by Anne O'Brien
To which I replied on every occasion, when I was allowed to break the flow.
‘I will not marry William. I am already the wife of Thomas Holland, before the law and before God.’
My mother never struck me again, whatever the provocation, and there was much, even though I stood in silence to hear her pronouncements and agreed that the gown with its carved buttons and embroidered hem was superb. She merely ignored what I said as beneath her notice and covered any reticence with her own cold certainty. I would marry as my family instructed, as any well brought up daughter would accept the duty of obedience.
And what did those who gathered in our chamber at Windsor think of my good fortune? Here with the princesses Isabella and Joan, with my own brother John, with Ned and Will and baby Lionel, my marriage to Will was accepted as a natural development of the King’s wish to reward the Earl. Will was sworn to secrecy under what threats I could not imagine since, unnervingly, he kept as silent as a Thames oyster.
‘Although I would never marry a man of my father’s choice if I did not like him,’ Isabella announced. ‘But of course you like William.’
‘You would marry exactly whom your father instructed you to marry,’ I said, patience wearing thin. But yes I did like William. That was one of the problems. I was in no mind to hurt him or tip coals of fire over his head. He must not be punished for my sins.
‘Of course, I will not marry a man unless I have formed a lasting passion for him.’ Isabella was not deterred.
‘Then I wish you well. I presume that you will take the veil when you reach your thirtieth year and your schemes have fallen flat.’
‘But they will not. I have every intention of capturing a lover who will kneel at my feet in adoration.’
‘If I might suggest, then, do not lend your reliquary to anyone. You will have constant need of it.’
Oh, I was ruffled beyond bearing.
‘I’ll not lend it to you again!’ Then Isabella’s sharpness softened, but I should have known better than to believe that I was forgiven. ‘The problem is, Joan, that you are incapable of forming a lasting passion for anyone but yourself.’
She left precipitately before I could think of a suitable rejoinder.
Notwithstanding such minor clashes, all accepted that we would be wed after the New Year and we would all rejoice. Except for Ned who took a moment from riding at the quintain, his hair plastered with sweat to his skull, still clad in mismatched elements of his armour.
‘Does Lady Margaret force you to marry against your will, Jeanette?’
Of them all, it seemed that he had seen the anxiety that I had thought well hidden. It surprised me. Ned noticed very little that did not appertain to his own rank and importance or to his future ambition on the battlefield. Also, of them all, he still sometimes addressed me by my childhood nursery name. I did not mind it, from the Prince, the heir to the throne, and for one moment of weakness I considered telling him the truth, until treading that idea firmly underfoot. It was not as if he could do anything to remedy my situation, and he would have forgotten about it after another five minutes in the tilt yard. I would not burden his kindness with an answer.
‘Why?’ Still I was interested in why he should think so.
‘You are quieter than usual.’
So I must remember to chatter mindlessly, to deflect suspicion. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I am not under duress.’
He did not believe me. ‘I understand that you have to marry. Girls do.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have expected it. Why should it worry you? And Will’s not some disgusting old knight with greasy fingers.’
I wrinkled my nose. There were many I could name who might fit that description. ‘No.’
‘You could marry me. If you do not wish to marry Will.’ For a long moment he stared down his nose at me, registering my reaction, which had been less than flattering. ‘No, you could not, of course. My father looks for a princess from Europe with money and connections and a powerful family. There are any number to choose from.’
Which made me laugh.
‘Who is it this week?’
‘Well, it was the daughter of King Philip of France. Now I think my father has changed his mind. It is to be Margaret, daughter of Duke John of Lorraine and Brabant.’ He studied me with some speculation. ‘You, Jeanette, are probably prettier than both – not that I have seen them – but sadly you cannot hold a candle to either of them in the round of marriage negotiations.’
Which might be true, but not gratifying to hear. ‘I am a princess,’ I remarked.
‘True,’ Ned agreed. ‘A princess with no money, no influence and your father’s mistakes behind you. I need a powerful family with an army at its back and a fortune in its coffers.’
‘Whereas my brother the Earl is younger than I, so hardly likely to ride to my rescue, or yours, in moments of danger,’ I considered. ‘And I doubt his treasure coffers match your expectations.’
Ned thought about this, scratching his fingers through his drying hair so that it stood up in spikes. ‘I would,’ he said, enigmatically.
‘Would what?’
‘Ride to your rescue, of course.’
‘Of course you would.’ My heart suddenly warm within my chest, I hugged him and he allowed it. He had an affection for me, as I had for him.
‘We could not wed anyway.’ I planted a kiss on his moist brow. ‘We are well connected within the bounds of consanguinity. Your great-grandfather is my great-grandfather too.’
‘I know that. But then, I am related to almost everyone. We would get a papal dispensation. It’s not impossible.’
‘You are very kind.’ He was. My heart jumped a little at his thoughtfulness. ‘But your mother and father would not like it. Neither would William.’
‘William would not care. I would give him one of my tournament horses. He would like that just as well as a bride.’
Which was probably true. It put an end to the discussion which had become frivolous.
‘I will dance at your wedding, Jeanette.’
