The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  But I was to be disappointed. For two months we idled our time in St Bavo’s Abbey while my cousin spent his days with his close advisors and the queen made preparations for her confinement. There were no entertainments and nothing to think of but what lay ahead.

  Then one day, with the king absent on secret business and the season of Lent fast approaching, the queen disappeared into her rooms with her favourite ladies leaving us girls to enjoy our new-found freedom.

  ‘We hear there is no money.’

  It was the first day of Shrove feasting and I had failed to notice our old friends, the two knights of the Margrave of Juliers’ train, sidling up to my shoulder.

  I turned slowly, not wishing to appear too eager for conversation. ‘Who has no money, Sir?’

  ‘Why, your king, damoiselle,’ said the older one, pressing himself close. ‘As I told you before, the wool sheds are empty. Now we hear the English commons will not support him and his credit is no longer good.’

  ‘That is nonsense.’

  ‘Alas, no, damoiselle,’ he said. stroking my sleeve with one of his fingers. ‘You must understand, the princes want the gold they were promised and your king is unable to pay. He has returned to England. He has abandoned you. Left you to your fate.’

  His friend, who was edging close to Elizabeth, spoke quietly. ‘We have heard that your queen, the great lady from Hainault, is in low spirits. She is angry your king has fled to England. They say she weeps.’

  Elizabeth looked at me as if to say, what would these foreign knights know about the goings on in the queen’s rooms.

  ‘It is believed his affections are much engaged elsewhere,’ the man whispered in my ear. ‘They say the damsels of the queen’s chamber are no more than whores for your king, and that his closest friend is forced to wear cuckold’s horns.’

  His companion placed a proprietorial hand on my waist, ‘And they say, and I am certain it is true, that when your queen is recovered from her present accouchement, she will take a lover.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ I protested, amazed they would talk of such matters to us.

  Both men held up their hands. ‘We only repeat what we hear, damoiselles, and what we hear is that the marriage of the King and Queen of England lies in disarray.’

  It was untrue, of course it was. The marriage of the king and queen was strong; you couldn’t put a single hair between their closeness. But there were uncomfortable memories: Lady Catherine’s scented garden where Elizabeth said she often entertained the king; my cousin’s hand resting on her arm and a meeting of their eyes; a pretty maid dropping a basin at the king’s approach and, at the tournament in Brussels, a wisp of silk which was not the queen’s, tucked into his padded jacket.

  Next day, Lady Catherine emerged from the queen’s rooms and Elizabeth spent most of the afternoon with her mother.

  ‘We are not to worry,’ said Elizabeth on her return. ‘The king has gone to consult with the parliament. And she says I am to be married soon. It is certain to be a man of good family. My father wouldn’t waste me on someone unworthy. What of your mother? Who does she want for you?’

  I remembered that Easter at Bisham with my mother visiting: endless dark spring days, fog-filled and damp, with lengthy recitations of my sins, deeply disapproving silences, numerous penances for my many misdeeds and woven through it all, the unmistakable thread of maternal dislike. The queen, it was made clear, had been more than merciful because my behaviour at Woodstock had been unforgivable.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whsipered.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll find someone,’ laughed Elizabeth. ‘Some toothless old greybeard with a sagging belly and scrawny legs who won’t mind you being a traitor’s daughter. If they pay enough, they’re bound to find someone.’

  I hadn’t told her about the old man in Antwerp. I hadn’t told anyone except Alice. And Thomas Holand.

  That evening I too received a summons from Lady Catherine. She regarded me from the far end of her polished table with a smile which started and ended with her teeth.

  ‘I have a letter from your mother. She enquires after your spiritual education and says she wishes you to be married. She asks if you are ready. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Catherine,’ I muttered, blushing.

  She eyed me as if I were a juicy little sweetmeat, tempting but possibly laced with poison and hence unwise to eat.

  ‘The king is generous,’ she said. ‘He has brokered this marriage and you are extremely fortunate to have been chosen.’

  She was almost crooning at the thought of the king’s generosity. I wondered what he had given her.

  ‘Marriage means one thing above all else, Joan, and that is obedience to the will of your husband and his family. You do understand?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Catherine.’

  She didn’t believe me. She considered me stupid.

  ‘You must learn to curb your own desires because they have no place in a woman’s life.’

  This was a repeat of the lectures I received at regular intervals: don’t question, be obedient, be prudent, be virtuous, be merciful, be good.

  ‘There is nothing finer for a young girl than to serve God through her husband. That is where true joy lies. And when you have given him a son you will have accomplished God’s purpose.’

  I gulped. A son! With that monstrous old man! And if there was no son he would probably beat me. He might even kill me!

  I raised my eyes. Lady Catherine was idly running her fingers over my mother’s letter. There had been no mention of wedding clothes, no talk of measurements or fittings, no holding up of lengths of silk or discussions about my hair which was certain to be heavily veiled.

  ‘Will my marriage be soon, Lady Catherine?’

  She sniffed. ‘His Grace has requested we wait until he returns. He wishes to see you wed.’

