The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Joan? Are you going to invite me further than your chilly courtyard?’

  I was staring at him. He was regarding me quizzically. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘You are obviously short on company.’

  ‘Which I had just decided. Conversations with Tom and John tend to be brief and admonishing.’ Now I smiled slowly, feeling suddenly lighter in sprit, with a warmth that spread beneath my girdle. ‘They will be pleased to see you. They will pester you to engage them in some form of hearty weapon-play, but you must watch John, who’s inclined to be sly. First you can pander to their mother and indulge her with news of what’s happening at court.’

  He climbed the steps until he stood beside me, looking down at me with what could only be a frown.

  ‘So why have you shut yourself away here? I swear you were made for court life. Here you look like a good-wife, counting her barrels of ale.’

  ‘And finding them lacking. Along with the hams.’

  At least he had not commented on my black raiment, which I knew leached colour from my skin. He plucked at the edge of my sleeve that was plain and held the suspicion of dust while I was leading him into the hall, and through into one of the smaller chambers where it was good to sit, the sun’s rays augmenting the heat from a small fire.

  ‘Apart from that,’ I added, ‘I am following your mother’s advice. I have become a new woman.’

  ‘Have you now? Do I detect a spirit of resentment?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  He accepted the ale, which I poured, and a chair where he lounged at ease, and drank.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, choosing a low tapestry-cushioned stool, a little distant from his glory. ‘What’s happening that I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing of any great moment.’

  ‘No war, then, on your particular horizon?’

  ‘Nor any likelihood. I must turn my hand to matters of taxation and appeasing the upholders of local justice. The justices of the peace are demanding more powers to bring transgressors to account. My father is in agreement, so it will happen except for serious cases that will remain the preserve of the royal assize courts. In the new year my father expects me to attend a meeting of parliament with him.’

  His voice had become clipped and dry, in a manner that suddenly enlightened me, so that, as if a candle sconce had been lit, I understood the black cloud that sometimes seemed to hover over him. Peace did not suit Ned. Justice and taxes did not compare favourably with wielding a sword on the battlefield. Negotiating with a hostile parliament that increasingly held the purse strings was far more lethal to his spirits than engaging a French army.

  ‘We are still kind hosts to King John of France,’ he added. ‘The amount of his ransom remains a matter of intense debate. And that’s about all I can tell you.’

  Ned was morose. I did not know what to say to him, except: ‘Well, Ned, it is good to talk of matters other than the shortcomings of my household. I would enjoy exchanging opinion with the King of France rather than detecting the discrepancies in my accounts. Shall we exchange roles? What you have still not told me is why you have come here. And don’t say it was on your way, for I know full well that it was not, wherever your journeying was taking you.’

  ‘Isabella told me that you were – melancholy – I think was her word. I said you were probably just petulant.’

  ‘Isabella is blinkered.’ I did not wish to be considered melancholy. ‘Your flighty sister can see nothing but that flamboyant Frenchman. Whom I would not trust, I might say. He has an eye to her hand in marriage.’

  Brought to England as a French prisoner not a year ago, Lord Enguerrand de Coucy had become a shining light in Isabella’s eyes. And she it seemed in his. They shadowed each other, Isabella singing songs of love and desire, which Lord Enguerrand returned in a remarkably fine voice.

  ‘And he might get it. My father is fast running out of options that Isabella will even discuss. After the last debacle, he is stepping carefully. Isabella’s French suitor is not the man the King would have chosen but Isabella is no longer a young bride.’

  ‘Perhaps he will go back to France with King John and solve all your problems.’ A little silence shivered over the tapestries. ‘Your father is also planning my next marriage.’ The observation escaped before I could stop it.

  Ned raised his cup in a grave toast. ‘Ah ha. So that’s why you took refuge here. But not yet surely. Thomas is barely in his grave.’

  ‘His second grave.’ I sipped meditatively. It was time I went back to Stamford to see how the stone masons were progressing to fulfil my expensive directions. Would not that show me to be a virtuous wife? Or widow.

