The First Princess of Wales

by Karen Harper

  Isabella had set out nervous, but full of hope and quite placated by her twenty coffers stuffed with sumptuous new gowns. The bridegroom, she had been promised, was handsome, proud, blueblooded, and amenable. Joan had been taken along in hopes she would divert her dear princess’s flighty flutterings and serve as an English maid of honor at the nuptials. Isabella’s own sister Joanna had been left at home to that girl’s utter dismay and disdain.

  The queen and her numerous retainers sailed from Dover to Calais in late February on wintry seas, but Joan and Isabella both weathered the rampant seasickness which laid low the queen, in the early stages of her tenth pregnancy, and most of the royal traveling party.

  At Calais they were met elaborately by King Edward and his knights who for seven months had been waging a miserable siege war against the important, fortified French town of Calais. After the sweeping victory of Crécy, the royal Edwards had expected Calais to fall to them like a ripe plum, but the starving townspeople had held out, no thanks to the wretched cowardice of their impecunious and broken King Philip. The royal English retinue stayed in the little wooden town the Plantagenet rulers had built outside the huge walls of the temporarily impregnable Calais. They toured the fortifications, heard numerous tales of the French wars, visited the English soldiers’ market on market day, and then set out northeast along the coast to Bruges.

  Joan enjoyed the respite outside Calais immensely. Gulls wheeled and shrieked overhead; the sea air was tangy and fresh; many laughing beaux clustered about—and the Prince of Wales had been sent on ahead before their arrival to arrange for the festal gathering at Bruges, so he was not there to ruin her fun. She dreaded their reunion after the bitter, sudden parting ten months before. His anger, his cruel words, and accusations paraded, piercing and poignant, in the well-rehearsed scenes of her memory.

  Besides, when she had lived near him last, she was certain he cared for her—wanted her, at least—but, since she had been betrothed to Thomas Holland at the queen’s insistence, whatever would the lionlike, arrogant prince say now? Saints, he had had his precious victory at some little town called Crécy, and she had no intention of feeding his Plantagenet pride by letting him know she thought of him entirely too much in an annoyingly tingling way anyhow, so what did it really matter now?

  To Joan, the passing countryside of Flanders near Bruges looked like one of Queen Philippa’s tiny paintings, depicting her homeland of Hainaut, which hung in her bedchambers at Windsor: painted windmills, canals, gabled houses, cobbled streets, and tall Gothic churches. The warm, late March breeze lifted Joan’s heavy golden, side braids and brought the fresh smell of plowed earth and new-budded flowers to her flared nostrils.

  When their mile-long royal retinue clattered into the canal-etched, walled city of Bruges, which the queen proudly informed them was called the Venice of the North, Joan’s heart beat faster. They rode among cheering, curious crowds past the Market Square, then through the Burg Square under the massive Romanesque Basilica of the Holy Blood to the turreted palace on the Dijver Canal where the prince and his party awaited them.

  The reunited Plantagenets exchanged embraces and numerous kisses while Joan was relieved to be helped from her horse by her constant companion since Calais, William Montacute, Earl of Salisbury. His previous gangly frame and jerky mannerisms appeared to be much tempered by the trials of war, the glories of Crécy, and the frustration of the siege at stubborn Calais. Perhaps, she prayed, such things had calmed and tempered the prince’s fiery disposition, too.

  Besides, as far as she could tell from this distance and in the glare of afternoon sun reflecting on the canal, the prince had hardly looked her way, nor could she see aught but the top of his tawny head from this far side of her palfrey. She cursed silently the weakness of her feelings for these Plantagenets who had so hurt her parents. Saints, she should be relieved the insulting, nasty-tempered man was ignoring her rather than paying her the slightest heed.

  “We had best go up the steps with the others, Lady Joan,” William said and shot her his white-toothed, ready grin. His green eyes drank her in and he nervously touched his dark hair always so smoothly combed under his fashionable beaver hat.

