The First Princess of Wales (13 page)

Although he was certain she did not know it, his thin-slitted line of vision took her in perfectly. She seemed to look directly at him; by St. George, surely she could pick him out easily. She had worn gold brocade. With her hair and gown in the sun, she looked all gold to him. And, as he had suspected, his lady mother had made good her subtle threat to have Jeannette—now of marriageable age, she kept repeating—meet some eligible knights of the court. Holland. Thomas Holland next to her there. It could have been worse, for Holland was older, no gay, charming gallant to go all misty-eyed; he was full loyal and very desirous of advancement. By the martyrs’ blood, if the lucky bastard had not broken his leg in the same tournament that had ruined his own blasted right hand, he would take Holland on tour with him on the morrow and then see what the queen made of that!

The line the prince was in wheeled past the bevy of ladies who waved and applauded. The skirted horses ringed the field on two sides waiting for the marshals to signal the charge. He braced himself so that he was nearly standing in the long stirrups, relatively free to be able to deliver swift, swinging blows to either side. He fitted his lance carefully in his curved gauntlet as his squire Leonard ventured out in the press of horses and other squires to lift it to him. Muffled cries, “For heaven and St. George!” pierced his quilted hood and heavy helmet. He steadied his lance, spurred the horse, and shot forward.

The field churned with the onslaught. Ahead sword clanged on sword before he hit hard into the
mêlée,
unhorsing one surprised rider immediately. The shock of impact jarred him and his ears rang. He whirled the horse back, then charged farther into the cloud of din and dust and silver bodies. “For heaven and St. George!” Wave after wave of armor seemed to swell and rise and crash.

The two jousting teams led by the king and the prince enjoined in mock battle, but real horses were down and real blood flowed. The dust and sweep of arms obscured all logic and any order in the struggle. Then the ruckus settled to single separate clangings as some riders were unhorsed and, burdened by their sixty pounds of armor, struggled like great, silver turtles to right themselves on the ground.

The scrambling scene, Joan thought, would have looked ludicrous had not she pictured the prince as she had met him first that day six weeks ago charging relentlessly yet purposefully at that quintain. And had not he told her of his heart’s desire to someday lead the English knights and yeomen into battle against the flesh and blood French enemy? To him perhaps then, this was very real. He sat out there astride, in the
mêlée
still, over there, near her own brother, hacking at opponents with his two-edged sword, urged on by cheers and shouts of the crowd.

Behind her a lady’s high-pitched voice she did not recognize whispered, “The Prince Edward is always exciting in tourney! I assume now that he has declared he is real flesh and blood at last by his little flirtation with Kentish Joan, he shall prove more exciting in other pursuits, too.” Muffled giggles followed, and Joan longed to turn back and shout at the rude maids, but Thomas Holland’s big hand moved to her knee in one quick touch before he took it back.

“Best to ignore that so they do not know you are flustered, Lady Joan. The queen would not like to think such remarks could possibly have a bearing on your feelings, of course, so I would advise just a calm and sweet demeanor while we view the tourney, eh? St. Peter’s bones, I shall protect your honor myself if such continues, as long as you give me no cause to doubt that honor in the future.”

Joan swiveled her elegant head to face him squarely, and the gold wispy scarves no knight of hers carried into battle trailed their delicate caress along the bare skin of her neck and throat. “My honor is intact and quite my own concern, Sir Thomas. Pray, do not trouble yourself or the queen with wonderings or musings about what is only mine.”

His coppery eye hardened at the icy rebuke, but it lit with admiration and titillation too. Such cleverness, so fiery a spirit in one so young and beautiful and—no doubt, with his dear patroness Philippa’s help—so reachable. By the blessed saints, this period of rehabilitation for this damned leg might be more enjoyable than he had ever imagined. And now, the little violet-eyed vixen was annoyed again, for it seemed the prince had somehow singled out or found himself face to face in combat with her eldest brother Edmund. On both their torn tunics their distinctive family crests could clearly be discerned since only the best fighters remained ahorse this late in the
grande mêlée.
That battle went on and on as though it were a single
joust d’honneur,
and the petite Joan’s hands grasped each other so tightly that her knuckles and fingers had gone stark white, he noted.

