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Chapter Two

A hot barrage of question, denial and opinion was levelled at me from mother and uncle, all of which I attempted to answer as Countess Catherine had the good sense to shut the servants out of the chamber, relieving them first of the wine.

‘What possesses you to make so outrageous a claim?’

‘It is no mere claim. It is the truth.’

‘And you have said nothing? All these months?’

‘We thought it would be politic to say nothing, until Sir Thomas returns from the war.’

‘This is naught but a mess of lies, Joan. Have you no sense of morality?’

To which I would not respond.

‘An exchange of foolhardy kisses and foolishly romantic promises, I expect.’

It was more than that. Far more. I thought it was not wise to say so. Countess Catherine was simply looking from one to the other. Lady Elizabeth hid her mouth with gnarled hands. Will smirked.

‘This gets us nowhere.’ Finally my mother raised her hands and her voice in exasperation. ‘Speak to her, Father Oswald. We need to know the truth.’

The priest thus beckoned, so that we moved a little away to the end of the chamber where our only audience was from the stitched birds and hunting dogs, all keen eyes, teeth and claws which seemed uncommonly prescient. He bent his head, his tone a holy reprimand although his eyes were kind. I had known him since I had known anyone in my mother’s household. I might even hope for compassion here, unless he lectured me on the penalty for sin. He held a parchment and the recovered pen as if to note down all my foolishness that made my claim invalid.

‘My daughter. You must indeed tell me the truth, as if you were in confession. Come now, no one can hear us. I am sure that you are mistaken. What has this young man said to you, that makes you think that you are wed?’

It was so easy to answer.

‘He asked me to be his wife. And I agreed.’

‘But there were no banns called, no priest to give his blessing. How can this be so, then, that you think that you are his wife?’

I knew exactly how it could be so.

‘We made our vows together. We were married because we expressed a wish to marry. We spoke them aloud and there are witnesses to it. Thomas said it would be legal and I know that it is.’

He looked at me, worry on his brow, and lowered his voice further. ‘Were you forced, my dear? You must say if you were. There would be no blame on your head if it was against your will, persuaded by an ambitious young man against your better judgement.’ The tips of his fingers touched my cheek in compassion. ‘Was that the case?’

I thought about the wedding. There had been no force at all. I had been a willing bride.

‘No, Father. There was no compulsion. He did not have to persuade me.’

‘What did you say to this young man?’

I thought back over the six months, and repeated as nearly as I could recall, what I had said to Thomas and what he had said to me.

‘Ah ...!’ Father Oswald nodded.

‘It is legal, is it not, Father?’ I asked as he fell into an uncomfortable line of thought, his face falling into even graver lines.

Upon which he flushed. ‘It could well be. But… ‘ He hesitated, then said, more brightly: ‘But, of course. There is another matter to be considered for true legality. The matter of consummation. Without this, there is no marriage at all, my dear girl, no matter what vows were spoken.’

My gaze was steady on his, admitting no embarrassment. ‘Our marriage is consummated.’

‘Are you certain? You are barely of an age to be wed.’ His cheeks were aflame. ‘It may be that you are not quite aware of what…’

‘Yes, Father. I am certain. I am well aware of what is required for consummation and it is more than a quick kiss. And I am of an age to be wed.’

Father Oswald fretted, his fingers tearing at the quill so that it was all but destroyed. He had written nothing. ‘Even so… Your lady mother will not like this. For all sorts of reasons.’ He looked back over his shoulder, to where my mother and uncle were in deep conversation with a distraught Countess of Salisbury, and Will looking merely bored. ‘Where is he now, the young man in question?’

‘Fighting somewhere in Europe. When I last heard.’

There was a faint easing of the consternation.

‘And you have not heard from him for six months?’

‘No, Father.’

‘So it may well be that…’

I did not want to guess at what he was thinking. Six months of silence from a man engaged in warfare could mean any number of things. Mentally I swept them aside, for it was a path my mind had long followed of late.

‘Sir Thomas assured me that the vows were binding,’ was all I would say. ‘He assured me that I am his wife.’

‘I am afraid that I agree with him.’ The priest sighed, took me by the hand and led me back to the lowering group who had resorted to finishing the flagon of wine.

‘Well?’ My mother faced us, demanding and expecting a retraction.

‘She speaks the truth, my lady,’ Father Oswald pronounced with all the authority of Holy Mother Church invested in him. ‘She and the young knight are married. Not in the manner that the Holy Father would smile on, but it is a lawful union and it is in my mind that it will stand up as such in any court.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It is so, my lady.’ The priest was proud to display his erudition dropping into impressive Latin. ‘A marriage per verba de praesenti.’ He was nervous but pursuing, sure of his legal grounds. ‘The young people expressed their intentions. In the present tense you understand, and before witnesses. I regret but it is a binding union.’ He turned his regard to me. ‘Who are the witnesses, Mistress Joan? You did not say.’

‘Never mind the witnesses. What about the consummation?’ My uncle Wake, beyond any sensitivity.

‘It was, by your niece’s own words, consummated.’

‘But it can be annulled.’

‘No, my lord, it cannot.’ Father Oswald was adamant, enjoying his moment of authority. ‘The marriage has been consummated. It was entered into willingly and with no duress. There is no room for annulment here, despite the lady’s young age. Unfortunately, a consummation makes the oath doubly binding. If that had not occurred, there may have been room for an annulment. As it is, my lord, on the word of the lady here present…’

If there was silence before on my first pronouncement, it was doubly so now.

My wrist was instantly transferred from the priest’s gentle hand once more to my mother’s fierce grip, hot with a barely controlled fury.

‘I will remedy this.’ She swept the room with a regard designed to intimidate. ‘The arrangements for this Salisbury marriage are by no means in abeyance. I suggest that you discuss this with no one until the matter is settled, one way or another.’ The glint in her eye settled on Will who looked to be about to burst with a need to tell all. ‘It would be wise to keep this from any ears but our own. And now Mistress Joan…’

I was led from the room with far less grace than I was brought into it.

Looking over my shoulder before the door was closed at my back, I saw that the faint air of malice or boredom in equal measure had been wiped from Will’s face. Almost I could read sympathy there. It made me feel no better. Now I had to withstand my mother’s displeasure, as I had always known I must. In that moment I wished that I had confessed my marriage to my mother when it was first done. I had chosen otherwise because I had envisioned it being when I decided would be the best time, of my own free will, most crucially with my new husband at my side to plead my case and smooth over any unpleasantness. I had expected Thomas to be somewhere at least close, with his feet in the same realm. Now I was alone, Thomas Holland wielding sword and lance against the infidel in Lithuania in the name of the Teutonic Knights, where he would have no idea of the repercussions of our wilful actions for me in England. Thomas was not one for either reading or writing letters.

