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Chapter Three

Early February 1341: St. George’s Chapel, Windsor

The Bishop cast his eye over the assembly gathered before God, where the royal blood of England was all-pervading, admonishing them to silence with the mere lift of a finger. Edward and Philippa stood amidst the throng. Returned from Flanders, the Queen had honoured me by attending my marriage, before she would depart to the little manor of King’s Langley for her seven-month confinement, closed off from the world until the birth of this child.

All eyes were focused on me. On William Montagu.

A quietness of expectation fell. The Bishop of London beamed at me. Not the Archbishop of Canterbury in spite of my mother’s hopes. He was persona non grata, not welcome in the royal presence as things stood.

Will turned his head, stiff-necked, to give me the glimmer of a nervous twitch that might have been called a smile, before turning to fix the Bishop with an anxious stare.

I was as cold as death. No smile. No anxiety. Nothing beneath my girdle but a grim certainty.

Indeed, my mind was empty after weeks of maternal bombardment, Philippa’s gift of silk and figured damask chill against my skin, heavy in its weight of gold tissue, eminently suitable to a princess on her wedding day. My lungs were icy as I inhaled every incense-filled breath. The only warmth was William’s hand around mine, clammy with nerves. Despite the February damp, I could see perspiration on his brow if I glanced sideways. It had, I surmised, nothing to do with the new liking for sable fur at neck and cuff and hem that gave him a marked resemblance to the monkey, an ill-considered gift from some foreign ambassador to the royal offspring.

I was standing at the altar, hemmed in by the fixed regard of congregation and of the carved saints and martyrs, my hair released into virginal purity, uncovered by veil or coif, rippling magnificently over my shoulders in bright gold, that challenged even the crucifix before which we would take our vows.

The progression of the marriage ceremony wrapped me about, heavy with portent, impossibly different from my first marriage which had been private, personal, secretive. Utterly lacking in any ceremony. Here we were trapped in formal ritual, the Bishop’s robes more bejewelled than mine. If I looked to my left Edward and Philippa were resplendent, lacking only their crowns to enhance their regality, both so young and hopeful, yet to reach their thirtieth year. Ned too was burnished beside Isabella, ostentatiously wearing her reliquary which was no more magnificent than the Salisbury livery collar that was a gift from William to me. It rested on my collarbones, the gems glinting as I breathed with hollow foreboding.

Thomas Holland, I recalled, briefly, had given me no gifts of any kind.

My mother was engorged with her success. Lord Wake merely looked threateningly fierce whenever he caught my eye, which tended to stir a note of hysteria within me. When I had made my vows to Thomas our company had also been of the raptor variety, although they had ignored us.

Countess Catherine was supported by Lady Elizabeth, clad in a vast array of ancient gems. The Earl was still absent, still sojourning as unwilling guest of the French king.

At last the Bishop turned to Will. It was as if the congregation held its breath to absorb the holy vows on our behalf.

‘William Montagu, vis accípere Joan, hic præsentem in tuam legítimam uxorem iuxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclesiæ?’

I heard Will swallow, but he did not hesitate.

‘Volo.’

He would not dare.

The space around me grew, leaving me alone and insignificant. This was it. This was the moment for my own declaration of intent.

‘Joan, vis accípere William, hic præsentern in tuum legítimum marítum iuxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclesiæ?’

I allowed a slide of eye to my mother’s austerity. I saw fear there. I had been declaring my wish to repudiate this marriage since the day she had seized hold of the Montagu proposal.

I lifted my eyes to the Bishop who was nodding encouragingly. My voice was clear and cool. No hesitation. No stammer. Had I not made my decision? I would not go back on it now.

‘Volo.’

Momentarily I closed my eyes, held my breath, anticipating the bolt of lightning that would strike me down, for surely God would judge my vow and find me wanting. Or some busy person in the congregation would decry me false.

Nothing. No flash of light, no voice raised in condemnation.

Behind me, my mother’s sigh was almost audible. Will’s hand closed convulsively around mine so that I winced a little as we exchanged an awkward nuptial kiss.

‘I wasn’t sure you would go through with it,’ he whispered, his cheek pressed to mine.

The ceremony continued. The drama had been played out, brought to its glorious, heart-stirring end by the choral offering of glory to God. I imagined most of our companions were now anticipating a warming cup of spiced wine before the overblown festivity of the wedding feast. I was the wife of William Montagu. One day I would be Countess of Salisbury. William and I would be cornerstones in Edward’s splendid court, our children securing the Salisbury inheritance for all time.

Why had I abandoned all my professed principles of honour and loyalty to the vows I had made to Thomas, rejecting at the eleventh hour all my fine words that I would never join my hand with that of William Montagu because it would be invalid for me to do so? Many would deem me weak, easily influenced, readily submitting to minds and wills stronger than my own; or to a streak of pure worldly ambition as wide as the River Thames. I could imagine the scorn at my sudden inexplicable change of heart.

Was I driven by an ambition to be Countess of Salisbury in the fullness of time? Surely it was a more advantageous future for a royal daughter to be Countess of Salisbury, rather than the wife of a mere household knight, living on a meagre income? Perhaps it was family pressure, too great to withstand, ultimately being dragged to the altar by a determined mother who issued dire threats of my being forced to take the veil if I continued in my disobedience. Or, in the end, did I just give up hope and submit to the easiest path?

It might be that many a daughter, caught out in the sin of worldly disobedience, would do exactly that.

