The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  It might be that many a daughter, caught out in the sin of worldly disobedience, would do exactly that.

  So why did I abandon my oft-repeated intent with such glib readiness? Because in the closing days of the old year my duty had been made as clear to me as the brilliant glitter of my new collar. Thus I had walked of my own volition to place my hand in Will’s. Once more I had taken these new vows without threats.

  Let the world judge me, as it doubtless would, the chroniclers dipping their pens in poisonous ink when they discovered what I had done. At best I would be deemed a pawn in the maw of family political intrigue. At worst an ambitious power-seeker, acting with cold and cruel dispassion, abandoning one husband for a better.

  I cringed at the worst.

  But so be it. I could keep my own counsel. Who would be interested in my reasoning? The deed was done and there was no hand to it but my own.

  Let the world judge as it wished. I raised my head to acknowledge Will’s faint smile of relief, and later, as we shared a marital cup of wine, our lips matching on the rim to the murmured appreciation of the glittering aristocratic throng, there was only one thought in my mind.

  I would have to face the repercussions when Thomas returned to England.

  I must be strong enough to bear it.

  It might be that I was now the wife of William Montagu in the eyes of God and Man and the King of England. It might be that King Edward’s cheerful beneficence was marked by his allowing my distant father-in-law to grant property to Will and myself. It might be that we had an allowance which I was able to spend on the fripperies of life. It might be that we were in possession of the manor and lordship of Mold in North Wales and the eventual reversion of the manor of Marshwood in Devon, where we could establish our household if and when we so chose; both of them too far from court for my liking.

  All of that might be true, but there were few changes in my life at this time.

  We did not live in our new properties; I did not even visit them. My life, and Will’s also, was still fixed at the peripatetic court wherever it decided to travel and put down its temporary roots. I continued my education. Will continued to flourish as a future knight. I could not imagine living alone with my own household, far from the centre of court and the intrigues of government. This was what I had known my whole life. I could not imagine having no one with whom to have an intelligent conversation other than Will, Countess Catherine or Lady Elizabeth.

  But then neither could I imagine living in isolation with Thomas Holland on some estate near Upholland in the far distant and drear reaches of Lancashire.

  Yet Will and I preserved, in a superficial manner, the appearance of a married couple. We had plenty to say to each other when we met. At meals. At receptions. At embassies. At the hunt. We were the Earl and Countess of Salisbury in waiting. Will made a point of coming to see me every day.

  Sometimes he kissed my cheek if no one was watching.

  More often than not he made do with a salute to my fingers.

  I curtsied and bade him welcome.

  The livery collar – for was I not now a Salisbury possession? – was placed in Countess Catherine’s jewel coffer for safe keeping while Will and I danced, our steps matching with some exactitude. We had danced together since we were both old enough to stand. We had a lifetime of familiarity between us to give us an ease in each other’s company. Seeing us together, my mother, relaxed, decided that she could afford to smile on me. So did Countess Catherine. And Queen Philippa.

  Will was my friend. Despite the vows and the priest’s solemn words, we lived as we had always lived since we were still considered too young to share a marriage bed. Indeed, Will, his age the same as mine, seemed content to wait. I prayed that he would continue to be so. My mind was full of waiting. I could speak to no one, although I did try.

  ‘What will you do when Thomas returns?’ I asked Will.

  ‘I doubt he will ever return now. How long has he been gone?’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘My mother says that he is dead.’

  I pursed my lips.

  ‘You don’t miss him, do you?’ Will sounded anxious.

  How could I say yes? It was a strange sort of missing. How could I miss a life I had never experienced? Sometimes it seemed that Thomas was disappearing into a distant void. To my shame, recalling his features was no longer an easy task.

  ‘You are my wife, Joan.’ It was the ultimate statement of possession.

  ‘I acknowledge it.’

  ‘And Thomas Holland is assuredly dead.’

  Thus Will had it fixed in his mind that Thomas would never return to cast a cat amongst any flock of pigeons. He no longer thought about my promises to another man, or worried over the knowledge that Thomas had known me intimately. For him all had been wiped clean under the holy auspices of the Bishop of London. Will had no fears for the future.

  But I had.

  Late Summer 1341: The Royal Manor of Havering-atte-Bower

  The first intimation that the day was to hold something out of the ordinary was the bounding into our midst of the hounds, pushing and investigating with no thought to royal deference. The second was the glow that spread over the Queen’s stolid features as she looked up from the small garment she was stitching. Both were enough to inform us who had arrived. We all, apart from the royal infants, rose to our feet, only to be waved back to what we had been doing.

  We were sitting beneath the trees, in a number of artful groups, enjoying the warm days of late summer, with Queen Philippa keeping a watchful eye on her youngest children, John and the baby Edmund who, unbeknown to him beneath his downy thatch, had caused all the trouble between King, Queen and Archbishop. Their nursemaids were in attendance. So was Ned, as well as Will who had journeyed to visit Countess Catherine on some matter of estate affairs, and had come to make his farewell to me before returning with Ned to the manor at Kennington where the Prince’s household was established. We were a large and noisy group, which became even noisier when the King arrived with his dogs and the usual parcel of attendant knights, squires and huntsmen.

