Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
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in a wave, washing through her, hot and sweet. Oh, if Isabella felt this for de Coucy, they were all doomed.
‘No, Countess. It is not enough. I live as your prisoner and now you want me to dance like your puppet?’
His anger broke the spell. Relieved, she could match it with her own. Anger was permitted to a countess. Fear was not. ‘I am helping you to accomplish something you also want and cannot get alone. Do not expect too many mercis!’
‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that if I do this, you will help me return to France.’
She was glad she had not faced this man when he carried a sword in battle. ‘How can I do that? Treaties and ransoms are in the hands of the king.’
‘When the time comes, I will tell you.’
What could that mean? She was promising to do...she didn’t even know. But that was in some distant future. The celebrations at Windsor were an immediate threat. ‘When the time comes, then, I will do my best.’ Not exactly a promise.
He stared, silent, as if trying to read her face.
Did he believe her? Should he?
‘Even our kings have called a truce,’ she said. ‘Can’t we?’
She refrained from saying it was a truce only because her king had bested his. And yet, Jean, not Edward, was King of France. The thought gave her pause.
‘D’accord,’ he said, finally, as if they had shaken hands on a battle plan.
It was as close to a truce as they would get.
But as she called the guards and they led him away, she wondered what she had promised. To help him return to France? But that, after all, was the ideal solution. Send both men back, and quickly. Yet by treaty, a hostage returned home when his ransom was paid or a substitute sent. She could not change that. There was no other way.
Except the dishonourable path the French king’s son had taken.
Tucking her hands inside her fur-lined surcoat, she gritted her teeth against the chill. Surely de Marcel did not expect her to help him escape.
She would see him freeze in hell first.
* * *
‘So I will come to Windsor after all,’ Marc told Enguerrand that evening as they sat across the chessboard before a dying fire.
His friend looked up, brows lifted. ‘I’m not sure which surprises me more. That you changed your mind or that you found a way to change your refusal.’
Marc shrugged and pushed his pawn to the next square.
‘You can’t just say that without telling me more,’ Enguerrand said, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘I know the Lady Isabella did not press you to come.’
He knew, Marc thought, much too much about the Lady Isabella and her plans. ‘No. But her friend the countess did.’
‘The countess? I did not think you impressed her so highly the other night.’
‘I didn’t. But you did.’
‘Moi?’
‘She is worried that you have developed a tendresse for the Lady Isabella.’ He watched for Enguerrand’s reaction, for any hint that the Lady Cecily might be right.
‘Ah, then my plan is working.’
‘Working well enough that she fears the Lady Isabella might not be safe in your company.’
‘Safe? From de Coucy?’ The shocked look was undercut by his wink. ‘How can she worry?’
How indeed? But Marc had not realised until today how serious this was to the Lady Cecily. Here was a woman as loyal to her friend as he. ‘She is worried enough that she begged me to come to Windsor and help her keep you and the princess apart.’
And now, a wicked grin. ‘Which is exactly what you will do, mon ami, bien sûr.’
They shared a smile that held the trust of years. A smile which meant Marc would do no such thing. He was glad to help his friend, and yet... ‘You know that I am no good at subterfuge. I may do you more harm than good.’
‘You will do me a great deal of good just by keeping the Lady Cecily entertained.’
Marc groaned. ‘How do I do that? I have no more use for the woman than she for me.’
‘You’ll find a way. Just don’t let her know I seek Lady Isabella’s influence, not her virtue. I can do the rest. Once I get my lands back, the countess will find all her worries disappear.’
His own, Marc was certain, had just begun.
Windsor Castle—December 1363
On a blustery December afternoon, Cecily left London for Windsor Castle, fighting memories. Last year, her mother had been with her. This year, she was alone.
Yet Gilbert rode beside her and she was grateful for his company, though all his thoughts were on how he might redeem himself for his tournament disgrace.
‘You were sitting near the king,’ Gilbert said, as Windsor came into sight. ‘What did he say about me?’
She swallowed. There was no disguising the truth. ‘I’m afraid the king was disappointed.’
He nodded, as if the answer were exactly what he had expected. ‘I don’t blame him. Those men, they were hardened during war. I’ve done nothing.’
‘You served my father in France! You were...’ The words would not come. You were there when he died.
‘But only as a squire. I was never in battle as a warrior. Now all I have is this pretend fighting. I want something that matters. Something of life and death.’
His very eagerness clutched her heart. ‘The war is over now. You can stay safe.’
He looked at her as if she were a babe. Or a woman who lacked all wit. ‘I don’t want to be safe. I want to prove myself. The King of Cyprus is recruiting knights for a Crusade. Perhaps I will join him.’
‘So you, too, can die in battle?’ A question more sharp than she intended.
He looked at her, some sort of realisation in his eyes. ‘You have not buried your father.’
She turned away from him and looked to the Castle. ‘Of course I did.’ She remembered it all. They had brought the body home in a sealed, stone coffin. The funeral mass was said on a bright summer day, with the sea breeze wafting into the church and ruffling the black cloth covering the bier. ‘You were there.’
‘But his effigy is unfinished.’
A stark accusation of what she had left undone. She winced. She had allowed grief to interfere with her duty. You have not buried him. She had not buried either of them.
There should be a carved image of her father and her mother, side by side, as if they had been turned to stone in death. It was her duty to see it completed.
To honour them both.
Her mother had begun work on her father’s effigy, soon after he died. She chose the stone, had it shipped all the way from the Tutbury quarry, and selected a sculptor, one of the best alabaster men from Nottingham.
And when the man arrived, her mother had spread his sketches on the table, but Cecily could barely see them through her tears.
Her mother sighed. I can see you are not yet ready. Her tone, sharp. Go. I will look at them first.
And so, while Cecily stared at the sea and took long walks along the cliffs, her mother