Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (39 page)

By God’s grace, several weeks after departing Avignon Thomas reached Portsmouth in good health.

He rode to Upholland, the family estate in Lancashire, which his mother meant to cede to him on his marriage. She’d asked him to meet her there, advise her on how to make it welcoming for Joan. They were at dinner when Otho surprised them, walking into the hall with boots and legs muddied, calling to a servant to fetch him a tankard of ale as he slumped into a chair turned sideways at the table so that the servant could remove his boots.

“What is amiss?” Maud’s face was tense with a mother’s concern. “You look as if you’ve ridden hard to reach us.”

“Lady Joan is not simply being forbidden visitors at Bisham as we’d thought. The Montagu bastard’s abducted her and imprisoned her God only knows where, that’s what’s amiss.”

Thomas’s chair hit the rushes as he sprang from the table, shouting for his squire. “Montagu? When?”

“Sit!” Otho shook his head at Hugh, who’d appeared from the kitchen. “Hear me out, brother. They’ve been gone a long while, ever since she arrived at Portsmouth in late summer.”

Otho drained his tankard, called for more. Maud insisted that he eat something before he was too drunk to finish his news. He skewered some cold meat on his knife.

Thomas got up to pace behind his brother. “Talk while you eat, damn it!” He kicked over a stool.

Otho leaned over to right it. “There’s nothing more to say. Montagu is not staying with her, if that is any consolation.”

“Where is the king now?”

“The Tower, I think.”

“I’ll go to London to see the lawyer, then I’ll find the king. He will answer for this!”

“Thomas! Cool your head or you’ll destroy us all,” Maud commanded. “I’ll come with you to London. We will stop at Bisham. Perhaps we’ll learn something from Catherine Montagu.”

“I doubt it,” Otho muttered.

Thomas was grateful for the speed with which Maud organized the traveling party. They rode hard, arriving at Bisham late the following day. The Montagu family was not in residence, Countess Catherine already assisting the queen with preparations for the St. George’s Day celebration. None of the servants would talk, but they offered the Hollands lodging for the night, and treated them with courtesy.

Unable to sleep, Thomas went out to the yard before dawn and found his mother already there, walking slowly back and forth as she fingered her amber paternoster.

“He won’t harm her,” she said in greeting. “That cannot have been his intention.”

“I pray you are right, and that he is diligent in ensuring her safety. But he is weak and easily manipulated.”

They rode out at first light.

T
HOMAS
’
S
L
ONDON LANDLORD LEANED CLOSE
,
HIS GARLICKY BREATH
reminding Thomas that he’d not eaten since before dawn. “There’s been a messenger from the king. You’re summoned to him at the White Tower as soon as may be. Your usual room?”

Thomas handed him his pack. “I trust I’ll find all as it should be when I return.”

The landlord bowed. “I will take it up myself, Sir Thomas.”

In the Tower yard, Thomas came upon his old friend Sir Roland talking to Will Montagu. Roland stepped forward to greet Thomas, expressing his relief that Thomas was safe returned from the south, beating the plague.

“Avignon is a fortress against all threat, even pestilence,” said Thomas. “Clement and his cardinals are certain God means for them to die peacefully in their sleep in their advanced years.”

“A pity you wasted a magnificent ransom on a lost cause, Holland.” Will Montagu smirked.

“You will not laugh for long, bastard!” Thomas grabbed the front of Will’s jacket, popping buttons as he pulled him close. “Where is Joan? If you’ve harmed her!” He pushed him away, and as Will fought for balance Thomas’s punches hit their marks with gratifying precision—the groin, the chin, the soft spot between the ribs. Will was down before Thomas worked up a sweat. “Get up. I’ve only begun.” He regretted he’d not worn his sword, but that might have been too quick. Battering
the swine was deeply satisfying. Will struggled to his feet. Thomas grabbed him by the shoulders and sent him sprawling, then began to dive after him.

A gloved hand prevented him. “Enough, Thomas,” said Sir Roland. “Though he deserves this and more, it’s not worth angering the king. He’d not thank you for killing the son of his late friend.”

“Just look away.”

