Whispers At Court
Cecily nodded. ‘Of course not, my lady.’
There could be no suggestion, ever, that either of them had been less than chaste. By deciding to remain unwed, Isabella had chosen a life of chastity as pure as a nun’s. And as for Cecily, her title was not the only gift a husband would expect. He would demand her purity, as well.
Isabella’s stern frown dissolved. ‘We will both be quite safe, Cecily. And a little romance will be guaranteed to lift your spirits. I will make certain Marc de Marcel is also invited to Windsor.’
‘Invite him if you must, but do not expect me to waste my time with him.’
No. Marc de Marcel was the last person she wanted to see this season.
* * *
Suddenly awake, Marc blinked, peered out the window of the Tower of London at the frigid London morning and shivered. Their gaolers were not ones to squander money on firewood to warm French hostages.
‘Arise, mon ami! Did you hear what I said?’
Marc rubbed his eyes and turned to look at his friend. ‘You’re doing what?’ He must have misheard. It was too early in the morning for anyone to be awake and so talkative. ‘What did you say?’
‘We have been invited to join the court as guests of the king. We shall celebrate Noël at Windsor Castle!’
The words made no more sense the second time. He sat up and looked at his friend. ‘Are you mad?’
‘I would be fou indeed to refuse the invitation of a princess.’
Ah, the princess that de Coucy saw as the key to the restoration of his lands.
A vision not of the princess, but of the countess drifted into his sleep-fogged brain, as if she were a leftover dream. Her dark hair, her square jaw.
The hatred in her eyes.
His friend was fou indeed. But it was none of Marc’s affair. ‘Then accept and leave me out of it.’
‘Ah, but she specifically asked me to bring you.’
Strange. Certainly the Lady Cecily had no desire to see him again. Why would the princess? ‘Pourquoi?’
De Coucy shrugged. ‘Perhaps she wants to be certain I am not isolé.’
Marc laughed. The thought of his gregarious friend being lonely was absurd. ‘You do not need me to press your cause with the Lady Isabella.’
‘It is no sin to find some joy in our captivity.’
Perhaps not, but the one joy Marc had found in England was the chance to be reunited with his long-time friend. Other men had wives and families. Marc had only Enguerrand. ‘If I did not know you so well, I would think you cared for nothing but pleasure.’ His friend was a man of extremes. Dancing or fighting, he would do both with all that was within him. And the time for fighting was over. For now.
‘And you do not care enough for pleasure.’
Marc had never been a man accustomed to soft comforts and pleasure seemed even more discordant in the face of defeat. To dance and sing seemed to imply that the deaths in battle had been only an illusion and that the dead would rise and join the carol ring. ‘I do not celebrate my enemy’s victory.’
‘No, you celebrate Noël. You will feast on English mutton and drink Gascon wine and, for a few weeks, they will pay the cost.’
It was the final insult. Every day he ate and drank in England would be added to the required ransom, as if he had to pay for the privilege of being held hostage. ‘Tempting, my friend, but English food sours my stomach.’
‘Would you rather sit in this cold tower and chew tough meat?’
With so many hostages to be housed, the city gates and the Abbey were full, so he and Enguerrand had been given quarters in the grim and impregnable Tower of London. And as the winter cold crept through the stones, the vision of Noël without even Enguerrand beside him seemed bleak.
But not bleak enough that he could force himself to smile with cheer at les goddams. To say yes would make him sound ungrateful. And yet... ‘Yes. I would.’
Enguerrand sighed, clearly exasperated. ‘The princess will be désolée.’
‘All the better for you to console her.’ He turned over and pulled the covers up. ‘Joyeux Noël, mon ami.’
There would be three masses on Christmas Day. He might even arise in time for one of them.
And if the guards decided to celebrate too heartily, perhaps a prisoner might roam the halls freely and unnoticed.
Perhaps, he might roam even further.
* * *
Cecily should have paused when she heard the soft laughter beyond Isabella’s door, but she was hurried and distracted and had important news, so she knocked and opened quickly, as she had so many times before, only to see Isabella standing close to Lord de Coucy.
Too close.