So why did I abandon my oft-repeated intent with such glib readiness? Because in the closing days of the old year my duty had been made as clear to me as the brilliant glitter of my new collar. Thus I had walked of my own volition to place my hand in Will’s. Once more I had taken these new vows without threats.

Let the world judge me, as it doubtless would, the chroniclers dipping their pens in poisonous ink when they discovered what I had done. At best I would be deemed a pawn in the maw of family political intrigue. At worst an ambitious power-seeker, acting with cold and cruel dispassion, abandoning one husband for a better.

I cringed at the worst.

But so be it. I could keep my own counsel. Who would be interested in my reasoning? The deed was done and there was no hand to it but my own.

Let the world judge as it wished. I raised my head to acknowledge Will’s faint smile of relief, and later, as we shared a marital cup of wine, our lips matching on the rim to the murmured appreciation of the glittering aristocratic throng, there was only one thought in my mind.

I would have to face the repercussions when Thomas returned to England.

I must be strong enough to bear it.

It might be that I was now the wife of William Montagu in the eyes of God and Man and the King of England. It might be that King Edward’s cheerful beneficence was marked by his allowing my distant father-in-law to grant property to Will and myself. It might be that we had an allowance which I was able to spend on the fripperies of life. It might be that we were in possession of the manor and lordship of Mold in North Wales and the eventual reversion of the manor of Marshwood in Devon, where we could establish our household if and when we so chose; both of them too far from court for my liking.

All of that might be true, but there were few changes in my life at this time.

We did not live in our new properties; I did not even visit them. My life, and Will’s also, was still fixed at the peripatetic court wherever it decided to travel and put down its temporary roots. I continued my education. Will continued to flourish as a future knight. I could not imagine living alone with my own household, far from the centre of court and the intrigues of government. This was what I had known my whole life. I could not imagine having no one with whom to have an intelligent conversation other than Will, Countess Catherine or Lady Elizabeth.

But then neither could I imagine living in isolation with Thomas Holland on some estate near Upholland in the far distant and drear reaches of Lancashire.

Yet Will and I preserved, in a superficial manner, the appearance of a married couple. We had plenty to say to each other when we met. At meals. At receptions. At embassies. At the hunt. We were the Earl and Countess of Salisbury in waiting. Will made a point of coming to see me every day.

Sometimes he kissed my cheek if no one was watching.

More often than not he made do with a salute to my fingers.

I curtsied and bade him welcome.

The livery collar – for was I not now a Salisbury possession? – was placed in Countess Catherine’s jewel coffer for safe keeping while Will and I danced, our steps matching with some exactitude. We had danced together since we were both old enough to stand. We had a lifetime of familiarity between us to give us an ease in each other’s company. Seeing us together, my mother, relaxed, decided that she could afford to smile on me. So did Countess Catherine. And Queen Philippa.

Will was my friend. Despite the vows and the priest’s solemn words, we lived as we had always lived since we were still considered too young to share a marriage bed. Indeed, Will, his age the same as mine, seemed content to wait. I prayed that he would continue to be so. My mind was full of waiting. I could speak to no one, although I did try.

‘What will you do when Thomas returns?’ I asked Will.

‘I doubt he will ever return now. How long has he been gone?’

‘A year.’

‘My mother says that he is dead.’

I pursed my lips.

‘You don’t miss him, do you?’ Will sounded anxious.

How could I say yes? It was a strange sort of missing. How could I miss a life I had never experienced? Sometimes it seemed that Thomas was disappearing into a distant void. To my shame, recalling his features was no longer an easy task.

‘You are my wife, Joan.’ It was the ultimate statement of possession.

‘I acknowledge it.’

‘And Thomas Holland is assuredly dead.’

Thus Will had it fixed in his mind that Thomas would never return to cast a cat amongst any flock of pigeons. He no longer thought about my promises to another man, or worried over the knowledge that Thomas had known me intimately. For him all had been wiped clean under the holy auspices of the Bishop of London. Will had no fears for the future.

But I had.

Late Summer 1341: The Royal Manor of Havering-atte-Bower

The first intimation that the day was to hold something out of the ordinary was the bounding into our midst of the hounds, pushing and investigating with no thought to royal deference. The second was the glow that spread over the Queen’s stolid features as she looked up from the small garment she was stitching. Both were enough to inform us who had arrived. We all, apart from the royal infants, rose to our feet, only to be waved back to what we had been doing.

We were sitting beneath the trees, in a number of artful groups, enjoying the warm days of late summer, with Queen Philippa keeping a watchful eye on her youngest children, John and the baby Edmund who, unbeknown to him beneath his downy thatch, had caused all the trouble between King, Queen and Archbishop. Their nursemaids were in attendance. So was Ned, as well as Will who had journeyed to visit Countess Catherine on some matter of estate affairs, and had come to make his farewell to me before returning with Ned to the manor at Kennington where the Prince’s household was established. We were a large and noisy group, which became even noisier when the King arrived with his dogs and the usual parcel of attendant knights, squires and huntsmen.

Without ceremony, Edward kissed Philippa’s cheek, patted Isabella’s head, cuffed his heir a light blow to his shoulder with a wry comment on the splendour of his new satin-lined cloak, anchored by two uncommonly large gold buttons, before inspecting the two-month-old baby in his crib. Then, all niceties accomplished, taking us all in with a smile and a mock bow, he announced:

‘Look who we have here, for our entertainment.’

