And then the man spoke. 'Did I frighten you, little cousin? I should have brought a candle but I know my way in the dark about my own palace.'
She gave a little gasp and sank back on the pillow. 'Sire!' And in the turmoil of the moment she said foolishly, 'What do you want at this hour? Are you ill?'
He gave a low laugh. 'Aye, ill-sick with desire for you. You will not send me away, eh?'
For a moment she could not speak, utterly taken by surprise, for even after this afternoon she had not expected a midnight visit. How did one resist a King? He might do things other men could not, he might have mistresses among the highest born ladies, and yet she thought swiftly of the Queen, of William, of Tom. But none of them were here, only the King and her own heart pounding, her nerves shaken. These thoughts chased through her head in the few seconds it took him to find his way to the bed and let his mantle fall in a heap on the floor. His arms slid about her shoulders as he sat down, lifting her from the pillows, pulling her to him so that she was pressed against him. She felt the warmth of his broad chest, his caressing hands. She wanted to cry out that they must not, that he must go, but his mastery was such, his need overwhelming them both so urgently, that no words could come. With an odd little sound she yielded her mouth to his, her body tensed with rising passion in response to his strength, the encircling arms, the hard thighs.
'Joan,’ he murmured, 'Joan, you are even more beautiful than I dreamed this afternoon. You were made for a man to love.' His mouth came down on her again, expertly silencing her last faint protest, driving all thought from her head, rousing her to a pitch of longing and passion, and bringing her to ecstasy to match his own.
Through the long night he lay with her, talked a little, made love again, praised her beauty, leaning on one elbow to enumerate all the points of her loveliness, a moonlit occupation that sent his blood racing once more. When the first grey light came he left her. She looked drowsily up at him, seeing the magnificent body that had possessed hers so ardently, the eyes affectionate and strangely grateful.
'Our secret, little cousin,' he said, 'and no harm done.' He wrapped the cloak about him, bent to kiss her forehead lightly and went silently out. She slept long and deeply and woke late in the morning with an exhilarating sense of wellbeing, and if there was shame she did not feel it. When she saw him later coming from a council meeting in earnest converse with the Archbishop she thought with surprise, I'm fond of him but even after last night I don't love him as I loved Tom. An odd memory came into her mind of Woodstock and the tower by the gate, Rosamund's bower. Would she be like that, given a place where the King might visit her in so great a secrecy that all the world knew of it? No, she was sure he did not intend that. Perhaps now that his desire was satisfied that would be the end of it and yet, if he came again, if he wanted her, what should she do?
He came once more, the night before he left London, and in the morning rode away, his royal banner carried above his coroneted head, followed by a long column of mounted knights, a hundred pennants fluttering in the breeze, and she felt an emptiness, a loneliness that nothing could assuage.
She would go to Canterbury as she had promised, to pray for the Prince and for his father. She would pray too for herself, that she had not stained, her soul with mortal sin. She had yielded to bodily love, that lust against which the churchmen raged and yet sometimes fell victim to themselves. With a touch of mischievous humour she thought that would make an offering at the chapel of the Blessed Virgin and ask that stainless lady how one could have refused a King?
CHAPTER SEVEN
'What am I supposed to do?' the Earl of Kent demanded. He threw the letter onto a table and stared at his mother and sister. 'How can I be in two places at once?'
Lady Margaret looked at her son, little more than sixteen and thrust into a position of great responsibility, albeit with wiser heads to aid him. 'Of course you can't. Why my nephew should demand so much I don't know. It was he who told us to guard the postern gate lest our old enemies crept in by it.'
'Then how can he expect me to take troops to Calais?'
'He must take Calais,' Joan said quickly. 'All of Normandy is in his grasp now and only Calais holds out.' She was still glowing from the accounts sent back to England of the brilliant battle fought by the great forest at Crecy; how the English had defeated the French chivalry, killing thousands and losing only a few hundreds themselves; how the English longbow had decimated the ill-prepared enemy; above all how her cousin the Prince of Wales had fought to earn his spurs and with them universal acclaim, holding his own with Sir John Chandos, Bart Burghersh and Waiter Manny against an onslaught by the French. One of the King's clerks, bringing the tidings, told her how the blind King of Bohemia, led by two French knights, had insisted on riding into the battle to meet inevitable death.