Now, alone, I must face the drums and trumpets of my mother’s wrath.

I had misjudged the situation. I should not have allowed myself to be left in so vulnerable a position; rather I should have insisted that we announce the deed when it was done rather than let time pass by. It was enough to make me vow, silently, as I matched my footsteps with the staccato beats of my mother’s flat soles, that I would never again act against my better judgement. I would never allow myself to be persuaded to renounce what I knew to be in my best interests.

Was this the decision of a selfish young woman? It was. I knew it and had no compunction in making my private vow. I had learnt from my mother that a woman had to keep her wits and her desires sharp if she were to follow the path of her own choosing. My mother, led into treachery by the man she loved, had been left to make what she could of her life without him. I would do better. It was always better to rely on oneself rather than on the promises of a man, however attractive he might be.

But now all I felt was fear. I might appear undaunted, indomitable even, but what would be the outcome? It was beyond my ability to foresee. Would my mother be able to force me into compliance with her wishes? I feared that she would.

It was in my mind to resist, to deny, to refuse.

Blessed Virgin! Give me wisdom and strength to follow my own path.

‘Where is he? Where is the despicable cur who lured you into this abominable contract? This rogue who inveigled you into rank scandal that will shake the foundations of our family?’

My uncle, who had accompanied us, invited or not, his anger crackling across the room like a summer storm as soon as the door was closed, turned on me as if he and I together could conjure Thomas Holland into being. His face was suffused with a venom that reverberated outward to the walls and back again. I could taste it on my lips.

My uncle’s fingers stretched and fisted, his hair hung dull and lax in disarray on his brow.

‘Where is he? I swear he will face the wrath of the King who will strip him of his knighthood before he can step out of his boots on English soil. This is no act of chivalry worthy of a knight, to take a young woman to his marriage bed without the consent of parent, of guardian or priest. He will answer for this.’ He turned on me, looming over me, all attempts at controlling his speech failing. ‘I presume he did discover a marriage bed for you to honour this travesty.’ His lips twisted. ‘Or was consummation nothing but a quick fumble behind a pillar or a squalid hanging, as if you were a servant and knew no better. Or even an act of rape…’

‘Tom…’ my mother warned.

But he was past warning. ‘Holland will answer for this,’ he repeated. ‘I will hunt him down…’

I stood between mother and uncle, bearing the weight of their joint disgust. There would be no compassion here. But then, I could expect none. My choice that day, my own choice, for Thomas had not inveigled me into anything I had not wished with my whole heart, had tottered on the edge of propriety. On the edge of scandalous impropriety. I had always known what was the expectation for me, and I had thrown it away. Willingly. With heartfelt joy.

There was no joy between these four walls. I could see no joy at any point in the future, near or far. Well, I had done it. No point in retreating now.

I spoke a flat, easy denial, of the one fact in all this complicated weave of which I was quite certain. ‘Thomas Holland did not inveigle me, sir.’

It was not so difficult, I decided, being aware of a surge of courage. My spine was as straight as a Welsh arrow, my chin raised, my hands loose at my sides. I was Plantagenet, the blood of kings in my veins, and I would not be cowed by my uncle. I would not be reduced under his displeasure to a trembling puddle of regret and repentance. Queen Philippa had tried her best to instil in me some of her gentleness but to no avail. It was not in my nature. I called on that spirit of rebellion now, even as I vowed to keep my temper under close rein.

‘He must have.’ My uncle dismissed my calm assertion with a slice of his hand through the air. ‘It must have been against your will, for, before God, such an act was against every moral tenet of your upbringing.’

‘It was not against my will. I wished it. We both did.’

‘You were not raised to be a whore, Joan.’

His lip curled as, disbelieving, I felt the flush of humiliation high on my cheekbones. I was no whore.

‘You married this man of no birth, of no family, without permission. How could you be so maladroit?’

So my good intentions died a rapid death. Anger, stoking the humiliation of being branded a whore, spurred me into unfortunate retaliation. ‘I am not the first member of this family to wed without permission, sir.’

My mother froze. My uncle burned with ire. This was obviously a day for sharp silences. I did not wait for their response, continuing with the righteousness I felt in my bones, first to my mother:

‘You married my father without his brother, the King’s, permission, madam. The King was not pleased, as I have heard. And you sir,’ I held my uncle’s eye, ‘married Blanche of Lancaster without her father’s permission. In the light of such impropriety, it is not appropriate for you to take me to task for doing exactly the same.’

Perhaps not the wisest of moves to brave these two furious lions in their den. But it was true. Neither marriage had been well received, both denigrated because of the Wake family’s lack of sufficient grandeur.

My uncle pounced on the the weakness in my own argument.

‘Not appropriate? Your mother’s husband was a King’s son. My wife was daughter of an Earl. We chose well. We made good marriages. This man that you have tied yourself to is not worthy of our consideration. Your argument is specious, Joan.’

‘But at least I cannot be accused of overweening ambition, sir. I wed Thomas Holland for his own qualities. I have heard it said that you and my mother had nothing but your pre-eminence in mind. I am not guilty of self-aggrandisement.’

For the briefest of moments I thought he would strike me, yet I stood my ground. Then my mother picked up the gauntlet and stepped onto the battleground.

‘Leave us, Tom.’

‘Not until we’ve shaken some sense into your daughter.’

‘If there is any shaking to be done, it will not be done by you. Now go away and leave her to me.’

Ungraciously he went. No sooner was the door slammed behind him than the onslaught began again, each word carefully enunciated in her wrath.

‘Do you not realise what you have done? How outrageously thoughtless you have been? You know the ambitions that drive young men of no particular blood or background. You know what they will venture, to find a niche for themselves, to gain land and power, and you have played so magnificently into this man’s hands. I know who he is. A younger son, with no inheritance of any merit, a knight of no importance from some insignificant estate in the north if I recall the matter. One of the household knights with a life to make for himself, a handsome face and a soldier’s agility, but no prospects other than those he might win on the battlefield. His father was notable for a despicable default in loyalty on the battlefield, leading to his murder by his erstwhile friends. And you have been wilful enough to ally yourself with such a family, wasting your royal blood on a man without name or fortune.’

