Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (3 page)

Philippa held out her arms to receive her infant son from his wet nurse, kissing Lionel’s plump pink cheeks, drinking in his baby scent, stroking his feathery dark hair. He was his elder brother’s opposite, dark where Ned was fair, compact rather than lanky, and so far docile and content. If there had been a time when her firstborn was docile and content, she had forgotten it. And yet one could not help but love him, such a beautiful child, so lively and quick. He had even proved graceful once his cousin Joan interested him in dance.

Joan. Philippa looked forward to the time, quite soon, when young Joan would cease to be a problem, and, with any luck, her mother as well. She felt no guilt in the matter. The girl had only her mother to blame. It was Countess Margaret who had soured Philippa on her children, Earl Edmund’s children, whom she’d taken in as her own upon his death, in memory of their deep affection. Everything might have been quite different had he lived.

Indeed, the Earl of Kent’s beheading a few weeks after Philippa’s coronation had cast a pall over what should have been a time of celebration. She’d no doubt that her mother-in-law, the dowager queen Isabella, had arranged it so, to diminish Philippa’s moment, loath to give up her crown to her son’s wife.

Philippa had been fond of her husband’s uncle. Edmund had escorted her at her coronation, his hand there to steady her when she hesitated, his words calming her, his confidence in her lending her strength. She’d known him since the time Queen Isabella had come to Hainault seeking the help of Philippa’s father in her struggle against her husband and his favorites, the Despensers. Edmund had been kind to plump, plain Philippa even then, before anyone thought of her as Prince Edward’s consort. In her eyes, Edmund of Kent was the quintessential royal—gallant, handsome, tactful. Neither of them had known that as he escorted her through the cheering crowds to Westminster he’d already been caught in the snare set by the rapacious Queen Isabella and her lover, Roger Mortimer, his arrest coming but days later. Philippa felt sick as she thought of his kindness, and his ignominious death.

Edmund was beheaded as a traitor for the crime of plotting to rescue his half brother, the deposed King Edward II. The Earl of Kent had believed a false rumor, spread by Mortimer’s lackeys, that his half brother yet lived, that Edward had not died in prison as officially announced. Edmund believed he might yet save his brother’s life, if not his crown, but he must act quickly, for Isabella and her lover would never rest easy while the king
they had wrongfully deposed lived. So Edmund had written letters recruiting support for his plan to rescue Edward and remove him to the continent, where he might live out his days in spiritual retreat. And thus he’d fallen right into Mortimer’s trap. The letters were intercepted, and Mortimer staged a sham trial, after which Edmund was dragged to the block.

Outraged that such a thing could happen to a member of the royal family, Philippa had rushed to her husband, begging him to intercede. But Edward, at that time king in name only, had been powerless to stop the sham trial, the execution, the gluttonous haste with which the two lovers had taken possession of all that had been Edmund’s to reward themselves and their toadies. In the end, Edmund’s death spurred Edward to rally his most trusted knights and bring down Mortimer, at last taking control of his kingdom. But, for Edmund and his family, Philippa’s husband had found his courage too late.

In sympathy, Philippa and Edward had taken in Edmund’s widow, Margaret, Countess of Kent, and her three young children, welcoming them to Windsor. How regal they had looked entering the castle gates—young Edmund and Joan on ponies, Countess Margaret on her fine filly, only the infant John riding in a cart with his nurse.

Philippa had mourned with Margaret at the sudden death from fever of her eldest son, Edmund, just weeks after joining her household. Doubly mourning, and with her other son, John, less than a year old, born but weeks after his father’s execution, Margaret of Kent was a woman to be pitied.

But Philippa quickly learned that Margaret did not want her pity. The widow blamed all the royal family for her husband’s execution. That she had drilled her five-year-old and her four-year-old to ride so proudly from the royal barge to Windsor Castle should have warned Philippa that Margaret meant to put on a show of strength.

“It was not enough to murder my husband—now you claim
my children as your wards? You rob me of authority over my babies and expect my gratitude?”

“It is for their protection,” Philippa had explained.

“Protection from what? Their danger is from Isabella and her son, your husband. The two of them carry the mark of Cain.”

“The mark of—Are you mad? Do you hear what you are saying? The king has taken you in—”

“Your husband is just as guilty as his mother in his uncle’s murder. He stood back and did nothing.”

