Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (49 page)

“You have the strength of kings in you, my love.”

Efa also worked some charms around the property and let it be known to the countryside that she was available when the local midwife was busy. Between Joan and Efa, Thomas soon gained the trust of enough of the captains that he was confident they would rally if Joan and the children were threatened. And the captain who had set his men on her party was ousted, his citadel burned, his men scattered.

As Thomas went out on longer and longer sweeps of the area, sometimes gone for a week at a time, Joan kept the boys close, especially when the scent of burning was carried on the air. Thomas was doing His Grace’s bidding, ravishing the land. He would return filthy, taciturn, far different from the man she knew at home. She learned to allow him quiet, letting the servants see to his bath, his food, until he came looking for her and the children. She lay beside him on the silent nights, if he came to bed at all, allowing him to make the first move toward her. Often he simply turned from her, and she would leave him in peace. Some nights their bodies would join in wild, wordless passion. A part of her liked this rough Thomas, with his fierce strength and hunger. But too often, as they lay together afterward, she discovered open wounds, horrific bruises that needed Efa’s attention. Death had never felt so omnipresent. The life of a warrior seemed all passion and destruction.

Still, they shared tender moments, and Thomas increasingly sought Joan’s opinion when his soul was quieter, respecting her powers of observation. She had no regrets about accompanying him. Young Tom was gaining a new respect for his father, and Joan, too, saw for herself why her cousin the king had long held Thomas in such high regard. She was proud to be his partner.

But in October Blanche’s brother Henry of Grosmont, Earl of Lancaster, was named King’s Lieutenant in Brittany, heralding an escalation, a true scourge of Brittany and Normandy, with Thomas serving as one of his captains. Now Thomas wanted Joan back in England. “This will be far bloodier, and there are certain to be attacks on our bases, particularly our families if they are here. You must remove the household to England, Joan. I want you all safe across the Channel. You’ve helped more than you know, but with this campaign—I can’t be worrying about you.”

She did not argue, having seen what it was to do what he did, how it took every shred of his being to stay alive. “I’ve tried
to take on some of the burden, but it is your burden to bear. I’m now in the way. And we must think of the little one.” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. Though it was barely swelling, she saw his expression softened into wonder. “I would that the child I carry knows you, Thomas. I’ll have Lancaster’s head if he loses you.”

He kissed her tenderly. “Be assured, I intend to meet this child as well.”

But there was a sadness in him that he could not hide. “You would be safer under your own command,” she said. “Lancaster doesn’t know the men as you do, neither the allies nor the enemies. It’s not his ability but his name the king wants leading the charge.” She saw by his wince that she had guessed the source of his pain. “I shall pray for you every day. Keep the white hart silk on you at all times, my love.” It would protect him against all enemies, even those on his own side. Whence had that thought arisen? She’d not known she distrusted Lancaster.

A
FTER A FOUR-YEAR HIATUS IN WHICH
Q
UEEN
P
HILIPPA WONDERED
whether she had borne her last child (another Joan, who had lived but a few months), she had the previous January borne a healthy boy, Thomas. And now, much to her surprise, she again found herself with child. This pregnancy troubled her. From the very first, she felt that something was wrong. She wanted distraction, entertainment, but she tired of her ladies and all the fighting men were away—Edward in Scotland, her three eldest sons in France or preparing for it, Lionel and John both taking part this time. Ned had begun yet another onslaught into the south of France, stoking once again the fear he’d inspired in
his last sweep of burning and pillage. They called him
l’Homme Noir
, and he was proud of it. She crossed herself, said a prayer for their safety.

She needed a spark in her coterie, a Lucienne. Bella urged her to summon her cousin Joan. “You’ve heard how she wooed and won some of the worst of the captains in Brittany. Imagine the stories she’s collected. And she’s with child. The two of you can share your misery.”

“Ned says her estates have been criminally neglected. She should see to them.”

“Offer her a few advisers in exchange for her company. Do try.”

J
OAN COULD NOT DENY HOW WELCOME SUCH HELP WOULD BE
. A
NDREW
,
Thomas’s longtime steward, was beside himself with remorse for the poor harvests, the uncollected rents, the run-down state of some of the manor houses. But she dreaded the thought of returning to the queen’s household, and Woodstock, where Ned had drowned Bruno. She’d not been there since he confessed.

“If I may express an opinion, my lady?”

“Efa, when have I ever refused your advice?”

“Beneath her generous and timely offer is a plea for your company. She needs cheering. If you do this, you will have the queen on your side in future matters, and perhaps she will take Tom and John into the infant Thomas’s household. Growing up within the household of one of the king’s sons—that would please my lord, would it not?”

Joan hated the prospect of the boys’ fostering. But it was inevitable, and where better? Where might they be safer? “I will do this. It will be good for Thomas and my boys.” She wrinkled her nose at Efa’s grin. “
And
me. But I shall put you to work. You are far more likely to cheer the queen than I am.”

H
OW CHANGED SHE WAS
, P
HILIPPA THOUGHT
,
WATCHING
J
OAN
with her boys. Tom, the eldest, was a dark-eyed, dark-haired charmer. He had his father’s dimples and square physique, but was a momma’s boy, looking to Joan for approval. The younger one troubled Philippa, so like Ned that she must needs remind herself over and over that he was not her grandson, just a male version of his mother, who had looked so like Ned as a child. He took after Ned in temperament as well, stomping and shrieking when he did not get his way. He would be a handful, and then some. Joan doted on him, just as Philippa had on Ned. He would break her heart. She shook herself. Ned was a hero and would be a worthy successor to her beloved Edward. All the same, she prayed that this war exhausted her eldest’s dark humors, that the fire of combat would purge them from his system.