  ‘Do you wish to wed again?’

  I looked up, catching another frown on his face. What a strangely desultory conversation this was turning out to be, from which I could get no sense of direction. Unusual for Ned who was inclined to drive headlong for the main point. Still, I addressed the query with honesty.

  ‘I would not be averse to running a nobleman’s household. I have discovered a talent for it. I would enjoy a man with a political interest, with an importance. Meanwhile I promised your mother that I would re-gild my image. I would dredge my reputation from the mud at the bottom of the matrimonial pond and thus become virtuous and seemly in all my future actions.’

  ‘It will take much dredging.’ Ned settled back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles so that the leather of his boots creaked comfortably. As if he were relaxed. And yet I felt that he was not. There was a tension about his posture and his eyes were narrowed and, I thought, even judgemental. ‘Before God, Jeanette, you have managed an adventurous life. The chroniclers are keen enough to write about you when there is no one else on whom to sharpen their quills. They are waiting to see which unfortunate man your eye will land on next.’

  Which hurt far more than Philippa’s gentle criticisms.

  ‘Well, let them wait. It may be that I will not wed again. I may prefer my own authority over my own lands. I can think of no unwed lord who is not over eighty years and past the age of considering marriage, or under ten and more interested in his hounds and his hero in the joust. There may be some I have missed in between, but I am aware of no one who might appear in my dreams as my perfect knight.’

  ‘Was Thomas your perfect knight?’

  ‘Thomas was too belligerent on occasion to be perfect, and too absent on others. But he was nearer than most.’ I forgot about the tension that had seemed to be building in the room as I asked something that had crossed my mind, on occasion over the years. ‘Why are you still not wed?’

  He yawned. Too casually, so that I realised that he was wary of my probing. ‘Not through want of planning. I’m too busy to take a wife.’

  ‘When has your being busy ever made a difference to anything you wished for?’ My frown matched him. ‘One day you will be King. You need an heir. Your father will insist on your begetting an heir. Is it not a priority for you? Show me a man who doesn’t want a son and heir in his sights? Mistress Willesford might allow you to scratch an itch but something permanent and legal is essential before you become too old. An illegitimate son is no benefit to the realm.’

  Ned had a son of almost eleven years old, the result of a well-publicised liaison with Mistress Edith Willesford, a woman of the household of the royal palace at Clarendon. When I had been embarking on my protracted married life with Thomas, Ned had been otherwise occupied.

  ‘Old?’ His eyes widened, homing in on the most pertinent point. ‘You are older than I.’

  ‘And I have two sons to inherit this place.’ As I waved my hand to take in the sumptuous furnishings, embellished with my income as Countess of Kent, the door opened softly, slowly, and in came Maud, sliding unsteadily round the door, beaming when she saw Ned.

  ‘Where is your nurse?’ I asked, stretching out my hand.

  ‘I have run away.’ She came to stand at my side and leaned against my leg while I tucked her escaping hair
into her coif.

  ‘Which one is this?’ Ned asked.

  ‘This is Maud. Named for Thomas’s mother.’

  It had to be said that he had more interest in my sons than my daughters.

  She curtsied with deft precision, before disappearing again at a run when voices were raised outside the chamber.

  ‘Thomas was justifiably proud of them. As I will be one day of my own.’ Ned reached to lift the flagon and refill his cup. ‘My father has four more sons who will be quite capable of giving him his heirs for England. There is no hurry for me to wed.’

  I thought about this, about the pressures on inheritance for all powerful families. For once I put myself into the shoes of my cousin Edward. His own inheritance in the days of Mortimer’s dominance had been anything but easy. Now he had created a strong family, a strong country. I was certain that Edward was less sanguine about Ned’s unmarried state than this son who lounged in my chamber, sipping my ale. One illegitimate son of eleven years was of no value to the King of England. What’s more I was certain that Edward had plans for his son. Why had they never come to fruition? There was every urgency as far as I could see.

