Читать книгу Whispers At Court - Blythe Gifford - Страница 10
ОглавлениеSmithfield, London—November 11, 1363
Mon Dieu, this island is cold.
Frigid English wind whipped Marc de Marcel’s hair from his forehead, then slithered beneath the chainmail circling his neck. He peered at the knights at the other end of the field, wondering which would be his opponent and which would face his fellow Frenchman.
Well, it mattered not. ‘One pass,’ he muttered, ‘and I’ll unhorse either one.’
‘The code of chivalry calls for three runs with the lance,’ Lord de Coucy said, ‘followed by three blows with the sword. Only then can a winner be declared.’
Marc sighed. It was a shame that jousts had become such tame affairs. He would have welcomed the opportunity to kill another goddam Anglais. ‘A waste of the horse’s strength. And mine.’
‘Best not offend someone when you are at their mercy, mon ami. Cooperation with our captors will make our time here much more tolerable.’
‘We are hostages. Nothing can make that tolerable.’
‘Ah, the ladies can.’ De Coucy nodded towards the stands. ‘They are très jolie.’
He glanced at them. Women stretched to King Edward’s right, near impossible to distinguish. The queen must be the one gowned in ermine-trimmed purple, but the rest were a blur of matching tan and violet.
Except for one. Her dark hair was graced with a gold circlet and she glared in his direction of the field with crossed arms and a frown. Even at this distance, he could read a loathing that matched his own, as if she despised them all.
Well, the feeling was mutual.
He shrugged. Les femmes Anglaise were not his concern. Two visiting kings sat beside the English Edward today, overlooking the tournament field. ‘It is les rois I would impress, not the ladies.’
‘Ah, a chevalier always strives to impress the ladies,’ his dark-haired friend said, with a smile. ‘It is the best way to impress their men.’
It amazed him, this ability the younger man, Enguerrand, Lord de Coucy, had to cut down a foe with an axe one day and warble a chanson with the ladies the next. Marc had taught him much of the first and nothing of the second.
‘How do you do it?’ Marc asked. ‘How do you nod and smile at your captors?’
‘To uphold the honour of French chivalry, mon ami.’
What he meant was to preserve the pretence that Christian knights lived their lives according to the principles of chivalry.
And that, as Marc well knew, was a lie.
Men spoke allegiance to the code, then did as they pleased.
‘French honour died at Poitiers.’ Poitiers, when cowardly French commanders, even the king’s oldest son, had fled the field, leaving the king to fight alone.
Enguerrand shook his head. ‘We do not fight that war today.’
But Marc did. He fought it still, though the battles were over and the truce had been signed. He was a hostage of les Anglais, trapped in this frozen, foreign place, and resentment near strangled him.
The herald interrupted his thoughts to give them their order and their opponents. De Coucy would ride first, against the larger, brutish man. A foe worth fighting, at least.
The one left to him? No more than a boy. One he might kill by accident if he were not careful.
How careful did he feel today?
* * *
By the saints it is cold.
Shivering, Lady Cecily, Countess of Losford, saw her breath turn to fog in the frigid air as she gazed over the frozen tournament field. Red, blue, gold, silver—colour ran rampant before her eyes—decorating flags and banners, spilling across surcoats that shielded armour and draped the horses. A splendid display for visiting royalty. And King Edward, third of that name, reigned over it all, triumphant after his victory in France.
She lifted her chin, struggling to keep her countenance worthy of her rank.
It is your duty.
Her parents’ words, their voices alive only in her memory now.
‘Is that not so, Cecily?’
She turned to the king’s daughter, Isabella, and wondered what she had missed. Six other ladies also attended the princess and, sometimes, Cecily’s attention strayed. ‘I’m certain you are right, my lady.’ That was always a good answer.
‘Really?’ The princess smiled. ‘I thought you did not care for the French.’
She sighed. Isabella loved to tease her when her thoughts wandered. ‘I’m afraid I was not listening.’
‘I said the Frenchman looks fierce.’
