by Anne O'Brien
‘Which is a long time for a wife not to hear from her husband.’
Startled at my sharpness, Thomas now regarded me with some indecision. ‘But you knew where I was. You knew my plans. Have you fallen out of love with me already?’
‘No!’ I pressed my fingers to my lips. Here was no time for emotion. ‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what? Do you feel to be a neglected wife? There’s no one to gossip here. The holy saints won’t judge us if I kiss you.’ He pulled me nearer as he bent his head to do just that. Then paused as a pair of feet scuffed the stone paving behind the pillar to my left. Thomas looked up, over my shoulder, the kiss postponed. ‘Will!’ Then back to me. ‘I did not know that we were not alone. Why are we not alone?’ I could all but see his mind working. ‘You arranged this tryst. Why did you bring Will with you?’
Because Will, with a surge of Salisbury authority, had insisted.
‘Yes, I did arrange it. There is a complication,’ I said, scowling at Will who promptly scowled back.
Catching the tone of this exchange: ‘What is it?’ Thomas asked. Then turned to Will. ‘Do you need to be here? Have you become chaperone in my absence? The lady is quite safe in my company.’
Will redirected his scowl from me to Thomas. ‘You should not be kissing her.’
‘Why not? It is perfectly acceptable for a knight to kiss a lady’s cheek.’
‘But not her lips!’
‘I have not yet done so. She has not allowed it.’ Exasperation was setting in. ‘Princess Joan is capable of being her own chaperone. She certainly was when I left. Now, go away, Will.’
At first he had been prepared to smile. But by now, sensing something truly amiss, Thomas’s hands had tightened around mine.
‘You have no right,’ Will said.
‘I have every right. What is it to you?’
My hands were released when I was placed firmly to one side. Thomas was fast abandoning discretion, while Will, grabbing at his courage, stepped out of the shadows until he stood beside us, an unholy triumvirate.
‘I know that you will say that Joan is your wife,’ he challenged.
Thomas’s eyes slid to mine, full of questions. ‘What if I do?’
‘It’s a lie. A filthy lie!’
If Thomas was surprised by Will’s aggression he chose not to respond in kind. ‘You know nothing of what is between this lady and myself.’ He punched Will’s arm, gently enough. ‘If I were you, I’d say nothing that would reflect on her reputation. It would ill-become a knight in the making to sully the good name of a royal lady.’
‘I’ll say what I like. I’ll shout out the truth, even if no one else will.’
‘Enough! You have said enough!’ Thomas took a step forward.
Immediately I was there between them, a bone between two dogs whose hackles were raised, whose teeth were all but displayed in vicious snarls. I prayed the teeth would not be buried in my flesh.
‘Joan?’ Thomas’s eye had narrowed. ‘How much does he know? Have you been indiscreet?’
Whereupon pride stiffened my spine. ‘It does you no credit to accuse me of indiscretion until you know what has occurred in your absence.’
‘Then tell me. I am lost in a fog of accusation and ignorance.’
Will retaliated with a deal of resentment and a torrent of invective. ‘We were all impressed with your fortitude. We lapped up your tales of warfare and courageous deeds, Sir Thomas. But I don’t care how brave you were. I don’t care how notable a figure you would wish to be with the white silk you wear as a banner. I don’t care how many important friends you made on the battlefield. She is not yours to kiss. Joan is my wife.’
‘Your wife?’ Thomas laughed, disbelieving. ‘What nonsense is this?’
But I could see the watchfulness in every muscle braced against what was to come. It had to be said.
‘It is true,’ I stated. ‘I am Will’s wife.’
‘What?’ A harsh growl of a whisper.
And so I explained, all in a voice as sleek as the Virgin’s celestial blue robe, which reminded me so sharply of the King’s sworn intent to honour his knights in cloaks of similar hue.
‘It is true, Thomas. I am Will’s wife. We were married by the Bishop of London before the whole court in the chapel at Windsor. Everyone is very pleased. My mother and uncle are delighted at their good fortune in securing this match. The King and Queen promoted it, my royal blood a gift for the loyal Earl of Salisbury, and they smile on us. There is nothing we can do about it. I took my oath. I am Will’s wife.’