  I voiced my misgivings about there being no hurry.

  ‘But you are his heir, his beloved first-born son who should wear the crown and wield the sceptre,’ I said. ‘Every time you ride into battle you put yourself in danger of your life. Why has no marriage been contracted? You were to be betrothed to the King of France’s daughter when you were one year old. I don’t understand why you have been allowed to reach the age of thirty without a wife at your side and half a dozen sons in your nursery at Kennington.’

  ‘You are behind the times,’ Ned replied. ‘I was promised to Margaret of Brabant when I was nine.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And a daughter of the King of Portugal was being mooted when I last heard.’

  ‘Then take her before she is snapped up by another.’

  His shrug was all pride. ‘When I offer, I will not be refused.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she handsome?’

  ‘Not as handsome as you.’

  ‘Flattery, Ned! And empty flattery at that. As long as she is young and well connected and, hopefully, fertile, she will be the perfect bride. You will be very happy together. And so will your father be relieved.’

  The sound of Maud’s high-pitched voice reached us, from where she had obviously escaped into the courtyard. Ned rose and walked to the window to look down, laughing at what he saw below, which encouraged me to join him. There was Maud, seated on the edge of an ornamental pool, stretching to reach the bright carp, a danger to herself and the fish.

  ‘John!’ I called down, seeing help at hand. My younger son, about to disappear into the stables, looked up.

  ‘Take Maud back to the nursery.’

  I could see his scowl at a distance but he captured Maud and led her, protesting loudly, back through the door.

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  Her final words, fading into the distance.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll wait for your daughter to grow up.’

  ‘My girls are far too young to consider any marriage for many years. And I already have plans for them.’ Ned was leaning against the stonework, looking across the chamber at me as I walked away to retake my stool. There was something on his mind, something gnawing at him, but I replied lightly enough. ‘My daughters’ marriages, when the day comes, will be without stain. Whiter than snow.’

  Slowly Ned recovered the distance between us, his expression was sombre. Once again he sat, fingers laced behind his head.

  ‘What now?’ I asked as I reached for the flagon to fill the little hiatus, to pour him more ale if that is what he wished.

  Ned’s hands dropped as he leaned forward. My hand stilled on the chased flagon.

  ‘Marry me, Jeanette.’

  I was not sure when I stopped smiling. I was not smiling now as I withdrew my hand from the vessel, as my hand fell to my lap. This was a travelling jester’s joke. Surely this was a mummer’s facade. I studied his face, but there were no grooves of amusement, no gentle malice at my expense. His eyes held mine, his mouth held an uncompromising line, while I felt that every thought in my head was suspended, like eels caught in a dish of aspic.

  ‘I’m sorry…?’ It was a query.

  ‘Marry me, Joan,’ he repeated.

  I shook my head, the tiniest movement, in disbelief.

  ‘Well, that’s a miracle in itself. Countess Joan without a word to say.’ His face was now fixed in lines of authority. ‘Wed me Joan. Be my wife and we will give my father his heirs for the future of England. Marry me. Today. Tomorrow.’

  I rose to my feet. It was as if a winter gale had blown through the chamber, ridding it of all the previous tensions, scouring the uncertainties, cleansing the air between us so that it rang as if with a sharp frost. Was this why he had come to see me? Or was this a spur of the moment decision? Whatever it was, it had been issued more like a royal command than a request to a much desired lover, which I had never been to him, or he to me.

  I knew that I was staring at him.

  ‘You can’t have thought about this.’

  ‘Of course I have. Would I have asked you without due consideration?’

  ‘It is a desperately bad policy.’

  ‘Nothing I do is desperately bad.’

  His frown had become a scowl.

  ‘It cannot be.’

  Of course I could not wed him. There were so many reasons why not, so many reasons why it would be the most unwise marriage of the century. The obstacles raced through my mind and I accepted every one of them as Ned held out his hand, palm raised. The room was gilded with sunshine, bright enough to dispel every negative thought, but this was an invitation I must not accept.

