She looked at him, a bleak hardness in her eyes he had not seen before. ‘No.’
He had heard of that day. Seen some of the aftermath, the carts, abandoned in the field still attached to horses that had frozen to death as they stood. No. A loving daughter would find no comfort in that vision.
‘You have not imagined it before. The reality of war.’ It was not a question.
Something near a laugh, but only to scoff at herself. ‘It is obvious, is it not? Or if I did, I saw a tournament writ large. My father riding at the head of a charge, banners flying...’
So obvious and honourable that she had thought any Frenchman would have known that a red shield with three diamonds belonged to Losford. But that was not what it was like, there, on the battlefield.
‘And to discover that instead of honourable combat—’ her voice trembled with horror ‘—he had died like this. How can I bear it?’
Her agony was genuine, yet his sympathy soured. Others had suffered and died, yet her grief seemed all for herself. She did not cry for them.
Marc paced the room, unable to stand still. ‘You act as if life should stop and the rest of the world should wait for you to recover. You are not the only one to have lost someone. Death is everywhere. Death is every day.’ He thought of those days. Not only of battle, but of plague and childbirth and old age and drownings and the threats that hover over all men. ‘Everyone loses someone.’
‘Did you?’
The question hit him as a blow. He opened his mouth, but could not speak.
And he saw her face change, as if suddenly she saw the truth of him for the first time as a man with pain and passion of his own. He had wanted her to see, but not to see him.
‘Your mother. Your father. Someone more?’ she said, finally, near a whisper.
He had thought her selfish for thinking only of her own grief, yet he was reluctant to share his own. Where did he start? How many could he remember? ‘A mother, a father, a brother just born. More comrades-in-arms than I can count.’ He took a breath, uncertain he could say the words. ‘And a woman.’
He could see her face, then. Shock.
‘And do you not mourn her?’ she said, finally, as if of all of then, she cared to know only of the woman.
‘Of course.’ Sometimes, as he stood in church, he thought of the woman, alive, and of the babe, up in heaven, he hoped, along with all the rest. Would he be worthy? Would he be good enough to join them there? He was not certain he wanted to know. ‘But my life did not end when theirs did.’
‘I do not think,’ she said, ‘that I would have your strength. To survive losing so many.’
He hesitated, then touched her. She flinched. Then turned and met his eyes. ‘What was she like? The woman?’
He tried to remember. It had been years. He had been young. Not even knighted, but about to go to war as a squire. He was full of himself and his manhood, ready to battle the world, certain that honour and glory would find him.
As naïve as Cecily.
And into his view came the woman.
‘She was fair. With blue eyes.’ Rounded. Adoring. And when she looked at him, her eyes, like a mirror, reflected everything that he wanted to see in himself.
Cecily interrupted the silence. ‘And did you marry?’
He felt his cheeks go hot, ashamed to confess his weakness. She had offered herself. He had accepted. What warrior would not? There was what was said by the Church, or the chivalric codes, and then, there was what was done. And the difference between those two was never mentioned, never spoken of, never considered surprising or worthy of note.
He cleared his throat. ‘She was not of a station for me to wed. And I went to war.’
Still, when after a night, or two, he rode off, he thought, even expected, that she would be waiting for him when he returned as a knight. He imagined he would see her in the street, passing. Perhaps he would even take her as his mistress.
And if his feelings for her were more about his feelings about himself, he was too young and foolish to know that.
Somehow, he hoped Cecily might understand, so he confessed in words he had never said before. ‘But there was a time I thought of her every minute.’
All through that campaign, riding the country, her image stayed with him. In his memory, she became a lady, beautiful, cultured, worthy of fighting for. Every time he remembered her, she became more beautiful. And she had loved him more.
But when the battles were over that time, when the English had triumphed and so many of his fellows had proved themselves cowards, he rode home to find her, this woman who had become bigger in his mind than she had ever been in his arms. He wanted solace, the comfort of seeing himself reflected in her eyes as the man he wanted to be. Hoping her faith, her love would wipe away everything he had seen on the field.
‘Did you ever see her again?’ Cecily’s voice.
‘Only once.’ He could admit nothing more.
For when he saw her, he saw he had deceived himself. She was not fair haired and blue eyed, as he had remembered. She did not look at him with admiring glances, nor speak to him in gentle words.
No. She was a miller’s daughter, plain, haggard. When he saw her this time, he remembered she had looked at him not with admiration, but with a come-hither hunger. And when she looked at him now, it was with a face of fear.
For while he was away, instead of pining for him as he had imagined, she had married the butcher. And borne a son.
Had she thought he was dead? Had she thought of him at all? Either way, his return threatened to expose her youthful indiscretion. Something he was certain her husband did not know.
Marc must have stared at her for long minutes when he finally recognised her, amazed he had held such a different picture of her in his mind for all these months. Amazed that he had so deceived himself about the truth.
In much the same way Cecily had done.
‘And you lost her,’ Cecily said. ‘And felt as if her going ripped the heart out of your chest.’
