Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
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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.’
She looked down. While she had not put on widow’s garb, she had chosen colours dark and subdued since her mother’s death unless she was wearing the royal colours. ‘I could recut one of Mother’s gowns. The green one, perhaps. Mother liked me in green.’
‘That shade is too strong for the current fashion.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I thought this might happen.’ She waved to the tailor. ‘So I had something made for you.’
Eyes wide, Cecily watched him lay out a fur-trimmed sideless surcoat. Worn over her current gowns, it would make them look new. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Isabella laughed. ‘Just try it on, you silly goose.’
And with the help of the tailor and the maid, she pulled it over her head. It fitted loosely, with a large, curved opening from shoulder to hip, revealing the dress beneath and the curve of her waist and hip.
She slipped her hands beneath the surcoat, where the soft, sable lining tickled her fingers, and tried not to tally the cost. Isabella never did, which was why she regularly exceeded her household allowance. The king grumbled, but always covered his daughter’s debts. ‘My lady, how can I thank you?’
Isabella waved the servants out of hearing. ‘This is your last Christmas season as an unmarried woman! You can thank me by enjoying it!’
Last as an unmarried woman and the first without her mother.
Her father had been gone for three years; her mother not yet a year. The loss was still new, raw. Still, she must convince the court that she was ready to look to the future and her duty instead of wallowing in her grief. There must be no tears this season.
She lifted her chin and twirled, making her skirt sway. ‘So you would have me sing and dance and smile at all the men from now until Twelfth Night!’ The light words, the forced smile were an ill-fitting mask.
Yet, Isabella laughed and clapped in approval. ‘Yes! By then, every man at court will hope to be the king’s choice as the new guardian of Losford. Even the hostages!’
Cecily stumbled at the memory of de Marcel’s eyes. Angry. Hungry. ‘What?’
‘Father has invited some of them to Windsor.’ Isabella’s smile, normally so bright and open, turned shy. ‘Including Lord de Coucy.’
Cecily bit her lip. How was she to smile when her father’s murderers could dance and sing beside her?
But Isabella did not notice. ‘Lord de Coucy is a very good dancer. And handsome, don’t you think?’
‘I think of the French as little as possible.’ And it was not the dark-haired hostage Cecily thought of now. She turned away, hoping Isabella would not see her blush. ‘Will there be other hostages there, as well?’
‘Other Frenchmen, you mean?’
‘Have we any other hostages?’
‘Have you an interest in any one in particular? His fair-haired friend, perhaps? What is his name?’
‘Marc de Marcel, and, no, I have not,’ she answered, dismayed. Could Isabella see her thoughts?
‘De Marcel, yes! A delightful distraction for you.’
‘No!’
But Isabella was not listening. ‘The perfect answer. One for each of us.’
‘Totally unsuitable!’
‘Exactly! That’s why they are the right companions for the season. To be enjoyed, to make your suitors jealous, and then, tossed aside.’ Laughing, she plucked a riband from a pile, tied it in a bow, then tossed it the air and let it fall to the ground, where she kicked it away. ‘Like that! In the meantime, for a few weeks, Lord de Coucy’s attention can be devoted to me alone. And de Marcel’s to you.’
The words Marcel and alone made Cecily shiver. Even in a crowded hall, his eyes had near devoured her. What would happen if she were close, day after day, to a man who had told her clearly he cared nothing for honour.
‘My lady, Lord de Coucy appears to be a man of the code while de Marcel has proven quite the opposite. What if your trust is misplaced? What if...?’ To finish the question would be an insult.
And the expression on Isabella’s face proved it. She was suddenly the princess again, her haughty frown as regal as her father’s. ‘Do not mistake my meaning. I would permit nothing unseemly.’
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