Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
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suggestion. But he could not have mistaken a woman wearing velvet for a serving girl. He wanted to make her furious, that was clear. Worse, he was succeeding. She unclenched her fingers and forced a shrug to match his own. ‘You have proven again that French chivalry is vastly overrated.’
He stood straight, then, as if her words had been the blow she’d intended. ‘Chevalier Marc de Marcel at your service.’ A slight inclination of his head, its very perfection a mockery.
‘Chivalry is more than courtly manners. A chivalrous knight would have allowed an untried opponent to hold his honour on the field.’
He glanced at her violet gown and an expression she could not decipher rippled across his face. ‘The favour he carried. It was yours.’ Something in the timbre of his voice reached inside her, implying that she and Gilbert...
But it didn’t mean what you think. ‘I would have said the same even if it was not.’ Pinned by his expression, she had trouble taking a breath. The anger in his eyes matched her own. Or was it something besides anger? Something more like hunger...
He smiled. Slowly and without mirth. ‘You would have frowned at me the same way if I had been the one unhorsed.’
True, and she blushed with shame to be thought as rude as he. A countess should be above such weakness. Assuming the disguise of polite interest, she reached for her noble demeanour. ‘You are newly come?’
The scowl returned to his face. ‘Weeks that seem like years. The Compte d’Oise pined for home. Before your king allowed him to leave, he demanded a substitute. C’est moi. Now you have your answer. You may leave.’
‘The king’s daughter would like to meet you.’ A lie, but one that would explain her presence.
‘She takes a lively interest in her father’s prisoners.’
Only the handsome ones, Cecily thought, but held her tongue and turned, praying he would follow.
He did.
Lady Isabella suppressed a smile as they approached and Cecily could only hope she would be spared the humiliation of being teased for returning with the man she had sworn to snub. ‘The Chevalier Marc de Marcel, my lady. He has come only recently.’
His bow to the king’s daughter showed little more deference than the one he had made to Cecily. ‘May a hostage be presented to his captor, my lady?’
An edge to his words. As if they had two meanings. Well, Isabella would enjoy that. Her lady was always ready for laughter, and if it held a suggestive edge, all the better. All for show, of course. A princess, and a countess, must live above reproach. Still, Isabella’s light talk and her constant stream of diversions had kept Cecily from being devoured by despair.
But strangely, the man was not looking at Isabella. He was looking at Cecily.
‘Yes,’ Isabella said, drawing his eyes to her. ‘In fact, it is required. And your friend...’ she inclined her head, regally, in the direction of the other knight, who had reappeared in the hall ‘...has not yet been presented. And he, I believe, has been in England much longer than you have.’
As if he had heard her request, the dark one approached. As if he had expected this. As if this was what the two of them had been planning when they put their heads together.
And when he arrived before the king’s daughter, he did not wait for permissions or introductions. ‘Enguerrand, Lord de Coucy.’ No explanation. As if his name and title were enough.
Well, they were. The de Coucy family was well known, even on this side of the Channel. Once, the family had even held lands here.
Silent, Isabella inclined her head to acknowledge him. She did not need to tell him who she was. Everyone knew she was the king’s oldest, and favourite, daughter.
The minstrels’ horns signalled the beginning of a new dance. Isabella rose and held out her hand to de Coucy, forcing him to lead her to the floor. He did not look reluctant.
Cecily searched the room, hoping for rescue. She should join the dance with a partner who might become a husband, not with a hostage.
And the hostage did not offer his hand.
Well, then, if she were trapped, she would attempt to be gracious. She pursed her lips. ‘You are from the Oise Valley?’
A frown, as if the reminder of home had angered him. ‘Yes.’
‘And do they dance there?’
‘On occasion. When les goddams give us a pause from battle.’
She blinked. ‘The what?’
He smiled. ‘It is what we call the Anglais.’
‘Why?’ Did they wish to curse the English with every name?
‘Because every sentence they utter contains the phrase.’
She stifled a smile. Her father, indeed, had been known to swear on occasion. She could imagine that he would have had many more occasions in the midst of battle.
But she held out her hand, as imperious as the princess could be. ‘If you can dance, then show me.’
‘Is this part of a hostage’s punishment?’
‘No,’ she retorted. ‘It is one of his privileges.’
‘Then, pray, demoiselle, tell me your name, so I may know my partner.’
He shamed her with the reminder. Anger had stolen all her senses. She was acting like a common serving girl. ‘Lady Cecily, Countess of Losford.’
The surprise on his face was gratifying. He looked at her uncovered hair and then glanced behind her, as if expecting an earl to be hovering close behind.
‘I hold the title.’ Both a matter of pride and sadness. She held it because the rest of her family was gone. Held it in trust for a husband she did not yet know.
His nod was curt, yet he held out a hand, without hesitation now, as if that had been his intention from the first.
Surprise, or something deeper, unfamiliar, stirred when she put her fingers in his. She had expected his hands to be soft, as so many of the knights’ had become now that war was over. Instead, his palm was calloused; his knuckles scraped. Wounds from today’s joust, she thought at first, but in the passing torchlight, she saw he carried scars of long standing.
They joined the carol circle. On the other side, de Coucy and Isabella smiled and whispered to each other as if the evening had been prepared for their amusement. That man showed not a whit of resentment at his captivity, while beside her, de Marcel glowered, stubbornly silent as the music began.
They could not have been more unlike, these two.
Carol dancing, with its ever-moving ring of dancers holding hands, did not lend itself to talk. And he moved as he spoke, with precision, without excess, doing only what was necessary.
She wondered whether this man enjoyed anything at all.
Certainly he did not enjoy her. When the dance was done, he dropped her hand quickly and she let go a breath, suddenly realising how tense she had been at his touch.
He stood, silent, looking around the Hall as if searching for an escape. And yet this hostage, this enemy could, if he wanted, lift a goblet of the king’s good wine, fill his belly with the king’s meat and his ears with sweet music played by the king’s minstrels, all the while alive and comfortable while her father lay dead in his grave.
‘What did you do,’ she asked, ‘to earn the honour of substituting for the other hostage?’
‘Honour?’
‘You were defeated in battle, you killed my...countrymen, yet the king welcomes you to his court where you have food and wine aplenty and nothing to do. It seems a generous punishment for defeat.’
‘A