by Anne O'Brien
It had crossed Thomas’s mind too.
‘A year or two. Three at most.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It all depends on the campaigns. There will be war again between England and France. And if not there will be others where mercenaries are welcomed.’ His expression beneath the white silk was severe as we walked our horses behind that of the King. ‘Have you no confidence in me?’
I would have replied but William was approaching on a spritely roan and I saw the necessity to retreat. Of course there would be war, there would be every opportunity. There would also be opportunity for Thomas to be cut down in battle. I had every confidence in his courage but was not the lack of an eye an impairment, whatever he might say to the contrary? I did not think that he would be the man he had once been in the tournament, despite the blind king who was led into battle, his reins tied to those of his entourage. That was no life for a man who was intent on wealth and reputation.
‘Yes, I have every confidence,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell me about the King of Bohemia!’
What I kept tight-held within me was the fear, the dread that the whole complex situation, the whole knotty problem, could be immediately resolved by Thomas’s death by a lance through his chest or an arrow through his throat. It was not unknown. It could happen before I tasted married bliss.
And here was Will, drawing rein beside me, his thoughts not on wedded bliss.
‘What were you talking about?’
Suspicion was not entirely dead then.
‘About Sir Thomas’s need to make a living from fighting.’
‘So he will be leaving soon.’
‘I expect so. When he can find a war to suit his purposes.’
‘Good.’
‘Why? Do you not like him?’
I regarded him beneath lowered lashes, interested to hear what he would say.
‘I do,’ Will admitted as if it surprised him. ‘My father says he is a good man to have at your side.’
‘So you would happily send him off to his death.’
‘It would solve my problems!’
I was afraid that it would.
His brows snapping together as he continued the line of thought, Will added: ‘And I would no longer feel that I had to consider your loyalty to me, every minute of the day when I was not at your side.’
‘You dishonour me, my lord,’ I replied with a false smile of great sweetness. ‘I know exactly where my loyalty is due.’
‘And what does that mean?’
Applying my heel to my mare, I left him to his uneasy deliberations.
The hiatus between myself and Thomas came to a hasty end as the court began to hum with a bustle of preparation. Thomas’s hopes were about to be fulfilled, for Edward was collecting an army and preparing to take it into Brittany. Sir Thomas Holland acquired a spring in his step that had nothing to do with me.
‘So you are going to Brittany.’
‘As soon as I can. Don’t expect letters. I am no writer.’
‘How will I know if you are well?’ Then added: ‘If you are alive?’
‘You won’t. Until I return as victor or on a bier.’
He snatched a kiss, as brief as the one on our wedding day. I sighed. I would find no use for ointment of lily, so well recommended by those who knew, to repair painful fissures of lips, product of too many heated kisses. My lips were destined to suffer only from the cold winds of winter.
Thomas did not return with a victor’s wreath or on a bier. He did not return at all but, with the truce, went on to Bayonne with Sir John Hardeshull. Followed by Granada with the Earl of Derby where there was a crusade against the Moors. It was to be more than a year before I saw him again, by which time all my hopes had been dashed.
January 1344: Windsor Castle
The final tournament of the day was well underway, the quintessential skills of a knight on show for us all, à plaisir rather than à outrance with King Edward’s knights making a fine showing in the lists.
The war was in abeyance. Edward was home, summoning all the armed youth of England to Windsor, as well as as many earls, knights and barons as he could lay his hands on. This was the second of his great winter tournaments. Queen Philippa was present with a clutch of royal children.
Thomas was home too. He was not dead. Neither was he rich. His expression was bleak.
‘I have not made my fortune,’ he announced in passing.
And that was that.
Now we watched, admired. We watched as Edward dislodged his opponents with extravagant ease. We watched as Thomas, white silk a-glimmer in the frosty light, fighting with bold strokes irrespective of his impediment, won the prize. We watched as the Earl of Salisbury, Will’s famous father returned to us, full of good humour and authority as Earl Marshall, rode at his opponent. The thunder of hooves, the cries of the supporters, the groans of those who lost their bets on which knight would prevail. We watched and the day was glorious indeed. Then, in a strange little silence, herald of disaster, the attention of the crowd centred on one occurrence.
The Earl of Salisbury was unhorsed.
The Earl lay on the ground while his horse cantered off, to be caught by his page.
The Earl lay pinned like a beetle in its carapace, his face still masked by his tilting helm.
Surely he would rise? Surely he would get to his feet, remount his horse and ride back to receive the commiserations from friends and the women in the royal gallery?
The Earl lay motionless on the ground.
Then his squire, kneeling beside him, struggling to remove his helm, was signalling for help. Signalling with increasing concern.
Edward was the first to be at his side, pushing aside the squire, fast followed by Will who bounded from the ranks of the Montagu retinue where he had been acting as squire. At my side Countess Catherine sat unmoving, chin raised.
‘He will be unharmed. He has been unhorsed before.’
But her hands were tight-clasped in her lap, and I felt the beginning of a little fear that unfurled in my chest as the King looked up, scrubbing his palms down his cheeks.
The Earl did not rise.
