Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (29 page)

He could not imagine accepting such a gift from her. But he was moved by her selfless generosity and grateful for her advice. If anyone knew the temper of the court, it was Lucienne.

L
EAVES SKITTERED ACROSS THE GRAVEL PATH LEADING TO THE
carved oak door. Thomas took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, checked that his patch was securely seated, replaced the hat, then nodded to Hugh to knock.

A page opened the door. “My lord?”

“Sir Thomas Holland to see Countess Margaret.”

A bow. “A moment.”

They stood at the door, Thomas staring up at an abandoned nest tucked into the overhang as Hugh rocked on his feet.

The door opened once more, but it was the countess’s brother, Lord Wake, who stood on the threshold. “Sir Thomas, come in, come in.” He reached out to grasp Thomas’s arm in a soldierly gesture of welcome. One of the northern lords responsible for protecting the realm from marauding Scots, he had seen his share of battle.

“My lord, I hoped to talk to your sister.” Thomas had been told that the Wakes were in Lincolnshire. He prayed he’d not been misled about Joan, that she was truly away at Bisham, not here with her mother. He did not want his purpose misconstrued.

“I’ve sent a servant to her.” Wake showed them into the hall, a large, airy room, ordering a servant to escort Hugh to the kitchen for some food and ale.

Thomas stared up at a white hart banner hanging proudly from the rafters above the table at the head of the hall.

“My niece sewed that, but of course you know.” Wake gestured for Thomas to sit. “Be at ease, Sir Thomas. I do not share my wife’s grudges. I will hear you out, even if my sister will not.” He held up a hand to silence Thomas. “I trust she will join us in good time.”

Servants arrived, bringing wine, bread, cold meat, cheese, winter apples.

Wake settled on a high-backed chair, sitting tall, as if at attention. “You were caught between my niece’s desperate attempt to avoid a marriage meant to buy the king an ally and Montagu’s ambition—a wife of royal blood for his heir. Most unfortunate.”

Thomas was relieved to get right to the point. “Joan and I are lawfully wed.”

“Witnessed by a couple who wished only to embarrass the Sire D’Albret. It was not only His Grace who questioned the validity, considering who coaxed Lady Joan into it, and why. My sister was not at all easy in her mind about it.”

“Nor was she easy about my father’s history, I imagine.”

Lord Wake looked sympathetic. “In that his actions so weakened your family’s influence, yes, that is part of my sister’s prejudice against you.”

“Lady Joan’s maidservant, Helena, and my squire, Hugh, were also witnesses.”

“Three years have passed since the wedding, in Westminster, attended by the royal family, Joan’s kin. What do you hope to gain after all this time?”

Thomas stared into his wine. “I understand the marriage is unconsummated.”

“As to that—” Wake stopped.

Countess Margaret stood by the dais, beneath the white hart banner. “Sir Thomas. If you will come with me.” She did not wait, but turned toward a door, which a servant rushed to open, stepping aside to let his mistress, then Thomas, into the small room fitted out as a parlor.

As the countess took her seat in a high-backed, cushioned chair, and whispered instructions to the servant, Thomas settled on a camp chair across from her. Except for her eyes, there
was little resemblance between Margaret and her daughter, the mother having a darker complexion and less even features. Handsome rather than beautiful.

As soon as the servant departed, the countess attended him with a polite half-smile. “Tell me why you have come, Sir Thomas.”

“To try to convince you that in the eyes of God your daughter and I are husband and wife. I cannot believe Joan did not tell you that. I believe you chose instead to silence us.”

He told her of the threat Lady Wake had made to his family. Quietly, without emotion. He had not expected her look of surprise. She had not known, or, at least, not the whole of it. She covered her confusion with anger.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of a young girl.”

“My lady, it was not like that. Joan must have told you. It was her idea, to consummate it so that she might be safe from the Sire d’Albret. And she assured me that she was a woman.”

“She was only twelve years old. Shame on you!”

