Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford

the Mason was a careful man. The work proceeded slowly, or so her mother said. Cecily refused to look.

      And then, early in this year, nearly three years after her father’s death, her mother said the carving was all but complete. Shortly after, she had ridden on a boar hunt again for the first time since the earl’s death. Left with the rest of the court, smiling again at last.

      And never came back.

      The grief that had just begun to ebb smothered Cecily again, worse this time. She, who had been expected to take command, to make decisions, could not face the cold stone. She put aside the sculptor’s sketches of her mother’s effigy. She had not picked them up again.

      Disgraceful weakness. Unworthy of a Countess of Losford.

      But that was not the excuse she gave to Gilbert. ‘The king needed the sculptor. You know that.’ Indeed, for the last several years, there had scarcely been a stone cutter or a carpenter to be found beyond Windsor’s walls. The king had called them all to work on the renovations and punished any man who sought to pay the workmen enough for them to leave their work on the palace. ‘I loaned the sculptor to the king.’

      No need to explain that the king would have made an exception to let the man continue to work on the tomb of his old friend.

      ‘It has been three years,’ Gilbert said.

      ‘It’s been less than a year since Mother died.’

      He raised an eyebrow. ‘Waiting won’t bring her back.’

      ‘I know.’ Yet she felt as if to cast them in stone would be to admit they were truly gone.

      They passed through the gate to Windsor and she was spared the need to answer as servants converged to take care of horses and trunks. A welcome to the Christmas season the same as every year, and yet, this year, different.

       You will be the countess some day, my dear. The honour of the name will rest in your care.

      And yet, she had failed to uphold the simplest duty, to complete their tomb. Now, she must prove that that she was ready, willing, able to take up the mantle of Losford with the man of the king’s choosing.

      Leaving the chests for the servants, she and Gilbert ran for the shelter of the castle and the warmth of a fire. Inside, she took a breath, glad not to be fighting the cold. And as she soaked in the heat and loosened her mantle, she put a hand on Gilbert’s sleeve.

      ‘I will ask if the sculptor can be released,’ she said.

      He did not simply smile, as she had expected.

      ‘When?’

      Ah, and with that question, Gilbert proved he was no longer the youth she remembered. Now, he spoke as a man who would hold her to her word. Yet she could forgive the lack of deference in his question, for he had loved them, too.

      ‘Soon. Before Twelfth Night.’

      And with the completion of the effigies, her mother, and her father, would finally be laid to rest.

      Her feelings about the men who killed him, men like de Marcel, would never be.

      * * *

      Marc rode beside his friend, surrounded by the king’s knights, as the walls of Windsor Castle emerged in the distance. He had seen castles across the whole of his own country, beginning with the stronghold of the de Coucy family, one of the strongest châteaux in France. He did not expect to be impressed by anything les goddams had to show him.

      But he was.

      ‘Well sited,’ Enguerrand noted, as the walls rose before them.

      Impregnable was the word Marc would have used.

      Like the Château de Coucy, Windsor perched atop a hill above a river, the steep approach making an assault nearly impossible. Parts of the walls seemed hundreds of years old, as if they must have been built when the Norman-French bastard had crossed the Channel to become England’s ruler.

      Yet as they rode inside, Marc saw handsome buildings of freshly cut stone flanking the inner walls. This king was a builder, he thought, with grudging admiration, though he suspected French crowns had paid for most of it.

      He had not expected a royal welcome, but the Lady Isabella herself received them graciously, as if the castle were solely hers. And Enguerrand greeted her as if he were the most honoured guest attending.

      Marc gave his horse into the care of the stable master, then stood a safe distance from the couple, giving them time to exchange whispers and smiles. And when he looked around, he saw the countess wrapped in a mantle against the cold, watching them as well.

      She shifted her weight and took a step, as if to interrupt their greeting. A sharp wind swept over the walls, sending her mantle flapping. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and tried to pull the edges close again.

      She looked up, surprise parting her lips.

      Tempting. The way her head balances on her neck...

      Dark hair set off her fair skin and her square jaw drew his attention to her slender neck, now hidden by layers of wool.

      Meeting her eyes again, he tugged the cloak closed and let his hands fall to his sides. He must be careful of his hands around the countess, careful they did not come too close, or be too bold. ‘Your island is the coldest place I have ever been.’

      She shivered. ‘Truly, it is the worst winter I can remember. Frost came in September and has not left us since.’

      ‘So we agree on the miserable weather of Angleterre.’

      She smiled. ‘Do you blame us for the cold?’

      He wanted to blame them for everything, but standing this close to her, he was warmed by unwelcome desire. Mon Dieu. Did he not have obstacles enough?

      Trying to speak, he had to clear his throat first. ‘Even a king cannot control what God sends.’

      His words seemed to summon some private grief, but she quickly looked away, peering over his shoulder, trying to see what was going on behind his back. ‘You must move. I cannot see what are they doing.’

      Instead of giving her clear sight, he moved to block her view. This was why he had come. Not to help her, but to keep her at a distance. ‘You cannot make your intentions so plain.’

      She sighed. ‘I know, but the princess—’

      ‘Cecily!’ And there was her voice. ‘Attend!’

      ‘Come,’ she said and he let her turn him to see. ‘The princess herself is taking you to your quarters.’

      Cecily walked quickly, no doubt intending to catch up with the couple and interrupt their private conversation. Marc deliberately slowed his stride, so that when she turned to see where he was, Enguerrand and Isabella pulled ahead, disappearing inside the great tower in the centre of the castle grounds.

      Lady Cecily was forced to wait for him at the door.

      Together, they stepped inside the stone gatehouse, blessedly away from the cold wind, and started up a long, enclosed stairway, climbing steeply up the mound to the tower. The walls sheltered him from the wind, but they also felt as close as his prison in London.

      ‘Are you taking us to guest quarters or to gaol?’

      ‘If it were not for me, you would still be in the Tower of London. These were the royal quarters until recently. You should be honoured.’

      ‘You are always telling me I should feel honoured at things that honour me not at all.’

      Ahead of them, out of earshot, the princess and Enguerrand had their heads together. Then, a feminine laugh echoed off the stone walls.

      His friend was having success already. He could see why the Lady Cecily might be worried. But he was there to keep her occupied so that Enguerrand would be free