Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (18 page)

“My dear Joan, be easy in your heart. The Sire d’Albret is no longer a threat to you. We have withdrawn our proposal to betroth you to his son.” The girl’s smile was not what Philippa had hoped—a movement of the mouth, but nothing in the eyes. “Do you understand? You are free, you can forget the frightening incident at St. Michael’s.”

“I cannot forget it, Your Grace, but I am grateful I am safe.” Joan bent to kiss Philippa’s hand a second time.

“I am entrusting you to my beloved Lucienne for your journey home. All the household will be praying for your safe passage.” Though Philippa suspected that all would be relieved to have Joan gone. Her daughters complained about this subdued Joan, how she was no fun. Even now Bella and Joan merely pecked at their cousin’s cheek in farewell, then drifted away in search of entertainment. Philippa prayed that her son would find his cousin tiresome as well.

As Joan withdrew in the fragrant embrace of Lady Lucienne, Lady Angmar sniffed. “Your Grace, she will hear a different tale from others, and then you have lost her trust.”

“My dear Angmar, I
did
plead her case to His Grace, implored him to reject Albret. In the end, the result is the same.
If she hears now that Albret withdrew on the insistence of his wife, she will be doubly relieved.”

Albret had assured them in the message that he held it as the highest honor to serve as one of Edward’s lieutenants in the Aquitaine. As Philippa had told Edward when Albret did not appear for the crowning, the man had what he wanted. Clearly, he meant to save his son for future negotiation.

B
reathing in the fresh, slightly salty air as the queen’s barge floated down the Lieve Canal to Sluys, Joan tried to think of nothing but the passing landscape, grateful that, for now, Lucienne was quiet. She was confused by her behavior. Days before the queen informed Joan that Albret had quit the marriage negotiations, Lucienne had called at the Van Arteveldes’, wishing to be the one to break the news. But she’d undermined Joan’s relief by making vague allusions to a much more suitable union in her future. “But I can say no more!” Joan had found it maddening.

Now it was her servant Mary’s turn to irritate, morosely pointing out the number of guards standing watch, how closely they studied the banks, the other barges. Lucienne suddenly snapped at her, warning her to cease whining or she would find herself left ashore.

But when they arrived in Sluys the next morning they were all unsettled by the unnatural quiet of the docks.

“Who threatens us?” Joan asked Sir Drogo, the captain of their escort.

“Be assured, my lady, no harm will come to you. Until all is ready, you will bide in a worthy merchant’s home, well guarded, where you will find comfort and ease.”

“I am grateful for your protection, but it does not answer my question.”

“The French are watching this harbor and the waterways leading here. They will know by now that someone is traveling under King Edward’s protection.”

The merchant’s wife opened the door herself, her posture stiff, yet she welcomed them with courteous words and showed them to an enclosed bed near the fire circle in the narrow hall, where they would sleep. Joan understood her reticence. The king’s officers commandeered lodgings; they did not ask. Readying for her departure the next day, Joan offered a gift of what little money she had to the couple who had hosted her, but they proudly refused, assuring her that all had been arranged with the king’s men. Knowing how seldom such promises were fulfilled, Joan tucked a jeweled comb beneath the bedcovers, to be found after she’d departed.

At the dock, they were escorted onto a small galley and stuffed into a roughly built cabin fitted beneath the forecastle. It contained a bed so small it would be a tight fit for two of them, and some benches, the only light a lantern hanging just inside the door.

“We sail with the tide after sunset, my ladies,” said Drogo. “I apologize for the crowded cabin, but you must remain in here, out of sight, for your protection.”

Once their chests of clothes had been stored, there was little room to move about. They sat quietly listening to the crew prepare to sail, and when at last they felt motion they all crossed themselves.

