by Anne O'Brien
‘You were not raised to be a whore, Joan.’
His lip curled as, disbelieving, I felt the flush of humiliation high on my cheekbones. I was no whore.
‘You married this man of no birth, of no family, without permission. How could you be so maladroit?’
So my good intentions died a rapid death. Anger, stoking the humiliation of being branded a whore, spurred me into unfortunate retaliation. ‘I am not the first member of this family to wed without permission, sir.’
My mother froze. My uncle burned with ire. This was obviously a day for sharp silences. I did not wait for their response, continuing with the righteousness I felt in my bones, first to my mother:
‘You married my father without his brother, the King’s, permission, madam. The King was not pleased, as I have heard. And you sir,’ I held my uncle’s eye, ‘married Blanche of Lancaster without her father’s permission. In the light of such impropriety, it is not appropriate for you to take me to task for doing exactly the same.’
Perhaps not the wisest of moves to brave these two furious lions in their den. But it was true. Neither marriage had been well received, both denigrated because of the Wake family’s lack of sufficient grandeur.
My uncle pounced on the the weakness in my own argument.
‘Not appropriate? Your mother’s husband was a King’s son. My wife was daughter of an Earl. We chose well. We made good marriages. This man that you have tied yourself to is not worthy of our consideration. Your argument is specious, Joan.’
‘But at least I cannot be accused of overweening ambition, sir. I wed Thomas Holland for his own qualities. I have heard it said that you and my mother had nothing but your pre-eminence in mind. I am not guilty of self-aggrandisement.’
For the briefest of moments I thought he would strike me, yet I stood my ground. Then my mother picked up the gauntlet and stepped onto the battleground.
‘Leave us, Tom.’
‘Not until we’ve shaken some sense into your daughter.’
‘If there is any shaking to be done, it will not be done by you. Now go away and leave her to me.’
Ungraciously he went. No sooner was the door slammed behind him than the onslaught began again, each word carefully enunciated in her wrath.
‘Do you not realise what you have done? How outrageously thoughtless you have been? You know the ambitions that drive young men of no particular blood or background. You know what they will venture, to find a niche for themselves, to gain land and power, and you have played so magnificently into this man’s hands. I know who he is. A younger son, with no inheritance of any merit, a knight of no importance from some insignificant estate in the north if I recall the matter. One of the household knights with a life to make for himself, a handsome face and a soldier’s agility, but no prospects other than those he might win on the battlefield. His father was notable for a despicable default in loyalty on the battlefield, leading to his murder by his erstwhile friends. And you have been wilful enough to ally yourself with such a family, wasting your royal blood on a man without name or fortune.’
She stopped, but only to draw breath. Yet before she could continue, in pure self defence:
‘So was my father executed as a traitor,’ I said.
It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong time to say it, even though there was no doubting it. Whereas my uncle had restrained himself, my mother lashed out with her hand, catching me with a flat blow against my cheek that made me stagger. She had never stuck me before. Verbally yes, but never with such physicality. I read her anger in the engraved lines of her face, as I refused to raise my hand to register the raw impact of the blow. Instead I simply stood and faced her, eyes wide on hers.
‘Your father was pardoned,’ she said, as if the violence had never occurred. ‘His reputation and his name were wiped clean from the filth of treachery by King Edward himself.’
‘You were involved also, madam.’ The outline of her hand still smarted, so I gave no quarter, whatever the wisdom of it. ‘Were you exonerated too?’
‘Your defiance is unacceptable.’
My whole body tensed, until my mother grasped at her dignity, threading her fingers together, moderating her tone.
‘You know that I was. And you too, or you would not have been given the honour of royal status in the queen’s household.’ Her fury might be under control but she had still not finished with me. ‘Are you so credulous? I did not think a daughter of mine would fall into the hands of a man of no distinction, like a ripe plum into his palm. All he saw was an indiscreet girl with royal connections who could pave his way to some place in the royal court, opening the doors to patronage and wealth and royal preferment. How could you have been so immeasurably foolish?’