The two combatants’ lances splintered to shreds under their horses’ cavorting hooves, the men fought and balanced, wheeled, and turned whanging two-edged swords at each other. Joan was aghast—her dear Edmund in fierce attack on the prince; her dear Edward—blast the prince for singling out her brother as if to show her her place! Or was it in fierce retribution for Edmund’s daring to embarrass him yesterday in the little walled garden?

Suddenly there was a horrendous smash that seemed to shake the very footers of the royal pavilion. Edmund, Earl of Kent, was down from a collision of the two plated horses and knights, his armor clashing piece on piece. Yet as the prince dismounted stiffly, Edmund rose and raised his sword again to continue the fray on foot.

Shouts of approval and wild applause filled Joan’s ears when she stood, as did the others, the better to see these two continue their battle. Though their sword points were blunted with lead foils, the clash of their weapons on coats of armor sounded like a shop of brawny blacksmiths pounding. By now, though, each showed signs of tiring in his weighty metal shell.

Joan stood transfixed, frozen, suddenly terrified for her brother. Was it not as if some horrible anger the prince felt at her was being hammered out upon her own dear Edmund?

“I cannot stand this! They will kill each other!”

“Hush, Joan, or you will have everyone staring and whispering again. And do not consider a dramatic departure or they will all wonder for whom you are concerned as I do,” Thomas Holland hissed low, and his one visible russet eyebrow quirked up in some sort of warning.

“My concern is for my brother and the prince, since you seem to wish to be so very privy to my feelings, Sir Thomas,” she shot back in a low voice. “Saints, my lord, my feelings are mine and no one else’s as you and this court of whisperers shall learn, and tell that to the queen if you must!”

She sat down stonily and, without movement or expression, stared straight ahead while the others shouted and cheered. At last, the prince knocked Edmund’s hacked-up sword across the turf and was victorious on a point of honor; yet Joan moved not a muscle. Let Thomas Holland fume and bluster and glare at her with that one sharp, intimidating eye. Let them all wonder if she were ill or speculate on what dire thing Sir Thomas had said.

Between events that long afternoon, spiced wine, figs, and apricots were served in the stands, but Joan politely refused to partake of any as she watched the endless parade of jousts without apparent emotion. The king jousted; both Edmund and the prince did so victoriously while the others applauded. Let the others wonder if she were ill; Sir Thomas would surely insist to the queen that he not ever have to partner such a sullen girl again. The walls of isolation which had protected her inner private world from a mother who did not love her served her well again that long, long day.

At last, when it was over and the gay company trooped off to a magnificent banquet in the Great Hall, she confounded them all again by relaxing, chatting, and apparently enjoying herself. Perhaps, she thought belligerently, they will think me mad, for was I not reared by a strange, demented mother who never came out of her house after her husband had deserted her in death?

After hours of feasting, upon being asked to attend the queen in her chambers with a few close friends including Sir Thomas and the Princess Isabella, Joan did so without protest. Too bad that Sir Thomas seemed all the more intrigued by such cryptic and moody behavior, she thought. She even smiled directly at him once when the giggling, tipsy Isabella insisted to the queen that Joan of Kent be asked to play the lute and sing.

Amidst promptings and smiles, no doubt from the very people who had whispered taunts earlier, she agreed, and selected a song her dear teacher and friend, Roger Wakeley, had taught her long ago. Let the words be a warning to them, she thought, as she plucked the four pairs of tuned strings and felt the light, beautiful instrument tremble slightly in her hands as a well-made lute must. And for certain, she had learned the honesty of the words of this song well enough in the short time she had been in this royal court:

“The lady Fortune is both friend and foe:

Of poor she maketh rich,

Of rich poor also;

She turneth woe all into well,

And well all into woe.

