Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (27 page)

As he stepped back from her, she focused on tidying her hair, avoiding his gaze. “Regarding Lady Joan—”

By then his brother Robert had joined them, slapping Thomas on the back. “You’re almost as broad as I am, though I’m sure you padded yourself with muscle in battle, rather than eating well.” He laughed, patting his ample middle, oblivious of the gloved hand racing to his jaw until he was lying on his back in the dirt.

“What right had you? What right? You bastard!” Thomas spat, pulling off his gloves so that he might feel Robert’s throat as he crushed it.

“Thomas! Let go of your brother.” Maud took hold of his arm, trying to pull him away. “I agreed with Robert. We have not the means to fight Lady Wake or the Montagus.”

“We would if Robert were not always dragged to court by those he’s cheated of property or honor.” Thomas broke away, diving down onto Robert. “Whose wife are you bedding now?”

“Alan! Otho! Help him!”

They managed to pull Thomas away.

“Did you even send on the letter I wrote to her?”

“What was the point?” Robert muttered.

“She must have thought I’d deserted her,” Thomas shouted. “You bastard!”

Robert spewed curses as he massaged his jaw.

Maud pressed Thomas’s arm. “My son, in time you will see it is better this way. The king will forgive your transgression—”

“Forgive?” Thomas shook her off. “I fought beside His Grace at Sluys and Tournai, ate at his table in camp. He showed no animosity toward me. Faith, he praised my leadership. You’d
no right, Robert, you, who know nothing of what it means to fight for your king, nothing of honor.”

“Enough!” Maud commanded.

Thomas cursed and turned his back on them, shrugging off Alan and Otho as he strode away. He’d not told Joan of Robert’s violent clashes with neighboring landowners. Any English court would side with the Wakes and the Montagus; how easily they would twist his love for Joan into ambition. His only possible hope was to petition the pope, arguing the legality of the vows he and Joan made in Ghent, which would require a fortune he did not have.

No matter how hard he and his mother worked to regain the Holland honor, it was never enough. There must be some taint on their blood. He should not sully Joan with it. He must let her go.

T
he tournament honoring the visit of William, Count of Hainault, the queen’s brother, attracted all the knights summoned for the coming invasion of Brittany. A city of pavilions had grown up in the meadows surrounding Eltham Palace, and the jousting would take place over several days, interspersed with elaborate feasts.

Thomas, Otho, and Alan had welcomed the chance to make some money in wagers and attract sponsors before sailing for Brittany in late summer, all three hoping to come out of it with funds for some new gear, or, at least, to repair what they had. Alan and Thomas were to show off their swordsmanship in the vespers events on the eve of the tournament, the crowd naturally betting against the half-blind brother, unaware of the hours he’d spent in the practice yard in Guînes and later at home. Otho found out through eavesdropping that Will Montagu would be acting as squire to one of his kinsmen, which surely meant that Joan would be present. Alan looked forward to finally seeing her. Thomas dreaded it. Seeing her would be a torment.

The three strolled about the tents renewing acquaintances, urging friends to come support them. It was then that Thomas beheld Joan for the first time in two years. Her fair hair caught up in a jeweled crispinette as was appropriate for a married
woman, her long, slender neck exposed. God’s blood, how beautiful she was. How he loved her. She was talking to a squarely built squire he guessed to be Will Montagu—he had the Earl of Salisbury’s hawk-like nose.

Just like that, his resolve snapped. What right had Montagu to her? She had pledged herself to Thomas. Seeing her stirred memories of the love in her eyes, the passion with which she had come to him. By Joan’s frown and gestures, he saw that she was arguing with Montagu, at the last turning away in apparent disgust as he hung his head. She had never looked so at Thomas.

Another young man strode up and slapped young Montagu on the back, then chucked Joan under the chin. Thomas caught his breath. The newcomer lit his Joan up like the sun, and in the warmth of his light she straightened and smiled. Though it was not her full smile, not as she had smiled at Thomas. Will shrugged and walked away.

“Trust Prince Edward to find the loveliest lady attending,” Alan muttered.

“That is Joan, my lady,” said Thomas.

“By the rood she is fair,” Alan breathed. “You’d said she was, I know, but my imagination never envisioned such perfection. I see why you wanted to kill Robert.”

