Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (40 page)

“Is that your handiwork on Montagu?” Raoul asked as Will
stopped at the pavilion across the way to greet a friend, who loudly teased him about his bruised and swollen face.

Thomas admitted that it was.

“Good. You’ve satisfied your honor. You do not need to knock him from his horse here.”

“I declined the prince’s offer.”

“He ignored you.”

Thomas thanked Hugh and his page and waved them off.

“The prince wants him publicly humiliated?” he asked Raoul when they were alone.

“He means to ensnare you, my friend. He knows His Grace will withdraw your and your brother’s name from the order’s roster should you attack young Montagu again.”

“Then they should not pair us in the lists.”

“It does not matter, Thomas.”

“How do you know this?”

“It is surprising what my jailers discuss in my hearing. The prince is as feared as he is admired. He has a mistress, and she is pregnant, had you heard? But do not think for a moment that means he no longer intends your lady to be his queen. He means to rid himself of both you and Montagu. Perhaps in one brief joust.”

“Both opponents die in a joust? Has that ever happened?”

“I did not mean either of you would die. The prince intends for Montagu to fall from his horse, and you’re to be blamed. If it looks as if you defied the king’s order in public and thus dishonored yourself, you would not likely find anyone coming to your defense should your king refuse your claim to his cousin.”

Thomas cursed. “Someone else once warned me to beware the prince. I did not believe her.”

“Your lady warned you?”

“No. Not Joan. She and the prince are good friends. Cousins.”

A knowing look. “Surely she knows he would be more to
her, Thomas, yet it is said that in Calais she accepted lavish gifts from him and was often by his side.”

“I know all this.”

“Good. But I do not sense that you find this troubling, as I do. I do not like to question her sincerity, yet …”

“My lady is true. I would stake my life on it. The prince is another matter.” Thomas called for Hugh, told him to find Will’s squire and warn him to check all straps and buckles on his lord’s horse and armor.

Hours later, Thomas heard that the young Earl of Salisbury would appear late in the jousting; he awaited a replacement for a damaged saddle. So it was true. The prince would do this for love of his cousin.

At the feast following the jousts, Will Montagu lifted his cup to Thomas and toasted his honor. “We have a common enemy.”

It seemed they did.

A
bank of gray clouds hid the sunshine that had drawn Joan out into the yard for a walk, Jester madly dashing about, scattering the chickens and goats. She’d grown accustomed to sudden shifts in the weather when in the yard, the high walls obscuring the broad view that warned of impending change. She saved this as another point to throw at Will in a few weeks, his first visit since March. Helena had just noted the scent of rain in the air when the clouds burst apart and pelted them with hailstones. Jasper ran yelping into the keep, and they hurried after him. In the kitchen, the cook’s maid dried Jester while Joan warmed herself by the hearth, steam rising from her gown.

“I have something for you, my lady.” Alf, the cook, slipped her a small sealed letter as he added a piece of wood to the fire. “I found it in the sack of beans that came this morning.” He winked.

It was not Will’s seal. Joan turned it round in her hands, trying to make out the curling, vinelike design while she steeled herself for disappointment. Footsteps forced her to tuck it away, just in time, as Will’s man Dorn appeared, demanding a hot drink from Alf while glaring at Jester, who barked when any of the retainers invaded the keep.

“God’s blood, it’s cold for summer.” Dorn eyed Helena, stirring something over the fire. “What’s that?”

“A soothing tisane for my lady’s flux. Would you care for some?” She laughed as he grabbed the bowl Alf handed him and took it out into the stairwell.

Turning her back to the doorway, Joan opened the note with trembling hands. Was it possible? Alan Holland was in the village just beyond, hidden by the families of those serving here. God be thanked for Efa’s healing skill. She’d cured Alf’s daughter’s wasting sickness, set broken bones, eased palsy tremors, healed a number of agues and infections, and safely delivered a breech baby. Now they repaid the kindness.

Alan inquired whether she was comfortable enough to stay there until late October, when the risk of pestilence eased, and suggested that they work on a distraction during which they might slip away. Joan smiled. As children, she and Ned had devised myriad devious scenarios. It was merely a matter of remembering and choosing the right one. Efa could also be counted on to come up with a clever scheme. Joan’s heart raced. It was good to feel so alive.

“Is there aught you need in tomorrow’s delivery, my lady?” Alf asked. “I will pass it on to my brother tonight.”

“I have all that I need for the moment. But what of your other brother? You’ve said nothing of him for a long while. Is he away?”

The glint of mischief in the cook’s eyes warmed her as he promised to tell her about his elder brother’s latest adventure. The servants disliked Will and his men and enjoyed outwitting them. And, indeed, the following day she learned of Thomas’s mission to Flanders. Will’s shortsightedness in counting the country folk simple had proved a blessing. Now she knew that Thomas was alive; he had escaped the pestilence in Avignon. She thought she could bear anything now that she knew that her beloved was safe.

E
FA HAD ADVISED
J
OAN TO MAKE PEACE WITH
W
ILL SO THAT HE HAD
no reason to complicate their plans with heightened security. But he arrived under a dark cloud.

“We will dine in a short while. You will wear your best gown.”

He settled in a chair by the brazier, shouting for his page to remove his boots and bring him a brandywine, then prepare a bath for him in the kitchen. When he saw Joan still standing in the doorway, he said that he, too, intended to dress for dinner. The hollows in his cheeks had filled out, as had his body. He’d gained muscle, and a sharp confidence in the six months since she’d last seen him, as well as some new battle scars. Joan hurriedly withdrew, uneasy about this transformation.

Over dinner Will said little, answering her questions as briefly as possible. She’d learned in the letters he’d brought from Margaret that the pestilence had spread across the south and the roads were lawless, inns closed. It was not safe to travel. Joan asked Will about the sickness—how it manifested, how he was protecting himself.