‘Thomas did not want me for patronage and preferment.’
‘Do you say?’ Her mouth twisted in an unmistakable sneer. ‘He must be the only man in the realm who would not!’
It had more than crossed my own mind, yet still I believed that Thomas Holland saw more in me than a path to royal approval. Love was a powerful bonding.
‘Joan!’ My mother, abandoning accusation, fell back on a false softness. ‘Tell me that he persuaded you with honeyed words. If that is so, this marriage can be annulled before anyone else is the wiser.’
I could not imagine Thomas using honeyed words. Thomas was a soldier, not a troubadour, his knowledge of songs limited to those a troop of militia might roar round a campfire after victory. Or possibly those employed by harlots in a camp brothel to seduce the coin from a soldier’s purse.
‘I was not persuaded,’ I said, ‘if you mean lured into impropriety against my will. I gave my full and free consent. I wished to be married to him. I love him. And he loves me.’
But she would not let the battle lapse, driving on with all force. ‘You knew it would be unacceptable. So did he. Did he persuade you to such subterfuge? If he was a man of chivalry, a true knight, he would not have wed you in secret.’
‘We knew you would not support it. We had no choice.’
‘You knew well! I wanted this Montagu marriage, as did the King. Our future would be safe, secure, our inheritance inviolable from attack. Your children would be Earls of Salisbury. I could not believe our good fortune when the Montagu connection looked in your direction.’
I frowned a little.
‘But who would attack our inheritance? The King has restored all our father’s lands to us. John’s ownership as Earl of Kent is unquestioned.’
Were we not safe enough now that the Mortimer treachery had been so ruthlessly stamped out? The King had openly forgiven my father’s involvement in the plot to undermine his power. It was all so long ago in the past. I could not truly understand why my mother should still feel so insecure.
‘I was not given authority over all the estates. A permanent punishment, a constant reminder that I must watch my step.’ Oh, she was aggrieved, and not only towards me. ‘Who’s to know what the King might be moved to take from us if displeased? How do we read the future?’ She turned away as if the sight of me was anathema. ‘What do we do now? Accept it? Father Oswald was plain that it was a legal binding if you exchanged vows and with witnesses. How do we circumvent such an appalling outcome? And you confirmed that it was consummated…’
On a thought she whipped round, her whole expression arrested. ‘That’s it! Did he force you, before the marriage? Was that how it was? Are you carrying his misbegotten child, so that you must wed him?’ Her eyes travelled over the flat expanse below my girdle as if she would delight in seeing evidence of my sin. ‘No, of course you could not. When did this travesty take place? May? And as he has not been in England since to my knowledge, it’s a specious argument.’ I could feel my face flame, whereas my mother’s was still full of a bright but false hope. ‘Yet if he did force you, it would provide grounds for an annulment.’
I read uncharitable anticipation there. My mother would willingly discuss my rape if it could sever the terrible bond with Thomas Holland.
‘He did not force me. I did not wed him to save my reputation. I will not cry rape.’
My mother’s accusations lurched into a different track as she strode the length of the chamber and then back again. ‘Were you so carelessly chaperoned? I cannot believe that the Queen would allow the young women of her household such license. We will send for Holland. We will make him retract his words, the whole disgraceful debacle. We will know the truth.’
‘You cannot send for him,’ I said, wishing that she could, wishing that I could.
My mother once more stood before me. ‘Why not? Where is he? We are not at war. There is a truce. Where is this bold knight who besmirched your reputation but leaves you alone to face the world with the repercussions of your mistakes.’
I told her what I knew. It was not much. ‘He has gone, I think, to Prussia. There was an appeal from the Holy Father and the Teutonic Knights…’
I was interrupted. ‘A crusade? A knight who follows the cross? God was far from his thoughts in this recent venture. He is mired in sin.’ Then once again my mother’s eyes lit with a sudden realisation. ‘When did you last have news of him?’