  ‘Wed me, Jeanette, and we will spar and argue for the rest of our days.’

  Surely he could see that it was impossible. I would not accept. I could not accept, even though I felt compelled by some unforeseen power to place my hand in his. Once at Westminster, in that tempest after the return from war, at Thomas’s request I had placed my hand in his, heralding my true relationship with him.

  Now, I put my hands behind my back.

  Ned’s hand remained extended in a truly royal command.

  ‘God’s Blood, Joan! Will you wed me? Will you be my wife? Would you like to answer now rather than next week? You will be Princess of Wales, and in the fullness of time you will be Queen of England. Don’t tell me that you cannot see the advantage in that.’

  The King, my cousin, would never agree to our marriage.

  ‘We both need to wed.’ Ned’s words fell like a shower of hail without mercy. ‘Neither of us is driven by love for another. We know each other, our faults and failings as well as our virtues. I expect that I will grow to tolerate your wilfulness. Go and order your women to pack your belongings.’

  ‘Why?’

  I was being carried along on a fast stream. Too fast. Far too fast.

  ‘To come back to Windsor with me, why else? You’ll be expected for the Garter celebrations at Easter. We’ll tell my father that you have agreed and we will marry as soon as we can.’

  At last I found my voice.

  ‘This is beyond sense, Ned! Can you imagine what the King would say if you rode up to his door with me riding pillion as your prospective bride?’

  ‘You would never ride pillion. You would insist on your own mare, tricked out with scarlet bridle and bells. But he has to know sometime.’ His hand might drop away but the assurance in his voice was still there. ‘I would never have thought you guilty of cowardice. You have overcome far greater obstacles than my father’s temper, which never lasts long.’

  Cowardice.

  My blood heated a little. Ned had planned this. It would solve all his problems. What need to woo a foreign bride when here was a royal princess who did not need to be wooed? So he was too bu
sy with taxes and recalcitrant justices to undertake a wooing, was he? I could be slotted into his daily routine of travel, in a fast visit on his way back to don his Garter robes in Windsor. He had commanded me. He expected me to comply. He would never accept that there were so many good reasons why I should never agree to this union.

  I studied his face. The fiery assertiveness, the certainty. The bloody arrogance.

  ‘Well?’ He extended his hand again. ‘It can’t be so difficult for you to decide, cousin.’

  ‘I have decided.’

  ‘Good. We’ll leave at once. Your luggage can follow.’

  ‘I have decided, Ned.’ I was as brittle as glass, and twice as sharp. ‘My answer is no. I will not marry you.’

  ‘You cannot have considered the advantages.’

  ‘I see none. All I see is a never-ending line of probably ruinous repercussions, for both of us. Nor will I change my mind. I will not marry you.’

  ‘Then there is no more to be said.’

  A curt bow and Ned’s glittering visit came to a rapid and undoubtedly discourteous end.

  ‘It will take much dredging,’ Ned had said.

  It would take a bolt of heavenly light to bathe my soul in innocence. I knew my reputation, as did everyone else. There was nothing that Ned could say that I did not already know; I had become a figure of some notoriety, of little truth and many lies. Enough truth to be recognisable, but with the twist of falsehood to make me wanton.

  The injustice of it all simmered beneath my skin as I watched him ride away, his mood as sour as mine. I had refused him, and he had left me in a cloud of dust and haughty displeasure.

  ‘Considering my previous fall from grace, I cannot imagine why you would be so unwise as to ask for my hand in marriage.’

  Pride had come to my rescue, making me as haughty as he as he had swung into his saddle, ordering his escort to precede him.

  ‘Why would I not? And if I consider you a satisfactory wife, I am astonished that you would refuse me.’ His scowl was superb. ‘If anyone can restore your tarnished past to future glory, it is I.’

  My anger flared like a warning beacon. ‘I suppose I should thank you for so demeaning yourself. Your damned self-esteem, Ned, knows no bounds.’