To Joan’s dismay, the rest was lost in the prattle. She thought of what she had been taught about Toulouse. By right, the county belonged to Mama. Lying just south of Aquitaine, the Toulousain had been part of the duchy held by Mama’s grandfather, until it was stolen from him. Years ago, Papa had tried to win it back, but France supported the current count because he was married to the French king’s sister. Why would a vassal of France be here?
Mama said men needed swords to fight but women had better weapons. A queen—or a princess—needed to know everything about her enemies. Maybe Mama didn’t know the count was here. She could be the one to tell her!
Charisse patted the braids against her head. “You look very pretty. That blue gown makes you seem ten, at least.”
Joan smiled her pleasure, though she knew Charisse’s kindness had motive. A grown girl would not mourn the loss of a doll.
Amaria stepped into view, holding out her hand. “Come, child, I’m supposed to bring you to the Green Hall. The barons will be paying respects to the king and queen before supper.”
That meant she would have to stand still for another endless ceremony, a smile pasted on.
The Green Hall took its name from the marbling of its stonework, intricate and pretty. She stood in the receiving line beside her mother and in front of Amaria, who would prick her if she slouched. To ignore the torment of hunger pains, Joan tried tracing the green veins of the marble with her eyes. She started at the ceiling, then followed the squiggles down the wall like lines on a map until her gaze bounced off the head of a vassal and went climbing back up.
On the fifth descent, she saw the young knight who had rescued her. His soft light-brown curls brushed the top of his shoulders. Garbed in scarlet, with a jeweled clasp at the shoulder, he looked handsomer than he had in the courtyard. At least now he was combed and washed. And so was she, if he cared to look. He stood with an older man whose blue tunic was too tight. Gems splashed across his breast and weighed down his hands. He had dark hair and small eyes—an untrustworthy face. If this was her knight’s father, she decided she would not like either one.
Between her mother and father stretched a twenty-foot line of courtiers. On her mother’s right, the countess chattered, a nervous laugh following each sentence. Joan glanced at her mother to gauge her level of impatience then followed the direction of her gaze to the scarlet knight and his ill-favored father. She tugged Eleanor’s sleeve.
“Who is that man?” she mouthed.
The queen peered down her nose. “The count of Toulouse.”
That was the count? “Why is he here?”
Her mother leaned over to answer. “To pay homage. He put his wife aside. She fled home to France.” Then she straightened, leaving Joan to draw the conclusion. If Toulouse lost the friendship of France, the count would need to make peace with Papa. Would Papa let him make peace? Mama would not like it if he did.
Being a princess made her head hurt. What did Mama need Toulouse for, anyway? If Papa seized it, where would that leave the young scarlet knight?
The count was greeting her father. She watched carefully as he stretched out his hands to clasp Papa’s, then leaned forward to speak into his ear. Papa jerked back, scowling.
Joan rose up on the balls of her feet, her mouth falling open. She snapped it shut. What had the count said? Maybe the son had heard—the knight’s fine features were distorted with anger. No, not anger—disgust. She recognized a son’s disgust with his father. Her brother Henry wore the same expression often enough. But what did it mean?
The count backed away, the young knight with him. Papa’s face was cold as he greeted the next man in line.
What did Mama think?
Joan’s curiosity turned to shock. Her mother had paled; her mouth was drawn into a tight circle. Could Mama be frightened? The green marbling blurred before Joan’s eyes. She stood confused and miserable until the crowd began to disperse. Her mother stepped back against the wall, dragging Amaria.
“Find out what he said,” the queen commanded.
“How, my lady?” Amaria asked.
“The boy heard. Quickly, get him away from the count.”
Amaria sped away.
Papa was angry at her champion’s father? And for some reason that worried Mama. Swallowing hard, Joan asked, “Mama, what—”
Her mother shook her head. “Never mind. This does not concern you.”
But everything was supposed to concern the queen’s daughter. Joan’s lower lip quivered, and she bit it before her mother noticed. How might Amaria coax words from her knight? Despite the necessity, she didn’t want him to yield.
“What if he won’t tell Amaria?”
Her mother looked at her sharply. “Tell her what?”
“What the count said that made Papa so angry.”
“God’s teeth! Your nose is longer than your ears are big. Don’t worry about what the count said.” She drew a breath. “We must go in to supper. Keep a smile on your face and your eyes on your bread. Don’t make your father any angrier.”
Joan crossed her arms to contain her frustration. Papa wasn’t angry with her.
A steward directed the diners to their seats. Long tables draped in finely woven sky-hued linen formed three sides of a rectangle. King Henry sat in the center of the head table between the count of Maurienne and the lady of Limoges.
Joan’s place was on her mother’s right, at the end of the head table. Diagonally, at one of the long side tables, sat the count of Toulouse with his son. Her own father preferred to sit apart from his children—it took several minutes before Joan located her older brothers, each surrounded by a group of friends. John didn’t behave well in company; he was already abed.
A swarm of servants burdened with clanking platters entered, bringing the scent of roast pork and apples. The hall grew louder with appreciative and impatient murmurings. Joan caught sight of Amaria weaving back.
The noise formed a barrier around the queen. Amaria bent between Joan and her mother. “I’m sorry, my lady. I couldn’t get near. The boy never left the count’s side. I— Oh, no, lady! He’s looking over here.”
“Don’t look at him!” Eleanor snapped. “The king is watching.”
