The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  He had both my hands grasped and had pushed himself so close that his angry breath warmed my mouth and I could see myself reflected in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t understand, Edward,’ I gasped, aware of his lean hard body pressed against mine.

  ‘Of course I understand. I know you, Jeanette. We shared a nursery when you were in short skirts and I remember just how stupid you can be. But all is not lost. I’ve talked to Bishop Bateman who tells me the Holy Father has appointed a new investigator, Cardinal d’Albi, the Cardinal-Bishop of Porto, and he has demanded you be properly represented with an attorney of your own.’

  I tried to wriggle away but he was pressing against me and I could barely move. I imagined he must feel the rise and fall of my breasts against the gorgeous silk of his tunic because I, most certainly, was aware of the thudding beats of his heart.

  ‘I had my own attorney, Edward,’ I said, hoping he might let me breathe a bit more easily. ‘Master Nicholas Heath was my attorney but your worthy father had him thrown into the Tower. He said there was good reason but I don’t believe him. He was lying. Are you not afraid of defying the king’s will?’

  ‘No. My father has been less than honest in his dealings with you.’

  ‘He is determined I shall remain with William. He told me so.’

  ‘Whereas I am determined to keep you from falling into Holand’s clutches. I shall deal with Montagu later. I shall agree a settlement with him. You will claim you only married him under threat of violence from your family. You will say you were afraid for your life. The Church will annul your marriage. Montagu is a man of honour and I shall persuade him to release you to me. Whatever he thinks, he won’t want to cross me. Oh God, Jeanette, I never thought it would come to this.’

  He gazed into my eyes as if he would penetrate my soul and before I could say anything else he kissed me hard on the mouth.

  ‘I love you Jeanette. I love you and I want you. I’ll wait for you however long this takes and I’ll do whatever needs to be done. Nobody is going to stand in my way because I intend to marry you. Now do you understand?’

  ‘Marry me?’ I felt the breath knocked out of my body.

  ‘Yes. I shall make you my wife. You will be my beloved princess and one day you will be my queen.’

  He wanted to make me a princess? A queen in waiting? The idea was preposterous. It was ridiculous. His father would never agree and neither would his mother. They wanted him to make a great alliance. They wouldn’t let him marry me. But oh, the thought of being a queen! All that splendour, all those jewels and the richness of the furs! Of course it was quite, quite ridiculous but it was also curiously seductive. Edward wanted me to be his queen. Was such a thing possible?

  ‘You want to marry me?’ I said, struggling to speak. ‘You want to make me your wife?’

  ‘Naturally. What else?’

  ‘But what about William?’

  ‘I told you, forget William. Let me deal with him.’

  ‘And Sir Thomas?’ I said softly. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Damn Sir Thomas,’ he said.

  He kissed me again, this time with more determination and a great deal more passion and to my eternal shame I found myself responding with a very guilty pleasure.

  ‘Oh God, Jeanette. If only…’

  ‘I couldn’t, Edward,’ I said hastily, gasping for breath and coming rather belatedly to my senses. ‘Not here in my husband’s house. It wouldn’t be right.’

  He sat up, letting his breathing return to normal while I smoothed my skirts and rearranged the neckline of my gown, wondering what on God’s earth I was going to do if he decided to carry out his plan to marry me.

  We stared at each other, rather surprised at what had just taken place, almost embarrassed at what had been said and done. Then with a grin he reached over and stroked my cheek.

  ‘One day, Jeanette,’ he said. ‘One day soon. We can wait, can’t we?’

  I nodded mutely, too afraid to tell him the truth, that being shackled for life to Thomas Holand was the one thing I really desired and that he, a nineteen-year-old prince who had just offered to share his life and his crown with me, could only ever be second-best. That sort of insult he would never understand.

  ‘Very well, Edward,’ I said, softly. ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘I have brought your new attorney here. I had him sent to your husband’s room. When you see him you will tell him that Holand is lying. You will say there was no marriage and anything you said previously was because you were mistaken. Tell him you were frightened and became muddled.’

  ‘But Edward…’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  I opened my mouth but he silenced it with a kiss.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Edward. Of course, Edward. I understand completely.’

  My new attorney was Master John Vyse, a sub-dean of the diocese of Salisbury, who announced by way of introduction that he was a bachelor both of arts and canon law. He was also a man of stern resolve who, when faced with an obdurate Edward, showing every sign of staying and not the least sign of leaving, told him that he needed to speak to the Lady Joan alone and in private.

  ‘I am her friend,’ said Edward, looking down his long nose at the lawyer. ‘And in case you were unaware, Master Vyse, I am also a prince of royal blood.’

  But Master Vyse was not cowed. ‘That is as may be, my lord, but not even the Holy Father himself is permitted to be present when a principal in a case is giving a statement to her attorney. It is as sacred as the confessional so I very much regret that I must insist you leave us.’

  He folded his arms and waited quietly. After a few moments when Master Vyse showed no sign of backing down, Edward swung on his heel and left the room, all but slamming the door.