“Rumor is the marriage is unconsummated,” said Otho. “Can you imagine, being forbidden to bed her when she is within your reach?”

Thomas could not. “So that is Will Montagu. He’s just a boy.”

“He is,” said Otho. “Go challenge him.”

“Tempting, but it would gain me nothing. Still, seeing her again, I am resolved. I cannot give her up. I will win her back. But honorably.”

“You and your bloody honor.” Otho scoffed. “But I’m glad you’ve not given up. She’s worth a battle or two.”

More like a king’s ransom.

“Come on, it’s time,” Alan said, taking Thomas’s arm.

The two brothers had performed their swordplay routine at many tournaments, becoming so accustomed to each other’s style that they could take risks that thrilled an audience. Now, with practice, they’d learned to compensate for Thomas’s blindness. Alan and Thomas had attracted an enthusiastic crowd with their first round, forgetting everything in their focus on their thrusts and parries. Then Joan appeared on the arm of the prince. Thomas lost the rhythm.

Alan thrust at him. Thomas began to modify the routine to compensate for his lack of focus, but his brother forced him back to riskier thrusts. He tried to forget that Joan was standing there, tried to get back in step with his brother. But he failed, and suddenly Alan stumbled backward, blood blooming on his arm. Thomas backed away, indicating that they should end it there. But Alan pushed himself up and thrust, Thomas parried, and they were off, the rhythm taking them. Thomas won the round to loud applause and shouts for more. He looked to see how Joan received his triumph. But he could not find her in the crowd. Blinded, scarred, performing for bets—he should not be surprised that she ran from him.

Men crowded round, slapping him on the back, praising his technique, curious how he’d lost the eye. One noble invited him to sup with him so they might discuss the training of his son and heir, born blind in one eye. Thomas answered all as courteously as he could manage through the noise in his head, and withdrew with the noble. This, at least, he might do to please God, win back some grace.

B
LINDED BY TEARS
J
OAN PUSHED HER WAY THROUGH THE CROWD
,
stumbling, whispering her apologies, shaking her head at expressions of concern, running as much from the sound of Ned’s
voice as from Thomas and his brothers, running from herself, from the hopeless tangle of her life.

She had begun the day arguing with Will about his inability to stand up to his parents. She’d prodded him to tell them that it was not she who made certain Ned was always about but Will himself.

“They accuse me of insulting you by flirting with him, and you say nothing in my defense. Why can’t you tell them it’s you who can’t bear to be far from him? It’s you who hangs on his every word?”

He stared at her.

“Say something!”

He’d shaken his head. “Half the time the two of you walk off without me. You don’t want anything to do with me.
That’s
what angers them.”

He was right. She didn’t, and they knew, and that was never going to change, ever.

And then Ned had interrupted, both of them smiling at him, grateful to be rescued from each other. He’d rushed her off to watch two battle-scarred men performing for the money they would make on the crowd’s bets.

“I’d rather not, Ned.” She tried to break his hold on her hand. But he insisted, though he knew it angered her that the king’s best men should be reduced to this. She’d heard how Edward had abandoned them in Flanders without a thought to how they would afford the passage home. Including Thomas. Yet now, seeing an advantage in the confusion over the Breton succession, the king had ordered them home, threatening to confiscate their lands if they did not break off from the mercenary bands that had been their salvation and honor their pledge to him. And here they were, awaiting the king’s pleasure, following the tournaments in hope of attracting patrons.

The two before her had no armor, no helmets, just worn
boiled leather jackets. She expected Ned to make fun of them, their penury a sign of their lack of skill, in his opinion. But he was watching them intently.

Suddenly the one with the eye patch ducked and spun round, grinning mischievously at his opponent, revealing a dimple. “Thomas!”
God in heaven
. She’d not heard he would be present. What had happened to his beautiful face?

Ned glanced at her, and she realized she’d spoken Thomas’s name aloud. “Yes, the brothers Holland,” said Ned. “Alan and your Thomas.”

