The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  That was the most beautiful thing he had ever said to me and I hugged it close.

  ‘But you will come back?’

  He smiled gently. ‘I will always come back and I will find you wherever you are.’

  He took my hand in his and slowly pulled me close. He held me tight against his chest. I could hear his breathing and feel the warmth of his body. I put up my face and he kissed me until my mouth opened under his and I was dizzy with wanting him. Abruptly he set me aside.

  ‘Grant me a blessing,’ he said quietly, dropping to his knee at my feet. ‘A wife’s duty and her privilege.’

  I did as he asked, laying my hand on his head, feeling the warm hair thick beneath my fingers.

  He reminded me once more to tell our secret to no-one and with a final farewell, disappeared swiftly through the door leaving me alone.

  I didn’t set eyes on him again before he departed and two months later in the bitter cold of a dark and miserable winter’s day I too left Flanders. On the journey home to England the queen had the comfort of Joanna who had been returned, no longer wanted by her betrothed’s family; Lady Catherine had the comfort of anticipating Sir William’s imminent return to Bisham but I had no comfort at all.

  3

  Bisham 1341

  Snow began falling on the Eve of the Nativity and by dusk the world beyond Bisham lay hidden behind a veil of silent swirling white. Unfortunately my mother had already arrived. At mid-day her smart new travelling carriage had creaked under the gatehouse and, however much I wished it, there was now no possibility of her being delayed by something as convenient as a waist-high drift.

  I knocked at the door of the guest chamber. An elderly woman opened a crack and looked me up and down in the insolent way only an old retainer would. Somewhat reluctantly she gave me admittance.

  ‘Greetings, lady mother,’ I murmured, lowering myself sufficiently far to please her.

  The wide sleeves of her old-fashioned gown rippled slightly as she bent forward, offering me her cheek. I felt the accustomed churning in my belly which accompanied my every meeting with my mother. Her voice was the same as always: low, throaty and unrelentingly icy.

  ‘You may kiss me.’

  She smelled of dead mice and after a quick peck on her loose pitted skin I backed away as quickly as I could.

  She looked me up and down, carefully examining what she had in front of her. I stood like an animal caught in the flare of a torch, frozen to the spot, too frightened to move. All of a sudden she smiled and I blinked in surprise because my mother never smiled.

  ‘Lady Catherine tells me she is pleased with you. It seems you have learned well and have been a credit to your family.’

  ‘Yes, lady mother,’ I replied, wondering was this a different Lady Catherine from the one I knew.

  The smile still lingered and her eyes softened. Springtime must indeed have entered my mother’s breast because the ice was melting.

  ‘Good news!’ she purred. ‘You are to be married. Of course this is not the marriage I might have hoped for if things had been different but under the circumstances it is the best we can achieve. Sir William is newly come to his riches but the title is an old one with an illustrious history and you will be well provided for. The son, so I am assured by those who know him, is not an imbecile.’

  Marriage! The old man! A tremor of absolute panic ran through me from head to toe. I’d thought I was safe and Thomas would protect me. But Thomas wasn’t here.

  She looked down at the ring she always wore, the brilliant ruby set on a golden band.

  ‘I was young when I first married,’ she said softly. ‘My husband was a fine young man. It is a kindness to marry a girl to a boy of her own age and when the king told me of his plans I could not help but be pleased for you. Of course my own wedding was not as yours will be. Lady Catherine tells me the Bishop of Ely, the earl’s brother, will celebrate the nuptial mass and she expects the king and queen to honour us with their presence.

  But, as my mother continued to talk of my wedding, the awful truth became apparent. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. It was worse. They were planning to marry me to Lady Catherine’s son; they were giving me to William Montagu!

  What of Antwerp and the king’s friend, the man who had stroked my face and smoothed my hair? What of him? What of Thomas? And, sweet Holy Mother of Christ, what was I going to do?

  I stood there gaping like a netted fish.

  ‘The king was delighted to offer you to Sir William for his son,’ said my mother. ‘He assures me this is an advantageous match. The Montagu name commands great respect both in England and abroad. The connection will serve our family well. Yes, all things considered, I am pleased with you.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Joan?’

  I stared at her, too scared and horrified to speak.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ She expected gratitude from a daughter who could not have expected this honour from the king.

  ‘Oh yes, lady mother. It is indeed a very fine marriage.’

  ‘With Sir William returned from Paris there is no need for further delay. We shall have the marriage celebrations as soon as the arrangements have been concluded. Naturally it will be a magnificent occasion because you, my dearest Joan, are a king’s granddaughter and the earl is man of great importance.’

  William Montagu! Lady Catherine’s son! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My cousin was proposing to marry me to the son of his closest friend and I hadn’t known.

  Throughout the Nativity celebrations I remained in a daze, believing this could not be happening. I couldn’t marry William Montagu. It was impossible. I was married to Thomas Holand. Thomas was my husband. But Thomas was somewhere on the borders of Christendom fighting in his Holy War. It might be months before he would return and in the meantime they were going to marry me to William Montagu.

