Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Her stiffness seemed less daunting this morning, however, as she began to talk of Montacute.

  'I have always loved it,' she said, 'since I came here as a bride myself, though after William's grandfather died and I married Sir Thomas I saw little of it. I am glad to be back. And glad of your marriage,' she added suddenly, the habitual austere look giving way to a warmer expression. 'I think you will do very well for William. There's a partridge, send off your merlin.'

  Aye, Joan thought, I may do well for William but does she consider whether William will do well for me? She flung up her hand and the bird was away, soaring high, hovering, swooping over its prey. She swung her lure, calling softly, and as the huntsman ran forward to pick up the partridge, the merlin settled again obediently on her hand, mewing softly. She could see that little counted with Lady Furnival except her son and grandson, but in the days that followed she warmed to her, spending much time talking with her and listening to her tales of the past, and of her youth at the court of King Edward, all told with astringent comments that brought them to life. When winter came and kept them within doors the company was so lively that Joan enjoyed the Christmas celebrations.

  It was the following spring before they returned to London and Salisbury House for the ritual of bedding the bride with the blessing of the Church. Hot possets were served in the bridal chamber, garters were thrown for luck and posies of primroses laid oil the foot of the bed. And then in the darkness Joan suffered the inept fumblings of an inexperienced boy. She felt nothing for William but the affection of a sister and he was incapable of stirring passion in her. He neither knew how nor that she was not a virgin. She thought of Tom and his love-making, the wild ecstasy he had induced, awakening her young body to passion, and it was all she could do not to thrust William from her. This was the moment she had dreaded all the long summer and during the winter that followed, knowing that it must come.

  She did not want him to touch her and struggled to control the revulsion she felt. It was not William's fault and he was her husband now until death, and hot tears ran down the sides of her face into the pillow. Death was a long, long way off and was the only thing that could untie this sacred knot, but there had been another wedding and that had been her true plighting, the oath she had sworn then the more binding. Is there no way, she wondered in anguish? And for one awful moment she visualized a tournament, an accident such as happened all too often, and one contestant lying spread on the ground. Oh God, what was she thinking? She wanted to cry out in her misery, in shame at her wickedness, and she drew in her breath in hissing horror.

  'What is it?' William asked. 'Have I hurt you, dearest Joan?'

  She caught back the hysterical desire to laugh. Hurt her? With such clumsiness, when Tom had possessed her with all a man's strength? Instead she whispered denial and lay and submitted while William sought her mouth with awkward lips and thought himself a man.

  In the morning she called Emma to dress her. On the day before her marriage last year the Countess of Salisbury had said she would send the girl back to Woodstock and find a waiting woman of better birth to attend her daughter-in-law, but Joan, who had yielded so much, stood firm on this. Emma should stay, she said, she wanted no other tiring woman. In surprise the Countess gave a little shrug and agreed.

  This morning, as Emma plaited her hair and twisted it into a frame of gilded wire, Joan said, 'Emma, I think I have been very wicked.'

  'Not you, lady,' the girl denied stoutly, her fingers deft now in dealing with the mass of auburn hair. 'Cock's bones, the great folk made ye wed Master William.'

  'It's not that. Oh, Emma, last night I wished – wished –' She broke off, unable to voice the terrible thought. 'God pardon me, the Devil was in my head last night.'

  'The Devil?' Emma crossed herself hastily. 'What folly. Ye be too gentle for the evil fiend to come near ye.'

  'You do not know,' Joan whispered. 'I think I must go to confession today, now. Will you come with me?'

  'Aye. To Master Benedict?'

  'No,' Joan shook her violently. The chaplain in this house should not hear what she had to say. 'We will walk to St Martin's by Ludgate.'

  But it was afternoon before she was able to slip away and together she and Emma walked up from Salisbury House towards Fleet Street. They crossed the bridge over the little river where a fresh breeze blew up from the open expanse of the Thames, and entered the city by Ludgate. It was busy as always with crowds hurrying about their business, and as the two women approached the church by good fortune Joan saw the priest outside inspecting a new grave dug that morning for a parishioner.

