by Anne O'Brien
So I sat, spinning out my future like a spider in its web, but my spinning collapsed into a heap of unconnected strands. I could not see my future. My dreams and hopes, once so well structured, were formless.
Attending the Queen with her painted damsels in the hour after Mass, when petitions for her favour were brought and presented by hopeful subjects, in a moment of vulnerability I once more surreptitiously surveyed my face in my looking glass. Perhaps my cheeks were more hollow that usual, my eyes less bright, my lips close knit, but there was no reflection here of the wretchedness that ate at me, only the boredom that yet another request for a favourable trade in sable fur from the lands to the east might engender. There must be more for me to grasp from life than this.
‘Your looks will soon return, Madam Joan.’
One of Philippa’s damsels come to stand at my side, an impertinent young woman who was not as sympathetic as her soft words might imply, although she was never less than courteous. I had no time for her.
‘I expect that they will.’
‘Grief does that to a woman. Drains her of beauty, my lady.’
‘So I am told. How fortunate then that I have enough beauty and more to withstand such draining.’
‘Whereas I have none at all to drain, so they say.’ This made me give her more attention. How confident she was, her dark eyes direct, challenging even. ‘As a woman grows older it is more difficult for her to keep her looks. And how easy it is for a woman’s intentions to be misjudged and laid bare to crude invective. That too, I believe, can engrave hard lines on a woman’s face. Unless she is strong enough to reject all criticism of her behaviour.’
Which made me stare at her. What was this damsel’s meaning in so enigmatic an appraisal. Was it a criticism of me? Yet tucking the glass away into my sleeve, my mood less than combative, I would not respond. I was too weary.
‘I will remember that when age touches me. How kind of you to give me the benefit of your experience, mistress.’
She curtsied. ‘I meant no disrespect, my lady. I spoke only from my knowledge of life. Although I accept that it is unnecessary, for your knowledge of such matters is far greater than mine.’
Leaving me to pick apart her response. She was younger than I, and no, she had little beauty. What she had was a strange glamour in her dark hair and dark eyes, her bold smile, her even bolder advice, if that is what it was. Was it jealousy that had laid its unlikely hand on me? Envy of her striking confidence that she would approach me in a manner that was not altogether deferential. I was left alone, which I had intended, but I knew that I had been sharper than I ought to be. I had few friends but this damsel was not one to whom I would give my confidences. This damsel might not be beyond using them to further her own desires.
But here was Philippa come to rescue me, as she had so often in the past.
‘You will feel better when the sun shines again, Joan, and we can celebrate at Easter.’
Philippa, missing little, chided gently as the petitioners departed with their promises of royal favour and an agreement to purchase yet more sables. Despite her good intentions, I doubted that I would ever feel better.
‘All grief will pass,’ she continued, choosing to walk beside me. ‘Edward will hold his Garter festivities, and we will see once more his brave knights impressing us with their polished skills, yet still allowing Edward to emerge the victor because they know they must. We will cheer them on, as we always do…’ Her words stopped short. The smile of gentle anticipation faded from her lips. ‘I should not have said that.’
I tried to smile.
‘I cannot expect you never to mention Thomas again. Yes, he would have been there in his Garter robes, and in the tournament. And yes, he would have had the sense to allow Edward to deliver the winning stroke. Others will take his place. Within a decade he will hardly be remembered.’
I was surprised at the harshness of my tone.
‘I am so sorry.’ She leaned to touch my arm.
‘So am I. I do not wish to speak of it.’
‘But you must,’ Philippa persisted. ‘All I see is a hard control. Your face, your voice, even your posture. You are allowed to weep for him, Joan.’
Yes, Philippa with her soft heart would have wept, but I drew back, turning my face from the interested royal damsels who were quick to gossip and quicker to revel in the misery of others. For in that bright picture created by Philippa’s careless words, Thomas’s death became real in my heart as it had never been, not even when I stood beside his tomb to witness his body being laid there, promising to create a tomb worthy of him. Thomas would never again fight in a Garter tournament.
