The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  I stiffened again. ‘I was quite capable of making them.’

  ‘I expect you were. But my absence did not help matters, did it?’

  It was the best apology I could hope for, and when Thomas took my hands in his and smoothed out my fingers, taking the opportunity to press a kiss into the palm of each hand, I allowed it. Then, because I must, I replaced the silk to cover the worst of the scars before touching my lips to it.

  ‘You are very generous,’ he murmured.

  And Thomas framed my face with his hands, to bring my lips down to his. There in Bisham’s cavernous cellar, it was to be the first and the last time that we touched so intimately, in recognition and, if truth be told, perhaps in hopelessness, of what had been between us. The first and the last time that we could be accused by the world of impropriety.

  ‘God keep you safe, Thomas.’

  ‘As I pray that he will keep you, my lady.’

  It was as if replacing the mask over his wounds, the removal of which had released so much emotion, had now restored our relationship of lady and steward. Turning quickly, my chest tight, I left him to his allotted task while I returned to my private chamber in utter misery. My choice had been questioned. The inadequacy of my decision laid bare. And I had not told him the truth.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Will passed me in the Hall, seeing me come from the direction of the kitchens.

  ‘Sir Thomas is making lists in the cellars.’ I felt that my face was aflame with guilt, but supposed that it was not, since Will made no comment. ‘Sir Thomas thinks there will be a new campaign. And he will go, I am sure of that.’

  ‘Does he? Then I will go too.’

  So neither one of my husbands might return.

  It might have astonished me that Sir Thomas Holland’s position as steward to the puissant Earl of Salisbury bore no importance whatsoever as soon as there was a campaign to be fought. It did not. Neither did his responsibilities to wife and mother make much impression on William. As soon as the King began preparations for an expedition to set sail from England in the July of 1346, planning to land in Normandy and once more wage war, the brave knights of England, and of our household, sailed with him.

  So began a strange time, that time of waiting that we had experienced so often in recent years, with the Queen in the early throes of yet another physical sign of the King’s devotion to her. The celebrations were put aside, the hunting, the exuberant festivities. War was no time for rejoicing until the victory was secure.

  We did not speak of defeat.

  Couriers were awaited, their news snapped up with relief when we heard there was a safe arrival in the Cotentin, where the King knighted Ned on the spot near where they landed on the beach, as well as knighting my husband Will. It was a magnificent beginning for the campaign and Countess Catherine wept tears of pride. I listened for news of Thomas and my brother John, now enjoying the pre-eminence of being recognised as Earl of Kent on the battlefield. There was none, but no news was good news. My brother might be young but he must make his mark in battle and there, surrounded by so many friends, was the perfect opportunity.

  As the army settled in for a long campaign, we settled in for the long wait; Philippa, sanguine, encouraging us all in good spirits. She had a husband and son to lose, and both much loved. We followed her example of straight-backed determination as she complained of her swollen ankles and growing bulk, wishing me better fortune when Will and I began to consider our own family.

  ‘When he returns from this war, that will be a good time to make your marriage a true one,’ she said, her nausea abating for a time. ‘You are both of an age, and more. I was much younger when Edward and I made our marriage complete. I will persuade the King to grant you both a more substantial allowance to furnish your extended household. Children are an expensive commodity, as I know.’

  I curtsied my thanks.

  ‘William will be an exceptional husband,’ Philippa observed, fortunately not detecting my silent prayers that my future, as she read it, would never come to pass.

  ‘I can think of none better.’ The Dowager Countess, come recently to court, was at my side.

  ‘Neither can I, madam,’ I agreed. ‘Let us hope that we hear good news of William’s success in battle,’ I added before she could be eloquent on the complementary talents needed to be an exceptional wife.

  News came in droplets. There was a vicious siege of the town of Caen, followed by a battle at a place called Crécy, a great victory where the English knights and archers decimated the flower of the French army, so the heralds proclaimed in their dramatic discourse. There were deaths, so many deaths, both English and French. The blind King of Bohemia met his noble end on the battlefield, cut down in the thick of the battle, his horse tied to those of his entourage.