'The Prince himself took three ostrich feathers from the old man's helm and fastened them to his own,' he told her, 'and the King his father is mighty proud of him.'
Joan listened, rapt. It was all as she and Edward had dreamed at Woodstock, only his triumph in his first battle seemed even greater than they had dared to hope. And the clerk went on to tell that her own husband had fought valiantly and been well praised, adding as an afterthought that the Earl's steward, now Sir Thomas, had also distinguished himself. He had captured the Count of Eu at the siege of Caen as well as the Sieur de Tankarville and would earn high ransom for them, and it was he who had been given the task of checking the English dead on the field, and who had brought back to the King's tent the incredible news. 'Apart from the King of Bohemia, lady,' the clerk went on, 'the Counts of Alencon and Flanders are dead, the French King's nephew Blois, and the Duke of Lorraine and other princes too. Oh indeed, Almighty God was on our side that blessed day. We could scarcely believe Sir Thomas when he had not more than a hundred or so of our own men listed. How we feasted and sang and toasted our King and Prince Edward and all our noble knights.'
She tried to imagine it all, to see Edward in his black armour setting the ostrich feathers in his helm, to picture her kindly, serious William fighting so sturdily, and as for Tom – her face burned. Nothing would ever kill that buried love and she felt pride that he had won acclaim and a fortune as well. Ah, if it were only now that their love had blossomed, the King might have listened to their plea. But it was too late – Dame Fortune had smiled too late, and she must give her mind to this trouble in the north in which as a family they were so much concerned.
'Calais is all very well,' her brother was grumbling, 'but here are we in Newcastle and the Scots sit on our lands at Lidell, plundering mother's inheritance. Of course we must stop them, and I have no troops to spare.'
'With Northumberland's men and the York levies you should be able to drive them back,' Joan said. 'Perhaps then –'
'I can't take every man to France even if we send them back over the border,' Kent's voice adopted its habitual whine. 'How could I trust David Bruce even if we beat him and make a new truce?'
'Aye,' his mother agreed. 'He broke the old one at King Philip's request for all he's married to my niece. How can one trust such a man? And it is for us who are here to make the border safe. You are quite right, John, the King can take care of Calais.'
'So I think.' Kent went to the door, swaggering a little. 'I'll go and talk to old York and he can pen a letter to the King in France.'
'You will be foolish if you disobey him,' Joan said. 'An order, sealed with his seal –'
'It seems,' her mother broke in irritably, 'that you consider you know my nephew's mind better than the rest of us, and indeed your behaviour before the army went to France was altogether too –' she searched for the right word, 'too free with his grace.'
Joan flushed. 'He likes one to laugh and enjoy the evenings at court. When did he ever care for gloomy faces about him?'
'Well, he'll have one if I'm forced to go to France,' Kent said, and wandered out to find the Archbishop.
William de la Zouche, Primate of Yor
k, and one or two others of the northern barons agreed with the young Earl, predictably, that their own lands must be made safe before anything else was considered, and the Archbishop wisely held his hand in the matter of answering the King's letter.
A few days later, hearing that the Scots were making their way south, burning and robbing, Kent prepared to march out to meet them, and Joan went to see the troops leave. She had mounted and ridden up and down the ranks, encouraging the men to remember they fought for the King, far away though he might be, and the sight of her, in a white gown covered by vivid blue furlined mantle and hood, mounted on her white mare, roused a cheer from them, especially from the young lads who went to fight for the first time.
'That's enough,' Kent said jealously as she acknowledged the shouting and cap-waving from the foot soldiers. 'We must be away.'
Joan laughed. 'John, you must learn that how a man feels is as important as how strong his right arm is. Edward told me that.'
