Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Joan was weeping now, in horror at the disease, at her mother's confused hatred and love, the word 'whore' ringing in her head. She remembered the recent burial of that other lady of character, the Countess Katherine, and her brother-in-law's spite. Dear God, would it never end?

  All night she and Robin watched, he by the bed, she on a stool by the door. Emma brought her some soup which she drank thankfully though she could eat nothing. She wished she could have reached her mother, said something to wipe out the bitterness, but there was nothing to tell her, no words that had not already been said. She tried to pray, and slept a little with her head against the jamb of the door.

  In the morning there was a clatter of hooves below and she went down to find her brother dismounting.

  'Come up,' she said. 'Come, before she dies.'

  The Earl of Kent looked at his sister, at her creased gown and dishevelled hair. 'Are you mad? She has the plague, hasn't she? Or so this fellow here tells me. I'll not go near.'

  'I don't ask you to go into the room,' Joan said, 'Only to the door. Let her see you. I've been there all night.'

  'You?' He stepped backwards. 'Then you may have taken the filthy disease. God knows why I came to this pesthouse at all.'

  'It was your duty,' she retorted, almost too tired to be angry. 'Sit in the hall then and swill some juniper juice to protect your precious skin. I'll tell you how she does.'

  He refused, sitting down on the step and ordering one of his men to go inside and find some wine. When the man hesitated, Kent swore at him and threatened him with a swift end if he did not do as he was told. Frightened, the fellow obeyed and Joan left her brother in contempt, returning to the dark chamber where Lady Margaret lay. An hour later she died with no further word spoken and Joan went down again to the courtyard.

  Her brother set down the flagon of wine, crossed himself and remounted his horse. 'You've been close to her,' he said. 'There's no sense in risking my life too. You can see her buried. Do you have news of your affairs yet?'

  'No.'

  'Well, I hope to God the Pope finds for my brother-in-law, Salisbury. Tom Holland is not of any birth.'

  'Hold your peace,' she said tartly. 'This is no time to talk of it.'

  He gave a short laugh. 'Poor Joan – yet not so poor, from all I hear.' He saw her eyes flash and added hastily, 'God keep you, sister, and grant you health.' And he rode hastily away without having so much as entered the door.

  Slowly the plague died. The fields stood empty, not enough men left to gather the harvest, but when the first hard frosts came and the cleansing cold the number of victims diminished until the death bell seldom tolled.

  The court returned to London and Joan and William to Salisbury House. On a damp afternoon, when the dusk would come early, Joan sat sewing in the solar and William, returned from hunting with the King, came in to join her by the fire. By silent agreement they spoke now only of general matters, keeping up the appearance of husband and wife before the household, though he never entered her bedchamber. He was talking of the new falcon he had added to his mew and of its performance today when there was a tap on the door and Robin Savage came in.

  'My lord, there is a man below from the palace. The King commands that you and my lady attend him immediately.'

  'But I have not long left him,' William began and then stopped abruptly. He looked across at Joan. She had one hand to her mouth, her colour coming and going.

  'Jesu,' she whispered, 'could it be –' and stopped suddenly.

  William rose. 'Tell the man we will come at once, and order our horses saddled.'

  Robin bowed and withdrew and William picked up Joan's cloak which lay on a chest. 'You will need this,' he said, 'It is cold outside.'

  She accepted it as he laid it on her shoulders, drawing the strings close, the hood about her head. 'William, do you think – has the news come?'

  'How should I know?' he retorted, but his voice sounded strained. 'It may be some other matter entirely.'

  'But he asked for both of us. And if it is not that, what could it be?'

  'Come,' he said, 'it is useless to speculate.'

  She obeyed him but at the door hesitated once more, her hand on his arm. 'If – if it is our answer, whichever way it should be decided, believe that I never meant to cause you sorrow.' She searched for the right words, for it seemed to be her fate to bring distress when she only wanted life to be filled with happiness and joy and beauty. Yet she who had always turned her eyes from dirt and squalor in the streets, from strife and blood, had been plunged into this conflict by her own act. He was standing rigid and she took her hand from his arm. 'William, I cannot make you listen but if – if the Holy Father upholds Tom's cause, could you find it in you to forgive us?'

