Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (34 page)

“Ned is strong,” Joan assured her. “And, as the future king, he will be protected by all around him. You’ll dance with him soon.” She was far more certain of his safe return than of Thomas’s, already half blind, though a seasoned soldier. Leaving the battlements, she slipped into the chapel to pray for her beloved. She barely squeezed in the door, stumbling over women kneeling at the back, bent over their paternosters. She knelt beside them. After several rounds of Aves for Thomas, she said one for Ned, one for Will, and several for her brother.

K
ing Edward’s army set the countryside of Normandy ablaze as it marched toward Caen. Thomas could see in the prince’s eyes the confusion of the sudden violent shift from the celebratory landing, the knightings, including Ned’s own, only to spend the next day ordering his men to scorch the earth behind them. Ash fell like the devil’s snow when the wind shifted. The men rode with chins down, trying to breathe only the air filtered by the scarves pulled up from their necks. Thomas pitied the foot soldiers.

In camp, in the shadow of the priory of Fontenay-le-Pesnel, the food tasted of ash and everyone coughed and rubbed their eyes. But it must be worse for those within the walls of Caen, ten miles away. Thomas imagined them looking out on the burning land stretching from the walls to—the sea? They would have heard of the extent of the burning from the refugees who were pouring into the town, carts piled high with what was left of their worldly goods. Thomas had been on both sides of such a siege, though his homeland had never been under attack. He thanked God for that.

In the morning, the king’s messenger would be sent to offer the citizens of the town their lives, their goods, their homes in
exchange for their surrender. It was unlikely the garrison would permit them to agree.

Thomas watched Prince Edward walk through the camp, being introduced by his experienced commanders to the men they wanted him to know. In his bearing, how closely he listened, his slightly distant but courteous responses, he was his father’s son, a prince indeed—but young and inexperienced, with a dark streak, according to Joan. Thomas hoped he had the sense to heed the advice of his seasoned captains. The prince approached. Thomas rose to greet his commander.

“Holland!” Ned clasped his hand, nodded to him. “I count on you to take the town quickly. No long siege, eh?” He slapped Thomas on the back, strode on.

In the morning the bishop of Bayeux, who presided over the council of the garrison at Caen, tore up King Edward’s offer of clemency and threw the king’s messenger into prison, sending back the messenger’s squire to report the bishop’s disdain. Thomas was not surprised. What did the bishop have to lose? He was a cleric. He would not even be imprisoned. Nor did he likely own anything in the town. Thomas wondered how the townsfolk felt about his arrogance, whether they had such faith in his concern for them that they willingly put their lives in his hands. He doubted it.

Prince Edward led the company north round the city, encamping to the east, intending to wait for the signal from his father to attack. But some too eager foot soldiers made a rush on a small, unguarded gate in the old town walls. Finding it deserted—the citizens had moved across the river to the newer part of town, which was surrounded by water—the soldiers rushed to open the main gate to the bridge leading to the new town. And there they found the garrison amassed, the French officers quickly retreating to the tower on the bridge.

Thomas watched the prince, who’d been pacing and muttering to his officers ever since the foot soldiers disappeared inside
the walls. Now he paused, listening to the report. Would he hesitate, awaiting instructions from his seasoned elders, or would he make a decision on the spot?

“For King Edward! For England!” the prince shouted, and Thomas and all the company rushed into action, other companies following, the cries echoing against the walls.

God bless Prince Edward. It was the right choice for Thomas. The first company to attack would have their pick of the officers worthy of ransom. And there they were. As Thomas fought his way onto the bridge, he saw how the French hovered around the base of the tower.

Within moments, a wounded captain of similar rank to his own surrendered to Thomas, recognizing him from Prussia. “Holland! As you are an honorable knight, I surrender my sword to you.” Better to be held for ransom than be slaughtered. Though his ransom would be small, Thomas made a show of entrusting him to two of his men. Who knew who might be watching from the tower?

“The Count of Eu, Constable of France, has retreated to the tower,” one of Thomas’s men reported.