But I would not. It was not in my heart to dance.
The day appointed for my union with the Salisbury heir was growing closer. The banns were called without a breath of rumour raising its head. No one uttered any impediment as to why it should not take place, blessed by God and witnessed by a puissant congregation, while I suffered from a despicable fear. Could I stand up before the altar and announce before the King and Queen, the Archbishop, and the whole royal court that I was not free to marry?
It seemed that I must. It was a matter of loyalty, of honour, of dedication to the man to whom I had pledged my heart and my life. And if my pride was destined to suffer from a blast of unwavering displeasure, then so be it. My marriage to Sir Thomas Holland must be made plain to all.
My path first crossed that of Thomas Holland, through no devising of mine, in Ghent, where I had accompanied Philippa, who did not wish to be parted from her royal husband longer than was necessary despite the uneasy stalemate between France and England. Edward was planning one of his famous tournaments in Brussels with much gift-giving and negotiating under cover of the clash of weapons in mock fight. Since, as we all knew, he was intent on laying claim to the crown of France through the blood of his mother, he needed all the help he could get and had a mind to sign treaties with Brabant and Flanders. He would need allies when the King of France came to hear his ringing acclamation that the French crown belonged by right of birth to the King of England.
Philippa, being pregnant and indolent, was not enthusiastic about travelling to Brussels, and so declined the promised jollity. I was more than enthusiastic, as was Isabella, nor was Edward averse to having decorative females present to grace his ceremonies. Looking round for a likely escort, he beckoned to the first passing knight of the household.
‘Sir Thomas will escort you and see you safely there.’ And to Sir Thomas: ‘Don’t let them out of your sight. They are valuable.’ And to us: �
��Mind you do what Sir Thomas says.’
Sir Thomas bowed. He looked as if he would rather not.
He had masterful features and a shock of dark hair with more than a touch of autumn where it curled against his neck. He was young too. And stalwartly built. With such an attractive prospect, I chose to ride beside him, in spite of my high status that might have pushed Edward into ordering me to make use of the Queen’s travelling chariot if he had had the time to think of it. Unused to escorts who would rather be elsewhere, I was intrigued. A man who was unmoved by my renowned beauty was out of the ordinary.
‘You don’t have to watch over us like a herding dog,’ I said, to promote some response.
‘I do. My King commands it. My lady.’ He stared straight ahead, allowing me a splendid view of his straight nose and clenched jaw.
‘Then you could smile. As if obeying the King gives you some pleasure.’
‘I could, my lady.’ The jaw remained clenched.
‘Where would you rather be?’ I asked, now with more than a passing interest.
‘Back there,’ he gestured, ‘with my horses and equipment.’
‘Do you not have a squire?’
‘I do.’
‘Then he will look after them for you. Will you fight in the tournament?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you enjoy it?’ This was hard work, but I imagined that his voice held a pleasing tone when not so brusque.
‘I need the money, my lady.’
Of course. He would earn little as a household knight. ‘Are you a good combatant?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
His confidence was as impressive as his stark features.
‘I will give you my favour to wear if you wish,’ I offered. ‘To bring you good fortune.’
For the first time his head turned imperceptibly towards me. ‘Your cousin the King would not approve.’
‘Why would he not?’ I certainly knew that Philippa would disapprove of this conversation. Which made me smile. I so rarely had the opportunity to converse with a young knight with what might be considered impropriety.
‘I am a knight with little to recommend me. You are of royal blood.’
‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But are you not a valiant knight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will be my valiant knight in the tourney.’ I became expansive, abandoning the modesty of my upbringing. ‘You will be my Sir Galahad.’
His eyes slid fully to mine.
‘It would be my honour to fight for you.’ It was the first time, I thought, that he had looked directly at me. ‘But will you watch me fight? There will be others more worthy of your notice. Some Brabant lordling in gilded armour, I expect.’
So there was a hint of pique in my Sir Galahad. ‘Well, if there is a gilded lordling, I will watch him, but I will promise to watch you too.’ How cheerfully I set out to destroy his grave displeasure. ‘I wager that you will be beaten by some Flemish knight in the first bout.’
Sir Thomas Holland’s brows flattened. ‘What will you wager?’
‘This.’ Stripping off my glove, a waved my fingers so that the deep red of a ruby glowed.
‘You cannot wager that against my skill.’ How uncompromising he was.
‘Why not?’
‘It is more valuable than all my Holland inheritance put together.’
‘It was a gift to me and so is mine to wager.’ I smiled at him. ‘You must make sure that you win.’
Sir Thomas slowly returned the smile. ‘I always win.’
‘Is she annoying you?’ Following rapidly in our wake, Edward drew alongside.
Sir Thomas rearranged his features into the stern visage of a royal escort. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Hurry up then. We haven’t all day.’
And since Isabella joined us our conversation was at an end. But it was a conversation that remained with me, embedded in my mind, trivial as it was. I had flirted. I had been artful. I had enjoyed it. And so, I decided, had Sir Thomas Holland.
