The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  By next morning my gown was dry and the girl helped me dress, stroking the fine wool which was very much the poorer because of our flight from Wiccim. Whoever had washed it had done their best but there were stains which would never disappear and clumsily mended rents across the bodice. In my other life I would have tossed it out to one of my maids but here it was the only gown I possessed.

  The hall was small but comfortable with a central hearth and three tables; one for Thomas, Otho and I, one for the men and another for the three women and the girl. I, naturally, was the object of everybody’s curious gaze and I was glad I had refused both the shirt and the sheet. Thomas sat by my side but talked to Otho. It was like Calais when William would talk to Thomas instead of me. Perhaps all husbands were like this.

  That afternoon to my annoyance I felt the familiar cramping pains and, after counting the days of my courses, realised any further hope of marital intimacy would have to wait. I explained to the girl what I needed and she trotted off to ask the women. When she returned, Thomas was with her.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said abruptly.

  I kept my head bent so that he couldn’t see the flush of embarrassment on my face. This was a private matter for women, never discussed with any man, not even a husband. ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘The women will look after you,’ he said. ‘I shall be leaving tomorrow as I have matters to attend to. Otho will remain so you’ll be perfectly safe. If I can, I’ll bring you some cloth for a gown.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, still refusing to meet his eye and not liking to ask where he was going or who might be there.

  I knew he was staring at me.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said softly.

  I looked up, surprised at the warmth in his voice, but he was gone.

  With my husband absent, I found time to explore the manor house and its surroundings but the daylight hours were short and so cold that I achieved little else. I exhausted my conversations with Otho, who proved most unwilling to tell me much about his brother, and there didn’t seem to be anything for me to do. I couldn’t understand the women, who scuttled away every time I made an appearance, and the men, although friendly, seemed discomforted by my presence. There were no minstrels or books and with no sign of neighbours or passing strangers, nobody had the inclination for telling stories.

  It was evening on the sixth day when I heard the sound of his return. The shutters were closed for the night and the candles lit in the little chamber beyond the curtain. I was making myself ready for bed. The curtain which hid the doorway billowed open and my heart leapt most unreasonably at the sight of my husband. His head and shoulders were covered in a fine dusting of snow.

  He walked across the floor towards me and in a single movement scooped me up and held me tight against his chest. The folds of his cloak flapped against my legs and a snowflake settled on my face where it melted to nothing. I could feel the metal of his buckle pressing hard into the soft wool of my gown.

  ‘Thomas…’ I was silenced by his cold mouth on mine.

  He kissed me the way he had always kissed, the way I remembered him kissing me in Antwerp after the fire in Sir Two-Faces’ house, the way he had kissed me in Ghent, in the chapel at Bisham, by the banks of the Thames and two years ago in the sand dunes at Calais. He kissed how I had imagined him kissing me in a hundred thousand dreams over the years but no dream could possibly have matched the gloriousness of this moment.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want me,’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh I want you,’ he said.

  And with that he proceeded to gather me up and carry me off to bed.

  He was still fully dressed and the first time he didn’t even take off his boots.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he said. ‘I really can’t.’

  Afterwards I whispered into the warmth of his mouth, ‘You didn’t come near me. All that time. I thought you didn’t care.’

  ‘Sweet fool,’ he said, nibbling my ear. ‘I cared, and you can’t imagine how much I wanted you, how many times I had to stop myself from touching you. But I had to be certain.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That your child will be my child. A man must know that his heir is his own and not some other man’s bastard. Montagu had been in your bed.’

  ‘Not for months,’ I said untruthfully.

  He put his head on one side and looked into my eyes. ‘The next time you lie to me, Lady Holand, I shall…’ He whispered something quite outrageous into my ear which reduced me to helpless giggles

  ‘You wouldn’t?’

  ‘I most certainly would.’

  ‘Very well, he hasn’t been in my bed for at least a month.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  He picked up my hand and gently kissed the soft pulse on my wrist, the palm, the tips of each finger.