  Would Thomas’s compromised sight have a similar tragic outcome?

  It was not to be contemplated. I set myself to entertain Philippa and avoid my mother and the Dowager Countess. Meanwhile, the King put in place a siege around the French garrison in Calais, summoning Philippa to join him, to spend Christmas with him in his base at Villeneuve-le-Hardi. I considered travelling with her but decided to remain in England where it would be advantageous for me to keep my eye on Thomas’s surrogate steward. I was fast learning the duties of the life of the Countess of Salisbury.

  ‘It will be a burden that never leaves you, for the rest of your life,’ my mother observed with more satisfaction than I liked.

  ‘It is a burden I will decry as soon as Will and our steward are back home,’ I said.

  ‘Yet you stay in England to shoulder your responsibilities!’

  ‘It is my decision.’ I had no wish to spend Christmas in the company of both Thomas and Will in Villeneuve-le-Hardi. It would be exhausting.

  My mother might have wished that Thomas had met a glorious end on the battlefield. He did not. We heard that he had excelled at the siege of Caen, that he had proved the quality of his leadership at Crécy, that he had come through the fighting with barely a scratch. No doubt he would tell us all about it over supper at Bisham and Will would be full of admiration as he told his own tales of brave exploits.

  We heard that they were coming home.

  Relief setting its hand on me, so that I slept without nightmares sitting at my shoulder, I set myself once more to master the art of living with both.

  ***

  October 1347: London

  The noise began as a rumble, as distant thunder or the approach of a multitude of heavily loaded wagons. Soon it would become shouts and cries of welcome. Of delirious fervour, well fuelled with ale.

  England was in jubilant mood to see their King returned from war and from victory. As was the Salisbury family that hemmed me in where we awaited the return of our hero, the young Earl. He had fought bravely. He had been knighted, the young Earl proving himself to be a knight in the mould of his magnificent father. It was a time of rejoicing as the combined Montagu connection looked forward to a glittering future. With the young Earl and his royal wife, the family would see a resurgence. Now it was time for that royal wife to carry a son, the heir for the future.

  There were glances in my direction. Queen Philippa’s observations, that it was time that I fulfilled my wifely duties, were shared by others, particularly my mother who graced us with her presence.

  Where would I be within a year from now? Countess of Salisbury, all good sense remarked, with a babe in arms. That would be the order of things and there was no path for me to tread to Thomas’s side. I must thank the Blessed Virgin that Will had proved to be as amenable and affectionate as he had been through his boyhood. There were few wives who could claim as much.

  I contemplated the months ahead unfolding.

  Would we return to Bisham and live out our lives there, with Thomas as our steward as we all grew into old age? Would Thomas wed again, introducing a new wife into our household? It could not be deemed an onerous future, even when they would both be o
ff at the first opportunity to fight again for England’s glory if the peace with France did not hold. Will would insist that we become man and wife in body as well as in soul, of that I was certain, and I could not in all honesty refuse. There would be no doubt of my future, to raise children to take on the great inheritance of Salisbury.

  I swallowed hard against the bloom of disappointment. I would have an affectionate husband but must learn to live without that brief experience of love that I had discovered with Thomas. William, for all his excellent qualities, did not move me to forget myself. Which might, of course, be more appropriate for the Countess of Salisbury. I must accept what was placed before me on my gold plate, poured into my gold cup for my enjoyment.

  But how much harder it had become since Thomas had infiltrated himself under my nose. It was easier when he was on campaign, except then I worried about his life. Or death. Perhaps he had made a fortune in ransom money at Crécy, enough that he would purchase his own estate. When my spirits were at their lowest ebb, I hoped that it would be so.

  But now all must be put aside for this magnificent return.

