Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (30 page)

“You are angry about my son and your daughter’s maidservant.” He settled on the camp stool she’d brought for him, rubbing his temples, opening and closing his jaw as if clearing his ears.

As she poured, she chose her words, telling him of Thomas’s visit, what he’d told her of Blanche’s interference. She spoke of Joan’s unhappiness, and Will’s. William did not interrupt her, sipping the brandywine, occasionally grunting. When she paused, he held out his cup for more brandywine.

“Trust me, Maggie, the solution is simple. After the January tourney, they will establish a household together at Mold.
Once they consummate their marriage, neither of them will have cause to stray.”

“I know you are not so blind as to believe that. William, let us go to the king—”

“No!” He grabbed the filled cup from her, the brandywine spilling down his arm and splashing on her gown. He paid it no heed. “Edward will destroy your daughter, perhaps even withhold your son’s inheritance if we petition for an annulment, and I dare not guess what he would do to my son. He’s never liked him. Holland would suffer as well. Edward has summoned him and his brother Otho to the great tournament next month. They are to be knights of the Round Table, Margaret, a great honor. But not if you remind the king of Holland’s transgression.”

She had lost, as she’d known she would when he did not take her in his arms. He had what he wanted from her—Joan’s marriage to his son, the addition of royal blood to his line. “We’ve made a mess of it, William.”

“Joan and Thomas are the ones to blame, not us.”

“They acted in good conscience. Followed the forms. It is we who have erred, we who have transgressed.”

William drank down his brandywine and rose. “It grows late.”

She stood, reaching up to kiss him on his sunken cheek. “God go with you and keep you safe, William.”

He patted her back.

She turned away so that she would not witness him striding through the door without a backward glance. Blessed Mother, she had always thought he was the one desperate for her love, she the one who used him. Not so. Her heart was breaking as she heard him ride away. She’d been used and discarded, and she’d taken her daughter down with her. Yet she could not find it in her to wish him harm.

J
oan stood atop a tower, gazing down on the stands and barriers for the jousting and the colorful tops of the pavilions so crowding the upper and lower wards of Windsor Castle that they now spilled out into the fields just outside the walls. Tournaments had punctuated her life, welcoming the knights and barons home from the field. But this was on such a scale as to be overwhelming. She was grateful to be above the din and jostling of the crowd, the smoke of the fires. But her companion, Lady Lucienne, grew restless, complaining that the sharpening breeze cut through the thick wool and fine fur of her cloak. She laid a gloved hand on Joan’s. It was a gorgeous glove of the softest leather, stitched in contrasting colors, adorned with beads of silver and gold, so that her gestures caught the eye. She leaned close, her perfume of roses and spice mingling with the freshening air, and suggested that they descend, she had someone she wished Joan to meet. Joan would as lief stay up above the throng, but she knew that Lucienne was not as robust as in the past. She’d had to pause frequently on the climb, her breathing labored. And so they descended, Lucienne hurrying Joan along, drawing her through the crowd to the lower yard and into a building that housed clerics and some of the king’s household officers. Joan regretted her unquestioning trust. Lucienne was
still the queen’s spy, and she feared a trap. She was certain of it when Lucienne pushed wide the door and Joan beheld her beloved quietly conversing with Efa. Joan backed down the corridor, shaking her head as Lucienne hurried back to her.

“Would Efa betray you?” Lucienne reached out a hand. “I pray you, accept this gift. We have plotted and schemed to bring you together.”

“Why?”

“Not out here. We will be discovered!” Lucienne took Joan firmly by the arm and propelled her down the corridor and into the room.

As the door closed, Efa touched Thomas’s arm. He turned. “Joan!”

And all her hesitance vanished. They rushed to each other.

“My beloved.” Thomas gathered her close.

For a long while she did not move, breathing with him, calmed by his strong heartbeat. Then she leaned away, looking at him, drinking him in with her eyes.

“Am I very ugly?” he whispered.

She traced the scar that radiated out from his eye, beneath the silk patch. The skin was soft. Efa’s gift. “No, my love. Never.”

Joan felt her nurse’s gentle pressure on her back, “You have two hours,” Efa whispered. “Listen for the noon bell. I will return for you then.” A rustle of silk, and the door closed behind the two women.