Trust no man to do well,

The wheel it turneth so.”

Amidst light applause and even a smile from the queen, Joan let the lute reverberate with the last tones. As though her deepest longings had conjured him up, the prince was there across the room, tall and grand—and very real. His eyes locked with hers before he looked away and she knew not how much of her song he had seen or heard.

He approached the queen and bowed. “Your Grace, a poor errant knight but come to bid you farewell until Yule,” his low voice floated to Joan. Unbidden, a chill shot up her backbone and tingled along the nape of her neck. “I had no idea until I was out in the hall you would have others here about so late, my lady mother. I am pleased you have so fully recovered since the little Mary’s birth.”

Queen Philippa stretched on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and shooed the Princess Isabella and Joanna off as they hurried over to hug their brother good-bye. “Enough of farewells,” the queen scolded in mock seriousness. “I will not have any of you sad on such a happy Midsummer’s day. The king is in his suites late with his advisors, it seems. You will see him before you depart, our dear son?”

“We said our farewells and such at my tent earlier, after the tournament, Your Grace,” he answered. “My retinue sets out at dawn and I meant but to stay here a moment.”

Joan sat stiff-backed on a bench by Thomas Holland who had elevated his leg. Again she sealed off whatever could hurt her—or give her hope. It amused her mightily to notice how giddy with joy Lord Thomas seemed at finding her ignoring the prince once he had made his entrance and initial speech. But then, it seemed such mind-forged emotional armor was not enough to protect her from the next onslaught.

“
Ma chérie
Joan, our Edward is leaving for at least four months, ’til Yule,” Isabella trilled suddenly close to her ear and tugging at her hand. “Your new gallant, Sir Thomas, will not mind a whit, will you, sir, if she bids him a farewell? My lord prince has been so much in company with both dear Joan and me this past month, you know.”

“I believe I did hear some such talk about the court, Princess Isabella,” Thomas responded drily as his wary eye sought Joan’s face. “Of course, the lady may do as her heart bids.”

“Oh, of course,” Isabella bubbled. “The song was lovely too,
ma chérie.
Come on now!”

“Dear Princess, I believe the prince came only to bid farewell to the queen—and Your Grace and the Princess Joanna, of course.”

“Saints’ bones, Joan! You are such a stick-in-the-mud at times!”

But the dilemma was entirely solved as Isabella whirled to find her brother and nearly bounced into him a mere two steps behind her.

“Did I hear you call me Sir Stick-in-the-Mud-and-Mire, sister?” his voice taunted, but his face was entirely serious, and no one but Joan took in the gibe.

“What? Oh, no, my lord, only I was trying to fetch Joan to bid you
adieu,
” Isabella pouted.

“It is all right, sister. We can all say good-bye here. I am off to an early bed.” He bent to kiss Isabella’s rosy cheek, then took Joan’s limp hand.

“Time goes fast at court, Lady Joan. You shall see,” he said low while both Isabella and Thomas Holland leaned forward as if not to miss a whisper.

“Does it, Your Grace?” she heard herself reply.

“Aye. As quick as that wheel of Fortune you sang of so prettily. Perhaps you will learn a new song tomorrow which will change your mind.” He loosed her hand as though he was surprised he still held it. She was grateful he did not bend to kiss her.

“Farewell, Joan.”

“Farewell, my lord prince.” He stepped away and caught Thomas Holland’s avid stare.

“Sir Thomas.”

“Your Grace, forgive me for not rising.”

“Does the leg pain you much now?”

“It heals rapidly as did your hand, my lord prince.”

“Aye, it did, just when it pained me the most.” He hesitated as if he would say more. “Isabella, you sweet
femme,
will you not see your brother to the door and wave him off then?”

He turned away without another glance back. Just as well, Joan thought, and let a sigh escape before she could snatch it back. Soon Isabella flitted back in alone, and the day of the great tournament at Windsor stretched far into the summer night.

