Margaret laughed. ‘Easily. The mills of God grind slowly and Pope Clement is rumoured to be an extremely diligent miller.’
‘Master Vyse believes the new cardinal will decide within a year but who knows? He says the pestilence has come back. It is killing hundreds each day and when it disappears nobody knows where it has gone or if it will return. People are walking in fear for their lives.’
‘It is everywhere,’ whispered Margaret in a low voice. ‘Everywhere. I have heard half the people of Bristol are dead and Norwich is stricken. It has reached as far as York. Nobody knows where it will go next but I have made a decision. When winter is past I shall travel to Avignon and seek a divorce from John Segrave. If God grants that I live to see the end of this horror I shall choose a new life.’
I recalled the women at the béguinage all those years ago who took the future into their own hands and chose the lives they wanted and thought how like them my cousin was, not just brave but determined and resourceful.
‘And you, Jeanette?’ she said. ‘What will you choose?’
Since that day in the sand dunes of Calais I had not allowed myself to consider that I had a choice in the matter. I was a married woman, the possession of my husband and could have no desires other than his. If in the depths of the night I dreamed of a different man and another life it was just that, a dream, and dreams should be set aside in the light of day.
Master Heath had told me the choice was not mine to make but that of a group of men in far away Avignon, men of the Church about whom I knew nothing. He had said it was not a question of what I wanted but of what was the truth and that the truth was known only to God. When I had pressed him further he had said that God’s truth was conveyed to his servants in ways that a woman like me could never understand.
William or Thomas? Which one was God’s truth and was the papal tribunal really listening?
The women with whom I was intimate knew what I was supposed to have done. They had heard how this man, who had once been my husband’s steward, was demanding I should be given back to him, but we didn’t talk about it. No-one mentioned Thomas’s name and not even my maids dared gossip about William’s lack of interest in my company. Nobody suggested he might not be my husband because they all remembered the magnificent wedding in the Bisham chapel in front of the king and queen and the costly gifts we had received. If they thought about it at all, they would have said that Thomas Holand was mad.
As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months I wondered if I would die not knowing which of my husbands was the true one. Margaret had asked who I would choose but that was a question I never allowed myself to answer. William or Thomas? The splendour and luxury of life as Countess of Salisbury: the precious silks, the jewels, the richness and wealth of my surroundings, tied to a difficult and occasionally violent husband who didn’t entirely trust me; or the unknown low-lying pastures of life as Lady Holand, with a man who could offer me little, a man I barely knew but thought I might just possibly love?
William and I sat together in our hall. He extended his hand as he helped me to my seat and accorded me the reverence that the household expected from a lord to his lady, but there was little warmth in his touch. The closeness we had experienced in the months after the coming of the pestilence had dissipated like a handful of chaff in the wind and there was nothing left now but duty. He came to my bed with a dogged regularity but there was no joy. I tried my best to give him pleasure but it was like blowing on the long-dead ashes of a cold fire.
12
Into the Unknown 1349
The wind had turned to the north. It was getting colder and one of the grooms brought in a second basket of logs for the fire. My maid gossiped to him as I sat sewing by the meagre light from the window wondering if it would snow and if the soft white flakes might suffocate the pestilence in an icy tomb.
As soon as the man had gone the girl came over and gave me an awkward little bob. ‘He says the bishop’s here, my lady.’
I’d heard no arrival which was surprising as the courtyard was mostly empty. These days there was not much journeying and William continued to bar the gates to passing travellers.
‘Did he say which bishop?’
‘He didn’t know, my lady. He said the men had blue badges on their sleeves with fancy gold decoration.’
Not Bishop Grandison then. Perhaps it was Bishop Bateman. Perhaps there was news.
I barely had time to consider what this meant when another of William’s grooms came through the door at a run.
‘The Bishop of Norwich, my lady. Downstairs in the master’s chamber. He’s asking for you.’
‘Is Sir William there?’
‘No, my lady. He was but he’s gone to the yard.’
There was no time to prepare, and delay would not change what was to come so I murmured a quick prayer to Our Lady and followed the man down the stairs.
Bishop Bateman was standing with his back to the door studying the drawing of William’s new coat of arms which lay on the table. He turned as I entered. There was none of the magnificence I’d noticed at Windsor the summer before last, none of the gorgeous splendour of the king’s favourite and most valued diplomat. He looked an old and worried man.
‘My lady.’ His voice was cold.
‘Reverend Father.’
I knelt in meek submission and dutifully kissed his proffered ring.
He regarded me with muted sadness, a sinner in need of redemption rather than a countess and cousin of the king. I rose to my feet keeping my head lowered and my eyes on his hands.
‘’I have in my possession, my lady, a letter from the Holy Father.’
I could see quite clearly the roll of parchment with its heavy seals, a parchment which had travelled all the way from Avignon and surely contained the decision of the papal tribunal. In a wave of utter terror, I half-closed my mind to what was happening.
The bishop watched me gravely as if expecting a response and when none was forthcoming returned his gaze to the smooth vellum and the crabbed black writing.