  ‘When will he return?’

  ‘That is not your business.’

  She looked at me severely as if I needed to be reminded of my place, which in her eyes was very low indeed.

  ‘We must none of us forget what we owe the king; you most of all.’

  She shouldn’t have said that. I knew exactly what I owed the king. I owed my fatherless state to the king. It was he who had signed the death warrant which had taken my father to the executioner’s block and however much I loved my cousin I could never forgive him for what he had done. My father hadn’t been worth fighting for and he hadn’t been worth saving.

  I left Lady Catherine’s room, dragging my feet down the stairs and out into the cloisters. Beyond the arches on the far side of the paved area a man was lighting torches and in the distance the abbey dogs were barking.

  I heard a faint chink of metal. Someone was in the shadows.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I said nervously.

  ‘My lady?’

  Thomas Holand. Of course. Who else?

  ‘What are you doing here, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Seeking solitude, my lady. And you?’

  ‘I too wanted to be alone.’

  ‘Then we are both destined to be disappointed.’

  I’d been very careful to keep well out of his way these past weeks and was annoyed at finding him here but I could hardly turn round and leave, that would not be polite. He didn’t say anything else and the silence lengthened and grew, filling the cloisters like a fog, until I could barely breathe.

  ‘When I am married I shall not speak with you,’ I said in a rush. ‘My husband would not allow it.’

  ‘Naturally not.’

  ‘As a married woman I must do as my husband bids me.’

  His teeth gleamed in the darkness

  ‘If I were your husband I would keep you under lock and key, my lady.’

  He took a step out of the shadows and now
I could see him clearly. He wore a new cloak of some quite expensive cloth. Of course he was a knight and my cousin would have given him some manors.

  ‘Are you rich Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Are you after a loan?’

  I dipped my head. ‘No, of course not.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I wondered if you might be in need of ready coin. I know how these things work for young ladies.’

  ‘So, you are rich?’

  ‘No, my lady, I am not. What little money the king has given me has been spent. Suits of armour are expensive and good horses even more so. It’s a costly business being a knight and a man can’t appear impoverished, not if he wishes to make his way in the world.’

  ‘But have you no other income?’

  Surely he must have something, how else could he manage?

  ‘I am a second son.’

  ‘Has your father not made provision for you?’

  He hesitated. ‘My father is dead. He died in difficult circumstances.’

  ‘What sort of circumstances?’

  He sighed. ‘You are a very inquisitive young woman. If you must know, he was killed, a matter of revenge for something he’d done, something his enemies regarded as a betrayal. So they cut off his head and sent it to the man who had ordered his killing.’

  I clutched the pillar to stop my legs from giving way. My father had lost his head for something he’d done, something the king’s mother regarded as a betrayal.

  ‘They cut off my father’s head,’ I said in a small voice.

  He looked at me carefully.

  ‘Who was your father?’

  ‘He was the king’s uncle.’

  I blinked. I couldn’t cry, not here in front of Thomas Holand.

  ‘I know nothing,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what he did or why he was killed and no-one talks of it.’

  ‘What happened to you and your mother?’

  ‘My cousin Margaret says we lost everything.’

  He nodded as if he understood. ‘It’s hard being the wife of a man branded a traitor. My mother had daughters at home and nothing to live on, and I was no longer welcome in the lord’s house where I’d been sent because no man wants a turncoat’s son whispering his secrets and seducing his wives and daughters when the candles are out.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I was barely twelve years old.’

  Twelve was nothing. I thought Thomas Holand with his sleepy eyes and twisting words would have been capable of corrupting his nursemaid in the cradle.

  ‘What did you do?’

  He smiled. ‘What any sensible younger son would do. I offered myself to the king. I said I would fight for him. I said I was brave and strong and would be loyal and true to his banner. Then I demonstrated my skills by knocking down the first half dozen boys who tried to take me on. I was an aggressive little brat with hard knuckles and I was determined to succeed. So I became one of the king’s men and fought in his battles.’

  ‘And that’s why you are poor?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not poor, my lady, it’s just that I’m not rich; not yet.’

  ‘But one day you hope to be rich?’

  ‘If a man is prepared to take risks there are many ways to become rich.’

  I should have known he was a risk-taker and like any sensible young woman, should have had a care to my defences because where Thomas Holand was concerned I had begun to realise that my fortifications were badly in need of repair. But I told myself he was just an ordinary man and so it didn’t really matter.

  Two weeks later, with rain drumming heavily on the abbey roof, the queen gave birth to a son – John. A message was dispatched to England, the Duke of Brabant indicated his pleasure at being asked to stand sponsor and Lady Catherine bestowed a smile on the assembled company. I gave a sigh of relief. Nothing had really changed. Everything was how it should be.

  But nothing was how it should be because no amount of kind words from the duke or smiles from Lady Catherine could delay the awful day of my marriage.

  The Béguinage of St Elisabeth lay in a quiet corner of the town some little distance from the abbey. I had never visited but had heard others talk of what a pleasant place it was.