  She smiled back willingly to settle her ruffled demeanor. It was fully evident to anyone who watched them that William was—what was that the prince had said of his young comrade-in-arms once?—besotted of her. It did not seem to bother William one whit that she was betrothed to Thomas Holland, so perhaps, when she finally had to face and pretend to be civil to Prince Edward, he would think nothing of it either and then mayhap—

  As she rounded the little group of gaily caparisoned horses on William’s brown velvet arm, the Prince of Wales loomed ahead of them, towering over her, instantly close.

  “Oh, my lord prince,” she managed, sounding incredibly foolish to herself. She bobbed him a tipsy, quick curtsy and nearly tripped on her long, ermine-trimmed brocade riding cape which was nearly a match to the Princess Isabella’s fine and costly one. The prince had somehow disengaged her leather-gloved hand from Salisbury who had quickly backed off several steps.

  “Jeannette,” Edward said, his voice deeper and much more controlled than she had remembered it. Pressed in the pages of her reminiscence as he had been these ten months, he now seemed taller, blonder, stronger.

  “You look healthy and hearty,” he went on, somehow stumbling on his words. “I would venture that sea air, or mayhap the joy of reaching here, has put that rose bloom in your cheeks.”

  “It must be the sea air then, my lord prince; though, of course, I am excited to meet the Princess Isabella’s fiancé.”

  “Of course. It must be that very prospect that stirs my blood so,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. His eyes went quickly, completely over her. “No such hot blushes for your own fiancé, the level-headed, valorous Thomas Holland when he saw you after the long months, I warrant,” he challenged, his voice still low although William had taken another awkward step away to give them privacy.

  “You have not changed, I fear, Your Grace,” she returned, her voice level. There, she thought, proud of herself. I am handling him with the haughty aplomb he deserves. Saints, but his sky-blue eyes are rude on me again as if his mere glance could caress my bare skin through this fine kirtle and cape.

  “No tart-tongued comeback better than that?” he goaded. The sun nearly glittered off his brocade and satin surcote stretched taut across his massively muscled shoulders. “By the rood, Jeannette, I fancy I like the witty wildness better than these sullen stares.” His mouth lifted wryly in a rakish challenge, a half-smile that made such similar attempts by William, Earl of Salisbury, pale by any comparison. “Aye, ma chérie, I understand.” His voice lowered to a raspy whisper. “When I remember how fondly we parted and in what lovely circumstances, I, too, feel quite tongue-tied.”

  “You have no right to affront me here in the street the minute we arrive! There, on the steps, I warrant the queen is waiting for your fine hospitality.”

  “Lower your voice, Jeannette, and smile prettily or the queen and my curious little sister will take note of your—passion. And do be kind to poor Salisbury but not so kind that the queen betroths you to him, too, to keep me away from you. Until the banquet this evening then.”

  He turned heel on her abruptly and mounted the steps to rejoin his parents and sister. Isabella turned, waved, and motioned for Joan to join them as they entered the rambling palace which fronted directly on the square with no drawbridge or protective outer walls. Joan managed to smile and wave back, but each touch of the warm velvet on William’s arm, each step up, she shot daggers at the back of the tallest man, the tawny head above her on the stairs. Saints, he had gloated over his victory on the trampled French, she told herself again, but he would not gloat over another one at her expense.

  With the rest of the road-weary travelers, she toured the vast stone edifice that was to be their home until after the extravagant, festal wedding. But exhausted when she tried
to nap in her room just down the hall from Isabella’s fine suite, rest would not come and she only tossed and turned and punched her luxurious, goose-down pillow wishing she had found another way to avenge her parents besides taking on the vile and arrogant Prince of Wales.

  At the great, ancient Basilica of the Holy Blood, the next afternoon, before the chapel of Christ’s Holy Blood, Isabella, Princess of England, was formally betrothed to the sloe-eyed, shiny-haired Louis de Male, the new Count of Flanders. He was twenty-one, but like the Prince of Wales, acted arrogant and a good deal older than that, Joan thought. Of course the bridal pair had been betrothed by both proxy and proclamation before the bride had ever left her homeland, but since all betrothals were easily broken, this one was completed with as much pomp and promptness as the Plantagenets could manage. Both Isabella and Louis were clothed in stunning gold satin trimmed in ermine and seed pearls—a perfectly matched and blessed pair, everyone said.

