into peals of laughter until a frown from Queen Philippa forced them to stifle their mirth.
Cecily smiled, relieved she had saved the moment with a jest. Yet she had been deadly serious. In fact, it was a shame that the joust had become so tame and ceremonial. She would not have minded seeing a bit of French blood spilled.
‘I wonder,’ the princess said, ‘which one rides against Gilbert?’
Cecily looked to the other end of the field where Gilbert, now properly Sir Gilbert, sat tall and straight and hopeful on his horse. Her favour, a violet silk scarf, fluttered expectantly on his lance.
Opposite him, covered in chainmail and plate armour, the blond French knight on his battle-tested mount looked even more imposing. She was no expert at war, but the way he sat on the horse and held his lance bespoke a confidence, a sureness, that she could see through the armour. ‘I am certain,’ she said, not certain at all, ‘that Gilbert can unseat either man.’
Isabella flashed a sceptical expression. ‘Don’t be gooseish. This is Gilbert’s first tournament. He’ll be blessed if he doesn’t drop his lance. Why ever did you give him your favour?’
Cecily sighed. ‘He looked so forlorn.’
A quick frown deepened the lines between Isabella’s brows. ‘You are not thinking of him as a husband.’
‘Gilbert?’ Cecily laughed. ‘He is too much like a brother.’ He had come to her father as a young squire, just a couple of years older than she. And when the king selected her husband, he would not choose a lowly knight, but a man powerful, and trustworthy enough to hold the key to England.
But who?
Frowning, Cecily leaned closer to Isabella and whispered, ‘Has your father said anything more of my marriage?’
Since her father had died, Cecily had become a very eligible heiress. She was now near twenty and it was time, past time, that she and Losford Castle be delivered to a man of the king’s choosing.
The princess shook her head. ‘His royal guests have consumed his attention. The King of Cyprus, Jerusalem, and whatever else he styles himself is urging my father to go on Crusade.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘At his age! It is bad enough he plans to lead the final charge in the tournament today.’
At least he is alive to do so, Cecily wanted to say, but held her tongue.
‘Besides—’ Isabella squeezed Cecily’s cold fingers ‘—I don’t want you snatched away so soon.’
But it was not ‘soon’. It had been three years since her father had been cut down by the French. And the first annual death mass for her mother was barely two months away. The time to mourn was over. And yet...
She smiled at Isabella. ‘You just want a companion for your revels.’
Isabella was an astonishing thirty-one years old and unmarried, with an abundance of time and money for all the pleasures of the court.
‘You’ve been in mourning too long. You should enjoy yourself before you wed.’
Trumpets blared, signalling the next joust, and as the herald announced the rules for the single combat, Cecily could summon no joy. She frowned at the French chevaliers. God should not have let them live when her father had not.
* * *
De Coucy’s red, white and blue banner snapped briskly in the breeze. He smiled at Marc, eager to ride. ‘A glorious day! The king thinks to impress us! He is the one who will be impressed, n’est pas?’
Marc grinned. So many times, they had ridden side by side. Memories of successful battles quickened his blood. ‘Will you take him in one pass or two?’
Enguerrand put on his helm and lifted his mailed glove in a brief salute. And three fingers.
Marc laughed. Ever the perfect knight, de Coucy, unlike too many of his fellow Frenchmen.
Yet as his friend rode, Marc watched each move, as if his attention could ensure the outcome. He still looked on the younger man as a novice, though de Coucy had long ago assumed his title, his lands and his rightful place as a leader of men.
On the first pass, his friend’s lance hit the opponent’s shield squarely. On the second, he allowed his opponent a touch, but with a last-minute twist, made certain it was only a glancing blow, one that scored poorly.
Matchless skill, to fight so that the poor English knight might actually believe he had landed a blow.
Finally, on the third pass, Enguerrand returned with a perfectly placed hit and knocked the other man’s lance out of his grip and halfway across the field.
The squires rushed out to help them dismount and hand them their swords for the next phase of combat. Again, de Coucy made the contest look like an intricate dance. The first blow clean, but leaving his opponent standing. The second, he took himself, yet in such a way that it was inconsequential. With the third, he knocked his opponent’s sword out of his hand, forcing him to concede the match.
Cheers rose from the stands, approval more generous than Marc had expected from their captors.
De Coucy strode back, helmet off, smile on. Three passes he had declared. Three it had been.
‘Well done, my friend,’ Marc said. ‘Although that last blow was a little off.’
Enguerrand laughed. ‘Only if I had intended to kill him.’
Marc looked down the field at the young knight who would face him. Marc’s match, dwarfed by his armour, looked as if he had just earned his spurs.
‘They insult me, to make me fight a boy.’ At the other end of the field, a brave little purple scarf drooped from the knight’s lance. ‘You wanted me to impress the ladies. Do you think his lady will be impressed when her favour is trampled by the horses?’
‘Behave yourself, mon ami.’
Marc sighed. He was expected to fight as de Coucy did: well enough to bring honour on himself, his colleague and his country, but not so well as to harm the Anglais. That was what the code of chivalry said.
For a moment, he pondered taking pity on the young man. He had a few crumbs of chivalry left in his trencher. A very few.
He could ride the requisite three passes with a gentle touch and allow his opponent to leave the field with his pride intact.
But men said one thing and did another. They gave an oath of fealty, then deserted their posts at battle. They swore to protect women and then raped them instead.
They cared nothing for honour, only the pretence of it. Some days, it seemed as if life was only a giant disguising with everyone pretending to be what they were not.
He was tired of pretending.
Today he would protest the only way he had left. Not to kill the young man, no. But embarrass him? That, he could do. That, he would enjoy.
His destrier shifted beneath him, stamping cold, hard ground that did not yield. He looked to the side, the starter gave the sign and
