Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Tom's face darkened. 'That was why –' He saw Joan's stricken look and broke off.

  'I see.' The Countess's voice was icy now. 'You thought to force a marriage by the most dishonourable means.'

  'Aye,' Lady Margaret leaned over the gallery rail, 'and for that my daughter should be sent to a nunnery and you to a prison cell for such base treachery. You betrayed our trust and seduced this girl.'

  'Who was too young to know what she was doing,' the Countess finished and Tom flushed. He felt himself to be swimming in ever deeper water.

  ‘'Twas no such thing,' he retorted. 'We did nothing that was unworthy.'

  The Lady Margaret gave a snort and the Countess said 'Perhaps not, for lesser folk, but you must be aware of the difference in your stations.'

  'You speak as if I were a serf.' Tom's own anger was rising. 'I may not be of the nobility but the name of Holland is respected in Lancashire.’

  'Your father did little to enhance it as I remember,' the Countess retorted. 'Base behaviour seems to be in your blood.'

  Tom clenched his hand on his sword hilt. 'By God, madame, it is fortunate for you that you shelter behind a kirtle.' He stopped abruptly. Everything he said only seemed to make matters worse.

  'I dealt with the Scots and I can deal with you, sir.' Her sardonic tone deepened the colour in his face and she turned coolly to her son who was standing, embarrassed and shaken by the revelations of the last few minutes. 'Well, William, you can tell us. Did you bed a virgin last night?'

  William's face was scarlet. ' I – I don't know. How should I –’ He broke off and then went on determinedly. 'But he's lying. Joan wouldn't do such a thing, deceive us all. And I won't give her up.'

  'Of course not,' his mother said sharply. 'I would have thought that as you ate our bread, Master Holland, you would have had more care for the honour of our house than to come here making such claims. Whatever folly you have committed in the past I would advise you to be gone and speak no more of this.'

  'I will not.' Tom stood equally firm. 'Let the Lady Joan come down here, let her speak. She will tell you that what I say is true.'

  Lady Margaret still held Joan firmly by the wrist. 'How could it be? She was never in a position to –'

  Tom folded his arms, looking up at her with his one eye fiercely alert. 'No? Yet last May you rode to London and the Countess and William to Northumberland. There was time and opportunity enough.'

  'Nonsense. There were guardians and servants left behind,' Lady Margaret snapped, but there was a flicker of suspicion in the Countess's face now. She looked swiftly up at Joan and back again to Holland. 'I heard no whisper of anything untoward.'

  Joan had slid to her knees, sobbing. She wanted to go to Tom, to cry out the truth, tell it all, but her tears were choking her and her mother shook her angrily. 'Master Holland, you are using an old trick to try to gain a rich wife. If Joan was foolish or forward she shall be beaten but we want to hear no more of this folly.'

  'Aye, and folly it is!' William, conscious of the humiliation, that the crazy scene was being witnessed by everyone in the hall, was hot with anger and shame. He wrenched at his sword and shouted, 'God's curse on you, Tom Holland. You are a liar and I'll fight you for that lie here and now.'

  His mother caught his arm. 'No, William. I forbid it. You would be spitted inside two minutes.'

  He thrust her away, too overwrought to heed the truth of this, but even as he tugged the sword clear of its scabbard Tom said, 'I don't want to fight you William. We've always been good friends. I can prove what I say without need for this.'

  'Enough,' the Countess broke in. 'God's wounds, enough! If you took the Lady Joan's maidenhead last summer you are a thieving, villainous whoreson. But I do not believe you. You have intruded on my son's bridal days and the least you can do now is to go and leave us to patch matters as best we may.'

  'Not until he has answered to me.' William said, stammering in his anger and hurt pride. 'I'll kill you, Tom – I swear it!'

  Tom gave a harsh laugh, a prey to the desire to take up the challenge of this mule-faced boy so determined to shed blood. The thought that Joan, his Joan of those May days at Woodstock, would now have to lie at night in the arms of this beardless youth who knew nothing of love, filled him with bitter jealousy. He wanted to make an end of William, storm up the stair and carry Joan away, but it was impossible. It would only bring down royal wrath on his head and hers and for himself, without doubt, prison or death. All he could do was to try to find Lady Cross and the clerk from Oxford, but even then he would have to appeal to the Pope and that he was in no position to do, as they were all very well aware.

