‘I would swear on the Host.’
He gave a small nod.
‘Would you indeed?’
After a moment he lifted me off his knee and set me on the floor. He stood up and took my hand in his.
‘Come!’ He indicated the heavy curtain in the corner of the room. ‘My private chapel. If we are to make a promise, we will do it before God so there can be no going back. Is it agreed?’
I nodded nervously, feeling my decision running away with me.
The room was small but beautifully painted with a crucifix on the wall, and a tiny altar. It was for my cousin’s private devotions, the sort of room that only a king or a queen would have.
With great care, he removed a gilded box from a chest in the corner and showed it to me. It was heavily jewelled and inside was a tiny sliver of dark wood.
‘A piece of the True Cross, the most holy relic I possess.’
I could almost smell the holiness and the suffering and felt tears prick the back of my eyes.
He knelt and pulled me down beside him, then took my hand and laid it on the closed lid and placed his own on top. I listened to him promise to tell me the story of my father’s last years and his part in his death.
‘What shall I say?’ I whispered.
‘Promise you will come to my bed. One night. That’s all. Just one night.’
I raised my eyes to his and did as he asked. I trusted him implicitly.
When he had laid aside the relic, I gathered my skirts and made to rise but he placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘Stay there. This is as good a place as any for the confession of past sins and I will feel more comfortable kneeling here with you at my side.’
I felt anything but comfortable but couldn’t say so.
‘How much do you know of your father?’ His voice was quiet.
It was not how much but how little. I was fifteen years old and knew almost nothing about the man who had fathered me.
‘I know it was a royal warrant which sanctioned his death and I know the signature was yours. Some girls call me “traitor’s daughter” but they don’t know what it means and neither do I.’
He stared straight ahead at the crucifix but said nothing. I thought perhaps he wasn’t going to tell me or perhaps he was composing a lie. At last, he spoke.
‘It began in Paris as so many stories do. It was snowing. Your father’s wedding day and he was the happiest man alive. I remember how he laughed and how annoyed my mother was. She didn’t want him to marry.’
‘Why not?’
‘Your mother wasn’t suitable. He was a king’s son and she was just a baron’s daughter, a widow and much older than him. But your father loved her. I’d never seen someone marry for love. Of course it would have been better if they’d never met.’
‘Why? What was wrong?’
‘Your mother was Mortimer’s cousin. Their mothers were sisters and she’d known him all her life.’
I hadn’t known. I’d heard of the evil tyrant Mortimer but nobody had said he was my mother’s cousin.
‘Lord Mortimer was a clever man. He had my mother ensnared in his web. I can see now how attractive he was to my mother, a strong man, a warrior to the heels of his boots and very different from my father. She became infatuated with him. Between them they hatched a plan and soon we were sailing back across the Narrow Sea. I thought they intended to rid the country of my father’s friends, the Despensers, but they had other plans about which I knew nothing. They forced my father to give up his throne to me and then locked him away. He was dead within the year.’
‘Was he an old man?’
He smiled at me, a twisted smile: half sorrow, half something else.
‘No, he wasn’t old. I thought it was murder but said nothing. I was fourteen, almost the same age as you are now. I may have been king in name but Mortimer held the reins of power. My mother was in thrall to him and did everything he said. They buried my father in Gloucester and afterwards took me north to York where I was married to Philippa.’
He looked straight into my eyes. ‘I often think that without Philippa I would have given up but she gave me strength.’
I waited and for a long while he said nothing. He put out his hand and stroked my cheek.
‘You are so much like your father.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He discovered Mortimer’s secret. It was probably your mother who uncovered the deceit because she was a clever woman, much cleverer than your father, but it was your father’s plan which was their undoing.’
‘What was the secret?’
He smiled again. ‘I cannot tell you that. It isn’t my secret to tell. Suffice to say your father’s plan would have meant the end for all of us. Unwisely, he had your mother write a letter which fell into Mortimer’s hands. Mortimer had him arrested and your mother imprisoned at Arundel. I doubt you remember, you were very young.’
I looked back to the past before Woodstock but there was nothing, just darkness and somebody screaming. Nothing else. It could have been anywhere or any time.’
‘And my father?’
‘Mortimer had him tried for treason and condemned to death: execution, save for the king’s mercy.’
‘But you weren’t merciful,’ I cried. ‘You could have saved him but you didn’t.’
‘No. It wasn’t possible. They stood one on either side of me, my mother on my right and Mortimer on my left. Mortimer put the warrant on the table and told me to sign. He explained the consequences of not signing: my death, my mother’s death and the death of my wife and unborn child. My mother wept, saying how she would be torn apart and how I would be destroyed. She said if I loved her I would sign. She said if I loved Philippa I would sign. I didn’t want to. But they beat me down. It went on hour after hour after hour until I wanted to scream.’
‘And you signed?’
His face was bleak with the memory of his decision.
