Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (31 page)

Joan had found her mother kneeling beside the bed, praying in the middle of the night.

“Efa says he does not have long. He has been my strength.”

Joan had knelt down beside Margaret, kissing her cheek, rubbing her hands to warm them. “You are the strong one, Mother. You are the one with the great heart.”

“They say he argued with your Thomas.”

“So they say. I know nothing of it.”

Thomas jousted well that day, besting three opponents out of four, his blind side tripping him up at the last. Joan yearned to wave to him from the stands, but there were too many eyes on her, too many eyes.

O
N THE LAST MORNING OF THE TOURNAMENT
,
THE GUESTS CROWDED
into the chapel in the lower ward for a solemn Mass, at the end of which Montagu and Grosmont, the earls of Salisbury and Derby, led the knights and barons behind the king in a procession of chivalry, all in regal red velvet and miniver, at the end of which King Edward swore an oath to establish the Round Table. Work was to begin at once on a great circular building in the upper ward of Windsor Castle that would hold all the members when they gathered at Whitsun. The earls of Derby, Salisbury, Warwick, Arundel, Pembroke, and Suffolk, the barons and knights present—all vowed to observe, sustain and promote the endeavor. Joan was relieved to see Thomas and his brother in the procession. So far no harm had been done by the rumor that Thomas had argued with Montagu right before his fall.

Afterward, the squires were to joust, Ned challenging all comers. He’d asked for Joan’s colors and she’d given him a piece of rose-hued silk that matched the bodice of the dress she wore beneath her fur-lined cloak. She’d thought to give it to Will, as a peace offering, knowing how his father’s fragile health worried him, but he had not approached her.

Ned had slipped his hand beneath her chin and turned her for a kiss on the mouth, lingering, practiced. “Am I improving?”

She stepped back. “Don’t make a spectacle, Ned. Your parents will blame me.”

“And Thomas Holland? Will he blame you as well? Poor, deluded man, crowded out by young Will and the prince of the realm.” He kissed her hand. “Sit close to the front so I can see you from the field.”

Shivering, she did so. Bella tsked and shared her warm lap rug with Joan. Ned was triumphant, and, with every win, he kissed the air and bowed to her. She felt the queen’s eyes on her and cursed Ned. But she feared angering him in such a mood. She had never felt so trapped.

W
ithin a few days of the festivities, the earl fell once again into confusion. Countess Catherine expressed her wish to take him home to Bisham, where he might feel safe. Queen Philippa was puzzled by that. Here, at Windsor, he had the benefit of the royal physicians. But Catherine spoke of signs and portents, a menacing shadow that had stalked William throughout the tournament, a darksome dream the night before his fall, whispers all round her as he’d ridden out onto the field, a shaft of light in the shape of a sword. Philippa had seen this panic in Catherine before, after the birth of each child. Taking her hand, she assured Catherine that William would be guarded day and night.

“Calm yourself, Catherine. He should not travel in such a perilous state. We will do all in our power to save William.”

H
OW KIND
P
HILIPPA WAS TO HER RIVAL FOR
E
DWARD
’
S LOVE
. J
OAN
glanced at Lucienne, her own rival, and found the violet eyes trained on her. Seeing that Joan had caught her, Lucienne glanced at Catherine and made a face, as if to say,
She’s quite mad, isn’t she?
Confused, Joan looked away. Why was Lucienne pretending to be her friend?

L
ESS THAN A FORTNIGHT AFTER HIS COLLAPSE IN THE LISTS
, E
ARL
William was dead. A solemn Mass was offered for him at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, with all the royal family attending. Joan had asked permission to stand with her mother at the service, but Catherine had insisted that she accompany Will. She felt out of place, aching more for her mother than for the earl. She imagined her mother back in the crowd, mute with grief, stoically determined to maintain her dignity. Surely God had not meant this. Surely he had intended that a man and a woman should come together in love, not duty, and from their love beget new life.