She stopped, but only to draw breath. Yet before she could continue, in pure self defence:

‘So was my father executed as a traitor,’ I said.

It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong time to say it, even though there was no doubting it. Whereas my uncle had restrained himself, my mother lashed out with her hand, catching me with a flat blow against my cheek that made me stagger. She had never struck me before. Verbally yes, but never with such physicality. I read her anger in the engraved lines of her face, as I refused to raise my hand to register the raw impact of the blow. Instead I simply stood and faced her, eyes wide on hers.

‘Your father was pardoned,’ she said, as if the violence had never occurred. ‘His reputation and his name were wiped clean from the filth of treachery by King Edward himself.’

‘You were involved also, madam.’ The outline of her hand still smarted, so I gave no quarter, whatever the wisdom of it. ‘Were you exonerated too?’

‘Your defiance is unacceptable.’

My whole body tensed, until my mother grasped at her dignity, threading her fingers together, moderating her tone.

‘You know that I was. And you too, or you would not have been given the honour of royal status in the queen’s household.’ Her fury might be under control but she had still not finished with me. ‘Are you so credulous? I did not think a daughter of mine would fall into the hands of a man of no distinction, like a ripe plum into his palm. All he saw was an indiscreet girl with royal connections who could pave his way to some place in the royal court, opening the doors to patronage and wealth and royal preferment. How could you have been so immeasurably foolish?’

‘Thomas did not want me for patronage and preferment.’

‘Do you say?’ Her mouth twisted in an unmistakable sneer. ‘He must be the only man in the realm who would not!’

It had more than crossed my own mind, yet still I believed that Thomas Holland saw more in me than a path to royal approval. Love was a powerful bonding.

‘Joan!’ My mother, abandoning accusation, fell back on a false softness. ‘Tell me that he persuaded you with honeyed words. If that is so, this marriage can be annulled before anyone else is the wiser.’

I could not imagine Thomas using honeyed words. Thomas was a soldier, not a troubadour, his knowledge of songs limited to those a troop of militia might roar round a campfire after victory. Or possibly those employed by harlots in a camp brothel to seduce the coin from a soldier’s purse.

‘I was not persuaded,’ I said, ‘if you mean lured into impropriety against my will. I gave my full and free consent. I wished to be married to him. I love him. And he loves me.’

But she would not let the battle lapse, driving on with all force. ‘You knew it would be unacceptable. So did he. Did he persuade you to such subterfuge? If he was a man of chivalry, a true knight, he would not have wed you in secret.’

‘We knew you would not support it. We had no choice.’

‘You knew well! I wanted this Montagu marriage, as did the King. Our future would be safe, secure, our inheritance inviolable from attack. Your children would be Earls of Salisbury. I could not believe our good fortune when the Montagu connection looked in your direction.’

I frowned a little.

‘But who would attack our inheritance? The King has restored all our father’s lands to us. John’s ownership as Earl of Kent is unquestioned.’

Were we not safe enough now that the Mortimer treachery had been so ruthlessly stamped out? The King had openly forgiven my father’s involvement in the plot to undermine his power. It was all so long ago in the past. I could not truly understand why my mother should still feel so insecure.

‘I was not given authority over all the estates. A permanent punishment, a constant reminder that I must watch my step.’ Oh, she was aggrieved, and not only towards me. ‘Who’s to know what the King might be moved to take from us if displeased? How do we read the future?’ She turned away as if the sight of me was anathema. ‘What do we do now? Accept it? Father Oswald was plain that it was a legal binding if you exchanged vows and with witnesses. How do we circumvent such an appalling outcome? And you confirmed that it was consummated…’

On a thought she whipped round, her whole expression arrested. ‘That’s it! Did he force you, before the marriage? Was that how it was? Are you carrying his misbegotten child, so that you must wed him?’ Her eyes travelled over the flat expanse below my girdle as if she would delight in seeing evidence of my sin. ‘No, of course you could not. When did this travesty take place? May? And as he has not been in England since to my knowledge, it’s a specious argument.’ I could feel my face flame, whereas my mother’s was still full of a bright but false hope. ‘Yet if he did force you, it would provide grounds for an annulment.’

I read uncharitable anticipation there. My mother would willingly discuss my rape if it could sever the terrible bond with Thomas Holland.

‘He did not force me. I did not wed him to save my reputation. I will not cry rape.’

My mother’s accusations lurched into a different track as she strode the length of the chamber and then back again. ‘Were you so carelessly chaperoned? I cannot believe that the Queen would allow the young women of her household such license. We will send for Holland. We will make him retract his words, the whole disgraceful debacle. We will know the truth.’

‘You cannot send for him,’ I said, wishing that she could, wishing that I could.

My mother once more stood before me. ‘Why not? Where is he? We are not at war. There is a truce. Where is this bold knight who besmirched your reputation but leaves you alone to face the world with the repercussions of your mistakes.’

I told her what I knew. It was not much. ‘He has gone, I think, to Prussia. There was an appeal from the Holy Father and the Teutonic Knights…’

I was interrupted. ‘A crusade? A knight who follows the cross? God was far from his thoughts in this recent venture. He is mired in sin.’ Then once again my mother’s eyes lit with a sudden realisation. ‘When did you last have news of him?’

‘He left after we were wed, in spring.’

‘And now it is October. Have you heard from him since?’

‘No.’ I could read the direction of her thoughts as if they were bathed in golden sunlight, rather than hidden in the black shadow of loss for me. Had I not thought of this possibility, again and again?

Her fingers tapped against her girdle. ‘Six months, with no news. Do you suppose that he is dead? It would solve the problem with no more need for our anxiety.’ She scowled at me when I made no reply, for how could I? My heart was sore with the foretaste of death on some distant battlefield. Already his body might be reduced to a carrion-stripped carcase, and I not know of it.

‘Yes. That is it,’ my mother was saying, her voice becoming smooth in her certainty. ‘He is dead. Nor do I admit the legality of a form of words, whatever the priest’s opinion. There is a way out of this, for all of us.’ She took my hand, more gently now. ‘You will forget this man. You will forget this day, and the day that you claim you exchanged facile promises. The details of your marriage to William Montagu will be formalised between myself and the Countess of Salisbury, and it will happen.’

I heard her instructions but I would not obey.

‘I will not wed William Montagu,’ I said.

‘You will be there at the altar and you will give your consent.’