Edward beckoned.

‘Someone for you to welcome, newly returned from brave deeds and doughty fighting. We will be pleased to listen to all he has to say about distant wars.’

I had no premonition of this. Not one shiver of air had touched my senses, not one whisper of warning. Stilling my fingers on the lute I had been playing, I looked across with open interest, a ready smile for a visitor with a tale to tell. As did we all.

My fingers flattened with a discord of strings. I forced my lungs to draw in a steady breath. Thomas Holland was not dead. Thomas Holland was not severely wounded. Thomas Holland was no longer committed to the religious fervour of a crusade.

Thomas Holland stood in our midst. Six feet tall in his soft boots and thigh-length cote-hardie. Smiling and urbane.

How could my blood run so cold when the sun’s heat was so intense? So too was my face cold, where the welcoming expression seemed to have set into place, while my throat was constricted by a turbulence that refused to be brought into order. I could feel Will’s eyes snap to mine, but I would not look at him. This was the moment that had been an underlying murmur of trepidation through all the months of our marriage. I had anticipated it, planned for it, but now that it was here, I did not know what to do. For the first time that I could recall I was bereft of thought or decision of what I should do or say. Any memories of the emotion that had driven me into marriage with this knight were effectively obliterated. It was not love that washed over me. It was not physical desire, kept in abeyance for all the months of his absence, but fear. I felt nothing but consternation. I should have been word perfect in this initial meeting with him, particularly in company. I was not prepared, and kept my lips close-pressed as Sir Thomas bowed and made his greeting to the Queen, as one thought returned to me, the obvious one.

Did Thomas know? Had he any knowledge of the passage of events since he had been gone from England? Of course he did not. No one would have seen the need to tell him. The private and essentially intimate development of the life of Princess Joan was of no concern to a knight who did not yet have a reputation or a source of wealth to make him a notable at court. Edward was pleased to see him because here was a source of new tales of war and glory, and because he saw the military potential in him, but Thomas was not yet one of the inner group of knights in Edward’s confidence. No one would have seen a need to tell him of my change in circumstances.

No, of course he did not know.

All seemed to be held in suspension, like close-ground herbs in red wine, but that was simply my imagination. All was in fact returned to normality as if every one of my senses had been restored to life so that the scene was in brilliant focus, the scents from the roses heady with musk, the noise of dogs and children clamorous on my ear. Will shuffled at my side, suddenly discomfited since the man he had assured himself was dead quite clearly was not. Edward ordered his huntsmen to collect the hounds and dispatch them to the kennels. Philippa likewise dispatched her babies to the nursery. The older children except for Isabella, whose nose twitched with interest born purely of her own lurid imagination, returned to their own private occupations. I held the lute to my breast like a babe in arms.

And Thomas?

Thomas had all the courtly dignity not to single me out with either look or movement, except for a sleek passage of a glance as he took in those who waited to greet him. We were all acknowledged with the same courtly bow which did not surprise me for he had not spent all his life on a battlefield. No, his inherent grace did not surprise me. Nor did this state of not being dead. I had never thought that he was. But his physical appearance shocked me, so much that my breathing remained compromised.

The King drew him forward into the family group, placing a compassionate hand on his arm.

‘We have heard of your exploits, Thomas. And now we see the consequences of being in the thick of battle. How did this come about?’

‘It was nothing, sire.’

‘Modesty becomes you, but tell us. Here’s my son who would dearly have loved to have been fighting beside you.’

Thus summoned, and it had to be said with a bad case of hero-worship for any knight who had enhanced his reputation on the battlefield, Ned took the jewelled cup from Philippa to hand to Thomas. And Thomas, accepting and raising it in a little toast, launched into the tale of his adventures on the field of battle. The battle where evidence told, horrifically, of his wounding.

The battle, the blows, the courage of his fellow knights, the victorious outcome; the King and Prince and Will, as well as my brother, John, hung on every word. And then Thomas was coming to an end with a wry smile.

‘I have taken an oath to wear this mark of God’s grace in sparing me, until I have fulfilled my duty to His cause. And my duty to yours too, my lord King, on the battlefields of Europe. God spared my life. I will dedicate my sword to Him. And to you. And this badge of my wounding will be seen and noted from one end of Christendom to the next.’

It was a brave speech with all the energy and dedication I recalled which would make him a prime candidate for the King’s new order of knights. And I could not take my gaze from him, from his face where he wore a flamboyant strip of white silk to hide the damage to one eye. Here was my knight who had caused me so much trouble, tall and lean and bloodied in battle, his darkly russet hair still curled against his neck, his face fair as ever, his uncovered eye bright with the emotion of his welcome amongst us. He had lost the other in some distant conflict.

Watching him in the centre of the little group of those with whom I had grown up, here was Thomas Holland, a man amongst boys. A knight amongst squires. Thus I studied him, assessing my own reactions to the man I had married against all good sense. A strange mysticism hung about his figure as he came to sit at Philippa’s feet, the silken band not a blight, not a disfiguring in my eyes. It was a glamour that he had been hurt so desperately but yet continued to burn with knightly fervour. And how intriguing that he had chosen to enhance the glamour with white silk rather than a common strip of leather. There was much to Thomas Holland that I did not yet know.

And perhaps never would.

‘Can you not see?’ Ned was asking, kneeling beside him, appalled at the prospect of suffering such a fatal disability for a soldier.