At the end of the ceremony, King Edward stepped forward, draped in black velvet, and nodded to his herald, who let it be known that the first meeting of the Round Table would be postponed, Pentecost being too soon for such celebration after the death of the king’s dear friend.

As the assembly departed, Countess Catherine knelt before William’s brother Simon, Bishop of Ely, and took a vow of celibacy.

“Are you certain, Catherine?” he asked.

“God has guided me in this,” she whispered.

“Why is she doing this?” Will muttered.

Repentance for loving the king more than her husband, Joan guessed, but kept her own counsel.

J
OAN WAS SUMMONED TO THE KING’S HALL
. H
ER HANDS WENT COLD
when she saw Countess Catherine seated near him like an angel of death in her black mourning, her eyes huge in her bloodless face. Edward greeted Joan coolly, gesturing for her to sit. She did, though her instincts told her to run, especially when he remained
standing at the back of his chair. Surely he’d not blame her for Catherine’s vow.

“I’ve heard disturbing rumors about you and Thomas Holland, cousin—that you still claim him as your husband.”

“Your Grace, I am lawfully wed to Thomas.”

She watched not the king but Catherine, seeing her hands clench, her lips move. Cursing her? Thomas?

“You are the wife of Will Montagu, who will in time be granted the earldom of Salisbury, as his father wished. And you shall be his countess,
as his father wished
,” Edward proclaimed.

While Will gets bastards on my maidservants and pines for all the pretty grooms in the stables
, Joan thought.
And longs for Ned’s approval, Ned’s love
. But, looking at the king, she said only, “I am not his wife.”

“He is unmanned by your love for another. It is your duty to comfort him, to reassure him.” There was no mistaking the rising anger in the king’s tone, and his eyes warned of danger. “I value Holland’s service. Do not make me strip him of his knighthood and send him into exile. Stop this nonsense and be a wife to your husband.” Edward slammed his fist down on the back of the chair, making it rock. “I’ve appointed Sir John Wingfield as Will’s guardian and granted the lad some of his father’s estates in Somerset and Wales.”

Mold, Joan thought, looking at Catherine, who kept her gaze on her gloved hands.

“You and your husband will from this day forward live as husband and wife. Am I clear?”

Joan bowed her head. “Yes, Your Grace. I pray that I—in faith,
we
do not pay too dearly for breaking a solemn vow. A curse on our families …” She whispered the last, watching Catherine twitch. Curses. That reached her in her madness.

Edward rested one of his large, long-fingered hands on Catherine’s shoulder as he gently assured her that the archbishop
of Canterbury and several bishops, including Will’s uncle, had blessed the marriage. “Not one of them warned of God’s ire,” he said.

Catherine shrugged off his hand. “Yet William is dead, Your Grace.”

“Go now,” Edward commanded Joan. “Comfort your husband in his grief, and speak no more of divine retribution.”

Joan bowed and withdrew. Out in upper ward, she stood in the shadow of the great stone walls moist and dark with the icy, relentless drizzle, watching two dogs sniffing at the debris left behind by the departed guests.

“What did Edward say?”

Joan started as her mother slipped a cloak around her shoulders. She described the meeting.

“Ah. So Catherine and William were united in this. No wonder he was so cool when I tried to convince him that the marriage had been a horrible mistake that we might remedy with an annulment, that it was not too late to make things right.”

Joan peered at her mother, disbelieving. “What changed
your
mind?” For the first time she heard from her mother of Thomas’s visit to her, and her remorse. “Did you know of Blanche’s part?”

“I suspected it. I will never forgive her. Still, I had hope. But the king—” Margaret shook her head. “If my heart can change, so, too, might the king’s. At least I can pray it is possible.” She hugged Joan. “I must not keep you. Thomas and his brothers are at the stables, preparing to depart. Go to him.” Margaret kissed Joan’s cheek. “Hurry.”