For a moment, they looked at her, guilt gilding the silence.
Cecily looked away and scanned the room. Alone. The two of them had been alone. Smiling, relaxed, and standing so close they could have—
She opened her mouth, but could summon no words.
‘Ah, the beautiful countess,’ de Coucy said, bowing so smoothly that before she blinked, he had moved a safe distance from the princess. ‘A reminder I have overstayed my welcome, my lady. The guards will wonder where I am.’
He took his leave with all the proper deference, then paused before Cecily with a knee bent slightly less deeply than the one for the princess. Another bow, a smile, an exit. As if nothing were wrong. As if a young, French hostage had every right to stand too close to the king’s daughter and whisper bon mots.
Cecily looked at Isabella, a hint of accusation in her gaze. To dance and laugh together in public, that was allowed. When the music and the wine flowed, many a couple kissed and embraced, a moment’s passion, but always in a place too public for true indiscretion.
But to be alone with a man opened up other dangers.
At least, that was what Cecily’s mother had told her.
In the silence, Isabella did not rebuke her or ask why she had come, but moved with the regal assurance of one whose behaviour was never questioned. ‘I’m afraid you will have to enjoy the season without your growling Frenchman,’ Isabella said, as the door closed behind de Coucy.
‘Pardon?’
‘Lord de Coucy came to tell me he would attend, but his friend won’t.’
‘Is he ill?’ The thought did not displease her.
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘He refused.’
Irrationally, Cecily felt a twinge of insult. No matter that she had not wanted him invited—no one refused the king. ‘How could he?’
‘No matter,’ Isabella said, without a touch of indignation. It had been only de Coucy the princess cared to see. ‘You’ll find someone much more pleasant to dally with for the Yuletide.’
Cecily made a non-committal humming sound. Isabella persisted in thinking male company was essential for enjoyment of the season. But Cecily must be mindful that prospective suitors were watching. She should not be seen laughing and smiling and standing too close to a captive chevalier.
Yet the insult of de Marcel’s refusal soured her mood, like wine kept too long in the air.
And then she remembered what had driven her here. ‘There is news. The King of France is returning to England.’
Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘My father’s message must have succeeded.’ She smiled. ‘It was quite pointed. Something about kings must have honour.’
‘Even if their sons do not?’ When King Jean had been allowed to return to France, several nobles were sent to England in his place, including two of his sons. After less than a year, one of the sons had escaped captivity and fled home to France.
So like a Frenchman, her father would have said. De Marcel, she was certain, was no better.
‘Did you hear when he would arrive? Will he be here in time for the Yule celebrations?’
Yet another Frenchman to entertain? Cecily stifled a groan. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘If so, we must entertain him according to his station. Lord de Coucy will be so pleased. Ah, what a Christmas this will be!’
De Coucy again. Cecily frowned as Isabella chattered on. Surely there was no cause to worry about the princess and the hostage.
But Cecily worried anyway.
Chapter Three
‘Marc! Ecoute! I have news!’
Marc weighed the last bunch of faggots he was holding in his hand and momentarily thought of heaving it at Enguerrand’s head instead of into the dwindling fire.
For the last week, his friend had talked of nothing but the progress of his campaign to convince the princess to support the restoration of the de Coucy lands in England. Marc was now counting the days until Enguerrand would set off for Windsor and leave him in peace. ‘Spare me, my friend. I have heard all I care to.’
‘No. You have not heard this.’
The tone of voice, the shock on Enguerrand’s face—no, this was something different. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘King Jean. He comes to England encore.’
Marc shook his head, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’
His friend slumped on the bench at Marc’s side, staring into the flames. ‘The king. He will cross the Channel and deliver himself back into King Edward’s hands until the ransom has been paid.’
‘Why?’
‘To redeem the honour his son defiled.’
Marc shook his head. Honour, and the treaties negotiated after Poitiers, dictated that the king remain a hostage until the ransom of three million crowns was paid. The amount was more than double the yearly income of the entire country, or so the whispers said.
There had been negotiations, many of them, before Marc had even come to England. Finally, the king was allowed to return to France to help raise the ransom, but four dukes of France, including two of King Jean’s sons, had been forced to come in his stead.
