I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Free from the siege?” I asked.

  “No, free from La Brabant!” said Brocas laughingly and he grimaced like a gorgon at the name.

  “Why, who’s she?” I asked.

  “She was his intended,” said Brocas. “But her father’s just broken off the match and wed her to the Count of Flanders instead. The king is furious, of course, but I daresay his highness is glad for the reprieve. They say the lady is a shrew and ill-favored at that.”

  “But if Flanders is England’s ally,” said I, “is it not unwise of the Count to take the lady that was promised to our prince?”

  “Nay, it is not the Count that is our ally, but the artisans,” replied Brocas patiently. “And that is no wonder, when their looms are all supplied with English wool. The Flemish guilds are for us, but the Count of Flanders favors the French. He rode with Philip against us at Crecy even while his own people were supporting us in Picardy.”

  “And Brabant?” I asked, confused about the tangled alliances of the lowland countries. “Whose side does he take?”

  “The Duke of Brabant has always fawned on Philip, but His Majesty assumed that this union with the Plantagents would bring Brabant into the English camp. Brabant and Flanders would put two arrows in our quiver to hedge in the eastern border of France.”

  “But the prince cannot marry Brabant’s daughter now.”

  “You say true,” said Brocas, “unless it were possible for a lady to have two husbands. Now Brabant’s daughter is in bed with Flanders, and Brabant is in bed with France.”

  “And the prince makes his bed alone,” said I.

  “Aye,” said Brocas with a wink, “though I warrant there are more than a few maids who would gladly keep it warm.”

  “What is this bawdy talk?” demanded the prince who had materialized behind us as quietly as a hunting cat.

  “We do but pass the time, highness,” said Brocas saucily with a shake of his curly locks, for the prince had kept us waiting long.

  “You had better pass the time in dressing yourselves,” said the prince curtly. “The hour approaches for my father’s fete.” We took his exhortation to heart and sought our rooms to change our raiment.

  In my years of service with the prince, I have often been amazed by the lavishness of his attire. The costume that his highness chose for the fete, however, was unparalleled in its opulence. His doublet was all of black and secured down the front with a row of perfectly matched pearls. The sleeves of the doublet were close fitting and buttoned with rubies and sapphires. A golden belt sat low upon his hips, with carvings of lions inset on dark enamel. The doublet ended midway down his thigh with a pair of red hose covering the rest of his leg. At the base of this costume, a pair of leather buskins jutted out with martial acuity. On these, the shoemaker’s awl had been as hard at work as an Italian’s paintbrush. A delicate tracery of leafwork, as elaborate as any rose window, adorned the shoes from heel to point. Over all of this splendor, the prince cast a black cloak scalloped along the edges; he pinned it to the side with a great brooch that bore the crest of the Plantagenets.

  You may ask how the prince managed to obtain such fantastic attire in a foreign land when our army, only a week since, and lain encamped in the field. Such a question could only be asked because I have not done full justice in describing our “English Calais.” The camp itself had every sort of cooper, cobbler, and carpenter that a man might desire; there was no reason that the prince should lack a tailor simply because he tarried in the field.

  The prince, when procuring his own raiment for the revelry, had not neglected to provide for his retainers. My own suit of green and gold was far less dazzling than his highness’s costume, but still the finest clothes I had ever worn. I adorned myself with particular care, for the fete was of particular interest to me. The ladies who had come over from England had not gone back again. Joan of Kent was sure to be at the ball, and in her train was a maid with red-gold hair with whom I longed to have further speech.

  We were late coming to the ball. The musicians had already struck up their carols as we entered the doors of the hall. It was too near to the sea for flowers, so the room had been garlanded with greenery from the marsh. But the bright costumes of a hundred ladies made up for any lack of flowers, and my eyes flickered over shapely forms in red, yellow, and green joining hands in their own garland as they danced.

  The king and his fair consort sat on a dais overlooking the floor. Her majesty, Queen Philippa, was too far advanced in pregnancy to partake in the revelries of the ball, but the intricacy of her costume must have made up for her forced inactivity. Her short figure was encased in a mosaic of gemstones, and the golden coronet upon her headdress sparkled with the vivacity of the dancers. The queen smiled softly to see her eldest son enter, and I followed my master to her side where she greeted him with a kiss.

  “What a sight you are, my son! As handsome as you are brave.”

  “But neither as handsome nor as brave as my mother is beautiful.”

  She laughed a little at his compliment, and bade him sit by her and talk a while. The prince dismissed me with a nod, and I set out to find the fairest flower in the room, by which you must understand that I mean Margery.

  The lady Joan of Kent was dancing, always dancing, for no sooner would she gratify one lord’s wish, than another would whisk her away into the estampie. Just now, she was with William Montague, the earl of Salisbury, and I saw Mortimer hovering patiently in the background waiting to engage her hand. It was no wonder that Joan was so sought after by men. Her violet eyes met theirs frankly and innocently, her rich coils of hair glowed like honey, and her curving figure swayed gracefully to the tune. I was less enamored with Joan than most but I kept a wary eye out for where she might be, for I suspected that wherever Joan strayed my sweet mistress Margery would not be far off.