  ‘You must always tell me the truth. A man has to trust his wife. Whatever you’ve done, however bad it is, you must always tell me.’

  ‘He was meant to be my husband,’ I said sadly, thinking of the many occasions William and I had clung together for comfort, and the bitter parting when he knew I was leaving. ‘But at the end I was unnecessary to his pleasure.’

  ‘Well, you are not unnecessary to mine,’ said Thomas firmly.

  I lost count of the number of times he made love to me that night but there was light in the morning sky when we finally fell asleep, locked in each others arms.

  When I awoke, Thomas was watching me from across the pillow. He smiled. I smiled back, thinking how handsome he was despite the scar on his eye and the grey hair touching his temples.

  ‘Greetings, husband.’

  ‘Whose wife are you?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘Yours, Thomas.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t want me to ask the tribunal to reconsider their verdict?’

  I touched his lips with my finger. ‘Don’t tease. I love you.’

  ‘Ah, you may say you love me today but I happen to know just how fickle your affections are.’

  ‘For ever. I am going to love you for ever.’

  ‘Unto death?’

  ‘Unto death and beyond.’

  He made to sit up. ‘Good, so that’s settled and I can get back to work.’

  I didn’t want him to go, not yet.

  ‘Work, my lord?’ I said, stroking my fingers up his thigh. ‘What kind of work?’

  He rolled on top of me and pressed me deep into the mattress. ‘The making of our first little Holand, my lady. What else?’

  Much later we sat, wrapped in the bedcovers, idly discussing the future.

  ‘Must we stay here?’ I asked.

  ‘For now. But come spring, if we are still alive, we’ll travel south and throw ourselves on the king’s mercy. He’ll be planning his next move against the French and he knows I am a very fine soldier.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You, Lady Holand, will be sewing baby garments for our first son.’

  He was so certain, I could almost believe it myself.

  He hauled himself out of bed. Oh, but he was beautiful to look at in the light of day as he walked across the floor. He turned and noticed my gaze with amusement.

  ‘Am I to your liking, my lady? It’s been a long time.’

  ‘You have always been to my liking, my lord. From the very first moment I saw you.’

  His clothes were strewn where he’d thrown them the night before. He bent down, picked up his belt and retrieved his purse.

  ‘When I was away, I bought you something.’

  ‘Cloth for a gown?’

  ‘This is something else.’

  He walked back slowly, stretching his body, easing his muscles, and stoo
d beside the bed. My belly felt weak and my heart turned over at the sight of him.

  ‘As you know, Lady Holand, I am a man who keeps his promises and a long time ago I told you that if you married me I’d cast jewels across our marriage bed. Not as many as I’d hoped and probably not as many as you would like but…’

  And with a carelessness which astounded me he threw a handful of seed pearls right across the coverlet. They lay there, shining like little drops of holy ice, nestled against the roughness of the dull brown cloth.

  ‘Oh Thomas,’ I whispered. ‘Oh Thomas.’

  He put his hands on either side of my face and kissed me softly, and the pearls were all but forgotten, lost in a tangle of bedclothes, falling one by one gently onto the rushes on the floor.

  Epilogue

  Broughton 1352

  Somewhere in the snowy countryside of England, the lady of the little manor of Broughton stood staring at the letter in her hand. She read it twice and then, in disbelief, read it a third time. The exhausted messenger kneeling at her feet wore a black tabard and when she’d seen him leap from his sweating horse her first thought had been for her husband.

  Thomas Holand was doing his duty in Calais. It was his first command and she had wanted to accompany him.

  ‘It’s a garrison town,’ he had said. ‘No dancing, no women.’

  ‘You’re certain?’ She had tried her hardest not to sound like a jealous wife. ‘I won’t stand for women.’

  He had laughed and kissed her firmly on the lips.

  ‘Give me a daughter to keep our little son company in the nursery and I promise you faithfully there’ll be no women.’

  ‘I shall have your brother keep me informed.’

  ‘Otho would never betray me, not even to you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ she had said, smiling.

