CHAPTER THREE
The Tower was filled tonight with men back from the war. The majestic Henry de Grosmont, Earl of Lancaster, who had successfully campaigned in Gascony was talking earnestly with de Bohun of Northampton and Robert Ufford, Earl of Suffolk. The Earls of Warwick and Oxford were there with their ladies, and many lesser men, made rich by the war, strutted in fine clothes, all prepared to enjoy this homecoming, loud voiced and energetic, eager to impress their equally energetic King.
She must not wear a gloomy face tonight, Joan thought, and went over to where William was talking with the Mortimer brothers, Edmund and Roger, and Simon Burley. 'Oh here you are,' William said. 'I am just telling them about the siege. I wish you had seen my mother in her soldier's clothes. She stood on top of the gatehouse and shouted to the Scots to do their worst for she would never surrender. I carried our banner and waved it high over her head.'
'You must have been glad when the King and his army came marching to aid you.'
'We were,' William agreed. 'But we could have held out. The Scots would have got tired and gone home before we'd have yielded. Still, we were getting short of food. We had a stew one night that tasted odd and afterward I heard it was rat meat. I spewed all over the floor.' William said this in such a tone of grave reflection that Joan burst out laughing and he added, 'It was not all fun, I can tell you.'
Joan's brother, the Earl of Kent, had joined them and was listening to William's description of the siege. 'You prate of a few Scots sitting outside your gate,' he mocked. 'Why, that was nothing compared to our fight at sea, I can tell you, what with all the cogs locked in battle and men swinging aboard the French ships and the noise and the blood. I saw soldiers falling overboard with arms lopped off or heads cut open or screaming with their guts falling out.'
'Do you think Joan wants to hear that?' William interrupted with sudden fierceness. 'And you didn't fight.'
'I did,' Kent retorted. 'I snatched up a spear and I killed a Frenchman. I drove it into his belly and how he yelled.'
'Then he couldn't have been much of a fighting man,' Joan said, 'to let a child attack him.'
'I am not a child!' he scowled at his sister. 'My lord of Warwick says he is well pleased with me and I'll soon be his squire.' He sprawled on a bench and stuck his hands in his belt. 'I suppose you two will be wed soon.'
William took Joan's hand. 'I expect so. I hope so.' There was an odd little silence and then Joan released herself and said quickly, 'Their graces are coming.'
The trumpeters had raised their instruments to herald the arrival of the King and Queen who came down the stair from their apartments, he leading her by the hand to their chairs at the centre of the long table on the dais.
To Joan he had always been her cousin Edward, yet he seemed to her to have attained a new magnificence this evening, his triumph adding an aura to his presence. He was perhaps the most handsome of all. Tall, broad-shouldered and immensely strong, he had the golden red hair of the family, the deep blue eyes that seemed alertly aware of everything that went on, a long straight nose and perfectly symmetrical face with a mobile mouth that smiled often. He had always had the gift of making himself approachable to everyone, but those who crossed him soon found out there was a strong and obstinate will beneath that pleasant exterior. Nor was anyone wise to forget the tendency to Plantagenet rages.
What would he say to her, Joan wondered, if he knew the truth? Had he plans for her, other plans that she had now rendered useless? His anger would be justifiable and she felt herself trembling as she looked at his familiar yet newly awesome figure, his long jacket of finest wool studded with pearls, his sleeves run through with gold thread, his hose encasing long well-shaped legs, and on his head the crown of his forefathers glittering in the candlelight. Above him a squire lifted his favourite banner, embroidered with a swan and bearing his motto, “Hay, hay, the white swan. By God's soul, I am thy man,” and Edward surveyed his court, smiling and saying something in a low voice to his Queen who nodded amusedly.
Behind them came Prince Edward holding his little brother Lionel by the hand and after them his sisters Isabel and Mary the youngest, Joanna being far away in Austria for her betrothal. The King called for the Archbishop to say grace and the feasting began with the main dishes heralded by trumpeters and carried high to the royal table.