‘I will not. I cannot. My holy vow is given elsewhere.’

‘You will do as I, your mother, command.’

When she released me I closed my hand hard over Isabella’s reliquary.

‘In the sight of God I am wife of Sir Thomas Holland. I cannot, I will not, wed William Montagu.’

My holy vow is given elsewhere, I had said. I love Thomas Holland, I had said. Was this true, that my heart resided in the keeping of a poor knight on some distant battlefield in Prussia? In those days, love seemed far distant from me, so distant that it sat on my conscience. Was I so shallow, so superficial that I should doubt that love as soon as its power was challenged?

I did not think that I was shallow. I would swear before the Blessed Virgin that my heart had been given honestly and lastingly.

That was not the end to it. I never thought it would be, rather it would be a matter of whose will proved the stronger, mine or the combined weight of the Wake and Montagu families. Furthermore, more persuasive than all the rest, did not this marriage have the blessing of the King himself? I would have to gird myself like any knight to wage this war of attrition, to withstand the siege of my will and my senses.

Or no. This was no siege at all, rather a relentless campaign. It was not a matter of wearing down my assertions in respect of my wedded state. My mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury simply rode roughshod over all legal and personal denials. I would wed William Montagu as soon as we could be brought before the altar with the banns called and a priest, ignorant of the true state of affairs, sufficiently acquiescent to record our vows before God.

But I had witnesses, even though they were crusading with Thomas, and some might say their witnessing worthlessly obscure. Yet did I not have the family priest who had declared my marriage valid even though not officially blessed? Would he stand me in no good stead? My mother snapped her fingers in dismissal when, once again, the relevant families met together and I raised my well-versed, frequently voiced objections.

‘You have no witnesses, Joan. It is an invalid act. The priest was mistaken.’

I tried no more. What had my mother done, I wondered, to be so certain of her victory? Bribed the priest? Warned him to hold his tongue on pain of dismissal? With my mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury united in a determination to tie the nuptial knot between myself and William, the triumvirate once more embarked on detailed discussion, while, drawing him aside, as a betrothed had the right to do, I tested the water with William.

‘Do you want me as your wife, Will?’

If he objected, then there was hope.

‘I don’t see why not.’ He looked at me warily but with good humour. ‘I know your temper, and how to avoid it. And you are very pretty.’

‘I have no fortune to bring as a dowry.’

I had practised every detrimental argument.

‘You have royal blood. My mother hopes that the King will dower you substantially.’

‘The King is short of money. His foreign matters against France do not prosper, pinned down as he is with sieges of towns that have no intention of surrendering. I doubt he can dower me to any degree.’

William looked at me with owlish bewilderment, his brows forming astonished arcs. He did not believe me. William did not listen to court gossip as much as I.

‘I cannot love you,’ I said.

I liked him well enough. With his equable demeanour, he would make some woman an excellent and devoted husband.

William grinned, a sudden lightening of his rather heavy countenance. ‘My mother says that you will grow to love me. As I will grow to love you. I can sing you songs of love and devotion.’

‘You, Will, cannot sing at all, unless you call that raven-like croak singing. And you do not love me.’

‘No, but I will be a chivalrous knight. Not like Holland who wed you, bedded you and fled the country.’

I wondered where he had discovered that particular comment. Probably, from the polite tone, from his mother. Not from Lord Wake who tended to be crude in these matters.

‘Thomas will come back.’

‘My mother says he is dead.’

I felt a lick of temper heat my blood. ‘So does mine. Just wishful thinking on their part. And on yours. If you were not a creature of straw, you would support me and refuse my hand.’

‘I’m no creature of straw, and there’s no point in your taking out your vexation on me, Joan. I am impervious.’

Irritated beyond measure, I tried the final throw of the matrimonial dice. ‘Listen to me, Will, not to your mother.’ I shook his fur-cuffed sleeve for emphasis. ‘If my marriage to Thomas is valid, as the priest says, then mine to you would be invalid. Any heir I bore you would be illegitimate. Any son born between us could never be Earl of Salisbury when you are dead, and there would be terrible scandal. What would you think of that?’

His grin fading, Will flushed as bright as a cider apple, but he replied readily enough. ‘My mother says that we will not live as man and wife for the next few years. By then any legal problems will have been smoothed out. Besides, Joan, our marriage will be valid. There will be no scandal, and you must not say anything that would rouse a breath of it. If you do, they will punish you, you know.’ And then, his brows meeting above his nose: ‘They’ll probably punish me too, for not stopping you from spreading false rumour. I wouldn’t like that.’

He had been well schooled. And there at the end the hint of a threat. When he patted my arm in a clumsy fashion, as if that would make all well, an unpleasant helplessness gnawed at my determination to hold out. Will would simply go along with the family demands and plans. There was no hope of escape for me here.

I released myself from the patting and went to stand at the window so that I might look out towards the east. I thought of sending Thomas a letter, paying a courier to deliver it. But how to find him in the vast expanses of Prussia with the Teutonic knights. And even if I did, would he drop his weapons and ride hotfoot back to England? I would like to think that he would. I prayed that he would. I needed help and time was running out.

I saw more of my mother in those next weeks than I had in all the previous years of my life since Queen Philippa had been so touched by compassion at our situation that she took us under her wing. There my mother had been content to leave me during her extensive travels; now, with the need to bring the marriage to its conclusion, her lectures were long and detailed. And so I listened to my mother’s instructions of what was required of me, standing firm under the pinching fingers of the sempstresses whose task was the sewing of a gown fitting for a future Countess of Salisbury, the rich cloth a present from the Queen.

Meanwhile I survived the clipped animadversions, on which pertinent facts from my past I should forget and pretend never happened. I absorbed the detailed disclosures of what would be my life after this marriage; a wife but not a wife. We would live separately, I completing my lessons and acquiring court polish while William continued to hone his skills for warfare to follow in the footsteps of his gallant father. We would probably be granted money and an estate by the King, in recognition of our married state, for our new household.

I would hold fast to the undoubted fact that I was a virgin. I would never voice the possibility that this was not so.

There were no difficulties foreseen.

‘We will make no fuss about this little matter of Thomas Holland,’ my mother completed her lecture as if the sempstresses did not exist. ‘The least said the better. There will be no washing of the dirty linen of your making in public. Once the marriage to the Montagu heir is witnessed under the auspices of Holy Mother Church, by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself if we can get him, then we can all breathe a sigh of relief. No hint of scandal must reach Edward and Philippa. What they do not know they will not worry about. It is a blessing that they are both still in Flanders.’ Philippa and Edward were still together in Ghent in the aftermath of the French truce. My mother almost smiled. ‘The war against France has an unlooked-for benefit.’

