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Cecily plotted for a week, then, when the princess was busy, had de Marcel brought to her at Westminster.
Isabella was right, she thought, as he stood before her, as menacing as a beast about to pounce on the prey. Nothing about him was soft or easy. Nothing of his face was gentle. Everywhere a hollow, a sharp corner, an unexpected turn, a scar earned. And yet, taken together, a face that drew her eye...
‘Why am I here? Why have you had me dragged before you with no more courtesy than if I were a prisoner to be executed?’
She fought a twinge of guilt. ‘You are a prisoner.’
And the pain that flashed across his face near made her ask the guards to let him free.
Instead, she motioned them to stand outside.
Did his gaze become more fierce when the door shut? Did she have trouble catching her breath? He had warned her what kind of man he was. Yet here she was, alone with him, just as Isabella and Enguerrand had been.
As she must be. Her fears for the princess were not for other ears.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Lord de Coucy has been much at court in recent weeks.’
‘He is as skilled a courtier as he is a chevalier.’
‘And you are not?’
A shrug. A frown. But he did not argue.
Looking down at her clasped hands, she took a few steps, summoning her composure before she faced his eyes again. ‘Lord de Coucy has spent much time with Lady Isabella. And I fear that they...’ No. She must not involve the princess. ‘That Lord de Coucy may have developed...feelings. I mean a...’ What did she mean?
‘Tendresse,’ he said, in a tone that conveyed no tenderness at all.
‘Yes. Exactly.’ What did she say now? That she was afraid Isabella might... No.
She must not let this man upset her. You are a countess. He is a chevalier and a hostage. He must bow to your will.
She raised her head. De Marcel seemed disinclined to bow to anyone. Yet his lips carried the hint of a smile. And that made her angry. ‘I am sure you like it no more than I do.’
‘Moins.’
She raised her brows. ‘Oh, I don’t think you could possibly like it any less.’
Now, he smiled in truth. ‘But it is all according to the laws of courtly love, n’est-ce pas? Nothing serious.’
As if de Coucy should not be honoured that the second-greatest lady of the land had deigned to honour him with her attention. ‘It is she who is not serious. And yet, they have...’ what could she say? ‘...spent much time together.’
‘You worry overmuch.’
Did she? The games Isabella was willing to play with the hostage angered her. But to think the Frenchman did not take the honour Isabella bestowed on him seriously made Cecily furious. ‘She is a royal princess! To disport herself with a...a...’
‘The de Coucy family is one of the most respected in France.’
Now she had made him angry and an angry man would not agree to help her. She took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me,’ she hated to say it. ‘I see that we both are loyal to our friends. But there is more. Last week, I found them...them alone and...close.’
So, finally. The shock on his face mirrored hers. ‘Imbécile!’
She nodded, afraid to ask whether he was referring to de Coucy or the princess. ‘Exactly. We must do something.’
‘We?’
‘We do share the same goal, do we not? You can see how foolish he is acting. And how bad it would be for him if...’ Now she must say the words. ‘And why I need your help.’
His jaw sagged a bit and he blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Votre aide,’ she said, more loudly. ‘Assistance.’
‘I know what it means,’ he said. ‘And I am not deaf.’ Yet he glowered as if the last thing on earth he would do would be to help her.
‘So will you?’ She held her breath.
He glared at her, then his eyes became thoughtful, as if he were seeing her as a person for the first time, trying to assess who she was aside from simply a femme Anglaise.
‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, finally.
He had not agreed, she could tell that. ‘I want you to accept the invitation to Windsor for Yuletide.’
Something flashed across his face. Disappointment? Calculation? ‘Why? What good would that do?’
‘If we work together, we may be able to keep them apart. There will be more than a fortnight of Yuletide festivities. Celebrations, the upside-down time of year. Opportunities for...’ His eyes did not leave hers. Her cheeks flushed.
She fell silent, unable to speak the words.
His smile carried no trace of chivalry. ‘Opportunities for what?’
And suddenly, she saw not Isabella and Enguerrand, but herself with Marc, in a dark corner, in an embrace...
‘For trouble, chevalier,’ she said, sharply. ‘Opportunities for trouble.’
‘But she is a king’s daughter.’ At least, the idea had surprised him.
‘Exactly.’ And so she must make it clear the fault would be his friend’s. ‘Which presents special dangers if Lord de Coucy is not a careful man.’
He stood still, unbending, as if considering all she had said. But he did not say yes.
Cecily glanced at the door. They had been alone too long as it was. Stepping closer, she raised her eyes and lowered her voice. A command would not sway this man. A plea might. ‘Please. Say you’ll come. To help your friend.’
Regret flashed across his face. Ah, so friendship was something he understood. Something that meant something.
He sighed. ‘You are as relentless as some of the knights I faced on the field.’
A strange compliment to give a woman. And yet, a glow of pride touched her. Only because he complimented her countrymen. Not because he approved of her.
‘And what,’ he asked, in a tone devoid of approval, ‘do I gain from this bargain?’
He did not pull away. Worse, he moved closer.