Joan sat through it all trying to put the thought of Tom out of her head for this evening at least, to listen to William's flow of talk for he wanted to tell her all that had happened in Wark Castle. It occurred to her that it had often been so, he eager to share everything with her, and her own thoughts elsewhere.
Later when the minstrels were entertaining them the King sat with a small group by the fire and when his eye fell on Joan he beckoned her to them. 'Well, little cousin,' he said. 'I see you are much changed since I was last at home. It is time you left the company of this brood of mine, do you not think so?'
She found herself blushing. 'As your grace commands. If I might attend her grace that would please me well.'
The King laughed and his lady said, 'Dear Joan, it would please me very well, but I think that is not what the King has in mind.'
'No, indeed,' he agreed. 'Marriage, my dear. What do you say, my lady?' He glanced at the Countess of Salisbury, a warm light in his face. 'It is time, is it not?'
'Time indeed,' she agreed. 'My husband wished to see them wed and although he is not here to see it done, I know he would not wish delay on that account.'
'We'll get him home before too long,' Edward said. 'Lady Margaret, I think you are agreeable to the marriage taking place soon. This child of yours is ripe for picking, eh?'
'Indeed, your grace.' Joan's mother made him a little obeisance. She was his aunt by marriage and since he had revenged himself on those who had perpetrated her husband's grim death she would have obeyed him in anything he asked. 'Your grace's fondness for both William and Joan will greatly benefit them, I am sure.'
He looked rather oddly at her and then turned to his Queen. 'Well, madame, shall we have a pretty spring wedding?'
'I love a bridal,' Philippa said laughingly. ‘'tis an excuse for new gowns and gloves and jewels. I shall see you well decked, dear Joan. Perhaps the second week after Easter will not be too soon?'
The words, the back and forth of the conversation seemed to be a tide in which Joan was drowning. She tried to speak but no words would come. In any case she was not expected to give an opinion. She looked up and saw William smiling complacently at her from behind his father's chair and at once she lowered her gaze to the floor, her brain numbed, knowing she should have expected this sooner or later, that she had so shut her mind to it that it had come nevertheless as a sickening shock. She was silent, searching desperately for a way out.
The King reached out his hand and putting it under her chin raised her face. He made as if to pinch her cheek but instead let his fingertips slide over the smoothness of her skin. 'By my soul, I did not realize you had grown so lovely. Where have my eyes been, I wonder? But then, 'tis a long time since I looked at you. She is pretty, is she not, my love?'
Philippa nodded. 'Aye. William may thank Our Lady for such a bride. I believe you will be happy together, my dear.'
Panic had set in. Joan felt incapable of speech, her mouth dry, the infuriating scarlet deepening in her cheeks. Oh God, what should she do, what could she do? Blessed Mary, she prayed, help me, help me! Here, before the overwhelming presence of the King, before the Queen so happy for her espousal, before her cousin the Prince, as well as the Earl and Countess and her own formidable mother, the thought of speaking out, of explaining, filled her with terror. She must tell them, but how? How?
Could she say, 'I betrothed in secret Thomas Holland, my lord Salisbury's steward; I slept with him in my mother's bed?' Such words would not come and if she had said them what would happen to her? She would be beaten, she was sure of that, by her mother if no one else, shut in some miserable room night and day, punished severe
ly. She had heard of one girl locked up for months on only bread and water for just an offence. And she could not bear that. If only Tom were not far away, if his strength was beside her, perhaps they could face it together, call on their witnesses. And then she remembered that Sir James was dead and his lady gone no one knew where.
In sheer terror at what she had done, in fear for Tom, in misery at her own aloneness, she could no longer keep calm and tears poured uncontrollably down her face.
'Dear cousin,' the King said in swift concern, 'what is this? Come,' he added teasingly, 'surely William is not such a bad fellow.'
