Chapter One

      Smithfield, London—November 11, 1363

      Mon Dieu, this island is cold.

      Frigid English wind whipped Marc de Marcel’s hair from his forehead, then slithered beneath the chainmail circling his neck. He peered at the knights at the other end of the field, wondering which would be his opponent and which would face his fellow Frenchman.

      Well, it mattered not. ‘One pass,’ he muttered, ‘and I’ll unhorse either one.’

      ‘The code of chivalry calls for three runs with the lance,’ Lord de Coucy said, ‘followed by three blows with the sword. Only then can a winner be declared.’

      Marc sighed. It was a shame that jousts had become such tame affairs. He would have welcomed the opportunity to kill another goddam Anglais. ‘A waste of the horse’s strength. And mine.’

      ‘Best not offend someone when you are at their mercy, mon ami. Cooperation with our captors will make our time here much more tolerable.’

      ‘We are hostages. Nothing can make that tolerable.’

      ‘Ah, the ladies can.’ De Coucy nodded towards the stands. ‘They are très jolie.’

      He glanced at them. Women stretched to King Edward’s right, near impossible to distinguish. The queen must be the one gowned in ermine-trimmed purple, but the rest were a blur of matching tan and violet.

      Except for one. Her dark hair was graced with a gold circlet and she glared in his direction of the field with crossed arms and a frown. Even at this distance, he could read a loathing that matched his own, as if she despised them all.

      Well, the feeling was mutual.

      He shrugged. Les femmes Anglaise were not his concern. Two visiting kings sat beside the English Edward today, overlooking the tournament field. ‘It is les rois I would impress, not the ladies.’

      ‘Ah, a chevalier always strives to impress the ladies,’ his dark-haired friend said, with a smile. ‘It is the best way to impress their men.’

      It amazed him, this ability the younger man, Enguerrand, Lord de Coucy, had to cut down a foe with an axe one day and warble a chanson with the ladies the next. Marc had taught him much of the first and nothing of the second.

      ‘How do you do it?’ Marc asked. ‘How do you nod and smile at your captors?’

      ‘To uphold the honour of French chivalry, mon ami.’

      What he meant was to preserve the pretence that Christian knights lived their lives according to the principles of chivalry.

      And that, as Marc well knew, was a lie.

      Men spoke allegiance to the code, then did as they pleased.

      ‘French honour died at Poitiers.’ Poitiers, when cowardly French commanders, even the king’s oldest son, had fled the field, leaving the king to fight alone.

      Enguerrand shook his head. ‘We do not fight that war today.’

      But Marc did. He fought it still, though the battles were over and the truce had been signed. He was a hostage of les Anglais, trapped in this frozen, foreign place, and resentment near strangled him.

      The herald interrupted his thoughts to give them their order and their opponents. De Coucy would ride first, against the larger, brutish man. A foe worth fighting, at least.

      The one left to him? No more than a boy. One he might kill by accident if he were not careful.

      How careful did he feel today?

      * * *

       By the saints it is cold.

      Shivering, Lady Cecily, Countess of Losford, saw her breath turn to fog in the frigid air as she gazed over the frozen tournament field. Red, blue, gold, silver—colour ran rampant before her eyes—decorating flags and banners, spilling across surcoats that shielded armour and draped the horses. A splendid display for visiting royalty. And King Edward, third of that name, reigned over it all, triumphant after his victory in France.

      She lifted her chin, struggling to keep her countenance worthy of her rank.

      It is your duty.

      Her parents’ words, their voices alive only in her memory now.

      ‘Is that not so, Cecily?’

      She turned to the king’s daughter, Isabella, and wondered what she had missed. Six other ladies also attended the princess and, sometimes, Cecily’s attention strayed. ‘I’m certain you are right, my lady.’ That was always a good answer.

      ‘Really?’ The princess smiled. ‘I thought you did not care for the French.’

      She sighed. Isabella loved to tease her when her thoughts wandered. ‘I’m afraid I was not listening.’

      ‘I said the Frenchman looks fierce.’

      Lady Cecily followed her gaze. At the far end of the field, two Frenchmen had mounted their destriers, but not yet donned their helmets. One of them, a knight she had not seen before, was tall, sharp and blond. Like a leopard. A beast who could kill in a single leap.

      ‘He is handsome, is he not?’

      Cecily frowned, ashamed that Lady Isabella had caught her staring at a French hostage. ‘I do not care for fair-haired men.’

      Her lady did not bother to hide her smile. ‘I meant the dark one.’

      Ah, the one she had barely looked at. Yet it did not matter which the princess meant. Cecily despised them both. Despite the conventions of chivalry, she could not understand why the king allowed the French hostages to take to the tournament field. They were, after all, little better than prisoners and should be denied such privileges. ‘Both of them will be handsomer when they are unhorsed and covered in mud.’

      That sent Isabella and the other ladies into peals of laughter until a frown from Queen Philippa forced them to stifle their mirth.

      Cecily smiled, relieved she had saved the moment with a jest. Yet she had been deadly serious. In fact, it was a shame that the joust had become so tame and ceremonial. She would not have minded seeing a bit of French blood spilled.

      ‘I wonder,’ the princess said, ‘which one rides against Gilbert?’

      Cecily looked to the other end of the field where Gilbert, now properly Sir Gilbert, sat tall and straight and hopeful on his horse. Her favour, a violet silk scarf, fluttered expectantly on his lance.

      Opposite him, covered in chainmail and plate armour, the blond French knight on his battle-tested mount looked even more imposing. She was no expert at war, but the way he sat on the horse and held his lance bespoke a confidence, a sureness, that she could see through the armour. ‘I am certain,’ she said, not certain at all, ‘that Gilbert can unseat either man.’

      Isabella flashed a sceptical expression. ‘Don’t be gooseish. This is Gilbert’s first tournament. He’ll be blessed if he doesn’t drop his lance. Why ever did you give him your favour?’

      Cecily sighed. ‘He looked so forlorn.’

      A quick frown deepened the lines between Isabella’s brows. ‘You are not thinking of him as a husband.’

      ‘Gilbert?’ Cecily laughed. ‘He is too much like a brother.’ He had come to her father as a young squire, just a couple of years older than she. And when the king selected her husband, he would not choose a lowly knight, but a man powerful, and trustworthy enough to hold the key to England.

      But who?

      Frowning, Cecily leaned closer to Isabella and whispered, ‘Has