Lucienne suggested that they eat while they all had stomachs. Mary, Felice, and Helena bumped into one another as they brought out the basket of food and wine the merchant’s wife had provided for their journey. After they’d silently picked at the food and emptied the jug of wine, there was nothing to do but try to sleep through the crossing. Joan chose not to join
Lucienne in the bed, curling up on a deep bench by the door, wrapped in her cloak, her dagger at hand.

She woke in the night to the sounds of men shouting, their boots thundering on the deck. Her heart pounding, she rose and pressed her ear to the door.

“A grapple starboard!” “We’re boarded!” “Cut the cable!”

“What is happening?” Felice cried.

“I fear pirates have boarded the ship,” Joan said, her throat tight. “Or French raiders.”

“God help us!” Mary whimpered.

Joan opened the door just enough to peer out. The deck was a writhing mass of men slashing, wrestling, shouting in French and Italian, all masked in smoke.

“God help us,” she whispered, then shouted to the women, “The ship is burning!”

The door was yanked out of her hand, opened wide by a thick-necked man bristling with weapons. “I’ve found the women!” he shouted to those behind him. In Italian. Joan prayed for strength as she lunged up, driving her dagger under his ribs. With a howl of pain, he threw her aside. She screamed as she fell toward the corner of a chest.

She woke coughing, facing back toward the burning forecastle.
God help me!
She was being dragged out onto the deck.

“Portside! English!” a voice shouted in French as a violent shudder rocked the ship.

The hands on Joan’s shoulders began to slip, and a woman softly cursed.

“Helena?”

Gently, her lady’s maid let Joan down onto the deck and bent over her, tears running down her sooty face. “God be thanked! I feared you were dead, my lady.”

Joan tried to stand up, but the deck was spinning and she fell back, gasping at the pain in her forehead.

“Here!” Helena called to someone.

Footsteps approached. “My lady?” Sir Drogo lifted Joan in his strong arms. “I have Lady Joan! She’s alive!” he called out to the others.

Out from the burning cabin Felice staggered, shrieking, her clothes on fire.

“Help her!” Joan cried.

Felice began to run. God knew how she had the strength.

No one was near enough, though two of Drogo’s men struggled toward her, one with a cloak to roll her in, but the fire was spreading quickly and the smoke made it difficult to negotiate around the fallen. Eyes wide in horror, her mouth open in a heartrending shriek, Felice pulled herself up over the rail and plummeted down into the waves.

“No!” Lucienne shrieked, reaching out toward where Felice had gone over as if she might pull her back. One of the men caught her up and carried her away.

“God grant her peace,” Joan prayed as Drogo carried her to the plank so she might be helped across to the waiting ship as the English rescuers milled about, beating at the fire.

“They came up so silently.” “Genoese.” “A three-masted ship.” “Ours now. The king will be pleased.”

Wrapped in a warm blanket, Joan curled into a ball on the deck and covered her ears against the soldiers’ chatter. She lay like that, with her eyes tightly closed, through the rest of the journey, praying, but God would not release her from the horror. Felice’s screams echoed inside her head.

When at last they anchored in the harbor at Ipswich, Sir Drogo helped her down the ladder and into a small bark. Helena and Mary were already seated. Lucienne was helped down next, moving awkwardly with one arm wrapped and bound to her side. Her eyes were swollen from weeping. She sat beside Joan, murmuring prayers.

“Why did they attack?” Joan asked Drogo.

“They suspected the queen and the young princes were on
board, following the king to England after Her Grace’s churching. The guards at the cabin were their first victims, believed to be protecting the royal cubs and the queen.”

Joan hugged herself, wishing Thomas were there to hold her.

“Did I kill him, the man I stabbed?”

Drogo shrugged. “I could not say what killed him in the end, my lady. But you did well. You saved yourself and the others.”

“Not Felice,” Lucienne whispered.

Drogo dropped his head and crossed himself.

Joan leaned over the side of the boat, emptying her stomach.

C
ountess Margaret had been a day away from Ipswich when a messenger recognized the livery of Kent and stopped to tell them of the pirate attack. “The women are being nursed at Trinity Abbey in Ipswich. Lady Joan suffered injuries, but we are assured that she will quickly heal.”