‘I see well enough with the eye that God has seen fit to spare, my lord. The infidel who dealt me the blow no longer breathes God’s air.’

‘But perhaps you can no longer fight.’ Ned was frowning. ‘With the sight of only one eye.’

Thomas smiled, which stirred my heart a little. ‘The King of Bohemia, famed throughout Europe for his courage, has lost his sight completely. He is determined to fight again on the battlefield with his knights leading him into the fray. Why should he not since he can still ride a horse and wield a sword? My state is not so desperate. I will assuredly fight again.’

Filled with awe, Ned reached across to touch the white silk. ‘I would be as brave as you.’

‘As you will, my lord.’

At my side, Will was as silent as I.

Until Edward led Thomas away, leaving a little hiatus of disappointment now that the excitement was gone. I simply sank to the ground with a mouth as arid as a summer stream, still clutching the lute. Thomas had managed one more fleeting glance in my direction, which might have been a question, or perhaps even a warning that he would in the fullness of time seek me out.

But not before I sought him.

‘Are you going to play that?’ demanded Isabella who had not been centre of attention for a good half hour. ‘If not, give it to me.’

‘Take it!’ As I handed it over, since playing dulcet melodies on a lute was no longer a priority for me, a hand fastened round my wrist. I looked up at Will who was on his feet, standing over me.

‘What are you planning to do?’ he asked, sotto voce.

‘Find some means of speaking with Thomas Holland in private, of course.’

How could he even ask? The three of us could not remain incommunicado, hoping that this problem would simply evaporate in the warm air. What did Will think that I would do?

‘I forbid it.’

Exasperation took its toll of my tone. ‘You have no authority to forbid it.’

‘I have every authority. You are my wife.’

I stared at him until he blushed and released me.

While I was moved by a little compassion; this was not Will’s fault. ‘I have to see him, Will. He needs to know. I have to discover some means for us to meet alone.’

‘So he does need to know, but it is a matter of much interest to me, what exactly you will say to him. And how he will reply.’

It was a matter of much interest to me too.

‘I will be sure to tell you,’ I said. ‘Every word.’

‘You will not allow him to kiss you.’

‘I doubt that in the circumstances he will discover any desire to kiss me. I expect he will find my behaviour sufficiently incomprehensible to douse any passion!’

Allowing Will to pull me to my feet, I curtsied neatly towards the Queen, and began to walk away in the direction of the departed King and his brave knight.

‘In fact,’ Will added, keeping pace with me. ‘I am coming with you.’

I hurried my steps.

Thomas, my courageous, lamentably absent but heroically wounded husband, met with me in the private chapel, an intimate space much used by the Queen. Set aside to the honour of the Blessed Virgin, Thomas was directed there by a servant I had dispatched, for I could think of no other means of ensuring the lack of an audience at this time of day when the public rooms were full of servants and those who would come to petition the Queen in her abundant mercy. I was waiting for him, offering up a final silent prayer at the little jewelled altar with its benignly smiling Virgin when Thomas, offering a coin to the page, walked in.

I had heard his firm footsteps approaching. This time I was prepared.

‘Joan.’ For a long moment, as I turned to face him, he stood and looked at me, then held out his hand. ‘How could I have forgotten that my wife was beautiful?’

His face, bronzed and a little hardened through campaigning, undoubtedly lit with pleasure, which should have pleased me. And it did, flattering as it was. But once the pleasure had been buried, I knew that this was going to be just as difficult as I had envisioned.

‘Thomas.’

I placed my hand in his and angled my cheek for a kiss.

‘Can I not claim your lips? You were my wife when I left. Even though the Blessed Virgin had not sanctified our union.’

‘You have been gone a long time,’ I said, uncertain whether I wished to throw myself into his arms or retreat beyond Philippa’s little prie-dieu. My emotions were all awry. He was all I recalled, dominating the little space with his height and his military air of polished competence, but there had been far too much water under this particular bridge to simply take up where we had left off.

‘A year,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little more.’

The expression on his face had stilled, becoming wary as if he saw a distant troop of horsemen approaching, and he was unsure whether it be friend or foe.

‘Which is a long time for a wife not to hear from her husband.’

Startled at my sharpness, Thomas now regarded me with some indecision. ‘But you knew where I was. You knew my plans. Have you fallen out of love with me already?’

‘No!’ I pressed my fingers to my lips. Here was no time for emotion. ‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what? Do you feel to be a neglected wife? There’s no one to gossip here. The holy saints won’t judge us if I kiss you.’ He pulled me nearer as he bent his head to do just that. Then paused as a pair of feet scuffed the stone paving behind the pillar to my left. Thomas looked up, over my shoulder, the kiss postponed. ‘Will!’ Then back to me. ‘I did not know that we were not alone. Why are we not alone?’ I could all but see his mind working. ‘You arranged this tryst. Why did you bring Will with you?’

Because Will, with a surge of Salisbury authority, had insisted.

‘Yes, I did arrange it. There is a complication,’ I said, scowling at Will who promptly scowled back.

Catching the tone of this exchange: ‘What is it?’ Thomas asked. Then turned to Will. ‘Do you need to be here? Have you become chaperone in my absence? The lady is quite safe in my company.’

Will redirected his scowl from me to Thomas. ‘You should not be kissing her.’

‘Why not? It is perfectly acceptable for a knight to kiss a lady’s cheek.’