Marc himself had questioned the honour of the Duke d’Anjou when the man ran home to his wife, but for the king to surrender to the enemy again? It was folly. There was no reason for it.
None but honour.
Ah, yes. Here was the king Marc had seen on the field at Poitiers, fighting even when the rest had fled. ‘It is like him.’ One man, at least. One man upheld honour, still.
‘King Jean sent these words to King Edward,’ Enguerrand said. ‘“That were good faith and honour banished from the rest of the world, such virtues ought still to find their place on the lips and in the breasts of princes.”’
Good faith. Honour. The things that made a hostage’s imprisonment a sacred duty. For they were held captive not for the ransom alone, but for a promise made, one knight to another.
And with that thought came the larger realisation. Lord de Coucy, one of the most eminent lords of the land, was one of the forty royal and noble hostages held surety for the king himself. If the king returned to England, even if part of the ransom remained unpaid...
‘This will mean you can go home.’ Marc felt envy’s bite. England would be a colder place without Enguerrand.
His friend nodded, silent, his face a mix of perplexity and wonder. ‘Yes. Home.’
Marc stifled a moment’s envy. He had known no other home but de Coucy’s.
‘Was there any word about the rest of us?’ Marc was not one of the treaty hostages, but a poor and partial substitute for the Compte d’Oise, taken captive by another English knight who had sold his interest in the ransom to the king, a man better equipped to wait years for full payment.
Enguerrand shook his head. ‘Only the king.’
But the king had proven that honour must rule all things. Marc had brought partial payment for the count’s ransom with him. His presence here was to ensure the Count would pay the rest. By Easter, the man had promised. At the latest.
Until now, uncertain, restless, Marc had thought of escape, perhaps during the lax days of Christmas when the king’s own son had disappeared. But with this news, his doubts and plans seemed shameful. He could not dishonour his own vow and have the king, the one shining example of chivalry he knew, arrive to hear the name of Marc de Marcel covered in shame.
‘When does he come?’
‘He celebrates Christmas in Paris, then crosses the Channel.’
So King Jean would be here at the end of the year. Surely, the honour of the Compte d’Oise would match his king’s. Surely he would send the remainder of his ransom with the king’s party. Or return himself, as his sovereign had. It did not matter which. Marc would be free.
Enguerrand rose and headed for the door. ‘So soon. There is much to do to prepare.’
Marc threw the faggot into the fire, shivering. He was beginning to regret having turned down the opportunity to go to Windsor. It was going to be a long, cold, Noël.
* * *
‘I shall need a new dress,’ Isabella said. ‘To greet King Jean.’
‘Do you think he remembers the one he last saw you wear?’ Cecily smiled, wishing that Anne of Stamford were still at court. Despite their differences in station, they had exchanged knowing smiles when the princess and the Countess of Kent had engaged in wars of the wardrobe.
She wondered what had happened to Anne. The last Cecily had heard, Anne had retired to a small priory. Probably for the best. Life was difficult for a lame girl.
‘The fashion has changed since then,’ Isabella said, ‘as well you know. And there isn’t much time to organise a royal welcome.’
Cecily’s familiar resentment boiled. ‘For a hostage?’
‘For a king,’ Isabella said, spine straight with all the shared solidarity of royalty.
A good reminder. Though the king’s daughter might sometimes seem frivolous and volage, she, like Cecily, would never forget her position and her duty.
‘I spoke to Enguerrand,’ Isabella said, ‘and he thinks that the king will want to go to Canterbury first, before he comes to court. So we decided...’
Enguerrand. We. ‘We?’
‘Enguerrand and I. Since he will be at Windsor I asked him to help arrange a proper royal welcome.’
Wrong to hear the princess sharing decisions with anyone, worst of all with a hostage. She was royal and unmarried. The only people who could gainsay her were the King and Queen of England. ‘Can we not plan a king’s welcome without the help of a hostage?’ It was one thing to invite him and de Marcel to Christmas at Windsor. It was quite another to allow him to plan a royal ceremony.
