‘You will be invisible. Most won’t know or care who hides behind the mask.’
‘How am I to conjure up a disguise and a story in a week?’
‘With my help.’
Gentle, simple words. Not at all the sharp-tongued, brittle woman she had mostly shown herself to be until now.
He cleared his throat, trying to find a merci. ‘How long does it need? A costume?’ he said, instead.
‘Months. But Isabella is right. The king is a great lover of disguises. He has prepared at least one each Yuletide for years. There must be something left over.’ She waved her hand, gesturing to some unseen storage chamber in the castle.
At least he would be spared being forced to sing. ‘Je vous remercie.’ He forced the words, the hardest he had ever spoken.
She shook her head, stiffly. ‘Do not thank me yet. We may still regret this.’
He already did.
* * *
The next morning, in the light of day, Cecily faced Marc and her folly.
‘What we must do,’ she began, as she surveyed a room stacked with chests, ‘is find something here we can stitch a story around.’
She had committed them to both the disguising and the subterfuge and was no longer certain that either had been a good idea.
‘All of these?’ he asked, looking at the wooden chests staked halfway to the ceiling of the undercroft along the east wall of the upper ward. ‘Extra clothes?’
She shook her head. ‘Who knows what is here? Isabella thought some of the old ones were packed away, but with all the changes that have been made, she wasn’t certain exactly where they were or what was left.’
‘They have so much that they do not use?’ His voice mixed wonder and disbelief.
She blinked, surprised. ‘Do you not?’
He shook his head. ‘All I have is what I carry with me.’
And as she looked at his face, she saw the truth of it. A half-opened door. A glimpse of the life of a man who had not lived as she had.
‘But a king,’ she said, quickly, to drown the twinge of guilt, ‘holds wealth and power for all his people. I’m sure King Jean does the same.’
A tight, unfamiliar smile graced his face. ‘And I am certain that you, too, have stacks of chests unopened.’
She did. She had left much undone at home. Rooms unvisited since her mother’s death. She did not even know what was in some of them. Her parents’ possessions, now hers, remained untouched. She could not bear to look at them. And, as he implied, she lived comfortably without them.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. But they will not help us now, so we will put some of these unneedful things to use.’ She pointed to the chest atop the stack before her. ‘Help me get that one down.’
He leaned in and reached up, moving the heavy chest with little effort. She sat on the floor in front of it and opened the lid to see gowns and tunics of bright red and green, the very colours reminiscent of childhood.
He crouched down beside her and lifted up a blue cloak and hood, trimmed in white, and emblazoned with a sun, embroidered in gold thread.
She gasped in recognition.
‘You know it?’ he asked.
‘My father wore one like it. The king designed them for a tournament.’ Her father had ridden with the king’s side in the joust and triumphed. ‘The rest of the court wore red and green, but the king’s closest wore this.’
Her fingers trailed the velvet, as they had stroked her father’s back in a hug before he had mounted. He always rode so close to the king. She had been so proud.
She pulled it from Marc’s hands, dropped it back in the chest and let the lid fall. ‘We’ll find nothing here.’ Nothing except memories too painful to revisit. ‘Bring me another.’
But instead of moving, his eyes held hers, questioning...
Falling, falling into him again. Too close. Too hard to catch a breath. No one to see them here. If she lifted her hand, touched his hair again—
‘When did he die, your father?’
His voice, gentle, but the question cut as sharp as a sword.
Her hand dropped to her lap.
‘More than three years ago. Around Easter.’ A time that should have meant triumph over death.
‘I have heard the English speak of Black Monday. Was it then?’
So had she. Whispered horrors. ‘Near that time, I think.’ Ashamed, suddenly, that she did not know the day of his death. She had taken the news so badly that her mother had shared none of the details.
‘If it happened that day, then I doubt a Frenchman’s hand struck your father. More likely, it was the hand of God.’
She shifted, uneasy. King Edward had been heard to speak of the way God had reached out to stop his campaign. Some said the king had ceased his quest for the French throne because he took the dreadful events of Black Monday as a sign of God’s will. But she would not desecrate her father’s memory by arguing over such details with the Frenchman. ‘All death must finally be as God wills,’ she said, at last, then pointed to the other side of the room. ‘Go. See what you can find over there. I’ll look in these chests.’
Slowly, he rose and she did not watch him go.
* * *
She should have brought a serving girl, she thought, an hour later. Trunks full of wool and linen. Hose and scraps of silk. Outgrown shoes, forgotten. A few soiled rags. Nothing of value. Silver and gold, goblets and jewellery were held close and accounted for. Here, she found only things left behind, but not let go.
She pulled out a length of wool, large enough to be made into...something, but for a man smaller than de Marcel.
‘Look here,’ he called, from the other side of the room. He held up two sticks, each with a slightly battered cloth horse-head on one end. ‘What are these? A child’s trifle?’
The sight brought a smile and she rose to join him. ‘They are play horses. For children, yes, but the king has also used them for pageants.’ She took one of the sticks and stroked the cloth head. An ear was missing. ‘We could do something with these.’