‘But not her lips!’

‘I have not yet done so. She has not allowed it.’ Exasperation was setting in. ‘Princess Joan is capable of being her own chaperone. She certainly was when I left. Now, go away, Will.’

At first he had been prepared to smile. But by now, sensing something truly amiss, Thomas’s hands had tightened around mine.

‘You have no right,’ Will said.

‘I have every right. What is it to you?’

My hands were released when I was placed firmly to one side. Thomas was fast abandoning discretion, while Will, grabbing at his courage, stepped out of the shadows until he stood beside us, an unholy triumvirate.

‘I know that you will say that Joan is your wife,’ he challenged.

Thomas’s eyes slid to mine, full of questions. ‘What if I do?’

‘It’s a lie. A filthy lie!’

If Thomas was surprised by Will’s aggression he chose not to respond in kind. ‘You know nothing of what is between this lady and myself.’ He punched Will’s arm, gently enough. ‘If I were you, I’d say nothing that would reflect on her reputation. It would ill-become a knight in the making to sully the good name of a royal lady.’

‘I’ll say what I like. I’ll shout out the truth, even if no one else will.’

‘Enough! You have said enough!’ Thomas took a step forward.

Immediately I was there between them, a bone between two dogs whose hackles were raised, whose teeth were all but displayed in vicious snarls. I prayed the teeth would not be buried in my flesh.

‘Joan?’ Thomas’s eye had narrowed. ‘How much does he know? Have you been indiscreet?’

Whereupon pride stiffened my spine. ‘It does you no credit to accuse me of indiscretion until you know what has occurred in your absence.’

‘Then tell me. I am lost in a fog of accusation and ignorance.’

Will retaliated with a deal of resentment and a torrent of invective. ‘We were all impressed with your fortitude. We lapped up your tales of warfare and courageous deeds, Sir Thomas. But I don’t care how brave you were. I don’t care how notable a figure you would wish to be with the white silk you wear as a banner. I don’t care how many important friends you made on the battlefield. She is not yours to kiss. Joan is my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Thomas laughed, disbelieving. ‘What nonsense is this?’

But I could see the watchfulness in every muscle braced against what was to come. It had to be said.

‘It is true,’ I stated. ‘I am Will’s wife.’

‘What?’ A harsh growl of a whisper.

And so I explained, all in a voice as sleek as the Virgin’s celestial blue robe, which reminded me so sharply of the King’s sworn intent to honour his knights in cloaks of similar hue.

‘It is true, Thomas. I am Will’s wife. We were married by the Bishop of London before the whole court in the chapel at Windsor. Everyone is very pleased. My mother and uncle are delighted at their good fortune in securing this match. The King and Queen promoted it, my royal blood a gift for the loyal Earl of Salisbury, and they smile on us. There is nothing we can do about it. I took my oath. I am Will’s wife.’

Thomas absorbed this severely pruned version of what had occurred in his absence without speech, his hands fallen to his sides, his eye on the altar as if calling for heavenly confirmation. Until I heard him inhale, saw the glint of the low light on the buckle of his belt as he moved, as he erupted into a flare of sheer temper.

‘By the Rood! Is my hearing compromised, as well as my sight? This cannot be.’

‘Most certainly it can be, Sir Thomas.’ Will was not slow in driving the knife once again into the wound. ‘My marriage to Joan is all signed and sealed with royal witnesses. Who witnessed your travesty of a match? I doubt they even exist. I think there was no legality whatsoever in your supposed union. Your return makes no difference to my legal binding with this woman.’ Will almost crowed with the achievement. Perhaps not the most tactful of responses.

Thomas looked at him, the fingers of his right hand now clenching hard on his sword hilt. Then he rounded on me.

‘Why did I not know of this?’

‘How was I to tell you? I did not know where you were.’

I would not admit that I had thought of sending a courier. And abandoned it as a lost cause.

‘How could you allow it to happen?’

Which question I expected. I had no intention of begging for a trite understanding if he chose to heap the blame on my shoulders. But then there was no need for me to find a reason.

‘She had no choice,’ Will leapt in. ‘It was the wish of my family and hers and of the King himself.’

‘Ha! The power of the Salisbury faction, of course. How could I withstand that, even if I had been aware of the skulduggery behind my back!’ Thomas loomed over me again, so that perforce I must look up. Which I did. ‘Does the King know? About our marriage? I presume not, since nothing has been said and he welcomed me back with open arms and promises of friendship. I presume he is as ignorant as I was until two minutes ago.’

No he does not know. What would be the value in bringing royal wrath down on my head. Or on yours. But I would not say it. There was no room for pity here. Instead, once again, I delivered the bare facts.

‘My mother, my uncle Wake, and the Countess of Salisbury simply swore everyone in our households to secrecy. In fact no one but our priest knew, so it was easily done.’ I hesitated, then carried on, face expressionless: ‘They all hoped you would simply not come back.’

‘Your mother hoped I was dead.’

My lack of a response was answer enough. Thomas released his sword hilt, taking a moment to marshal his thoughts and his temper while Will and I exchanged a glance that was more fury than despair.

‘But this marriage to Montagu here is invalid, Joan.’ Thomas had won his battle with pique. ‘It cannot stand before the law.’

‘No, it is not,’ Will continued the flinging down of his gauntlets. ‘It is your marriage that is not legal.’

