Читать книгу Whispers At Court - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 11

Chapter Three

‘Marc! Ecoute! I have news!’

Marc weighed the last bunch of faggots he was holding in his hand and momentarily thought of heaving it at Enguerrand’s head instead of into the dwindling fire.

For the last week, his friend had talked of nothing but the progress of his campaign to convince the princess to support the restoration of the de Coucy lands in England. Marc was now counting the days until Enguerrand would set off for Windsor and leave him in peace. ‘Spare me, my friend. I have heard all I care to.’

‘No. You have not heard this.’

The tone of voice, the shock on Enguerrand’s face—no, this was something different. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘King Jean. He comes to England encore.’

Marc shook his head, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’

His friend slumped on the bench at Marc’s side, staring into the flames. ‘The king. He will cross the Channel and deliver himself back into King Edward’s hands until the ransom has been paid.’

‘Why?’

‘To redeem the honour his son defiled.’

Marc shook his head. Honour, and the treaties negotiated after Poitiers, dictated that the king remain a hostage until the ransom of three million crowns was paid. The amount was more than double the yearly income of the entire country, or so the whispers said.

There had been negotiations, many of them, before Marc had even come to England. Finally, the king was allowed to return to France to help raise the ransom, but four dukes of France, including two of King Jean’s sons, had been forced to come in his stead.

Marc himself had questioned the honour of the Duke d’Anjou when the man ran home to his wife, but for the king to surrender to the enemy again? It was folly. There was no reason for it.

None but honour.

Ah, yes. Here was the king Marc had seen on the field at Poitiers, fighting even when the rest had fled. ‘It is like him.’ One man, at least. One man upheld honour, still.

‘King Jean sent these words to King Edward,’ Enguerrand said. ‘“That were good faith and honour banished from the rest of the world, such virtues ought still to find their place on the lips and in the breasts of princes.”’

Good faith. Honour. The things that made a hostage’s imprisonment a sacred duty. For they were held captive not for the ransom alone, but for a promise made, one knight to another.

And with that thought came the larger realisation. Lord de Coucy, one of the most eminent lords of the land, was one of the forty royal and noble hostages held surety for the king himself. If the king returned to England, even if part of the ransom remained unpaid...

‘This will mean you can go home.’ Marc felt envy’s bite. England would be a colder place without Enguerrand.

His friend nodded, silent, his face a mix of perplexity and wonder. ‘Yes. Home.’

Marc stifled a moment’s envy. He had known no other home but de Coucy’s.

‘Was there any word about the rest of us?’ Marc was not one of the treaty hostages, but a poor and partial substitute for the Compte d’Oise, taken captive by another English knight who had sold his interest in the ransom to the king, a man better equipped to wait years for full payment.

Enguerrand shook his head. ‘Only the king.’

But the king had proven that honour must rule all things. Marc had brought partial payment for the count’s ransom with him. His presence here was to ensure the Count would pay the rest. By Easter, the man had promised. At the latest.

Until now, uncertain, restless, Marc had thought of escape, perhaps during the lax days of Christmas when the king’s own son had disappeared. But with this news, his doubts and plans seemed shameful. He could not dishonour his own vow and have the king, the one shining example of chivalry he knew, arrive to hear the name of Marc de Marcel covered in shame.

‘When does he come?’

‘He celebrates Christmas in Paris, then crosses the Channel.’

So King Jean would be here at the end of the year. Surely, the honour of the Compte d’Oise would match his king’s. Surely he would send the remainder of his ransom with the king’s party. Or return himself, as his sovereign had. It did not matter which. Marc would be free.

Enguerrand rose and headed for the door. ‘So soon. There is much to do to prepare.’

Marc threw the faggot into the fire, shivering. He was beginning to regret having turned down the opportunity to go to Windsor. It was going to be a long, cold, Noël.

* * *

‘I shall need a new dress,’ Isabella said. ‘To greet King Jean.’

‘Do you think he remembers the one he last saw you wear?’ Cecily smiled, wishing that Anne of Stamford were still at court. Despite their differences in station, they had exchanged knowing smiles when the princess and the Countess of Kent had engaged in wars of the wardrobe.

She wondered what had happened to Anne. The last Cecily had heard, Anne had retired to a small priory. Probably for the best. Life was difficult for a lame girl.

‘The fashion has changed since then,’ Isabella said, ‘as well you know. And there isn’t much time to organise a royal welcome.’

Cecily’s familiar resentment boiled. ‘For a hostage?’

‘For a king,’ Isabella said, spine straight with all the shared solidarity of royalty.

A good reminder. Though the king’s daughter might sometimes seem frivolous and volage, she, like Cecily, would never forget her position and her duty.

‘I spoke to Enguerrand,’ Isabella said, ‘and he thinks that the king will want to go to Canterbury first, before he comes to court. So we decided...’

Enguerrand. We. ‘We?’

‘Enguerrand and I. Since he will be at Windsor I asked him to help arrange a proper royal welcome.’

Wrong to hear the princess sharing decisions with anyone, worst of all with a hostage. She was royal and unmarried. The only people who could gainsay her were the King and Queen of England. ‘Can we not plan a king’s welcome without the help of a hostage?’ It was one thing to invite him and de Marcel to Christmas at Windsor. It was quite another to allow him to plan a royal ceremony.

‘He is Lord de Coucy,’ the princess said, in her stern, royal tone. ‘He deserves the treatment accorded his station.’

As, yes, even among hostages, rank mattered. De Coucy was one of the greatest lords of France. Of course he would not be treated as if he were no more than a simple chevalier.

