Blythe Gifford – Whispers At Court (страница 7)
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
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
But not bleak enough that he could force himself to smile with cheer at
Enguerrand sighed, clearly exasperated. ‘The princess will be
‘All the better for you to console her.’ He turned over and pulled the covers up.
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.
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
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.
‘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!
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
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.