Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
Читать онлайн книгу.
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