  After the feast of the Epiphany, the days passed in a blur of activity: my wedding gown was fitted and I was measured for new robes in the Montagu colours. I tried to pretend it was nothing to do with me, it was for some other girl, some other bride. But the arrival one morning of William, the Montagu son and heir, bought me to my senses. If I did nothing, in a week’s time I would wake up to find myself Mistress Montagu!

  Alice had told me what to do if the worst happened and they tried to marry me to someone else. In her considered opinion my mother was the only person who would be able to help me. But Holy Virgin! Alice didn’t know my mother.

  I looked in the tiny mirror Elizabeth kept in her chest and the face which stared back from the polished surface was white and drawn and haunted. I pinched my cheeks and in fear and trembling walked slowly through the old building to the new guest chambers.

  ‘Well?’ said my mother, looking up from her book. ‘What now?’

  The fire in the hearth was burning brightly but my mother’s gaze chilled the warmest of rooms. Beneath my gown I felt the cold dead hand of fear curl stealthily round my belly like a night-time frost creeping in under the shutters.

  I raised my head and before I could change my mind, I told her.

  ‘I cannot marry William Montagu.’

  There was silence while she laid the book aside.

  ‘Cannot? What do you mean, cannot?’

  ‘I cannot marry him.’

  She narrowed her eyes to glittering slits. ‘Is this some maidenly foolishness because if so it will do you no good? You are quite old enough to marry.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing like that; it’s…’ I couldn’t go on. I was too frightened.

  ‘It’s what? Tell me this instant. Or shall I shake it out of you?’

  So in my terror, I told her everything. I stumbled over how, when I was in Ghent, I had married a man I barely knew, a man unknown to my family, a
man who had nothing to recommend him other than a strong right arm. A dark, threatening silence followed my confession and in that moment I knew what I’d done was unwise. I was a fool. I was fourteen years old and should have known better. I should never have told my mother the truth.

  She hit me. She screamed and shouted and shook and slapped me until she had me crying on the floor. I tried to cover my head but she kicked me. She had used violence before and had ordered others to beat me but there had been nothing like this. This time I knew she intended to kill me.

  She dragged me up and thrust me up against the wall. Then she mentioned my father’s name and I knew my fate was sealed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a wicked daughter and I’m sorry.’

  I threw myself down and tried to kiss her feet. I clawed at the hem of her gown and reached for the embroidered band of her shoe but she stamped on my fingers until I feared they would break.

  At last her anger drained away and all I could hear was her ragged breathing and a muffled crack as a log settled in the hearth and sparks flew up into the chimney.

  ‘Get up.’

  I hauled myself painfully to my feet and wiped my hand across my face. Her eyes were unfriendly but I didn’t think she was going to hit me again.

  ‘Now,’ she said, spitting out each word as if she had eaten something unpalatable. ‘You will tell me the truth. And remember, if you are tempted to lie, you are not some village slut, you are a king’s granddaughter.’

  ‘Yes, lady mother,’ I whispered through my swollen lips.

  ‘This man. Who is he? What do you know of him?’

  His name is Thomas Holand. He is a knight. It is a worthy family.’

  She snorted in disbelief. ‘What would you know of a man’s worth? Is he heir to his father’s lands?’

  ‘He is a second son,’ I whispered.

  ‘Sainte Vierge!’ spat my mother. ‘And where in Ghent did this marriage take place?’

  ‘In a house near the abbey.’

  ‘Whose house?’

  ‘Sir Thomas’s. His lodgings.’

  My mother raised her eyebrows. ‘And who was the priest who risked his neck to marry you without the king’s permission? Not a bishop, I’ll wager.’

  ‘There was no priest.’

  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable about the lack of a priest and I could see written on my mother’s face the stupidity of my actions. To marry secretly with no priest present to give a blessing was a foolish thing to have done. Thomas had allayed my fears at the time but Thomas wasn’t here.

  ‘No priest?’

  ‘No,’ I whispered.

  ‘A marriage with no priest?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘We held hands and made our vows to each other. He said it was a true and proper marriage. He said we didn’t need a priest.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘You fool,’ said my mother. ‘You stupid little fool. That was no marriage. That was a man using the oldest trick in the world to get a girl to raise her skirts.’

  ‘It was a marriage,’ I sobbed. ‘It was. He said it was. He said we didn’t need a priest to be married.’

  My mother seized my wrists and removed my hands from my face, forcing me to look at her. ‘Listen to me and mark this well. You have been duped. I suppose he lay with you and you happily spread your legs.’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, flushing at my mother’s coarseness.

  ‘He took you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was not just kissing and caressing?’

  ‘No.’ My voice was so quiet I could hardly hear my own words.

  ‘How many times?’

  The heat reached my ears and I wished I was dead. ‘Twice.’

  ‘And you bled?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, remembering the blood on the sheets.

  ‘Did you lie with him again?’

  ‘‘No. He said it was too dangerous.’

  By now I was weeping with shame.