  He turned to look at her. Her beauty in the firelight, her face framed in the marten fur, the pleading look in her eyes, were suddenly overwhelmingly poignant. 'I don't know,' he said and led the way down the stair.

  Ever afterwards Joan remembered that ride through the twilight streets, mist lying low over the river, the sounds of the day dying away. She was sick with apprehension and shaken by a fit of trembling that would not be stilled, her teeth chattering so that by the time they reached the palace she was in a state of near panic, almost wishing herself back in the confines of Salisbury Castle.

  A wooden-faced usher took them to a room adjoining the King's private chamber and there they found Tom alone, waiting for them, in equal ignorance. His presence and theirs took from all three any last lingering doubt as to the cause of the summons.

  Tom had changed little with the years. He still wore the famous eye-patch, his body was trim and without surplus fat, his face bronzed and with a glowing look of health. He looked at Joan and for a moment tears stung her eyes, but she must not cry, not now, and she sat down on a stool, her hands in her lap. Neither man spoke.

  After something like ten minutes during which they could hear raised voices within, the door to the chamber opened and the King stormed out. His face was dark with anger and he had a letter in his hand and an obvious distaste for what he must do.

  'So!' he said, and slapped the paper. 'Pope Clement has sent us his answer and it does not please me. No, by God! He must be addled, or bribed!' He saw the three of them staring at him, saw Joan's patent distress, her clenched hands. He turned to glare at the taller of the two men. 'Well, God knows how you have done it, Tom Holland, but the judgement is for you.' And he watched through narrowed eyes the swift incredulity, the disbelief on the face of the godson who had been set aside, the sudden triumphant delight on Tom's and saw Joan sway, the flush running down her neck, the tears spilling. She sat as if fixed to her stool and Tom came to her laying a steadying hand on her shoulder as they awaited the explosion of royal wrath.

  It came as the King indulged himself in blasting the Pope, the Curial court, the man who had defied his express wishes, and it was not until there was a moment's breathless pause that Tom said quietly, 'For that last I ask your pardon, your grace. I can only say that my love for the Lady Joan overcame all else.'

  'When I had rewarded you sufficiently for you to do it!' Edward retorted. 'You have won my lovely cousin by very odd means, but I suppose we must abide by the Holy Father's pronouncement.’

  Tom bowed. 'I thank your grace. He faced William who was standing rigid, his face pale and expressionless. 'William –'

  The King laughed harshly. 'He may well challenge you to combat, and I for one would not blame him, but I think it would be better no.' He threw himself into a chair. Only the Queen's pleading kept him from harsher words. 'It seems William, you had best accept things as they are, but I am sorry for it.'

  Joan, still within the protection of Tom's arm, and trying to realize the incredible thing that had happened, was suddenly aware how great was the cost of her happiness. She saw in one moment how hard it would be for William to face the court they lived in, to endure the talk, even the pity. 'William,' she said in a· low tentative voice, '
I asked you before, and I ask again, could you not forgive us? You know we never wished to hurt you.'

  The King gave a derisive grunt. In the silence that followed, as William stood there, his hands behind his back, there came to him one of those rare moments of decision when the whole course of life hung in the balance. He found himself faced with a choice, the chance to choose the best, the unselfish way, or to stand upon hurt pride, and it was to his credit that he recognized it. For a few seconds longer he fought within himself. Then he said with great deliberation, 'I swore to abide by the decision of Holy Church, which I must believe is God's decision, I will bear you no grudge now or at any time.' He gave Joan a brief twisted smile. 'I have had seven years with you and I must be grateful for that.'

  Impulsively she left Tom and came to him, kissing him swiftly on the cheek. 'And you have been good, kind always. I shall never forget that.'

