Blythe Gifford - Whispers At Court

You are cordially invited to Blythe Gifford’s

Royal Weddings

A hint of scandal this way comes!

Anne of Stamford and Lady Cecily serve two of the highest ladies in the land. And with their close proximity to the royal family they are privy to some of the greatest scandals the royal court has ever known!

As Anne and Cecily’s worlds threaten to come crashing down two men enter their lives—dashing, gorgeous, and bringing with them more danger than ever before. Suddenly these two strong women must face a new challenge: resisting the power of seduction!

Follow Anne of Stamford’s story in

Secrets at Court Already available

And read Cecily, Countess of Losford’s story in

Whispers at Court June 2015

AUTHOR NOTE

Historically, for most children of royal birth, the course of true love not only ‘never did run smooth’, it was not expected to run at all. A royal wedding was typically more like the signing of a treaty than a celebration of love.

But King Edward III, who ruled England for most of the fourteenth century, had a soft spot in his heart for his oldest daughter. And her romance with a French prisoner of war—or hostage—is one of the most astonishing love stories of the medieval era.

Today, the very word ‘hostage’ brings shivers of fear. But during the medieval war between England and France an elaborate set of rules—both economic and chivalric—guided the taking of prisoners in battle. A hostage was held until a ransom was paid, but he was treated according to his noble station and expected to conduct himself accordingly. In return, some of the French knights held in the court of the English King were entertained (dare I say?) ‘royally’.

Cecily, Countess of Losford, has no sympathy for the French hostages—men she blames for her father’s death—and she disapproves of the Princess’s flirtation with one of them. In an effort to stop ‘whispers at Court’, she forms an unlikely alliance with Marc de Marcel, a French hostage who learned long ago that for too many of his fellows, ‘honour’ is no more than a word. As Cecily and Marc try to keep the English Princess and the French Lord apart the two of them become dangerously close—until finally each must choose between the demands of honour and the desires of the heart.

Whispers at Court

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORDstarted writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years later she became an overnight success when she sold her RWA Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Mills & Boon. Her books, set primarily in medieval England or early Tudor Scotland, usually feature a direct connection to historical royalty.

She loves to have visitors at blythegifford.com, ‘likes’ at facebook.com/BlytheGiffordand Tweets at twitter.com/BlytheGifford

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For my readers, with all my thanks.

A special wave to the Chicago Divas,

who happily listened to me whine, and to Keena Kincaid,

Terri Brisbin, Amanda Berry, Robin Owens and Kim Law, whose brainstorming triggered a solution.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Author’s Afterword

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Smithfield, 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.