Meanwhile, his favorite cousin had offered the services of her nurse, Efa, and within a few days the Welsh healer had lifted the shadow on Philippa’s heart, though she did wonder at the need for daily walks and such a plain diet. As for Joan, her tales of Brittany—the haunted manor house, the ruined citadel, the peculiar airs of the French whores who fancied themselves the “ladies” of the renegade captains—all the household crowded round to hear her stories, and Philippa quite forgot herself in listening. Joan inspired affection in all around her, including, to her own surprise, the queen.

T
HE QUEEN
’
S PREGNANCY HAD NOT ENDED HAPPILY
. S
HE HAD BEEN
delivered of a stillborn girl a fortnight earlier, and Bella followed Joan to Donington, wishing to escape the gloom.

They sat now in Donington’s kitchen garden on a cool spring morning, lazily watching Efa patiently trying to teach the boys the names of the various herbs. But the boys fidgeted and gazed over their shoulders toward the stables. Finally, after a sudden whispered countdown, the two burst into a lively jig.

Joan laughed so hard she felt a wetness, then realized with a start that her water had broken. Efa helped her to the temporary bedchamber screened off in a sunny corner of the hall and, within a short while, before Joan could even break into a sweat, she was delivered of a baby girl. A daughter at last. Joan felt the familiar surge of love for the pink-faced, squalling child of her loins. This child, more than the boys, would be her companion and her joy.

“You must call her Joan, for my sister and your cousin,” said Bella. “Let my sister’s spirit live on in this sweet child.”

“As her godmother, it is your privilege to name her, though I’d thought to name our first daughter Maud, for Thomas’s dear mother, who risked the pestilence to help us in Avignon.”

“Faith, that is the better choice. Joan shall be next.”

The king’s offering in honor of the birth of Maud Holland was to name Thomas Keeper of the Channel Islands. It was a thankless post, the garrisons small and vulnerable to attack from the sea. For now, Otho would go in Thomas’s place while his brother was fighting with Lancaster in Normandy. Joan thought to join him once he was free to take up his new post.

“This insult,” Thomas growled.

“We will make it an honor, my love,” Joan assured him.

I
N THE LATE AUTUMN
T
HOMAS RETURNED TO
E
NGLAND
,
SUMMONED
by the king to confer on conditions in Brittany—how he read the temper of the captains after Lancaster’s autumn raids through Normandy, what he could tell him of the renegade companies of soldiers roaming the countryside, up to no good. It had been a frustrating time for him, Joan knew. Lancaster’s blusterous approach undid alliances Thomas had worked hard to form. He felt it all the more keenly in light of the glory showered on Ned and many of the Garter Knights for the great English victory at Poitiers. They had captured both King Jean of France and his son, Philippe. Even Will had fought in the battle.

Joan worried about how gaunt Thomas was, the gray streaks in his hair, the twitch on the temple near his blind eye. As she helped him undress she grieved to see a raw, puckered scar just above his left collarbone, his blind side, and a fresh wound that creased the top of his right thigh.

“I lose you a little at a time.” She kissed both scars.

In the morning he was most eager to spend time with Maud, the daughter he’d only glimpsed the previous evening. Almost six months old and thriving, she was a happy baby, her laugh throaty, her eyes bright blue and curious, her hair brown and curly.

“My mother’s hair.” Thomas held her gingerly. “A beauty, eh?”

“She is. But she’s as strong as the boys, my love. Do not be afraid to hold her close.”

Later, over a meal in the hall, she cheered him with her news that she meant to accompany him to the Channel Islands. “We’ll bring Maud, of course.”

“And the boys?” Thomas took her hands. “This would be a
good time to foster them, eh?” He squinted as if steeling himself for a protest.

“As much as I dread it, I agree, my love. And I have a plan, if it pleases you. The queen wishes them both to join the household of her youngest, Thomas. They’re a little old for him, but—what do you think?”

His relief was clear. “The queen honors us. Had I been so fostered, I might have shared in the glory of Poitiers. It will be the making of them both.”

Joan’s heart twisted to hear the regret in him. “My love, we have so much. You were at Caen, Crécy.…”

“And now I am the one who clears the way for another’s glory and cleans up after him while he basks in undeserved praise.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Forgive me. My sour words are unbecoming, I know. But all we have is yours, Joan. It is little of my doing.” He smiled as John charged into the room, lifting him and swinging him up and over his shoulder. “Save for these angels. I do proudly take credit for them.”

Joan saw his wince, the pain in the shoulder. She hugged herself against a sudden chill. He was aging so quickly of a sudden, the difference in their years all too clear.
God grant me more time with him. It is far too soon to lose him
.

J
OAN AND THE CHILDREN WERE INVITED TO OBSERVE
N
ED
’
S TRIUMPHAL
entry into London from a stand erected for the royal family along the route. Thomas would ride with his fellow Garter Knights. From the prince’s palace of Kennington the men rode, King Jean by choice on a small black palfrey, Ned on a white charger, the Garter Knights and the barons of the realm spread
out behind them, including all who had fought at Poitiers. The mayor and the leading citizens of London met them on the road and escorted them into the city, where the streets were hung with tapestries, bows, and armor suspended from windows, and from the rooftops gold and silver leaf showered down on Ned and King Jean. The sound was deafening, the cheers, the church bells clanging. Guilds and companies stood in their livery at the intersections—a thousand such mounted citizens lining the route. Fountains spouted wine, so the people crowding every building and alleyway along the way were merry. The boys were terribly excited to see their father in full armor, his blue-and-white cloak powdered with silver garters catching the light even from afar.