When they had gone she and her mother sat by the large fire in their bower and waited for news.
It was cold early this autumn with a constant sea mist rolling in over the fortress at Newcastle. The air was already thick with coal smoke which Joan did not like for it did not smell sweet as wood did, and outside the river Tyne looked grey and dreary as it wound away inland. The castle was almost deserted except for the servants. The fog crept in through the closed shutters and Lady Margaret complained of pain in her joints. Her hands and her heritage were at stake and the old bitterness rose again, sharpening her tongue. She criticized her daughter's gown, calling it unsuitable and too flimsy for such weather, admonished her for speaking to the common soldiers, finally grumbling that Joan had not yet given her a grandson.
‘'Tis not my fault, madame,' Joan said. 'I am a dutiful wife. As for the gown I assure you I am quite warm.'
'Ha! You think only of what bedecks you, not of what is needful in this northern clime. And dutiful you may be but you and William do not seem to lie together often enough if you want a child. I notice when he is about the business of his estates you do not travel with him.'
'The Queen likes me to be at court.'
'The Queen?' Lady Margaret queried significantly and her daughter raised her head.
'Yes, madame, the Queen. She has sailed for Normandy and she has commanded me to join her as soon as may be.'
Lady Margaret made a sound like a snort. 'A wife's business is to be with her husband and give him sons to inherit, daughters to make rich marriages. I suppose you will tell me it is for William's sake that you will hasten to France, but I'm well aware that if it was that wretch Tom Holland you were lady to, you'd be quick enough to bed.'
'Madame!' How Joan wished she could control the flushes that would come so easily to her cheeks – 'I thought we had agreed not to speak of that again. It is all in the past and thank God William at least regards it so. No doubt I will bear him a child – when God wills.'
'Well, I pray He wills it soon.' Lady Margaret twisted uncomfortably in her chair. 'They say sage makes a woman fertile. That girl of yours had best make you a drink of it each night when you lie with William – the leaves crushed, not swimming about in a mess, you know.' And when Joan said nothing she added irritably, 'Fetch me another cushion for pity's sake, and fill that hanap with wine to warm me, the red wine, not that pale stuff. Hark! What's that?'
Joan had heard nothing through the eerie grey stillness that shrouded the castle but now she caught the sound of hooves, many hooves riding in through the Black Gate. 'I will go and see.'
She ordered the doors of the great hall to be opened at once and an astonishing sight met her eyes. Out in the bailey a mass of horsemen were dismounting, all of them dirty and blood-stained, many with battered shields and helms, some wounded, one man nursing a bleeding stump where a hand had been, another limping with a gash down his thigh, some carried by their comrades, others staggering in holding on to a supporting arm. Yet the faces were not those of men in defeat.
The lads who had marched out three days ago had come back men, their youth left at Neville's Cross, their swords baptized. A large number of prisoners were being marched in by triumphant foot soldiers. The Earl of Kent, equally dirty but unhurt, was dismounting, his face flushed, and beside him a squarely-built squire held the rein of a war horse. Mounted on the horse was a man Joan had seen before, at court when he came with his wife to visit his brother-in-law. He was David Bruce, King of Scots, and his grim expression revealed all the humiliation of defeat.
'You see!' Kent shouted to her. 'I have had a great victory. We came on them in the fog and by God we dealt hardly with them. Holy Saints, but it was the best day's work I've seen – we had the stream running red with blood and broken limbs and spilt guts.' He saw Joan recoil and went on, throwing his helm to his waiting squire, runnels of sweat on his begrimed forehead. 'Oh, I know you're squeamish, sister, but what would you do with such rievers? And to have taken the King –'
'I took him, my lord,' the squire said and twisted the rein more firmly in his hand. 'No man can deny he is my prisoner. I'll yield him to no one except at King Edward's command.'
The Archbishop was dismounting, easing his tired limbs from the saddle. 'That is true, I saw it and no one will deny you, Master Copeland. But bring your prisoner in. King David must be housed as befits his rank.'