Cecily thought she had died, this woman who had never been a real woman, but only his idea of a woman. Well, she was dead to him, along with the illusions he had carried. ‘She was not my wife,’ he said, once again the hard man she had made him. ‘And she was not worth missing.’
‘Was there a child?’
Now, he winced. She had held a babe, the butcher’s wife. And later, he heard, the babe, blameless, had died. ‘Not mine.’ He could not stand before Cecily and murmur sorrow for a woman he had not truly loved. ‘I thought I knew her. But I only knew what I wanted her to be.’
He waited, expecting Cecily to stare at him in shock and disbelief. Instead, she nodded. ‘Maybe I did that, too.’ She sighed. ‘Saw only what I wanted to see. How impossible, my view of the world.’ She shook her head, as if looking at a babe who understood nothing. ‘Dieu et mon droit! God is on our side, so we should always be victorious. And yet, things happen and I can see no reason.’
Despair and freedom mixed in her voice and he could see, finally, how vulnerable she was behind her stern shield. This was the doubt she had hidden, not for him to see until now. And with that glimpse, he saw, he knew her. And the feelings she stirred were as raw and vulnerable as her grief.
‘Cecily,’ he began, his whisper close to her ear, ‘I want...’
She turned her eyes to his and he saw his desire reflected there.
He smiled just to see her. When had just the sight of someone brought him such joy? Ever? Perhaps he had been as short-sighted as Cecily, seeing only the bad, when joy and beauty lurked on the edge of his world, tumbled amongst the pain if only he would not be so blind.
Now, in the crack between the horror of war and the pain of captivity, here was the glimmer, no, more than a glimmer, a blinding flash of beautiful sun. Something he did
not even know he had hungered for until it was before him.
He cleared his throat. Pushed a stray hair away from her cheek and tried again. ‘Life is not easy or simple or fair. But this, this moment, is ours.’
And he wanted it. Fiercely.
She smiled, and raised her lips to his.
* * *
Cecily could not say how it happened, that she found her lips on his.
When she thought about it, later, she would try to say it was part of the disguising they were playing, but that was a lie, for no one was watching.
Maybe it was a gesture of apology for her treatment of him. Or a search for comfort.
Or maybe, she just wanted to forget.
She refused to think it was because she cared for him.
And then, she did not think at all.
In his arms, with her lips on his, she slipped into a world which held neither sight nor sound but only sensation and safety and yearning for something more.
It was as if all the pent-up hatred had suddenly flared into fire, consumed itself and transformed into something just as strong.
And even more dangerous.
She had tried, tried for so long not to care, not to touch, not to reveal, not to become attached. The need, the hunger, was it for him or for anyone? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t care.
Did they sink on to her bed? Did his kisses trail down her neck? His fingers seemed to tremble as they tightened on her shoulders. Hard, strong, and yet, a touch intended to be gentle.
Now, she was the one who pushed, who felt that if she kissed him hard enough, held him tightly enough, she could lose herself, lose the memories and the fears and become Cecily instead of a countess.
The weight of him, welcome. His hands, more gentle than she expected, still carried the scars of war. His breath, as ragged as hers, interrupted with fragments.
Je t’aime.
Heat. Pressure. Touch. Hands. Panting. His. Hers. A tingle in the body, her breasts. When had she ever been aware of them? A moment of baring and her skin was touched by air and then his hands. Warm. Exciting. She pushed into him, against him, towards him.
His lips, softer, replaced his fingers. Something stirred between her legs in answer. Was this love? This feeling that if she were not one with him, she would, indeed, prefer death? Worse, worse than she had feared and yet she kissed him again.
Her world shrank to the breadth of his arms and that was world enough. To explore the sharp hollow of his cheek, the waves of his hair. Surrounded by his scent. Something of a soldier—leather and steel—but beneath that, a whiff of something as rich as fine red wine that would only reveal itself over time.
Close to him now, there was no cold, no winter. Only a heat that made her want to shed her hose and her gown, to bare her skin to the warmth of his lips on her throat, her neck, her shoulder, lower, hot on her breast...
And then, he sat up, ripping away the shield of his body, baring her to the world again.
Everything sprang back to life. Chill air, the dress she had left out for washing, a dog barking somewhere in the lower ward.
She blinked. Reached for a breath. Tried to cover her nakedness and swung her feet off the bed and to the floor. He was still there. His touch steadied her and wordless, she studied his eyes, searching for answers. Weeks of anger, days of fighting, moments of trust, but this went beyond a simple truce. It was as if he had accepted her confession and blessed her with his forgiveness.
‘I... You...’ She had no words.
He did not answer.
She looked away, desperately seeking the world she knew. It was gone. What had been clearly good and bad, black and white, had become confusing, yet rich with possibilities she had never imagined. The wind was still cold, but also bracing. The music still melancholic, but the lilting melody made her want to dance. Christmas held sad memories, but now, new ones.
He was no longer an enemy. What was he?