  'Father,' she approached him hesitantly, 'will you confess me?'

  He looked at her rather suspiciously. 'It is not the usual time. Do I know you, lady?' He was a poor man, little educated, but there were sometimes wealthy folk in his church on Sunday. Although this girl wore a plain cloak he glimpsed jewels on the gown beneath and she might well be the daughter of some family that should be cultivated for the sake of his meagre income. 'Do you come to Mass here on Sunday?'

  She shook her head. The bell began to ring and one or two people turned towards the church. 'Please, father,' she begged. 'I have great need.'

  'After Vespers then,' he said. 'I cannot wait now, but I can see you are in some distress. Pray to God for His mercy while I say the office.' He left her, his patched gown flapping and she followed him inside. The church was dim, an acolyte lighting the candles on the altar and the smell of stale incense heavy in the air. On one wall a painting depicted God in heaven presiding over the souls of the just while below were fiery torments reserved for those who died in mortal sin. Suddenly she felt stifled, sick, her head swimming after the sleepless night, the terrors of hell looming large.

  'I can't stay here,' she whispered to Emma. 'I'll go outside. Fetch me when Vespers is over.' Emma would have followed but Joan shook her head firmly and went out again into the little porch where she stood gulping down fresh air and looking over the rooftops to the sky, already turning pink and gold in the sunset. The street was quietening now, shutters going up, goods being packed away until morning. A silversmith was standing over a tousled apprentice ordering him to handle the cups with care, at the same time bowing obsequiously to a gentleman who seemed interested in silver brooches.

  Joan watched abstractedly, her eyes on the scene, but blind. Her soul, she believed, must be in danger of eternal damnation for what she had done, for what she had thought in the darkness of the night. But she didn't wish William dead – never! He was unusually considerate for one so young, he cared for all the things a man should care for, and above all he cared for her. How could she be so wicked as to wish harm to come to him? But she had at least repudiated her evil thoughts, and hadn't the Lord Christ Himself said that a man could not be blamed for what went into his head, only for what came out? Oh God, she twisted her hands together in anguish, how had she come to yield so easily to marriage with William? And in a moment of insight she knew why. It was because she did not want to cause trouble, face a scene. Perhaps she was weak, but she wanted life to be happy and smooth-running, not to be in the centre of conflict. She must forget Tom, learn to love William, but how? How could she do that when all her heart and her body yearned for Tom?

  The man opposite was still choosing his brooch, the silversmith shifting from one foot to the other, eager for his supper but unwilling to lose a sale. There was something about the man, about the set of his back, his stance, that reminded her of Tom, but only perhaps because she was thinking of him. She could not see the man's face and his head was covered by his blue hood, the end of it thrown carelessly over one shoulder. And then he turned, holding up the brooch to see it better in the last of the sun's light. Joan froze, incredulous, and at the same moment he looked across and saw her. A cart trundled between them up Ludgate Hill towards St Paul's and two women, walking home together with baskets on their arms, went by chattering. For a long moment he stared and then, dropping the brooch ba
ck on the shelf to the silversmith's indignation, he ran across the street.

  'Joan! My love, my darling, what in the name of good fortune are you doing here?'

  She was trembling, shaking so much that her knees threatened to give way, and taking her hands he pulled her inside the little porch and down onto the stone bench that ran along one wall. 'Tom,' she whispered, 'Tom,' and then in the privacy of the porch his mouth was down on hers. She yielded, half sobbing, and the in a sudden frenzy pushed against his chest, wrenching herself away. 'Oh don't, don't. Someone might see.'

  'Does that matter?' he asked in surprise. 'We are together, that's all that counts. Dear love, I can't believe it. How did you come to be here in the city? And I was choosing a brooch for you!'

  'I – I am at Salisbury House and I was going to – to Vespers.'

  'Here? Why? And the bell has stopped ringing, you would have been late,' he added with his old teasing smile.

  She ignored the awkward question and looking up into his face became suddenly aware that he was wearing a white silk patch over one eye. 'You are wounded? Tom, are you badly hurt? Oh tell me.'

