Chapter Two

      Marc watched the countess walk away, his eyes lingering on her swaying hips longer than he intended.

      De Coucy, relieved of his attendance on the king’s daughter, rejoined him and followed his gaze. ‘Ah, she is lovely, is she not, le belle dame de Losford? The way her head balances on her slender neck, that cloud of dark hair...’ His voice trailed off to delights unseen.

      Marc had a momentary vision of sweeping the woman into his arms for a kiss, erasing the frown that turned her lips when she’d looked his way, even before they had met.

      She would think even less of his honour then. Of course, if she knew all he had done, and all he was willing to do, she would think nothing of it at all.

      Marc forced his gaze away from Lady Cecily’s retreating form and shrugged. ‘I’ve no interest in les goddams, men or women.’ Yet he lied. The countess, by turns ice and fire—he had an interest in her. An interest of the wrong kind.

      Enguerrand shook his head. ‘Your voice would curdle milk, mon ami.’

      ‘How can you stomach this?’ Yes, the English king was hospitable, and their detention truly a prison courtoise as Lady Cecily implied, created by a shared sense of honour that required a hostage to submit, according to the rules of chivalry, rules which all pretended to follow.

      Yet Marc resented the disguise.

      His friend looked puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

      Marc sighed. It was a question too large. ‘How can you be so gracious to your captors?’ De Coucy had been here for three years. Perhaps he had become accustomed to it.

      ‘Better to get along with all men when you can.’

      ‘And women, too?’

      ‘Bien sûr. Avec les femmes most of all.’ His friend laughed.

      So easy for de Coucy to do as he was expected, to cloak his warrior’s sins with the charm of a courtier. And so hard for Marc, though that was the way of the world. Chivalry said one thing. Chivalrous men did something different and all the while, the code winked and smiled.

      Enguerrand lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes, a more subtle assault can obtain the objective when a frontal attack cannot.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      Now Marc saw the smile with a plan behind it. ‘If I...befriend the Lady Isabella, she might persuade her father to restore my lands, n’est-ce pas?’

      He had heard Enguerrand speak of the English lands, soil he had never seen in places with strange names like Cumberland and Westmorland. Northerly lands, near to Scotland, where a de Coucy great-grandmother had gone as a bride. The holdings had been forfeited to the English crown years before.

      ‘Why would King Edward relinquish holdings to a hostage?’

      A shrug and a smile. ‘How do I know if I do not try? In the meantime, the months grow long. I’ve been told the princess creates gay entertainments for those of her circle. Better that we enjoy more nights such as this than moulder in the draughty tower, eh?’

      Ah, that was his friend, still viewing himself as a guest instead of a prisoner. ‘I want to spend no more time with the court.’

      ‘Not even with the lovely countess?’

      ‘Particularly not with her.’ Yet, unbidden, he searched the room, catching sight of her purple gown, and let his gaze linger. She had stirred a dangerous mix of anger and desire. One to be avoided.

      He turned his back on the hall. ‘You do not need me for this campaign.’

      ‘Not tonight, mon ami. But soon, there will come a time. And when I do...?’ A raised eyebrow. Waiting.

      Duty. Honour. Little more than empty words. But loyalty? A man was nothing without that. ‘When you do, you need only ask.’

      ‘Now come.’ Enguerrand rested a hand on Marc’s shoulder and turned him towards the crowded hall. ‘Sing. Dance. Make merry. Make friends.’

      ‘I leave that to you, mon ami.’

      With a wave and a laugh, Enguerrand left to do just that. He moved through the Hall with a nod and a smile, as gracious as if he were at home in the Château de Coucy.

      And why should he not? De Coucy and the other French hostages all lived in certainty that some day, the ransom would be raised, money exchanged and they would go back to a castle very much like this one to sing and dance.

      He did not.

      The Compte d’Oise had promised to return, or send the ransom, or send a substitute, by Easter. Marc would have to stay in Angleterre only six months. Less if the Count could make arrangements more quickly.

      But in retrospect, replaying the conversation, the man had not met his eyes when he described his promises and plans. Options and timing had been vague.

      So why had he come? Why had he chosen to put himself in enemy hands? The debt of fealty. The chance to see his old friend, who had been held by the English for three years.

      His own foolish attempt at honour?

      But tonight, the only person in the hall whose bitterness seemed to match his own was the Countess of Losford.

      * * *

      Gilbert, Cecily was pleased to see, had rallied by the next day, walking stiffly, but all of a piece. Feeling guilty for her laughter with Isabella, she approached him after the morning mass, but he refused to meet her eyes.

      ‘I am sorry I did not uphold the honour you bestowed on me,’ he said, as they walked from the Abbey back to the Palace. His head held slightly down, a shock of brown hair almost in his eyes, he looked as young as a squire, though he was two years older than she.

      And yet, in making that hard admission, he took a step towards being a man, a man who regretted not his own humiliation, but that he had disappointed her.

      ‘The fault was not yours, but de Marcel’s,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a violation of the rules of the tournament.’

      Uneasy, she refrained from telling him she had danced with the man the previous evening. His hand on hers had been rough, but sure. Implacable.

      The warmth of the memory touched her cheeks and she searched for the dignity of her title.

      Gilbert, fighting his own disappointment, did not notice. ‘I was ill prepared. A good lesson.’

      ‘Are you not angry?’ She was. Easier, better, to channel sorrow into anger. Anger had righteous power. Grief was an open wound.

      ‘At myself,’ he said. A hard confession. ‘I will do better next time.’

      She