Raoul de Brienne had inherited the title on the death of his father.
Let us at least pledge that when we meet in battle we shall treat each other with honor
. He would bring a fine ransom, and Thomas would see that he was treated with respect.

Thomas waded through the carnage, wary of slipping on the blood coating the ground. His head buzzed with the shouts and screams, the sound of metal on metal, on stone, his arms pushing and hacking, seemingly no longer part of him. Once beneath the tower, he called to his men, making a racket so that he might be noticed.

Down from the tower came several knights, holding aloft a great ceremonial sword.

“My lord, the Count of Eu, Constable of France, delivers up his sword to Sir Thomas Holland.”

Thomas strode forward and took the sword, then ordered his men to keep the way clear for his return while he climbed the tower. In a small room at the top, his friend waited, handing over his weapons.

“God is watching over me at least in this,” said Raoul. “I place myself in your hands, Thomas.”

“You will be safe with me,” Thomas vowed.

By nightfall, the French chamberlain, who had surrendered to another captain, had been claimed by the prince. But Thomas still held Eu.

“You’ve now saved me twice, Thomas. How will I ever repay you?”

“With your ransom, I’ll win Joan back. That is how, my friend.” He handed Raoul a small cup of his celebratory brandywine.

“Still loyal to your king despite the theft of your lawful wife?”

“Is your king any less arbitrary with his favor?”

The count chuckled and raised his cup. “I honor your integrity, Thomas.”

“Ah, old friends, well met.” Prince Edward stepped into the light of the campfire.

The count rose to greet him.

“My lord prince,” Thomas bowed. “It is an honor.” He nodded for Hugh to offer the prince some brandywine.

The prince declined. “I’ve come for your prisoner. My pavilion is more appropriate to one of his rank.”

It was not uncommon for the royals to claim the most valuable prisoners as their own. Thomas and Raoul had prepared for this, knowing that, once claimed, the count would be lost to Thomas.

“How thoughtful, my lord prince,” said Raoul, “but I am most comfortable here, in the custody of the man who has now twice saved my life.”

The prince nodded to one of his men to take the count, but Thomas stepped between. “My lord prince, let us bring this before your father the king.”

“In the morning,” said Raoul. “For now, I pray you grant me this night’s ease.”

Thomas watched the gloved hands open and close, caught a twitch beneath the prince’s right eye just before he nodded to the count.

“Until the morning.”

Raoul considered Thomas with interest afterward, as the prince departed. “There is something more between you than my ransom, though that is considerable. Is it your love for his cousin the fair Joan?”

“How did you guess?”

Extending his cup for more brandywine, the count settled back against a rock, holding the cup to his nose. “This we do better than you, eh?” He laughed. “As for the prince, he clenches his jaw and puffs out his chest when he looks at you, a proud little cock. And, as it is rumored your lady leaves a trail of broken hearts—”

“That is not true!”

“The brandywine has gone to my head.” Raoul leaned close. “But it is said that the garter beneath which you fight is that of the Countess of Salisbury.”

“Not true. And, if it were, that would be her false husband’s mother, the beautiful widow Catherine Montagu, who has taken a vow of celibacy.”

“Ah.” Raoul shrugged. “Still. Beware the young cock.”

Thomas slept poorly that night, despite having five of his men watch over the count. In the morning he escorted Raoul to the king, who invited them to sit down to a simple meal while they talked.

“The prince sends his regrets. He is seeing to the discipline of the men who breached the walls before my signal yesterday.”

“The prince did not signal, Your Grace?” asked Raoul in a way that implied otherwise.

The two men considered each other as the servants offered Thomas and Raoul meat, cheese, bread, wine. Thomas waited for the king and the count to signal that they were ready to talk. At last the king nodded.

“You wish to repay Holland for the price he paid in saving your life years ago. I understand, as does my son. Holland, hand your prisoners over to Huntington. The earl is overseeing the transport of prisoners of rank to castles in England, where they will be kept under heavy guard until their ransoms are secured. I give you my word that Eu will be held safe and secure, to your benefit.” He laughed. “He’ll be far more convincing in urging his kinsmen to pay you than he would my son! Hah!”