Thomas’s hand was clenched into a fist, which I feared he might use, when once again I stepped in, gripping Will’s sleeve in a desperation of powerlessness. ‘Yes it is legal, Will. You know it is. Even our priest said it was a marriage per verba de praesenti and quite binding, even if it is a matter for disapproval. You cannot pretend that it is not. It is we that are pretending, Will.’

‘I suppose I should be grateful to hear you admit it,’ Thomas said. ‘So what do we do now, Mistress Joan? Are you Holland or Montagu? Do we live as a threesome, like hawks in a mews? In secrecy? Or do you and I announce our marriage to the world and defy anyone to question it?’

‘Only if you are prepared to include in this little plan a flight across the sea,’ I remarked, waspishness rearing its head. I had not meant to say it, but emotion overcame my best endeavours to remain calm. Thomas Holland was past being calm.

‘I have a better future in mind, and I refuse to abandon my ambitions. But hear this, Joan. I’ll not let you go. I’ll not give you up. Not to either the King or the Earl of Salisbury. You are mine by a well-witnessed exchange of vows. Nothing will change that.’

‘I will deny it,’ Will said.

‘You can deny nothing. This is a declaration of war.’ And then on a thought that pulled his brows together. ‘Has your marriage been consummated?’ Thomas demanded.

Will flushed. I said nothing, causing a bark of unkindly laughter from Thomas.

‘No,’ Will admitted. ‘Yet she is still mine.’

‘God’s Blood! We’ll see about that!’

Thomas strode out of the chapel. Will and I were left looking at each other.

‘He did not take it well,’ Will observed.

‘No, he did not. Did you expect him to? You threw down the gauntlet and Thomas picked it up.’

‘I wish you hadn’t promised him, Joan. I wish you had not got yourself into this mess. Why in heaven’s name did you do it, when it is obvious to me that you don’t have any deep feelings for the man? If you had, you would not have given your assent to wed me at the eleventh hour. Either that or you are frivolous beyond belief.’

The accusation stung. Did I too wish I had not done it? In that aftermath, in the stillness of the little chapel, I did not know. When I refused to answer his savaging of my motives and my character, Will left me there, striding after Thomas, so that I was once more alone with the Virgin and a terrible sense of disappointment. It would not be shaken away. In despair I knelt before the statue, perhaps hoping for some solace. A little beam of sunshine touched the window, then my coifed hair, the warm dust motes dancing in the still air making me sneeze.

And that was it. There I was, back to that day when I had made my promise to Thomas. Experiencing it again, I was no longer sad. I sparkled with doubt and delight and a magnificent defiance, as I had on that day. It was a glorious moment, vivid with colour, even the scents and sounds intruding as they did on that day to awaken my senses. I sat back on my heels, my hands clasped hard in my lap, my fingers intertwined, and allowed it to sweep over me, all over again.

Spring 1340: Ghent

There was Thomas Holland, waiting for me in the angle of the outer wall where a door opened discreetly into the royal mews.

‘Are we alone?’ I asked.

It seemed that we were, to all intents and purposes. His page and squire did not count. The royal falconer had been lured away for an hour by the promise of ale and a handful of small coin.

Thomas nodded, offering his hand. ‘We have time,’ he said.

At his feet, a bundle of armour wrapped in stained cloth, an assortment of swords, and a rough travelling coffer that had seen many campaigns. I noted it, acknowledging that somewhere his horse would be waiting. It all told its own story of how the day would unfurl, but I would not allow the quick slap of loss to mar what we would do together. What we would be together.

The wind whipped around the buttress to ruffle his hair into disarray and shower my veil and cloak with the dead leaves that still caught in corners such as this. Later I thought it might have been an omen but my imagination was too much engaged to look for portents of doom. Every sense was strained. I looked over my shoulder, for I would be missed soon, a servant sent to discover my whereabouts. There was a limit to the lax supervision; I might have been able to snatch more freedom here in Ghent than in Windsor, but princesses of the royal household were not free to wander unescorted.

Or to give their hands and lips where they chose.

Thomas Holland took my hand, his firm as he raised my fingers to his lips and then, drawing me closer, kissed my cheek.

‘You are late. I was in two minds to leave,’ he admitted.

It was not encouraging, but he opened the door and led me into the dusty warmth, the air redolent of straw and fur and bird droppings, but not unpleasantly so. The royal raptors shifted on their perches. A goshawk hunched its displeasure, mewing sharply at the intrusion.

I sneezed.

‘Did you think I would not come?’ I asked, recovering.

‘I wasn’t sure. Perhaps you are still too young to know your own desires.’

‘Is procrastination the preserve of youth?’ It was a phrase I had often heard Queen Philippa use when her children thwarted her wishes. ‘I am old enough to know my own mind.’

He faced me, foursquare, releasing my hand as if he could give me leave to make a bolt for freedom if I so wished.

‘Then say it, Joan. Do you wish it?’

I barely paused.

‘Yes, Thomas. I do wish it.’

Indecision must still have impaired my expression when he had expected nothing but delight. His brows drew together.

‘I am not convinced.’

‘Well, you should be. If my answer were no, I would have hidden until I saw you ride out of the gates on your way to war.’

But how could I not be uncertain? What I desired weighed heavily against the consequences that snarled and snapped at the edge of my determination until it was ragged. What we did here today could not be hidden for ever. Thomas’s voice fell gruffly, not into chivalric declarations of love, which I might have liked, but into legal niceties, which were certainly more pertinent.