  The procession approached, we awaited them, the palace of Westminster providing a superb backcloth. Glittering in armour, gleaming with polished horseflesh, resplendent with banners and the tabards of the royal heralds, the King and his knights drew near. When the late autumn sun shone to bathe it all in gilded triumph, it was impossible not to be carried along with the sheer glory of it. The crowds cheered their returning monarch who had beaten the French into the ground. And the Queen, with their new baby daughter Margaret, a potent symbol of the longevity of this royal family, stood in our midst with tears in her eyes.

  The citizens cheered even louder when it was clear that the procession included French lords, taken prisoner. There were voices that demanded their deaths, but that would not be. Sombre our reluctant guests might be but there would be no ill treatment, rather a cushioned captivity until a hefty ransom was paid by their loving families. Still in possession of their armour and weapons, their colours flying boldly in the light breeze, they knew they would be feted as worthy foes. They even managed to smile a little at the crude suggestions.

  Will, his gaze seeking me out when I curtsied a formal greeting as the King’s close entourage dismounted, smiled his own personal delight in his achievement of being knighted in the illustrious company of Prince Edward on landing at La Hogue.

  Behind in the procession, Sir Thomas Holland was riding, unscathed, all his old glamour intact beneath the blue and silver of his heraldic emblems, looking straight ahead, a curious expression on his face as if he might be debating some difficult step that rid him of any desire to smile. And then, I decided that I was mistaken, for when he had swung down from his mount with all the easy grace I recalled and was come into the Great Hall, he was as spirited as any as cups of wine were brought and greetings exchanged with long-abandoned wives.

  I cast a surreptitious glance. Thomas still wore the white silk that had become so recognisable on so many battlefields as he rode against the enemy. I had never seen him in full battle mode, but could not imagine Thomas being anything less than dashing when in the throes of battle-energy, his sword in his hand, riding with verve and panache against the enemy ranged before him. Yet it surprised me a little that he still chose to be masked. Had he not fought bravely enough by his own standards that he might now remove it? I recalled the scars bravely got, bravely borne. I recalled the shattering tenderness of that moment we had spent together in the cellar redolent of cured meat and salt fish. I remembered the overwhelming longing that had gripped me. And that I had rejected. That I must reject again.

  When he finally looked in my direction, I inclined my head as I would to the man we employed as steward.

  Sir Thomas bowed to me, his employer’s wife, unsmiling.

  The blood quickened, beating heavily in my wrists.

  But then Will was there to kiss my hand before turning to salute his mother, allowing me a little space in which to see the effects of war on my husband. Experience had tempered him. He even appeared to be taller, proud in his achievements. He was no longer the young Earl who had departed to win his spurs. Here was a man with confidence, assurance, maturity, as he released himself from Countess Catherine’s warm embrace and took my hand to draw me apart.

  ‘I have returned, dearest Joan, to reclaim my wife.’

  He planted kisses on my cheeks with enthusiasm.

  ‘As I see. My prayers were answered,’ I said, managing to retrieve my hands when Will showed a desire to keep possession of them.

  ‘You prayed for me?’

  ‘It is my duty to pray for you, as a good wife.’

  I smiled at him, strangely enjoying the return of this warm affection which demanded nothing more from me.

  ‘Which you will now become,’ he whispered in my ear, jolting me out of what was foolish equanimity. ‘As soon as I get out of this armour.’

  Will had returned with a purpose, to claim more than warm affection from me.

  Any reply was postponed as the King, in regal mode, leapt onto the dais, turning to the festive gathering with arms widespread to draw all attention.

  ‘We have so much to celebrate.’

  His face was alight as he held out his hand to Philippa that she might join him in this moment of euphoria, the new child still clasped in her arms.

  ‘So many English knights,’ he announced, looking round the throng, ‘who risked the fatal spilling of their blood for England, so many who fought until exhaustion beat them to their knees. We have much to thank them for today. Most of all I would commend my most dear son.’

  Ned was beckoned to stand before his father, which he did with no sense of humility. His eyes were bright, his stance as regally arrogant as I had ever seen it.