  Master Vyse smiled thinly. ‘Now, my lady, from you, I need the truth.’

  And so I told him. Sitting in William’s chamber amongst the trappings of William’s life with Edward’s kisses still warm on my lips, I told him everything from the very beginning. I made no pretences and no evasions. I told him how I had voluntarily and wittingly become Thomas Holand’s wife in the spring of the year that the king’s son John was born in Ghent and how a year later I had submitted to a marriage with William Montagu only under great pressure from my family and in fear of the consequences if I refused to obey their wishes. I told him that despite having lived with William Montagu for several years in apparent contentment, I still considered myself Thomas Holand’s wife in the eyes of God. And I told him it was my most fervent wish to be reunited with my husband.

  Two days later the angry tramp of feet on the stair outside my chamber gave me just enough time to compose myself and greet William with a smile on my lips and a sweeping curtsey.

  ‘My Lord Salisbury,’ I murmured, wondering from which direction the attack would come.

  ‘You couldn’t wait, could you?’ he snarled. ‘The moment my back was turned, you have him sniffing around your skirts, paying you pretty compliments. Doubtless you welcomed him with open arms. I should have known better than to trust you.’

  ‘What are you talking about, husband?’ I said opening my eyes wide and trying to appear the model of innocence. ‘The only visitor when you were gone was Edward and he stayed barely a few hours.’

  By now he was practically on top of me, his hand grasping my arm and pushing me back towards the bed.

  ‘Oh yes, your beloved Edward, your little playmate from the nursery who is planning this very moment how to get you for himself. Don’t think I don’t know what is going on because he told me everything. He threatened me, said he’d make you his if it was the last thing he did and if I didn’t stand aside I would regret it.’

  I twisted my head away and put my hands on his chest trying to hold him off.

  ‘
William, what nonsense is this? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure Edward wasn’t drunk?’

  ‘And who was the other one?’

  ‘Which other one?’

  ‘With Edward. And don’t lie because I know there was somebody else here.’

  My heart leapt as I recalled the long afternoon I had spent with Masgister Vyse and the evidence I had given him.

  ‘Sir James,’ I said, remembering the name of Edward’s friend. ‘Sir James Audley. My ladies made a great fuss of him. It was a merry gathering and I said at the time it was a great shame you weren’t here.’

  ‘You mean to tell me he brought Audley with him?’

  ‘Yes, they were travelling upstream and called in to tell me you would be returning soon. That was all.’

  ‘Edward said nothing of his plans for you?’

  ‘Oh William. I am certain you are mistaken. He has no plans for me. How could he? You are my husband.’

  William let me go and walked to the door. His groom hastily opened it but William paused on the threshold.

  ‘Yes, my lady. I am your husband and don’t you forget it. Don’t imagine the Holy Father is going to undo the ties which bind us together because that won’t happen. There is only one key to unlock a marriage and that is death. You would do well to remember that when you are considering your lovers.’

  ‘I have no lovers,’ I said steadily. ‘Only you.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t.’

  He didn’t come near me for the rest of the day and he supped alone in his chamber.

  By the time what little harvest there was had been brought into the barns and the last of the fruit preserved for the winter, it was time to compute our losses. I counted on my fingers numbering each death in this year of death. Five, ten, twenty… a hundred. There was Lady Catherine and my Uncle Wake, both laid to rest as the trees came into bloom; Elizabeth’s husband, Sir Hugh Despenser; the young Courtenay heir to the earldom of Devon; the elderly Archbishop of Canterbury and just last month his nominated successor, the Dean of Lincoln who had been my cousin’s confessor at Calais. The Bishop of Worcester was dead as was the Abbott of Westminster; also Sir John Pulteney, four times Lord Mayor of London; and Sir John Montgomery, the Governor of Calais, and his lady wife.

  A dozen faithful servants struck down in Montagu manors up and down the country, with each day bringing news of further deaths. And the children; hundreds of them, some scarcely breathing before they were taken. I knew of mothers who had lost every child they had ever birthed and others, like Alice, who wept inconsolably over their firstborn.

  In his letter, William’s Uncle Montagu rained scorn on his gaggle of useless daughters, fit for nothing but milking cows. His only son was dead and he could not forgive his wife for allowing such a disaster to happen. That a punishment of such magnitude should be visited upon a man like him who was pious and deserving of God’s grace, meant that his wife must have committed some unforgivable sin. In the chill of the Bisham chapel I prayed, not only for the soul of the little boy who lay wrapped in white velvet in some Montagu vault but also for Alice who was now in more danger than ever.

  It was into this well of misery that I had another visitor, my cousin, Margaret. No-one announced her coming and the sight of her black-clad figure standing at the door filled me, not with joy, but with apprehension.

  She walked swiftly across the floor and instead of a greeting, wrapped her arms around me in silence and laid her cold cheek against mine.

  ‘What has happened?’ I whispered.

  She continued to hold me close.

  ‘Dearest Jeanette. It is bad news.’

