You are cordially invited to Blythe Giffordâs
Royal Weddings
A hint of scandal this way comes!
Anne of Stamford and Lady Cecily serve two of the highest ladies in the land. And with their close proximity to the royal family they are privy to some of the greatest scandals the royal court has ever known!
As Anne and Cecilyâs worlds threaten to come crashing down two men enter their livesâdashing, gorgeous, and bringing with them more danger than ever before. Suddenly these two strong women must face a new challenge: resisting the power of seduction!
Follow Anne of Stamfordâs story in
Secrets at Court Already available
And read Cecily, Countess of Losfordâs story in
Whispers at Court June 2015
AUTHOR NOTE
Historically, for most children of royal birth, the course of true love not only ânever did run smoothâ, it was not expected to run at all. A royal wedding was typically more like the signing of a treaty than a celebration of love.
But King Edward III, who ruled England for most of the fourteenth century, had a soft spot in his heart for his oldest daughter. And her romance with a French prisoner of warâor hostageâis one of the most astonishing love stories of the medieval era.
Today, the very word âhostageâ brings shivers of fear. But during the medieval war between England and France an elaborate set of rulesâboth economic and chivalricâguided the taking of prisoners in battle. A hostage was held until a ransom was paid, but he was treated according to his noble station and expected to conduct himself accordingly. In return, some of the French knights held in the court of the English King were entertained (dare I say?) âroyallyâ.
Cecily, Countess of Losford, has no sympathy for the French hostagesâmen she blames for her fatherâs deathâand she disapproves of the Princessâs flirtation with one of them. In an effort to stop âwhispers at Courtâ, she forms an unlikely alliance with Marc de Marcel, a French hostage who learned long ago that for too many of his fellows, âhonourâ is no more than a word. As Cecily and Marc try to keep the English Princess and the French Lord apart the two of them become dangerously closeâuntil finally each must choose between the demands of honour and the desires of the heart.
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years later she became an overnight success when she sold her RWA Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Mills & Boon. Her books, set primarily in medieval England or early Tudor Scotland, usually feature a direct connection to historical royalty.
She loves to have visitors at blythegifford.com, âlikesâ at facebook.com/BlytheGifford and Tweets at twitter.com/BlytheGifford
For my readers, with all my thanks.
A special wave to the Chicago Divas,
who happily listened to me whine, and to Keena Kincaid, Terri Brisbin, Amanda Berry, Robin Owens and Kim Law, whose brainstorming triggered a solution.
Chapter One
Smithfield, LondonâNovember 11, 1363
Mon Dieu, this island is cold.
Frigid English wind whipped Marc de Marcelâs hair from his forehead, then slithered beneath the chainmail circling his neck. He peered at the knights at the other end of the field, wondering which would be his opponent and which would face his fellow Frenchman.
Well, it mattered not. âOne pass,â he muttered, âand Iâll unhorse either one.â
âThe code of chivalry calls for three runs with the lance,â Lord de Coucy said, âfollowed by three blows with the sword. Only then can a winner be declared.â
Marc sighed. It was a shame that jousts had become such tame affairs. He would have welcomed the opportunity to kill another goddamAnglais. âA waste of the horseâs strength. And mine.â
âBest not offend someone when you are at their mercy, mon ami. Cooperation with our captors will make our time here much more tolerable.â
âWe are hostages. Nothing can make that tolerable.â
âAh, the ladies can.â De Coucy nodded towards the stands. âThey are très jolie.â
He glanced at them. Women stretched to King Edwardâs right, near impossible to distinguish. The queen must be the one gowned in ermine-trimmed purple, but the rest were a blur of matching tan and violet.
Except for one. Her dark hair was graced with a gold circlet and she glared in his direction of the field with crossed arms and a frown. Even at this distance, he could read a loathing that matched his own, as if she despised them all.