When the baron and his compatriots returned—successful, of course—from their hunt, the atmosphere at the castle brightened at once. Lord Esterby’s mood had quite improved, and he had brought with him a newcomer, Hugh de Morland, another dear friend of Cecily’s husband. Adeline arranged for a feast to welcome them back, and the ladies were aglow at having another handsome gentleman to fawn over. If the troubadour regretted losing some of their attention, he did nothing to show it, and Adeline went out of her way to shower her husband with affection. She did, however, ask Gabrieli if he meant to finish the tale he had started before the hunters had left, that of Lancelot and Guinevere. He demurred to her request—for that was what he considered it—with a handsome smile.
After the assembled company had stuffed themselves with roast pheasant, broiled venison with pepper sauce, and a great pie stuffed with chicken and rabbit, they turned their attention to sweets and then to spiced wine and cheese. Well-sated, the baron called to Gabrieli, inviting him to begin the entertainment.
The troubadour gave Cecily a smile as he prepared his lute, but he did not keep his focus on her. Instead, he let his eyes linger on Adeline, but only for a moment, and then began to sing. As he performed, his rich voice filling the hall, he played to the entire crowd, never focusing on anyone for more than a short while. His behavior was altogether different than it had been before, when he had stared so blatantly at Cecily. She knew that she might be misguided, but she was convinced that his early ploy was meant as a distraction. Everyone had noticed him favoring her, and that was what they would remember, should anyone ask about his behavior.
Now, though, he had found a willing partner in flirtation, which meant he had to be more careful. Cecily knew little of love, but she did recognize the warmth in Gabrieli’s eyes in those brief instants he looked at Adeline. William had gazed on her that way, on the day of their wedding. The realization made her miss her husband in a most unexpected way that made her heart beat too rapidly and her cheeks flush. This caught her unaware, and she hardly knew what to think. Surely a husband would not think of his wife in the way a lover did of the object of his affection? Cecily clenched her hands together as she realized that her fingers had started to tingle.
“Are you well?” Hugh de Morland asked, coming to sit next to her on the bench near the fire. She had selected the spot as it gave her the best vantage point from which to simultaneously watch the troubadour and Adeline. “You’ve come away from your friends and look rather worried. In fact, I’ve never seen a countenance so clouded.”
“That is not a fair charge,” she said, turning to him. “I’m not worried in the least. I can’t quite put my finger on the emotion coursing through me at the moment, but it must come from the sad story to which we are listening. Lancelot’s hopeless love, Guinevere’s betrayal of Arthur.”
“You feel no sorrow for her?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting up nearly to his hairline. “She did not choose her husband. Do we blame Iseult in the same way when she forsakes King Mark for her Tristan?”
“I cast no blame,” Cecily said. “But you cannot claim Guinevere’s actions brought happiness to anyone, herself included.”
“Surely they brought her—and Lancelot—some measure of happiness, if only temporarily.”
Cecily did not like the way he was studying her face, and she feared he was misinterpreting her words. “No lady would want that sort of happiness. Not ever, Master de Morland.”
“You need not be so formal with me, Lady Hargrave.” There was no mistaking the emphasis he put on her title.
“We have only just met,” Cecily said.
“Yet we are bound to become the closest of friends. William would have it no other way.” Truly, his smile was charming and made his blue eyes shine. “Do you insist on having no sympathy for poor Queen Guinevere?”
“None at all. Iseult did not marry King Mark, did she? Guinevere was Arthur’s wife.”
“Guinevere had no choice in the matter. She was all but bartered as part of a political alliance. And Merlin warned Arthur that if he married her, she would fall in love with his best knight.”
“How can a true knight, supposedly full of virtue, love his king’s wife?” Cecily asked.
“It is true then,” de Morland said. “You have no sympathy for the lovers.”
“No lady could.” Cecily looked straight ahead, unwilling to meet his eyes. When she could feel that he was no longer looking at her, she risked a glance in his direction. His lips curled in a half smile as he stared at the troubadour.
After sitting quietly for some time, he turned to her again and spoke. “Yet Guinevere remained ever loyal to her Lancelot, did she not? Malory tells us she had a good end because she was a true lover.”
“Malory saying it does not make it true,” Cecily said.
To this, de Morland replied with a laugh. “Truly, you are young and your innocence is most fetching.” Spotting Father Simon not far away, he waved the priest over. “Come, Simon, and sit with us. William has got himself a fine wife.”
* * *
William could hear the French all night. They called to their servants, they drank wine, and they conversed in tones that sounded, to him, full of arrogance. Not that he could pretend to make out the words. King Henry, unable to risk missing the first signs of attack, had commanded his army to observe a strict silence. William wondered what their enemy thought, what they made of the quiet across the line.
The weather had taken a grievous toll on his armor. The march from Harfleur had provided little opportunity to rub away the rust that came after so much abuse, but as William bent his arms and knees, he could feel that it had not degraded to the point that it would inhibit his fighting. Unable to sleep, he wandered among the Duke of Gloucester’s men, up and down the line, ignoring the heavy rain pelting him that soaked his padded jerkin through the joins of his armor.
His compatriots did their best to keep the king’s order of quiet, but they still whispered among themselves, careful to modulate their voices. William started when he heard someone behind him and turned to see one of the company’s priests.
“Shall I hear your confession, Sir William Hargrave?” he asked.
“I’ve already made it,” William replied. “What have any of us to fear, though, if our cause is just?”
“And do you believe our cause is just?”
William did not recognize this new voice, which came from behind the priest. Nor did he recognize the hooded figure, when it stepped toward him.
“The king says it is, and I do not argue with the king,” William said.
“That does not mean you believe he is right,” the man said.
“It is not my place to draw any conclusions on the matter.” William pulled himself up to his full height. “He is my lord and I shall fight for him—and die for him, if that is what God wishes—as any Englishman would.”
“You care so little about the fate of your soul?” the stranger asked. “If the king’s cause is not just, you will be condemned for your role in the bloodshed.”
“I have made my peace with God,” William said. “And as for the king … do you not think he envies us our position? Tonight, we struggle with the anxiety that comes with the anticipation of battle, but the king wrestles with the fate of all of our souls. We will follow him wherever he bids us to go and owe him our respect and our confidence. Where do you think he will reside in hell if he leads us in a cause that is not just? I would much rather be a simple soldier, fighting for my king, than to have that weight on me.”
The man nodded and walked away, his bearing regal, and then was engulfed by darkness. There could be no doubt it was the king. The priest made the sign of the cross in front of William and offered a blessing. William nodded thanks and remained there, standing, until the first light of dawn struggled through the heavy clouds in the sky.
It would not be long now.