Whispers At Court. Blythe GiffordЧитать онлайн книгу.
the Lady Cecily had no desire to see him again. Why would the princess? ‘Pourquoi?’
De Coucy shrugged. ‘Perhaps she wants to be certain I am not isolé.’
Marc laughed. The thought of his gregarious friend being lonely was absurd. ‘You do not need me to press your cause with the Lady Isabella.’
‘It is no sin to find some joy in our captivity.’
Perhaps not, but the one joy Marc had found in England was the chance to be reunited with his long-time friend. Other men had wives and families. Marc had only Enguerrand. ‘If I did not know you so well, I would think you cared for nothing but pleasure.’ His friend was a man of extremes. Dancing or fighting, he would do both with all that was within him. And the time for fighting was over. For now.
‘And you do not care enough for pleasure.’
Marc had never been a man accustomed to soft comforts and pleasure seemed even more discordant in the face of defeat. To dance and sing seemed to imply that the deaths in battle had been only an illusion and that the dead would rise and join the carol ring. ‘I do not celebrate my enemy’s victory.’
‘No, you celebrate Noël. You will feast on English mutton and drink Gascon wine and, for a few weeks, they will pay the cost.’
It was the final insult. Every day he ate and drank in England would be added to the required ransom, as if he had to pay for the privilege of being held hostage. ‘Tempting, my friend, but English food sours my stomach.’
‘Would you rather sit in this cold tower and chew tough meat?’
With so many hostages to be housed, the city gates and the Abbey were full, so he and Enguerrand had been given quarters in the grim and impregnable Tower of London. And as the winter cold crept through the stones, the vision of Noël without even Enguerrand beside him seemed bleak.
But not bleak enough that he could force himself to smile with cheer at les goddams. To say yes would make him sound ungrateful. And yet... ‘Yes. I would.’
Enguerrand sighed, clearly exasperated. ‘The princess will be désolée.’
‘All the better for you to console her.’ He turned over and pulled the covers up. ‘Joyeux Noël, mon ami.’
There would be three masses on Christmas Day. He might even arise in time for one of them.
And if the guards decided to celebrate too heartily, perhaps a prisoner might roam the halls freely and unnoticed.
Perhaps, he might roam even further.
* * *
Cecily should have paused when she heard the soft laughter beyond Isabella’s door, but she was hurried and distracted and had important news, so she knocked and opened quickly, as she had so many times before, only to see Isabella standing close to Lord de Coucy.
Too close.
For a moment, they looked at her, guilt gilding the silence.
Cecily looked away and scanned the room. Alone. The two of them had been alone. Smiling, relaxed, and standing so close they could have—
She opened her mouth, but could summon no words.
‘Ah, the beautiful countess,’ de Coucy said, bowing so smoothly that before she blinked, he had moved a safe distance from the princess. ‘A reminder I have overstayed my welcome, my lady. The guards will wonder where I am.’
He took his leave with all the proper deference, then paused before Cecily with a knee bent slightly less deeply than the one for the princess. Another bow, a smile, an exit. As if nothing were wrong. As if a young, French hostage had every right to stand too close to the king’s daughter and whisper bon mots.
Cecily looked at Isabella, a hint of accusation in her gaze. To dance and laugh together in public, that was allowed. When the music and the wine flowed, many a couple kissed and embraced, a moment’s passion, but always in a place too public for true indiscretion.
But to be alone with a man opened up other dangers.
At least, that was what Cecily’s mother had told her.
In the silence, Isabella did not rebuke her or ask why she had come, but moved with the regal assurance of one whose behaviour was never questioned. ‘I’m afraid you will have to enjoy the season without your growling Frenchman,’ Isabella said, as the door closed behind de Coucy.
‘Pardon?’
‘Lord de Coucy came to tell me he would attend, but his friend won’t.’
‘Is he ill?’ The thought did not displease her.
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘He refused.’
Irrationally, Cecily felt a twinge of insult. No matter that she had not wanted him invited—no one refused the king. ‘How could he?’
‘No matter,’ Isabella said, without a touch of indignation. It had been only de Coucy the princess cared to see. ‘You’ll find someone much more pleasant to dally with for the Yuletide.’
Cecily made a non-committal humming sound. Isabella persisted in thinking male company was essential for enjoyment of the season. But Cecily must be mindful that prospective suitors were watching. She should not be seen laughing and smiling and standing too close to a captive chevalier.
Yet the insult of de Marcel’s refusal soured her mood, like wine kept too long in the air.
And then she remembered what had driven her here. ‘There is news. The King of France is returning to England.’
Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘My father’s message must have succeeded.’ She smiled. ‘It was quite pointed. Something about kings must have honour.’
‘Even if their sons do not?’ When King Jean had been allowed to return to France, several nobles were sent to England in his place, including two of his sons. After less than a year, one of the sons had escaped captivity and fled home to France.
So like a Frenchman, her father would have said. De Marcel, she was certain, was no better.
‘Did you hear when he would arrive? Will he be here in time for the Yule celebrations?’
Yet another Frenchman to entertain? Cecily stifled a groan. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘If so, we must entertain him according to his station. Lord de Coucy will be so pleased. Ah, what a Christmas this will be!’
De Coucy again. Cecily frowned as Isabella chattered on. Surely there was no cause to worry about the princess and the hostage.
But Cecily worried anyway.
‘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