All Margaret heard was that her daughter was injured. She was not reassured until she saw with her own eyes that her daughter was alert and whole. “Praise God you are safe,” she cried when at last she held Joan in her arms. “I was so afraid for you!” Her head and a hand bandaged, her eyes haunted, Joan clung to her mother as she had not done since very small. “You are safe now, my child.”

A deep cut on Joan’s forehead had been stitched and bound, her minor burns soothed with a poultice of chamomile. The abbey’s physician declared her well enough in body to travel in a few days. Lucienne would require a longer stay, the burns on her right arm and both hands needing more time to heal so that the blisters would not break and fester during her journey north. None of them slept well, Helena coughing most of the night, Mary weeping. When Joan woke in the night, gasping for breath, Margaret held her, assuring her that she was in Ipswich, safe at Trinity Abbey. “Sleep, child. Rest in healing sleep.”

B
UT IT WAS NOT HEALING FOR
J
OAN
. T
HE MOMENT SHE CLOSED HER
eyes, the horror returned—the knife in the man’s belly, her head hitting the chest, blood running down into her eyes, the burning forecastle, and, worst of all, Felice engulfed in flames, screaming as she leaped from the ship—over and over, unceasing.

On the second day, the physician advised that Joan walk out into the town with her mother so that the air and the solid ground might rid her of the dreams. But even in the noise and smells of the market the world was dimmed and muted, as if a veil separated her from life. Her mother tried to engage her in choosing among costly silks for a new gown, but she could not choose, not caring, the smell of pitch from the harbor reminding her of the terrible night at sea.

T
HE BUILDINGS OF
B
ARKING
A
BBEY GLOWED GOLDEN IN THE DISTANCE
as they approached; it was only as they drew close that the high walls dominated, hiding the beauty within. Countess Margaret prayed that here her daughter might feel safe enough to emerge from the armor in which she was hiding, under the protection of Earl William’s sister, Abbess Matilda. Heaven only knew what Joan was feeling. She expressed no emotion except for the terror that woke her in the night.

Inside the abbey gate, a small crowd had gathered in front of the guesthouse. Servants quickly came forward to assist the arriving company. Abbess Matilda, a tall figure in black, her close-fitting white wimple emphasizing the Montagu nose, stood before the door to greet them.

“It is an honor to receive you both. Welcome, welcome to Barking.” The abbess embraced each of them, then led the way to a spacious apartment with separate bedchambers connected by an antechamber. “I thought it best that Lady Joan have all the quiet she required,” said the abbess when Margaret exclaimed over the generous lodgings. “But I had not known the extent of her injuries. Perhaps she should spend a brief time in the infirmary?”

“No. I wish to nurse my daughter myself.”

“Of course. You have only to ask for whatever you require.”

Hours later, Margaret slipped into her sleeping daughter’s bed and held her close, at last permitting her own tears to flow. She should never have put the girl through such an ordeal all alone. She should have agreed to let Blanche Wake accompany her. Unnatural mother.

D
URING HER FIRST FEW WEEKS AT
B
ARKING
J
OAN KEPT TO HER BED
,
eating little, saying less, and Margaret left her side only for daily Mass and a midday meal with the abbess. When sitting in Joan’s chamber, Margaret kept her hands busy taking in and shortening one of her own gowns for her daughter’s much slighter frame. All Joan’s belongings had been lost on the crossing except for her tattered and stained gown, a ruined pair of fine boots, and a simple gold ring with a green stone that Joan wore round her neck on a leather thong, refusing to remove it even while bathing. All questions about the ring’s provenance were met with silence, and sometimes tears. Helena claimed ignorance. Even Mary, whom Margaret had come to see was useful as a source of gossip—apparently her only skill—did not know whence came the ring. She suggested that she might venture a guess, but Margaret cut that off, lecturing her on spreading unfounded stories.