  'God's Nails!' the King said, 'what a touching scene.' The sneer was still in his voice as he added, 'Go, the pair of you. I've seen enough of you for a while. William, come with me.'

  He rose and flung an arm about his godson's shoulders, sweeping him away into the inner room. Left alone, Joan turned into the circle of Tom's arms and burst into tears.

  For their second wedding night he took her through the dark November dusk to his house not far from the Prince of Wales' palace at Kennington, sending a man ahead to see that preparations were made. It was small but comfortable, the river nearby, far enough from court to forget the buzzing there must be over their affairs.

  Bright tapestries hung from the walls, fresh rushes had been laid on the floor and supper hastily prepared. Joan and Tom were served alone in their chamber, though neither of them ate very much, and when the servants had gone Tom lifted his glass and said, 'I drink to you, my heart, to Lady Holland. Does it seem a poor title after the Countess of Salisbury?'

  She gave a low laugh. 'It is the only one I have wanted in all these years.'

  He caught her hand and kissed it. 'Beloved, that you should wait so faithfully, so patiently! Most women would not have done so.'

  'Few men would have persevered as you have done,' she said, 'using all your honours and ransoms for me. If – if I had borne children to William,' and colour ran up under her skin, 'it might have been more difficult. As it is –' she broke off, thinking of all the years with William, of the brief passionate affair with the King. She had told Tom nothing of that, nor ever would, but she remembered how then she had feared to be pregnant.

  Would it not be a fearful retribution if now that she wanted to bear children, none should come? She added in a whisper, 'I am afraid Tom – afraid I may be barren, and it would go hard with you if after so long I gave you no son.'

  His one eye wandered over her figure so enriched compared with that of the child bride he remembered. She wore only a simple blue chamber robe, the thick bronze hair unbound, and seeing the distress in her face he came to her, kneeling beside her chair. 'Barren?' he echoed. 'No, I'll not believe that. You will see – now that you have a man who knows how to love. Do you remember our bridal night, and what a wicked impatient fellow I was?'

  She smiled, her fingers in his thick dark hair. 'I have had little to keep my soul alive, except to remember. Every minute of that time, I have remembered, every word you said, every look. Oh,' she let her cheek rest against his head, 'Our Lady is good, God is good, to give us back to each other.'

  He rose and lifted her into his arms. She was exquisite, he thought, lovelier than any woman he had seen in all his travels. No casual mistress had ever reached him as this girl had, no one stirred him as she did. The lost years fell away, forgotten, as his mouth went down on hers. 'Lady Holland,' he said at last and laughed down into her face, seeing her eyes warm with love, the parted lips. 'Wife, I will take you to bed.’

  Once in the night, when he lay quiet, half asleep, she lifted the silken patch and kissed the empty, unsightly socket where his eye had been, not shrinking from it, but with great tenderness, for it seemed to her that it was his courage, his valour in the field, that had earned them this night. She did not care what the gossips might say when she went back to court, no longer the Countess of Salisbury. All that mattered was that she had been right, child though she was, so long ago in the maze at Woodstock, to give her love to this man. And as she curled herself into the curve of his arm it seemed to her that there was only one thing wanting now and if the Blessed Virgin would hear her prayer perhaps in time that would come too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  All week carpenters had been busy erecting stands at Westminster for the viewing of the procession, while in the city itself every street through which it would pass had been hung with flags and tapestries, armour and helms and shields, anything that might add to the brilliance of the occasion. Across Chepe gilded cages had been suspended, occupied by the loveliest girls the city could find to shower rose petals on the victor of the great battle of Poitiers. The fountains were to run with wine, the mayor and aldermen were to meet the procession, and every citizen bought new clothes, or turned out finery packed away for such an occasion as this festive day in the May of 1357.

  The Queen and the ladies of the court were in their places and expecting to see the procession by ten o'clock, but at noon it had still not arrived and young Thomas Holland tugged at his mother's skirts, saying that he was tired of waiting.