  Of course, what everyone did not say was nearer to the truth: the reluctant, anti-English bridegroom had only been convinced of the wisdom of the marriage by being incarcerated for several months by the Flemish burghers who had no intention of ruffling the royal feathers of their economic ally King Edward. The fact that Louis had vowed eternal hatred of the English and the Plantagenets after his father died in his arms at Crécy bleeding from English swords was a moot point to the powerful Flemish burghers. And to the entranced and blushing Isabella, who obviously liked the appearance and polite demeanor of the dashing Louis, it was of no concern at all.

  Hours later, as Joan spoke with the smiling affianced couple, she tried to push any such concerns she had about Louis de Male aside. Even when she tried to summon up the fervent wish that all the Plantagenets might suffer in revenge for her parents’ tragedy, she could not include the laughing, dear Isabella. Blessed be the saints, she had no real traits in common with her insulting brother and dangerous parents!

  “Are all the English demoiselles as beautiful as you blond Venuses, ma chérie Isabella and Jeannette of Kent?” the velvety-eyed Louis de Male inquired with a toss of his sleek head. His nose was rather pointed and his eyes a bit narrow, mayhap like a fox’s, Joan mused, but he seemed regal and elegant enough to keep up with Isabella’s whims of fashion or festivity.

  “Oh, no, my dearest Louis,” the princess’s silvery voice replied. “When we go home to visit England, as surely we must do frequently when my parents are not here to visit their new-won lands, you will see that we have all sorts of English maids—just to look at from afar, my lord,” she added and blushed prettily.

  Louis de Male laughed loudly above the titters of the others pressing close, but to Joan his laughter seemed brittle and forced. When he listened to Isabella or Queen Philippa, his dark eyes seemed to glitter like shiny, fine-cut jewels, and a muscle moved erratically when he set his jaw hard as he did so often between his pleasant replies.

  At last one of their numerous Flemish hosts, and an apparent watchdog of the handsome, mannerly bridegroom, bid them enter the great hall where the betrothal feast was prepared. They all trooped off in correct rank and seemly order with their velvets and brocades murmuring and rustling like an underlying current of whispers.

  The lofty, hammer-beamed great hall was as bright as glorious daylight though it was dusk outside. Huge wax candles lit all the vast array of tables rather than the usual torches or smoky cresset lamps with pitch-soaked wicks. As Joan glanced across to the raised dais of the royal family and special guests, the room glowed golden like a thousand fireflies on a Kentish pond at night. The sweet aroma of mingled spring flowers wrapped the guests in a heady embrace.

  “How lovely it all is,” she remarked to William who had appeared suddenly at her side to escort her in. “Look—all over the brocade tablecloths someone has arranged fresh flowers and herbs.”

  “Aye,” William smiled down at her. “Heart’s balm to ease the bridegroom, for he likes not the flaunting of captured French banners mingled with the gold and azure Plantagenet bunting along these walls, I wager. But he is a wily one. He keeps all his resentful feelings against the Plantagenets hidden, and please do not tell the princess I said so. Louis de Male just bears close watching until he and the princess are properly attached, that is all.”

  Joan wondered if she had so much in common with Louis de Male then—a man who had lost his father and now hated the Plantagenets for that loss. He smiled at them and was forced to hold his tongue against their power even as she did. She, too, smiled and picked up the thread of conversation as though nothing were amiss.

  “Until they are properly attached, my lord? That rather sounds terribly cynical, rather like something the prince would say.”

  “Aye,” he said and led her over to a table near the raised dais where the guests of honor would dine. “To tell truth, Lady Joan, that is who did say it first.”