To which I replied on every occasion, when I was allowed to break the flow.

‘I will not marry William. I am already the wife of Thomas Holland, before the law and before God.’

My mother never struck me again, whatever the provocation, and there was much, even though I stood in silence to hear her pronouncements and agreed that the gown with its carved buttons and embroidered hem was superb. She merely ignored what I said as beneath her notice and covered any reticence with her own cold certainty. I would marry as my family instructed, as any well brought up daughter would accept the duty of obedience.

And what did those who gathered in our chamber at Windsor think of my good fortune? Here with the princesses Isabella and Joan, with my own brother John, with Ned and Will and baby Lionel, my marriage to Will was accepted as a natural development of the King’s wish to reward the Earl. Will was sworn to secrecy under what threats I could not imagine since, unnervingly, he kept as silent as a Thames oyster.

‘Although I would never marry a man of my father’s choice if I did not like him,’ Isabella announced. ‘But of course you like William.’

‘You would marry exactly whom your father instructed you to marry,’ I said, patience wearing thin. But yes I did like William. That was one of the problems. I was in no mind to hurt him or tip coals of fire over his head. He must not be punished for my sins.

‘Of course, I will not marry a man unless I have formed a lasting passion for him.’ Isabella was not deterred.

‘Then I wish you well. I presume that you will take the veil when you reach your thirtieth year and your schemes have fallen flat.’

‘But they will not. I have every intention of capturing a lover who will kneel at my feet in adoration.’

‘If I might suggest, then, do not lend your reliquary to anyone. You will have constant need of it.’

Oh, I was ruffled beyond bearing.

‘I’ll not lend it to you again!’ Then Isabella’s sharpness softened, but I should have known better than to believe that I was forgiven. ‘The problem is, Joan, that you are incapable of forming a lasting passion for anyone but yourself.’

She left precipitately before I could think of a suitable rejoinder.

Notwithstanding such minor clashes, all accepted that we would be wed after the New Year and we would all rejoice. Except for Ned who took a moment from riding at the quintain, his hair plastered with sweat to his skull, still clad in mismatched elements of his armour.

‘Does Lady Margaret force you to marry against your will, Jeanette?’

Of them all, it seemed that he had seen the anxiety that I had thought well hidden. It surprised me. Ned noticed very little that did not appertain to his own rank and importance or to his future ambition on the battlefield. Also, of them all, he still sometimes addressed me by my childhood nursery name. I did not mind it, from the Prince, the heir to the throne, and for one moment of weakness I considered telling him the truth, until treading that idea firmly underfoot. It was not as if he could do anything to remedy my situation, and he would have forgotten about it after another five minutes in the tilt yard. I would not burden his kindness with an answer.

‘Why?’ Still I was interested in why he should think so.

‘You are quieter than usual.’

So I must remember to chatter mindlessly, to deflect suspicion. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I am not under duress.’

He did not believe me. ‘I understand that you have to marry. Girls do.’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have expected it. Why should it worry you? And Will’s not some disgusting old knight with greasy fingers.’

I wrinkled my nose. There were many I could name who might fit that description. ‘No.’

‘You could marry me. If you do not wish to marry Will.’ For a long moment he stared down his nose at me, registering my reaction, which had been less than flattering. ‘No, you could not, of course. My father looks for a princess from Europe with money and connections and a powerful family. There are any number to choose from.’

Which made me laugh.

‘Who is it this week?’

‘Well, it was the daughter of King Philip of France. Now I think my father has changed his mind. It is to be Margaret, daughter of Duke John of Lorraine and Brabant.’ He studied me with some speculation. ‘You, Jeanette, are probably prettier than both – not that I have seen them – but sadly you cannot hold a candle to either of them in the round of marriage negotiations.’

Which might be true, but not gratifying to hear. ‘I am a princess,’ I remarked.

‘True,’ Ned agreed. ‘A princess with no money, no influence and your father’s mistakes behind you. I need a powerful family with an army at its back and a fortune in its coffers.’

‘Whereas my brother the Earl is younger than I, so hardly likely to ride to my rescue, or yours, in moments of danger,’ I considered. ‘And I doubt his treasure coffers match your expectations.’

Ned thought about this, scratching his fingers through his drying hair so that it stood up in spikes. ‘I would,’ he said, enigmatically.

‘Would what?’

‘Ride to your rescue, of course.’

‘Of course you would.’ My heart suddenly warm within my chest, I hugged him and he allowed it. He had an affection for me, as I had for him.

‘We could not wed anyway.’ I planted a kiss on his moist brow. ‘We are well connected within the bounds of consanguinity. Your great-grandfather is my great-grandfather too.’

‘I know that. But then, I am related to almost everyone. We would get a papal dispensation. It’s not impossible.’

‘You are very kind.’ He was. My heart jumped a little at his thoughtfulness. ‘But your mother and father would not like it. Neither would William.’

‘William would not care. I would give him one of my tournament horses. He would like that just as well as a bride.’

Which was probably true. It put an end to the discussion which had become frivolous.

‘I will dance at your wedding, Jeanette.’

But I would not. It was not in my heart to dance.

The day appointed for my union with the Salisbury heir was growing closer. The banns were called without a breath of rumour raising its head. No one uttered any impediment as to why it should not take place, blessed by God and witnessed by a puissant congregation, while I suffered from a despicable fear. Could I stand up before the altar and announce before the King and Queen, the Archbishop, and the whole royal court that I was not free to marry?

It seemed that I must. It was a matter of loyalty, of honour, of dedication to the man to whom I had pledged my heart and my life. And if my pride was destined to suffer from a blast of unwavering displeasure, then so be it. My marriage to Sir Thomas Holland must be made plain to all.

My path first crossed that of Thomas Holland, through no devising of mine, in Ghent, where I had accompanied Philippa, who did not wish to be parted from her royal husband longer than was necessary despite the uneasy stalemate between France and England. Edward was planning one of his famous tournaments in Brussels with much gift-giving and negotiating under cover of the clash of weapons in mock fight. Since, as we all knew, he was intent on laying claim to the crown of France through the blood of his mother, he needed all the help he could get and had a mind to sign treaties with Brabant and Flanders. He would need allies when the King of France came to hear his ringing acclamation that the French crown belonged by right of birth to the King of England.