‘The Holy Father’s letter is addressed to the Bishop of Comacchio who as papal nuncio has travelled to England to deliver it to myself and to my brother in Christ, the Bishop of London.’
He looked up enquiringly but my face like my mind was a blank.
‘I shall not read the whole letter, my lady, as it is long and detailed and difficult for a woman such as yourself, untrained in ecclesiastical matters, to understand but the essence is that His Holiness is pleased to accept the verdict of Cardinal d’Albi’s tribunal in the matter concerning Lady Joan, daughter of Edmund, late Earl of Kent, Sir Thomas Holand, and Sir William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury.’
He paused and gave me a look which contained a sliver of distaste as if the whole matter was something disgusting which carried with it an offensive odour.
‘Cardinal d’Albi has concluded, after reviewing the evidence presented both to Cardinal Robert and that offered to his own tribunal, and with careful deliberation on his part, and after consultation with other legal experts…’
He paused yet again as if the words had stuck in his craw.
‘… that the contract entered into by Sir Thomas Holand and the Lady Joan was and still is a valid marital union.’
I began to tremble. A valid marital union. Thomas. A valid marital union. I was Thomas’s wife. Not William’s. All this time I had been Thomas’s wife.
Bishop Bateman continued reading. ‘The Lady Joan is to be restored immediately to Sir Thomas Holand and their union is to be solemnized publicly.’
I could go back to Thomas. Immediately. To Thomas.
There was more. ‘The de facto marriage entered into by Earl William and the Lady Joan is null and void.’
He put the parchment down on the table and looked at me with the satisfactio
n of one who has delivered a damning verdict of a richly deserved and terrible punishment.
‘Do you understand the meaning of what I have told you?’
Mutely, I nodded my head.
‘You realise this decision means you are no longer Sir William’s wife. You have no further claim upon him. He has cast you off and you are required to leave his house so that you do not bring further shame upon him and his good name.’
So my tenure as Countess of Salisbury was finished, but I didn’t care. Flooding my mind was an image of Thomas. The Thomas who was my true and most beloved husband.
‘The wrong that you have done Sir William is a truly dreadful thing,’ thundered Bishop Batemen. ‘It is beyond anything that I have ever had to deal with in a dispute between a man and his wife. It was a vile and despicable deceit practised upon a wholly blameless young man and before you can be received back into God’s good grace you will be required to make a full and frank confession of your sins and accept whatever penance is given to you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Reverend Father,’ I whispered, unable to think of anything other than Thomas and the enduring warmth of the sand dunes of Calais.
‘Very well. If you would make yourself ready, my lady.’
‘Ready?’
‘To leave.’
‘Now?’
‘Naturally. Sir William will not countenance your presence under his roof for another night and I must return to my diocese. If this had not been a command from His Holiness I would not be here. Now if you please, my lady, make haste.’
I walked unsteadily out of William’s chamber into the familiar sights and sounds of the busy hall. I could see a dozen grooms and pages going about their daily business and heard them talking but was unable to comprehend what was happening. Nothing made any sense. All I could think of was that I was leaving; leaving my friends, my lady companions, my maids, my steward, the clerk of my wardrobe, my little page. In a few hours I would be gone and I would never see any of them again.
And Bisham? What about Bisham? I felt a pang of loss and immediately thought of William, the William who was no longer my husband. Where was he? What was he doing?
As soon as I reached my chamber I gave swift instructions to my maids for the packing of my chests. I held the hands of my ladies and told them gently that I was departing.
‘Where?’ they asked and when I explained, their eyes filled with tears.
They had admired my position as Countess of Salisbury and when they held me in their arms they cried not just for their own loss but also for mine.
‘How will you manage?’ said one, sniffing miserably. ‘Nobody will want to know you.’
‘I shall still be a lady.’
‘Yes, but…’
To both of them, my fall from grace was an utter disaster and they could not understand why I was not in despair.
‘What are you doing?’ A cold voice cut across the room.
Holy Mother of God! It was William!
‘Sir William,’ I said bravely, trying to remember he was no longer my husband and had no power over me. ‘Bishop Bateman has ordered me to make ready.’
‘So I repeat. What are you doing?’
‘The bishop has commanded me to pack my things.’
William cast a glance at the gowns, folded and layered neatly in the two chests, the books and my sewing bag and my silver mirror placed in a smaller box.
‘Those are not your things.’
‘They are my robes and my…’
‘Those are my things,’ he said flatly. ‘Everything in this room belongs to me. Everything in this house belongs to me. I thought you were mine but it seems in that I was mistaken.’
‘William,’ I pleaded. ‘I didn’t mean to deceive you. You must know I didn’t.’
He swept on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Since you are not mine you may go. Everything else remains here.’
‘But my gowns?’
‘Mine.’
His voice was sharp enough to splinter stone and I could detect no softness, no forgiveness, no sign of weakness or sorrow.
‘What am I to wear, William?’