“Ask Efa. I heard her talking to my squire.”

He commented that Joan was paler and thinner than he had ever seen her. She said that with no exercise she had little appetite.

“Take care of yourself.” He made it a command. “I don’t want to be ashamed when I bring you back to court.”

Joan did not know this man sitting across from her. He sounded nothing like Will. Cautious, she turned the conversation around, asking about his broken nose.

“Holland broke it. He threw himself at me in the Tower yard. He meant to finish me at the St. George’s Day tournament, then changed his mind, warning my squire that he’d cut my saddle strap. Your honorable Holland.”

The bite of his anger began to frighten Joan. “Why would Thomas do something so cowardly after openly attacking you?”

“How sweetly you jump to his defense. He blamed the prince—that he’d ordered the strap cut so it would not hold.” Will suddenly rose and grabbed her wrist, pulling her off her seat.

“Will, you’re hurting me.”

“Is that what you want—I die in the jousts and Thomas is accused of my murder? Are you using the two of us to stoke the prince’s passion?”

“No! I love Thomas.” She gasped as he tightened his hold, then suddenly twisted her hand behind her back. “My wrist!” Joan sobbed in agony.

“My lord—” Efa rushed over, reaching for Joan.

Will shoved her away. “Be gone, witch!” He ordered Dorn to take Efa down to the kitchen and hold her there, and told the other servants in the hall to follow. “The moment the prince feels free to make you his queen, Holland and I are dead.”

Cradling her wrist, Joan tried to leave the table, but Will pressed down on her shoulders, pinning her to the bench.

Letting go with one hand, he reached over her for her brandywine and drained the cup, tossing it away. He’d already had far too much, and in his bellicose mood, with this new strength, Joan dared not move. He kneaded her shoulder, leaned down to whisper in her ear as he slipped his hand inside her bodice, cupping her breast, “It is time you made all my trouble worthwhile, wife. It’s time you bore me a child of royal blood.” His breath was hot on her neck and sickly sweet. He shouted to his page to get the women out of the bedchamber above, then lifted Joan from the bench.

She tried to fight him, but the jolt of pain from her injured wrist made her dizzy, disoriented. “Put me down, Will,” she implored as he lurched against the doorframe. “Let me walk up the steps. I’ll walk up the steps, I swear.”

He swore and righted himself, and though he was breathing
hard and his heart wildly pumping, he made it up the winding steps without stumbling again. In the chamber he threw her on the bed, tearing at her gown, her chemise, slapping her face when she begged him to be gentle, rolling her on her back to sit on her, pinning her injured wrist beneath her. She was weeping uncontrollably by the time he took her, with a violence that tore into her very being.

Where is your prince now? Who will save you now? You belong to me. I have the right to beat you into submission. You are my wife. My chattel. My creature. How dare you turn my prince against me?

For a moment, he lay atop her, spent, breathing heavily. Then he rolled off her. “Pah. You’ve bled all over me, you bitch.” He slapped her face, smearing her with her own blood. “I thought he’d had you.”

She pressed her eyes closed, praying to die. She kept praying as he clattered down the steps, shouting for another bath to clean off the bitch’s blood.

“My lady, open your eyes, look at me.”

Joan shook her head, turning away.

Whispering something in Welsh, Efa gently cleaned Joan’s face with a moist cloth that smelled of lavender.

“If the pope decides in that monster’s favor, I will kill myself,” Joan whispered.

Efa kept washing. “The Blessed Mother watches over you, my child. She brought your flow so that his seed has no purchase. She will not abandon you to such as he. Now come, let me clean you and examine your wrist, rub salve into your bruises.”

“Why didn’t I think to take his knife?”

“He’d left it on the table,” said Efa. “Look into my eyes, my lady.”

“But I didn’t even think to feel for it. Did I want this?”

“Open your eyes and look at me.”

Joan obeyed.

“You are God’s beloved Joan. This act of violence does not
change that. Hear this, my lady. Take it in, tuck it into your heart. Your soul is untouched by Will Montagu’s bestial act. It is his own soul that now holds the seed of corruption that will grow, spread, maim him. Rest now, my lady, dream of Thomas, and your love for him.”

Joan woke to the sound of Will calling to his men.

“It is dawn, my lady. He is departing.” Helena sat up, checking the bandage that stabilized Joan’s sprained wrist. “Is the pain still dulled?”

Her wrist throbbed, but it was bearable. It was the other pain, deep within, that sucked the breath from her. “I want to sleep. Help me sleep.” Joan did not want to think yet; she did not want to touch the darkness. Helena helped her sit up to drink something sweet with honey.

“You must get up and move, my lady,” Efa counseled the next time Joan woke. “You must strengthen yourself for your escape.”

Joan found she could do that; she could set her mind on seizing her freedom from the Montagus. Each day, as she took her exercise in the yard with Efa and Helena, she engaged Will’s men, talked to them about the pestilence her mother had written about—the painful swellings, the fever, the speed with which it had spread across Italy and France, how it moved up the waterways and along the coasts. It was said to have made land in Portsmouth and to be moving up into the West Country. Did they fear it? By now, she knew from the servants that she was in Mold Castle. Might the pestilence make it so far north? Always her conversation was about the plague, so that it obsessed the men, wormed its way into every part of their minds and hearts, just as her hatred for Will Montagu threatened to poison her.

Every night Efa massaged Joan’s body, whispering Welsh charms, pressing the poison from her, stirring her love for Thomas, her determination to be with him.

“But what if the pope decides in Will’s favor?”

“At worst, you could take the veil. At best, you and Thomas make a life across the Channel.”

Joan began to believe that she would prevail.