Prince Edward, standing beside his father's chair and listening to the conversation, asked in sudden surprise, 'What makes you cry, Jeanette? We've talked of this before and you never said –'
The Countess broke in to say, 'Pray don't disturb yourselves. It is mere fright at the thought of wedlock,' while Lady Margaret added, 'Joan will do as she is bid and as your grace wishes. Daughter, cease that weeping at once and comport yourself properly. Holy Saints, the young do not know how to behave these days.'
Joan was struggling in vain with her tears, trying to dry her eyes for the second time this evening on a corner of her veil, overcome with concern that so many people should be staring at her – the Prince with genuine concern on his face, Isabel with narrowed eyes and a precociously knowing look, William distinctly uncomfortable, to say nothing of the amused or patronizing glances of the rest of the circle of high-born ladies and gentlemen about the King.
It was the Queen who held out her hand and drew the unhappy girl to her. 'You are all upsetting this poor child. Naturally the prospect of marriage makes a maiden blush. Leave her to me, my lord, while you set the court dancing. We will have a little talk and put all to rights.' She swept Joan away under the protection of her arm, and in the solar, away from curious eyes, Joan threw herself against Philippa's ample bosom.
'Madame, forgive me, forgive me.'
'For what, my love? It is quite usual, I promise you, for a girl to feel so when she thinks of marriage for the first time. But it can be a very happy state, especially as William seems in a fair way towards growing like his father and I cannot give him higher praise than that.'
'But you don't understand,' Joan wailed. 'I can't . . . oh, what can I say? I can't wed William.'
'Why not?' the Queen asked in surprise. She called to one of her women and told her to brew a drink of hot spiced wine with an egg beaten into it. 'That will calm you and settle your stomach,' she said comfortably. 'Now sit down here by the fire and tell me why you cannot wed William.'
Now that the chance had come, now that she was alone with the Queen, Joan longed to pour out the truth, but fear had so got the better of her that it locked her tongue. She looked round the room so enhanced by the elegance the Queen had brought to it. Philippa was not pretty but she had warm dark eyes and she had won the hearts of her husband's people by her kindness and her generosity. That her extravagance would touch their pockets they had yet to discover and it never occurred to Joan that a Queen might not have all she wished. She loved Philippa for her very homeliness. A Queen who had even suckled her own babies, surely of all people this kindly Flemish woman, in contrast to her own sternly beautiful mother, would understand? And yet – and yet if it all came out how she would be mocked, laughed at! Women like Agnes Soughden and Mary Pique would point the finger at her and make their bawdy jokes, Isabel would look smug, but that would be nothing to the anger of those in charge of her whom she had duped. Her mind could not even contemplate what the King would say. Her mother would be furious, the Salisburys insulted and her dear cousin Edward would be shocked and hurt that she had lied to him. Jesu, what was she to do? She must have been mad, utterly mad in those May days of last year – yet she loved Tom, she was his wife, and she wanted him desperately, knowing that if it was all to be done again she would go as willingly to his arms. In one moment of desperate longing she remembered the joy as he came to slide into bed beside her, the warmth of his body, the insistence of his mouth, his hands, his whispered words of love, the rising passion between them that she had learned so quickly to share, a hot desire burned deep even while she shivered by the Queen's fire. But he was not here to stand beside her in this moment of crisis and she was alone to bear the consequences of their secret union. And if he never came back, if he was dead, the shame of acknowledging it and all to no purpose would kill her, she thought tragically. Could one survive such shame, such ignominy?
She took the hot posset and sipped, her tears running down into it. And when she raised her eyes to the Queen's the very kindness there only made it worse. She could not control the shivers, her teeth chattering against the silver cup.
'There,' Philippa said, 'you have taken an ague I shouldn't wonder and had best go to bed. I will make your excuses. You are afraid of your marriage night, that is all quite natural, but this match will greatly please the King for he is devoted to my lord of Salisbury. You will make no more fuss will you, my love? There is really no reason why you cannot marry William, is there?'
