well, a thousand pounds each.’ Urmston corrected the terms and held the pen out to Richard. ‘That’s a prize of ten thousand pounds, Arrandale.’
Richard took the pen, dipped it in the ink and added his name to the others.
‘Ten thousand,’ he repeated. ‘Winner takes it all.’
Whispers at Court Page 24