Heavily unconscious, he did not speak, not even when he was carried inside. And later in the day, with one of the King’s doctors frowning over him, a litter was harnessed to six of the King’s horses to carry him to the family home at Bisham, the Earl’s new manor that he loved so much, because it seemed to the Countess that it was the right thing to do.
Will and I went with them, a dour cavalcade.
The King watched us go, grief and fear engraved on his face.
We were at his bedside when the Earl died at Bisham Manor on the thirtieth day of January, never regaining his senses. We stood by his bed as his laboured breathing faltered and stopped. The priest made the sign of the cross on his brow. We bent our heads in prayer, the whole household in mourning. How tragic that the Earl, restored to family, home and pre-eminence, his reputation as soldier and royal counsellor still glorious, should be struck down by a cheap death on the jousting field.
‘There will never be another like him. So great a man, so noble a soldier.’ The Countess’s eyes were proudly dry but stark with loss. ‘The King has lost his truest friend. He can never be replaced. The first and greatest of the Montagu Earls of Salisbury.’
I heard Will inhale sharply, then he turned on his heel and walked out. Sensing his resentment of both the death and his mother’s assumption that Will would never be his father’s equal, I stretched out a hand.
‘Let him go,’ the Countess said, demeanour pinched and cold with the waiting. ‘My son is old enough to shoulder his responsibilities. He must step into his father’s shoes, however unlikely it seems.’
Will’s brother and four sisters stood irresolute.
I did not think that I could forgive her. I had seen death approaching, but Will had not expected this. Nor had he expected the immediate reproof from his mother, that he would always live in his father’
s shadow. I curtsied to the Countess.
‘I think that he should not be alone, my lady. There is no need to quite step into those magnificent shoes today. Tomorrow will be soon enough.’
And before she could deny it, I went to find him, discovering him where I knew he would be. Will was not one for prayer, seeking out solace in the chapel. Instead he was in the stables, running his hand down the neck of his father’s favourite horse, murmuring some affectionate words I could not hear.
‘Will…’
He hesitated, then resumed the stroking of the massive gleaming neck.
‘I won’t talk about it.’
Instead of arguing the case I went and touched his shoulder. Even when he shrugged me off, I persisted and rubbed the back of his neck gently. When I rested my forehead against his back, at last he turned to me and let me fold him into my arms, the first true embrace born out of affection and compassion in all the years of our marriage. He did not weep, but his body was taut with emotions I could not name. And then he relaxed against me a little as I stroked his hair.
‘I am so very sorry, Will.’
It was not unknown for knights to meet death or serious injury in jousts à plaisir, but that was no comfort to Will who had worshipped the great soldier that his father had been. The shock held him silent.
‘It was a better end than many,’ I tried. Better than execution. Better than the head being severed from the body by an incompetent felon. ‘He had his dignity to the end.’
‘He was a good father.’
‘He was caring and affectionate.’
And then, as if it were an entirely new thought, Will raised his head. ‘I am Earl now.’
‘So you are.’
‘I did not expect it.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘I didn’t mean… But not yet.’
‘You will be an exceptional Earl. As good as your father.’
‘I will not be the King’s great friend.’
‘No. There are too many years between you. But you will be one of his most loyal counsellors and soldiers.’
‘You have great faith in me. More than my mother has.’
‘I have known you all my life.’
‘So has my mother.’
We laughed a little at the foolishness of his remark.
‘Do you realise, Joan? Today we have both grown into our fate,’ Will said, defending his furred collar from the teeth of the huge friendly creature now being ignored, and I looked at him, a query in my gaze. ‘Because now you are Countess of Salisbury.’
That was it. Earl and Countess in a stable, nuzzled by a curious animal. I wiped the remnants of tears from Will’s cheek.
‘You do not weep,’ he said, an observation rather than censure.
‘He was not my father. I am sure that I have wept for my father too, even though I did not know him.’ I could not remember.
Will’s hand closed hard round mine. ‘I cannot be my father.’
‘No. You are yourself. Why should you not be a man of similar renown? And why should Edward not take you as his friend? Friendship is not always a matter of age.’
‘So what do I do? To become a King’s friend.’
‘Talk to him.’ I recalled talking to Edward about maps and King Arthur.
‘Talk…?’ I saw a momentary panic invade Will’s expression. ‘What do I talk about?’
‘About war and… and maps and clocks…’
‘Clocks?’
The panic deepened.
‘Perhaps not, although Edward has a liking for such things. He finds them intriguing. Go hunting with him. Hawking. You can do that. The King will always have an affection for you because of your father that will stand you in good stead. Now is the time to make it your own.’
It seemed good sense to me. All Will needed was some years under is belt.
‘It’s easy for you. He is your cousin.’
‘Believe me, Will, it will be much easier for you. You are a man, not a mere girl. And you are now Earl of Salisbury.’
Will blinked as if, at last, it had just struck home. ‘Thank you for your comfort, my lady. Earl and Countess of Salisbury.’ He huffed another little laugh which caught in his throat. ‘And so we have much to do. My father made it clear. Let us go and tell my mother what she needs to know about my father’s funeral.’
