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.’
He looked at her as if she were a babe. Or a woman who lacked all wit. ‘I don’t want to be safe. I want to prove myself. The King of Cyprus is recruiting knights for a Crusade. Perhaps I will join him.’
‘So you, too, can die in battle?’ A question more sharp than she intended.
He looked at her, some sort of realisation in his eyes. ‘You have not buried your father.’
She turned away from him and looked to the Castle. ‘Of course I did.’ She remembered it all. They had brought the body home in a sealed, stone coffin. The funeral mass was said on a bright summer day, with the sea breeze wafting into the church and ruffling the black cloth covering the bier. ‘You were there.’
‘But his effigy is unfinished.’
A stark accusation of what she had left undone. She winced. She had allowed grief to interfere with her duty. You have not buried him. She had not buried either of them.
There should be a carved image of her father and her mother, side by side, as if they had been turned to stone in death. It was her duty to see it completed.
To honour them both.
Her mother had begun work on her father’s effigy, soon after he died. She chose the stone, had it shipped all the way from the Tutbury quarry, and selected a sculptor, one of the best alabaster men from Nottingham.
And when the man arrived, her mother had spread his sketches on the table, but Cecily could barely see them through her tears.
Her mother sighed. I can see you are not yet ready. Her tone, sharp. Go. I will look at them first.
And so, while Cecily stared at the sea and took long walks along the cliffs, her mother was left to sort through the choices so she could give the sculptor approval to begin.
Peter 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.
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