“We are alone,” said Thomas.

“In a bedchamber.” Joan giggled, as nervous as her first night with him.

He carried her to the bed, and there they lay for a while, side by side, wondering at the miracle of being together. Slowly they undressed each other, touching, kissing, making love the first time too quickly, then more slowly. Lying in Thomas’s arms afterward, Joan remembered Catherine’s threat—Mold, she and
Will setting up household—and she wept. Thomas kissed and held her, and though she had vowed not to tell him, she broke her promise to herself, her unhappiness spilling from her in a pitiful rush as the sext bell chimed.

When Efa knocked on the door, Thomas was telling Joan of Lucienne’s offer.

“No. She is the queen’s spy. We dare not be beholden to her.”

“Then I must confront the earl,” he said. “I cannot live like this.”

Doubt assailed her when he was gone and Efa was putting the finishing touches on her dress.

“Am I wrong?” she asked her nurse, seeing that she looked troubled. “Should we accept his mistress’s generous offer?”

“I cannot fully fathom Lucienne’s heart, my lady. I believe she wants to do this for you—now. But how long she will sustain this selflessness I cannot guess, whether her yearning for him will gradually outweigh her wish for his happiness.”

“We must wait.” Joan kissed Efa. “Thank you for these hours with him.”

F
EASTS TOOK UP THE
S
UNDAY OF THE TOURNAMENT
,
PRESIDED OVER
by the king and queen resplendent in ermine and red velvet. With them at the high table were their children, the dowager queen, Joan, Margaret and the other countesses, along with two French knights who had risked King Philip’s displeasure to be present. At the other tables were the wives of barons, nobles, knights, and the citizens of London. The men feasted in pavilions out in the upper ward. After escorting his mother to the hall, Thomas paused in the doorway exchanging pleasantries with the guards as he watched how Prince Edward leaned close to Joan, his lips almost kissing her ear as he spoke, how he touched her hand, then cupped both his around it. Thomas forced himself
to look away, out over the sea of gorgeously dressed women. As it had been in Ghent, it was difficult to distinguish the wives of the wealthy merchants from the noblewomen, their hair as skillfully arranged, their silks as bright, their jewels as brilliant as those of their betters. More brilliant, certainly, than his mother’s. He turned away from the crowded hall.

It was not until the next day, the opening day of the tournament, that Thomas found Earl William without a coterie of barons surrounding him. He was in his pavilion, being prepared for the lists, his squire kneeling to buckle his greaves. Taking heart at the timing, when Montagu could easily send his men away for a few moments while the two had a quiet word, Thomas told him that he wished to discuss Joan. Montagu cleared the tent, inviting Thomas to have some wine, which he declined. Montagu shrugged and poured himself a goodly bowl, drinking it down, then refilling it before turning back. He leaned against a table, his armor preventing him from sitting. His face was flushed by the wine.

“I’ve intercepted and read enough of the letters that have passed between you and my son’s wife to know how it lies with you.” He nodded at Thomas’s surprise. “That ends now, or I will tell the king of your treachery, your allegiance to the Count of Eu and his heir, what a danger you are to his claim to France, how inappropriate it is to have either you or any of your family in his service.” He was shouting by now, the veins on his forehead and neck standing out. “Pursue this at your peril, Holland.” He coughed, and suddenly dropped his bowl as he lurched forward, his eyes glazed.

“You are ill, my lord.”

Thomas reached out to assist Montagu, but the earl weakly repulsed his hand and with a curse ordered him out.

“Father?” Will hesitated in the doorway, looking from his father to Thomas. “What have you done to him?”

“God’s blood, boy, nothing. Your father is ill.”

Color blotched the young man’s round face. He lunged at Thomas, a fist coming for his jaw. Thomas blocked the punch.

“Reason with your father. Keep him from the field. He’s too weak for the lists.”

“Get out! Have you not shamed us enough?”

“Shamed you? You might have asked your wife if she was free to wed before exchanging vows. Pah.” Thomas strode from the tent as Will softly tried to reason with his father. The elder Montagu roared for him to go snuggle with his page.