Lady Cecily followed her gaze. At the far end of the field, two Frenchmen had mounted their destriers, but not yet donned their helmets. One of them, a knight she had not seen before, was tall, sharp and blond. Like a leopard. A beast who could kill in a single leap.
‘He is handsome, is he not?’
Cecily frowned, ashamed that Lady Isabella had caught her staring at a French hostage. ‘I do not care for fair-haired men.’
Her lady did not bother to hide her smile. ‘I meant the dark one.’
Ah, the one she had barely looked at. Yet it did not matter which the princess meant. Cecily despised them both. Despite the conventions of chivalry, she could not understand why the king allowed the French hostages to take to the tournament field. They were, after all, little better than prisoners and should be denied such privileges. ‘Both of them will be handsomer when they are unhorsed and covered in mud.’
That sent Isabella and the other ladies into peals of laughter until a frown from Queen Philippa forced them to stifle their mirth.
Cecily smiled, relieved she had saved the moment with a jest. Yet she had been deadly serious. In fact, it was a shame that the joust had become so tame and ceremonial. She would not have minded seeing a bit of French blood spilled.
‘I wonder,’ the princess said, ‘which one rides against Gilbert?’
Cecily looked to the other end of the field where Gilbert, now properly Sir Gilbert, sat tall and straight and hopeful on his horse. Her favour, a violet silk scarf, fluttered expectantly on his lance.
Opposite him, covered in chainmail and plate armour, the blond French knight on his battle-tested mount looked even more imposing. She was no expert at war, but the way he sat on the horse and held his lance bespoke a confidence, a sureness, that she could see through the armour. ‘I am certain,’ she said, not certain at all, ‘that Gilbert can unseat either man.’
Isabella flashed a sceptical expression. ‘Don’t be gooseish. This is Gilbert’s first tournament. He’ll be blessed if he doesn’t drop his lance. Why ever did you give him your favour?’
Cecily sighed. ‘He looked so forlorn.’
A quick frown deepened the lines between Isabella’s brows. ‘You are not thinking of him as a husband.’
‘Gilbert?’ Cecily laughed. ‘He is too much like a brother.’ He had come to her father as a young squire, just a couple of years older than she. And when the king selected her husband, he would not choose a lowly knight, but a man powerful, and trustworthy enough to hold the key to England.
But who?
Frowning, Cecily leaned closer to Isabella and whispered, ‘Has your father said anything more of my marriage?’
Since her father had died, Cecily had become a very eligible heiress. She was now near twenty and it was time, past time, that she and Losford Castle be delivered to a man of the king’s choosing.
The princess shook her head. ‘His royal guests have consumed his attention. The King of Cyprus, Jerusalem, and whatever else he styles himself is urging my father to go on Crusade.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘At his age! It is bad enough he plans to lead the final charge in the tournament today.’
At least he is alive to do so, Cecily wanted to say, but held her tongue.
‘Besides—’ Isabella squeezed Cecily’s cold fingers ‘—I don’t want you snatched away so soon.’
But it was not ‘soon’. It had been three years since her father had been cut down by the French. And the first annual death mass for her mother was barely two months away. The time to mourn was over. And yet...
She smiled at Isabella. ‘You just want a companion for your revels.’
Isabella was an astonishing thirty-one years old and unmarried, with an abundance of time and money for all the pleasures of the court.
‘You’ve been in mourning too long. You should enjoy yourself before you wed.’
Trumpets blared, signalling the next joust, and as the herald announced the rules for the single combat, Cecily could summon no joy. She frowned at the French chevaliers. God should not have let them live when her father had not.
* * *
De Coucy’s red, white and blue banner snapped briskly in the breeze. He smiled at Marc, eager to ride. ‘A glorious day! The king thinks to impress us! He is the one who will be impressed, n’est pas?’
Marc grinned. So many times, they had ridden side by side. Memories of successful battles quickened his blood. ‘Will you take him in one pass or two?’
Enguerrand put on his helm and lifted his mailed glove in a brief salute. And three fingers.
