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Whispers At Court
Blythe Gifford
They Make an Unlikely Alliance… Lady Cecily scorns the French hostages held at court. Treated as honoured guests, the men play at love games – and Cecily fears that her mistress, the Princess, might be disgraced.War-weary chevalier Marc de Marcel wants only to return home. Uncertain whether his ransom will ever be paid, he makes an unlikely alliance with enticing fire and ice Cecily. He’ll help her keep the Princess safe from ruin if she’ll help him escape. A pact which could lead them into a scandal all their own…Royal Weddings: a Hint of Scandal This Way Comes!
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 (#ulink_5fc60b9e-689c-554d-94d8-7321e90e703f)
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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started 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 (http://blythegifford.com), ‘likes’ at facebook.com/BlytheGifford (http://facebook.com/BlytheGifford) and Tweets at twitter.com/BlytheGifford (http://twitter.com/BlytheGifford)
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 (#u17bf55ed-3e4d-51e0-9ef9-4477fa6cfda3)
Introduction (#u789bf3e1-1fcc-56ca-b429-690fdca26b8d)
AUTHOR NOTE (#u686e4f3c-d3ae-5bea-968d-bd9491bf1867)
Title Page (#u080fccc0-e8c0-57cf-a398-158402a20720)
About the Author (#uf89112f2-3624-55c5-8f6e-1d815b488913)
Dedication (#u127877d0-aab5-560d-8151-ff8a39395209)
Acknowledgments (#u2a461bad-8ee7-51c6-aec5-2e80b7378fc5)
Chapter One (#u992bea39-4a83-5273-9d19-5e77b9a67ac8)
Chapter Two (#u53cdc118-37d4-56ff-a9c6-5b997b7048b8)
Chapter Three (#u0f4c6504-b967-54f6-a1ee-cb698bfa74d6)
Chapter Four (#u01422d91-0c18-5929-af13-eff4ec7ab442)
Chapter Five (#u7919926f-7190-5e48-9da7-563ab98baf90)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_3df43b6a-4f1d-5028-9692-1fc48e4e2370)
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 goddamAnglais. ‘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.
How careful did he feel today?
* * *
By the saints it is cold.
Shivering, Lady Cecily, Countess of Losford, saw her breath turn to fog in the frigid air as she gazed over the frozen tournament field. Red, blue, gold, silver—colour ran rampant before her eyes—decorating flags and banners, spilling across surcoats that shielded armour and draped the horses. A splendid display for visiting royalty. And King Edward, third of that name, reigned over it all, triumphant after his victory in France.
She lifted her chin, struggling to keep her countenance worthy of her rank.
It is your duty.
Her parents’ words, their voices alive only in her memory now.
‘Is that not so, Cecily?’
She turned to the king’s daughter, Isabella, and wondered what she had missed. Six other ladies also attended the princess and, sometimes, Cecily’s attention strayed. ‘I’m certain you are right, my lady.’ That was always a good answer.
‘Really?’ The princess smiled. ‘I thought you did not care for the French.’
She sighed. Isabella loved to tease her when her thoughts wandered. ‘I’m afraid I was not listening.’
‘I said the Frenchman looks fierce.’
Lady Cecily followed her gaze. At the far end of the field, two Frenchmen had mounted their destriers, but not yet donned their helmets. One of them, a knight she had not seen before, was tall, sharp and blond. Like a leopard. A beast who could kill in a single leap.
‘He is handsome, is he not?’
Cecily frowned, ashamed that Lady Isabella had caught her staring at a French hostage. ‘I do not care for fair-haired men.’