‘My mother said a good king should always be a strong king and that to be a good king, difficult choices often had to be made. Yes, I signed and she affixed my seal. When it was done I returned to Philippa’s arms and wept.’
‘And they had my father killed?’
‘Next day outside the castle walls at Winchester.’
I felt cold and numb with the pain. He could have saved my father but he hadn’t. He had let him die. My father had been weighed in the balance of his kingship and found wanting.
‘What happened to Lord Mortimer?’
‘Later that year, Montagu led a band of his friends into Nottingham Castle and captured Lord Mortimer at the point of a sword. I would have killed him then and there but Montagu stopped me. He said there must be a trial. So we took him to London. He was tried and condemned to death. It was all done according to the law as was proper. I had him hanged.’
‘And my mother?’
‘She was released. I saw to it that her property was returned and Philippa took you children into the nursery at Woodstock.’
So that was why I had been brought up with Edward and Isabella and Joanna. It wasn’t because my cousin loved me; it was to assuage his feelings of guilt.
I looked at his handsome profile, relaxed and smiling now the tale was told. He put out his hand and gently stroked my face. I felt the touch of his fingers on my eyelids and on the soft skin of my cheek and had to resist the urge to push them away.
‘Not now,’ he said quietly. ‘But one day soon. I won’t take you tonight. I can see you’re upset and I don’t want tears when you come to my bed, I want laughter.’
I didn’t think I would ever laugh again. I wanted to claw out his eyes for what he had done. I wanted to throw myself against the velvet of his royal robes and beat his chest with my fists to make him understand my pain. I want
ed to scream and call him a murderer. Above all, I wanted to hate him.
I couldn’t love a man who had hurt me like this and yet he was the king, my cousin and I remembered I had loved him once. But tonight love wasn’t the currency of our transaction. Despite the soft words and his gentle wooing, I knew he wasn’t offering love. He was simply offering the consummation of desire. But I had promised myself to him before God and no matter what my feelings were I would have to keep my promise.
The lush green leaves of summer had faded to a dusty grey and the wayside flowers, which once had given me so much pleasure, were gone. The track beneath our horses’ hooves was rutted, the woodland edge nothing but a mess of bleached grasses and tangled bracken, and all around, the sense of something precious lost, an innocence destroyed which could never be regained.
‘I shall be leaving soon,’ announced William as we rode into our park.
He nodded to the old man who stood grasping the bar of one of the sturdy wooden gates.
‘I shall be sorry to be without you,’ I said dutifully, thinking how easy it was to lie to a husband. ‘Where are you going?’
‘My father and the king sail for Brittany within the month and I am to accompany them.’
This must be the expedition to rescue the duchess. It would be like the campaign in Flanders two years ago with battles and sieges and skirmishes with the enemy. No wonder William was excited.
‘It will be dangerous,’ said my husband, looking behind him to see if our cavalcade was safely through the gates. ‘You will pray for me. I shall like to think of you on your knees. And you will gather your household together each morning to say prayers for our safety. You know how it’s done. Follow my mother’s example.’
‘Yes, William.’
As soon as we arrived in our courtyard, William leapt from the saddle, throwing his reins to the waiting groom. He paused to fondle the ears of his favourite hound then came up to my stirrup and gripped my boot.
‘When I am gone you will go to Bisham and keep my mother company. It is my wish.’
He didn’t blink but kept his gaze fixed on my face. After a moment, satisfied of my obedience, he let go of my foot and stepped back. He stood watching as the groom helped me down. My clothes were disarranged from the journeying and some hair beneath my veil had come loose. William’s eyes narrowed as I raised my arms to tuck the fly-away strands back in place and gather my riding cloak round me. Despite the warmth of the day a slight breeze had sent a sudden chill into the courtyard.
‘I will come early tonight, Joan,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘We must make a son before I leave.’
The morning he left, William knelt at my feet for a blessing. His eyes were closed and with the breeze ruffling his hair and the sun falling full on his face I could almost believe I had feelings for him. He was the very model of a gallant young husband setting off for war. In this pretty tableau I was the sorrowful young wife left behind not knowing if her man would return. I couldn’t be faulted and it was a shame Lady Catherine wasn’t here to see.
I had deliberately dressed in my most demure gown, soft pale blue wool, high-necked with tight sleeves and a wide-flowing skirt. My white gauze veil over my coif was suitably opaque and there was little to see of that snare and delusion, my long golden hair.
I laid my hand gently on top of William’s head and murmured the words of blessing. I smiled serenely and wondered if I resembled the picture of Our Lady painted on the chapel wall at Bisham.
‘You will write if you have news,’ he ordered, his eyes fixed on the front of my gown where he hoped a Montagu heir was already growing safely in my belly.
‘Of course.’
‘On second thoughts, tell my mother. She will write.’
‘Fare you well, husband.’