“Mortimer—”

“Edward was the
king
.”

“It was not so simple as that, and you know it. He held no real power. Now he means to ensure that John and Joan have every privilege and marry well, with property.”

“He can do that through me.”

“The property was dispersed among his barons.”

“How can he call himself king when he cowers before his barons?”

Philippa had given up the argument, telling Edward there was no reasoning with Margaret. “Let her retreat to one of her own residences with the children and sulk, I implore you, dear husband.” Philippa had enough challenges with the dowager queen’s dark presence; she did not need another bitter widow casting a cloud over her household.

But Edward’s conscience dictated that Edmund and Margaret’s surviving children be brought up in Philippa’s household. And where her children were, so too, far too often for comfort, was Countess Margaret. Indeed, Edward provided her with a house in Westminster, close to the palace. Isabella referred to Margaret and her children as Edward’s hair shirt. “What sort of king will you be if you fill up your court with the families of your enemies?” Isabella asked her son. “A martyr king?” Though Philippa rarely agreed with her mother-in-law, in this they were of one mind.

For seven years Philippa tolerated their presence, her patience tested not only by Margaret but also, of late, by her daughter, Joan, the subject of her son’s angry letter. He claimed that Joan was his betrothed, that her place was by his side. At the age of eight, none of Philippa’s brothers had cared a whit about girls. This was Joan’s doing, no doubt peeved because Edward had rejected Montagu’s bid for the girl’s hand. She was of royal blood, of far more use to seal a foreign alliance. The girl was almost twelve years old. It was time to betroth her to someone who would take her far from the court. God willing, her mother would then withdraw to her estates and leave Philippa in peace.

And recently she’d seen her chance.

Edward had come storming into her chamber enraged. “The arrogance! He proposes a match between our Bella and his son!”

“Who, my love?”

“Bernardo Ezi, the Sire d’Albret.”

“The Gascon. Yes, I have noticed how he struts. He enjoys knowing how much you need his men-at-arms to protect our lands in Gascony. But our eldest daughter?” Philippa saw the blue pulse in her husband’s temple, a constant in those early days when they’d feared what the dowager queen Isabella and her lover, Mortimer, meant to do with him. They’d killed one king, what was another? Now Isabella wrecked her son’s peace with her fierce ambition—that her son would win back the French throne, that her son, with her Capet blood in his veins, must once more wear the crown, not a Valois. “Bernardo Ezi knows he will not win a princess,” Philippa assured her husband. “He is merely letting you know that he expects a prestigious match for his son. What of your cousin Joan? You told Sir Edward Montagu that you had a more strategic marriage in mind for her.” She was pleased by how she’d managed to make it sound as if it were a sudden inspiration.

But Edward had hesitated, troubled. “Give my dear cousin over to a man I reject for my own child?”

“Because he is not worthy of a king’s first daughter, Edward. But a cousin with little to offer but Plantagenet blood—it is a good compromise, I think.”

“What of his dependence on alchemists, geomancers? Timeus the astrologer, who guides his every move?”

“Just because you put your trust in God and in your own deep wisdom, that does not mean another man is wrong to seek guidance in these esoteric practices, my love. Why, your own son has requested an astrologer for his household.”

Edward pressed his temples. “God give me patience. This is Mother’s doing. I’ve asked her not to lead Ned astray with her astral nonsense.”

And Isabella does as she pleases
, thought Philippa. “No matter what you think of Albret, you need him,” she said.

“Albret will not bend unless he sees the advantage.”

“Joan’s Plantagenet beauty. She could be our Ned’s twin. Albret must see her. And, as I’ve summoned some of my ladies to sail with your men-at-arms, it would be simple to include the girl.”

Edward was softening, his shoulders easing. “Her mother won’t like it.”

“We do not need Countess Margaret to like it. The children are our wards. Of course, I will look after Joan as if she were my own daughter. I will assure Margaret of that.”

Lionel began to squirm in Philippa’s arms, pulling her back to the present, and she looked down at him. “Have I ignored you, my sweet? Forgive me. But it is a good plan, n’est-ce pas? The only flaw is that your grandam Isabella will think I am granting her request to exile young Joan for flying the white hart. On the contrary, I applaud the girl’s boldness. Earl Edmund
should
be remembered. Oh, what I would give to have seen Isabella’s face!” Philippa sighed as she felt a dampness. Time to hand Lionel back to the nurse.