  As if their speaking so had summoned him, the prince approached them from behind a carved screen near the dais. He looked resplendent in the royal colors of azure and startling gold, his elaborately belted surcote quartered to flaunt both the leopards of England and lilies of France. His brawny legs were encased in hose of darkest cobalt blue which fit like a second skin. A short surcote with side slashes lined with black dotted ermine made his massive shoulders look even broader. His low-slung belt displayed a jewel-encrusted dagger and on two of his fingers, ruby rings winked bloodily at her in rampant candlelight. She no longer wore the beryl ring he had given her so long ago with such pretty words and she saw by his quick glance at her hand he had noted that fact well.

  “There you are, my lord prince,” William said smoothly. “I had begun to wonder if I was to seat the lady and have her taken off my hands later.”

  “No—thank you, Will. The queen and I will see to her quite well enough from here on.” The young Salisbury bowed stiffly, smiled his familiar smile that suddenly infuriated Joan, and backed adroitly away.

  “Take me off his hands?” Joan sputtered. “Why did no one tell me of such seating arrangements, Your Grace?”

  He took her velvet arm firmly and led her toward the raised dais where the Plantagenets, but for the king and queen, were gathering, still half-hidden from the other diners by the carved screen. “Now why should you be told ahead, sweet Jeannette?” he countered calmly. “So you could fuss like this or look grim like that or do something silly like refuse to come down to Isabella’s feast at all? I suggest you act civil for her sake if not your own. Besides, I would wager the queen has agreed to my dining with Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, betrothed to Thomas Holland, partly to reward me for the preparations for this whole extravaganza. Do you not approve of anything then?”

  His big arm swept the room, the raised table, while his crystalline blue eyes went over her in obvious appreciation. She had worn a lilac-hued velvet and satin gown today, a gown that set off the color of her eyes. The kirtle was daringly tight-fitted both at bodice and waistline before draping to soft folds about her curved hips. Dangling from each elbow a fur-lined velvet piece called a liripipe nearly trailed on the floor. The surcote was a deeper violet trimmed in white, plunging low over the bodice to reaveal the taut thrust of her breasts against the velvet kirtle. A single, huge Majorca pearl the Princess Isabella had given her hung at her throat to match the knotted filigree belt studded with clustered pearls. From beneath her skirts peeked violet velvet, low-heeled slippers with the fashionable elongated toes she and the princess now favored. And though it was not her wedding week, in honor of Isabella’s approaching nuptials, Joan had combed her flowing tresses straight back and bound them with a circlet of her own thick braid to let the golden abundance flow in ripples down the center of her back nearly to her hips. All this the prince’s eyes took in just before the blare of trumpets announced the arrival of his royal parents. The Plantagenets, joined by Louis de Male and Joan of Kent, took their appointed places at the long, raised table.

  The prince grinned inwardly that Jeannette was seated on
the end with only him to converse with easily. Let her lean over him and tease him with her sweet scent that put these strewn table flowers to shame if she wanted to talk to Isabella on his other side. Let her press close so he could drink in the intimate view of her elegant face with those beautifully chiseled features and that champagne riot of loose hair if she dared whisper to Isabella. She would spend the long evening of feasting, entertainment, and dancing with him whether she thought she wanted to or not. St. George, he would have some honeyed smiles from those sweet, red lips or else begin the first of his planned onslaughts and show the wild, little beauty no mercy even if they were right under his watchdog royal mother’s nose!

  The echoing room quieted somewhat as guests washed their hands at the gushing ewers at both sides of the room and sought their carefully selected seats. Fifty ushers arranged them by rank and quickly the vast chamber was awash with waves of liveried servants: the butlers rolled in carts of chilled wine bottles; sewers stacked the massive sideboards with covered dishes and began to taste the food to be certain it was not tainted or poisoned; the pantlers cut and tasted bread, delivering salt to the lower tables in hollowed out, day-old loaves like those most of the feasters would use as their plates. Here, at the head table and that of a few honored others, only the king’s favorite, fresh white bread from Chailly was served, diners helped themselves to salt from the elaborate, tall, gilded and jeweled salt cellars, and the guests dined from gold plates. Perfumed, heated wash water was continually offered at the king’s table.