I stepped back and rubbed an imaginary tear away from my eyes. I kept a sad little smile on my face until the last of the men had filed out of the courtyard and disappeared under the gatehouse and down the track followed by half-a-dozen pack-horses and wagons. Then I dropped my shoulders and let out a sigh of contentment. Lady Catherine wouldn’t return to Bisham before tomorrow so there was no reason to order our removal until the morning.
I instructed the men as to the loading of the carts and dismissed my lady companion, telling her she could go home to her husband. I ordered my maids to start packing my chests and meanwhile I set out to spend the day wandering along the river bank.
I pulled off my shoes, removed my stockings and dipped my feet in pools of water still warm from yesterday’s sun. There was no-one to see such wanton and unsuitable behaviour and as the soft mud oozed between my bare toes, I sighed with undisguised pleasure.
I lay on the grassy bank, gazing at the white puffy clouds floating over my head and wondered whether Alice’s baby had been born and if it was a boy. Then I turned on my front to examine the dozens of tiny insects hopping around in the grasses and thought about Thomas Holand.
It was only in these occasional moments when I was entirely alone that I allowed myself to think about Thomas. I had sworn I would forget him and I knew I should hate him for what he’d done. But somehow I couldn’t summon up the feeling any more. It was odd but all I remembered of that time before William was not the deceits and the lies but the gentle touch of his fingers and the sweetness of his smile.
In the late afternoon I returned to the house and talked with our steward about tomorrow’s arrangements. He was not pleased to have me in charge and made a great fuss, slyly suggesting my husband would not approve my decisions.
It was sunset when we heard the sound of horses.
‘Praise be! The young master has returned,’ said the old man, shuffling off towards the door behind the screen.
But the familiar bray of a royal trumpet told me otherwise.
A wide-eyed boy ran into the hall.
‘It’s the king!’
The moment I saw him I knew he had come to collect his winnings.
‘Is this your chamber?’ My cousin cast his eyes round what to him must appear a very poor room. William and I had only the second-best hangings from Bisham and there was none of the opulent splendour of the royal chambers in the Tower.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ I was determined to remain calm and distant even though my heart was racing like a cantering horse and I was horribly aware of the hovering presence of the steward.
He eyed the bed. ‘I’m sorry to put you to so much inconvenience.’
I wondered did he apologise to every wife who offered to vacate her chamber and remove herself to some pokey little tower room or was this honour reserved for the women he was about to take to his bed.
‘It is no trouble,’ I said, my eyes lowered like a dutiful subject. ‘I’ll take the guest chamber.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll take the guest chamber. You will stay here.’
‘My husband would expect me to attend to your comfort.’
He gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘I’m sorry I missed him.’
‘Only by the inside of a day, Your Grace. He left this morning.’
‘Then I expect we’ll meet on the road.’
I doubted my cousin would ride fast. A cuckolded husband would not be any man’s favourite travelling companion.
‘May I offer Your Grace some refreshment?’
‘Thank you. A cup of wine and whatever you have. I don’t expect a feast when I gather you leave for Bisham in the morning.’
I snapped my fingers and our steward melted away, murmuring with pleasure at serving his king. I heard him call for food and wine for His Grace as if the grooms were not already running around like headless chickens gathering up the necessaries.
In no time at all the groom from the ewery arrived with wine, quickly followed by two awe-struck boys with plates of cold meat and best white brea
d.
‘Mistress Montagu, will you keep me company?’
I bowed my head in submission. How could I say no?
We made tentative conversation. Mostly he was eager to discuss our lack of proper fortifications and made several suggestions as to how matters could be improved, all of which I promised to relay to William. After a short while he said I looked weary and he had no desire to keep me from my bed as I must be tired. I gave a deep curtsey, sweeping the floor as elegantly as I could, and bade him a safe night.
I had the girl quickly undress me and clothe me in my finest nightgown. I rejected two, casting them aside with a carelessness which would have horrified Alice and chose the one I’d worn on my bedding night, the embroidered silk. After the girl had combed out my hair I ordered her to leave it unbraided.
‘You will sleep in the wardrobe closet,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I don’t need a companion tonight.’
She ducked her head and obediently pattered away. I slid the bolt. I wanted no witness to what was going to happen and no interruptions.
I heard doors bang in the distance and a single muffled order from the steward down below. Footsteps clattered on the stairs. I had only a single candle burning but it would suffice as I knew my cousin had neither reading nor sewing on his mind tonight.
A moment later there was a soft noise and the door opened.
I glanced past him, terrified someone was on the stairs.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, ’There’s no-one to tell your husband.’
He closed the door and locked it.
Although I was fully clothed, I felt naked. His gaze stripped away the soft wool of my bedrobe and the delicate layers of pale blue silk until I stood there in front of him, utterly defenceless and very scared. We had made a bargain that evening in the Tower and I had sworn on the True Cross that I would give myself to him but now the moment was here, all I wanted was to run away.
He put out his hand and said, ‘Jeanette, come here.’
The Fair Maid of Kent Page 15