‘There is no bar, Joan. There is no impediment to what we will do.’

‘But there is no permission either.’

‘We do not need permission. Only our own desire to take this step.’

‘They would stop us if they knew.’

‘So they do not know. Nor will they. Or not yet. Not until I have made a name that cannot be balked at.’

I did not think he was naive, but it seemed to me that his eye was on the immediate fight, not on the vista of the whole battle. Now he was looking over his shoulder, at his page and squire who had entered and occupied the small space with us and the hunting birds, so closely that the page threatened to stand on my hem.

‘You two are here to witness what we say. You will not speak of it to anyone, until I give you permission to do so.’

‘No, Sir Thomas.’ The squire’s reply was trenchant. The page, simply overawed into silence, shook his head.

‘On your honour,’ Thomas demanded.

‘On my honour,’ the squire repeated. The page gulped.

He turned back to me.

‘A pity you could not bring one of your women with you. She would be a better witness and one not likely to die in battle.’

The page paled.

‘I could, of course. But only if you did not mind it being gossiped from one tower to the next within the half-hour.’

Sometimes men, even much admired men, were highly impractical. I hoped Thomas’s minions were not given to gossip, or were so afraid of his revenge that they would keep their mouths shut. The page’s mouth had fallen open in distress.

Thomas was holding out his palm.

‘Let it be done.’

‘Let it be done,’ I repeated.

I placed my hand in his, palm to palm, my fingers lightly clasped around his wrist, and his closed around mine as he began to speak.

‘This is my intent. Today I am your husband. If you want me as your husband.’

The birds rustled, a fragile-seeming merlin beginning to preen with intensity, while I repeated the words.

‘This is my intent. Today I am your wife. If you want me as your wife.’

‘You have my love and my loyalty and the protection of my body until death claims me.’

‘You have my love and my loyalty and my duty as your wife, until death claims me.’

‘I am your husband of my own free will.’

‘I am your wife, without duress. So I wish it.’

So speaking our intent, we stood and regarded each other. It was not a marriage I had envisioned. Here was no ceremony, no panoply, no festive celebration. My garments were not the lavish extravagance of a bride and Thomas was dressed starkly in wool and leather, fit for travel. No incense, no choir, so flattering candle flames. Here was no royal union, only a simple statement between a man and a woman. If the hawks heard our vows they were entirely unreceptive.

I sneezed again in the close atmosphere. Not the most romantic of gestures.

‘So it is done.’ Releasing my hand, Thomas signalled with a tilt of his chin to the squire and page who made an exit, leaving us alone. ‘It is legal and binding. Except for the consummation.’

Now was no time for hesitation. ‘Where?’ I asked.

With his shoulder he pushed at an inner door that led into the domain of the falconer, where there was a stool, a coffer, a peg to hold a cloak, and a rough cot.

‘It’s the best I could manage.’

He made a bow worthy of the most elegant of courtiers, then closed the door at my back.

So the falconer’s cot with its musty covers – and some feathers – witnessed the fleeting physical union of a Plantagenet princess and a minor knight from the depths of Lancashire. Hearing tuned for every fall of approaching footstep, I later admitted to not enjoying to any degree the overwhelming passion that I had hoped to experience. Instead it was fast and uncomfortable and undignified. I would not admit to the sharp pain, even though I suspected that Thomas was considerate in his urgency, having all the experience that I lacked. The surroundings were not conducive to lingering kisses, the circumstances not engaging to passion. The falconer’s bed with its disreputable mattress made me aware of fleas and mites rather than the culmination of physical longing. Yet my virginity was gently won by a man who said that he loved me.

It had made me his wife.

We set our clothes to rights, which took little time since few had been removed in this briefest of interludes.

‘When will I see you again?’ I asked.

‘When I have made my fortune.’

‘When will you tell the King?’

‘When he is in the mood to listen. I had hoped immediately.’ Thomas, thoughtful if somewhat inept, was helping me to secure my veil, brow creased in concentration. My firmly plaited hair had barely been disturbed. ‘Unfortunately, as it is he’ll give me short shrift so I’ll not risk a blast of temper.’

I did not argue. Edward was not in the best frame of mind to listen to anything other than finance and war against the bloody French.

Leaving me to make a better fist with my veil, Thomas fastened the buckle of his belt, stooping to collect the sword that had been placed against the wall. ‘Edward admires courage and initiative.’ He shrugged a little. ‘If I earn a reputation for bold resourcefulness, I don’t think he will be slow in giving this marriage his support. And now I must go.’

He kissed me on his way to the door, for that was the truth of it. He was a soldier, with no other means of earning his bread or a reputation. I had known how it would be, but perhaps I had not expected to be abandoned so precipitately almost before I had donned my cloak, with one final word of advice.

‘You are not to speak of this, Joan. It is my place to tell the King, not yours. He may be your cousin, but I’ll not have his wrath turned against you.’ And then, unexpectedly stern: ‘I worship the ground that you tread, little princess.’

As if to prove it, he dropped to one knee, lifting my hem and pressing it to his lips.

‘You do know what they will say, don’t you? That I wed you only because you are the King’s cousin. That I shame my knightly calling.’ His face uplifted to mine was unexpectedly grave, the lines between his brows savagely wrought.

‘I know it. But I know the truth,’ I assured him.

‘I want you for yourself. Never forget that.’

