by Anne O'Brien
His expression became sterner, delivering a warning. ‘It is your prerogative, my lady, but I advise you to search your soul and make confession to God. It was not wisely done.’
Wise? No I had not been wise. But it was not in my mind to explain my lack of wisdom for this priest, or any other, to pick over.
April 1349: Windsor Castle
It was April when the Dowager Countess descended on Bisham on an unexpected visit, her lack of accoutrements and her stance in the Great Hall when she sent for me suggesting that she was not intending to stay long. I kept her waiting, just for a little time, before I entered the echoing chamber and imparted what might be interpreted as a hospitable smile to cover my rampant suspicions. Now what was afoot?
‘You are right welcome, my lady.’ I curtsied. ‘Will my lord husband be joining us?’
‘No.’ Her smile was as false as mine. ‘My son is at Windsor. Pack your coffers, Joan. I would leave without delay.’
I did, without more ado, asking nothing about the cause of this sudden release. I would not wager on her changing her mind if she found me dilatory, and indeed, I had a desire to go to Windsor. I did not know why I must, but I longed to see the outside of Bisham. I felt a longing to talk with the Queen again, even if she could see little good in me. I yearned to experience the sharp tongue of Isabella, still unwed and determined to remain so until she had a mate of her own choosing. I needed to speak with Will. I needed to discover the progress made by Magister Vyse.
My coffers were packed within the hour and we were embarked on what was to be a silent journey, for I had more pride than to waste my energies on empty conversation. My companion spent the journey with her eyes clamped to her Book of Hours. At Windsor we were expected, servants arriving to help me alight and escort me to the chambers made ready for our use.
‘Are we to dispense with my guards?’ I asked, remembering the shadowy pair who had haunted my steps when last at court.
‘There is no longer a need for them. I will keep you company.’
I swung round to face her. ‘Why am I here?’ I demanded.
Which brought a glimmer of a smile to her face for the first time since we had left Bisham.
‘Your husband is to be honoured.’
‘Ah! Should I ask which one?’
It was unworthy, but my patience was as frayed as an old girdle. The Countess proved to be immune.
‘The Earl, of course. It was thought appropriate, by the King and Queen, that you should be present to witness the recognition of my son’s service to the Crown.’
‘So this freedom is not a permanent situation?’
The smile proved to be short-lived. ‘Not until His Holiness has accepted the strength of our arguments.’
‘Am I free to visit as I wish? Without restraint?’
‘Of course. With a discreet escort, of course, either myself or one of my women.’
Of course. None of my women had accompanied me from Bisham.
It could have been worse. I could have been accommodated with an armed guard at my back. I would make do with whatever stratagems came my way. I had not even asked what the honour was to be, nor did I greatly care. My friendship with Will had suffered a grievous wound when he saw fit to keep me behind locked doors.
And yet curiosity came to my rescue. I was inordinately pleased to be back at Windsor.
Here it was unfolding around me, a royal device to lift the general gloom in England consequent on the effects of the plague and the stalemate in relationships against the despicable French, while at the same time glorifying God, St. George and the King of England. It was a plan entirely familiar to me. The King would create a body of knights, worthy of those who gathered around the famous table with King Arthur, swearing to uphold their oaths of loyalty and chivalry. My thoughts were taken back to that long, distant conversation with Edward in his library, before this upheaval, when he had enthused over this plan, when he had envisioned Thomas Holland being one of the young and honoured knights. Abandoned in the welter of grief at the death of the first Earl of Salisbury, now it would come to pass.
My initial pleasure at being restored to court was swamped in profound regret that Thomas had lost that opportunity, but I was here, which was far better than being at Bisham. I must perforce rejoice with Will who was indeed to be one of the founder members of the order, in recognition by the King for his father’s friendship and Will’s own undoubted loyalty. A day of festivity was promised, of solemn oath-taking, of magnificence and breathtaking pageantry organised by King Edward in his inimitable style.