  Without ceremony, Edward kissed Philippa’s cheek, patted Isabella’s head, cuffed his heir a light blow to his shoulder with a wry comment on the splendour of his new satin-lined cloak, anchored by two uncommonly large gold buttons, before inspecting the two-month-old baby in his crib. Then, all niceties accomplished, taking us all in with a smile and a mock bow, he announced:

  ‘Look who we have here, for our entertainment.’

  Edward beckoned.

  ‘Someone for you to welcome, newly returned from brave deeds and doughty fighting. We will be pleased to listen to all he has to say about distant wars.’

  I had no premonition of this. Not one shiver of air had touched my senses, not one whisper of warning. Stilling my fingers on the lute I had been playing, I looked across with open interest, a ready smile for a visitor with a tale to tell. As did we all.

  My fingers flattened with a discord of strings. I forced my lungs to draw in a steady breath. Thomas Holland was not dead. Thomas Holland was not severely wounded. Thomas Holland was no longer committed to the religious fervour of a crusade.

  Thomas Holland stood in our midst. Six feet tall in his soft boots and thigh-length cote-hardie. Smiling and urbane.

  How could my blood run so cold when the sun’s heat was so intense? So too was my face cold, where the welcoming expression seemed to have set into place, while my throat was constricted by a turbulence that refused to be brought into order. I could feel Will’s eyes snap to mine, but I would not look at him. This was the moment that had been an underlying murmur of trepidation through all the months of our marriage. I had anticipated it, planned for it, but now that it was here, I did not know what to do. For the first time that I could recall I was bereft of thought or decision of what I should do or say. Any memories of the emotion that had driven me into marriage with this knight were effectively obliterated. It was not love that washed o
ver me. It was not physical desire, kept in abeyance for all the months of his absence, but fear. I felt nothing but consternation. I should have been word perfect in this initial meeting with him, particularly in company. I was not prepared, and kept my lips close-pressed as Sir Thomas bowed and made his greeting to the Queen, as one thought returned to me, the obvious one.

  Did Thomas know? Had he any knowledge of the passage of events since he had been gone from England? Of course he did not. No one would have seen the need to tell him. The private and essentially intimate development of the life of Princess Joan was of no concern to a knight who did not yet have a reputation or a source of wealth to make him a notable at court. Edward was pleased to see him because here was a source of new tales of war and glory, and because he saw the military potential in him, but Thomas was not yet one of the inner group of knights in Edward’s confidence. No one would have seen a need to tell him of my change in circumstances.

  No, of course he did not know.

  All seemed to be held in suspension, like close-ground herbs in red wine, but that was simply my imagination. All was in fact returned to normality as if every one of my senses had been restored to life so that the scene was in brilliant focus, the scents from the roses heady with musk, the noise of dogs and children clamorous on my ear. Will shuffled at my side, suddenly discomfited since the man he had assured himself was dead quite clearly was not. Edward ordered his huntsmen to collect the hounds and dispatch them to the kennels. Philippa likewise dispatched her babies to the nursery. The older children except for Isabella, whose nose twitched with interest born purely of her own lurid imagination, returned to their own private occupations. I held the lute to my breast like a babe in arms.

  And Thomas?

  Thomas had all the courtly dignity not to single me out with either look or movement, except for a sleek passage of a glance as he took in those who waited to greet him. We were all acknowledged with the same courtly bow which did not surprise me for he had not spent all his life on a battlefield. No, his inherent grace did not surprise me. Nor did this state of not being dead. I had never thought that he was. But his physical appearance shocked me, so much that my breathing remained compromised.

  The King drew him forward into the family group, placing a compassionate hand on his arm.

  ‘We have heard of your exploits, Thomas. And now we see the consequences of being in the thick of battle. How did this come about?’

  ‘It was nothing, sire.’

  ‘Modesty becomes you, but tell us. Here’s my son who would dearly have loved to have been fighting beside you.’

  Thus summoned, and it had to be said with a bad case of hero-worship for any knight who had enhanced his reputation on the battlefield, Ned took the jewelled cup from Philippa to hand to Thomas. And Thomas, accepting and raising it in a little toast, launched into the tale of his adventures on the field of battle. The battle where evidence told, horrifically, of his wounding.

  The battle, the blows, the courage of his fellow knights, the victorious outcome; the King and Prince and Will, as well as my brother, John, hung on every word. And then Thomas was coming to an end with a wry smile.

  ‘I have taken an oath to wear this mark of God’s grace in sparing me, until I have fulfilled my duty to His cause. And my duty to yours too, my lord King, on the battlefields of Europe. God spared my life. I will dedicate my sword to Him. And to you. And this badge of my wounding will be seen and noted from one end of Christendom to the next.’

  It was a brave speech with all the energy and dedication I recalled which would make him a prime candidate for the King’s new order of knights. And I could not take my gaze from him, from his face where he wore a flamboyant strip of white silk to hide the damage to one eye. Here was my knight who had caused me so much trouble, tall and lean and bloodied in battle, his darkly russet hair still curled against his neck, his face fair as ever, his uncovered eye bright with the emotion of his welcome amongst us. He had lost the other in some distant conflict.