  ‘It was my greatest honour and pleasure to confer a knighthood on him as a symbol of our achievements across the sea. I cannot express my pride that my son should have been in the thick of the battle at Crécy, and so valorous in claiming the victory for us. And so many here.’ He swung round towards the Montagu gathering. ‘Not least the son of my great friend William Montagu, so sadly missed. He would have gloried in the courage of his son this day if he had lived.’ Edward beamed at Will who flushed from chin to hair line.

  ‘And then there is Thomas Holland here, who proved his worth. Here is one image of him that will live in my mind until the day I die, and in the memory of England, for I will see that it is celebrated wherever brave men raise a toast of good English ale.’

  There was a general murmur of appreciation from the knights, who obviously knew the reference. Edward’s features were aglow with it.

  ‘We were at Rouen, where the bridge had been destroyed so that we could not get at the French. We were thwarted. And what did Thomas do?’ The King left the dais to clip his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. ‘He did what we might all have wished to do. He stood on the edge of that ruined bridge, bellowing across the river at the French army. ‘St. George for King Edward’, he shouted, again and again. It was a magnificent moment, his voice cracking with the strain. It spurred us all on. And in battle he had the same power with his sword. You have all my thanks, Thomas.’

  Thomas bowed. The tension about him, the rigidity in his shoulders, was unquestionable. I had not been mistaken, and there was an air of expectancy too. Surely it was not because he could not accept the King’s praise? I glanced at Will, who was merely appreciative of Thomas’s exploits.

  Meanwhile Thomas, his face flushed, acknowledged the royal commendation. ‘Battle moves us in strange ways, Sir. I spoke nothing but the truth. It unsettled the French, if nothing else.’

  ‘And we are grateful.’

  The King returned to the dais.

  ‘Before we eat – and you are all invited – we have business to attend to.’ In high good humour, the King beckoned to the two French lords. ‘Here we have two men of great distinction, who fought well and bravely and deserve o
ur admiration even though they are prisoner. I will introduce you to my court, my lords. The Count of Eu, Constable of France. And here is Lord Tancarville, the Grand Chamberlain of France. Such puissant lords of high renown who will be sadly missed by their families and the King of France. They were forced into surrender at the siege of Caen. Is that not so?’

  ‘It is, my lord King.’

  ‘And you surrendered to Sir Thomas Holland.’

  The King’s glance at Thomas who still stood on his left was all mischief.

  ‘We did my lord.’ The French Constable was gruff but not unappreciative. ‘Because we know him and we know his reputation. We have fought against Sir Thomas before and admire his integrity. We know that we will receive fair treatment from him rather than a quick death.’

  ‘As you will receive fair treatment at my hands too,’ Edward replied. ‘It is my wish, Sir Thomas, to buy the ransoming of these two famous knights from you. Do you accept?’

  There was a pronged rumble of comment, of laughter in the chamber. All eyes on Thomas. Was this what Thomas had anticipated?

  ‘It all depends on the sum, my lord. It has to be worth my while. My prisoners will fetch substantial ransoms from their families. Even the King of France might dig deep into his coffers.’

  The King gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Oh, I will make it worth your while, Thomas. It is my ambition to make a great lord of you, to reward you for your services to me. I can’t have you rotting away on a mean patch of land inherited from your father, far away in Leicestershire or even further north. You need to be a knight of merit.’ He held out his hand to his page, who placed in it a document, already prepared as if the King had no doubt about the outcome. ‘Here is my promise, for the sum I will pay you for the ransom of these French lords.’

  Thomas took it, read it.

  ‘Do you agree?’

  Without hesitation Thomas refolded the page and placed it in the breast of his tunic.

  ‘I do, my lord. It is more than generous. I am honoured.’ And to the two French lords, his expression surprisingly wry. ‘My lord the King will arrange your ransoms, my lords. You will be entertained royally at the court until they are paid. You do not need my word on it. You are worth a magnificent sum.’