“Even if I did,
he
wouldn’t.” Roland gestured toward Prince Edward, who was approaching from the Tower, looking amused. “That’s not a friendly smile,” Roland whispered. “And I cannot believe it was just chance that he called Montagu to meet him here on the day you arrived in London, summoned by his father.”

By now Will was standing, bleeding from the nose, his upper lip split, and one eye beginning to close.

“Go wash your face, Montagu.” Thomas had lost interest in kicking the weakling. “You cannot lose Lady Joan, for you never had her and you never will.”

“Don’t be so sure of your own hold on her, Holland,” Will mumbled, glancing at the prince.

The prince met Thomas halfway to the Tower.

“Well done, Holland. Would you like the satisfaction of finishing him off in the tilting yard on St. George’s Day?”

Thomas controlled himself, declining the offer with the courtesy due his prince, though he seethed inside.

“You disappoint me, Holland. I should have enjoyed the spectacle. Go on. My father expects you.”

Thomas wondered whether the prince had goaded Will into abducting Joan. But he pushed down that thought as the guards at the door of the king’s parlor bowed him through.

The king indicated that Thomas should join him and Bishop Edington at a table covered with a map weighted down with carved figures much like chessmen.

“I’ve need of you, Holland. We’re planning a delicate mission to Calais involving the Count of Flanders. You will take ship to Flanders directly after the St. George’s Day tournament. Talk to the councils in Ghent and Ypres, find out what they say of the Count of Flanders’s agreements with them. Then go among the nobles you’ve come to know, listening. I would know before I meet with him whether Louis is bargaining in good faith.”

“Your Grace, there is the matter of Montagu’s abduction of Lady Joan, your cousin. I cannot leave until I’ve found her.”

“Rest assured, Holland. I’ve some of my own men mixed in with the young earl’s. He knows that his life is forfeit if he harms her. And, man to man, do you—”

“He already has harmed her, Your Grace!”

The king’s eyes burned into him. “I am not finished.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“Your brother Otho will accompany you. You’ll sail from Sandwich. Edington will brief you. You will be in Calais with your report when I arrive there after Michaelmas.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Sheathe your sword, Holland. Do not make me change my mind about honoring you and Otho as founding members of my new order. Will Montagu is also to be a member. Comrades-in-arms do not kill each other.”

Thomas choked back a protest and bowed. “I am honored, Your Grace.” Bringing shame on his family was not the way to win his place as Joan’s husband.

“By the time you return from Calais, you should know Pope Clement’s decision. I promise you I will stand by his ruling.” Edward rose, nodding to the two as they stood and bowed. He told a servant to bring wine for the men, and some food. “They’ve work ahead of them.”

It was dusk when Thomas left the Tower. Roland waited for him.

“Let’s drink to old times, eh?”

Thomas took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. “I know just the place.”

R
OLAND SET DOWN HIS TANKARD
,
WIPING HIS MOUTH ON HIS SLEEVE
while looking around the ground floor of the tavern. “So this is where you hide when in London. Good ale among strangers.” He nodded approvingly.

“Not all strangers. The king knew to send a messenger here.”

“I’m not surprised, nor should you be. Let me be the first to congratulate you on being chosen for the Order of the Garter.”

“The garter? He’s using the emblem we fought under in Normandy? Countess Catherine’s—” Thomas broke off with a curse as Roland elbowed him in the ribs.

“Her name is not to be mentioned in connection with this. You could be accused of treason if overheard linking the two.” He leaned closer. “Our king has never strayed from his beloved queen.”

“The king baits us with this garter emblem. Once in our cups, we’ll all prove traitors.”

“Few know the story.”

Thomas corrected him. The story was popular in France, though their version was that the countess lost it while dancing and the king quickly stepped forward, saving her embarrassment by taking up the garter and buckling it round his leg, daring anyone to question
his
honor. “It’s meant as a slur on King Edward.”

Roland had grown somber. “So this is his way of defying them. I see why he calls it treason.”

Thomas motioned for the innkeeper to fill their tankards. This self-righteousness did not suit him. He thanked his old friend for reminding him of the honor the king had bestowed
on him. “As Joan’s guardian, he could by rights have exiled me, but instead he exalts me.” He raised his tankard. “To King Edward and his Knights of the Garter.”