Marc laughed. Ever the perfect knight, de Coucy, unlike too many of his fellow Frenchmen.
Yet as his friend rode, Marc watched each move, as if his attention could ensure the outcome. He still looked on the younger man as a novice, though de Coucy had long ago assumed his title, his lands and his rightful place as a leader of men.
On the first pass, his friend’s lance hit the opponent’s shield squarely. On the second, he allowed his opponent a touch, but with a last-minute twist, made certain it was only a glancing blow, one that scored poorly.
Matchless skill, to fight so that the poor English knight might actually believe he had landed a blow.
Finally, on the third pass, Enguerrand returned with a perfectly placed hit and knocked the other man’s lance out of his grip and halfway across the field.
The squires rushed out to help them dismount and hand them their swords for the next phase of combat. Again, de Coucy made the contest look like an intricate dance. The first blow clean, but leaving his opponent standing. The second, he took himself, yet in such a way that it was inconsequential. With the third, he knocked his opponent’s sword out of his hand, forcing him to concede the match.
Cheers rose from the stands, approval more generous than Marc had expected from their captors.
De Coucy strode back, helmet off, smile on. Three passes he had declared. Three it had been.
‘Well done, my friend,’ Marc said. ‘Although that last blow was a little off.’
Enguerrand laughed. ‘Only if I had intended to kill him.’
Marc looked down the field at the young knight who would face him. Marc’s match, dwarfed by his armour, looked as if he had just earned his spurs.
‘They insult me, to make me fight a boy.’ At the other end of the field, a brave little purple scarf drooped from the knight’s lance. ‘You wanted me to impress the ladies. Do you think his lady will be impressed when her favour is trampled by the horses?’
‘Behave yourself, mon ami.’
Marc sighed. He was expected to fight as de Coucy did: well enough to bring honour on himself, his colleague and his country, but not so well as to harm the Anglais. That was what the code of chivalry said.
For a moment, he pondered taking pity on the young man. He had a few crumbs of chivalry left in his trencher. A very few.
He could ride the requisite three passes with a gentle touch and allow his opponent to leave the field with his pride intact.
But men said one thing and did another. They gave an oath of fealty, then deserted their posts at battle. They swore to protect women and then raped them instead.
They cared nothing for honour, only the pretence of it. Some days, it seemed as if life was only a giant disguising with everyone pretending to be what they were not.
He was tired of pretending.
Today he would protest the only way he had left. Not to kill the young man, no. But embarrass him? That, he could do. That, he would enjoy.
His destrier shifted beneath him, stamping cold, hard ground that did not yield. He looked to the side, the starter gave the sign and he kicked his horse to ride.
* * *
Cecily refused to applaud the first Frenchman’s victory until Isabella nudged her in the ribs. ‘The dark-haired Frenchman fought masterfully, don’t you think?’
Forced into clapping, she did so without enthusiasm. ‘How can you say anything good about a Frenchman?’
‘You talk as if he were an infidel. You forget my father’s French blood.’
Yes, it was French blood flowing through the royal veins that had entitled King Edward to claim the throne of France. Cecily felt no such tie. Men like these, perhaps even these men, had killed her father. And then after his death had come her mother’s...
She sighed, chastened by Isabella, and gazed back out on the field. With a helmet covering his face, the blond warrior in the blue-and-gold surcoat looked even more threatening, as if he were not human at all. She could only hope he would not wound Gilbert. Of course, this was not war. No one died in a tournament.
At least, not very often.
The herald gave the sign, she sent up a prayer for Gilbert’s safety and braced for another drawn-out contest with lance and sword.
The horses charged, hooves pounding the turf, blue and gold galloping towards green and white. Atop his horse, Gilbert sat off-centre, unsteady, while the Frenchman rode as solid and immovable as Windsor’s walls. She held her breath, as if that would make a difference. They were going too fast, what if the Frenchman really—?
Lances clattered on steel. Something flew across the field. A lance tip? A glove? Gilbert’s horse reared.
Then, Gilbert lay flat on his back, his green-and-white surcoat covering the earth like spring grass.