‘Horses are used for battle.’
She wanted no reminders of battle. ‘No. Not that. We are only two, not a legion.’ Evident this man knew nothing but war, which was why she had stepped forward to rescue him. She frowned at the ceiling, trying to think. ‘But we could do a mock joust.’
Then, holding her breath, she waited for a frown and a growl. Instead, a determined smile lit his face. ‘That is something I know.’ Said as if he were ready to unhorse his opponent in a single pass once again.
‘But we cannot be serious. The king likes to laugh at Yuletide.’ Unless it was a religious pageant, nearly all the season’s entertainment was merry.
She knelt before the open chest. He had found a treasure of old robes and discarded masks, including a rabbit’s head, large enough to fit over a man’s head, with eye holes so the wearer could see out.
‘Animals!’ she cried. ‘We can have a joust between animals.’
Together, they dug to the bottom, discovering two more heads. Cecily picked up one of them, the hare’s head in her other hand. ‘Which?’
‘I will not be a rabbit.’
She put it aside. ‘You must be something.’ She held up the final two. ‘Choose.’
He looked back and forth between them, his expression serious as if he were assessing a battle field. ‘That is a stag, obviously,’ he said, pointing to her left hand, which held a brown mask with antlers. ‘But what is that?’
She held up the one in her other hand. ‘A goat?’
‘I refuse to be a rabbit or a goat.’ Crossing his arms, unmovable.
She dropped the masks into his lap. ‘You are giving the perfect imitation of an ass.’
‘An ass is a slow beast that resists commands.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Just as I said.’ She dusted her hands and stood, too angry at him to berate herself for losing her temper. This man, like no other, made her forget who she was. A kiss, a curse—he exposed all the feelings a countess was expected to hide. ‘You do not want my help, so be what you will or stand before the court alone and croak like a frog. It matters not to me.’
She turned her back, near running for the door. Every time she was alone with him, she regretted it.
‘Wait.’
She did not.
‘Wait!’ Louder. ‘Are you only willing to help if I do things as you wish?’
She whirled around. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You never even asked my opinion.’
‘I did. And you disliked the choices.’
‘There must be something else.’
‘So late in the day? We have no time. And you’ve never even done a disguising.’
‘No. But I doubt it requires that I be an ass.’ A smile, finally. ‘Though Enguerrand has accused me of the same on occasion.’
She had to laugh, now. ‘Who am I to argue with Lord de Coucy?’
Still sitting on the floor, surrounded by cast-off costumes, he held up the two animal heads, looking from one to the other. ‘I shall wear the stag’s head,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Now, what do we do next?’
An idea. A whisper. Something that would make this all worth doing. She smiled. ‘Now we create the play.’
A play, she decided, that would not end the way Marc de Marcel was expecting.
Chapter Eight
As Marc entered the Hall, he was wearing a stag’s head, but he felt like an ass.
His only comfort was that with his head fully covered, no one could possibly know who he was.
Lady Cecily had assembled the disguising with a dedication that would have befitted a man at war. The simple horse’s head on a stick was now part of a light wood cage in the shape of a destrier. Covered in bright fabric, it resembled a tournament horse in livery. The frame hung from his shoulders and with a hole that hit him about waist high, when he walked, it looked as if he were riding a horse.
They had practised, of course, but the full frame was not complete in time for him to try it. Now, encased, the frame swayed with each step, threatening to bump walls and people. The elaborate one, two, three of the tournament that had seemed manageable when they practised now seemed impossible.
He began to think that singing might have been the better choice.
He squinted through the eyes of the stag’s head, barely able to see what was in front of him. Lady Cecily, wearing rabbit ears and a surcoat that disguised her shape, was unrecognisable. A page carrying a flambeau went by, the flame wavering dangerously close to the flopping ears. Marc held his breath, ready to tear off the entire façade and run across the room if she caught fire.
But the moment passed, safely.
He took a step. The ‘horse’ covering him wobbled uncertainly. Laughter echoed in the Hall. Were they laughing as Cecily had intended, or because he looked the fool? Or, perhaps they were only mirthful with wine and Yuletide spirit and not heeding him at all.
Curse the roi Anglais for insisting on entertainment so ridicule.
Still, he struggled to do what they had planned, to ‘ride’ towards each other, feign the expected three passes, then, dip into a mutual, respectful bow.
Across the hall, Cecily started forward, slow and steady.
He took another step. The light wooden cage rocked back and forth, more like a boat than a noble steed, and bumped something, he could not see what. With frustration born of weeks of entrapment, he forced his way ahead, as if at least here, he could break the bonds of captivity.
A crack. Splintered wood. Still, he charged ahead, the dented, drooping corner of the cage trailing fabric behind him.
Now, Cecily came towards him, faster than they had practised, and instead of gracefully riding past, she forced her horse’s head into the broken wooden frame, ripping it apart.
Surprised by the strength of the blow, Marc lost his balance, stepped on to the torn fabric and crashed to the floor, felled as completely as if he had been knocked off a real horse on the tournament field.