Philippa, being pregnant and indolent, was not enthusiastic about travelling to Brussels, and so declined the promised jollity. I was more than enthusiastic, as was Isabella, nor was Edward averse to having decorative females present to grace his ceremonies. Looking round for a likely escort, he beckoned to the first passing knight of the household.

‘Sir Thomas will escort you and see you safely there.’ And to Sir Thomas: ‘Don’t let them out of your sight. They are valuable.’ And to us: ‘Mind you do what Sir Thomas says.’

Sir Thomas bowed. He looked as if he would rather not.

He had masterful features and a shock of dark hair with more than a touch of autumn where it curled against his neck. He was young too. And stalwartly built. With such an attractive prospect, I chose to ride beside him, in spite of my high status that might have pushed Edward into ordering me to make use of the Queen’s travelling chariot if he had had the time to think of it. Unused to escorts who would rather be elsewhere, I was intrigued. A man who was unmoved by my renowned beauty was out of the ordinary.

‘You don’t have to watch over us like a herding dog,’ I said, to promote some response.

‘I do. My King commands it. My lady.’ He stared straight ahead, allowing me a splendid view of his straight nose and clenched jaw.

‘Then you could smile. As if obeying the King gives you some pleasure.’

‘I could, my lady.’ The jaw remained clenched.

‘Where would you rather be?’ I asked, now with more than a passing interest.

‘Back there,’ he gestured, ‘with my horses and equipment.’

‘Do you not have a squire?’

‘I do.’

‘Then he will look after them for you. Will you fight in the tournament?’

‘Of course.’

‘Will you enjoy it?’ This was hard work, but I imagined that his voice held a pleasing tone when not so brusque.

‘I need the money, my lady.’

Of course. He would earn little as a household knight. ‘Are you a good combatant?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

His confidence was as impressive as his stark features.

‘I will give you my favour to wear if you wish,’ I offered. ‘To bring you good fortune.’

For the first time his head turned imperceptibly towards me. ‘Your cousin the King would not approve.’

‘Why would he not?’ I certainly knew that Philippa would disapprove of this conversation. Which made me smile. I so rarely had the opportunity to converse with a young knight with what might be considered impropriety.

‘I am a knight with little to recommend me. You are of royal blood.’

‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But are you not a valiant knight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will be my valiant knight in the tourney.’ I became expansive, abandoning the modesty of my upbringing. ‘You will be my Sir Galahad.’

His eyes slid fully to mine.

‘It would be my honour to fight for you.’ It was the first time, I thought, that he had looked directly at me. ‘But will you watch me fight? There will be others more worthy of your notice. Some Brabant lordling in gilded armour, I expect.’

So there was a hint of pique in my Sir Galahad. ‘Well, if there is a gilded lordling, I will watch him, but I will promise to watch you too.’ How cheerfully I set out to destroy his grave displeasure. ‘I wager that you will be beaten by some Flemish knight in the first bout.’

Sir Thomas Holland’s brows flattened. ‘What will you wager?’

‘This.’ Stripping off my glove, I waved my fingers so that the deep red of a ruby glowed.

‘You cannot wager that against my skill.’ How uncompromising he was.

‘Why not?’

‘It is more valuable than all my Holland inheritance put together.’

‘It was a gift to me and so is mine to wager.’ I smiled at him. ‘You must make sure that you win.’

Sir Thomas slowly returned the smile. ‘I always win.’

‘Is she annoying you?’ Following rapidly in our wake, Edward drew alongside.

Sir Thomas rearranged his features into the stern visage of a royal escort. ‘No, my lord.’

‘Hurry up then. We haven’t all day.’

And since Isabella joined us our conversation was at an end. But it was a conversation that remained with me, embedded in my mind, trivial as it was. I had flirted. I had been artful. I had enjoyed it. And so, I decided, had Sir Thomas Holland.

Sir Thomas Holland won his bouts against any number of Brabant and Flemish lordlings, gilded or otherwise. Against English ones too, impressing me with his fighting skills, whether with sword or lance. His lack of wealth and status stood for nought when he beat his opponent to the floor, then with a strikingly gracious elegance offered his hand to pull him to his feet.

In the end I kept the ring.

Miraculously, I lost my heart.

I knew not how it could happen, or when, for I had no experience of such emotion that compromised my breathing and disturbed the beat of my blood at wrist and throat. Somewhere between his kissing my fingers when I pinned a scarf to his sleeve and his kneeling to accept a purse of coin from King Edward, I was smitten with a yearning that he would look at me again, and often. The clouds were low and grey but he shone in my sight. I was ashamed to acknowledge that I watched him to the exclusion of any other knight on the field. I did not understand it, but it was as if some finest of threads had been spun by an invisible hand to connect us, one to the other. Was it a malicious hand, for we were not equal in status? I did not care.

I was desolate when he did not escort us back to Ghent, the task being given to an ageing knight who had nothing to say for himself.

I discovered a need to put myself in my erstwhile escort’s way, not difficult in the lax household at Ghent where knights and damsels mingled more freely than at Windsor, and so did royal cousins. Everyone passed through the Great Hall at some point in the day.

‘Did you make your fortune, Sir Thomas?’

‘No. I did not.’

He was no more forthcoming than on the road to Brussels but he looked at me, a direct stare that stirred a little warmth into my blood.

‘But you caught the King’s admiration,’ I suggested.

‘On this occasion it was not the King’s admiration I was thinking of.’

He frowned at me, as if he might wish the words unsaid.

The tilt of my chin was unforgivable. ‘Who was it that you wished to attract? Some Flemish lady perhaps?’

‘No. An English lady.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘I imagine you know very well.’ His stare became fiercer, his response more particular than I had expected. I was considering how to reply when he continued. ‘You are far beyond my reach, my lady.’

Indeed I was.

‘I think that I am not,’ I said.

‘The Queen would tell you differently.’

Indeed she would.

‘The stories in my books,’ I said, ‘tell me that nothing should stand in the way of love. I am an enthusiastic reader of the adventures and amours of King Arthur’s knights.’

‘Your books will tell you that you do not understand the meaning of love.’

‘What do you think, Sir Thomas?’

His hands clenched around his belt. ‘I think that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that I would consider it my holy grail to wed such as you.’

By now the warmth in my blood had become a heat.