I was escorted to St. George’s Chapel by Dowager Countess Catherine and my mother, where we stood and watched, suffused with awe and pride, as the procession made its way to the chapel door. Twenty-six chosen men paced behind the King and Prince Edward, resplendent in the celestial blue of the Blessed Virgin, their cloaks enhanced with silver linings, a garter worked in gold proclaiming the motto that they would swear to live by. Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. Evil to him who thinks evil. My conversation with Edward had born magnificent fruit.
I watched Will, unable to hold fast to my hostility. Here he was, a fine upholder of the King’s Order of the Garter as he stalked slowly with a stately grandeur suitable to an Earl and a King’s friend. He did not look in my direction. For once his thoughts were on higher things, the significant honour that had been shown to him and the great families of England.
But as the sea of undulating blue and silver and nodding plumes moved past, my resentment returned in full force. Thomas should have been here…
My breath was driven from my lungs.
There, in the final grouping of knights, was Thomas, his dark hair fluttering against the silver in the light breeze. The scars could not ruin his grandeur that day, his impressive stature, his head raised in honour of the occasion so that all might see the marks of battle, his expression severe in the holy solemnity. He had returned from Avignon to take his rightful place with the rest of these knights of renown.
I made no sign that I had seen him, nor he me, but the Dowager gripped my mother’s arm and they drew closer to me as if I might shame them all by calling out to demand rescue. Then he was drawing level with me: I remained motionless. However much I might wish to speak with him, it was not possible and I had my dignity to uphold, and his too. Had he seen me? That was not important. I found that I was smiling into the sunshine, glorying in the splendour, for Edward had forgiven Thomas sufficiently to make him one of the honoured number. Edward had decided that he admired Thomas’s skills more than he condemned his personal choices in life.
All I could do was stand and admire. I would draw no attention, returning to my chamber without fuss even though every one of my senses had come vibrantly alive. I would not always be so biddable. Thomas was in England and speak to him I must. If the opportunity did not present itself, then I must create one. My mind set itself to the task.
Then it all began, the celebration of England’s victories and a sop to take the country’s dolorous and fearful mind off the plague that had once again scythed its path through the people of England. It was to be even more spectacular than the solemn procession to the chapel, to draw the common folk to cheer and sate themselves with food and drink and forget their woes. The crowds spoke of defiance, of pride, of England’s glory. It fired my defiance too. I had no intention of sitting next to the Dowager Countess and my mother throughout the long afternoon to watch the knights compete in the joust and the melee. I would not be guarded and hemmed in. I needed restoration of my freedom, to speak with Thomas, and not merely an exchange of a distant greeting across the tapestried walls of the women’s pavilion from where we would watch the knights belabour each other with lance and sword.
Under pretext of exchanging seats from one side of the Dowager Countess to the other, to achieve a better view of the combatants, I waved to Isabella who sat beside her mother, an air of boredom about her, a chaplet of flowers on her head denoting that she would be Lady
of the Lists to present the prizes to the victor.
She waved back.
I grimaced across the veiled heads of the Queen’s ladies.
No longer bored, a smirk of conspiracy curling her lips, Isabella manoeuvred her skirts, pushing past the royal damsels until she stood beside me, whereupon she took my arm, preparing to lead me in the Queen’s direction, raising her voice to almost shrill to make all public.
‘Look who we have here, maman. Returned from the country at last and restored to excellent health. Come and sit with us, dearest cousin.’
Philippa beamed, her previous ill-will towards me forgotten, her heart softened. The Dowager Countess might remain bland as a dish of whey in the face of such royal approval, yet she was still intent on fighting her cause against Isabella.
‘My daughter-in-law already has a seat near me, my lady.’
‘But she will join us,’ Isabelle returned undaunted. ‘Royal princesses together, to honour the victors. What could be better?’ Her demeanour was as innocent as a new-born lamb.
‘Of course you must come,’ the Queen said, stretching out her hand.
Which encompassed all I wanted.