  'Not in the least.' His smile widened. 'It is a vow, my heart. I swore to wear it until I have earned my spurs. Does it offend you?'

  She put up her hand, touched the silk and then his cheek. He looked bronzed, and to her handsomer than ever, each line of his face dear. His arms tightened about her and her face away, letting her head fall against his shoulder, and the tears ran down her cheeks. He had come back, he loved her still, wanted her. And she must tell him the truth.

  No words would come, only choking sobs, and he was concerned, thinking that this sudden miraculous meeting had unnerved her. 'Don't cry, sweet heart,' he said gently. 'I am here and all will be well now.'

  Inside the high voices of half a dozen choristers rose in a psalm of praise, but the two in the porch seemed isolated, hidden in the fading light from the street outside. He lifted one of her hands to his lips and it was then that he saw a strange ring on her finger.

  'What is this? How can you wear a ring other than mine? I know you had to hide that but –'

  She put her other hand to her mouth, her teeth clenched on it and then, swallowing, she said in a strangled voice, 'They made me. You weren't there and I could not refuse . . . the King, and Queen Philippa . . . and the Countess wished it. My mother too . . . Oh Tom, what could I do?'

  'Christ!' His voice above her head was harsh. 'Who? Who? My God, I know! William –William de Montague.’

  She sank further against him, but he set his hands on her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh as he forced her upright. 'Tell me the truth, Joan. A betrothal, is it?'

  She shook her head. She could not bring herself to look into his face.

  'A marriage? Are you telling me you are wed to William?' She nodded miserably and he said in a low vibrating voice, 'God's Nails, I can't believe it! How could you do it? And after what we did?'

  'Don't, don't!' She lifted her head now. 'Tom, I thought of you day and night, I wanted only you. I have your ring here, on a cord about my neck, but the King and Queen and so many others were all pressing me, taking it for granted.' She could say it all now, the fear, the wretched tearing indecision, the pressure from all her relatives, the loss of her witnesses, the absence of Tom himself, and at the end she saw that his face had lost its ruddy cheerfulness, become pale and drawn.

  'I see,' he said slowly. ‘'Twas not your fault, my poor love. You are very young, too young to fight them all alone.' His eyes narrowed. 'They let you bed with William? He's only a boy.'

  'Last night,' she whispered. 'We were married last year, but it was only yesterday. And what sort of a bridegroom have you got?' He spoke roughly, his mouth hard. 'Jesu, did you remember the nights we had?'

  She was sobbing again, bitterly hurt that he did not understand the anguish it had been to her. 'I only remembered you. With William it was – nothing, nothing.'

  'Dear God,' he said, 'what a tangle! My love, forgive me for speaking so. I can see how it must have been. Indeed you should have spoken, but now that I am home –'

  A fit of shuddering shook her. 'Oh, d-don't you see? You c-can't do anything without earning the K-King's anger. He gave me away himself.'

  'I know I am of no importance compared to Salisbury's heir, and the Earl is the King's friend,' he said bitterly, 'but you are my wife, Joan. Do you want me or that boy?'

  'As if you did not know!' She looked up at him beseechingly and he thought he had never seen her look so lovely, her cheeks flushed, the beautiful eyes filled with tears, her mouth made for kissing trembling now, a few strands of thick hair escaping from Emma's neat concoction. He wanted to take her, ride off with her, but already with Vespers ended there were sounds from inside, steps approaching the door.

  'I must think,' he said thickly. He put one hand behind her head and kissed her hard, his mouth on hers with such force that he crushed her upper lip against her teeth. She gave another sob, all the senses so starved since he had gone leaping in response. Then as Emma and the rest of the worshippers came out of the church, she sprang from him.

  'Where can I find you?' he asked very low, and she said hastily, 'At Salisbury House, but you can't come there.’

  'Why not?' he queried. 'I am still the Earl's steward.' And then he was gone, striding away down the street into the gathering dusk.

  'Holy Virgin!' Emma crossed herself. 'Dear lady, surely that canna be Master Holland? Did ye know –’

  Joan turned to her, struggling to tidy her dress, to repair the ravages of the last few moments, and Emma began to push the wayward hair back into its place. Joan gave a miserable little laugh. 'No, I did not know he was come.'