With a murmured apology I left the room. I would never weep in public, nor would I allow melancholy to hover like a black cloud. Instead I would hide my misery behind a competent mask. I would not reject company, but would shrug off the malice, denying any hurt. My marriage complications had made me an easy target for the damsels’ lightly winged arrows of spite, but I would deflect them with a skilful, if not always pleasant, turn of phrase. As long as I was not over-burdened with compassion I would do very well, and did so until, at the end of the day when Philippa would, in the seclusion of her chamber, have handed me her comb, instead drew me into an embrace, which I thought was for her benefit rather than my comfort. Still I was selfish, my thoughts inward looking.
‘What will happen to me now?’ I asked, muffled against the broadness of her shoulder, my debilitating fear of the unknown once more firming its grip.
‘You have your children.’
Philippa would like nothing better than to spend her days between the disparate needs of her children, even those now full grown. For me there would not be enough to occupy my mind, nor were my sons and daughters of an age to need more than nursemaids and governors.
‘And you are so beautiful.’ Releasing me, she gave me the comb so that I might begin to loosen her hair from its pleatings and cunningly engraved metal restraints. ‘I sometimes think that… .’
I waited. And when her gaze remained on the far distance, I prompted, ‘What do you think?’ Philippa had worries on her brow, which did not dissipate as I applied the comb with a gentle hand. ‘Are you in pain?’
A fall from her horse two years ago when out hunting with Edward had wrenched her shoulder, which had not healed well. Sometimes her discomfort was considerable.
But Philippa shook her head. ‘No. Only of the heart. Forgive the megrims of an ageing woman.’
I did not believe her. ‘What do you think, dear lady?’ I repeated.
She stilled my hand as if she could not bear my touch, but then allowed me to continue with a sad attempt at a smile as she said:
‘That life is easier when you are as ugly as I. An unattractive woman is rarely the subject of envy or malicious rumour. You should know the truth in that. I hear what my damsels say, and so must you.’
Which was not what touched her with such hurt, but I allowed her to turn the conversation as she chose. Her homely features were heavy with a grave sadness. No she was not comely, not even handsome, but the strength of her will was formidable, her spirit a thing of beauty.
‘But you are not…’
She raised her hand again to still the comb as I worked it through her thinning hair. ‘I am no beauty. You can’t gainsay it, Joan. But I know that Edward loves me.’ She frowned a little, looking in her mirror much as I had done. ‘He has always loved me. For myself.’ She looked up at me, as if for reassurance.
Which I gave, from my heart. Here was the one woman I had truly loved. The only woman.
‘Of course Edward loves you. Do you doubt it? He sees the beauty, both within you and without. What use is a woman with a fair face if she has no beauty in her soul? Edward sees it in you, and loves you for it. In all his years as King, he has never loved anyone else.’ I smiled a little. ‘Thomas loved me. My soul is not as beautiful as yours, nor ever will be. I am too selfish. But Thomas saw something in me to love.’
/> ‘He fought hard enough to get you back.’ Philippa lifted her head and allowed me to continue with my appointed task. ‘But his life was enclosed in separate coffers from yours. Did Thomas love you more than he loved soldiering?’
A question that surprised me, and one I could not answer.
‘All I know is that he said he loved me,’ was the best I could do. ‘He came back to me after a campaign. Eventually.’
‘Did you love him?’ Philippa asked.
Another surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you love him more than you loved getting your own way?’
I felt my brows flatten. Now this one I did not dare answer. There was more truth in it than I liked, although I would never deny my devotion to Thomas.
‘I am not questioning what you had together,’ Philippa explained, perhaps seeing the tightening of the muscles in my jaw. ‘I am just a little morbid with the swift passage of years. You will be happy again. I know it.’