  I spotted Margery seated snugly against the wall. She was dressed in the blue of a cloudless summer day. Her gown was simple; the bodice and sleeves molded tightly to her form and a great cascade of fabric felldown from her waist. I stepped before her a little tremulously, blinking stupidly like a mole come into the sunlight.

  “The prince’s messenger boy!” she said with a laugh, and her red-gold hair nearly shook loose from the gold netting that confined it. “You are late,” she said reprovingly.

  “I am honored that milady should notice,” I said, for from her words I supposed that she must have been looking out for me.

  “There is little that I do not notice,” said she. “For instance, I notice that you do not wear my color.”

  I glanced down at my yellow and green doublet in some confusion and saw that it did sort poorly with her blue gown. “If milady had sent word of what she would have me wear, I should have contrived to find another costume.”

  “Ah,” said she, “But I feared that if I sent a message, you would have lost it or given it into the hands of another.”

  “You are too cruel, lady,” said I, flushing with mortification.

  “Cruel, but not too cruel,” she said gaily. I saw that it was her pleasure to laugh at me.

  “I had thought to find you dancing, lady,” said I.

  “That is surely unlikely,” said she, “for I have taken a vow.”

  “What manner of vow is this?” I demanded.

  “That I shall dance only with a man in green and gold, and gentlemen of this description are scarce.”

  “Why, here’s a lucky chance,” said I, “for I have the very outfit to match your vow.” I held out my hand to her so that we could join the circle.

  “Ah, but my vow was very clear that I must dance only with a man in those colors,” said she. “I see none such here.”

  My beardless face flushed once again. I would have answered her hotly, but her attention had turned elsewhere. A man in a great red doublet stood before her and begged her to enter the dance with him. It was Thomas Holland, that one-eyed knave who had captured the Comte d’Eu. His decorated clothing displayed
the degree that his fortunes had improved since Caen, and his full face displayed the self-satisfied leer that had always betokened it. Margery lowered her gaze when he addressed her, and the light in her eyes was snuffed out like a guttering candle. “Sir Thomas,” said she, “I do not mean to dance tonight.”

  “Natheless, Margery,” said he, imperiously, “I think that you will dance with me.” I listened to hear her sharp retort, but nothing came. She rose without a word and put her hand in his. “Good girl,” said Holland, as he led her out into the circle, complacent and preening like an overfed cat. The musicians struck up another carol, and I watched Holland put his arm about her waist. My throat began to burn with anger, but the anger was not at Margery.

  *****

  The king himself was fond of dancing, and he usually joined in a carol or two at the side of his fair consort. But Queen Philippa, as I have told you, was indisposed to dance that night, and so the king led out two or three of the other ladies in turn. As the evening wore on, I saw the king take the hand of his cousin Joan. Montague had already bespoke her for the dance, but he graciously gave way to his sovereign.

  The prince, who had spent the evening at the side of his mother or in speech with several of his father’s captains, approached me with a glass of wine and inquired after my enjoyment of the festivities. “You do not dance, I see?”

  “No,” said I shortly. Margery had disappeared after her dance with Holland and I was in no mood to pay compliments to another lady.

  “So,” said the prince, and he seemed abstracted in thought. “Sir Walter Manny says that my father means to withdraw from Calais with all speed.”

  “Is the truce then concluded?” I asked.

  “Soon,” said the prince, “for the French are of no mind to fight with this foul pestilence sweeping their land. And His Majesty’s of no mind to stay in France and fight the infection as well as Philip. We’ll keep our gains and retire, then come back again when the black cloud is gone.”

  I grunted in agreement, but the prince saw something amiss in my countenance. “Methinks that there is a black cloud hanging about you, Potenhale,” said he. “What has put you out?”

  “This fellow Holland….” I burst out, but I’d no sooner said it than I saw that the prince was not listening.

  All around us a stream of perplexed brows and inquisitive eyes had turned toward an alcove in the southwest corner of the hall; the prince’s own gaze had followed the same path. Thither, at the conclusion of the last dance, King Edward had escorted his fair cousin, and there they still stood. Or rather, there the lady Joan stood, while is majesty knelt on the flagstones beside her, picking up what seemed to be a scrap of linen.

  “Sweet Mary!” murmured Sir Bernard Brocas, who was standing close by me. “’Tis the lady’s garter.”

  A lady tittered on my right. From somewhere in the crowd, I could make out Audley’s harsh croak—“it were a right cousinly duty, to put the garter back on the lady’s leg.”

  On the other side of the room Sir Walter Manny manfully manufactured conversation with Thomas Bradwardine. “Simple truth is a luxury that the warrior does not know….”

  “Hussy!” breathed a lady in red and silver, the same lady who had been guarding the door the time I entered the queen’s pavilion.

  “Hush,” breathed another, with a graying head of hair.

  Queen Philippa, from her seat on the dais, placidly and pointedly directed her attention elsewhere.

  But though Philippa chose to ignore the pretty scene in the alcove, it was there that the crowd as a whole had focused its attention. The actors in the corner continued their play. King Edward, laughing, stood up and in his hands he held a piece of lace. “The spoils of war,” he jested merrily and then tied the garter securely around his own leg. General laughter followed; a few gentlemen applauded as if they were viewing a rude burlesque.