She fisted her fingers, as if she could cling to the world the way it had been before. All her fears for Isabella and now she had near committed the very act she had tried to prevent.
You would do nothing that would disappoint your parents.
But she had. So many times she had.
Her breathing slowed. In the silence, no longer close enough to touch him, sanity crept over her, along with the memory of who, and what, she was.
She settled her gown back to its proper place and braved his eyes. ‘We cannot.’
From Marc, tight lips, a brief nod.
He rose from the bed, adjusted his tunic, and stood, safely out of reach of her hand. ‘You were gracious, to explain about your father’s death.’
As if that was all she had done. As if nothing else had happened.
‘I had wronged you.’
He shook his head. ‘This disguising, this game we played for others’ sakes, made it too easy to forget...’
‘We did not succeed,’ Cecily said. ‘at what we planned to do.’
He took a breath. ‘It is safer that we remain enemies.’
She nodded. ‘We will not be alone again.’ As if that would be enough. Knowing it wasn’t.
‘Enguerrand, myself, we leave tomorrow morning. To welcome the king.’
‘Enguerrand and Isabella will be apart for some days.’
‘As will we.’ A sigh. Relief or disappointment? ‘And I will return to France shortly after the king returns.’
A blow she had not expected. She had managed to ignore in these days together that he would have to leave. Some day. ‘He is bringing the ransom?’
A flicker of a frown. ‘That, or the count will return. Or send a substitute.’
‘I see.’ She nodded, as if it were of no consequence. ‘Then tomorrow we will say farewell.’
‘Not tomorrow. Tonight. Now.’
The door, closing. The end she should have welcomed.
‘Yes, of course. That would be best.’
‘I shall not see you again,’ he said.
‘You do not think...perhaps...in the morning...?’
He shook his head.
‘No, of course not.’ That would only make it more difficult. She waved her hand vaguely. ‘You should go back to the Hall without me.’
He turned his back and opened the door.
‘Farewell,’ she said, clearly. So he could hear it.
He hesitated, but did not look back.
And then, she heard a whisper. ‘Adieu.’
Chapter Thirteen
Marc did not return to the Hall.
A dream, Marc decided, as he retreated to the room he shared with Enguerrand. He would call it a dream. Passion, tenderness, no more than a night vision to be ignored. Certainly, never trusted.
Something that would fade with the dawn.
The weeks at court that had stretched endless before him were at an end. He should be rejoicing.
Instead, every step away felt like his last.
He approached his door, ready to seek his pallet. Tomorrow, he would rise with the dawn and ride, leaving the court, and Cecily, behind.
He had let himself be caught up in Cecily’s fears and the foolish whispers of the court, unable to distinguish disguising from truth. Enguerrand spent time with the king’s daughter, true. But he had told Marc why. And at the same time, he was as charming as ever with the other ladies of the court and he spoke of the princess no more than he did of the dance or the food at dinner or the freezing winter cold.
That moment, only a moment, when Enguerrand had seemed too fond, almost jealous... Well, Marc had had his own moments of folie during the days of Christmas.
To have thought that he could, or even should, try to control his friend’s decisions had only led him to make his own mistak
es.
Instead of saving his friend, he had trapped himself. Well, time to put Angleterre, and its women, behind them.
Alone in the room, Marc tried to sleep, waking as the infernal clock in the tower struck, hour after hour. It was late, very late, when he heard the door and opened his eyes to see the glimmer of a candle.
Enguerrand crept into the room, wearing a dishevelled shirt and the scent of a woman, heavy and sweet. A farewell Yuletide tumble with a maid, no doubt, except...
The scent. It was one he recognised. Not Cecily’s, no, but one he had caught when he was near her. One belonging to...
Isabella.
He sat up, blinking, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark, trying to see his friend’s face, look into his eyes...
‘Where have you been?’ he said instead. Sharply.
Enguerrand sat on the edge of his bed and set down the candle. ‘Saying farewell.’
‘To whom?’
‘You question me?’ Belligerent.
‘You’ve been with her.’ Simple. True. And all the worst things he had tried to convince himself would never happen.
And at the words, his friend became no longer a count, but simply a man. He slumped, dropping his head in his hands. No smooth words now. Instead, he alternately nodded his head at the truth of the statement, then, shook it in despair.
No, this was not a man satisfied with a Yuletide fling. This was a man who had seen what he wanted and knew he could not have it.
A feeling Marc knew.
Enguerrand lifted his head. In the dim candle’s glow, the empty sadness in his eyes resonated, echoed and magnified Marc’s own. ‘What are we going to do, mon ami?’
We. As if Enguerrand knew it all. Knew everything that Marc had tried to deny, even to himself.
‘We will ride out tomorrow to meet the king. And then, we will return to France as quickly as possible.’
And forget all this ever happened.
* * *
The next morning, as Cecily tried not to think about Marc, Peter the Mason appeared at her door. With everything that had happened, she had thought no more of the tomb and the effigies.
‘It is not yet Twelfth Night...’ she began.
Whispers at Court Page 14