  'Be patient, my love,' Joan said and the Queen, now over forty and weary with years of childbirth and contending with her adored but overwhelming husband, sent for food and drink, adding, 'We shall hear the cheering when they are in sight.'

  The Dowager Queen Isabella, come to London for the festivities, moved uncomfortably in her place. 'Jesu, but these seats are hard for one of my years. Page, fetch more cushions. I wonder I troubled myself to come for this junketing.'

  Joan exchanged a smile with Philippa, both knowing that nothing would have kept the old lady away from this tribute to her eldest and favourite grandson. Nor could anything have kept Joan herself away, for Tom was among the noble army who were bringing home not only a vast horde of plunder and numbers of prisoners for ransom, but the King of France himself. Philip of Valois was dead and in his place his son Jean ruled, a better man but no better as a soldier.

  'All England has gone wild for Edward's triumph,' she said. 'There has been no hero like him since King Arthur.'

  The Princess Isabel added, 'He has a whole army of heroes.'

  Her grandmother grunted. 'So you may say but, it seems to me astonishing that after all the suitors you have had, you have not chosen one. You'll soon be past bedding at all.'

  'I am only twenty-five, Grande Dame,' Isabel answered with dignity. ‘Hardly past child-bearing.'

  'I was wed at sixteen and Joan here at thirteen. You'd best think of a nunnery, girl.'

  'Not I. And you of all people should appreciate that it would be no life for me. I think of all my sisters I am most like you.'

  The Dowager gave a cackle of laughter. 'Perhaps. I advise you then to take a look at the men who ride in and see if there is not one to your liking.' She spoke with dry humour but afterwards Joan remembered her words. At present, however, she was engaged in watching her two sons to be sure they did not fall out of the stand in their excitement nor start one of their interminable squabbles.

  Seven-year-old Thomas was happily munching a meat pastie. He was a rather solemn boy, very like his father, with the same dark hair, but John, born two years later, had Plantagenet colouring, hair fairer than Joan's and the same vivid blue eyes. He perched now beside her, his legs dangling, sucking a sweetmeat and looking hopefully along the road, past the ranks of waiting common folk who had come from miles around to see the procession.

  Child-bearing had come easily to Joan, not ruining her figure though she was a little plumper than she had once been. Nor had her hair lost its sheen, her skin its milkiness, and when she had taken her seat she had been cheered, for to the crowds she was still the Fair Maid and s
he loved their adulation, throwing a purseful of coins to them.

  Her two little daughters she had left in the care of their nurse Dame Dorothy, deeming them too young for this occasion. It seemed a long time since she had feared to be barren and she was utterly happy with Tom. William had married again, the year after their parting, his bride being the Lady Elizabeth de Mohun, daughter of the Lord of Dunster in Somerset, a rather plain and to Joan's mind a dull girl, but William seemed content with her and she had borne him a son. It was strange that she and William, who had been childless should now be blessed with children, as if Heaven itself had proved their marriage null.

  John's sweetmeat having degenerated into a sticky mess she retrieved it and wiped his mouth. He was perhaps the favourite of her brood, named for her brother. Though they had never been close the Earl had died four years ago at the early age of twenty-two from some disease that spread a red rash over all his body, and in regret for the lack of love between them she named her younger son after him. With his death she had become Countess of Kent in her own right, and wealthy enough to satisfy even her extravagant tastes. Of what use would it be, she thought logically and without undue conceit, to possess her face and figure if they were not suitably adorned. And Tom loved to see her the leader of fashion, other ladies at court copying her. She had a new gown today, in Edward's honour, of silver cloth heavily embroidered with metal thread, the dagged sleeves hanging to the ground, the underskirt of red and decorated with blue taffeta garters, a touch she knew would be appreciated.

  'It is a beautiful gown,' Isabel said and took one of John's sweetmeats. He looked up in protest but his mother shook her head at him. Isabel went on, gazing round the stand, 'I have seen none like it, though that strumpet Kate Mortimer is decked out like a Queen. I can't think why my father allows King David such licence considering he is wed to my aunt.'