  He looked from the trembling youth to the two angry women, to Joan crumpled on the floor of the gallery, and knew himself beaten, for the moment.

  'Put up your sword, William,' he said at last, and made a helpless ·gesture. 'I'll not fight you and you are not going to murder me.' He saw tears of rage and frustration fill the boy's eyes and bowed. 'I will withdraw. I ask your pardon and the Lady Joan's for any distress I have caused. If you love your bride, William, try to understand that I loved her too.' And without waiting for an answer he turned and left by the still open door, past half a dozen servants, their mouths agape. By the buttery screen Agnes and Mary whispered and giggled, their eyes wide with astonishment, and they gazed with new fascination at Master Holland as he strode away. Such a titbit of gossip was to be savoured and brought out with relish for the delectation of their friends. The Countess, however, saw them, and threatened them with a beating if they so much as opened their mouths; the other servants she sent about their business and ordered the outer door to be closed and barred with the injunction that Master Holland was not to be admitted if he came again.

  Upstairs Lady Margaret pulled Joan into her chamber and ordered Emma from the room. Then she seized her daughter by the hair and slapped her face. 'Wicked, wicked girl! How dared you? When my back was turned to lie with that whore-monger, whore yourself. You should be beaten until your flesh bleeds.'

  'Oh God, madame,' Joan cried out. She had fallen again, her head wrenched back. 'Don't, oh don't. It is all over.'

  'Over? Do you say, over? By our Holy Mother, I will make you sorry you chose so to shame our name.'

  'No, my lady.' A voice spoke from the door. 'Let her go at once.' It was William, speaking in such a new and authoritative manner that Joan scarcely recognized it, while her mother was so surprised that she turned, one hand still holding a bronze plait, to stare at the youth who took such a tone to her.

  'Someone should beat her,' she retorted. 'Of course it is your right, as her husband, but I as her mother –'

  'Joan is my wife,' he said. Somehow his anger had ebbed and in a moment of intuition downstairs he had realized that if he was to be a man in his own house what he did now was of vital importance. With a wisdom beyond his years he knew also what that must be. 'Release her at once,' he demanded. 'If you do not, madame, I shall call the servants and have your bags packed and yourself escorted to another lodging.'

  Lady Margaret gasped in sheer astonishment and let Joan go. 'Well! Of all the foolishness! She will cuckold you again if you do not beat the wickedness out of her. I tell you –'

  'No,' William aid in a voice that reminded her of his father. 'I owe you duty, madame, as Joan's mother, but I'll not have her spoken of thus. She may have been foolish, led astray by a man stronger than she is, but she is not wicked and she shall not be beaten.'

  He stood by the door, holding it open, and with an angry little laugh Lady Margaret shrugged and stalked out. Then he lifted Joan to her feet and half carried her to the bed. There she collapsed weeping, and for a long while he sat beside her, holding her hand and stroking it gently. Her face was swollen, her head aching, but at last the heaving sobs ceased and she lay quiet, only whimpering a little now and again.

  William said, 'It was true, wasn't it?'

  She nodded speechlessly.

  He was silent for a while
. 'Did you love him?' Again she nodded, and he went on, 'But we can't undo our wedding. The whole court saw it whereas the other – you'd best forget it. Mother says it could not have been valid.'

  Joan pressed her burning face into the pillow. Forget it? What could William know of those passionate nights, the urgency of loving that seemed not to be a part of his nature? She felt exhausted, drained of feeling. There was no way out now. Tom had come and they had sent him away – and she wanted only to be left alone. She felt William's arm about her shoulders as he came closer and involuntarily she shivered. 'Joan,' he said in a low voice, 'Joan, if you loved him, do you hate me?'

  She lifted her head and saw his face, so serious and so concerned, a little flushed, with an uncertainty about his mouth that made her feel so much wiser than he. 'Poor William,' she said. 'I didn't mean to hurt you and I could never hate you. We have known each other so long. And you were so brave not letting my mother beat me.'

