I Serve (15 page)

“
Nay,” said Margery, “No lover of mine. But that was a right clever ploy, sirrah, for sidling past the dragon that guards our gates.”

“
Saints be praised that I thought to use it,” said I, “though my conscience misgave me to tell so many lies.”

“
I’d rather hear you lie and say you loved me than have to hear the same words spoke in truth,” said Margery coldly. “Deliver your message.” She extended her hand to receive a scroll.

“
Aye, an’ you ladies will sit down again, I’ll deliver it soon enough, for my message sits in my mouth and will come sooner to your ears than your hands.”

Without further ado, the ladies seated themselves and I recited the prince’s letter. I can still remember the exact words that I said that day:

When I had finished reciting this letter, the lady Joan burst into tears. Her breast heaved wildly like the swells of a wind-tossed ocean; she continued to cry for full on five minutes while I watched awkwardly and wished desperately to be elsewhere. Margery put her arms around her lady and held her comfortingly against her bosom.

“
Should I leave you, lady?” I asked timidly, when the storm seemed a little stemmed.

“
Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady Joan in between sobs, “for you must bring back my answer to your lord—though in truth, I hardly understand what I am to say.”

I ventured to elucidate the letter in my own words. “The prince would know for a certainty whether you dislike Salisbury’s suit because you wish to wed another.”

“
Wish to wed another!” she repeated wildly and began to sob afresh. “What shall I tell him, Margery? What shall I tell him?”

“
Tell nothing!” said Margery fiercely. “There may yet be no reason to despair. Wed Salisbury today, tomorrow, or in a fortnight and I will contrive to make the rogue hold his tongue.”

“
How now!” I cried, becoming sensible of some intrigue. “You are a strange friend to my lady Joan! Why urge her to wed Salisbury when she holds him in such distaste? I think Salisbury must be a fiend to force his suit on an unwilling maid!”

“
Nay,” said Lady Joan forlornly. “The earl of Salisbury is a good man. He deserves better than one such as I. Better to take the veil than enter a makeshift marriage, for once I enter the cloister none can drag me away from its walls.”

“
So Salisbury does not please you, or else pleases you too well,” said I, unable to understand the logic behind her rejection. “But be that as it may, there are more husbands to be had than Salisbury and Christ!”

“
Aye,” said Lady Joan and her eyes grew wide. “There are more husbands to be had. And therefore, I beg you—tell your master, by the love that he bears me, that he must ask me no more questions, but only entreat the king on my behalf that I may be allowed to join the Benedictine sisters.”

There was no more to be said. I left the ladies in the garden and found my way back to the entrance. The damsel who kept the door inquired after Margery’s reception of me. I moaned a little and hung my head; that seemed to satisfy both her curiosity and her spite. The entrance into the street was dark and narrow, and I nearly stepped into a fellow as I turned the corner.

“
Ho there!” cried an offended voice. An apology was on my lips before I realized the speaker. “Have a care where you walk, boy!” replied the speaker ungenerously and I found myself face to face with Thomas Holland.

“
What do you here?” I demanded curtly.

“
I come to offer my congratulations to the lady Joan,” he said. “No doubt you have the same office—or perhaps you’ve come to offer your master’s congratulations since he cannot bear to utter them himself.”

I gritted my teeth, enraged that such a viper should know of my master’s affections. “I wish you were not a Christian,” said I, “then I could cut out your heart without compunction.”

“
Mighty words from a mere lackey,” said Holland, and the scar across his left eye flamed purple. “It is well for you, Potenhale, that other matters claim my attention at moment. Save your rooster crowing till we roost in England, and if the heralds can stomach your impudence, I’ll meet you in the lists at tourney.”

OCTOBER
,
1347 – AUGUST
, 1348

7

I never knew whether the prince took up Lady Joan’s plea before the king. But whether he did or not, it is certain that the king was of no mind to be swayed. He ordered the marriage to be celebrated at Martinmas, and within a week of the ball the convoy at Calais lifted sail.

The crossing to Dover was stormier than usual. Our fleet lost several ships. The king exclaimed that whenever he crossed over to France the weather was fair, but whenever he returned to England it was as foul as an old witch. His memory was somewhat at fault, however, for the trip to France had been as difficult as the departure. I was minded of our frustrated crossing a year and two months past, wherein we spent five failed attempts to reach Gascony and shipped instead for Normandy and La Hougue.

Despite mishaps along the way, the crossing was eventually achieved and we entered London with all the pomp of a Roman triumph. Joyful citizens lined the streets and called blessings on King Edward’s head. “O woeful bloodshed!” said one of the songs. “Presumptuous pride cast Philip down! Trust in God has raised Edward up! France bewails the day of sorrow, England delights in the day of Joy and Consolation, which Our Lord Jesus Christ has deigned to grant her. Praise and honor be to Him forever and ever.”

Our English people gloried in the triumph we had achieved, but even more so in the spoils that we brought back from the continent. There was not a noblewoman who did not profit from our pillage. French clothes, French furs, and French jewelry decked every lady’s body, while French furniture, French pillows, and French goblets decked her home. The sweethearts of the lower orders received gifts from their men as well, till every woman in England went appareled in foreign trinkets.