  ‘What will ye do now? 'Tis a pickle ye're in.'

  'I know, I know, but what can I do? What can he do?' She sat there helpless, appalled, unable to think.

  Emma took her hands and held them firmly. 'There'll be a way, lady. But the priest – he be waiting for ye.'

  'The priest?' Jean put a hand to her head. She had forgotten why she had come to this place. Could she go to him now, confess her wickedness when all she wanted was Tom's arms about her again? She gave a little shudder and got to her feet. 'I'll not go in after all.' And turning she left the porch, holding fast to Emma's arm as they walked back to Salisbury House.

  Supper, during which Joan had eaten nothing and William had enquired if she was well, was over. The trestles were being stacked away and admitting she was tired she went towards the stair with the Countess and her mother who had come for yesterday's ceremony. Her legs felt leaden and she was glad William still sat at the table, a backgammon board between him and his ten-year-old brother John. When he came up she could pretend to be asleep, feign sickness, anything to keep him from her for this night at least.

  Several knights in the Countess's service were absorbed in throwing dice, and the chaplain, Master Benedict, had taken a book to the fire. The household was settling into evening quiet, when there was a sudden noise outside, voices, and then the inner door was thrust open. Without waiting to be announced Tom Holland strode in.

  William sprang up. 'Tom! You're back! Welcome home. Come and tell us all your news. Page, bring wine.' The page scurried off and William was about to remark on the eye cover when he saw the expression on Tom's face. 'What is the matter? My father? Have you brought some ill news?'

  'Ill for you,' Tom answered. He strode to the dais, glancing up to where Joan stood, clutching at one of the wooden gallery posts to support herself.

  He turned to face William. 'Joan is my wife,' he said loudly. 'I have only just returned and the first news I hear is that you have married my wife.'

  The effect of these words was a shock that rippled through the hall. The Countess gave a startled exclamation, staring down in disbelief while the Lady Margaret swung round on her daughter and saw Joan's face suffuse with colour and then turn as white as her gown. Below, the knights ceased their game, the servant
s their work, all gazing goggle-eyed at their one-time steward who had made such an astounding claim.

  It was, surprisingly, William who found his voice first. 'How can she be your wife?' he cried out. 'We have been wed this past year and I heard of no other bridal.'

  His mother swept down the stairs and came to the dais. 'What is this?' she demanded. 'Master Holland, have you taken leave of your senses? I think you must have suffered a blow on the head to talk such nonsense.'

  'It is true, madame. We pledged ourselves before witnesses, before a clerk.' He paused, facing her deliberately. 'We bedded together. Joan is my wife in more than words.'

  'I don't believe it!' William sprang forward, sweeping the backgammon board aside and sending the pieces rolling about the floor while his brother stared in fascinated astonishment. 'You lie! It is not possible.'

  'It is, it is!' Joan cried out from the gallery. 'Oh, pray listen to Master Holland. It is all true.'

  She would have run down the stair but her mother seized her wrist in a painful grip. 'Be still, girl, God knows what you have done, but it is for your elders to settle it.'

  Joan struggled with her in vain. What did it matter what they thought, what anyone thought? Tom was there in the hall below, and courage welled up, defeating all else. 'Let me go. Ah, let me go. He is my husband.'

  'I will not,' her mother said and gave her a push away from the stair. 'What are you, a peasant girl to run crying to a man? Be still, I say.'

  Tom had turned towards the gallery at the sound of Joan's desperate appeal but William with surprising determination ran between him and the bottom step.

  'I don't believe you,' William repeated. 'You seduced her. Witnesses? Who are they? I demand to know.'

  'I can find them when I need to,' Tom retorted. 'And I'll go to Archbishop Stratford, to the Pope if I must.'

  'You foolish man,' the Countess said angrily. 'You have not the substance for that, nor would the Holy Father listen to such lies. What made you think that you, a mere steward in my husband's house, could for one moment spire to the hand of the King's cousin?'