Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
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led Cecily through rooms for praying, for sleeping and for dressing, pointing out the details, including the glass windows, each embedded with the royal coat of arms, which quartered the lilies of France with the leopards of England.
As if de Marcel and his kind had invaded the most private heart of England. As if she could escape him nowhere.
‘And this,’ the queen said, when they reached the final chamber, ‘is for dancing.’
Cecily looked around in wonder. ‘Mother would have loved this. She loved to dance...’ She bit her lip.
A countess does not cry. Not even when her husband is killed.
The queen paused. ‘This is your first Christmas without her.’
The queen’s compassion made Cecily feel like a child again. How many Christmases had she spent with the royal family and her own? And now, only her royal family remained.
‘I also miss my son Edward this year,’ the queen said.
‘Yet you will see him again, some day.’ The queen’s son was absent, but still on this earth. The prince and his bride, Joan, the Countess of Kent, had left for Aquitaine in July, one corner of France, at least, where an Englishman still ruled. She wondered how far that was from Marc’s home.
‘But not the others. I will not see the others.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ How could she complain of her own loss when the queen had lost six of the twelve children she had borne? Yet the king’s wife, plump and motherly, was full of sympathy that made it easy to forget her station. ‘I should not have spoken so.’
The queen reached for her hand and squeezed. Forgiveness. ‘Your parents did not expect you to mourn for the rest of your life.’
Cecily’s parents, she knew, would have been appalled to see her languishing as if diseased. Neither had any patience with ill moods, tantrums or tears. Yet despite her struggle against her grief, the last three years seemed to have disappeared in a fog of loss. ‘I know, Your Grace.’
They expected me to put emotions aside. And she had failed, utterly.
‘You remind me of your mother.’
Cecily mumbled her thanks, forcing her lips to curve upwards, knowing it was far from true. ‘I am proud that you think so.’
‘The last few years have been difficult, my dear,’ Queen Philippa said, ‘but life must go on. We must see you settled.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I fear in the past we have been too lenient. There are risks, dangers, for a woman alone.’
Cecily blinked. The scandal surrounding the prince’s marriage must have made the queen more sensitive to behaviours at the court. ‘I assure you, Your Grace, you have nothing to fear.’
‘Yes, I know that you would do nothing that would disappoint your parents.’
Cecily stiffened. ‘Out of doubt!’ Surely the queen did not fear for her chastity. ‘No more than Isabella would disappoint you and the king.’
Queen Philippa’s smile was fleeting. ‘The king has been preoccupied with state matters, but he is now considering the question of your husband.’
‘I am ready, Your Grace, to wed the man of the king’s choosing.’ She donned a determined, hopeful face. And yet, her hopes were that the man would be one who, when he died from war, or illness, or accident, she could release without mourning.
She could face no more losses.
Queen Philippa studied her, silent. ‘What do you think,’ she said, finally, ‘of Lord de Coucy?’
Cecily considered the question with horror. Surely the king would not consider de Coucy, or any Frenchman, as her husband and custodian of the most important stronghold in the kingdom. Yet she must choose her words carefully, uncertain why the queen asked. ‘He seems skilled and chivalrous at the joust.’
Even if his friend did not.
The queen sighed. ‘Isabella has been urging Edward to restore his English lands.’
‘Should a Frenchman be given soil my father died to protect?’ Isabella had said nothing of this to her, perhaps because she knew Cecily would be aghast.
The queen put a hand on hers. ‘Sometimes, we must hide our feelings, my dear. Sometimes, we must even forgive.’
Ah, the queen, whose tender heart had spared more than one man who deserved her husband’s wrath. ‘Yes. Of course, Your Grace.’ Cecily renewed her vow to suppress her tears. But she would not forgive. Ever.
‘Cecily, I would like you to keep close company with Isabella this season.’
Ah, now it became clear. The queen’s true concern was not Cecily’s behaviour, but her own daughter’s.
Had Isabella’s folly become so obvious? If she were advocating for de Coucy to receive English lands, the situation was even worse than Cecily had feared. In that case, her desperate plea to de Marcel was justified.
‘I intend to, Your Grace.’ She smiled, as if casting off all care. ‘She is determined that I enjoy all the giddiness of the season before I marry.’
‘We have been selfish, I fear, keeping her close.’
‘She is glad of it. I know she is, Your Grace.’
‘Still, she is alone.’
There was no answer to that.
In the silence that followed, the queen seemed to be lost in thought. Perhaps she was thinking of the lost alliances, lost opportunities. If Isabella had married the King of Castile or the Count of Flanders or the King of Bohemia, perhaps King Edward would hold the French throne, as well as French gold.
But when next the queen spoke, the moment had passed. ‘Come. Let me show you the Rose Tower. The paintings are not yet complete, but it will be exquisite.’
She did not speak of Isabella again.
* * *
Yet later, as she left the queen, Cecily knew she had been right to be concerned. Now, she must not only protect Isabella from the Frenchman and her own foolishness, she must protect the queen from worrying about her daughter.
And more, she must ensure that de Coucy never was given sway over even an inch of English dirt.
Had Marc de Marcel been privy to this plan all along? Did he truly share her goal to keep the princess and de Coucy apart? Or was his real objective to undermine her efforts?
Determined to know, she searched the castle and found him, finally, talking to the keeper of the hunting dogs. A deep breath first, before she entered the kennel. Everything about the hunt seemed a cruel reminder of her mother’s death.
The boar charged your mother’s horse and she fell to the ground. It was all too fast. There was nothing we could do.
De Marcel rose when he saw her, and the huntsman bowed and backed away.
‘We must talk,’ she said, when they were alone with the hounds. ‘Your friend. De Coucy. He seeks control of English lands.’
His face turned dark and grim. ‘The lands belonged to his family. They are rightfully his.’
‘So you knew.’
‘It is no crime.’
‘Do you also think to gain by stealth what you could not earn in battle?’
‘I fought for my own country and king. I want no part of yours.’
‘And yet, you killed my father!’
But instead of the shame or guilt she had hoped to see on his face, there was only shock.
At her shout, the dogs started to bark and she flinched. The hounds must have bayed so,