Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (12 page)

O
n a stormy day in late October, a herald, his hauberk muddy, his banner limp, rode through the gates of St. Bavo Abbey to announce King Edward’s approach to the city, returning from campaign. He and his troops would enter Ghent on the morrow.

Queen Philippa was closeted far into the evening with the herald and another knight, who arrived later in the day, while her household rushed about readying the king’s rooms in the abbey and the barracks at Gravensteen Castle for his knights. When at last Philippa came into the hall, pinched-faced and agitated, Bella reached for Joan’s hand and whispered a prayer that her father was safe.

“My uncle Philip of Valois refused to engage his troops with ours despite the devastation wrought in Cambrai by our army,” Philippa announced.

“But that is good news, is it not, Your Grace?” asked Lady Angmar. “Are His Grace and his men unharmed?”

“There were few casualties. No barons or knights suffered harm but for the unpleasant aftertaste of a chevauchée. But all hope of a quick settlement to this conflict was dashed by my uncle’s refusal to fight.”

No knights suffered harm. Then Thomas must be safe. Joan crossed herself and said a prayer of thanks.

At dawn the rains ceased, and the city burst into life preparing a fitting welcome for King Edward and his army, hastily erecting stands from which the citizens of the city and the royal household might watch the procession, stretching red-and-gold banners with the lions of England across the streets and squares. While the queen was yet at Mass, Jacob Van Artevelde and his fellow captains appeared in the hall to consult with her, resulting in a flurry of frantic whispers and early departures from the abbey church, though Philippa herself remained kneeling in her pew, head bowed, until the end of the service.

In the nursery, Bella could not contain her excitement at her father’s return, fidgeting so while being dressed that Sandrine thrice pricked herself while repairing her hem, and waking her baby brother with her loud chatter and laughter. Joan’s own heart fluttered in anticipation, and, halfway through dressing, she changed her mind. “The rose-and-blue. I meant to wear the rose-and-blue. This green will seem dull beneath the gray sky,” she said, blinking back tears of frustration. She wanted to outshine Lucienne. Without any fuss, Helena asked Mary to shake out the rose-and-blue gown. “Do as she says,” Joan snapped when the maid hesitated.

“I
S HE NOT LIKE
A
RTHUR OF OLD
?” B
ELLA SIGHED AS HER FATHER
rode through the gate, his armor polished, his pale hair streaming out from beneath a simple gold crown, his cloth of gold cloak and the gold-trimmed caparisons on his mount brightening the gray day. Behind him his barons rode beneath their own coats of arms, the earls of Salisbury and Derby first in line, with the bishop of Lincoln between them. As the crowd cheered, Master Jacob and his fellow captains rode forward to welcome King Edward and join the procession into the city.

At last, behind Salisbury’s banners, Joan saw Thomas, sitting tall in the saddle, his head high, his dimples showing as he
caught a flower tossed from a balcony, laughing with his squire, Hugh. Then he turned, his eyes searching the stands. Joan lifted her arm, and he lifted his to reveal the gold silk tucked into his sleeve. She bowed to him, pressing her heart.

Bella giggled. “You are wicked! Lucienne is searching the stands for her rival. Lower your hand. Did you not see the silk in his sleeve? She will think it is yours.”

Joan did not correct her.

G
RAVENSTEEN
,
THE CASTLE OF
L
OUIS DE
N
EVERS
, C
OUNT OF
F
LANDERS
,
would be home to the king’s men while in Ghent. The count had fled to France when the merchants took over the principality, and his castle, built a century earlier in the fashion of crusader castles, was little used. It was perfect for housing the king’s men, with barracks, stables, and practice yards to occupy them. They would need distraction, for they’d marched for weeks with little to show for it, no glorious battles, only burning and pillaging, leaving a bitter taste in their mouths that required copious amounts of ale and wine to dispel. They found the heroes’ welcome they’d received embarrassing, the banners, the flowers strewn in their path all undeserved. It was up to Thomas and his fellow captains to ensure that they took out their frustration in the practice yard, and eased their comfort with camp followers, not the daughters of the citizens who had so warmly welcomed them.