So that is where I sat to watch the inaugural tournament of the King’s Order of the Garter, my excitement building as if I were a young girl again, as the new Garter knights rode onto the field where there would be a melee. A return to old traditions perhaps, for melees had dropped out of fashion, replaced by more formal combat and jousting, but here the perfect opportunity for all the new Garter knights to show their skills, with blunted weapons but much enthusiasm.
And I grasped my chance with both hands.
‘Exchange cloaks with me,’ I said, already taking hold of the embroidered velvet garment that Isabella wore against the April chill.
‘Why?’
‘Because I need it.’
‘What’s wrong with the one you are wearing?’
‘Look about you, Isabella!’
She was wearing, as fate decreed, a cote-hardie and cloak of costly blue and silver damask, richly trimmed with grey vair, while I had been diplomatically clad, against my wishes it had to be said, in the Montagu heraldic colours of red and white that did me no favours. How fortunate that fate could smile on me, when so few were doing so. I nudged Isabella as Thomas rode past, the silver lion on his shield gleaming on its blue background. I could not manage the lion, but the colours would do very well. I tugged again at her cloak.
‘Who am I to stand in the path to true love?’ Isabella’s wits were quick. She shrugged the cloak off her shoulders and we exchanged garments.
Many admiring glances came our way, for the blue and silver enhanced my own fair colouring, while red and white could not dim Isabelle’s lively countenance, but those I ignored. Others were increasingly cynical, increasingly shocked, for who could not suspect what I was about, as all became clear on the field of mock-battle that unfolded before us. The two puissant knights who were engaged in legal wrangling for recognition of my hand in marriage were fighting on opposite sides. Will raised his sword for the King. Thomas fought dourly for the royal opponents under Ned’s leadership.
I almost laughed at the incongruity of it. Was I to be the prize?
Whispering began in the gallery, growing louder like a gale through ripe corn as it became obvious to all what I had done, and how deep was the displeasure of Dowager Countess Catherine, too far away in midst of royal ladies to take issue with me. So I would do more. I looked at Isabella.
‘Would you be disappointed beyond measure if I were to replace you as Lady of the Lists?’
Isabella did not even hesitate. ‘I think that you would actually snatch this wreath from my head if I were to refuse. I see what you are about.’ Lifting it from her own head, she placed the coronet of flowers on mine, taking time to centre it and arrange my veil becomingly. Which of course drew even more attention. The victor of this battle would receive his reward from my hands. ‘I never thought that this never-ending tournament would prove to be so pleasurable. For whom shall we cheer? Montagu or Holland?’
‘Is there any doubt?’
‘There might be. Who knows what goes on in your head.’ Isabella was in a teasing mood, and a contemplative one as her gaze narrowed on mine. ‘Why did you do it, Joan? Why did you accept Will when you knew you must not? Was it only ambition, to undo the foolish whim that made you, stupidly in my opinion, take Thomas in the first place?’
The age-old question that I had refused to answer more than once, nor would I explain it now to Isabella. I had no wish to become an object of pity, sacrificing my initial love for a superb cause. I would be no martyr in shining garments. That was never a role in which I saw myself, glowing with self-righteousness in the choice I had made.
I shook my head in quick denial – but then I was watching the knights taking their places. My eye sought and once again found the bold silver and blue of the Holland lion in the midst of this mighty and august gathering. Suddenly for no reason at all I could no longer keep silent as the years rolled back to the moment when I stood in Edward’s library, when I had made my decision, for good or ill.
‘That is why I did it,’ I said.
‘What is why?’
Raising my hand I pointed to Thomas, tall and rangy, his armour well-worn but his place amongst the knights of the realm accepted and acknowledged by all as one of their own, of equal valour.
‘Look at him, Isabella. Sir Thomas Holland, Knight of the Garter.’
‘I know. I see him.’