  Watching him in the centre of the little group of those with whom I had grown up, here was Thomas Holland, a man amongst boys. A knight amongst squires. Thus I studied him, assessing my own reactions to the man I had married against all good sense. A strange mysticism hung about his figure as he came to sit at Philippa’s feet, the silken band not a blight, not a disfiguring in my eyes. It was a glamour that he had been hurt so desperately but yet continued to burn with knightly fervour. And how intriguing that he had chosen to enhance the glamour with white silk rather than a common strip of leather. There was much to Thomas Holland that I did not yet know.

  And perhaps never would.

  ‘Can you not see?’ Ned was asking, kneeling beside him, appalled at the prospect of suffering such a fatal disability for a soldier.

  ‘I see well enough with the eye that God has seen fit to spare, my lord. The infidel who dealt me the blow no longer breathes God’s air.’

  ‘But perhaps you can no longer fight.’ Ned was frowning. ‘With the sight of only one eye.’

  Thomas smiled, which stirred my heart a little. ‘The King of Bohemia, famed throughout Europe for his courage, has lost his sight completely. He is determined to fight again on the battlefield with his knights leading him into the fray. Why should he not since he can still ride a horse and wield a sword? My state is not so desperate. I will assuredly fight again.’

  Filled with awe, Ned reached across to touch the white silk. ‘I would be as brave as you.’

  ‘As you will, my lord.’

  At my side, Will was as silent as I.

  Until Edward led Thomas away, leaving a little hiatus of disappointment now that the excitement was gone. I simply sank to the ground with a mouth as arid as a summer stream, still clutching the lute. Thomas had managed one more fleeting glance in my direction, which might have been a question, or perhaps even a warning that he would in the fullness of time seek me out.

  But not before I sought him.

  ‘Are you going to play that?’ demanded Isabella who had not been centre of attention for a good half hour. ‘If not, give it to me.’

  ‘Take it!’ As I handed it over, since playing dulcet melodies on a lute was no longer a priority for me, a hand fastened round my wrist. I looked up at Will who was on his feet, standing over me.

  ‘What are you planning to do?’ he asked, sotto voce.

  ‘Find some means of speaking with Thomas Holland in private, of course.’

  How could he even ask? The three of us could not remain incommunicado, hoping that this problem would simply evaporate in the warm air. What did Will think that I would do?

  ‘I forbid it.’

  Exasperation took its toll of my tone. ‘You have no authority to forbid it.’

  ‘I have every authority. You are my wife.’

  I stared at him until he blushed and released me.

  While I was moved by a little compassion; this was not Will’s fault. ‘I have to see him, Will. He needs to know. I have to discover some means for us to meet alone.’

  ‘So he does need to know, but it is a matter of much interest to me, what exactly you will say to him. And how he will reply.’

  It was a matter of much interest to me too.

  ‘I will be sure to tell you,’ I said. ‘Every word.’

  ‘You will not allow him to kiss you.’

  ‘I doubt that in the circumstances he will discover any desire to kiss me. I expect he will find my behaviour sufficiently incomprehensible to douse any passion!’

  Allowing Will to pull me to my feet, I curtsied neatly towards the Queen, and began to walk away in the direction of the departed King and his brave knight.

  ‘In fact,’ Will added, keeping pace with me. ‘I am coming with you.’

  I hurried my steps.

  Thomas, my courageous, lamentably absent but heroically wounded husband, met with me in the private chapel, an intimate space much used by the Queen. Set aside to the honour of the Blessed Virgin,
Thomas was directed there by a servant I had dispatched, for I could think of no other means of ensuring the lack of an audience at this time of day when the public rooms were full of servants and those who would come to petition the Queen in her abundant mercy. I was waiting for him, offering up a final silent prayer at the little jewelled altar with its benignly smiling Virgin when Thomas, offering a coin to the page, walked in.

  I had heard his firm footsteps approaching. This time I was prepared.

  ‘Joan.’ For a long moment, as I turned to face him, he stood and looked at me, then held out his hand. ‘How could I have forgotten that my wife was beautiful?’

  His face, bronzed and a little hardened through campaigning, undoubtedly lit with pleasure, which should have pleased me. And it did, flattering as it was. But once the pleasure had been buried, I knew that this was going to be just as difficult as I had envisioned.

  ‘Thomas.’

  I placed my hand in his and angled my cheek for a kiss.

  ‘Can I not claim your lips? You were my wife when I left. Even though the Blessed Virgin had not sanctified our union.’

  ‘You have been gone a long time,’ I said, uncertain whether I wished to throw myself into his arms or retreat beyond Philippa’s little prie-dieu. My emotions were all awry. He was all I recalled, dominating the little space with his height and his military air of polished competence, but there had been far too much water under this particular bridge to simply take up where we had left off.

  ‘A year,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little more.’

  The expression on his face had stilled, becoming wary as if he saw a distant troop of horsemen approaching, and he was unsure whether it be friend or foe.