Early reports said that Harfleur had fallen to the king’s army, but no detailed news had come yet from France. The baron, who had been short with everyone lately, distracted and irritated, didn’t tell Cecily any of this. She learned it from Father Simon. A calm came over her as she listened to him, and she began to believe that if something dreadful had befallen her husband, she would be able to sense it.
She was starting a new project, a large embroidered wall covering, and was sitting at a table in Adeline’s parlor sketching out the design—a group of ladies in a flower-filled garden, one of them holding a book and reading to the others—when Dario Gabrieli came and sat next to her. She bristled and scooted away from him on the bench.
“I do hope, Lady Cecily, that the way I spoke to you when I first arrived here did not put you off so much that we cannot be friends. I have conducted myself as a nobleman and would never dream of forcing my attentions on any lady. Yet I cannot help but notice how you have avoided me ever since. Hence, I apologize for offending your delicate sensibilities and pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Cecily said, relieved at his words. “I understand the precepts of courtly love and know better than to take offense at them. They are not, however, something that interests or entices me. Your friendship, Signor Gabrieli, I should very much welcome.”
His smile lit up his entire face. There was no denying the beauty in his well-formed features. No wonder all the ladies on the estate vied for his attention. Adeline, who had been watching the exchange between the troubadour and her friend, approached the pair. He shot her a meaningful look as she stepped toward them and burst into joyful laughter. “It is all better now, is it?” she asked. “I have hoped for nothing else. Now my two closest friends will no longer be enemies.”
“We were never enemies,” Cecily said, wondering why Adeline would have drawn this conclusion. More astonishing was that she referred to Cecily as a close friend.
“Go, go, Dario,” Adeline said, shooing him away. “We ladies must talk privately. There is much to discuss.” He scuttled off, but not before kissing their hands. Adeline lowered herself onto the bench next to Cecily. “You are not angry at me, are you, my dear? I couldn’t bear it if you were. But I saw how you and Dario flirted when he first arrived and could not help but notice when it ended badly. It’s better to be friends again, though, isn’t it?”
“I never flirted with him,” Cecily said. “He—”
“I was a witness to those first overtures he made,” Adeline said. “You followed the pattern set out by Capellanus so devotedly. I did not know you had read his work.”
“I’ve read it, of course, we all have,” Cecily said. “But it has never served as a guide for me.”
“You need not worry,” Adeline said. “I shall never reveal your secret to anyone and William shall never be the wiser. Do be careful around Father Simon, though. I believe he was sent to keep a careful eye on you. Had you given your husband cause to suspect your fidelity before he left for France?”
“I would never do any such thing,” Cecily said, putting down her pencil and feeling her heartbeat quicken. “I want only to be a devoted wife and to—”
Adeline put an arm around her shoulder. “You need not explain to me. I’m your oldest friend. I’ve known you your entire life. There’s no one you can better trust, just as there is no one I can better trust than you. Come now. I’m planning disguises for tomorrow night. Will you join me in selecting who should wear what?”
Cecily nodded in answer and followed Adeline, but could hardly pay attention to anything around her. Something felt wrong, very wrong, as if she were being played for a fool, but she couldn’t quite figure out why anyone—even Adeline—would do such a thing. She might have dismissed the notion altogether had she not, as they left the parlor, noticed Gabrieli slip a piece of paper into Adeline’s hand.
* * *
If William’s wound troubled him, he showed no sign of it. As soon as possible after the king’s physician had extracted the arrow from his face, he was back with his fellow men-at-arms, ready to march across France. For that seemed to be the king’s plan. Harfleur had surrendered, yes—Henry had sat on a magnificent throne and accepted the keys to the city—but a single victory was not enough to win all of France, and the king had no intention of returning to England without the prize he came for. The majesty with which he had taken control of the city would leave the citizens in no doubt of his power. He alone could offer and revoke mercy. He alone should rule France. And, in that vein, he wrote to the dauphin, challenging him to trial by combat, the victor winning the crown of France.
The dauphin never replied, proving to William and his compatriots that the man was nothing but a common coward, while King Henry was a model of chivalric honor. What better way to resolve the question of the throne? The soldiers might not comprehend the intricacies of Salic law, but they needed no other proof that their king had the divine right to rule.
But there was no trial by combat. Henry could not force the challenge and, hence, could not secure the crown of France in that way. Around him, he saw that the tattered remains of his army left much to be desired. The illness that had plagued them during the siege had thinned the ranks and had not yet run its course. Men continued to die daily. The king had no choice but to send home the sick and the weak, leaving him with a much-reduced force. Undaunted, he ordered those strong enough to march with him to Calais.
William heard grumblings that the king’s advisors did not approve of this decision. They believed their numbers were too small to face the French. But Henry would brook no criticism and insisted they push forward. He told his men to prepare for an eight-day march and to abandon all superfluous supplies. They must travel quick and light. And then he told them they must behave with honor. Nothing was to be stolen, no woman would be violated. They would not destroy the land they crossed. The French army was his enemy, not the French people.
The latter he would govern; the former he would gladly annihilate.