'Aye,' Kent said as if he had ordered it. 'You there! Take the King of Scots' horse. Jesu, but I'm starving. Come Joan, let us go up and tell our lady mother of my victory.' He shouted for the servants to bring food and went to the stair that led up to the tower.
King David dismounted and bowed. He was a personable man and adored by his wife the Princess Joanna, but Joan had heard of his reputation and the mistresses he kept. She sketched a curtsey and ordered a chamber to be prepared and supper to be taken there to him.
David stood stiffly while men hurried to do her bidding and then he said, 'Lady, if you will you can do me a great kindness.'
'A kindness?' she exclaimed in astonishment and glanced round at the tired, hungry men, at the hideous wounds bound with blood-stained rags. How could he speak of kindness when it was he who had caused all this?
'Yes,' he answered calmly. 'We have fought and I have lost. For myself I can hope for little, but my wife is the King's sister and your own cousin, Countess. For her sake will you not write to the King, beg him that she may journey safely to England, to be near me, with me if he will permit it?'
'You broke your word to us,' she retorted. 'You should ask your favours of King Philip, your ally.'
'War is not women's work, nor the reasons for it,' he said.
'No, my lord, I thank God it is not.' She thought of the King s sister, gentle and always a little timid, loving this warrior King. 'Very well, I will do what I can.'
She left him to be escorted to his chamber and an hour later said to her mother, 'Now I am for France on the first ship to sail.'
Kent, divested of his armour, washed and richly dressed in a warm furred robe, gave her a sardonic look. 'The bearer of good tidings, eh? You seize this chance to please our lord the King when it would come better from a knight who'd fought at Neville's Cross!'
Joan gave him stare for stare. 'Why should I not? One day, brother, you will choke on your own spleen.'
'I wish you would not quarrel,' Lady Margaret complained peevishly. 'Of course, John, you should be the one to go but you cannot be spared. You have a King for captive and a duty here, and my land must be reinvested at once. It is your inheritance.'
'I know that,' he said, 'and doubtless my sister wishes to hurry to her husband's side. At least that should be her reason. Or maybe – '
Joan had risen. She was taller than he and she looked down at him in such a manner that, shamefaced, he did not elaborate on the subject. 'Go then,' he said and turned away, 'go and enjoy my triumph.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
The English had built a town about a town, a circle of wooden houses separated by a
ditch from the walls of Calais. It would be a long and tiresome business waiting for the Sieur de Vienne to surrender and the King organized markets twice a week for his men, games for their occupation, wives to be brought from England and they loved him for it. They trusted his judgment in war, knew him for a careful commander, and settled down to a winter by their campfires. There was not a man who did not have some plunder from the march through northern France. Their wives wore bracelets and jewels filched from burning towns and they had pillaged cups and platters of silver and gold, cloaks and gowns and furs, regardless of the sumptuary laws at home. They had cause indeed to be satisfied.
When the Lady Joan came, three days before the feast of All Saints, the news of the defeat of the Scots had already reached them, her brother having sent a knight riding fast the length of England to the south coast to race her slower ship from Newcastle. But his spitefulness turned against him for, hearing of the victory, the troops lined the temporary street to cheer her all the way to the King's quarters.
‘'Tis Lady Salisbury,' they shouted 'God save you, lady.'
‘'Tis the Earl o' Kent's lass,' one grizzled soldier said, having seen that unlucky man executed, 'and fair like he was.'
'Aye, the Fair Maid o' Kent,' another chimed in and the name was taken up and repeated all along the lines so that Joan blushed and smiled and emptied her purse, throwing coins to them and drinking up the adulation.
She was greeted by a boisterous embrace from the delighted King, a gentle kiss from the Queen, and the Prince begged her to tell them every detail of the battle and the taking of King David. William, who seemed to Joan to have grown both in stature and bearing during the six months they had been apart, was inordinately proud of her, and the young men in the King's retinue crowded forward to try to hear every word.
Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4) Page 9