“Was she not a woman?” His breath caught in his throat. “My lady, I never doubted Joan’s assurance.” Had she done this? Had she lured him to commit such a grievous act? She had been frightened, desperate.…

“I am not insensitive to your pain, Sir Thomas. The Van Arteveldes caught you in their trap as well. But three years have passed since His Grace declared her free to wed Will Montagu, and blessed the union. Three years, Sir Thomas. What would you do now?”

It was no time to succumb to doubt. “I do not hold that she was free to wed another, my lady. I believe that her present unhappiness is proof of that. She is my wife in the eyes of God.”

She rose up, those remarkable eyes flashing with anger. “Of what do you dare accuse me?”

He rose in respect to her. “It is you who accuse, my lady. You
accuse me of being dishonorable. And I say you are wrong in that. You accuse me of having taken advantage of a girl who had not yet matured. I still believe you are also wrong in that. But of what do I accuse you? Nothing. What I have done is point out our disagreement and assure you that all I did was out of love for your daughter.” He bowed his head, then met her angry gaze. “God forgive me if it is true I made love to a child. I vow to make this right.”

“She was a woman,” Margaret whispered. “I do not mean to mislead you. But it is too late. The deed is done. You must forget my daughter.”

“I can no more do that than forget to breathe, my lady.”

“You do love her. I see that.”

Was that a softening he heard in her voice? “Will you tell Joan of our meeting?”

“No. And I forbid you to try to see her.”

“I cannot help but see her, my lady. I’ve been summoned to resume my duties in King Edward’s household guard.”

“After what you did?”

“Since Joan and I pledged our troth, I’ve fought beside His Grace on several occasions, my lady.”

“Then do not waste this chance to redeem yourself, Sir Thomas.” She moved toward the door, paused to let him exit first. “I am sorry for your terrible injury.”

Which one, he wondered as he strode across the hall, calling to a servant to fetch Hugh.

L
ayers of soft gray and watery blue silk swirling about her in the brisk wind, Catherine commanded the doorway. William dropped his diplomatic pack to embrace her. “My dearest Catherine.”

She stopped him at arm’s length, offering a cheek for a kiss.

“You are not glad to see me?”

“Your cloak is wet, William. Come within, warm yourself by the fire.” She stepped aside so that he might enter the hall, then followed. “We have much to do. His Grace has sent beautiful velvets and silks to adorn you for the Christmas court. And a new fur-lined cloak, just in time—yours reeks of horse and dampness. Your page is not so well trained as I’d thought him. He hasn’t been fully drying your clothes.” She nodded to a servant to remove William’s cloak.

“Nights in the field do not afford me such luxuries,” William snapped. “I must dress up for a Christmas court?” He muttered a curse. “I am too old for all this, Catherine, I grow weary. I shall make my excuses to Edward when I deliver my report. What say you to Christmas here at Bisham?”

“William,” she chided, “His Grace honors you.” The truth of it was that Catherine could never bring herself to disappoint
Edward. “And the queen expects me at Windsor within the week. Before moving on to Woodstock for Christmas, we must settle arrangements for the tournament for St. Wulfstan’s Day in January.”

With a grunt, William sat down on a stool so that his page could pull off his boots.

“Those look old and worn,” Catherine said, frowning at the young man.

“Leave him be, wife, the boots
are
worn. They’ve served me all the way to Spain and back. I don’t suppose Edward sent leather for new boots?”

“No, William, but—”

“Ah, there’s my excuse. I must bide at home while I’m fitted for new boots. That will delay me halfway to Twelfth Night, I reckon.” His bouts of dizziness and nausea had increased in frequency and duration of late, and he’d spent too much of his strength toward the end of his last campaign hiding these disabling spells. He yearned for some quiet in which he might rest, settle his affairs, and make his peace with God. But the king commanded his presence, and Catherine had no intention of disappointing Edward, that was clear. He sighed. “Faith, wife, I know I must not dawdle here. Edward expects me five days hence.” And Margaret expected him along the way. “But a tournament so soon after Christmas?” He sighed again.

“Prince Edward has told Joan that his father will announce a grand brotherhood of the Round Table at the tournament, and we’re all to wear red velvet trimmed with miniver.” For a moment, Catherine glowed with anticipation, reminding William how lovely she could be. “That girl—she’s transferred her affections for Holland to the prince. Poor Will. No wonder he’s sleeping with maidservants. It’s time Will and Joan bedded, William.”

