Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford

      ‘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.

      Until now, uncertain, restless, Marc had thought of escape, perhaps during the lax days of Christmas when the king’s own son had disappeared. But with this news, his doubts and plans seemed shameful. He could not dishonour his own vow and have the king, the one shining example of chivalry he knew, arrive to hear the name of Marc de Marcel covered in shame.

      ‘When does he come?’

      ‘He celebrates Christmas in Paris, then crosses the Channel.’

      So King Jean would be here at the end of the year. Surely, the honour of the Compte d’Oise would match his king’s. Surely he would send the remainder of his ransom with the king’s party. Or return himself, as his sovereign had. It did not matter which. Marc would be free.

      Enguerrand rose and headed for the door. ‘So soon. There is much to do to prepare.’

      Marc threw the faggot into the fire, shivering. He was beginning to regret having turned down the opportunity to go to Windsor. It was going to be a long, cold, Noël.

      * * *

      ‘I shall need a new dress,’ Isabella said. ‘To greet King Jean.’

      ‘Do you think he remembers the one he last saw you wear?’ Cecily smiled, wishing that Anne of Stamford were still at court. Despite their differences in station, they had exchanged knowing smiles when the princess and the Countess of Kent had engaged in wars of the wardrobe.

      She wondered what had happened to Anne. The last Cecily had heard, Anne had retired to a small priory. Probably for the best. Life was difficult for a lame girl.

      ‘The fashion has changed since then,’ Isabella said, ‘as well you know. And there isn’t much time to organise a royal welcome.’

      Cecily’s familiar resentment boiled. ‘For a hostage?’

      ‘For a king,’ Isabella said, spine straight with all the shared solidarity of royalty.

      A good reminder. Though the king’s daughter might sometimes seem frivolous and volage, she, like Cecily, would never forget her position and her duty.

      ‘I spoke to Enguerrand,’ Isabella said, ‘and he thinks that the king will want to go to Canterbury first, before he comes to court. So we decided...’

      Enguerrand. We. ‘We?’

      ‘Enguerrand and I. Since he will be at Windsor I asked him to help arrange a proper royal welcome.’

      Wrong to hear the princess sharing decisions with anyone, worst of all with a hostage. She was royal and unmarried. The only people who could gainsay her were the King and Queen of England. ‘Can we not plan a king’s welcome without the help of a hostage?’ It was one thing to invite him and de Marcel to Christmas at Windsor. It was quite another to allow him to plan a royal ceremony.

      ‘He is Lord de Coucy,’ the princess said, in her stern, royal tone. ‘He deserves the treatment accorded his station.’

      As, yes, even among hostages, rank mattered. De Coucy was one of the greatest lords of France. Of course he would not be treated as if he were no more than a simple chevalier.

      He would not be treated as though he were Marc de Marcel.

      And yet...

      ‘But are you not concerned that such access might become...?’ She dared not insult the princess again. ‘That it might raise his hopes?’

      ‘Hopes of what?’ Said with a raised eyebrow.

      Cecily blushed. It was his lust that must not be raised. Men aroused were hard to control. And so were women. Or so her mother had told her. ‘What I mean is, if you spend too much time together, might he not become too bold?’

      A wave of dismissal. ‘Have no fear. Enguerrand is as chivalrous as a knight can be.’

      De Marcel had proven that chivalry was in short supply among the French. Such a man might not stop at a bow or a dance. Or a kiss. ‘Still, to treat him as you would an Englishman does not seem...wise.’

      Isabella answered with a merry laugh. ‘It is the Yuletide season. Why should one be wise?’

      To prevent disaster.

      Isabella was extravagant and headstrong, and her dalliances had been many, but, as far as Cecily knew, none of them had gone beyond hidden kisses and a passionate embrace. None of them had put her at risk. Each had been easily cast aside.

      Yet the way she spoke of this Frenchman, the excuses she created to keep him near, were troubling.

      They would have three weeks at court, full of Yuletide cheer. It was a time when fools ruled, when the proper order of things was deliberately turned upside down. What if things went further? What if things went too far?

      Cecily could raise no more questions without angering Isabella, but she must be vigilant. She herself must stand guard, silently, to make certain nothing unbecoming happened. Yet, what could she alone do? And who else would be in a position to help?

      Marc de Marcel.

      She fought the idea, but as unlikely as it seemed, they might have a common purpose. The chevalier had no more love for the English than she for the French. Surely he would hate to find his friend in a tryst with an English princess.

      But he had