H
IDING FROM HER MOTHER-IN-LAW
’
S SHARP TONGUE
, J
OAN WAS
sitting in the Earl of Derby’s pavilion with her brother, John, the earl’s squire, quietly discussing Lucienne’s purportedly selfless act. John professed himself no more a believer in Lucienne’s selflessness than was Joan. He was expounding on a crazy theory that Lucienne meant to distract the queen from her own pursuit of Ned—the prince had bedded one of Bella’s maids, why not a more experienced woman?—when the prince came strolling into the pavilion.

“Lucienne after me? Is that what you imagine?” He punched John in the shoulder and grasped Joan’s arm. “I’m more interested in the favor Lucienne did for your friend Holland.” He pulled her out of her seat. “Coupling in a cleric’s bed. God’s blood, he must have wet himself that night.”

John threw his hat on the floor and rose, poking a finger in Ned’s face. “Leave my sister alone. You’re always making trouble for her.”

Ned made as if to bite John’s finger, then laughed when he backed away. “Go watch the tourney, John. See how it’s done.”

John lunged, “You—”

Shaken by Ned’s knowledge—who had spied on them?—and disgusted by his behavior, Joan stepped between them.
“Stop this, both of you!” She was about to say more when a crowd buzzing round four men carrying a knight laid out on his long shield strode past, most in the livery of the Earl of Salisbury. Rushing outside, she caught the arm of a page hurrying after them. “What has happened? Is it Earl William?”

“My lord earl fell and did not rise. And when he finally opened his eyes he did not know his own lady wife.”

“What is his injury?”

“They’ve found naught. But the queen’s physicians will now examine him. He breathes, he is awake, but he could not stand on his own. I must go, my lady.”

She shook her head at Ned as she watched the boy dodge through the crowd, catching up with the group as it disappeared behind a large pavilion. “Not now. I must see what’s happened.” In the distance, the crowd cheered. A knight greeted her and the prince as he passed, his squire rushing after him with his gauntlets. The tourney went on, of course. A fallen jouster was nothing unusual.

Her fate was tied to the earl, whether or not she wished such a connection, and she made her way through the crowd to see for herself his condition. Grim faces acknowledged her. Will, stiff with shock and expressionless, stepped aside to let her see his father, covered in furs, only his head and neck exposed. Countess Catherine was stretched out on the cot beside her husband, as a mother would to warm and comfort her child.

“He did not know me when I first ran to him,” Will whispered. “It is Holland’s doing. They argued about you. But your knight will be disappointed. Just now Father recognized Mother. He will recover.”

Joan noticed Efa off to one side and joined her. “Will he?”

“Briefly, perhaps. But the damage is done. What is this about Thomas?”

Joan shook her head. “I know nothing.”

Outside, a trumpet sounded, and as all heads turned toward
the doorway King Edward appeared, a magnificent presence in full armor. The occupants of the pavilion parted to either side, bowing as the king strode through, doffing his helmet.

Catherine sat up, her eyes red from weeping, her veil hanging to one side, her hair in disarray. “Your Grace.” She fought against the layers of silk twisted round her, trying to rise from her husband’s pallet.

“My lady Salisbury, there is no need to leave your husband’s side,” Edward said.

But her feet had found the floor and she stood, one side of her skirt hitched up in a tangle, a stocking drooping as a garter came undone and fell to the floor. “Your Grace.” She bowed.

The naked tenderness on the king’s face as he reached out to help Catherine rise sent a shock through Joan. He felt for her as she did for Thomas. Such a love. She had never guessed. The king bent as if to pick up the garter, but his armor prevented it. A servant knelt to retrieve it, handing it to the king.

“My lady.” Edward held the garter out to Catherine, but she had already turned to crawl back onto the pallet, cradling her husband’s head in her lap.

A flash of gold in the doorway caught Joan’s eye. It was the queen, who had arrived just in time to see her husband kiss the garter and tuck it into his breastplate.

“So much pain,” Efa whispered.

B
Y THE NEXT DAY THE EARL SEEMED HIMSELF AGAIN
,
THOUGH HE
had withdrawn from the jousting. Countess Catherine sat beside him in the stands, her eyes softer, less judging, holding his hand, stroking his cheek. Joan sat behind and to one side of them with her mother, who struggled to ignore the couple.