She refused to step back, refused to look down, but his very gaze seemed an assault. All the risk of this course shimmered between them. In helping Isabella, she might jeopardise herself at a time when all would be watching her, waiting to see the man the king would choose.
‘You gain the satisfaction of saving your friend from disaster!’ Now she could put distance between them. Now she could breathe again. ‘Is that not enough?’ If it were not, she was at a loss, for she could think of nothing she could offer this man except what she must not give.
He took a step closer and again something—desire—emanated in a wave, washing through her, hot and sweet. Oh, if Isabella felt this for de Coucy, they were all doomed.
‘No, Countess. It is not enough. I live as your prisoner and now you want me to dance like your puppet?’
His anger broke the spell. Relieved, she could match it with her own. Anger was permitted to a countess. Fear was not. ‘I am helping you to accomplish something you also want and cannot get alone. Do not expect too many mercis!’
‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that if I do this, you will help me return to France.’
She was glad she had not faced this man when he carried a sword in battle. ‘How can I do that? Treaties and ransoms are in the hands of the king.’
‘When the time comes, I will tell you.’
What could that mean? She was promising to do...she didn’t even know. But that was in some distant future. The celebrations at Windsor were an immediate threat. ‘When the time comes, then, I will do my best.’ Not exactly a promise.
He stared, silent, as if trying to read her face.
Did he believe her? Should he?
‘Even our kings have called a truce,’ she said. ‘Can’t we?’
She refrained from saying it was a truce only because her king had bested his. And yet, Jean, not Edward, was King of France. The thought gave her pause.
‘D’accord,’ he said, finally, as if they had shaken hands on a battle plan.
It was as close to a truce as they would get.
But as she called the guards and they led him away, she wondered what she had promised. To help him return to France? But that, after all, was the ideal solution. Send both men back, and quickly. Yet by treaty, a hostage returned home when his ransom was paid or a substitute sent. She could not change that. There was no other way.
Except the dishonourable path the French king’s son had taken.
Tucking her hands inside her fur-lined surcoat, she gritted her teeth against the chill. Surely de Marcel did not expect her to help him escape.
She would see him freeze in hell first.
* * *
‘So I will come to Windsor after all,’ Marc told Enguerrand that evening as they sat across the chessboard before a dying fire.
His friend looked up, brows lifted. ‘I’m not sure which surprises me more. That you changed your mind or that you found a way to change your refusal.’
Marc shrugged and pushed his pawn to the next square.
‘You can’t just say that without telling me more,’ Enguerrand said, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘I know the Lady Isabella did not press you to come.’
He knew, Marc thought, much too much about the Lady Isabella and her plans. ‘No. But her friend the countess did.’
‘The countess? I did not think you impressed her so highly the other night.’
‘I didn’t. But you did.’
‘Moi?’
‘She is worried that you have developed a tendresse for the Lady Isabella.’ He watched for Enguerrand’s reaction, for any hint that the Lady Cecily might be right.
‘Ah, then my plan is working.’
‘Working well enough that she fears the Lady Isabella might not be safe in your company.’
‘Safe? From de Coucy?’ The shocked look was undercut by his wink. ‘How can she worry?’
How indeed? But Marc had not realised until today how serious this was to the Lady Cecily. Here was a woman as loyal to her friend as he. ‘She is worried enough that she begged me to come to Windsor and help her keep you and the princess apart.’
And now, a wicked grin. ‘Which is exactly what you will do, mon ami, bien sûr.’
They shared a smile that held the trust of years. A smile which meant Marc would do no such thing. He was glad to help his friend, and yet... ‘You know that I am no good at subterfuge. I may do you more harm than good.’
‘You will do me a great deal of good just by keeping the Lady Cecily entertained.’
Marc groaned. ‘How do I do that? I have no more use for the woman than she for me.’
‘You’ll find a way. Just don’t let her know I seek Lady Isabella’s influence, not her virtue. I can do the rest. Once I get my lands back, the countess will find all her worries disappear.’
His own, Marc was certain, had just begun.
Chapter Four (#ulink_833422b4-6ffa-5a36-a078-3632dabee632)
Windsor Castle—December 1363
On a blustery December afternoon, Cecily left London for Windsor Castle, fighting memories. Last year, her mother had been with her. This year, she was alone.
Yet Gilbert rode beside her and she was grateful for his company, though all his thoughts were on how he might redeem himself for his tournament disgrace.
‘You were sitting near the king,’ Gilbert said, as Windsor came into sight. ‘What did he say about me?’
She swallowed. There was no disguising the truth. ‘I’m afraid the king was disappointed.’
He nodded, as if the answer were exactly what he had expected. ‘I don’t blame him. Those men, they were hardened during war. I’ve done nothing.’
‘You served my father in France! You were...’ The words would not come. You were there when he died.
‘But only as a squire. I was never in battle as a warrior. Now all I have is this pretend fighting. I want something that matters. Something of life and death.’
His very eagerness clutched her heart. ‘The war is over now. You can stay safe.’