He would not be treated as though he were Marc de Marcel.

And yet...

‘But are you not concerned that such access might become...?’ She dared not insult the princess again. ‘That it might raise his hopes?’

‘Hopes of what?’ Said with a raised eyebrow.

Cecily blushed. It was his lust that must not be raised. Men aroused were hard to control. And so were women. Or so her mother had told her. ‘What I mean is, if you spend too much time together, might he not become too bold?’

A wave of dismissal. ‘Have no fear. Enguerrand is as chivalrous as a knight can be.’

De Marcel had proven that chivalry was in short supply among the French. Such a man might not stop at a bow or a dance. Or a kiss. ‘Still, to treat him as you would an Englishman does not seem...wise.’

Isabella answered with a merry laugh. ‘It is the Yuletide season. Why should one be wise?’

To prevent disaster.

Isabella was extravagant and headstrong, and her dalliances had been many, but, as far as Cecily knew, 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 too long as it was. Stepping closer, she raised her eyes and lowered her voice. A command would not sway this man. A plea might. ‘Please. Say you’ll come. To help your friend.’

Regret flashed across his face. Ah, so friendship was something he understood. Something that meant something.

He sighed. ‘You are as relentless as some of the knights I faced on the field.’

A strange compliment to give a woman. And yet, a glow of pride touched her. Only because he complimented her countrymen. Not because he approved of her.

‘And what,’ he asked, in a tone devoid of approval, ‘do I gain from this bargain?’

He did not pull away. Worse, he moved closer.

She refused to step back, refused to look down, but his very gaze seemed an assault. All the risk of this course shimmered between them. In helping Isabella, she might jeopardise herself at a time when all would be watching her, waiting to see the man the king would choose.

‘You gain the satisfaction of saving your friend from disaster!’ Now she could put distance between them. Now she could breathe again. ‘Is that not enough?’ If it were not, she was at a loss, for she could think of nothing she could offer this man except what she must not give.

He took a step closer and again something—desire—emanated in a wave, washing through her, hot and sweet. Oh, if Isabella felt this for de Coucy, they were all doomed.

‘No, Countess. It is not enough. I live as your prisoner and now you want me to dance like your puppet?’

His anger broke the spell. Relieved, she could match it with her own. Anger was permitted to a countess. Fear was not. ‘I am helping you to accomplish something you also want and cannot get alone. Do not expect too many mercis!’

‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that if I do this, you will help me return to France.’

She was glad she had not faced this man when he carried a sword in battle. ‘How can I do that? Treaties and ransoms are in the hands of the king.’

‘When the time comes, I will tell you.’

What could that mean? She was promising to do...she didn’t even know. But that was in some distant future. The celebrations at Windsor were an immediate threat. ‘When the time comes, then, I will do my best.’ Not exactly a promise.

He stared, silent, as if trying to read her face.

Did he believe her? Should he?

‘Even our kings have called a truce,’ she said. ‘Can’t we?’

She refrained from saying it was a truce only because her king had bested his. And yet, Jean, not Edward, was King of France. The thought gave her pause.

‘D’accord,’ he said, finally, as if they had shaken hands on a battle plan.

It was as close to a truce as they would get.

But as she called the guards and they led him away, she wondered what she had promised. To help him return to France? But that, after all, was the ideal solution. Send both men back, and quickly. Yet by treaty, a hostage returned home when his ransom was paid or a substitute sent. She could not change that. There was no other way.

Except the dishonourable path the French king’s son had taken.

Tucking her hands inside her fur-lined surcoat, she gritted her teeth against the chill. Surely de Marcel did not expect her to help him escape.

She would see him freeze in hell first.

* * *

‘So I will come to Windsor after all,’ Marc told Enguerrand that evening as they sat across the chessboard before a dying fire.

His friend looked up, brows lifted. ‘I’m not sure which surprises me more. That you changed your mind or that you found a way to change your refusal.’

Marc shrugged and pushed his pawn to the next square.

‘You can’t just say that without telling me more,’ Enguerrand said, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘I know the Lady Isabella did not press you to come.’

He knew, Marc thought, much too much about the Lady Isabella and her plans. ‘No. But her friend the countess did.’

‘The countess? I did not think you impressed her so highly the other night.’

‘I didn’t. But you did.’

‘Moi?’

‘She is worried that you have developed a tendresse for the Lady Isabella.’ He watched for Enguerrand’s reaction, for any hint that the Lady Cecily might be right.

‘Ah, then my plan is working.’

‘Working well enough that she fears the Lady Isabella might not be safe in your company.’

‘Safe? From de Coucy?’ The shocked look was undercut by his wink. ‘How can she worry?’

How indeed? But Marc had not realised until today how serious this was to the Lady Cecily. Here was a woman as loyal to her friend as he. ‘She is worried enough that she begged me to come to Windsor and help her keep you and the princess apart.’

And now, a wicked grin. ‘Which is exactly what you will do, mon ami, bien sûr.’

They shared a smile that held the trust of years. A smile which meant Marc would do no such thing. He was glad to help his friend, and yet... ‘You know that I am no good at subterfuge. I may do you more harm than good.’

‘You will do me a great deal of good just by keeping the Lady Cecily entertained.’

Marc groaned. ‘How do I do that? I have no more use for the woman than she for me.’

‘You’ll find a way. Just don’t let her know I seek Lady Isabella’s influence, not her virtue. I can do the rest. Once I get my lands back, the countess will find all her worries disappear.’

His own, Marc was certain, had just begun.