Laughter, dancing, and song filled the days that followed Hugh de Morland’s arrival at Lord Esterby’s estate. He loved—and demanded—constant entertainment, and delighted in the attention of Adeline’s ladies. At last, there was someone to compete for their interest with Dario Gabrieli. Cecily, too, enjoyed his company, but she found him more challenging than alluring. After their conversation about Lancelot and Guinevere, she had asked Lord Esterby if she might borrow his copy of Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
She was familiar with the story, of course—what girl in England wasn’t?—but she found that returning to it as a married woman made it a different book altogether. Truth be told, she had paid little attention to Lancelot and Guinevere on her first reading, being more interested in the adventures of the Knights of the Round Table. Now, though, she began to believe that the entire work hinged on the illicit relationship between the queen and her husband’s favorite knight.
She was sitting next to Adeline by the fire, embroidering a rose on the wall hanging she’d been working on, when de Morland strode into the room and took the seat across from her, on the other side of the mantel.
“You have given me a great deal to think about, Master de Morland,” Cecily said. “I have revisited Malory and cannot agree with your assessment of Lancelot and Guinevere.”
“Hugh, you must call me Hugh. I had no idea my words would stay with you for so long.”
“Do not make what I say something it is not.” Cecily frowned. “How could a true knight—which Lancelot is called again and again—betray his king in such a personal matter?”
“He is noble and honorable in every other way, is he not?” de Morland said. “Perhaps we are meant to forgive his one sin.”
“That is for God to do, not us.”
“You are a very serious young lady. I hardly know what to make of you.”
“Need you make anything of me?”
“Perhaps not, but I find I want to.”
Adeline looked up from her own needlework. “Truly I have never heard two people engaged in so murky a conversation. I suspect your interest lies not in Arthur’s knight and his queen, but in persons far closer to home.”
“Whatever can you mean by that?” Cecily asked, wondering if Gabrieli had seen her in the corridor when he was leaving Adeline’s chamber that night not so long ago.
Adeline did not reply because the troubadour had entered the room and was bowing in front of her. She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and her silvery laughter filled the space. “My dear Gabrieli, would you be so good as to escort me to the stables? I have a sudden desire for a ride through the forest. Perhaps you do as well?”
“I am a guest in your house, madam,” the troubadour said. “I could deny you no reasonable request.”
Cecily felt strange watching them leave together, and from the look on de Morland’s face, he shared the sentiment. “They are close, are they not?” he asked.
“Not in an inappropriate way, I’m sure,” Cecily said, nearly choking on the words.
Her companion once again raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss Lancelot and Guinevere.”
* * *
By the time the sun brightened the horizon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind it a mess of thick mud nearly impossible to walk through. In the hazy light of dawn, William could make out the French taking up their positions, row after row after row of meticulously outfitted fighters, led by the flowers of their nation’s aristocracy. Their armor gleamed and their numbers seemed to go on forever.
King Henry, who had already heard three masses that morning, also wore armor that gleamed, and he sat on a small, modest steed before his gathered men, helmet in his hands. This man, William’s sovereign, never tried to hide his identity on the battlefield. His bascinet, which he always wore with the visor up, was bejeweled and encircled with a crown, the Black Prince’s ruby taking pride of place in the center front. Henry’s bravery and confidence inspired all around him. And when he spoke that day, reminding his soldiers that his cause was just, and that, as always, he would fight with them, there was stirring amongst the men.
“We fight for England and for all those things we hold dear,” the king said. “But you do not need me to remind you of that. Instead, recall that the French have threatened to cut off the bow fingers of every one of our archers. And recall what they did in Soissons. Today is the feast of two noble saints: Crispin and Crispinian, who suffered mightily at the hands of the Romans before their martyrdom at that very same Soissons. Can any of us doubt that on this holy day we will avenge the horrors of Soissons and show the French that they may not cut anything from the hands of our archers?”
The soldiers’ voices united in a cry, low at first, but building in urgency and volume. The king waited, drinking in the enthusiasm of his men.
“I am a man of honor,” he said, motioning for them to quiet. “So I will offer one last parley. If the French are reasonable”—his men all but howled—“they will meet our demands. If not, they face nothing but destruction on a battlefield of their own choosing.”
The soldiers cheered again, shouting their wishes that Henry would live a long life and lead them to many victories. But no one doubted what would happen next. The French would reject all of the king’s demands and before the sun set, the field near Agincourt castle, above which the English army stood, would be soaked with blood.