Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (14 page)

“Why, Sir Thomas. It is so long since we last danced.”

Was it possible that this vision of beauty and grace loved him? She was flushed from the previous dance, her eyes bright, and he wanted to scoop her up and kiss her before all the crowd. But he settled for dancing two sets with her. Then she asked him to escort her back to the high table.

Katarina Van Artevelde smiled up at him. “You must escort Lady Joan and Princess Isabella on one of their frequent days away with my family, Sir Thomas. I should like you to see our countryside from the gentler aspect of a palfrey or a barge rather than a warhorse. Do say you will.” Her tone was casual, but her remarkable cat eyes warned him to accept.

He remembered how she had watched him lingering over Joan’s hand a few weeks past. “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more, Dame Katarina.”
And I shall watch you like a hawk
, he added silently.

B
ella shook Joan awake. “You spoke Ned’s name in your sleep. What was the dream?” she whispered.

Joan sat back against the pillows, hugging her knees, trying to blink away the afterimage of the raised axe, the severed head. Thomas’s head. “It was a darksome dream,” she whispered, remembering Ned’s words a year past: We
now are betrothed and you cannot accept another gift like Bruno
. If he’d killed Bruno out of jealousy, what might he do to Thomas? Not the axe, a more subtle revenge, but deadly nonetheless? She drank deeply of the posset Helena brought her, letting its potency slow her racing heart, draw her back down into drowsiness. “I dreamed of Ned in battle with the bloodlust upon him. It frightened me.” She shivered.

Bella pressed her head against Joan’s. “He would love that you dream of him fighting bravely.”

For days Joan prayed that it had not been a premonition, that she had not condemned Thomas by loving him. The fear shadowed her, robbing her of appetite, sobering her mood, inspiring expressions of concern from Bella, Thea, Cecilia, Helena, Sandrine, Dame Katarina, even the queen. At last she confided in Katarina, telling her of the dream, of the vow Ned
had coaxed from her a year earlier, his resentment of the puppy given her by a potential suitor, Bruno’s death.

“If you were my daughter, I would warn you to keep your distance. I am troubled that such character is manifest in the future king and can only pray that his tutors and trainers inspire in him a radical change. He is quite a contrast to your Thomas, a man of honor if I ever met one.” She kissed Joan’s hand. “Be at peace, my lady. The prince is not free to choose you for his future queen. He knew that when he coerced you into pledging your troth.”

“Nor am I free to choose Thomas.”

“No?” Katarina looked toward where he stood at the front of the barge with one of his men, watching the shore. “That is still to be seen. Sir Thomas picked out the surrogate Sir Olivier had set to follow us and removed him from our tail, and I’ve complained of Albret’s ignoble tactics to Her Grace, as well as sharing with her quite damning information about him. Of course, the queen received it without comment. She could not admit to favoring him after he disgraced himself. But I pray she is as sensible as she seems.”

“It is not for her to decide. My cousin the king will do what he must to save the Aquitaine. That goal is the seed to the wider war he now wages. If Albret is the key …” Joan shrugged. It always came back to that.

“I understand the terrible burden of ambition. My life changed when Jacob and his fellows came into power. Suddenly nothing was safe. Our home was guarded day and night, we could go nowhere without armed protection. Ever vigilant, ever juggling rivals. But I made one vow—that I would never allow Jacob to force our children into unions with families who represented everything we abhorred but would further his ambition. Never. I understand the queen’s loving support of her husband, but I cannot believe she will be so ruthless toward you. And if she is—no, your mother would curse her to the end of time, and
she could not bear it. Already the queen is grieved by the pain she’s adding to her own mother’s mourning by supporting her husband’s attack on her brother’s crown. When she finally
sees
, she will not allow this.”

“The dowager queen Isabella once loved my mother, held her closest among her women, and she loved my father as a brother. But when he threatened her ambition she stood back and watched her lover destroy him.”

Still, despite her protest, Joan found comfort in Dame Katarina’s words. The queen attended Mass every day, spent hours in prayer—surely God and the Blessed Mother would guide her. And perhaps even Earl William might have a hand in changing her mind.