CHAPTER SIX

S
ummer and autumn fled as had the prince; now, winter suited her more. Joan of Kent in the five months she had lived as part of the Plantagenet court soon enough fell into her place as one of many spokes on the massive feudal wheel which rotated around the king and his royal family. And so the increasingly familiar paths and repetitious patterns of her life came to suit her quite well enough.

The court lived at sprawling Westminster Palace on the Thames in London that autumn and early winter while the king held various council sessions and met with his lords and Parliament in the lofty room called the Painted Chamber because of its wall murals of bloody biblical wars. The council plotted war, too: everyone knew of it. Unless a new agreement or treaty could be established soon with the French, or some grand Anglo-French marriage alliance forged, war was a certainty.

Ever-changing rumors on quick running feet darted through the halls of Westminster and even the streets of London and the shires of the realm—there would be an English invasion of France soon; no, a new peace would be made. Prince Edward would marry the King of France’s daughter or Margaret, daughter of the powerful French ally, John Duke of Brabant and Lorraine. Indeed, that tale is wrong; he shall marry no one and keep with his retinue apart at his vast array of lands and castles. The Princess Isabella shall be wed to Louis de Male, son of the Count of Flanders. No—no, that cannot be, for the Princess Isabella is said to be headstrong and mightily spoiled by her fond royal parents, and she will only consent to marry an Englishman so she can stay home about the court.

Home about the court, Joan mused when she heard that last rumor whispered. Was it really home at last, away from Mother and Liddell and with the prince gone from her life for good? If it was home, it was for several reasons: the Princess Isabella’s flighty but enduring favoritism for Joan; Queen Philippa’s kindness in, albeit begrudgingly, not insisting Joan wed with anyone until she had been at court at least a year; and Thomas Holland’s apparent unflagging patience, though she was secretly relieved he had gone home to Lancashire to tend to his demesne lands there since his leg was better healed. And, most of all, if the court was home to her now, it was because she had her dear Marta here with her. Or perhaps most of all, the vast palaces could be home because, though they were separated no doubt for good, Joan had seen three signs that Edward, Prince of Wales, still cared for her good will.

The beryl ring and the royal lutenist’s sweet song of love and parting had, of course, been the first sign. Still, although touched by the song, one she had now memorized and often sang herself, and by the lovely ring so thoughtfully chosen for the ivy leaves of her family crest, she had at first put the ring away and refused to wear it. But then there had been the other two gifts, her fondest desires she had mentioned but once to the prince in the little walled garden the day they were discovered, and for those two signs, she cherished him still and wore the ring.

In early October, the queen had informed her that since her ties to the royal family, and especially the heritage of Edward I as her grandsire, placed her somewhat in a different position from the other maids in Isabella’s or her own royal retinue, Joan was to have a little bedchamber of her own wherever the court traveled. Also, the queen had sent by messenger to Joan’s brother Edmund to say that when he came next to court, he was to bring with him Joan’s maid Marta, the Scotswoman who had reared her when her mother, widow to the deceased Earl, her father, had first retired from the world.

Dear Marta had come and now ruled Joan’s little chamber, tended her growing wardrobe, scolded her for her willfulness, clapped for her songs, and loved her with a protective mother’s love. Joan knew then that all this happiness had befallen her from the bounty of the prince, for she had told no other of her wishes for her own room and her own maid. But now and again she wondered if these preferments were a way of paying her off, or worse yet, a signal they were now well quit of each other forever.