  The prince stood like one transfixed. His fingers, vine-like, wound tightly about the half-filled flagon in his hand. His eyes were as wide as a full moon in harvest. His jaw had tightened with such force that I doubted it would ever open again. “God in heaven!” he breathed between clenched teeth. “And is this why he bade me not to touch her?”

  Someone came close to the prince and gripped his wrist warningly. It was Brocas. “Quiet, highness!” he said, and the prince said no more.

  The king, meanwhile, had at last become aware of the staring crowd. He posed nonchalantly with hand on hip, extending the leg that now held the garter. “Cousin!” he said to the lady Joan, “Your beauty has overpowered them all. Look, they stare like men bewitched!”

  Joan stood silently, with her eyes on the floor and a warm tinge of red lighting up her golden complexion. “Please, sir,” she said softly. “Do not make a shame of me before all these people.”

  “Shame?” echoed the king in an expression of surprise. “Why, what is shameful in this? The lady has dropped her garter and I have picked it up. Is there any harm in that? Ho, Bradwardine! You are my confessor. Have I aught to confess for removing a lady’s garter from the floor?”

  “I cannot say,” said Bradwardine straightforwardly, “since I do not know how the lady’s garter came to be loosened. But there are many here who think that something shameful has come to pass. Do you not see it in their faces?”

  The king gazed around the room slowly, meeting every eye and matching every stare. “Is this then what you all think, that there is something shameful between myself and the lady Joan? As God is my witness, there is no shame here. The real shame lies in you. Shamed be him who evil thinks!”

  At this rebuke, the crowd began to blush along with the lady in question. Some turned their heads immediately, trying to pretend that they had not noticed the king’s conduct. Sir Walter Manny stepped forward, offered the lady Joan his arm, and gallantly escorted her to a chair. The king dropped the subject entirely, and began to rally Bradwardine about his latest writings. Slowly, conversations began to resume.

  His royal highness, it seemed, was the only one unable to conveniently put the episode out of his mind. Brocas, however, performed a friend’s office, and cajoled the prince outside into the open air. A moment later, Brocas reappeared. “The prince has returned to his quarters,” he said to me. “He requests you to tell his mother that he is unwell and to take leave of her for him.”

  I nodded and made my way to the dais. King Edward had returned there before me and, in low tones, was exchanging words with his lady. I stood at a respectful distance, but by careful concentration I could just make out their words.

  “You are not angry with me, my love?” said the king.

  “Nay, lord,” answered Philippa. “But the common folk are foolish in their talk. Have a care or rumors will fly so thick that no man will wed my sweet Joan.”

  “That would be a great pity,” said the king, “for I have a marriage in mind for her already.”

  “Indeed?” asked the queen. “I had hoped that you would turn this affair over in your mind. How soon will the match take place?”

  “Soon enough. We leave Calais within the fortnight. I can announce the betrothal on our arrival in England.”

  “That is well,” said the queen, “yet sooner would be better still; I have had much ado to keep him from seeing her. He kept to himself well enough as long as the Brabant betrothal lasted, but now, alas….”

  The king shook his head in displeasure and murmured something I could not catch. I had stood there too long for my own comfort. Anxious to avoid being labeled an eavesdropper, I stepped forward noisily and fell to one knee. “What is it, sir?” demanded the king.

  “Your Majesties,” I said, addressing them both, “his royal highness the prince feels unwell and has retired to his tent. He sends his regretful apologies that he cannot attend the remainder of your fete and takes humble leave of you both.”

  “Please God he not be taken with the plague!” said the queen, a mild terror audible in her voice. “I will have my leech sent for, and an
y care he needs shall be provided.”

  I assured her that he had shown none of the symptoms common to the pestilence, neither spots nor swellings of any kind. She bade me look after him well, and on her word of dismissal I turned about to leave. The hall was crowded and it took some skill to thread my way through the dancers. I was not sad to leave early; the ball had been nothing but frustration for me. But as I went out the door I could not forbear taking one last look behind me to see Margery in her sky-blue dress; she was seated on a bench and frowning heavily as she watched Lady Joan dance with Sir Thomas Holland.

  *****

  The king, as events transpired, did not wait to evacuate to England before betrothing the lady Joan. Sir Brocas was the first to have news of it. He came in suddenly while the prince and I were at breakfast and stood about woodenly until the prince asked him what was the matter.

  “Here’s a small to-do,” said Brocas with a demeanor of forced calm. “It seems that our friend William Montague has been monstrously valiant in the course of this campaign. And His Majesty, to reward said valor, could think of no better way than to unite him with the house of Plantagenet.”

  “Indeed?” said the prince with arched eyebrow. “And how is such a union to take place.”

  “By matrimony.”

  The room grew warm with silence

  “What is the lady’s name?” the prince asked softly, but I think he knew the answer before he spoke the question.

  “It is your cousin, Lady Joan of Kent,” replied Brocas. “She and Salisbury are to be married upon our return to England.”

  The prince hesitated. “And the lady Joan? How does she like the arrangement?”