The First Princess of Wales (33 page)

“Well? Do not just gape at me, man. Is there a problem? I will have the lady know I wish her all happiness in her new endeavor, and she obviously has favored your sweet services for longer than I care to know.”

“May I have leave to speak, Your Grace.”

“Say on.”

“You, of course, know that she was indeed my student, and I still regard her only as a young maid.”

“She has obviously grown up, minstrel. That is why I stressed
honorable
service.”

“That is my point, an’ it please Your Grace,” Wakeley floundered. “It would be entirely honorable.
Sacrebleu,
I vow this on my mother’s soul.”

“And I vow to you I shall kill you myself if that should not be true, so what is your point? I will see you are paid well. And if her new lord does not favor your presence, you will be protected because of me.”

Roger Wakeley’s brown eyes opened wider. Was he then to be a sort of distraction for her to keep her affections from her new husband? Did the prince, whether he realized it or not, desire such a service—aye, honorable, of course, but it had been obvious how the woman’s affections had been stirred by his appearance at Woodstock during the Yuletide celebration. He was hardly prepared, however, for the twist of fate the prince’s final words added.

“And, Wakeley, by St. George, I am glad to know you can write, for if I ever wish it, I shall want communication from you concerning the events, the happenings, her safety,
et cetera,
in Normandy.”

It was a moment before Roger Wakeley managed a reply. “An informant, my lord prince?” he whispered low, hoping he looked appropriately surprised. “You wish an informant?”

“By the rood, I hardly meant a spy,” the prince answered, his voice raised to its normal resonant tone that anyone lurking about, including that doltish-looking linkboy, could hear. “It is only that there may be times when—letters may be welcomed, that is all. Be packed and set to ride at dawn then.” The prince turned and strode away with the quickfooted linkboy lighting his steps.

Roger Wakeley looked down to see he had splintered his feather quill and splattered his whole hand with ink. He leaned his round shoulder on the wall. The prince was not inherently deceitful like his sire, but how ludicrous that they both expected him to spy and report on people they supposedly loved.
Sacrebleu,
the twists and tangles of it all fairly boggled one’s mind. He hoped he could signal the king that the necessary transfer of his services was about to occur before he became a wedding gift for the first time in his rather checkered career. After all, one of the things he was supposed to report to His Majesty had concerned the prince’s apparent entanglement with the willful and somehow dangerous little maid from Kent.

Ah, exile with that sweet, but unpredictable lady in the beautiful French Norman countryside of his birth, Roger mused. After all, what more joyous assignment could one poor minstrel-informer hope to fall heir to? He shook his head and chuckled as he went back into his room to pack.

T
he last day of January, 1350, the day of her wedding to Sir Thomas Holland, winged by like a dream which Joan observed but felt no part of. The festivities were to be limited and modest, for the wretched plague was still upon the land and the little chapel at Eltham Manor in Kent where the king and queen resided would have to do for the ceremony, and the narrow, high-beamed hunt hall for the bridal banquet. Perhaps because of the dangerous times, or perhaps, Joan thought, to punish her further for her indiscretions, the Princess Isabella had not been allowed to accompany her from Woodstock, though Her Grace had ranted for two days to think she would miss the fun of a wedding to break the tedium of her cloistered life. But Joan’s twenty-year-old brother John, now the new lord of Liddell Manor, had come and there was solace in that.

Thomas Holland was in a soaring mood at his victory in winning her hand over William Montacute, Lord Salisbury, who was, after all, from a much older, nobler family than the Hollands. Joan knew the affront Queen Philippa had given Thomas—marrying his betrothed to Salisbury while Thomas was recuperating at his castle in Lancashire—had been a blow to some sort of ties he secretly cherished to the queen’s affections. Saints, what did such well-tended, secret passions matter anyway, Joan told herself with a shrug. If it would comfort Thomas later, she might even tell him that it was his bride’s fault Philippa was angry enough to marry her to Salisbury and not him. No doubt, over the years in some little French walled castle when bygones were far gone, there would be time for such explanations. But in these past hurried three days leading to the wedding today, there was time for nothing but forced smiles, fabricated gratitude, and the discipline of rigid obedience.