‘But that is not a holy grail that you can achieve, until you ask for my hand. Have you asked me to wed you, Sir Thomas?’

‘I would not. I dare not.’

Shocked at my own temerity, I placed my hand on his arm.

‘Please do, Sir Thomas.’

His eyes, softer now and very appealing, were full of raw emotion. ‘If I did, I hope that you would have the sense, for both of us, to refuse me.’

He bowed and walked away, leaving me solitary but unexpectedly exhilarated.

In whirlwind fashion and the spirit of all courageous knights, since once this attraction had gripped us it refused to grant us release, Sir Thomas Holland did ask me. I did not have the sense to refuse.

‘Yes,’ I said. And always practical: ‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Can we not wait?’ I might be in thrall to him, but this seemed unconscionably fast.

‘If we wait, you’ll be lost to me. You’ll be married to your Flemish lord before the month’s out.’ A faint line appeared between his brows. ‘I wish you were not so young.’

I smoothed it away with a finger. ‘Time will take care of that. Do you love me, Thomas Holland?’

‘More than you will ever believe. Is my love returned?’

‘Yes.’

Which settled the whole affair.

These were the days, back at Westminster, when my thoughts clung to the person and environs of my lawful husband rather than the stitching of my new garments. Where was Thomas Holland? Were his military adventures likely to demand all his concentration, or would they allow him to return home in time to rescue me from the altar? It was in my mind that he would most likely discover yet another battle in which to make his name and fortune. He did not know that his wedded state, so carefully kept secret, was about to be destroyed.

With some investigation in mind, I absented myself from my morning lessons with lute and songbook on the plea that my mother needed me for matters appertaining to my wedding and went to avail myself of my cousin the King’s library. A room full of books, leather bound, gilded, redolent of the mustiness of old ink, I entered the silent and empty chamber. But it was not the books that drew me. I was looking for the loose-leafed manuscripts, many of them gifts to the King; maps and charts, old and new, of distant lands as well as tracts closer to home, unbound and highly precious. Edward would not object if I investigated. He might be surprised that my interests had turned to what might exist across the sea, but he would not forbid it.

Discovering the sheets of vellum in a low coffer, I unfolded the leather cover, lifting them them out one by one, spreading them across the table used for such large items. I had travelled more than many persons my age. Born at Arundel, of which I had no memory, I had resided chiefly in London since my father’s death. Thus I knew the reaches of the Thames and the palaces along its length. I had lived at the Tower and at Westminster and at Havering-atte-Bower, Philippa’s favourite manor. Further afield I knew Kennington and Woodstock and, of course, Windsor where we were now based. I had also travelled to Flanders with the royal household when Philippa had chosen to follow the King on his campaigning. I knew Ghent well. But further than that was a blank space.

A map of England was of no value to me. A painted copy of Mappa Mundi with Jerusalem at its centre intrigued me when I found England tucked along the edge but it did not aid me in discovering where Prussia might be. And even if I found it, I acknowledged in sour mood, what value would that be to me? It could be years before Thomas returned with his weapons and horses and coffers of coin.

I slapped my hand down on the precious document, raising a cloud of dust.

I understood perfectly why Thomas was driven to use his skills in theatres of war. My mother’s slighting of the Holland family had been more than accurate. Thomas had no claim to greatness other than the reputation that he could win with his own endeavours. Besides, he liked soldiering. After the very briefest celebration of our wedded bliss, Thomas had pledged his everlasting love, packed his fighting equipment and, with page and squire had taken himself to join the King, eventually engaging in the Battle of Sluys, the battle where King Edward had made his mark in a magnificent victory, as well as taking a French spear in his thigh that kept him to his bed for two whole weeks. And then, in a matter of days, both King and Thomas had been engaged in the siege at Tournai that had achieved little but an expensive truce between England and France.

Edward was now recently returned home from his campaigning against the French, seething with anger of his lack of money and his discovery of the abominable lack of defence of the Tower of London in his absence, but Thomas was not. Thomas had found a need to go to Prussia. It would avail me nothing to know where Prussia actually was but my spirits were at a low ebb. Abandoning my search, I began to shuffle the maps back into order. I had been chasing a wild goose, and it had escaped me.

‘I thought I would be alone here.’

The voice, quiet yet unexpected, made me jump so that I dropped the route between London and Jerusalem, illuminated with tiny pictures of towns on the way, that I was holding.

The King clicked his tongue and picked it up, smoothing it back onto the table, casting an eye over it.

‘I was not aware that your interests were in discovery of the world, Joan. Or of going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sites.’ There was a gleam in his eye. ‘My advice is to go to Canterbury first, to see if you have a taste for the pilgrim life.’

My cousin, twenty-eight years old now, hardened and bloodied from campaigning, a ruler of supreme confidence and some renown, was laughing at me. The life of a pilgrim with hard travel and noxious inns with their communal beds and lice would not suit me at all.

‘No, my lord.’ I felt a need to be formal. He might be my cousin but he was King and this was his library in which I was trespassing. ‘They are beautiful to look at. I am sorry if I should not have unwrapped them. I know their value.’

His gaze moved from the map to me. ‘There is solace in beautiful work, as I know. If I were not King, yet still I would be a collector of books.’ Then he smiled so that the sombre lines of his face were transfigured into prints of pleasure. ‘I would not have thought you unhappy, with your marriage imminent.’ I tensed. Did he know? Had he some presentiment of the difficulties? ‘The Salisbury boy is well favoured and good natured.’

No, he did not know. I breathed out slowly. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘William is blessed with both face and character.’

‘I wager he’ll make a good husband. I know of no vices.’

‘No, sir.’

I thought that I might tell him, that I might appeal to his judgement for a resolution of my case. Would he not have compassion and rescue me? But Edward was speaking, accepting of my compliance.

‘Marriage can be a vital element, particularly if there is love or strong affection. I miss Philippa.’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘She will be returned from Ghent before your marriage. She will be here to wish you well.’

He sifted through the documents as I had done, selecting one that showed the stretch of water separating England from Flanders and France. And here was my chance.

‘Will you show me where Prussia is, my lord?’

‘We are very formal today, Joan. Here.’ He turned the map so that I could see where his finger pointed to the east. ‘Why do you need to know?’ Then fortunately not waiting for an answer, he added: ‘There are a number of my English knights fighting there in the crusade. The Teutonic knights are intent on taking this piece of territory from the Slavs and Christianising it. A worthy cause. I know Thomas Holland has gone there after Tournai – making quite an impression too, so I hear. I need more knights with the courage and commitment of Thomas Holland.’ He smiled a little wistfully. ‘I recall knighting him some years ago now, at the end of the Scottish campaign. He was very young but impressive even then.’

