Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ had heard Enguerrand speak of the English lands, soil he had never seen in places with strange names like Cumberland and Westmorland. Northerly lands, near to Scotland, where a de Coucy great-grandmother had gone as a bride. The holdings had been forfeited to the English crown years before.

      ‘Why would King Edward relinquish holdings to a hostage?’

      A shrug and a smile. ‘How do I know if I do not try? In the meantime, the months grow long. I’ve been told the princess creates gay entertainments for those of her circle. Better that we enjoy more nights such as this than moulder in the draughty tower, eh?’

      Ah, that was his friend, still viewing himself as a guest instead of a prisoner. ‘I want to spend no more time with the court.’

      ‘Not even with the lovely countess?’

      ‘Particularly not with her.’ Yet, unbidden, he searched the room, catching sight of her purple gown, and let his gaze linger. She had stirred a dangerous mix of anger and desire. One to be avoided.

      He turned his back on the hall. ‘You do not need me for this campaign.’

      ‘Not tonight, mon ami. But soon, there will come a time. And when I do...?’ A raised eyebrow. Waiting.

      Duty. Honour. Little more than empty words. But loyalty? A man was nothing without that. ‘When you do, you need only ask.’

      ‘Now come.’ Enguerrand rested a hand on Marc’s shoulder and turned him towards the crowded hall. ‘Sing. Dance. Make merry. Make friends.’

      ‘I leave that to you, mon ami.’

      With a wave and a laugh, Enguerrand left to do just that. He moved through the Hall with a nod and a smile, as gracious as if he were at home in the Château de Coucy.

      And why should he not? De Coucy and the other French hostages all lived in certainty that some day, the ransom would be raised, money exchanged and they would go back to a castle very much like this one to sing and dance.

      He did not.

      The Compte d’Oise had promised to return, or send the ransom, or send a substitute, by Easter. Marc would have to stay in Angleterre only six months. Less if the Count could make arrangements more quickly.

      But in retrospect, replaying the conversation, the man had not met his eyes when he described his promises and plans. Options and timing had been vague.

      So why had he come? Why had he chosen to put himself in enemy hands? The debt of fealty. The chance to see his old friend, who had been held by the English for three years.

      His own foolish attempt at honour?

      But tonight, the only person in the hall whose bitterness seemed to match his own was the Countess of Losford.

      * * *

      Gilbert, Cecily was pleased to see, had rallied by the next day, walking stiffly, but all of a piece. Feeling guilty for her laughter with Isabella, she approached him after the morning mass, but he refused to meet her eyes.

      ‘I am sorry I did not uphold the honour you bestowed on me,’ he said, as they walked from the Abbey back to the Palace. His head held slightly down, a shock of brown hair almost in his eyes, he looked as young as a squire, though he was two years older than she.

      And yet, in making that hard admission, he took a step towards being a man, a man who regretted not his own humiliation, but that he had disappointed her.

      ‘The fault was not yours, but de Marcel’s,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a violation of the rules of the tournament.’

      Uneasy, she refrained from telling him she had danced with the man the previous evening. His hand on hers had been rough, but sure. Implacable.

      The warmth of the memory touched her cheeks and she searched for the dignity of her title.

      Gilbert, fighting his own disappointment, did not notice. ‘I was ill prepared. A good lesson.’

      ‘Are you not angry?’ She was. Easier, better, to channel sorrow into anger. Anger had righteous power. Grief was an open wound.

      ‘At myself,’ he said. A hard confession. ‘I will do better next time.’

      She shook her head. ‘Think of him no more.’ She certainly wouldn’t.

      * * *

      In the coming days, as the tournament celebrations ended, the hostages were returned to their quarters and preparations began for the court to move to Windsor for the Christmas season.

      Cecily put the rude Frenchman out of her thoughts.

      Well, perhaps she thought of him once or twice, but only because Gilbert replayed the entire joust in great detail every time she saw him, each time suggesting what he might do differently, should he ever face de Marcel again.

      And if she, once or twice, replayed her own private joust with the man, it was only to scold herself, as her mother would have done, for losing her temper and her dignity. She would not see him again, of course, but she vowed to maintain her calm the next time she was confronted with any of the hostages.

      A week later, as she watched the tailor unpack Isabella’s Christmas gown, she had more immediate concerns.

      Although her family had spent Christmas with the court for as long as she could remember, her mother had always been the one to make the plans. Cecily had helped, of course, but now the season loomed before her, only three weeks away.

      She must make the preparations, alone. She must demonstrate that she was not only an eligible heiress but would be a competent wife. The problem was, she was not quite certain what she should be doing.

      ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Isabella held up her new dress, so heavy with ermine she could barely lift it.

      The train piled on the floor of the princess’s chamber, nearly as high as her knees. ‘Fit for a queen,’ Cecily answered.

      ‘Not quite,’ Isabella said, handing it to the tailor who spread it carefully across the bed. ‘Mother’s has ermine on the sleeves as well.’ She smoothed the dress, her fingers caressing the fabric. ‘But this one is paid for by Father’s purse.’

      Cecily bit her lip against the sudden reminder. She had no father, now, to dote on her and shower her with gifts. No mother to advise her on which gown was most flattering. Yet sometimes she would hear the door open and think she heard her father’s step or her mother’s voice—

      ‘Cecily, attend!’ Isabella’s voice, jolting her back to the present.

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      ‘What are you wearing?’

      Ah, that was one of the things she should have done. ‘I...don’t know. I have nothing new.’ Deep in mourning, she had ordered no new Christmas clothes except for the matching gowns she shared with the other court ladies. ‘Perhaps no one will notice.’

      ‘Don’t be a fool! You must look ready for a wedding, not a funeral.’

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