If her mother’s heart could change … Joan grasped at the slender hope and hurried across the inner ward. As she neared the stables, she felt her neck prickle and glanced back, thinking her mother still watched. But she had disappeared. Looking up, Joan saw a lone figure in the middle of the battlements, a man. Something about the intensity of his gaze spurred her to run,
causing the scavenging dogs to take up the chase, barking excitedly.

She found Thomas with his brothers and stood for a while, unnoticed, as they sorted out their packs. She watched him laughing with them, giving instructions to Hugh and a groom, moving round his horse, examining any blemish. Though they were bound together, she knew little of his daily life. There was so much she yearned to know—if his eye pained him, what he enjoyed most in a tourney, what weapon he favored in battle, what he’d seen in Prussia. But there was no time now.

Alan noticed her standing there and bowed. “My lady!”

Thomas drew her in, kissing her forehead.

“We’ll leave you two,” said one of the brothers. “You’ve not much time. We want to be well away from Windsor before sunset.”

The grooms and squires withdrew as well.

Joan caught Thomas’s hand, kissing it and pressing it to her cheek. “Mother told me where I might find you.” She nodded at his surprise. “You changed her heart, Thomas. Not that it does us much good. It’s too late.” She told him of her meeting with the king. “So I shall leave on the morrow for Bisham, and I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“Bisham.” Thomas pulled her to him as he cursed under his breath. “What if you conceive?”

“I will not.”

“But—”

“Efa will see to that. I will not conceive, not his heir or anyone’s, unless it be ours, yours and mine.”

“I pray you never regret it.”

“I must believe that we will be together. I will be waiting. No matter what you might hear to the contrary, I love no one but you.” She touched his scarred temple. “Did Efa replenish your ointment?”

“She did.” He cursed again as he heard his brothers return.
“So. I am off to find a hefty ransom to free you, my love. May God see his way to helping us, and may he watch over you.”

A long kiss, and then she rushed away, calling to his brothers to watch over him.

Through the mist she ran, laughing as the dogs pursued her, picking up a stick to throw for them. Her heart was momentarily light. She had hope. In through the great hall she ran, a guard shooing the dogs away as they tried to follow. Bella caught her as she was twirling in her cloak.

“You are soaked! Were you up on the battlements with Ned?”

The solitary figure she’d seen earlier? Had Ned watched her go into the stables, and Alan and Otho step outside? Her happy run with the dogs? “Is he still up there?”

“Didn’t you just leave him?”

She yearned to strip off her wet clothes and curl up beneath a mound of blankets, but that must wait. Out she went again, out away from the building so that she could look up at the battlements. Whoever it was still stood there. She waved. No response. The dogs jumped up, thinking she had something in her hand. If it was Ned, his lack of response did not bode well. She ran to the tower stairs, the dogs happily following, but they fell back when she started to climb. Round, round, round she climbed, higher and higher, composing her lie as she went, until, as she reached the top, breathing hard, she walked out onto the battlements with her speech on her lips. But she found herself alone.

Looking out, she saw someone exiting the next tower, crossing the yard toward the stables. “Ned!” she shouted, waving. He walked on, never turning.

S
eated on the dais in the great hall at a solemn feast following the earl’s burial a fortnight after his death, Countess Catherine announced that she was withdrawing into silence and fasting for several months to pray for her husband’s soul. Joan was to run the household during this time, and Will was to acquaint himself with the stewards of their various estates. “And, as my husband wished, they will now live as husband and wife.”

At first, no one moved, the noble guests, the family and their retainers uncertain of the proper response. How uncomfortable Catherine made them, draped in black brocade, her dark hair caught up in a dark silver crispinette, onyx beads her only jewels, the pallor of her face and hands funereal. Seeing none of the earl’s family making a move to save the moment, Joan rose and thanked the guests for gathering around the family in their grief and honoring Earl William. She mentioned a few of his triumphs, including the capture of Mortimer, which won a quiet cheer here and there in the hall, and then welcomed others to pay tribute to the earl.