‘That is not my concern. Ask your so-called husband.’ He spat out the last word with real venom. ‘And don’t imagine you’re taking that coffer of jewels I see on the table. I gave those to my wife, the wife I married in good faith, and since you are not my wife and never have been, they cannot be yours.’
‘But…’
He crashed his fist on the table making the maids cower in fear and both my ladies retreat to the edges of the room.
‘They are mine, as are the rings on your fingers.’
I looked at my hands. I only wore two rings today: a small sapphire William had once given me as an Easter gift and my mother’s gold and ruby ring. I removed the sapphire and closed my fingers tightly around my mother’s ring.
‘That one too.’
‘No, William. That was my mother’s ring. It belongs to me.’
For a moment I thought he would rip the ring from my finger but he still had enough of his temper under control.
‘If that lying whore, your mother, was here and not rotting in her tomb, I’d throttle her. I hope she burns for an eternity in purgatory for her part in this. My parents should never have trusted her. Very well, keep your witch’s bauble. But get out of my sight. I never want to see or hear from you again.’
My maid held out my winter riding cloak: thick blue Flemish cloth, lined with lambswool. William glanced at it, then at me.
‘Leave that.’
‘Bring me one of the others,’ I said quietly to the girl.
‘Oh no,’ snarled William. ‘You’ll leave them all. They’re mine. Every single one of them. No whore leaves my house clad in the best that my money can buy, and you won’t need them in the shit-hole where you’ll be going.’
I touched the fine wool skirt of my gown, feeling beneath its meagre thickness my single linen shift and my elegant hose.
‘William, it’s winter. I’ll freeze without a cloak.’
‘I’d send you out in your shift, you bitch, if I didn’t think it would offend the bishop. I don’t care if you freeze. I don’t care if you starve or get eaten by wolves. The ravens can peck out your eyes if they so wish. I hope the pestilence gets you, you and that scum you lay with. I hope you both rot together in hell.’
I turned to my maid. ‘Give me your cloak and fetch the old one you were going to patch. You can wear that for the moment. I’ll find you another once we’re away from here.’
William shot out a hand and pushed the girl out of the way.
‘You won’t be taking your girl with you. She belongs to me. They all belong to me, every one of them. I house them, I clothe them, I feed them. They are my chattels.’
The girl looked at me with mute terror. She’d served me for more than half her life and didn’t understand what was happening.
I placed my hands gently on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said quietly. ‘Stay here and be a good girl. Say nothing. There’ll soon be another mistress for you to serve. Just fetch me your cloak.’
She practically ran to the closet and brought out her cloak of plain English cloth; the lining was budge and there were no trimmings. It was a very mean affair and not the sort of cloak a lady would ever dream of wearing. I put out of my mind the velvet cloaks and wonderful gowns I was leaving behind: my favourite blue silk, the green brocade, the delicately embroidered nightgowns and the sparkling jewels.
I threw the cloak quickly over my shoulders and walked to the door.
‘Fare you well, William.’
He said nothing. His face was hard and he didn’t even look at me as I slipped out and went down the stairs. My footsteps echoed forlornly and I felt a shaft of
pain at the thought of the women huddled upstairs who were no longer part of my life.
Bishop Batemen was in the hall. His eyes took in my peculiarly lowly appearance but he said nothing. Perhaps as a man of God he despised a woman’s liking for finery and was glad I was demonstrating a suitable repentance for my previous vanity. He glanced behind me.
‘Where is your woman?’
‘There is only me, Reverend Father. My…, Sir William will not permit either my maid or my chests to accompany me. I come as I am.’
‘But you have a horse?’
He looked alarmed at the thought of having me hoisted behind one of his men in plain view of anyone on the road.
‘Yes. I have my own mare. She was a royal gift. I don’t think Sir William would dare to keep her.’
I followed him and his servant down the steps to the courtyard where the bishop’s men were waiting.
As I set foot on the bottom step, a man detached himself from the shadows. It was my steward. His eyes were full of tears.
‘My lady,’ he could barely utter the words he was so upset. ‘We heard, my lady. It is the most grievous news and even the boys in the kitchen are weeping to see you go. We of your household wish you well. Wherever you may find yourself our prayers go with you.’ He thrust a small piece of folded cloth into my hand and I heard the chink of coins. ‘The men want you to have this. It is all they can manage but they wouldn’t want you to go hungry. You have been a good mistress to us and it distresses them to see you leave like this.’
I grasped his hand. It was firm and warm and I knew I would never feel it again.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, almost choking at his kindness. ‘Thank you. I shall think of you all and remember you in my prayers. May the Holy Mother of God keep you safe in the years ahead.’
It was noon when we rode under the gatehouse and down the track to the river. I didn’t look back although every bone in my body screamed for me to do so. I wanted to linger, to let my eyes wander over walls which gleamed rosy in the pale winter sun, across steep tiled rooftops where in springtime rooks built their twiggy nests, down to the tall glazed windows of my solar where I had spent so many hours staring out across the fields.
The Fair Maid of Kent Page 35