Joan wanted to cry out ‘There is! There is!’ but no words came. She could not, could not say them. Wild ideas filled her head. She would run away, try to find Tom, enter a nunnery, seek sanctuary – but these were all foolish. She could do none of them for she was trapped by her youth, her high birth, the court in which lived, even by the very concern of this homely woman to say nothing of the demands of the dominating cousin who wore the crown of England on his head.
Miserably she continued to sit, unable to move, her limbs like lead, the warm cup held between her hands.
After a long silence she shook her head. 'No, madame,' she said and wondered if her lie and her sin were so great that God would strike her dead at once, fling her into that hell she had seen painted on the walls of the chapel at Woodstock.
But God did not strike her, nor did she feel the pains of hell. Instead she married William.
CHAPTER FOUR
Montacute House was a large, pleasant building in a green and fertile part of Somerset and set in the shadow of the high hill, the Mons Acutus, from which the family name derived. There Joan and William travelled in the early summer, with the Countess and her mother-in-law, William's grandmother, Elizabeth Lady Furnival. They had been handsomely provided for. The King had settled lands in Wales on them, Joan's dowry was large, the Queen had given the bride silks and furs, cloth for gowns, jewels to adorn her, and the marriage, celebrated in the chapel at Westminster, had been a sumptuous affair.
Joan lived through the festivities that followed as if all the brilliance, the laughter, the chatter, were some sort of garish dream. Toasts were drunk, songs were sung for her and one Jean Froissart, a clerk in the Queen's household, penned an exquisite verse in praise of her beauty.
William had a love of poetry and read to her, sometimes writing verses himself that she thought were charming, if not of the same quality as Master Froissart's lines. Yet her young husband was not like some of the poets who came to court. He was as keen on healthy exercise, proficient at the butts, eager to be on horseback every day, hunting or practising at the quintain. A tournament was held on the day following the nuptial Mass, and William took part for the first time, competing against other youths his own age and to his delight unseating Warwick's son, the younger Beauchamp.
The bridal couple were not considered of an age to be bedded as yet and sheer relief set Joan dancing with a hectic gaiety that had all the young men present vying for the honour of being her partner. That she who had known a man's love should be thought too young to be a wife roused her to a state between laughter and tears, and tears she must not show. What she had done with Tom during that brief week, now a whole year away, began to fade into the past. It had been an act of wild, ecstatic folly, which had carried them both away, and in the weeks after her marriage she managed during the day at least to banish the memories. It was only at night that the old longing came back so urgently. She would l
ie awake remembering, or she would sleep to dream that Tom was home again and the nightmare of the ensuing scene would wake her, sweating and fearful.
In some ways she was glad to go to Montacute, for new sights would aid this necessity to forget. Lady Furnival accompanied them and on the first morning, as the Countess and William were closeted with the reeve, she took her new granddaughter hawking. It was a beautiful day and Joan was glad to ride out into the green countryside. As they paused, watching for quarry, she stroked the feathers of the little merlin William had given her. But only half her mind was on the sport, for she was aware that this elderly lady who sat her horse with so straight a back was scrutinizing her closely. William seemed devoted to his grandmother but Joan found her a serious, remote person mourning the loss of her second husband. She had been gracious last night and presented the bride with some rare pearls to be sewn into a gown, and had talked knowledgeably of the newest fashions, but had exclaimed in astonishment at the nightgown given to Joan by Queen Philippa.
'Naked we have always been to bed,' she had said. 'Why should a man want this flimsy nonsense between himself and his wife?'
Joan could not suppress a giggle. 'The Queen says it is feminine, alluring.'
'Alluring?' Lady Furnival raised an arched eyebrow. She thought passion unseemly in a woman. 'Do your duty by William, child, when the time comes, without bothering your head with such things.'
Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4) Page 4