  ‘Very well,’ said my mother. ‘You have committed the gravest of sins but all is not lost. We must plan carefully if we are going to limit the damage your foolishness has caused. Who else knows about this so-called marriage? Who was there? I presume there were witnesses. I’m sure he made certain of that.’

  ‘His brother.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The woman of the house. Sir Thomas had her brought upstairs.’

  ‘No-one else? Not your maid? Not Lady Catherine’s daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  I wasn’t going to tell my mother about Alice. It would be worse than unkind to allow Alice to take any blame.

  ‘And this scoundrel who tricked you? Where is he?’

  ‘He has gone to fight in a Holy War.’

  ‘Good. With a bit of luck he’ll be killed,’ said my mother. ‘What of the brother?’

  ‘He is with Sir Thomas.’

  My mother looked satisfied at this bit of information.

  ‘And you are quite certain there is no-one else who knows?’

  ‘No-one else,’ I lied.

  ‘Now, listen to me. You will say nothing to anyone and one week from now you will walk through those doors in your wedding gown and marry William Montagu. Do you understand?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  I nodded my head. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I understand. But I can’t marry him. I’m married to Thomas Holand.’

  My mother seized me by the shoulders and thrust her face close to mine.

  ‘You are not married to him. It was not a marriage. Don’t you understand? He used you. He took advantage of a young girl who should never have allowed herself to get close to a man like that. He stole from you the one priceless gift you should bring to your husband on your wedding night. He has abused you and shamed our family and for that I will see him hang.’

  I thought of my father’s bloody head rolling onto the straw and knew that the king, like my mother, would have no mercy. If my cousin discovered the truth, Thomas would hang and I would be sent behind the walls of a convent for the rest of my life. Unless he killed me too.

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ll do whatever you say. I didn’t mean to be wicked. I didn’t mean to be sinful.’

  My mother looked at me severely. ‘The Montagu marriage is a good one. Sir William is wealthy and close to the king and Lady Catherine is greatly admired. The boy is young and one day you will be a countess. So you will keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say.’

  I nodded miserably.

  The elderly maidservant treated my face with salves to lessen the bruising and applied a herbal balm to heal the cut on my lip while my mother detailed a lengthy list of things I must do.

  ‘What about Sir Thomas?’ I said as meekly as I could.

  ‘You can leave Thomas Holand to me,’ said my mother, with knives in her voice. ‘You will never see or hear from him again.’

  That night she made me sleep in her bed, telling Lady Catherine it was a mother’s privilege to have some time alone with her daughter.

  I was not a married woman. I had never been a married woman and what I had done with Thomas was a sin, a sin which my mother said I must keep to myself and confess to no-one. My heart felt sliced into small pieces as I lay with silent tears rolling down my face.

  How could he have done this to me? He had told me I was beautiful and that any man would want to marry me. He had held me tight and murmured loving words whilst all the time he had known what he was doing was wrong. It was not a true marriage. He knew we needed a priest and yet he had lied and told me we did not.

  That night with my mother in the g
uest chamber at Bisham I was the most miserable girl in the whole of England.

  ‘We have seven days to lay our plans,’ said my mother the following morning as she sat warming herself in front of a meagre fire whilst her maid applied more salve to my face.

  ‘It has been agreed there will be no bedding. You are both too young, but this is to our advantage. It gives you more time to prepare for the deception which lies ahead. Your husband must never know you have been with another man before him. If he finds out, make no mistake, he will not be merciful and for an angry husband there are many stairways on which an unfortunate wife might lose her footing. If you escape that fate, he will most likely have you put away. The disgrace to the Montagu name, if this should become known, would be so immense I cannot see how he could permit you to remain.’

  ‘I shan’t tell him.’ I said, terrified at the thought of Lady Catherine discovering what I’d done.

  ‘You little fool! He will likely know without you telling him.’

  ‘But what shall I do? How shall I deceive him?’

  My mother looked at me with ice in her eyes. ‘That is your business. I have done all I can and the rest is in your hands.’ She leaned forward. ‘Make certain that when the time comes whatever you do is done well. Leave him in no doubt you are a virgin. Forget everything that has gone before because if you fail our family in this, I swear I, myself, will have you put away.’

  A week later, outside the door of the Bisham chapel, I married William Montagu. Snow flakes swirled from a pewter-coloured sky as I walked to my wedding on the arm of my mother’s brother, my Uncle Wake. He was the only other person who knew the truth and I felt the weight of his disapproval in the stiffness of his neck and the thinness of his smile.

  It was everything I had once expected of a wedding and I was exactly what a bride should be. I was young, I was pretty, I brought royal kinship to the marriage and came with an enormous dowry provided by my family. I wore a blue silk gown embroidered with silver thread, especially commissioned by Lady Catherine, and a crimson surcote studded with pearls. My cloak was of azure velvet, lined with lambswool, trimmed with the softest, whitest miniver and secured at the neck by a heavy jewelled clasp. My hair lay like a golden veil across my shoulders and on my head I wore a chaplet of twisted gold and winter flowers.