At least, dear Marta would be going to live in France with her instead of some of these snide, clumsy maids who served the queen, Joan told herself, as she was dressed and coiffed for the late afternoon ceremony in the chapel. Glenna seemed to knot tangles in her hair instead of combing them out, and Eleanora tended to wrinkle skirts and sleeves.

She would have liked to show them all, mayhap wear that flashy, beribboned garter dress the king had torn. Then, when the queen scolded her for her wild appearance, she would recite for them all the whole story right before the very altar in the chapel. She sighed as they adjusted the wreath of ivy she had insisted on wearing in her loose hair. There were no flowers to be had this time of year, and ivy did garnish the coat of arms of the house of the deceased Edmund of Kent and his wife the Lady Margaret. Someday, she vowed silently, as she turned slowly to let them adjust her veil and lead her downstairs, her sons would sport the deer and ivy family crest every bit as proudly as the arms of Thomas Holland!

The little crowd waiting at the foot of the newel staircase hushed at the sight of her. She looked breathtaking—calm, poised, endowed with an uncharacteristic serenity which today made her somehow ethereal, untouchable. Her ivory brocade kirtle with scalloped hem brushed her slippered feet when she glided forward and molded itself longingly to her slender waist and full breasts and hips. The sleeves, tightly buttoned with pearls from elbow to wrist, dripped delicate liripipes of ermine-edged white velvet. The bodice was a scalloped oval which accentuated her graceful shoulders, fluted collarbones, and the barely visible upper thrust of her breasts. The traditional gauzy veil swept back shoulder length from the crown of ivy, offsetting the full wavy abundance of her loosed maidenly hair that fell in a shimmering curtain to her hips.

Her brother John swallowed hard in a sudden stab of emotion and stepped forward to take her arm. His height continued to amaze her, for she had not been around him except these three days and then the week Mother had died ever so long ago. He had grown to be so tall—and a stranger. She curtsied to the gangly, ten-year-old Prince John of Ghent, suddenly grateful she would not have to face the Prince of Wales who was at Kennington near London. She smiled up at John, Lord of Liddell, as they wended their way through the admiring crowd to the outer courtyard. No, she could not have borne facing Edward, Prince of Wales, today.

The lengthy ceremony blurred by, parts in sonorous Latin, parts in delicate French. Not realizing she did so, she held Thomas Holland’s hand very tightly during the ceremony until he squeezed her hand back happily and she noted what she did. Let him think she was joyous or nervous or whatever, she thought, for she felt none of those things, only, mayhap, impatience to have it all over and be rid of the Plantagenet court for good.

Sir Thomas Holland, garter knight, looked resplendent in his garments of buff satin with the velvet blue Order of the Garter robe draped over his broad shoulders. His one sharp bronze eye took her all in when she darted him a glance. His hair gleamed burnished copper in the glow of altar candles. He was placing the ring on her finger now, a filigreed gold band which echoed his larger, crested signet ring. The metal felt cold at first. She stared again at the white-robed priest as he offered them the communion cup. On the altar behind rested the sacred reliquary boxes the queen had brought here from Windsor hoping to stay the hand of plague with such holy treasures: a stone which had touched St. Stephen, a skull piece of St. Thomas, and, some even whispered, a piece of unicorn horn which was known to be a powerful antidote to poison.

Were the Plantagenets expecting her to try to poison them, Joan’s mind taunted.
“Ave Maria, mater dei, gracia plena,”
the chanted words swirled around her. She stared into the altar candles, her thoughts drifting, seeing Prince Edward’s face that last night she had been with him in the tiny stone chapel of the poor, love-lost Rosamonde. That was when he told her Edmund and Anne were dead, and now, he might as well be too.