‘He is Lord de Coucy,’ the princess said, in her stern, royal tone. ‘He deserves the treatment accorded his station.’
As, yes, even among hostages, rank mattered. De Coucy was one of the greatest lords of France. Of course he would not be treated as if he were no more than a simple chevalier.
He would not be treated as though he were Marc de Marcel.
And yet...
‘But are you not concerned that such access might become...?’ She dared not insult the princess again. ‘That it might raise his hopes?’
‘Hopes of what?’ Said with a raised eyebrow.
Cecily blushed. It was his lust that must not be raised. Men aroused were hard to control. And so were women. Or so her mother had told her. ‘What I mean is, if you spend too much time together, might he not become too bold?’
A wave of dismissal. ‘Have no fear. Enguerrand is as chivalrous as a knight can be.’
De Marcel had proven that chivalry was in short supply among the French. Such a man might not stop at a bow or a dance. Or a kiss. ‘Still, to treat him as you would an Englishman does not seem...wise.’
Isabella answered with a merry laugh. ‘It is the Yuletide season. Why should one be wise?’
To prevent disaster.
Isabella was extravagant and headstrong, and her dalliances had been many, but, as far as Cecily knew, none of them had gone beyond hidden kisses and a passionate embrace. None of them had put her at risk. Each had been easily cast aside.
Yet the way she spoke of this Frenchman, the excuses she created to keep him near, were troubling.
They would have three weeks at court, full of Yuletide cheer. It was a time when fools ruled, when the proper order of things was deliberately turned upside down. What if things went further? What if things went too far?
Cecily could raise no more questions without angering Isabella, but she must be vigilant. She herself must stand guard, silently, to make certain nothing unbecoming happened. Yet, what could she alone do? And who else would be in a position to help?
Marc de Marcel.
She fought the idea, but as unlikely as it seemed, they might have a common purpose. The chevalier had no more love for the English than she for the French. Surely he would hate to find his friend in a tryst with an English princess.
But he had refused to come to Windsor.
‘Well, if the king needs a royal welcome,’ Cecily said, as if it were of no consequence, ‘de Coucy will need company of his own kind. Perhaps his friend should be forced to come as well.’
Isabella’s smile broadened. ‘You scold me for my interest in Lord de Coucy, yet you’ve come around to my suggestion at last. But the man has refused our invitation.’
No. He could not refuse. She would not allow it. ‘Then I must persuade him.’
‘I saw him do little but growl, your leopard. Does he do anything else?’
Cecily gritted her teeth. ‘I will have time to discover that, won’t I?’
All she had to do was make him understand the urgency of the matter without casting any aspersions on the princess.
That meant she must convince him that Lord de Coucy was to blame.
* * *
Cecily plotted for a week, then, when the princess was busy, had de Marcel brought to her at Westminster.
Isabella was right, she thought, as he stood before her, as menacing as a beast about to pounce on the prey. Nothing about him was soft or easy. Nothing of his face was gentle. Everywhere a hollow, a sharp corner, an unexpected turn, a scar earned. And yet, taken together, a face that drew her eye...
‘Why am I here? Why have you had me dragged before you with no more courtesy than if I were a prisoner to be executed?’
She fought a twinge of guilt. ‘You are a prisoner.’
And the pain that flashed across his face near made her ask the guards to let him free.
Instead, she motioned them to stand outside.
Did his gaze become more fierce when the door shut? Did she have trouble catching her breath? He had warned her what kind of man he was. Yet here she was, alone with him, just as Isabella and Enguerrand had been.
As she must be. Her fears for the princess were not for other ears.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Lord de Coucy has been much at court in recent weeks.’
‘He is as skilled a courtier as he is a chevalier.’
‘And you are not?’
A shrug. A frown. But he did not argue.
Looking down at her clasped hands, she took a few steps, summoning her composure before she faced his eyes again. ‘Lord de Coucy has spent much time with Lady Isabella. And I fear that they...’ No. She must not involve the princess. ‘That Lord de Coucy may have developed...feelings. I mean a...’ What did she mean?
‘Tendresse,’ he said, in a tone that conveyed no tenderness at all.