His name, dropped into the conversation, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, wiped my mind of comment. Then again I saw my chance, running my tongue over dry lips.

‘Is he fighting bravely?’ I asked with all the insouciance in the world. I found that I needed to talk about him, just to hear his name mentioned without vilification.

‘Indeed he is. He has been wounded, but nothing short of a spear through his heart will stop Thomas.’ Edward massaged his thigh with his fingers. He still felt the spear wound. ‘I have had reports that he continues fighting, even with a bandage around his head.’

I inhaled slowly. ‘So he is not dead?’

‘Very much alive. Making important friends on the battlefield too.’ Edward’s glance was suddenly keen. ‘I had no idea that you were interested in military campaigns either.’

‘I am not. Except when it is an English victory. And to know that our English knights are fighting bravely.’

Fortunately for me, Edward’s thoughts were elsewhere, his attention claimed by a chart that showed the northern areas of Flanders and France, and his tone became dark with an unexpected foreboding.

‘My task is not finished there.’ He jabbed at it with a finger. ‘I signed a truce with the King of France because I had not the money to continue the siege at Tournai. It was not a bad truce, you understand. I came out of it before my money ran out.’ He grimaced. ‘What King enjoys defeat? For me the truce had the degradation of failure. But I will fight again. My claim on the throne of France through my mother’s blood is one that must engender respect. We will achieve a great victory there one day with the aid of my brave young knights.’ His gaze, still centred on the map, softened. ‘My son Edward will be a greater warrior than I could ever be. He will make of England a name that will last for ever where tales of greatness and valour are told.’

And in spite of my own selfish preoccupations, I was drawn into his vision.

‘I have a thought, you know. Come and look at this.’ He drew me away, a hand on my sleeve to lead me to a book that he took down from a shelf. Opening it, he turned to a picture that I knew well, for these stories had stirred the romance in my youthful soul: a vivid illustration of King Arthur, seated around a vast table with the best of his knights.

‘It is my thought to create an order of knights,’ Edward was explaining, ‘the bravest ever seen since the days of King Arthur. Men who will fight for right and justice and wisdom, for the glory of England and of God. I will choose the finest, the most chivalric, just as Arthur chose. It will be a great honour for a knight to be invited to join such an august gathering.’ Forgetting about me at his elbow, he was fired with the dream, his eyes alight as he turned the pages to illustrations of Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain and a host of others of repute. ‘I see them bearing an insignia which will be known the length and breadth of Europe. My eldest son will be one of the first. William of Salisbury too, my closest friends who have stood in battle with me. Then there are others, young men such as Thomas Holland. We will test their skills in tournaments where they will show their prowess before the whole world. Perhaps even some of the greatest knights from Europe too will be invited…’

It startled me momentarily, that Edward would include Thomas within his pre-eminent body of man. And yet why not? In my eyes he was brave and bold and everything a knight should be. I could see him in my mind’s eye with that shining insignia on his breast, whatever it might be, the magnificent cloak, if Edward decided that is what they would wear. I knew well the King’s taste for the dramatic in clothing. I was swept along with the glory of it, although Edward was unaware.

‘I will have them take an oath to fight against evil, a stern and binding oath to God and St. George. Now he will be the best saint for our emblem, would he not? My knights will promise to fight the good fight, to stand firm. What a magnificent achievement it will be! King Arthur’s knights have lived long in song and story. Mine will live even longer. I will even have my own Round Table…’

I nodded to encourage his enthusiasm, my thoughts with distant Thomas, recipient of such glory.

‘I have a thought about the insignia. A garter with the words Honi soit quit mal y pense. Evil be to him that evil thinks. What do you think to that?’

Again I nodded.

‘They will live up to their oath to uphold God’s and my law, on pain of dismissal. We will have no more scandal in this land. My reign will be remembered for all time for the honesty of its King and its knights. The law will be sacrosanct. It is a dream I have.’

Edward’s words struck home.

An oath. A solemn, binding oath to live a blameless life, full of honour and sanctity.

‘I will not have scandal and treachery and dishonour in this land. I will not have such a travesty of God’s laws. Any knight who dishonours God dishonours me and will be stripped of his knighthood and cast out of the kingdom.’

It made me shiver.

‘But those who are worthy. What do you think, cousin? What colour shall I clothe them in? You have an eye for colour.’

I sought for a reply, while my mind dismantled Edward’s dream.

‘Blue,’ I said. ‘The blue of the Blessed Virgin’s gown.’

‘I knew you would choose well.’

‘I am not sure that I have any bearing on your decision, Edward,’ fear making my reply acerbic. ‘You have made up your own mind. As you usually do.’

He laughed, before sobering quickly, his face once more losing its light. ‘I think that you at least would tell me the truth. I am beset by enemies, Joan, men who sit at my own board, eat my bread, yet would wish me ill. The Archbishop of Canterbury, God rot his treacherous soul, has proved to be no friend of mine.’

I pretended not to understand, when in fact the whole court understood. To Edward’s wrath, Archbishop Stratford had accused Queen Philippa, that most moral of women, of being in an adulterous relationship, since the child she was now carrying must have been conceived when Edward was engaged in the siege of Tournai.

‘Rumour and gossip! How would the scandalmongers know when and where Philippa and I came together to get this child? And were they counting the weeks and months of its gestation?’ Edward railed, his low voice rendering his displeasure even more implacable. ‘They, with their crude and vicious lies, are the true demons in a well-ordered state. My wife is the most loyal, most honourable woman I know. I’ll not allow vicious tales of impropriety to destroy her reputation. You’ll do well to mirror your own deportment on hers, Joan. There must be no stigma in this marriage with young Montagu. I’ll brook no dishonour, no outrage. Get an heir as soon as possible and settle down into married life.’

Closing the pages with a clap that raised yet another cloud of dust, returning the book to the shelf, Edward angled a glance at me, all comfortable intimacy over in the shade of scandal and adultery. ‘Should you not be learning suitable texts or setting stitches, or whatever it is young brides do?’

No, I could not tell him of my predicament. Edward could not rescue me. Indeed, unwittingly, Edward had made all things clear to me, as terribly shining as the gilded image of King Arthur, that he had just hidden with some force.