She jumped to her feet. Was he wounded? Or worse? Not another loss, please...
The Frenchman backed his horse away, so the beast would not accidentally trample the boy. As Gilbert’s squire scampered on to the field, Gilbert sat up unaided and removed his helmet. Without the protection of his armour, shadowed by the man towering over him on the horse, he looked as young and thin and untried as he was.
But, thank God, unhurt.
Isabella arched her brows. ‘I fear your scarf is a lost cause.’
‘It was hardly a fair match. And since it was not, the French knight should have been chivalrous enough to spare the boy.’
‘I don’t think that one cares for courtesies. His friend, however...’
And as Isabella spoke, the French knight, the warrior Cecily had wanted to see toppled, turned his horse and left the field.
This time, there was no applause.
Westminster Palace—that night
Cecily scanned the cavernous Hall of Westminster Palace from the edge of the dais as servants bearing flambeaux wandered among the crowd. Torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the faces, and she studied each one, searching for her future.
Would the tall earl from the West Country be chosen as her husband? Or perhaps the stout baron from Sussex who had recently buried his wife?
Yet French hostages dotted the crowd as well, marring her mood. She was not inclined to feign politeness to more of her father’s killers. At least, surely, the one who bested Gilbert would dare not show himself tonight.
Determined to impress the visiting kings with the full power and glory of his court, King Edward defied the darkness of the night. The high table was crowded with bronze candlesticks and dozens of twinkling flames.
Yet, for Cecily, memories lurked in the shadows. When her father was alive, he sat at the king’s table. When her mother was alive, they whispered their judgements of the ladies’ gowns. The scarlet that Lady Jane was wearing, her mother would have admired—
‘Cecily? Did you hear me?’
She leaned forward to catch Isabella’s whisper. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’
A frown creased Isabella’s face. ‘Attend. Father has had good news about Scotland. He’s in a bounteous mood and not as clear-headed as usual,’ Isabella whispered. ‘You may find yourself promised to the nearest available lord before the night is over.’
Cecily looked around the hall, steeling herself. ‘Has he mentioned anyone in particular?’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not to me.’
She did not know who she would marry, yet she knew he would be an Englishman, loyal and strong. A man the king could trust as implicitly as he had trusted her father, for Losford Castle, Guardian of the Channel, was the most important bulwark in all of England, the one that could keep England’s enemies away from her shores.
It could only go to a man for whom duty was all.
As it was for her.
She had grown up knowing this would be her lot, always. She was the only child of the Earl of Losford and sole holder of the lands and title. She would marry as her parents, and the king, decided.
‘Do you think about him?’ Isabella’s question brought her back.
‘I think about my father every day.’ Not that she had seen him every day while he lived. Like all men, he had spent much of his life at war in France.
‘I meant your husband. Who he might be.’
Strange question to come from a woman long unmarried. Yet Cecily’s father had not hurried her marriage, either. Even as she passed an age to be wed, her world had remained her parents, their castle and the court.
She’s not ready, her mother had whispered to her father.
But the death of her parents had rent her world so thoroughly that she wondered whether even a husband could make it whole again. ‘I think only that I will accept the king’s choice.’ As was her duty.
‘Well, Father demands that a man acquit himself well on the tournament field,’ Isabella said, ‘and he was more impressed with those hostages today than with any of our men.’
Resentment wrestled with relief. At least a hostage would not be a prospective husband. ‘The dark one I can understand,’ she admitted, grudgingly. ‘He conducted himself according to the rules of chivalry, but the fair-haired Frenchman was a disgrace.’
‘Perhaps, but Father said he would be a useful man to have on your side in the midst of a battle.’
A surprising admission, for a king who modelled himself and his court on the ideals of King Arthur’s Round Table.
‘Look,’ Isabella said. ‘Over there. There he is.’
‘Who?’ Relieved at Isabella’s wandering attention, Cecily followed her gaze. ‘Where?’
‘The French knight. The dark one. There by the fire.’
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.’
