Whispers At Court

Cecily blinked. The scandal surrounding the prince’s marriage must have made the queen more sensitive to behaviours at the court. ‘I assure you, Your Grace, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Yes, I know that you would do nothing that would disappoint your parents.’

Cecily stiffened. ‘Out of doubt!’ Surely the queen did not fear for her chastity. ‘No more than Isabella would disappoint you and the king.’

Queen Philippa’s smile was fleeting. ‘The king has been preoccupied with state matters, but he is now considering the question of your husband.’

‘I am ready, Your Grace, to wed the man of the king’s choosing.’ She donned a determined, hopeful face. And yet, her hopes were that the man would be one who, when he died from war, or illness, or accident, she could release without mourning.

She could face no more losses.

Queen Philippa studied her, silent. ‘What do you think,’ she said, finally, ‘of Lord de Coucy?’

Cecily considered the question with horror. Surely the king would not consider de Coucy, or any Frenchman, as her husband and custodian of the most important stronghold in the kingdom. Yet she must choose her words carefully, uncertain why the queen asked. ‘He seems skilled and chivalrous at the joust.’

Even if his friend did not.

The queen sighed. ‘Isabella has been urging Edward to restore his English lands.’

‘Should a Frenchman be given soil my father died to protect?’ Isabella had said nothing of this to her, perhaps because she knew Cecily would be aghast.

The queen put a hand on hers. ‘Sometimes, we must hide our feelings, my dear. Sometimes, we must even forgive.’

Ah, the queen, whose tender heart had spared more than one man who deserved her husband’s wrath. ‘Yes. Of course, Your Grace.’ Cecily renewed her vow to suppress her tears. But she would not forgive. Ever.

‘Cecily, I would like you to keep close company with Isabella this season.’

Ah, now it became clear. The queen’s true concern was not Cecily’s behaviour, but her own daughter’s.

Had Isabella’s folly become so obvious? If she were advocating for de Coucy to receive English lands, the situation was even worse than Cecily had feared. In that case, her desperate plea to de Marcel was justified.

‘I intend to, Your Grace.’ She smiled, as if casting off all care. ‘She is determined that I enjoy all the giddiness of the season before I marry.’

‘We have been selfish, I fear, keeping her close.’

‘She is glad of it. I know she is, Your Grace.’

‘Still, she is alone.’

There was no answer to that.

In the silence that followed, the queen seemed to be lost in thought. Perhaps she was thinking of the lost alliances, lost opportunities. If Isabella had married the King of Castile or the Count of Flanders or the King of Bohemia, perhaps King Edward would hold the French throne, as well as French gold.

But when next the queen spoke, the moment had passed. ‘Come. Let me show you the Rose Tower. The paintings are not yet complete, but it will be exquisite.’

She did not speak of Isabella again.

* * *

Yet later, as she left the queen, Cecily knew she had been right to be concerned. Now, she must not only protect Isabella from the Frenchman and her own foolishness, she must protect the queen from worrying about her daughter.

And more, she must ensure that de Coucy never was given sway over even an inch of English dirt.

Had Marc de Marcel been privy to this plan all along? Did he truly share her goal to keep the princess and de Coucy apart? Or was his real objective to undermine her efforts?

Determined to know, she searched the castle and found him, finally, talking to the keeper of the hunting dogs. A deep breath first, before she entered the kennel. Everything about the hunt seemed a cruel reminder of her mother’s death.

The boar charged your mother’s horse and she fell to the ground. It was all too fast. There was nothing we could do.

De Marcel rose when he saw her, and the huntsman bowed and backed away.

‘We must talk,’ she said, when they were alone with the hounds. ‘Your friend. De Coucy. He seeks control of English lands.’

His face turned dark and grim. ‘The lands belonged to his family. They are rightfully his.’

‘So you knew.’

‘It is no crime.’

‘Do you also think to gain by stealth what you could not earn in battle?’

‘I fought for my own country and king. I want no part of yours.’

‘And yet, you killed my father!’

But instead of the shame or guilt she had hoped to see on his face, there was only shock.

At her shout, the dogs started to bark and she flinched. The hounds must have bayed so, just before they found her mother.

Their keeper rushed in, quieting them with a few stern words. He threw a puzzled glance their way and she motioned de Marcel to follow her outside.

‘What did you mean?’ he said, when they stood just beyond the door. The walls sheltered them from the worst of the wind.

She cleared her throat, trying to swallow her fury and bring her voice back to its proper tone. ‘I said, you fought long enough to kill my father.’ It sounded absurd, to repeat such a thing.

‘The earl?’

She lifted her head, proud still to claim him. ‘His colours were gules and or. With three lozenges on the shield.’

He frowned, as if trying to remember, then shook his head. ‘I never met him in battle.’

How could he not understand? ‘He was killed by a Frenchman.’ He must have been, for he died in war.

‘From where? I am of the Oise Valley.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘The men of Bourgogne are different from the men of Picardy or Normandy.’

‘Not to me. He was killed by one of you.’

‘But not by me.’

What difference did that make? ‘You are French.’

‘And so, he claims, is your king. Your king who insisted on taking France from its rightful ruler!’ He shouted now, having caught her fury. ‘If you want to know who killed your father, look to him! To his greed! To his lust for power!’

‘I will not listen to such slander. You know nothing of the king.’

He must have heard himself shout, recognised his anger. He clenched his fists and his jaw and took a breath. But lost none of the intensity. ‘I do not need to know him. It is thus with all men. Kings, peasants. Even those who boast of chivalry. They are brutal and cruel and seek only for themselves.’

‘And are you the same?’

A stricken look on his face, and then the edge of yearning, as if he had glimpsed something he wanted and lost it. ‘Do not ever doubt it, Lady Cecily.’

She did not.

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