  That had been six months ago and Otho had never said a word. Naturally the baby had been a girl. She had called her Maud as they had agreed and her brother had sent the child a silver bowl.

  ‘He can’t be dead,’ she said at last. ‘It’s not possible. He’s my brother; he’s only twenty-two.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ said the messenger, thinking how beautiful Lady Holand was, even in her present distress. ‘I saw his body myself.’

  Joan called for food and drink for the man from Woking but at the back of her mind she was already planning. She was in disgrace with the king for having defied him in the matter of her marriage and her royal cousin was not inclined to do her any favours. She and Thomas were still waiting for the rest of the money owed to Thomas for the prisoner he had captured at Caen on the French campaign, and when Thomas had asked for help with the expenses of his new position the king had offered a mere hundred marks a year. Such meanness when they had so little and once she had been her cousin’s favoured Jeanette.

  But now? She hardly dared think of the possibilities. Her brother had no children and she was his heir. She would be Countess of Kent. All those manors her brother had talked about incessantly, and best of all, Castle Donnington with its flower-strewn meadows and stretches of beautiful woodland. It would mean an end to their poverty, a return to court because her cousin could hardly ignore her, not when she would be so very, very rich.

  Thomas could give up soldiering if he wished. He could manage their estates and they would live a life of ease and contentment. There would be more children, more time together. Broughton could be forgotten, leased to someone else while they climbed back into the sunshine. There would golden years ahead with Thomas: twenty? thirty? Who but God knew how long. They would spend their money and enjoy it. After all you couldn’t take a rent roll to the grave.

  And this time she would have a solar.

  What happened next

  In the ten years following their second marriage Joan gave Thomas four children, two boys and two girls. Thomas was summoned to parliament in 1354 as Baron Holand and in 1359 took the title Earl of Kent in the right of his wife. His military career culminated with his prestigious appointment as the king’s captain and lieutenant in Normandy and France.

  Shortly after Joan left him, William Montagu married Elizabeth, daughter of John de Mohun, Lord de Mohun of Dunster. They had one son.

  In 1352 Edward Montagu, was arrested, suspected of being responsible for the death of his wife, Alice, following an assault. No charges were ever brought.

  After her husband, John Segrave, died in 1353, Joan’s cousin, Margaret, married Walter Manny.

  Within four months of Thomas Holand’s death in Rouen on 28th December 1360, his widow, Joan, secretly married the king’s son, Edward, Prince of Wales.

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Nick for getting me started and to Jackie, Jane and Ken of the writing group for keeping me at it. Without the Danish pastries, the chocolate cake and the endless cups of coffee this book might still be languishing half-finished on my computer. Also thanks to Ken for help with the editing.

  Thanks to my husband, Richard and to my daughters, Natasha and Alex, for their help with choosing the cover image and to the team at Matador for all their advice and support.

  But most of all I need to acknowledge the debt of gratitude I owe to my father for introducing me to the world of my mother’s family tree and to my mother for having the good sense to be born with Joan as her sixteen times great-grandmother.

  Contact

  If you enjoyed The Fair Maid of Kent and would like to know more about Caroline’s forthcoming books please visit:

  Website: carolinenewarkbooks.co.uk

  Facebook: carolinenewarkbooks

  Blog: carolinenewarkbooks.co.uk/blog

  Coming Soon

  The Pearl of France

  Joined by God, fused by passion,

  tainted by jealousy

  In the autumn of 1299 as part of a treaty of peace with England, Marguerite, the French king’s young sister, marries her brother’s enemy, the elderly Edward I.

  Marguerite expects nothing from this marriage other than a life of duty and obedience but Edward is a man experienced in the art of pleasing a woman and he awakens unexpected passions in his young wife.

  Used by her step-children as a peacemaker and by her husband as a vessel for the sons he craves, Marguerite believes she is content until she comes to desire a man who is not her husband and whose interests run counter to those of the king.

  When the quicksands of a Scottish war open beneath her feet and her beloved stepson finally rebels against his father, she is engulfed in a nightmare world of treachery, murder and hideous bloody revenge.