‘He left after we were wed, in spring.’
‘And now it is October. Have you heard from him since?’
‘No.’ I could read the direction of her thoughts as if they were bathed in golden sunlight, rather than hidden in the black shadow of loss for me. Had I not thought of this possibility, again and again?
Her fingers tapped against her girdle. ‘Six months, with no news. Do you suppose that he is dead? It would solve the problem with no more need for our anxiety.’ She scowled at me when I made no reply, for how could I? My heart was sore with the foretaste of death on some distant battlefield. Already his body might be reduced to a carrion-stripped carcase, and I not know of it.
‘Yes. That is it,’ my mother was saying, her voice becoming smooth in her certainty. ‘He is dead. Nor do I admit the legality of a form of words, whatever the priest’s opinion. There is a way out of this, for all of us.’ She took my hand, more gently now. ‘You will forget this man. You will forget this day, and the day that you claim you exchanged facile promises. The details of your marriage to William Montagu will be formalised between myself and the Countess of Salisbury, and it will happen.’
I heard her instructions but I would not obey.
‘I will not wed William Montagu,’ I said.
‘You will be there at the altar and you will give your consent.’
‘I will not. I cannot. My holy vow is given elsewhere.’
‘You will do as I, your mother, command.’
When she released me I closed my hand hard over Isabella’s reliquary.
‘In the sight of God I am wife of Sir Thomas Holland. I cannot, I will not, wed William Montagu.’
My holy vow is given elsewhere, I had said. I love Thomas Holland, I had said. Was this true, that my heart resided in the keeping of a poor knight on some distant battlefield in Prussia? In those days, love seemed far distant from me, so distant that it sat on my conscience. Was I so shallow, so superficial that I should doubt that love as soon as its power was challenged?
I did not think that I was shallow. I would swear before the Blessed Virgin that my heart had been given honestly and lastingly.
That was not the end to it. I never thought it would be, rather it would be a matter of whose will proved the stronger, mine or the combined weight of the Wake and Montagu families. Furthermore, more persuasive than all the rest, did not this marriage have the blessing of the King himself? I would have to gird myself like any knight to wage this war of attrition, to withstand the siege of my will and my senses.
Or no. This was no siege at all, rather a relentless campaign. It was not a matter of wearing down my assertions in respect of my wedded state. My mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury simply rode roughshod over all legal and personal denials. I would wed William Montagu as soon as we could be brought before the altar with the banns called and a priest, ignorant of the true state of affairs, sufficiently acquiescent to record our vows before God.
But I had witnesses, even though they were crusading with Thomas, and some might say their witnessing worthlessly obscure. Yet did I not have the family priest who had declared my marriage valid even though not officially blessed? Would he stand me in no good stead? My mother snapped her fingers in dismissal when, once again, the relevant families met together and I raised my well-versed, frequently voiced objections.
‘You have no witnesses, Joan. It is an invalid act. The priest was mistaken.’
I tried no more. What had my mother done, I wondered, to be so certain of her victory? Bribed the priest? Warned him to hold his tongue on pain of dismissal? With my mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury united in a determination to tie the nuptial knot between myself and William, the triumvirate once more embarked on detailed discussion, while, drawing him aside, as a betrothed had the right to do, I tested the water with William.
‘Do you want me as your wife, Will?’
If he objected, then there was hope.
‘I don’t see why not.’ He looked at me warily but with good humour. ‘I know your temper, and how to avoid it. And you are very pretty.’
‘I have no fortune to bring as a dowry.’
I had practised every detrimental argument.
‘You have royal blood. My mother hopes that the King will dower you substantially.’
‘The King is short of money. His foreign matters against France do not prosper, pinned down as he is with sieges of towns that have no intention of surrendering. I doubt he can dower me to any degree.’
William looked at me with owlish bewilderment, his brows forming astonished arcs. He did not believe me. William did not listen to court gossip as much as I.
‘I cannot love you,’ I said.