It was several days before Thomas and his fellow captains felt easy enough to leave and partake of a feast at the abbey. As they entered the hall, Roland and Guy made straight for the table already crowded with their fellows, but Thomas hesitated, searching the crowd for golden hair. He found Lady Joan seated between a man he guessed to be the abbot of St. Bavo and an elegant, dark-haired woman to whom she was talking with much gesturing and laughter. His breath caught in his throat.
Joan was as beautiful as he’d remembered, and so close. In three strides he could be beside her, kissing the top of her head, drinking in her scent. She would glance up, her eyes widening. Her smile lighting her sweet face, she would lift a hand to touch his cheek—

“Six days, Thomas. I feared you’d forgotten me.” Lucienne slipped her hand in his and leaned close, roses and spice, breasts almost tumbling out to welcome him, those violet eyes searching for a sign of his desire.

His body betrayed his heart, lusting for Lucienne, though he’d thought little of her since they parted.

“Food or pleasure first?” she asked.

He glanced past her, saw Lady Joan turn to smile at him only to notice with whom he stood and quickly look away.

“Food first, pleasure later.” He kissed Lucienne’s hand.

“Behind the stables after vespers. I know a place.” She kissed his cheek and moved on.

He made a point of crossing in front of the high table, hoping to catch Joan’s eye. When she glanced up he bowed, hand to heart. For a moment, she looked uncertain and he cursed Lucienne, but then came the smile he so loved. He stepped close, and she introduced him to the abbot and to Dame Katarina Van Artevelde, who studied him closely. Little was said, nothing of consequence but that Lady Joan gave thanks to God that he and all the king’s men had returned safely. He kissed her hand and withdrew, joining his fellows at one of the lower tables.

She’d noticed, the Van Artevelde woman—she’d seen how he lingered over Joan’s hand. She must think him mad, obsessing over this royal child. But Joan had him, heart and soul, and he could no more stop thinking of her than he could stop breathing.

There had been a moment when, had he acted on his first impulse to keep his distance from his royal charge, he might
have preserved his heart. On the third day on the road to Ipswich, Joan had ridden up beside him offering a wineskin—
You look pinched and thirsty
. In truth, he’d been hung over from the previous night’s strong ale and wanted nothing more than to ride silently on until they stopped for the night and he might sleep. But he’d thanked her and taken a good, long drink, then forced himself to smile at her as he returned it. She’d put her hand over his—
No, keep it with you
. And he’d found himself grinning like a fool.

“Thomas! Here!” Roland shouted, opening a space for him at the table, slapping him on the back as he took his seat. “She’s been waiting for you, eh? Lucky dog. I know. Lucienne favored me once. Before
you
came along.”

It proved a long, tedious feast, without the distraction of dancing, which might have allowed him a few precious moments with Joan, and as soon as he spied her departing with the other young guests he slipped away.

By evening an icy drizzle chilled Thomas, despite his fur-lined cloak, as he waited for Lucienne behind the abbey stables. He could not remember a tryst with her that had not been fraught with risk and discomfort. She preferred it that way.

A whisper of silk, and suddenly she was there, stroking his cheek, radiating warmth. “Come, Thomas. We have a room with a bed for a few hours.”

She led him across the courtyard, between buildings, dodging the light of the torches.

“A monk’s cell?” he hissed as she drew him in. “Are you mad?”

“Even a monk may like the jingle of coins in his secret purse, Thomas. The bed is hard and narrow, but he assures me the walls are thick enough to mask the sound of our passion.”

But there was little to hear.

“It’s Lady Joan you desire, isn’t it?” She put a finger to his
lips. “I saw how she drew your eyes. She is not for you, Thomas. Stay away from her, I beg you. You have too much to lose. She is meant to secure Gascony for the king.”

“She is still intended for Albret’s son?”

“Why else would he present her with a costly palfrey?

“He is here?”

“No, one of his knights, Olivier, delivered it. But what else could it mean? She did not refuse him, Thomas.”

“Even after what Albret did?”

Lucienne shrugged. “That is unimportant. You must see that he is crucial in protecting the Aquitaine, now more than ever. Such damage in Cambrai—where will Philip of Valois wreak vengeance?”

Thomas did not want to believe that Joan would accept anything from a man who had so frightened her. “Surely she was ordered by the queen to accept it.”