‘Yes. Exactly.’ What did she say now? That she was afraid Isabella might... No.
She must not let this man upset her. You are a countess. He is a chevalier and a hostage. He must bow to your will.
She raised her head. De Marcel seemed disinclined to bow to anyone. Yet his lips carried the hint of a smile. And that made her angry. ‘I am sure you like it no more than I do.’
‘Moins.’
She raised her brows. ‘Oh, I don’t think you could possibly like it any less.’
Now, he smiled in truth. ‘But it is all according to the laws of courtly love, n’est-ce pas? Nothing serious.’
As if de Coucy should not be honoured that the second-greatest lady of the land had deigned to honour him with her attention. ‘It is she who is not serious. And yet, they have...’ what could she say? ‘...spent much time together.’
‘You worry overmuch.’
Did she? The games Isabella was willing to play with the hostage angered her. But to think the Frenchman did not take the honour Isabella bestowed on him seriously made Cecily furious. ‘She is a royal princess! To disport herself with a...a...’
‘The de Coucy family is one of the most respected in France.’
Now she had made him angry and an angry man would not agree to help her. She took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me,’ she hated to say it. ‘I see that we both are loyal to our friends. But there is more. Last week, I found them...them alone and...close.’
So, finally. The shock on his face mirrored hers. ‘Imbécile!’
She nodded, afraid to ask whether he was referring to de Coucy or the princess. ‘Exactly. We must do something.’
‘We?’
‘We do share the same goal, do we not? You can see how foolish he is acting. And how bad it would be for him if...’ Now she must say the words. ‘And why I need your help.’
His jaw sagged a bit and he blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Votre aide,’ she said, more loudly. ‘Assistance.’
‘I know what it means,’ he said. ‘And I am not deaf.’ Yet he glowered as if the last thing on earth he would do would be to help her.
‘So will you?’ She held her breath.
He glared at her, then his eyes became thoughtful, as if he were seeing her as a person for the first time, trying to assess who she was aside from simply a femme Anglaise.
‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, finally.
He had not agreed, she could tell that. ‘I want you to accept the invitation to Windsor for Yuletide.’
Something flashed across his face. Disappointment? Calculation? ‘Why? What good would that do?’
‘If we work together, we may be able to keep them apart. There will be more than a fortnight of Yuletide festivities. Celebrations, the upside-down time of year. Opportunities for...’ His eyes did not leave hers. Her cheeks flushed.
She fell silent, unable to speak the words.
His smile carried no trace of chivalry. ‘Opportunities for what?’
And suddenly, she saw not Isabella and Enguerrand, but herself with Marc, in a dark corner, in an embrace...
‘For trouble, chevalier,’ she said, sharply. ‘Opportunities for trouble.’
‘But she is a king’s daughter.’ At least, the idea had surprised him.
‘Exactly.’ And so she must make it clear the fault would be his friend’s. ‘Which presents special dangers if Lord de Coucy is not a careful man.’
He stood still, unbending, as if considering all she had said. But he did not say yes.
Cecily glanced at the door. They had been alone too long as it was. Stepping closer, she raised her eyes and lowered her voice. A command would not sway this man. A plea might. ‘Please. Say you’ll come. To help your friend.’
Regret flashed across his face. Ah, so friendship was something he understood. Something that meant something.
He sighed. ‘You are as relentless as some of the knights I faced on the field.’
A strange compliment to give a woman. And yet, a glow of pride touched her. Only because he complimented her countrymen. Not because he approved of her.
‘And what,’ he asked, in a tone devoid of approval, ‘do I gain from this bargain?’
He did not pull away. Worse, he moved closer.
She refused to step back, refused to look down, but his very gaze seemed an assault. All the risk of this course shimmered between them. In helping Isabella, she might jeopardise herself at a time when all would be watching her, waiting to see the man the king would choose.
‘You gain the satisfaction of saving your friend from disaster!’ Now she could put distance between them. Now she could breathe again. ‘Is that not enough?’ If it were not, she was at a loss, for she could think of nothing she could offer this man except what she must not give.