- -
- 100%
- +
The man was standing comfortably beside his blond friend before one of the hearths, halfway down the hall, as if they were lounging in their own hall instead of the king’s.
‘It is time we met,’ the princess said. ‘Go. Bring him to me. I would congratulate him on today’s joust.’
‘I refuse to speak to that man,’ she said, thinking of the blond one. What was his name? Somehow in the noise and chatter of the tournament, neither she nor Isabella had heard either of the knights announced. ‘After the way he treated Gilbert...’
Isabella twisted her mouth.
Cecily’s frown twitched.
And then, they both gave in to laughter. ‘Poor Gilbert.’
After initially appearing uninjured, Gilbert had developed blossoming bruises and left the hall early, limping. At least Cecily would be spared the need to feign an interest in a detailed account of his embarrassing performance.
‘Send one of the other ladies,’ she said, after she stopped laughing. ‘Or a page.’ That would be a proper insult to the man.
Isabella shook her head. ‘Speak to the man or snub him as you choose. Just bring me his friend.’
Sighing, Cecily stepped off the dais and started down the Hall. And as she made her way through the crowd, her resentment grew. She lived in England, under an English king and in an English court, yet French music surrounded her. When she danced, French steps guided her feet. Even the words on her tongue were French. No wonder the hostages looked so comfortable. But for sleeping on this side of the Channel, they might as well be at home.
Isabella was right. They shared culture, language and even, in some cases, blood. Yet all that had not been enough to keep them from killing each other.
Just as she reached the two men, the dark one slipped away. She paused, thinking to escape, but she had moved with too much purpose. The fair-haired knight looked up and met her gaze.
Now, she could not turn aside.
He leaned against the wall, seemingly at ease, but when she came closer, she could see that despite the sweet music and laughter all around him, he seemed coiled and ready for battle.
Cecily paused, waiting for him to acknowledge her and bow. Instead, he looked down at her, silent.
‘It is customary,’ she began, through gritted teeth, ‘for a knight to acknowledge a lady.’
He shrugged.
Could nothing stir this quiet barbarian? ‘I am attached to the royal household.’
‘So am I to bow not only to the English royals, but also to those who serve them?’
‘I am no serving girl,’ she snapped at the demeaning 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 prison with tapestries is no less a prison.’
‘But you are safe. You may do as you please.’
‘And if it please me to go home?’
And yet her father would come home no more. ‘You must pay some penalty. We conquered you!’
As the words escaped, she saw his expression change.
‘No! Not conquered. Never conquered. We were betrayed by cowards. Lord de Coucy and I were not among them. We would have fought until the last goddam was dead.’
This time, it was a curse he hurled.
‘So you hate the English,’ she said. Blunt words, but he was a blunt man.
‘As much as you the French,’ he answered.
‘I doubt that,’ she said, sheer will keeping her voice steady. ‘But since you detest us and disdain the king’s hospitality, I hope your time here will be short.’
He bowed then, the gesture a mockery. ‘In that, my lady, we are in accord.’
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 shook her head. ‘Think of him no more.’ She certainly wouldn’t.
* * *
In the coming days, as the tournament celebrations ended, the hostages were returned to their quarters and preparations began for the court to move to Windsor for the Christmas season.
Cecily put the rude Frenchman out of her thoughts.
Well, perhaps she thought of him once or twice, but only because Gilbert replayed the entire joust in great detail every time she saw him, each time suggesting what he might do differently, should he ever face de Marcel again.
And if she, once or twice, replayed her own private joust with the man, it was only to scold herself, as her mother would have done, for losing her temper and her dignity. She would not see him again, of course, but she vowed to maintain her calm the next time she was confronted with any of the hostages.
A week later, as she watched the tailor unpack Isabella’s Christmas gown, she had more immediate concerns.
Although her family had spent Christmas with the court for as long as she could remember, her mother had always been the one to make the plans. Cecily had helped, of course, but now the season loomed before her, only three weeks away.
She must make the preparations, alone. She must demonstrate that she was not only an eligible heiress but would 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.’