  'You are my wife,' he said again, 'and no one shall harm you. I see it all now – Tom is a handsome fellow and we all liked him. He persuaded you to a foolish entanglement with him before he went off to France, but that was all it was. You do see, don't you, that nothing can be done. Even if he appealed to the Church I don't think anyone would listen. I am your husband.'

  She lay looking over his head towards the window and the darkness outside. She had brought all this on herself and it was God's punishment that she must live her life with William and not with Tom. She supposed she must thank Him for His mercy that William did not turn on her nor strike her as he might well have thought himself entitled to do. In time she would become used to being his wife. She would bear his children and in due course be Countess of Salisbury and the chatelaine of vast properties. She was a Plantagenet and would always be among the first ladies at court. But she wondered how long it would be before she forgot her lover and her last sight of him, staring up at her with that one eye with all the longing and desire that had won her to him in the maze at Woodstock. 'I am so tired,' she said at last. 'Let me alone, William, just tonight.'

  The mulish look came back to his face. 'On our second night together? Would you shame me further? If they all know I slept elsewhere –'

  'I'm sorry. I didn't think.' She turned her head away into the pillow and he got up.

  'I'll send Emma to undress you,' he said and went out.

  When Emma came she gathered her mistress into her arms and soothed her with her own kind of homely comfort, sponging the flushed face with cooling water and combing her hair with long strokes. She put her mistress into the great bed and there, exhausted, Joan lay tense and waiting, but when William came she feigned sleep. With great forbearance he did not disturb her. It was only when morning came that she woke to find his hands on her, his lips waking her.

  'You'll think no more of Tom Holland,' he said. 'I'll make you think of me instead.'

  When he had gone she got out of bed and went to sit by the window, looking out into the silent court. Slowly, very slowly, she faced the reality of what must be. That William would ever make her forget Tom she doubted, but if she might not have Tom she would take what life had to offer her. William had astonished her last night. She owed him something for that at least and when she went downstairs to ride with him to Westminster it was in her prettiest gown and with a dignity that earned at least her mother-in-law's approval. Of her mother there was no sign, the Lady Margaret having discovered she was needed elsewhere. The Countess merely nodded to her and said, 'We'll speak no more of this.'

  Gossip there inevitably was, whispers from the kitchen circulating to other kitchens, to serving women and squires, but Joan endeavoured to confound it by appearing in high spirits at court.

  The Princess Isabel said, 'I heard a tale that William and Tom Holland have quarrelled and Tom has gone off to Normandy in a huff.' She saw the flitting change of expression quickly suppressed and went on, 'What was it about? You?'

  'Of course not.' Joan hoped her laugh sounded natural. 'You know how quickly men can come to an argument or worse. You should not listen to tale-bearers.'

  'Well, Dame Phoebe's woman had it from one of Lady Arundel's serving maids, though I don't know where she got it.'

  'From a pot-soaked groom, I should think,'

  Joan said lightly. 'As far as I know William and Master Holland parted on good terms.' It was only half a lie, she thought, for they had not after all actually fought.

  Philippa Montague who had not been at home had heard more but not all. 'Joan,' she asked anxiously, 'is it true you thought of a betrothal to Master Holland? Mother said he was presumptuous enough to think he might have you.'

  'I don't wish to talk of it,' her sister-in-law said. 'Philippa, do you see this new fine tapestry stitch I am doing? The design is from France.'

  Philippa charitably concluded Master Tom had offended her too and left it at that, while at court Joan laughed and danced and was always surrounded by admirers, dealing with them with a lightness of touch that gave William no cause for complaint.

  He was completely devoted to her and if in the dark hours she lay and longed for Tom, she kept such feelings from him. Robin told her that Master Holland had gone to serve under Sir Waiter Manny and she supposed miserably he had been right to go. The knowledge that he was no longer in England, that he had found no way to say farewell to her, increased the hurt. But it was a hurt that no one saw.