Lady Joan’s marriage followed fast upon our return. The alliance had political ramifications beyond the mere union of a man and a woman; Salisbury would join to Kent, and the two earldoms would become one. The ceremony was to be celebrated in the chapel of Westminster Castle. The king, queen, and all the royal family would attend, for Joan was a cousin—almost a daughter—having been reared in the royal nursery.

The prince and I went early to the church. We met Montague outside the gate. His face was flushed with pleasure and excitement, and well it should be, for today he would wed and tonight he would bed the most beautiful woman in England. He greeted his highness with a radiant smile and clapped him on the back in friendship.

“
God give you joy,” said the prince, forming each word distinctly like a man speaking an unfamiliar language.

We went into the church and found our seats. Stratford, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, entered. The pallium swung gently from his shoulders as he took up his place before the altar. As the highest prelate in the land, it was his privilege to preside over this marriage mass. When the time was right, the bride and groom processed through the nave. Montague’s thin arm held Joan’s rapturously; her face had a nervous smile. The choir began to intone the Kyrie, but a disruption in the rear of the chapel put all their notes out of joint.

“
Hold there!” bellowed a voice. A hushed whisper suffused the chapel as the onlookers turned their heads to see the intruder.

“
Who halts the service of the Lord?” demanded Stratford with indignation.

“
It is I, Sir Thomas Holland,” said the man, and he came forward down the central aisle of the nave.

“
What reason have you for such an outrage?” asked the archbishop.

“
Only to say that this marriage is an outrage and there must be no wedding.”

A general gasp filled the room. “Explain yourself, sirrah!” said Stratford sharply. “Is there some impediment of which we know nothing?”

“
Marry, yes,” said Holland. “But not on the gentleman’s part. It is the lady who cannot be wedded today, for she has already taken another as husband.”

Every eye turned to Joan, pure and virginal as the Madonna in her blue dress.

“
What is the name of this alleged husband?” asked the archbishop.

“
His name is Sir Thomas Holland,” replied the intruder, “that is to say—myself!”

“
Upon my soul!” said Montague with a hoarse cry. “I have heard enough from this rogue. He seeks to bait me with these spurious accusations. He was my father’s steward and has always been at odds with me. Envious dog! What ear would believe that this beauty here could mate with such a beast as you?”

“
Madman,” said Holland coolly. “I speak no more than the truth.”

“
I will not hear you!” said Montague. “Archbishop, continue with the mass.”

The king, in his royal mantle, stood up slowly. “Stay,” he said. “This matter must be sifted a little ere the marriage can proceed. Lady Joan,” he said somberly, and his words were as heavy as the lid of a granite tomb. “You have heard Sir Thomas’s avowal. Is it true that this man is your husband?”

Joan’s face was ashen. She said no word.

“
You must answer,” said the king. “Is this man your husband?”

“
Yes,” said Lady Joan. “God help me, he is.” And when she had said these words, she swooned away entirely. Montague caught her before she fell and set her down gently on the flagstones. A tempest of red hair pushed him away, and I saw that Margery was at her lady’s side, rubbing her wrists and calling her gently by name.

“
This is some trick!” cried Montague. “How comes it that the lady is married to you but none of her guardians here know of it? You did not wed her lawfully, that I’ll wager.”

“
I can produce the priest,” said Holland with a sneer, “if you’ll give me leave to pen a few lines to your estates in Salisbury. It was the same priest that wed your mother to your father—and if my marriage be something less than lawful, then your birth is something less than legitimate.”

Montague let out an inarticulate cry of rage. He laid his hand on his dagger and would have sprung at Holland, but the prince came up behind him and pinioned his arm behind his back. “Let go!” said Montague to the prince. “I will have his blood.”

“
Nay,” said the king sharply. “You shall not. We will investigate this matter thoroughly and evaluate all the proofs. If Holland speaks true, then he shall have the lady. But if he speaks false,”—the king’s brow grew dark as a thundering sky—“more men than Montague will cry for his blood.”

The matter was under examination for nearly a fortnight, and this is the story that was unearthed. The marriage between Holland and Lady Joan had been contracted seven years ago. At that time Holland was but newly returned from the Euxine Sea where he had achieved glory in the ranks of the Teutonic order. There was scant work in England for his sword. The war with France was barely underway, and Sluys had not been fought yet. Holland sought employment wherever he could find it. The old Earl of Salisbury admitted Holland into his household as his seneschal and the one-eyed knight took on the duties of a steward.

Lady Joan was twelve years old at the time, mild, biddable, and easy to please; her beauty had not yet blossomed into the glorious flower of later years, but the budding girl was fair enough to turn men’s eyes. The Earl of Salisbury had daughters of an age with Lady Joan, and Queen Philippa allowed Joan to spend a summer in Salisbury’s household. Holland enchanted Joan with his suavity, his scars, and his savoir-faire. She listened to his stories with shining eyes and felt his hungry gaze with guilty pleasure. When Holland talked of love, Joan did not rebuke him; and when he took her by night to see the priest, she did not say him nay.