We were Earl and Countess of Salisbury.
William was sixteen years old. So was I.
We interred the Earl with suitable solemnities at Bisham Priory, which he had established and where he had expressed a wish to end his days on earth, after which Will and I returned to the court, leaving behind a lachrymose Dowager Countess who had yet to come to terms with my superseding her, in name if not in actual authority, within the Salisbury household.
The subtle changes within the royal household from that day of deadly celebration in January were immediately apparent but took a little time to absorb in their entirety.
The Queen, despite carrying yet another child, was gravely quiet, acknowledging the King’s loss of the friendship he had held most dear. As for Edward, there was no Earl of Salisbury to advise and cajole and laugh with him. Ned, also unnaturally solemn, was too young to take the Earl’s place, nor did he try. The King walked and talked and ate with a little space of dark loss around him. More startling, it was as if he had lost heart for his plans to install a body of chivalric and glamorous knights, now that his most famous knight had gone from this life, the man who had ridden at his side the night he took back his throne from Earl Mortimer at Nottingham Castle.
It was hard to believe that before the fatal tournament, flanked by the Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Derby, Edward, a Bible gripped in his hands, had vowed to begin a new Round Table in the spirit of King Arthur, creating a great round structure to house the three hundred knights who would be invited to join. The building, which he had begun with such hope and joy, was left half-finished, collecting cobwebs.
A bleak sorrow pervaded all.
‘Talk to him,’ I urged Will when, greeted as the new Earl, yet another shimmer of panic settled over him, ‘but don’t be too cheerful. Tell him about your new tapestries for Bisham. It won’t be difficult.’
‘Come with me…’
‘How would that help? Go and be a man amongst men.’
I could help him no more. Wishing him well, I went to supervise our occupation of the chambers set aside for the Earl and Countess. No, it was not difficult. As the biting cold was touched with a hint of spring, the King’s spirits lifted and the court began to gleam again. By the time we settled into the austerity of Lent, it was much as I had known it and Will was blossoming with a new confidence.
‘Good fortune, Joan.’
Sir Thomas Holland, with the gloom of January still about him, bowed.
‘Sir Thomas.’ I curtsied stiffly, already sensing an uncomfortable exchange. ‘My greetings to you too.’
There was no one to cast more than a glance in our direction at his formal assembly. The past was the past, over and done with, and with it all the doubts and debates. My mother had left the court for one of her own properties of Castle Donington, under the conviction that the tragic death had stitched me even more tightly into the garments of this marriage.
‘Countess of Salisbury.’ Thomas bowed again. ‘I commend you, my lady.’
I stared at him, not enjoying the baleful light in his eye as he continued:
‘I imagine it colours your view of our marriage, to my detriment. I can expect no resurgence of loyalty from you now. It is the way of the world.’ And when I raised my brows: ‘Why would you give this up,’ he gestured with a sharply raised chin to the robe and fur and the livery collar and to my regal coronet as consort of an Earl, ‘to be wife of a household knight?’
I was dressed to give honour to some foreign dignitary, come to make an alliance with King Edward. I was clad in Montagu magnificence all red and white lozenges and ermine fur, from my head to my feet.
/> I continued to regard Thomas, oblivious to the casual glamour of his own appearance, the silver lion rampant on the chest of his tunic, as I felt anger begin to beat in my head. Did he consider my loyalty so worthlessly ephemeral that the unexpected acquisition of a noble title would shackle me to Will’s side? Clearly, he thought exactly that. Living with the Dowager Countess’s resistance and Will’s grief had reduced me to a low ebb. Now resentful of such a slur on my integrity, I was in no mood to either deny it or make excuses.
I stoked my hand down the extravagance of the fur, luxuriating in it.
‘Why indeed?’ I said. ‘Yes, Sir Thomas, I have always wanted ownership of ermine and a strawberry-leaved coronet. I have decided that I will cleave to this Salisbury marriage after all. I might even find a true affection for William and rejoice to carry his heirs.’
‘Of course you might very well do so.’
Thomas’s teeth were all but clenched. My spine was as rigid as a halberd.
‘Being a princess in my own right bears absolutely no comparison to being a Countess through marriage,’ I added. ‘It is what I have always sought. I am surprised that you have not already accepted it. We have no future together, Sir Thomas.’
‘With which I concur. Security and rank is not to be sneezed at.’ He was as cross as I. ‘It’s better than anything I can offer you, by God! It is merely that I did not think that you would be so capricious, or quite so brazen, in where and when you offered your affections. The speed with which you have changed horses mid-battle is formidable. I should take lessons from you.’
‘But you do not know me at all well.’
‘As I am beginning to learn.’ He bowed his head curtly. ‘You have assuredly made the most prudent decision.’
By now my anger had achieved a heat all if its own. How dare he denounce me as capricious in the giving of my affections. As for brazen…
I forgot to be regally controlled to match my gilded strawberry leaves.
‘Am I capricious? I was under the strongest impression that I was married to you. I thought that our hearts were engaged. I have had no indication of your heart being engaged by anything but the good health of your livestock for the next tournament.’