‘You see him now, received with unimaginable honour. What you don’t see is that at the time of my marriage to Will, your father was breathing fire at those who brought scandal to the court.’ I lowered my voice to barely a whisper. ‘There was the issue of Philippa and the birth of Edmund. Edward was furious that the possibility of your mother’s adultery was under open discussion.’
‘My mother?’ Isabella’s brows had snapped together. ‘How ridiculous! I knew nothing about that.’
‘How would you? You were too young to hear what was being said, or notice any court atmosphere. Now it is of no importance. Any issue between Edward and Philippa has been mended and young Edmund looks as much like Edward as all the rest of you.’
Exasperation taking hold, I realised that I had been deflected, and that my hands were tight-clasped as I willed her to understand all that I had never spoken of.
‘How would Thomas fare if he lost his reputation as a knight of true chivalry? Edward would not employ him ever again – or so I thought. If the King believed that Thomas had denied his right to give my hand wheresoever he wished – and clearly to Will – there would be no patronage for him in England. It would be the life of the paid jouster at the tournament, travelling from one event to the next, from Prussia to Spain. Would I want that for him?’
‘No. I don’t suppose you would.’
‘Nor would I, the end to all his dreams of fighting for Edward and England.’
There it was, simply spoken, as it had come to me with clarity, like the writing of a clerk on white vellum, in those days after my conversation with Edward, when I had been condemned to reject Thomas for his own good.
Edward regarded Thomas as a gallant and chivalrous knight.
Edward would invite Thomas to be one of his new illustrious order of knights.
Edward detested scandal and marital dishonour and the damage that it could do. I, Princess Joan, must be free from all shame and infamy, as must all his family.
All of which had driven me to the conclusion, albeit flawed, that to announce the legality of my clandestine marriage to Thomas, and my rejection of a marriage which Edward desired to enhance the status of the Earl of Salisbury, would put a permanent blight on the life and ambitions of Thomas Holland. Edward would see it as an outrage of major proportions, Thomas wedding me without permission, without royal approval, without clerical blessing.
‘Any knight who dishonours God dishonours me and will be stripp
ed of his knighthood and cast out of the kingdom.’
This would be the future for Thomas, his position precarious indeed, so that out of a strange reversal of honour I had accepted Will, being astute enough to know that, in the balance, Thomas’s adoration of my person on one side and his desire to wield sword and lance and win a name of fame and glory on the other, were very evenly weighted. How could I destroy the gilded glory awaiting him on his return to England? I feared that Thomas would never forgive me, however strong his professed love for me might be.
And, in all common sense, what could I have done, ultimately, to escape this Montagu marriage that I did not want? Run from the court? Taken refuge in some leafy glade as a heroine of a courtly romance might do? Taken horse and ship to travel through unknown and probably unfriendly lands to join Thomas in Prussia? I might have had some courage but not for such a venture. I could imagine the horror in Thomas’s face when he had seen me arriving at his crusading camp, a travel-stained wife in flight, demanding succour.
‘How selfish would I be to destroy Thomas’s dream? He deserved better at my hands. So I repudiated our marriage; I made new vows and wed Will Montagu.’
If I had thought that Isabella would engage with my reasoning, I was mistaken.
‘Well I would never have thought it of you, Joan. To put another’s ambitions before your own is not a common trait in your character.’ And when I made no reply, for her observation was less than flattering: ‘It didn’t work out very well, did it, all in all?’
‘No. It was a disaster. The truth was certain to come out, so all has become shame and dishonour. And the best of it is, as you see, Edward has made Thomas a Garter Knight anyway. So you could say that I read it all wrong. All this… this upset… has been for nothing.’
Sensing my profound disillusion, Isabella gripped my hand. ‘You were very young.’
‘My only excuse.’
‘A good enough excuse. I would not have been so selfless.’ She sighed at the complexity about to be fought out on the battlefield before us, Will on one side, Thomas on the other. ‘My advice is to forget it, for the outcome cannot be changed. All we have to do today is enjoy the sight of our brave knights. But who will win? Will there be blood on the field of battle?’