Thomas thanked the king and set to the food and wine with good appetite.

“Did your men say the prince signaled?” Thomas asked afterward as they made their way to Huntington’s camp.

Raoul shrugged. “No. But
my
father would have believed it of me.”

E
dward’s summons was couched in effusive praise in an effort to preempt marital discord, knowing how Philippa had suffered during their long sojourn in the Low Countries. Her skill in diplomacy might more quickly bring relief to the women and children in the besieged city. He needed her. And for her company she must bring the noblest ladies of the realm. He had built a town for her. They would observe Christmas with much merriment, celebrating the great victory at Crécy.

Join you in a siege camp outside Calais? In winter? Do you think me mad?
How she would love to refuse. But they were at war. To refuse was treason. He was careful not to mention that.

Catherine Montagu, recently returned to Philippa’s household, expressed delight at the prospect, yearning to see her son, Will, freshly knighted, on his first long campaign. She seemed much improved, well supported by Joan, who had taken up her responsibilities with efficient grace. Philippa was well pleased with Joan’s transformation, though she did grow impatient for Joan to produce an heir for Will. Such an event would surely convince Ned that he must look elsewhere for a wife.

As for the recovered Catherine, she had arrived with a lavishly updated wardrobe, dark colors in honor of her widowhood artfully decorated with beads, gems, and buttons to catch the
light in a room and set her aglow, calling attention to her slender, still remarkably youthful figure. Celibacy had lost its appeal, had it? Perhaps she dreamed of lying with Edward in the great bed curtained in those insulting garters. Gently Philippa broke the news that Joan would represent the Montagus while Catherine oversaw the domestic side of the royal household here at home.
I count on you, my dear Cat
.

Joan pleaded with Philippa to reconsider, to let Catherine go in her stead. She dreaded the Channel crossing.
It is the very thing to cure your fear, sweet Joan
.

Philippa and Catherine had been at odds ever since, the countess criticizing the quantity of embroidered cushions being packed, the number of cloaks and gowns and boots, the crown, the caskets of jewels, goblets and glass—nothing pleased her. Philippa enjoyed every arch look, every sharp word, knowing it was all born of the pain of being left behind. It was a sweet revenge.

C
ALMED BY
E
FA
’
S PHYSIC
, J
OAN SLEPT FOR MOST OF THE CROSSING
.
Helena guarded her out on the deck, for Joan refused to ever again be trapped in a cabin. The queen had rejected her request to bring Efa. Joan comforted herself with the knowledge that her mother planned to offer Efa’s services to Dame Katarina and her children, to help them forget the horror they had witnessed, forging a healing bond. But she felt vulnerable without her nurse.

The king’s elaborate encampment southeast of Calais,
Villeneuve-le-Hardi
, or Brave New Town, straddled the causeway a mile from the coast leading to Flanders. Although Joan
had heard that it was substantial, with wattle-and-daub houses and shops, and larger wooden homes for the king, commanders, and nobles, she was still surprised by its vast size, how it dominated the plain beyond Calais. The king had indeed established a town in enemy territory, complete with elegant comforts. It was said to grow by the day, with the troops and all the camp followers seeing to the needs of the inhabitants. And, as for replenishing supplies, not only was a causeway into Flanders kept open but a small fleet of ships under heavy guard regularly crossed the Channel from England with goods gathered from all parts of the realm.

The king’s hall was large and airy, hung with fine tapestries. Queen Philippa and Bella had arrived the previous day and now warmly greeted the newcomers, Bella eager to show Joan round the building and escape her mother.

The hall was surprisingly beautiful for something so new and made entirely of wood rather than stone. Almost all of the furnishings were spoils of war—tapestries, carved chairs and screens, Italian glass, silver and pewter plates, fabrics of every color. They would not need half of what they had brought with them. It was not at all how Joan had imagined field camps.