  Thomas? I felt my heart flutter and my belly fill with ice.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said quietly.

  ‘It is your mother. She’s dead.’

  The sudden pain took me by surprise. I didn’t love my mother, I never had and she didn’t care for me so why did my heart feel sliced in two? I sat down hurriedly lest my legs gave way because there was no doubt the news of her death was a terrible shock. It was more shocking than the deaths of all those great people, more horrible even than the death of Alice’s child because we were used to little children dying. But my mother?

  ‘When did she die?’ I said, aware of the unnatural quiver in my voice.

  ‘Three weeks ago. It was not unexpected.’

  So strange not to have known. I should have known. She was, after all, my mother. She had given birth to me and must have held me in her arms and called me, her Jeanette. There must once have been a season when she had loved me.

  ‘What did she die of?’

  Margaret touched my hand. ‘She had been unwell for some time but at the end it was the pestilence. It was very quick. She didn’t suffer.’

  I knew of the horrors of the pestilence and heard the lie on Margaret’s lips. Of course my mother had suffered.

  ‘I shall arrange for a Mass for her soul and I shall light a candle as is only right, but you know she never loved me, not the way a mother should.’

  Margaret took my hand in hers and pressed it gently. ‘You are mistaken, Jeanette. She did love you. She told me so. I saw her a week before she died. She asked me to come to her. I didn’t want to go but felt it was my duty.’

  I thought of my mother writing to Margaret when she didn’t write to me, of spending her precious time with my cousin when she rarely bothered to visit me. And when she did come all she did was berate me for my foolishness and complain of my behaviour. I knew I had been a disappointment to her because she had told me so.

  ‘Why you?’ I asked grudgingly. ‘What would she want with you?’

  ‘She wanted to talk of my mother and my father and of the plans for my children’s marriages. Like most old ladies she dwelt mainly in the past and talked of people who were already dead and things which happened long ago but at the end she spoke of you.’

  Margaret delved into her purse and brought out a tiny package wrapped in dark green cloth.

  ‘She gave me this to give to you. She knew she was dying and she wanted this to be yours. She didn’t dare send it by messenger in case your husband took it. She had no illusions about how he treats you so she asked me. She said to tell you it was sent with a mother’s blessing and a mother’s love.’

  The knife twisted a little more and I blinked back the tears.

  With trembling fingers, I undid the ribbon and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a dark blue velvet drawstring pouch. Inside was my mother’s ring, the gold and ruby ring she always wore. She had sent it to me. At the end when she knew she was dying she had sent it to me with her love and her blessing.

  ‘Your father gave it to her,’ said Margaret. ‘It was a love token. It belonged to our grandmother, Queen Marguerite. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  It was. I slid it onto my finger. It fitted perfectly.

  Margaret smiled. ‘I wonder who gave it to our grandmother? I asked but your mother didn’t know.’

  I smiled through my tears. ‘Our grandfather? Or perhaps a lover?’ I suggested, smiling through my tears.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Margaret. ‘My father said she was the most perfect example of womanhood, full of grace and kindness, a pious woman loved by everybody. She would never have taken a lover.’

  ‘Why did my mother never tell me these things, Margaret? Why did she remain silent? She never talked of my father and their life together, not once.’

  ‘Guilt,’ said Margaret.’

  ‘Why would she feel guilty? What had she done?’

  ‘Oh Jeanette. Surely you know the answer to that by now? She blamed herself for your father’s death. She believed it was her fault. And for your imprisonment in Arundel Castle. She blamed herself for that too. She was trying to protect her family. She only wanted the
best for you. She vowed she would never allow you to repeat your father’s mistake.’

  ‘Mistake? What mistake?’

  ‘Marrying her.’ Margaret smiled sadly. ‘She was, like my own mother, considered unworthy. She may have been a baron’s daughter but she was far beneath him. He was a king’s son and should have married a great foreign princess who would have been of advantage to his family, not someone like her who was nothing but a widow with a lost dower living on the king’s charity. So when you told her about Thomas Holand…‘

  I thought of my mother’s fury when I had first revealed the story of my secret marriage and at last I understood why she had acted as she had.

  ‘She had to stop me.’

  ‘Yes. She was determined on the Montagu marriage. She saw it as a way to redeem her failures of the past and ensure your future.’

  ‘No wonder she hit me.’

  I tried to recall the words she had spoken but could remember nothing but the emptiness of her eyes and the pain of her blows.

  We sat in silence for a while, staring into the embers of the fire, while I twisted the ring on my finger, noticing how the huge ruby caught the light. I thought of what my chaplain had told me, that a virtuous woman is far above the price of rubies. Our grandmother had been given this magnificent jewel. Was it a recognition of her virtue? Probably, but we would never know for certain.

  ‘Has there been word from Avignon?’ said Margaret breaking into my thoughts.

  ‘No. There are times I think I’ll be waiting for a decision until the end of my days and I’ll die not knowing who is my true husband in the eyes of God and the Holy Father’s tribunal. How can it take so long?’