  ‘The béguines will not expect a formal presentation,’ said Lady Catherine briskly. ‘It is simply a little gift, nothing of value, merely to let them know they have not been forgotten during Her Grace’s confinement.’

  She looked at me, impatience and annoyance shadowing her eyes.

  ‘It will not be long until you are a married woman, Joan, and charitable giving will then be part of your duties. Your husband will expect it. You have stitched many cloths for the sisters of St Frideswide and seen how broken meats are given to the poor at the gate so you are not unpractised in these matters.’

  Not long! This marriage was perilously close and I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps I could run away like St Frideswide; hire a boat and escape into the oak woods. But I had no money and had foolishly refused the offer of a loan and I had no idea where there was an oak wood of sufficient size to shelter me.

  ‘I would go myself,’ continued Lady Catherine, ‘but naturally it is impossible with the queen still confined and His Grace due back any day. I have arranged for Sir William’s steward to accompany you and one of the maids will carry the basket.’

  At the bottom of the courtyard steps I found a plump dark-haired woman waiting patiently with a cloth-covered basket placed firmly at her feet. I looked round anxiously for Sir William’s steward.

  ‘My lady?’

  It was Thomas Holand, smiling the way he always did.

  ‘May God keep you well, my lady.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ I said, not wanting to be drawn into conversation.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I am to be your escort.’

  ‘You?’ I was panic stricken. ‘Why you?’

  ‘Oh, I fancied a ride in the sunshine as a man does and the earl has no need of my services this morning.’

  ‘You are Sir William’s steward?’

  ‘I am. I told you I had been offered a position. Do you not approve?’

  I looked at my feet. ‘It is nothing to do with me,’ I muttered. ‘You may do as you please.’

  ‘He laughed at my confusion. ‘I shall.’

  He called a groom to bring the horses and I eyed the cushioned seat behind Thomas Holand’s saddle with dismay. Lady Catherine disapproved of a girl riding astride, spreading her legs across a horse’s back. She said it gave rise to wicked thoughts.

  He swung himself easily into the saddle and waited while the groom lifted me up. I sat there, turned sideways, barely touching him, not daring to lean against his back, but when he pulled the horse round I had to grab at him to prevent myself from falling off.

  On any other day I would have noticed how glorious the streets of Ghent were, how pretty the houses, how grand the churches and how delightful the little sparkling canals; but with my cheek hard up against Thomas Holand’s broad back and my fingers clutching his belt, I was aware of nothing but his nearness, the rise and fall of his breathing and the dusty male scent of his clothing.

  At last the swaying movement slowed. Ahead lay a cluster of brightly painted houses laid out neatly behind a low lime-washed wall. To one side was a vast drying meadow shimmering with hundreds of gently billowing cloths, and beyond the meadow, an orchard.

  ‘The béguinage,’ said Thomas Holand, making to dismount.

  I snatched my hands away as in one fluid movement he was off the horse and standing at my feet.

  ‘Alone, or would you care for my assistance?’

  I peered at the beaten earth far below me.

  ‘I would be grateful for your help,’ I said reluctantly.

  With what seemed maddening slowness, he placed
his hands on my waist and lifted me down. His fingers pressed firmly against the stuff of my gown and my breath caught in my throat. The closeness of a siege was not what I’d expected. I’d thought it would be a single well-aimed arrow, easy to see coming and easy to avoid but the next moment I was on the ground and he was giving instructions to the groom.

  I smoothed out my skirts. ‘Please remain here, Sir Thomas.’

  With my face aflame and behind me, the maid clutching the basket, I approached the door of the béguinage and pulled on the bell. Almost immediately a woman poked out her head.

  ‘Greetings, lady, greetings,’ she said, her whole face one wide smile. ‘It is my honour and privilege to welcome you to the Béguinage of St Elisabeth.’

  She opened the door wider and ushered me inside. She was youngish, quite pretty and dressed in a plain brown gown with a wimple over her head. I gave a little nod and explained who I was and why I was here.

  ‘Ah, the kindness of your queen. Such munificence. How would we manage without the boundless generosity of the ladies of Ghent? If you would care to put your basket here.’

  The queen’s gift, covered with its fine white cloth, was placed on the table beside what I presumed were other people’s offerings: two pairs of shoes, a pile of warm woollen blankets and a box of rather wizened quince.

  ‘Such kindness,’ murmured the béguine. ‘Would you care to see the infirmary? Everyone who visits wants to see our infirmary.’

  She led me out from under the shelter of the gatehouse into a sun-filled courtyard.

  ‘Not what you imagined, eh?’

  She smiled at my open mouth. It was like a pretty little village all on its own, set apart from the town by its smooth white walls and shallow moat.

  ‘It’s not like other convents, is it?’

  She laughed. ‘Look around! Do you see any high stone walls or locked doors?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘We are not like our Cistercian sisters. We béguines are free to come and go whenever we wish. Everyone is like you on their first visit. “How strange it is!” they exclaim. “How beautiful!” And all the time they are wondering what I am doing in a place like this.’