‘I expect that I will.’ Unsettled under this pertinent questioning, I continued with long sweeping strokes, until she took the comb from me.
‘You have a heavy hand tonight.’
‘Matched by a heavy heart,’ I apologised with an attempt at wry humour. Philippa needed cheering more than I. ‘I expect Edward has some plan for me.’
‘If he has, he has not told me of it. I doubt that he will give you to someone whom you will dislike. He discovered the perils of that with our daughter Isabella. We need no more scandals of a matrimonial nature. But one thing I would say, if you will listen.’ She closed her fingers around my wrist so that I must perforce listen to her advice, her expression serious as if reprimanding one of her children. ‘You need to make reparation to your royal blood. You need to remake your reputation. Oh, Joan, my dear girl. You must see that it has suffered a grievous blow, despite His Holiness giving his judgement to make all smooth. It can be done. It must be done. Your future husband does not need to think that he has been offered a bad bargain.’
Which was as much a slap to my hand that the Queen had ever dealt me.
‘Do you not realise why Edward travelled all the way to Stamford to stand at your side when Thomas was buried?’ She waited for my glance of surprise. ‘Oh, it had a purpose. To show the world that he supported you and the marriage you ultimately claimed. It was to cover any remaining comment on your indiscretion with royal approval. To silence the malicious tongues that claim a life of their own. There have been many. There still are. I fear that there always will be those who will point to your poor judgement in agreeing to wed Thomas Holland.’
I recalled the arch comments from Philippa’s damsel. Edward had not silenced the gossips with any great degree of success, it seemed.
‘But I loved him,’ I said simply.
‘I know. It was unfortunate. But that is all past, and you must look to the future. Any great magnate,’ Philippa’s advice continued to roll over me, ‘who considers your value as a wife will know that you have been restored to the royal fold and that the King beams on you as much as His Holiness has done. It is vastly important.’
‘He did not tell me,’ I said.
‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? And I suppose that all you could do was harangue him for not creating Thomas Earl of Kent when the title came to you.’
I felt colour rise in my face, which was an admission in itself.
‘Now you must do all in your power to build on that royal approval that the King your cousin has offered you. Promise me that you will.’
‘I promise.’ What more could I say as I acknowledged Edward’s generosity? ‘I will be the perfect widow. I will be the perfect wife when the day comes.’
‘And Edward, I assure you, will find you a husband who will not be unattractive to you.’
‘I promise that I will welcome him.’
Easy words. Easy promises.
We parted on a good understanding even though I considered Philippa to be too sanguine. I thought that within the year I would be living out my life in some far distant place with a man for whom I had little tolerance. And then I wondered, far too briefly to my later shame, what it was that troubled her. What was it that afflicted her heart that she could not bear to tell me?
Chapter Ten
Spring 1361: Castle Donington
I was engaged in an exchange of views with my steward after an investigation of our storeroom, depleted in basic supplies over the winter, principally because our household had spent so little time there at Castle Donington. I was not pleased with the situation, nor with my negligent steward.
‘How can we be so lacking in ale? Why is there, as far as I can see, only one cured ham in the cellar? There should be half a dozen by your records.’
‘I will look into it my lady.’
‘And so shall I! And then I will invite you to accompany me to the lower cellar where I hope that I do not discover…’
Memories flooded back, with all the agony of a sword thrust, of Thomas in the cellar at Bisham when I had hunted him down, unfastening the silk band, acknowledging our love. So painful that I turned away from the steward, walking to the door to draw in breaths of air as if that would dispel that sudden vision.
It was there that my chamberlain discovered me.
‘Visitors, my lady. A sizeable escort. Can’t yet make out their device.’
