One

1360

Palais Du Rois, Paris

‘Poxy, whoring, conceited bastards.’

Cécile d’Armagnac spun to confront her father, her anger far from spent. ‘My betrothal to the Duc de Berri is severed without explanation. Am I to greet this news with lines of poetry, Sir? The Dauphin craves the alliance of Armagnac and Iknow his brother desires me, so what malady ails them?’ She slammed her gem-encrusted goblet down. ‘Merde! I was to wear gold Luccan brocade and the finest rubies in France. Instead I shall be the laughingstock of the court!’

‘Sheathe your tongue, girl! I am yet your father.’ Jean d’Armagnac’s stomach churned at his own words. He sank onto the stool and stared for a moment at the rich tapestries decorating his daughter’s royal chamber. Then he drew a deep breath. ‘The Dauphin still requires the alliance of Armagnac. Duc de Berri will marry your sister, Jeanne, and I am here to give you explanations.’

‘Jeanne?Mother of God. She is a milksop! A snivelling baby. She’s more likely to wet the Duc’s bed!’

‘Céci,’ groaned Comte d’Armagnac, ‘give me a little peace.’

Cécile heard the defeat in her father’s voice and sharply swung around. This parent was everything to her. With growing alarm she noted his drooping shoulders and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. His whole bearing slouched rather than sat.

‘Papa! You are ill.’ Almost tripping over her velvet hem she kneeled at his feet and laid her cheek in his lap. She gently kissed his hands. ‘Forgive me, Papa. Forgive my wicked temper. Tell me what grieves you so.’

Jean d’Armagnac withdrew his warrior-calloused palm and stroked her honey-blonde hair. ‘The truth, daughter. And it is you who must forgive me. The Dauphin was right to break your troth, and the fault is mine alone. For years I have lacked the courage to speak.’ He lifted her chin to meet the clear, blue gaze. ‘Cécile, you were a gift to me beyond my expectations, but you come not from my loins. Your blood is not Armagnac.’

Cécile stared in open-mouthed bewilderment. She drew back slowly, her eyes glazed. ‘I am not Armagnac?’

‘No.’

‘Then Jean le Bos