Joan gazed about her familiar, little chamber in the riverfront wing of Westminster Palace. The room spanned only a floor space the size of the Persian rug the princess had given her, but it was quite cozy here even in December with the river winds snarling outside her single lead window. From their mother’s chambers at Liddell, Edmund had brought two tapestries that his wife the Lady Anne had said she could have to cover the stone walls, so now Diana at the hunt and a naked Venus rising from the sea graced the room on either side of her narrow blue canopied feather bed. Marta’s little pallet with its soft coverlet was wedged in near the door by Joan’s two coffers which barely held the bounty of her growing wardrobe of twelve kirtles, ten
surcotes,
and even many of the high headpieces she so heartily detested. The chamber had the advantage of a small hearth to chase away the winter chills, but she still had to go down the hall to share a
garde-robe
with other maids unless they used the little chamber pots in their rooms at night.

Her reverie halted as she heard Marta’s quick footsteps in the hall. The wooden door to the chamber creaked open. The sprightly, little woman’s familiar quick voice with its rich Scottish burr made Joan look up from where she had been staring into a dying fire.

“We’d best stir that up, lassie. Th’ progress to Windsor for Yule be all called off. I just heard it for a fact from Lady Euphemia’s maid. Th’ court’ll not be movin’ on ta Windsor today or any day, not afore Yule th’ word is.”

“But Princess Isabella says they always go to Windsor for Yule. Is the Prince Lionel still ill then and that is why we stay on like this? There are still four days until Yule.”

“Aye, th’ princeling Lionel’s sick wi’ agues an’ now th’ little princeling John ha’ caught it too. By the rood, we should be thankful we ha’ a wee fire here ta keep off th’ river’s cold breath. An’ all this two days a packin’ to move for naught. Well, at least we’ll not ha’ to take down these chamber trappings an’ beg th’ princess for an extra packhorse ta cart it all. Next time ye see yer brother Lord Edmund, be certain ta ask him for another palfrey for yer household goods. An’ best stoke up that wee fire, I said. Or were yer thoughts keepin’ my lambie warm?”

“No, Marta. No warm thoughts, so do not tease. I really care not for any of the latest group of so-called gallants—not for any of them, including Thomas Holland, so leave off.”

Marta knelt to place folded linen and wool undergarments in a storage coffer across the room, and the sweet smell of dried winter packing herbs assailed Joan’s nostrils. “I meant not ta tease, my lass. An’ I spoke not a Lord Holland nor th’ other little court flies that flit around my Lady Joan of Kent, by St. Andrew. Lord be willin’, Morcar says ye shall marry better than that. I saw th’ old goat yesterday, and—”

“Never mind, Marta. And if your old friend Morcar thought for one moment that you called him an old goat or that bogus stargazer in private, he would read you such a future you would never recover. Now come over here by the fire and put your feet up on this toasty iron rail and we shall roast a few chestnuts in this little iron grill the princess gave me. I will not have you getting sick with blains or agues even if I do wish your scolding tongue would ice over at times.”

Marta’s taut-skinned face split in a grin and she sat willingly by Joan at their tiny hearth while they wiled a wintry hour away chatting and popping warm chestnuts in their mouths as the best of old friends might. Each day, eventually, a page or squire would summon Joan to attend the queen or the princess, but today the summons was of another kind and spun the wheel of Fortune crazily again.

“It be two a th’ queen’s guards at th’ door, my Lady Joan,” Marta called to her and shut the door momentarily upon their surprised faces. “We must get ye into a better gown an’ then invite them in, I warrant.”

Joan rose and the soft blue camlet material of her warm, squirrel-edged robe swirled in folds about her legs. “No, Marta. Two guards—this sounds different. I am fully covered. Bid them enter.”

Marta swung the door wide and the two burly-looking men stepped in. The tall, square-shouldered one Joan recognized as yeoman guard to the queen when she went anywhere out of her suite. Had he not been the one who had accompanied Her Grace that day she had discovered her with the prince in the little garden? she wondered distractedly, and her heart beat harder. Both men were dressed in shapeless black capes and heavy boots for winter riding.

“Lady Joan, forgive the sudden intrusion. Her Grace, the Queen Philippa, wished to come to you herself, but her sons are ill.”

“Aye, we know. I am so sorry.”