A shrug. “Of course. An apology. Certainly a pretty one. When she rides the sorrel, the sweet silver bells on the harness Albret bought for her in Antwerp jingle merrily.” Lucienne stroked Thomas, kneading him, moving above him, waking him to her charms.

K
ing Edward and Queen Philippa had chosen Gravensteen Castle’s great hall for Martinmas Eve, a celebration of the harvest before the long fast leading to Christmas. All the household, the local merchants, and an army of borrowed servants decked the grand hall in tapestries and banners and filled it with white-clothed tables that would soon be groaning with the bounty of the season past, for many the last fresh meat from the culling before winter. The queen’s ladies wondered among themselves where the royal couple had secured the funds for such extravagance, given the healthy amounts still owed the allies they wooed in the Low Countries and the Holy Roman Empire. Yet such regal display was as necessary as military might, and this night the royal couple honored the captains of the city of Ghent and their wives as their special guests, warming them up for a meeting the following day at which King Edward would negotiate for their military support against Philip of Valois. It was said that he meant to promise he’d return to them the towns of Lille, Douai, and several others Valois held.

Her arms outstretched so that Helena could make a few final adjustments to the open, hanging sleeves of her overgown, Joan thought about the changes a year had wrought. Just before Martinmas a year earlier, she and Ned had stood in the porch of
St. Mary Magdalene pledging their troth. Now he was intended for Marguerite and Joan for the son of a man she feared and despised. As Mary held up a mirror so that she might see herself in the gown Helena had transformed for the celebration, Joan saw reflected not that girl who had dared hang the white hart banner in the hall at Woodstock but a young woman. It made her sad. A lady’s maid, the gowns, the lessons learned from being too friendly to Albret, the pain Joan suffered whenever she saw Sir Thomas and Lady Lucienne together—the past six months had brought a mixture of grace and torment, so alien to her cares back home. Better? Worse? It did not matter. This was now her life.

“My lady, do you not like it?” Helena asked. She had decorated the wide-sleeved deep azure overgown with pearls and silver buttons in celestial designs, and the long, tight sleeves and skirt of the pale blue underdress shimmered with mother-of-pearl.

“I cannot believe what I see in the mirror, Helena. Is this me? So beautiful?”

“It is, my lady.”

In the hall, she and Bella paused to gaze with wonder at the extravagantly costumed guests balancing fantastical headdresses fitted with ships at full sail, knights with lances poised for the joust, birds taking flight. The queen had ruled that her daughter and Joan were too young to cope with such fanciful headwear. Joan was glad, but Bella complained that she felt small and underdressed, and rushed over to complain to Thea and Cecilia. Catching sight of William Montagu, Joan joined him, admiring the hawk on his hat. It was quite lifelike, and posed so that it seemed to be studying Montagu’s own beak of a nose.

“A hawk for a hawk, my lord—a perfect choice for the farseeing Salisbury.”

He bowed to her with a laugh. “You grow more beautiful
every day, Lady Joan. What do you hear of your mother and brother?”

“Very little. I had hoped you might have heard something of Mother’s feelings about my proposed betrothal to Albret’s son.”

“Not yet. His Grace persists in this?” Montagu cursed beneath his breath. “Is Lord Bernardo in the city?”

Joan shook her head. “But his knight, Sir Olivier, spies on me.”

“Unacceptable! And I am troubled that Countess Margaret has not written to you. I shall ask Her Grace about it.”

“And what of you?
You
promised to write.”

“Rest easy, young Joan. I have proposed a plan that I think both you and Countess Margaret will find to your liking.”

“My lord Salisbury, forgive me, but I must interrupt.” The queen had swooped down on them. “Come, Joan. We must take our places at the high table.” Philippa nodded to her page to bring Joan along in the royal procession, then spoke softly but sharply to Montagu.

Joan wanted to rush back to him and demand to know his plan. But the page brought her to the king himself, and all other thoughts flew from her head. He often borrowed themes from the tales of King Arthur for his feasts and tournaments, and had never seemed more like her image of King Arthur of old than at present, his long purple robe shimmering with gemstones threaded on gold and silver wire, his pale hair, so like hers, glimmering beneath a gold filigree headpiece that represented a helmet of war with eagle feathers in silver. It gave him the appearance of a wise elder, though in fact he was but a few years older than Sir Thomas.