“His wound!” She’d not known. How could she not have known? “How he must have suffered.” Her ears rang, her vision blurred with tears. If only he’d come home, come to her …

“He’s half blind now, but watch him, how quickly he moves his head. He has trained until it is second nature. In so short a time! They say it was late summer that he was blinded protecting Raoul de Brienne, the son of the Constable of France. In Prussia. In gratitude, the Count of Eu sent for the finest physicians in France, hoping to save his sight. But the eye had been too damaged.”

How could she help? Late summer? The scar should no longer be so angry. She would send Efa to him. She felt Ned watching her. “You admire him,” she said.

“How could I not? Such a crippling wound has bested better men than he.”

There
was
no better man. Joan forced herself to look away from Thomas, fearing she would run to him. She scanned the crowd to see if she recognized the man from her wedding. She found him standing next to Hugh, Thomas’s squire. He was shorter than Thomas, stockier. Hugh noticed her now, his expression unfriendly, accusing. She looked away, feeling sick.

“How does he do that?” Ned marveled. “My uncle William greatly admires Thomas Holland. He tried to lure him away from Father. Did you know that?”

He meant the queen’s brother, the Count of Hainault. Joan had not known that, but she did not bother to answer, afraid to say anything to him about Thomas, worried about Ned’s motivation in telling her this, what he knew about them, that he meant by his chatter to draw her out.

“My uncle insisted that Thomas be included in the tourney participants tomorrow,” said Ned.

She could not help herself, she looked back at Thomas. Mother in heaven, he’d noticed her. He paused, looked as if about to say something. He neither frowned nor smiled. Joan could not breathe. Alan, noticing the pause, glanced her way, but quickly moved to defend himself as Thomas burst into action, whipped by a fury. The crowd grew louder, cheering them on as, with a fierce slice, Thomas drew his brother’s blood. That is when Joan turned and ran.

Now Ned grasped her elbow, shaking it. “You’ve never run from blood before. What is this? Tears? What is Thomas Holland to you, cousin?”

“He was a good friend to me when I was far from home.” Joan tried to shake off his hand. He knew. He was goading her. “Let me go. Earl William is approaching us.”

“Another half-blind warrior,” Ned muttered under his breath, stepping way from Joan.

Earl William bowed to him. “My lord prince, I would have a word with my daughter. Alone.”

His daughter. Never. Ned looked ready to challenge him, but Joan feared what he would hear.

“Go, Ned, please.” She feigned a smile and shooed him off.

“You were told to stay away from Holland,” the earl growled when Ned was just a few steps away. He paused. She held her breath until he moved on.

“I did not seek to see him, my lord. I did not know he was here, but only came upon him.”

The earl grunted, disbelieving. “He’s a fine captain, Joan,
even now. Do not ruin him with your attention. What’s done is done. You are Will’s wife.”

“So you all tell me,” she muttered, sick of him, sick of all of them. With a little bow, she turned and walked away, her legs wobbly but holding her up and functioning. The earl called after her, commanding her to stay, but she continued on.

A
S NIGHT FELL
,
THE BRIGHT-COLORED SILK-AND-CANVAS PAVILIONS
,
lit from within, seemed to float on the dark field. When Joan finished a game of chess with Bella she was drawn outside, caught by the beauty of the floating pavilions, the starry sky, the sound of laughter, a singer mourning the death of his lady love, the lute playing counterpoint to his clear voice. The blood and sweat, the conflicts, the desperation of the impoverished knights—all were hidden by the gentle night, tucked into the shadows the lanterns did not reach.

Someone called her name, softly, almost secretly. She followed the sound. He stood beneath a tree very near the royal pavilion.

“Hugh!” Her heart raced. “Your lord has sent for me?”

“My lady.” He bowed, holding out the white hart silk. “Sir Thomas says he has no right to keep this.”

The silk felt rough, stiffened by Thomas’s blood? His sweat? She kissed it and handed it back. “No. He has every right to this. He is my husband, my beloved. There is no one else.”

“But my lady, you are—”

She put a finger to his lips. “I could not fight them all. But I pray that His Holiness the pope will uphold Sir Thomas’s claim. If we can find a way. I saw him, Hugh, his terrible wound. Tell me how—this silk, was he wearing it?”

“No, my lady.” He told her how Otho and Alan had told Thomas of her marriage right before he rushed into the fray to save Raoul de Brienne.