“Lady, an’ it please you, the queen sends the message to you that your lady mother lies grievous ill at the St. Clares and you are sent for,” the guard went on. “She bids us escort you there as soon as you can travel out. She had also dispatched messengers to inform your brothers, but you, lady, are sent for with all due haste.”

“If my mother is grievous ill, why was I not sent for sooner?” Joan demanded, but she herself knew an answer to that these poor guards could not, and she turned away to compose herself while the man babbled on about the nuns nursing the Lady Margaret faithfully.

Mother, her mother grievous ill. At St. Clares here in London, not too far. You could easily visit your mother when you are at Westminster, Prince Edward had once said, never realizing there were mothers who would not want to see a daughter. Marta’s thin arm encircled her shoulders, and Joan’s eyes again took in the nervous guards who looked at her warily as if expecting some further wild outburst.

“I am sent for,” Joan said softly, hearing the crackle of the little fire behind almost drown her words. “Sent for by the queen.”

“No, Lady Joan. Your mother, perhaps on her deathbed even now, sent a request to see you to the queen. We ha’ brought your palfrey from the stables and our horses await outside. Can you not be ready to ride soon? Four other guards go with us also.”

While the men stood outside in the hall, a dazed Joan was dressed, hooded, and cloaked by a comforting Marta. “I shall throw on my cloak an’ go wi’ ye, my lassie. Ye shall need me there whatever ye find.”

“No, Marta. I alone am sent for. She said when we parted she would send for me when it was her time and perhaps it is that—” Her voice wavered. She and the tiny Scotswoman embraced hard once. “I know you knew her long before I did, dear Marta, and loved her well the way she used to be—the way I never knew her. I must go now. All will be well. Stay here by the fire.”

But Marta’s slender fingers grabbed Joan’s wrist at the door, and her brown eyes burned into Joan’s fiercely. “My lass, go now alone. It is right ye do, only listen well. Her mind be not so healthy now, an’ it feeds too much on th’ bitter past. If she say aught ta hurt ye, aught a yer father, keep a stout heart, my bonny lambie.”

Joan pried Marta’s grip loose suddenly astounded at the panic in the usually stern voice and steady eyes. “Aye, my Marta. That hurt is over long ago. Fear not for me.”

In a swirl of heavy, warm wool cloak, Joan was quickly out the door and with her mounted escorts soon riding into the biting cold of the River Thames wind.

P
rince Edward paced back and forth in the tiny receiving room in which the gray-eyed St. Clare prioress had told him he could wait. The snowflakes he’d acquired on his hurried ride from his London house had finally melted off the broad, black wool on his shoulders. Months ago he had had a promise from the prioress that if the Lady Joan of Kent should ever visit her mother here, he would be informed. Yet she had not visited once in four months, and now only, the prioress said, because the lady was dying.

His high leather boots made a lonely sound on the cold stones, and he fancied he could even see his breath in this chilly place. However much he admired, even envied, those who gave up such luxurious comforts of life as he was used to, he could never really grasp the duty of someone who would choose to join a cloister and leave the world out there completely behind. Why, indeed, had Joan’s mother chosen to do so? And could not one love God and still love the world and the people in it He had made?

Yet he could understand a call to some sort of duty which overshadowed all other things; aye, he could grasp that. His call to duty must surely come soon and take all the dedication and the strength he could summon to face, to fight, to conquer the French in war. The Plantagenet claim to French Philip’s throne was clear and honest. His lord father, King Edward III, had promised him a command of English noblemen and yeomen troops so that he might earn his knighthood which was only a polite title yet, a mere accident of royal birth. To prove himself—the idea filled him; it obsessed him making everything else seem small and unworthy except this one woman for whom he now waited, wondering what she would do and say when she saw that he was here.

He whirled to the door when the sharp knock came. To his utter disappointment, a tiny, gray-robed, barefooted nun he had not seen before entered with a nod and a steaming goblet on a wooden tray.