I liked him well enough. With his equable demeanour, he would make some woman an excellent and devoted husband.
William grinned, a sudden lightening of his rather heavy countenance. ‘My mother says that you will grow to love me. As I will grow to love you. I can sing you songs of love and devotion.’
‘You, Will, cannot sing at all, unless you call that raven-like croak singing. And you do not love me.’
‘No, but I will be a chivalrous knight. Not like Holland who wed you, bedded you and fled the country.’
I wondered where he had discovered that particular comment. Probably, from the polite tone, from his mother. Not from Lord Wake who tended to be crude in these matters.
‘Thomas will come back.’
‘My mother says he is dead.’
I felt a lick of temper heat my blood. ‘So does mine. Just wishful thinking on their part. And on yours. If you were not a creature of straw, you would support me and refuse my hand.’
‘I’m no creature of straw, and there’s no point in your taking out your vexation on me, Joan. I am impervious.’
Irritated beyond measure, I tried the final throw of the matrimonial dice. ‘Listen to me, Will, not to your mother.’ I shook his fur-cuffed sleeve for emphasis. ‘If my marriage to Thomas is valid, as the priest says, then mine to you would be invalid. Any heir I bore you would be illegitimate. Any son born between us could never be Earl of Salisbury when you are dead, and there would be terrible scandal. What would you think of that?’
His grin fading, Will flushed as bright as a cider apple, but he replied readily enough. ‘My mother says that we will not live as man and wife for the next few years. By then any legal problems will have been smoothed out. Besides, Joan, our marriage will be valid. There will be no scandal, and you must not say anything that would rouse a breath of it. If you do, they will punish you, you know.’ And then, his brows meeting above his nose: ‘They’ll probably punish me too, for not stopping you from spreading false rumour. I wouldn’t like that.’
He had been well schooled. And there at the end the hint of a threat. When he patted my arm in a cl
umsy fashion, as if that would make all well, an unpleasant helplessness gnawed at my determination to hold out. Will would simply go along with the family demands and plans. There was no hope of escape for me here.
I released myself from the patting and went to stand at the window so that I might look out towards the east. I thought of sending Thomas a letter, paying a courier to deliver it. But how to find him in the vast expanses of Prussia with the Teutonic knights. And even if I did, would he drop his weapons and ride hotfoot back to England? I would like to think that he would. I prayed that he would. I needed help and time was running out.
I saw more of my mother in those next weeks than I had in all the previous years of my life since Queen Philippa had been so touched by compassion at our situation that she took us under her wing. There my mother had been content to leave me during her extensive travels; now, with the need to bring the marriage to its conclusion, her lectures were long and detailed. And so I listened to my mother’s instructions of what was required of me, standing firm under the pinching fingers of the sempstresses whose task was the sewing of a gown fitting for a future Countess of Salisbury, the rich cloth a present from the Queen.
Meanwhile I survived the clipped animadversions, on which pertinent facts from my past I should forget and pretend never happened. I absorbed the detailed disclosures of what would be my life after this marriage; a wife but not a wife. We would live separately, I completing my lessons and acquiring court polish while William continued to hone his skills for warfare to follow in the footsteps of his gallant father. We would probably be granted money and an estate by the King, in recognition of our married state, for our new household.
I would hold fast to the undoubted fact that I was a virgin. I would never voice the possibility that this was not so.
There were no difficulties foreseen.
‘We will make no fuss about this little matter of Thomas Holland,’ my mother completed her lecture as if the sempstresses did not exist. ‘The least said the better. There will be no washing of the dirty linen of your making in public. Once the marriage to the Montagu heir is witnessed under the auspices of Holy Mother Church, by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself if we can get him, then we can all breathe a sigh of relief. No hint of scandal must reach Edward and Philippa. What they do not know they will not worry about. It is a blessing that they are both still in Flanders.’ Philippa and Edward were still together in Ghent in the aftermath of the French truce. My mother almost smiled. ‘The war against France has an unlooked-for benefit.’