The stag’s head kept his head from being slammed against the floor, but the antlers snapped off.
He raised his head from the wreckage and pulled off the mask.
No question now about the laughter. Or the cheers.
For as his opponent raised his arms in victory and ripped off the rabbit’s head, Marc saw not the Countess of Losford, but Sir Gilbert.
Gilbert, who had been given his revenge.
Marc tried to move. His leg was twisted beneath him. Not broken, but with a bruised knee. Drawing strength from his anger, he straightened it, kicking the broken wood out of the way. He was ready to fight, to jump up with fists flailing and pummel them all.
But he could not even stand.
Gilbert, with a grim, satisfied smile, held out his hand to help. ‘We are even now.’
More generous than Marc had expected. Or, probably, deserved.
Forgiveness was easier for the victor. Something he should have remembered when Gilbert had sprawled in the mud of the tournament field.
Marc took the help Gilbert offered, and when he managed to stand they shook hands as the crowd cheered.
‘She planned it all, didn’t she?’ Marc asked, as he limped off the stage. Something, he did not want to call it jealousy, burned in his veins. Lady Cecily’s disdain for him ran so deep that she had plotted this elaborate humiliation.
Gilbert looked down, not meeting Marc’s eyes. ‘I should not have let her.’
And yet, Gilbert had not deserved the humiliation Marc had thrust upon him. Perhaps there was some justice here. He sighed. ‘And I should not have treated our joust as if it were a battle.’
‘But you were the better man,’ the young man said. ‘You taught me a lesson. One that may keep me alive some day.’
Marc swallowed. ‘I, too, needed a lesson. I am grateful that you forgive me.’
The young man shrugged, then raised his gaze. ‘She doesn’t.’
Marc followed his gaze to see Cecily across the room, leaving the Hall.
* * *
Cecily woke the next morning, weighed down with regret. She had watched the mock joust and laughed, at first, with the rest of them, anticipating the joy of seeing Gilbert vindicated and Marc brought low.
But when he fell, then struggled to rise, she took a step, wanting to be certain he was unhurt. And as she watched him shake hands with Gilbert, instead of glee, she felt shame. In this, he had shown more honour than she. Had she thought that humiliating him would somehow change the outcome of the war?
Would somehow bring her father back?
The honour of the name rests in your care.
And faced with Marc de Marcel, she had once again allowed emotion to trample duty. He was a proud warrior, held captive and she had humiliated him for petty, personal gratification.
He deserved it, of course, for what he had done to Gilbert.
For the kiss.
Yet none of that excused her. Her parents would have scolded her and if her future husband, whoever he might be, discovered her deceit, he could only wonder whether she were worthy of the role and title she had been born to.
Wonder, as she wondered every day.
She threw back the bed clothes. Today, she would keep her promise to Gilbert and request the sculptor be released to work on her parents’ effigies. In this at least, she must finally do her duty, no matter how painful. Else, when the king selected a husband, how would she explain that she had left the tomb undone?
Her opportunity came later that day, as the queen had gathered some of the wome
n for an afternoon’s entertainment, listening to a minstrel tell tales of King Arthur and his court. Cecily left last, taking a private moment.
‘A request, Your Grace, if you would smooth the way with the king. If the work he came for is complete, I ask that His Grace release Peter the Mason to complete my parents’ tomb.’
‘Ah.’ Realisation touched the queen’s eyes. She reached out to Cecily’s chin and studied her face. ‘And if he is ready, are you?’
The queen’s fingers did not allow her to look away.
She nodded, biting her lip. There would be no tears allowed.
The queen raised her brows. ‘Are you certain, my dear?’
‘I still mourn, Your Grace.’
‘And so shall you ever. I understand that.’ The queen’s voice was both strong and gentle. ‘But the time to mourn must end.’
Cecily swallowed. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Perhaps her delay had been an effort to stop life so it would change no more. But even if she was not truly ready, just to have asked, to have taken this small step brought a relief she had not expected. ‘That is why I must complete their tomb.’
The queen nodded and dropped her hand. ‘I will speak to Edward. I expect the sculptor will be able to return to your work as soon as the Yuletide season is over.’
‘If he returns to the castle after Twelfth Night, perhaps by spring, by the time of my wedding....’ She left the sentence incomplete.
That was where she must put her attention. On her future husband. Perhaps his kisses would leave her as shaken as de Marcel’s...
She stopped herself. The French chevalier had no place in her thoughts. And better if her husband raised no such wild emotions, unworthy of a countess. Much better her marriage be of duty only, as her parents’ had been. She could not bear to lose someone she loved ever again.
‘I’m sorry. I have no news to tell you.’ The queen took her hand. ‘Perhaps my daughter is right and I worry overmuch. Enjoy the season. The future, and your wedding, will come soon enough.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Perhaps she, too, had been over-worried. Her concern for Isabella, bringing de Marcel into the picture, all this had only created trouble. Cecily would remember that in the future. ‘And so,’ Cecily said, her throat tight on words reaching for gaiety, ‘what is planned for tomorrow?’
Whispers at Court Page 9