Always, the nearness of Thomas calmed her. She felt his presence as a shield against all danger.

But this comfort was to be short-lived, for by late November he had been sent away on a mission for the king.

H
ot with fury, Margaret pressed her forehead against the shutter, letting the snowstorm’s icy breath soothe her brow, William Montagu’s letter crumpled in her hand.

Her anger at the betrothal Edward and Philippa proposed for Joan was laced with guilt. She might have accompanied her daughter—indeed, she knew that many considered her a negligent mother to have stayed behind. But she had fought too hard, too long, to recover her late husband’s properties and honors for their surviving son and heir to go abroad for a protracted period and leave it all unguarded. Her daughter had been but eleven, yes, but her son, John, was only eight. He needed her protection more. Or so it had seemed.

Such a choice! Of all the men in Christendom, Philippa and Edward had chosen Arnaud Amanieu, Bernardo Ezi’s son and heir, as a husband for Joan. Idiots! Margaret remembered Bernardo’s wife, Mathe of Armagnac, a shrew who would have sold her soul—and probably had tried—to win a place at the French court. Margaret’s only daughter was to be traded for such a feeble alliance? No. She would not accept this insult. She would not give her permission for this.

But she must speak up quickly. A messenger must be sent, with William’s weight in the king’s regard added to her objection.
William had warned that they were at war and Albret was part of Edward’s strategy; to oppose the match could be construed as treason. Yet, in the same letter, he’d complained about the marrowless, cold-blooded alliances on which Edward was building his northern army, how little it would take for Philip of Valois or the pope to break the resolve of the barons and captains of the Low Countries and the Holy Roman Emperor.

Did William waver from their long-held plan? Would he not fight to keep Joan free to wed one of his kin? He wrote that King Edward had already lost one planned marriage alliance, that of his daughter Joan with the heir to the Frankish kingdom, so was all the more determined to secure Albret’s support, placing his hope in Gascony.

Margaret would not capitulate; she would not give up Joan’s chance for safety among the Montagus. There were others she might have taken as lovers, some of them marriageable, but she had chosen William for who he was, what he might mean for her daughter. That she had come to love him complicated matters, but her family came first.

She called for her clerk, already composing the letter to the king in her head, weighing whether or not to mention William’s suggestion of a better mate for Joan. In so doing, she would force William’s hand. She deemed it time. The king would know, in any case, that William had written to her about the proposed betrothal.

Forgive me, William, but you would do as much for your children
.

S
uddenly, just after Candlemas, Joan found herself crying at the slightest discomfort or sharp word. She had no appetite, nor did she find any joy in her usual occupations. Even Queen Philippa’s suffering as her lying-in grew near brought on tears. Joan’s dreams were weighted in sadness and her body was frighteningly sensitive.

And then, early one morning, she woke with a deep, dull stomachache. Her limbs felt leaden as she fought to untangle them from the bedclothes, and as she sat up she felt a slithery wetness between her thighs. Reaching past Helena to open the bed curtain, she saw in the faint light from the brazier a dark stain spreading beneath her. Blood.

Awake now, Helena whispered for Joan to follow her.

Within moments, Joan sat by the brazier wrapped in a warm bearskin, a rag between her thighs, a mazer of brandywine in her hands. “Too strong,” she protested after a taste.

“Sip it slowly, my lady. It will warm your stomach and soothe you.”

She did not think anything could soothe her. This was the event she had most dreaded, the sign that she was ready not only to marry but to consummate the union. It would be impossible to keep it secret. Already the nursemaids were whispering,
and Mary, not one to miss the opportunity to trade gossip for a favor, had slipped from the room. Joan could only pray that Sir Olivier had no spies in the household. And that God would not forsake her.

F
ROM BEYOND
P
HILIPPA
’
S CHAMBER DOOR
E
DWARD
’
S VOICE RANG
out in sharp commands. He and Jacob Van Artevelde had just returned from Bruges and Ypres, where they were to discuss with the other city captains the spring campaign to regain control of Lille and Douai. Clearly, something had gone wrong.