Thomas absorbed this severely pruned version of what had occurred in his absence without speech, his hands fallen to his sides, his eye on the altar as if calling for heavenly confirmation. Until I heard him inhale, saw the glint of the low light on the buckle of his belt as he moved, as he erupted into a flare of sheer temper.
‘By the Rood! Is my hearing compromised, as well as my sight? This cannot be.’
‘Most certainly it can be, Sir Thomas.’ Will was not slow in driving the knife once again into the wound. ‘My marriage to Joan is all signed and sealed with royal witnesses. Who witnessed your travesty of a match? I doubt they even exist. I think there was no legality whatsoever in your supposed union. Your return makes no difference to my legal binding with this woman.’ Will almost crowed with the achievement. Perhaps not the most tactful of responses.
Thomas looked at him, the fingers of his right hand now clenching hard on his sword hilt. Then he rounded on me.
‘Why did I not know of this?’
‘How was I to tell you? I did not know where you were.’
I would not admit that I had thought of sending a courier. And abandoned it as a lost cause.
‘How could you allow it to happen?’
Which question I expected. I had no intention of begging for a trite understanding if he chose to heap the blame on my shoulders. But then there was no need for me to find a reason.
‘She had no choice,’ Will leapt in. ‘It was the wish of my family and hers and of the King himself.’
‘Ha! The power of the Salisbury faction, of course. How could I withstand that, even if I had been aware of the skulduggery behind my back!’ Thomas loomed over me again, so that perforce I must look up. Which I did. ‘Does the King know? About our marriage? I presume not, since nothing has been said and he welcomed me back with open arms and promises of friendship. I presume he is as ignorant as I was until two minutes ago.’
No he does not know. What would be the value in bringing royal wrath down on my head. Or on yours. But I would not say it. There was no room for pity here. Instead, once again, I delivered the bare facts.
‘My mother, my uncle Wake, and the Countess of Salisbury simply swore everyone in our households to secrecy. In fact no one but our priest knew, so it was easily done.’ I hesitated, then carried on, face expressionless: ‘They all hoped you would simply not come back.’
‘Your mother hoped I was dead.’
My lack of a response was answer enough. Thomas released his sword hilt, taking a moment to marshal his thoughts and his temper while Will and I exchanged a glance that was more fury than despair.
‘But this marriage to Montagu here is invalid, Joan.’ Thomas had won his battle with pique. ‘It cannot stand before the law.’
‘No, it is not,’ Will continued the flinging down of his gauntlets. ‘It is your marriage that is not legal.’
Thomas’s hand was clenched into a fist, which I feared he might use, when once again I stepped in, gripping Will’s sleeve in a desperation of powerlessness. ‘Yes it is legal, Will. You know it is. Even our priest said it was a marriage per verba de praesenti and quite binding, even if it is a matter for disapproval. You cannot pretend that it is not. It is we that are pretending, Will.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful to hear you admit it,’ Thomas said. ‘So what do we do now, Mistress Joan? Are you Holland or Montagu? Do we live as a threesome, like hawks in a mews? In secrecy
? Or do you and I announce our marriage to the world and defy anyone to question it?’
‘Only if you are prepared to include in this little plan a flight across the sea,’ I remarked, waspishness rearing its head. I had not meant to say it, but emotion overcame my best endeavours to remain calm. Thomas Holland was past being calm.
‘I have a better future in mind, and I refuse to abandon my ambitions. But hear this, Joan. I’ll not let you go. I’ll not give you up. Not to either the King or the Earl of Salisbury. You are mine by a well-witnessed exchange of vows. Nothing will change that.’
‘I will deny it,’ Will said.
‘You can deny nothing. This is a declaration of war.’ And then on a thought that pulled his brows together. ‘Has your marriage been consummated?’ Thomas demanded.