Sir Thomas Holland won his bouts against any number of Brabant and Flemish lordlings, gilded or otherwise. Against English ones too, impressing me with his fighting skills, whether with sword or lance. His lack of wealth and status stood for nought when he beat his opponent to the floor, then with a strikingly gracious elegance offered his hand to pull him to his feet.
In the end I kept the ring.
Miraculously, I lost my heart.
I knew not how it could happen, or when, for I had no experience of such emotion that compromised my breathing and disturbed the beat of my blood at wrist and throat. Somewhere between his kissing my fingers when I pinned a scarf to his sleeve and his kneeling to accept a purse of coin from King Edward, I was smitten with a yearning that he would look at me again, and often. The clouds were low and grey but he shone in my sight. I was ashamed to acknowledge that I watched him to the exclusion of any other knight on the field. I did not understand it, but it was as if some finest of threads had been spun by an invisible hand to connect us, one to the other. Was it a malicious hand, for we were not equal in status? I did not care.
I was desolate when he did not escort us back to Ghent, the task being given to an ageing knight who had nothing to say for himself.
I discovered a need to put myself in my erstwhile escort’s way, not difficult in the lax household at Ghent where knights and damsels mingled more freely than at Windsor, and so did royal cousins. Everyone passed through the Great Hall at some point in the day.
‘Did you make your fortune, Sir Thomas?’
‘No. I did not.’
He was no more forthcoming than on the road to Brussels but he looked at me, a direct stare that stirred a little warmth into my blood.
‘But you caught the King’s admiration,’ I suggested.
‘On this occasion it was not the King’s admiration I was thinking of.’
He frowned at me, as if he might wish the words unsaid.
The tilt of my chin was unforgivable. ‘Who was it that you wished to attract? Some Flemish lady perhaps?’
‘No. An English lady.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘I imagine you know very well.’ His stare became fiercer, his response more particular than I had expected. I was considering how to reply when he continued. ‘You are far beyond my reach, my lady.’
Indeed I was.
‘I think that I am not,’ I said.
‘The Queen would tell you differently.’
Indeed she would.
‘The stories in my books,’ I said, ‘tell me that nothing should stand in the way of love. I am an enthusiastic reader of the adventures and amours of King Arthur’s knights.’
‘Your books will tell you that you do not understand the meaning of love.’
‘What do you think, Sir Thomas?’
His hands clenched around his belt. ‘I think that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that I would consider it my holy grail to wed such as you.’
By now the warmth in my blood had become a heat.
‘But that is not a holy grail that you can achieve, until you ask for my hand. Have you asked me to wed you, Sir Thomas?’
‘I would not. I dare not.’
Shocked at my own temerity, I placed my hand on his arm.
‘Please do, Sir Thomas.’
His eyes, softer now and very appealing, were full of raw emotion. ‘If I did, I hope that you would have the sense, for both of us, to refuse me.’
He bowed and walked away, leaving me solitary but unexpectedly exhilarated.
In whirlwind fashion and the spirit of all courageous knights, since once this attraction had gripped us it refused to grant us release, Sir Thomas Holland did ask me. I did not have the sense to refuse.
‘Yes,’ I said. And always practical: ‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Can we not wait?’ I might be in thrall to him, but this seemed unconscionably fast.
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br /> ‘If we wait, you’ll be lost to me. You’ll be married to your Flemish lord before the month’s out.’ A faint line appeared between his brows. ‘I wish you were not so young.’
I smoothed it away with a finger. ‘Time will take care of that. Do you love me, Thomas Holland?’
‘More than you will ever believe. Is my love returned?’
‘Yes.’
Which settled the whole affair.
These were the days, back at Westminster, when my thoughts clung to the person and environs of my lawful husband rather than the stitching of my new garments. Where was Thomas Holland? Were his military adventures likely to demand all his concentration, or would they allow him to return home in time to rescue me from the altar? It was in my mind that he would most likely discover yet another battle in which to make his name and fortune. He did not know that his wedded state, so carefully kept secret, was about to be destroyed.
With some investigation in mind, I absented myself from my morning lessons with lute and songbook on the plea that my mother needed me for matters appertaining to my wedding and went to avail myself of my cousin the King’s library. A room full of books, leather bound, gilded, redolent of the mustiness of old ink, I entered the silent and empty chamber. But it was not the books that drew me. I was looking for the loose-leafed manuscripts, many of them gifts to the King; maps and charts, old and new, of distant lands as well as tracts closer to home, unbound and highly precious. Edward would not object if I investigated. He might be surprised that my interests had turned to what might exist across the sea, but he would not forbid it.
Discovering the sheets of vellum in a low coffer, I unfolded the leather cover, lifting them them out one by one, spreading them across the table used for such large items. I had travelled more than many persons my age. Born at Arundel, of which I had no memory, I had resided chiefly in London since my father’s death. Thus I knew the reaches of the Thames and the palaces along its length. I had lived at the Tower and at Westminster and at Havering-atte-Bower, Philippa’s favourite manor. Further afield I knew Kennington and Woodstock and, of course, Windsor where we were now based. I had also travelled to Flanders with the royal household when Philippa had chosen to follow the King on his campaigning. I knew Ghent well. But further than that was a blank space.