So she knew of the Holland affair, yet had said not a word
about it to him. That did not bode well. “In faith, wife, one worry at a time. Brotherhood of the Round Table, eh? Hmm … Where is Joan? I would speak to her.”

“You ask after her before seeing your own children? Is it because you agree, or do you prefer—”

“Everything is a battle for you, Catherine. I am doing your bidding. Talking to her about being a wife to my son. I wish to save my reunion with my children until I might relax and attend them with an unfettered heart.”

B
Y THE TIME JOAN APPEARED IN THE DOORWAY TO
W
ILLIAM
’
S
chamber he’d fallen asleep in his chair, spilling wine on his jacket. His servant woke him.

“Lady Joan, my lord.”

“Forgive me for the delay, my lord,” said Joan. “I was out in the fields—”

Confused, he stared for a moment at the elegant young woman in the doorway. Which daughter?

“My lord, did you not send for me?”

He remembered now. “I did.” Sitting up straighter, he felt the dampness through his jacket. Pathetic old man. “There is no need to hover in the doorway.” He gestured for her to take the seat his servant had placed across from him. “I’m in no state to attack you.”

Joan perched on the edge of the stool, her clothes giving off the pleasing scent of roses, as if in her deep rose silk and green velvet gown she
were
a rose. This blossom had thorns; he had no doubt of that.

He picked up the letter he’d left on the little table beside him, opening it so that she might see the general shape of the contents, that it was a missive to Holland. By the lift of her chin in defiance, he saw that she recognized her own childish script.

“Your hand is not as legible as your mother’s. ‘My must betrothed
brigand’? Ah, ‘most beloved husband.’ ‘I live for the—’ I cannot make it out.” He held the letter out for Joan to decipher.

“ ‘I live for the day we prove the falseness of my marriage to Will and are free to live together as husband and wife.’ It is simple enough. But of course you are familiar with my mother’s script, and she has had years of writing to you in which to perfect her form.” Her blue eyes seemed violet. Was it the dress? Or her pique?

“Is that what comes between you and my son, your resentment at my love for your mother?”

Her full lips curled in the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps a little, but as you read, you know that I consider myself already married to Thomas in the eyes of God. And I love him. Even had Will behaved honorably, I could not consider him my husband and would not willingly go to him.”

William had hoped that by delaying the consummation of their marriage the young couple would have found a compromise by the time they set up a household. But clearly that would not happen. “Honorably. Yes, I know about his bedding your maid. Yet you encourage the prince in
his
affections. What is Will to make of that?”

“Have you ever tried to control the prince?”

“Perhaps a clear no would suffice.”

“My lord, was that all?” Joan asked.

Her boldness angered him. “You will be a wife to my son, Joan. After the Round Table tourney, the two of you will retire to Mold.” She sat quite still, unsmiling. “Your nurse Efa will come in handy in Wales. You may go.” His head was pounding. “Leave me,” he growled as she sat there staring at him with those cold blue eyes. Ice, they were.

M
ARGARET ARRANGED TO MEET WITH
W
ILLIAM IN A COTTAGE ON
his way to Woodstock, the inhabitants grateful to be paid for a few hours’ absence. They’d not been together since Joan’s betrothal, in the workman’s cottage at Bisham. Margaret had not been certain he would come. He entered the cottage warily, peering into the shadows. Heaven knew what he thought to find. She waited. His greeting would tell her how it would go. With a nod of satisfaction, he shrugged off his fur-lined cloak, letting it slip to the rushes, and approached, reaching out for her hands. She saw the lines that the pain had etched around his eyes, above his brows, around his mouth. Efa had guessed he must be in constant pain. She said she had warned him that if he did not take his ease he would not have long to live. He’d refused her ministrations after that. Willful ignorance. Margaret would not have thought that of him. He took her hands now, kissed them, then kissed each cheek. “Maggie, it is good to see you.” This was not the greeting of a lover.

So it was over. “And you, William.” As he let go of her hands she stroked his brow, kissed his cheek. “Come, sit and have some brandywine.”