Blythe Gifford - Whispers At Court

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.