Roland laughed. “I’m the one to say that, toasting you.”

Ah, it felt good to laugh. “And I toast you, my savior. You stayed my hand when I would have ended the life of a fellow Garter Knight.” If he said it enough, the word “garter” would cease to have such a significance. Garter Knight. His mother would be proud to watch two of her sons ride out in that celebrated company. He drained his tankard and called for more.

C
OUNTESS
M
ARGARET RECEIVED
T
HOMAS OUT IN THE GARDEN
,
shading her eyes as she watched him approach. He extended his hand and smiled, determined to be a model of courtesy even to her, the woman so much to blame for this unholy mess. They exchanged greetings, she asking about his journey as she motioned him to a chair. While a servant poured wine, he described his passage through a France laid waste by war and pestilence.

“God help us.” Margaret fingered the gold chain at her throat.

“Is Joan near the coasts? In the south or east?”

The simple questions roused a wariness. “Why?”

He began to laugh, but stopped himself. “Of course I want to know where Joan is, but I do not expect you to tell me, so I ask only this. If she is in the north, northwest I will leave her in peace, in safety.”

“Safe from whom?”

“Not from whom, from what. The pestilence. It comes by ship.”

“God have mercy.” She turned to look out on the Thames at the bottom of the garden. “Surely not here?”

“Of course here, my lady.”

She met his gaze. “I have reason to believe she’s in the north, but I am not certain.”

“Who knows?”

“Only Catherine and Will Montagu, as well as the retainers who guard her. A dozen of them. I am sorry, Sir Thomas.”

“Call me Thomas. You call him Will.”

“We are all on your side, Thomas—Efa, Katarina Van Artevelde, even Blanche Wake. She’s incensed by Will’s dishonorable behavior and has pledged to assist Joan with legal aid and more. After St. George’s Day, she intends to send out a troop of men to search for Joan. Would you lead them?”

“She would do this?” There was a hint of Joan in her mother’s smile. “I wish I could lead that search.” He told her of the king’s orders. “I suggest my brother Alan.”

“Introduce me to him at the St. George’s Day tournament.” Margaret put her hand on his. “We will find her and ascertain her safety, Thomas. I promise you.”

“I did not expect this.”

“I pray that someday you and my daughter will forgive my error in ignoring your vows.”

In her mind she had but erred, no more—he heard that in her voice. She had dishonored her daughter with a fraudulent marriage, kept her from her rightful husband for seven years, robbed them of happiness, cost Thomas a fortune in ransoms, and she called it merely an error. He did not trust himself to answer. He asked instead about Prince Edward’s feelings toward Joan. “He takes more than a cousinly interest in your daughter.”

“What has he done now?”

A most telling response. “I have been warned about his feelings toward Joan.”

She looked away from him, fussing with a cup of wine, shielding her eyes against the sun as she gazed out on the water. Just when he’d given up hope of an answer and began to rise she said, “He has loved her from the moment he was aware of her as a child. He decided then that she would be his queen. As far as I know, he has never wavered in that intent. Nor have his parents wavered in their determination to prevent it. That is why Joan was summoned to Antwerp. It is why she is now hidden away—he paid her too much court in Calais. He is not her choice, Thomas. You do know that?”

“He loves her, yet does her so much harm.”

“He does not see it that way. In that, he is much as you were in Ghent.”

“I see you still blame me.”

“You were far the elder.”

Thomas rose and bowed, thanking her for the information, promising to bring Alan to her during the coming festivities. Clearly, to the countess he was but the lesser of the evils now. She had not yet forgiven him. It was good to know.

A
RMOR
,
BANNERS
,
SADDLES
,
LONG ROLLS OF COLORFUL CLOTH FOR
additional pavilions—Thomas watched the burdened servants, pages, and squires stumbling by his tent while Hugh and a page helped strap and buckle him into his armor. Alan lounged on a cot while Otho paced, already fully dressed and unable to sit. Raoul de Brienne shared their pavilion. He was still a prisoner of war but had been invited to participate in the tourney scheduled for the following day. King Edward liked to show off the highest-ranking prisoners and enjoy their company.