  Jean Froissart, the clerk, writing in his journal in the Queen's closet, described the Lady Joan as 'the most lovely of women and the most enchanting, plus amoreuse' and then, blushing a little, hastily turned the page.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  'There,’ the King said, 'that is the place I have in mind. What think you, Master Hurley?'

  William Hurley, architect and master mason, looked at the site with care, walked slowly round the open space stepping out the distance. Behind them the tall buildings of the King's apartments loomed, the Round Tower flying his own standard, newly quartered with the fleur-de-lys of France.

  'It will serve well, your grace,' Hurley said at last. He felt entirely at ease with his new patron for the King was both approachable and friendly. 'I will draw up the plans at once.'

  'It is to be like your great work at Ely,' Edward said. 'We have much admired that. An octagon; you understand, crowned by a lantern as you have there. Only such a shape can house my Round table with its knights when my new order is set up. Do you not think it is a fine idea, de la Pole?'

  The burly Yorkshireman nodded. ‘Aye, your grace. 'Twill be reet splendid, wi t'light coming down in t'centre.' He came from Hull, the son of a prosperous merchant, and spoke with a broad accent although he was endeavouring at court to lose the awkward vowels. He had a shrewd idea why he had been brought out here.

  'So I think,' the King said in answer to his comment. 'And you, Wykeham? It pleases you?'

  The clerk from Hampshire inclined his head. In his chamber his table was covered with lists of materials for much rebuilding here at Windsor, and the King had recently made him surveyor of all the royal works. 'Sire, it could not be better placed. But it will cost a great deal of money.'

  'So does everything worth doing,' the King agreed, 'but my order is to stand for chivalry, and if we are to pledge ourselves to all that is knightly and good we must not disgrace King Arthur's memory by shoddy surroundings. Michael,' he turned a bland look on the Yorkshireman, 'your father has come often to my aid. I shall need a large sum this time.'

  De la Pole bowed, well prepared for the demand – it was hardly a request. 'It is our privilege to serve your grace. The wool yield was excellent last year and thanks to your grace's treaty with the Flemish merchants our business grows more prosperous. Name your sum, sire, and we will arrange the loan.'

  'I knew I could count on you;' the King said cheerfully and slid his arm through de la Pole's. 'Hurley, I leave you and our friend here to set the business afoot. Spare no expense,' he added magnanimously since the money was not to com
e out of his own coffers. A loan from a subject was as good as a gift to his mind.

  'Remember what I say, Master Hurley. I want the light from the lantern to shine down on all equally. A round table lit by a circle from above is a good notion, eh?'

  He walked off, talking of his plan for the seating, for the table itself, and finally left the Yorkshireman at the door of the royal apartments. Michael de la Pole was a shrewd man and knew himself to be on the way up the social ladder, the rungs being the King's favour, and if they were made of solid gold what matter? They parted, each well satisfied in his own way with the morning's work.

  In the King's private solar the Earl of Salisbury was waiting for him while his two clerks were busy writing and a page stood in attendance.

  Salisbury said, 'If I might have a word in private, sire,’ and when the King had flicked his fingers at the other occupants of the room to dismiss them, went on, 'There is a matter I feel I must confide to you, much though I mislike it.'

  Edward threw himself into a chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. 'Very well, Will. You know you may say what you like to me but first, since you have so summarily had my page sent out, will you pour me some wine? By God, it is good to have you back. If it is a boon you want it is yours.' He accepted the cup. 'But I see you look serious, my friend. What troubles you?'

  Salisbury stood hesitating for a moment. He was a quiet man, efficient in all he did, and he seldom spoke without considering his words. 'This is not easy, sire. It concerns your cousin, my daughter-in-law.'

  'Joan? What has she been about? Women's work, eh? You are come to tell me she is with child? No, I can see it is not that for you would wear a happier expression. What is it that turns your face so grim? I cannot think that my sweet cousin can have done aught to offend you?'

  Will de Montague sat down abruptly on a stool, his friendship of too long a duration to need to wait upon royal invitation to seat himself. He wished his conscience had not forced him to this interview and it was several minutes before he began. 'It was when I came home from the Isle of Man, your grace, that I first heard –'