Will flushed. I said nothing, causing a bark of unkindly laughter from Thomas.
‘No,’ Will admitted. ‘Yet she is still mine.’
‘God’s Blood! We’ll see about that!’
Thomas strode out of the chapel. Will and I were left looking at each other.
‘He did not take it well,’ Will observed.
‘No, he did not. Did you expect him to? You threw down the gauntlet and Thomas picked it up.’
‘I wish you hadn’t promised him, Joan. I wish you had not got yourself into this mess. Why in heaven’s name did you do it, when it is obvious to me that you don’t have any deep feelings for the man? If you had, you would not have given your assent to wed me at the eleventh hour. Either that or you are frivolous beyond belief.’
The accusation stung. Did I too wish I had not done it? In that aftermath, in the stillness of the little chapel, I did not know. When I refused to answer his savaging of my motives and my character, Will left me there, striding after Thomas, so that I was once more alone with the Virgin and a terrible sense of disappointment. It would not be shaken away. In despair I knelt before the statue, perhaps hoping for some solace. A little beam of sunshine touched the window, then my coifed hair, the warm dust motes dancing in the still air making me sneeze.
And that was it. There I was, back to that day when I had made my promise to Thomas. Experiencing it again, I was no longer sad. I sparkled with doubt and delight and a magnificent defiance, as I had on that day. It was a glorious moment, vivid with colour, even the scents and sounds intruding as they did on that day to awaken my senses. I sat back on my heels, my hands clasped hard in my lap, my fingers intertwined, and allowed it to sweep over me, all over again.
Spring 1340: Ghent
There was Thomas Holland, waiting for me in the angle of the outer wall where a door opened discreetly into the royal mews.
‘Are we alone?’ I asked.
It seemed that we were, to all intents and purposes. His page and squire did not count. The royal falconer had been lured away for an hour by the promise of ale and a handful of small coin.
Thomas nodded, offering his hand. ‘We have time,’ he said.
At his feet, a bundle of armour wrapped in stained cloth, an assortment of swords, and a rough travelling coffer that had seen many campaigns. I noted it, acknowledging that somewhere his horse would be waiting. It all told its own story of how the day would unfurl, but I would not allow the quick slap of loss to mar what we would do together. What we would be together.
The wind whipped around the buttress to ruffle his hair into disarray and shower my veil and cloak with the dead leaves that still caught in corners such as this. Later I thought it might have been an omen but my imagination was too much engaged to look for portents of doom. Every sense was strained. I looked over my shoulder, for I would be missed soon, a servant sent to discover my whereabouts. There was a limit to the lax supervision; I might have been able to snatch more freedom here in Ghent than in Windsor, but princesses of the royal household were not free to wander unescorted.
Or to give their hands and lips where they chose.
Thomas Holland took my hand, his firm as he raised my fingers to his lips and then, drawing me closer, kissed my cheek.
‘You are late. I was in two minds to leave,’ he admitted.
It was not encouraging, but he opened the door and led me into the dusty warmth, the air redolent of straw and fur and bird droppings, but not unpleasantly so. The royal raptors shifted on their perches. A goshawk hunched its displeasure, mewing sharply at the intrusion.
I sneezed.
‘Did you think I would not come?’ I asked, recovering.
‘I wasn’t sure. Perhaps you are still too young to know your own desires.’
‘Is procrastination the preserve of youth?’ It was a phrase I had often heard Queen Philippa use when her children thwarted her wishes. ‘I am old enough to know my own mind.’
He faced me, foursquare, releasing my hand as if he could give me leave to make a bolt for freedom if I so wished.
‘Then say it, Joan. Do you wish it?’
I barely paused.
‘Yes, Thomas. I do wish it.’
Indecision must still have impaired my expression when he had expected nothing but delight. His brows drew together.
‘I am not convinced.’
‘Well, you should be. If my answer were no, I would have hidden until I saw you ride out of the gates on your way to war.’