Relieved to abandon the sudden, shocking, smack of sorrow, with a final lingering glance to my steward to remind him that I would not forget our task, I climbed to the wall walk to look out towards the east where the sun was struggling to break through heavy cloud. I was expecting no one. Irritated, I realised that I was dressed to receive no one, nor was I of an inclination. My melancholy had not lifted. I was tempted to keep my gates closed, but Philippa’s advice remained a constant burr against my skin. To repulse visitors was not what a generous and bountiful princess was expected to do. I must remember to be more bountiful to my slippery steward too.
I smote the hard coping with my fist as I considered whether to change my gown.
And then the sun broke through.
My eyes were dazzled by the gold stitching and ostentatious cloth of gold wadding on pennon and flag. And on the tabard of the royal herald who rode next to the man in the lead. As for him, it sparkled on the chased studs of his brigandine, on the hilt of his sword. I could well imagine the jewels in his livery collar and set deep into his belt. A King’s ransom, worn without fear of chance robbers.
‘It’s the Prince, my lady.’
‘So I see.’
The light brightened; so did the approaching image.
For a single moment my breath held in my lungs. And then I breathed out again. This was only the creation of the extraordinary light, which would immediately be dimmed if viewed through darkened glass. And yet I felt the prickle of perspiration along my hairline. He had probably come to see the progress of his godsons, rather than me, to assess if they were pursuing their military lessons. Ned had stood godfather to both Tom and John, which would give him an interest.
The glitter made me shield my eyes.
The darkened glass, I decided, would have been an excellent idea.
‘Do I open the gates, my lady?’
‘Of course. No need to ask.’ Lost in that brilliant moment, I had given no orders. ‘The Prince would camp outside, demand to know why we did not and threaten a siege if we did not comply.’
But I would not change my gown or my coif, begrimed as that of any kitchen maid. There was no need to impress.
By the time I had made my way to the courtyard, the royal guest had ridden in, the gilding and glitter even more all-powerful at close quarters, the silver ostrich feathers appliquéd on his breast, that very personal emblem that he had adopted after the Battle of Crécy, to honour the brave death of blind King John of Bohemia so rumour had it, glimmered balefully. He dismounted, handed his hat and gloves to a page, pushed his hands through his matted hair to ruffle the whole and only then walked over to where
I had chosen to stand on the second step where my eye would be on a level with his. He bowed. He extended his hand, and when I placed mine there, he kissed my fingers.
‘My lady.’
‘My lord.’
‘I trust you are well.’
‘As you see. Is this a courtesy visit or one with a purpose?’
‘It is a duty visit, since you are my cousin. And, moreover, I was passing your door, my lady.’
At which point I had had enough. ‘We are very formal today. And unnervingly polite. What do you want?’
He grinned. ‘I can soon amend that. Can you offer a cup of ale to a weary traveller, Joan?’
‘And to the rest.’ I nodded to my apologetic steward who was attending at my shoulder. It was no difficulty to be welcoming to the Prince after all. I discovered I had lacked conversation in recent days. I would welcome even his acerbic comments.
Ned’s grin transformed into a sly smile. ‘You must be bored. You almost look pleased to see me.’
‘I am always pleased to enjoy your company, Ned. As you are well aware.’
Of course he was. Ned’s confidence was a bright comet in the heavens.
Gently, making nothing of it, I released my hand from his. Ned had been a constant in my life, a friend, an annoying companion, even though in recent years I had seen less of him in my journeying to Brittany. Now it was as if he was still bathed in light, an impressive knight, a royal son, a King in the making, his name the most famous in all of Europe, whereas I was a widow clad in black, as dull as a winter crow while he gleamed in gold and jewels. I noted with some amusement that his hair had fallen into its habitual well-cut lines against his neck, something Thomas had never managed to achieve. Something Thomas had never cared about.
Preserving an unsmiling visage until Ned’s brilliance slowly dissipated, I decided that I must be lonely to have been so impressed. I was past the age of hero-worship for a boy I had known from his cradle. It was only Ned. This strange unsettling had been nothing but a trick of the light, a mummer’s sleight of hand born of my own isolation and restlessness.