Then while I was recovering from so unexpected a piece of courtliness, Thomas had risen, bowed with his fist against his heart and made his departure.

What was left for me? I climbed to the tower to watch him ride away to join the King’s military force, complete with his armour and weapons and travelling coffer, his page and squire in attendance and a small retinue at his back. I had a husband. I was married to Sir Thomas Holland. I was now Lady Holland. He would go to war and I would return to England with the Queen’s household.

I thought that I might weep at this precipitous loss; it had, after all, been an emotional day. But I did not, for there was no grief in me. An exasperation perhaps, a longing, a momentary flash of panic, like the sun against the metal of Thomas’s helm, but that was short lived. The household within which I lived would remain in ignorance until a better time. I hoped, all things considered, that I was not carrying his child. If so, the consequences would crash over my head sooner than I expected.

I had no desire to be subject to Edward’s wrath.

***

In Philippa’s chapel at Havering-atte-Bower, the beam of sunlight moved, blinding me for a moment with rainbow brilliance, bringing me back to the present. Deciding that it would be better if I were not discovered here – although it would be easy enough to concoct a reason that would not be questioned – I stood, smoothed my skirts – no feathers here – and walked to the door. Where I paused, looking back at the serenity of the Virgin, all the old questions forcing their way into my thoughts to disturb and destroy my certainties.

Why had I defied my mother and the King to marry a lowly household knight, rejecting some puissant marriage that was planned for me? Never had I been asked that one question, except by Will in a fit of pique, not expecting me to explain. Why had I done something so reprehensible, so contrary to my upbringing, treading a path so shocking that it would set the court into a blaze of malicious chattering? I had wed a man with nothing to recommend him other than a handy sword in battle and a handsome face, a man with neither money nor family nor influence. Why would I be persuaded to throw away a future of pre-eminence as wife of some great magnate or European prince, a foolish step that would seem beyond comprehension?

I walked slowly back to kneel once more before the Blessed Virgin, choosing possibilities as I had so many times before, rejecting most of them as of no account.

Thomas had barely wooed me, possessing no troubadour skills to awaken the yearning of a woman for a lover. The arts of courtly love had passed him by. It had been a soldier’s wooing, plain and unembellished. ‘Tell me the name of a knight who would not willingly kneel at your feet.’ The most dramatic declaration to fall from Thomas’s lips. He was not given to flights of fancy or romantic gestures, but it had not mattered. I had not needed them.

I had known that my mother would oppose this union. Was this a true reason, to thwart her dreams in a fit of immature defiance? I thought not, although there was an attraction in such subversion. I could not quite reject the tingle of excitement when I knew that I had stood against my mother, destroying any plans she might have been carefully knitting together for my future.

Did I love Thomas Holland? Was it love, my senses overcome by a youthful infatuation, that drove me to launch myself into so foolhardy an act? Did I know enough about love to give myself into his hands when all about us would cry foul against both of us, and against him, for seducing a young and royal maid? But I had not been seduced. I had not been persuaded against my will. I had not been an unwilling bride. I could never shift the blame to other shoulders than my own wilfulness. A woman growing up in a royal court grew up fast. I knew well my own mind.

I studied the star-crowned Virgin, the grave face that looked down on me with her enigmatic smile, full of compassion, as if I would find an answer there, and indeed I did, although it was already resident in my own heart.

I loved him. Thomas Holland had claimed my heart and I had willingly given it. When he had left me it had hurt my heart, a frenzied fluttering like a moth against a night shutter.

It was undoubtedly love for the man who had taken me out of the confined household of royal children, addressing me as a woman who might have the safekeeping of his own heart, even if he would never use such poetic terms. I was moved to desire his face, his superb stature. I looked with favour on his skills, as I applauded his ambition. He would become a great knight, as famous as Sir Galahad. He would be lauded, hung about with rewards, and I would be his wife. He was a man, experienced and confident, where those around me were still mere youths, untried and without polish. He had stirred my emotions into a flame that lit every corner of my existence.

But there was a canker in the perfect fruit, born of my own experience and my mother’s warning. Was Thomas attracted by my royal blood as a path to greater ambitions? I was considered a valuable bride in the Monatgu marriage; I would be doubly valuable to Sir Thomas Holland.

It was not a worthless thought. Those with a cynical turn of mind, or even a worldly one, would say that Thomas Holland had an eye to the future, catching a willing princess as a trout would catch a mayfly. The Earl and Countess of Salisbury had been keen to snatch me up; would not Thomas Holland show equal desire to tie my future to his own self-seeking side? It could be that his plain words spoken in the mews hid the scheming of a man who sought earthly greatness through the blood of his wife, opening many doors for him, or would have if I had gone to him with royal blessing. It could be that Thomas Holland would have wed me had I been the most ill-visaged princess in Europe rather than Joan the Fair. It could be that I had been trapped, against my better judgement. If that was so, then I would be well rid of him if I rejected Thomas in favour of Will. If I allowed my love to wither and die, choking it with bitter recrimination.

But I had not been trapped. I was as much to blame as Thomas for this predicament.

‘Is Thomas Holland nothing but a knave?’ I asked the Virgin.

Despite her silence, I did not think so. All I saw in him was a grave honesty. What I did think, as I left the Virgin to her tranquillity, was that we would both be in disgrace when this debacle fell at the feet of the King and Queen.

I would be no one’s path to greatness.