But how could I not be uncertain? What I desired weighed heavily against the consequences that snarled and snapped at the edge of my determination until it was ragged. What we did here today could not be hidden for ever. Thomas’s voice fell gruffly, not into chivalric declarations of love, which I might have liked, but into legal niceties, which were certainly more pertinent.
‘There is no bar, Joan. There is no impediment to what we will do.’
‘But there is no permission either.’
‘We do not need permission. Only our own desire to take this step.’
‘They would stop us if they knew.’
‘So they do not know. Nor will they. Or not yet. Not until I have made a name that cannot be balked at.’
I did not think he was naive, but it seemed to me that his eye was on the immediate fight, not on the vista of the whole battle. Now he was looking over his shoulder, at his page and squire who had entered and occupied the small space with us and the hunting birds, so closely that the page threatened to stand on my hem.
‘You two are here to witness what we say. You will not speak of it to anyone, until I give you permission to do so.’
‘No, Sir Thomas.’ The squire’s reply was trenchant. The page, simply overawed into silence, shook his head.
‘On your honour,’ Thomas demanded.
‘On my honour,’ the squire repeated. The page gulped.
He turned back to me.
‘A pity you could not bring one of your women with you. She would be a better witness and one not likely to die in battle.’
The page paled.
‘I could, of course. But only if you did not mind it being gossiped from one tower to the next within the half-hour.’
Sometimes men, even much admired men, were highly impractical. I hoped Thomas’s minions were not given to gossip, or were so afraid of his revenge that they would keep their mouths shut. The page’s mouth had fallen open in distress.
Thomas was holding out his palm.
‘Let it be done.’
‘Let it be done,’ I repeated.
I placed my hand in his, palm to palm, my fingers lightly clasped around his wrist, and his closed around mine as he began to speak.
‘This is my intent. Today I am your husband. If you want me as your husband.’
The birds rustled, a fragile-seeming merlin beginning to preen with intensity, while I repeated the words.
‘This is my intent. Today I am your wife. If you want me as your wife.’
‘You have my love and my loyalty and the protection of my body until death claims me.’
‘You have my love and my loyalty and my duty as your wife, until death claims me.’
�
�I am your husband of my own free will.’
‘I am your wife, without duress. So I wish it.’
So speaking our intent, we stood and regarded each other. It was not a marriage I had envisioned. Here was no ceremony, no panoply, no festive celebration. My garments were not the lavish extravagance of a bride and Thomas was dressed starkly in wool and leather, fit for travel. No incense, no choir, so flattering candle flames. Here was no royal union, only a simple statement between a man and a woman. If the hawks heard our vows they were entirely unreceptive.
I sneezed again in the close atmosphere. Not the most romantic of gestures.
‘So it is done.’ Releasing my hand, Thomas signalled with a tilt of his chin to the squire and page who made an exit, leaving us alone. ‘It is legal and binding. Except for the consummation.’
Now was no time for hesitation. ‘Where?’ I asked.
With his shoulder he pushed at an inner door that led into the domain of the falconer, where there was a stool, a coffer, a peg to hold a cloak, and a rough cot.
‘It’s the best I could manage.’
He made a bow worthy of the most elegant of courtiers, then closed the door at my back.
So the falconer’s cot with its musty covers – and some feathers – witnessed the fleeting physical union of a Plantagenet princess and a minor knight from the depths of Lancashire. Hearing tuned for every fall of approaching footstep, I later admitted to not enjoying to any degree the overwhelming passion that I had hoped to experience. Instead it was fast and uncomfortable and undignified. I would not admit to the sharp pain, even though I suspected that Thomas was considerate in his urgency, having all the experience that I lacked. The surroundings were not conducive to lingering kisses, the circumstances not engaging to passion. The falconer’s bed with its disreputable mattress made me aware of fleas and mites rather than the culmination of physical longing. Yet my virginity was gently won by a man who said that he loved me.
It had made me his wife.
We set our clothes to rights, which took little time since few had been removed in this briefest of interludes.
‘When will I see you again?’ I asked.
‘When I have made my fortune.’
‘When will you tell the King?’