When she started to cry soundlessly, her new husband was touched and the audience murmured approval. Then it was over and they rushed out through the courtiers into bleak January sunshine in the cobbled courtyard of the manor.

As everyone shouted congratulations, the king and queen approached to wish her well. Philippa, looking plump and tired, for Joan had heard her ladies whisper she had greatly suffered from dropsy lately, bent to kiss Joan’s cheek and give her muted blessings.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Joan replied properly while Thomas Holland beamed and stammered an effusive reply which she hardly noted.

“This is all for the best, my dear child,” Philippa said, turning to Joan again. “When next we see you and my Lord Thomas, I expect to greet a family of young Hollands, too.”

“We shall do our utmost to comply, Your Grace,” Thomas boasted as they walked in to dinner in the Great Hall. “And if there should be a maid child, we shall call her Philippa for the fairest queen in Christendom.”

The king nodded, smiled, commented, his watchful eyes on Joan as they all entered the hall to muted, then swelling applause from the revelers. When Holland turned away a moment to tell the queen of his lands in Normandy he hoped she would come to visit someday, the king stepped forward and tapped Joan’s arm with one big finger.

“You have been magnificent today, Lady Holland.”

For a moment Joan was startled at the use of her new title. “My Lord Holland is very happy, my lord king, and I shall do my best to see that he is rightly so.”

The tawny eyebrows raised and the distinctive Plantagenet mouth under the full mustache quirked up in surprise. “St. George, an obedient wife, a blessing to any man. Perhaps you shall find French exile suits you then.”

There, he had said it, Joan thought, and took the challenge whether he had intended it as such or not. “I rather look forward to it, Your Grace, since I apparently am too outspoken to suit court etiquette here. And after all, sometimes exile can bring favor and profit as in the case of that villain de Maltravers living so splendidly in Bruges.”

The king’s brow furrowed and his cheeks went beet red. He turned away quickly rather than let his queen or the now-attentive Thomas Holland hear his reply. By the rood, that wild little hoyden was a thorn in his side! The maid’s brazen courage quite boggled the mind, but then, that business with her father had been unfortunate—sad even. His fond fool of an uncle should never have stirred up trouble about an inquiry into his royal father’s murder at the hands of Mortimer and de Maltravers, just as this troublesome female should never have riled the royal waters. But, by the rood, he had outfoxed her now. Years abroad with a stolid, loyal man like Holland and a passel of sons to rear would tame her for certain and take the tempting bloom off that lush face and sensual body. Unaware his suddenly bleak mood had unsettled the crowd, King Edward slumped, preoccupied, into his chair before even seating his queen. The wedding feast, such as it was, began.

Rainbow-hued, candied flower petals, traditional at bridal feasts, led off each course. Seethed pike in claret, venison, and roast forest boar were the mainstays of the meal while side dishes offered by hovering ushers included jellied eggs, custard flawns, and waffles with jellies. Much to Joan’s relief, as the meal stretched on under Philippa’s benign smile and the king’s glowering glare, there were no colossal final pastries or ornate subtleties to stuff the feasters. Roast chestnuts, dates, cheeses, and more of the continual flow of candied flower petals and wines concluded the meal.

When, at last, the bridal couple rose for the first dance, Joan’s spirits had revived a bit, and she was grateful to stretch her legs. She and Thomas held hands and sidestepped through an arch of hands and arms in the traditional bridal circle, going the whole circumference of it before the others, laughing and applauding, could join in. More torches were lighted in the hall. Joan danced with the guests and Thomas did too. She whirled faster, laughing giddily, now anxious to have time drag its feet by moving hers so quickly, resolutely shoving aside thoughts of the wedding night to come in the room they had given her and Thomas upstairs.

The musicians crowded into the entryway ceased their quick music. Shuffling feet and laughter died to utter silence. Everyone craned his head. A horn blared. Joan caught the annoyed face of her husband from across the way, but she saw no one in the entry at which everyone stared. The king could not be retiring already. On the dais near the door from which she watched, Queen Philippa rose unsteadily to her feet.