T
he cog felt alive beneath her, its planks shifting, groaning as it rode the waves, its sails, open to embrace the wind, clapping, sighing, clapping, sighing. Joan clutched the rail for balance, so that she might gaze up into the dome of stars. Could God see her there, a speck on a speck floating in the vast, churning darkness? Would he notice if a wave reached over the rail and washed her out to sea?

Shivering as she thought about how far she was from all she’d ever known, Joan put her hands over the square of embroidery sewn into her bodice. Too stained to clean, too tattered to repair, the banner had been put in the rag pile after she cut out the emblem. Through the winter Joan and her mother had worked on another, hanging it in the hall of their home in Westminster on Easter morning.
You are ever with us, Father. Watch over me now. The dowager queen thinks to exile me. I pray you, make it not so
.

One of the crew approached, lantern held high. “Milady.” He bobbed his head and walked on, maneuvering past the barrels and coils of rope lining the edge of the deck with a rolling gait that adjusted seamlessly to the pitching of the ship on the waves.

“They call them
sea
legs.”

Joan turned too quickly toward the voice and lost hold of the rail.

Sir Thomas Holland steadied her. “And when they disembark they must readjust to their
land
legs.” Two dimples formed on either side of his mouth when he smiled. It was too dim to see them now, but Joan had spent a great deal of the past week watching for them to appear. He was the captain of the guard escorting the queen’s ladies to Antwerp, a knight of the king’s household.

“Sea legs.” She smiled back, grateful that he could not witness how she’d blushed at his touch.

“I imagine you came out here for some peace.”

“I did, but from the sickness in the cabin, not from you, Sir Thomas.” She’d spent hours working alongside Lady Angmar in the crowded space, holding the heads of the seasick women, passing the buckets of bile to the two maidservants still standing, disciplining her own stomach to ignore the stench.

“Then if I promise not to bore you with unnecessary chatter, might I have the pleasure of your company with a little wine, bread, some cheese?” He patted the pack slung over his shoulder.

She imagined he’d been ordered to watch over her, but no matter. “I would be grateful for a companion. And food.” Though she’d used the excuse of a queasy stomach to escape into the fresh air, she was actually hungry. But even had she not been, she would have pretended interest, anything to claim the handsome knight’s undivided attention.

He piled up sacks for their seats, just at the edge of the pool of light from a lantern, then extended a hand to assist her in settling down, all without a word, as he’d promised. They ate and drank in quiet companionship, the lantern’s sway moving them in and out of shadow. He’d created a place of comfort in the darkness.

Restored, she broke the silence. “It’s so peaceful, with all but some of the crew asleep.”

“It is.” He shifted to face her, and she felt herself blush yet again. “I was too hungry to settle,” he said. “And you could not endure the cabin, eh?”

“It stinks in there. And Lady Angmar wanted me to watch over the others while she slept.”

“So you escaped.”

“I said I felt ill and needed air.” She sighed. “Being the strong one can be a curse.”

A particularly large wave set the lantern swaying wildly, and for a moment Sir Thomas’s face was in the light. His dimples were showing. “Always providing support, never receiving it,” he said.

“You, too?”

“How else would I know? Is this your first time away from your family?” She nodded. “You are very young.”

“Lady Wake offered to escort me. I begged Mother to agree. Aunt Blanche would make it an adventure.”

“And Countess Margaret balked at the thought of it.”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“Blanche of Lancaster is your aunt? You sound fond of her.”

Lancaster. What had possessed her to mention that family? Joan could not think what to say. The Hollands had no love for the Lancasters, whose men-at-arms had murdered Thomas’s father. Sir Robert Holland had been the Earl of Lancaster’s most trusted vassal until he went over to King Edward II’s side when the earl rebelled against his sovereign. The Lancasters put the blame for the earl’s capture and execution on Sir Robert, calling him a traitor. To them, loyalty to one’s immediate lord came before loyalty to one’s king. Sir Robert had thought otherwise. Several years later, men who had served the earl attacked and beheaded Sir Robert. They’d gone unpunished.