“Plump up my pillows, then leave us,” Philippa told her ladies and the servants. “And leave the wine.” As the women swept out the door Edward strode in, taking charge of the chamber, his dark blond brows drawn together in temper. Ignoring his scowl, Philippa flashed her most radiant smile and opened her arms. “Come kiss me. Then sit beside me and tell me all your news.”

He pecked her on the cheek, and she caught the scents of fresh air, sweat, and the ale he drank with his men to express his bond with them—a combination of smells prefacing marital discord. He paced away, tossing his gloves on Lady Clare’s lute as he passed it. The strings sounded, as if inviting him to play. But Edward was deaf to pleasure at the moment. As he turned on his heel, Philippa sighed at the churning emotion distorting his handsome face.

So it had been more often than not of late. Many a night he paced her chamber, railing against Parliament for its failure to send the money needed to move forward with his war. He had already awakened the dragon in accepting the double crown of France and England; to back down now would be a humiliation no king could survive. But in truth all the alliances were proving dangerously fragile, some dissolving before his eyes. Their youngest daughter was on her way back to Ghent, negotiations
having broken down with the Franks. Pope Benedict continued to stall regarding the dispensation for Prince Edward’s marriage to his cousin Lady Marguerite.

Philippa’s own temper had been razor-sharp, particularly on the days when she received a letter from her mother criticizing Edward’s actions, and the previous day she’d had a passionate argument with her brother William, Count of Hainault, after which he’d stormed out of the guesthouse and ridden off before the feast planned in his honor.

“My men caught several spies for Louis of Nevers engaged in discussions with captains of Bruges and Ypres, carrying letters from Pope Benedict threatening excommunication for taking up arms against Philip of Valois.”

“Would you expect otherwise of the Count of Flanders? Of course he is trying to wrest control from you. But you have foiled his attempts.”

“Thanks to Thomas Holland. He has the instincts of a hunter and has trained his men well. Yet too many waver. They turn toward the highest bidder. Bernardo Ezi is a case in point. Where is he? I invited him to my crowning. Why did he not attend?”

“Perhaps he has what he wanted all along. You publicly named him one of your two lieutenants in the Aquitaine. Let it rest for now. There is little time and much to do before you leave and I withdraw for the birth.” Edward was to take ship for England in a few days to confront Parliament.

He turned back to the window, flinging open the shutters, inviting in the fading, misty light, a scent of rain. “Curséd place.”

“In truth, I am relieved that Bernardo Ezi did not come,” Philippa said. “After his behavior toward Joan, I do not trust his intentions. And now that she has flowered I could not risk a meeting.…” She pressed her swollen eyelids. “If he could not control himself then—”

That brought Edward back to the bed to pour a cup of wine. “Her flowering? You’ve told no one?”

“The household knows, perforce, but of course we keep such matters to ourselves. What we need to discuss is Bernardo Ezi and his insult to your authority. Everyone seeks to inform me that his reputation preceded his time in Antwerp, that he has an insatiable sexual appetite, that he has intercourse with virgins so that their blood restores him, that half his men-at-arms are his bastards, and there is the nickname, the Gascon stallion—”

“God in heaven, wife, these are old slanders. Who is resurrecting them?”

“That is not the point, Edward. Despite my efforts to silence the household regarding the insult, it appears that it is common knowledge. I understand why you made him lieutenant in the Aquitaine, but the proposed marriage is now out of the question. It would look as if you were turning the other cheek.”

Edward muttered a curse. “You sound like Montagu.”

“Good.” She knew he was thinking of Montagu’s proposal, which had Countess Margaret’s full support.

“What else have you heard?” he demanded.

“Your captains believe that Albret’s man Sir Olivier is here to observe their preparations for war. To what purpose, Edward?”

This, at least, concerned him. “I
am
disturbed about the captains’ distrust of Olivier. I must know Albret will be loyal, that Brabant did not mislead me. I will have Holland look into it. If all the rumors point back to Van Artevelde, I can discount them. There is some old enmity between him and Albret, older than that between Van Artevelde and Brabant. I would not trust anything he or his wife says regarding Albret or his man.”