Joan felt cold seep under her skin. Her mother’s knuckles were white. Something was very wrong. The count must have said something about Mama. But he hated Mama. Why would Papa listen to him? Would Mama’s concern make her look guilty?
She silently prayed, Please, God, please. Don’t let them fight again. But she knew they would. Mama had no reason to send Amaria to the count unless she feared his words.
But Joan had a reason.
“Go back.” Her high-pitched voice sounded loud. “Go back to the count. Ask if you may speak to his son about Tessie.”
Amaria turned, face stupid with incomprehension.
“What are you talking about, child?” Her mother’s voice was heavy.
“My doll. I lost her earlier in the courtyard.”
“I can’t think about a doll now.”
“He was there. The count’s son was there. Amaria, go ask him if he’s seen it.”
Her mother searched her face. “Joan, this isn’t a game.”
“I’m not playing a game. I want Tessie.” Steadily, she said, “Papa won’t be angry if she’s just helping me.”
Her mother’s hands clenched and unclenched. “It’s all I have. Amaria, go ask Lord Raymond if he’s seen Joan’s doll.” Staring after the departing maid, she added, “If your father hangs me, child, it will be on your head.”
Blood roared in her ears. Would Papa be fooled? When Amaria returned without Tessie, she could shriek. She could bawl and roll about on the floor. Papa would be so angry with her he’d forget about whatever the count had said.
Heart thudding in her chest, Joan watched as Amaria simpered before the old count. He laughed. The maid said something to the scarlet knight, who swept his gaze across the room, found Joan, and smiled. Never had anything warm
ed her like that smile. He answered Amaria. She nodded and hurried back through the crowd.
Charisse stepped aside so Amaria could again lean between Joan and her mother.
Amaria’s eyes were wide. “Lady, he has it.”
Joan felt woozy but managed to clap with exaggerated delight in case her father was watching. Her mother drew a deep breath.
Amaria continued, “He says if the princess is distraught, he will produce it immediately. It is in his chamber.”
“Ha!” Now Mama smiled, though the curled lips appeared more smug than pleased. “He wants you to go to his chamber? While everyone else is at supper?”
“Not me, lady. Princess Joan.”
The smile disappeared. Joan had never seen her mother look nonplussed before.
“God in Heaven! What is he doing?”
“Mama, he’s returning my doll. Let me go.”
Her mother’s eyes turned toward the ceiling, as if seeking guidance, but she blinked so rapidly perhaps she meant to stem a flow of tears. Then, lowering her head, she said, “Amaria, go with her. Don’t let Raymond touch her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Joan felt important. Her mother was worried about letting her go to a man’s chamber! And she was helping the queen. She stood. Her knees were only a little wobbly. She took Amaria’s hand and crossed the floor.
Her knight rose as she approached, then bowed. “I’m sorry. I should have sent it back to you right away.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“By your leave, Father?” Lord Raymond asked.
“Hurry back,” the count answered, without bothering to acknowledge her.
As they walked the narrow gallery to the chamber, he said, “You are fully recovered, I see. I doubt as much can be said for the mouse.”
She wanted to giggle, but her throat was too tight. He was so calm. Could it be he had heard nothing untoward about her mother? But, no. She remembered the disgust on his face.
“I found the doll after you’d gone. I asked Richard, but he didn’t know if it was yours.”
“He didn’t know Tessie?” Joan halted. She felt betrayed.
His step slowed, and he smiled at her. “Men don’t spend a lot of time studying poppets.” They walked on. “At any rate,” he continued, “I hesitated to entrust it to him. I meant to inquire—”
“God’s teeth!” She hoped to sound flippant. “I didn’t accuse you of stealing my doll.”
He laughed out loud, and she flushed with pleasure at her success.
They stopped in front of a dark oak door that had massive handles.
“Will you come in?” he asked, pushing open the door. The gray stone walls, unadorned, were lined with trunks draped in scarlet cloths bearing the twelve-pointed golden cross of Toulouse. There were five beds in the room, one neat and four rumpled. Several woolen blankets lay on the floor.
Raymond waded across the blankets to the neat bed. From under it, he took a large leather sack. He plunged in his hand, rifled for a moment, and pulled out Tessie. Joan rushed to him and took the doll. Tears flooded her eyes. She felt like an idiot, but she was not crying for Tessie. She didn’t know why she wanted to cry.
He touched her shoulder. Amaria came a step closer.
“I—” Joan stopped. She didn’t want to do this. “I have to ask you something. You don’t have to answer.”
He sighed. “I was afraid you would.” He withdrew his hand.
“You don’t have to answer. I don’t want to cause trouble for you. With your father.”
He chuckled without humor. “That is strangely generous coming from one in your family. Strangely generous and unbearably sad.”
Joan bristled. “What did your father say to mine?”
His eyes flickered to Amaria then back to Joan.
“I don’t want you to betray your father’s trust,” she said again, almost hoping the subject would close.
“My father’s only intent was to stir up discord in your family. He won’t care if I dip my finger into the pot and stir it some more.”
The bitterness in his voice fed her fear. Her words came out as a whisper, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He touched her shoulder again, but this time his grip was firm. She looked up into his face as if he had commanded it. He studied her a long moment from behind darkened gray eyes; then his lids lowered, and he said softly, “I’m sorry. I should not have made you the go-between. They’re going to ruin your innocence. God as my witness, I do not willingly help them.” He stood back, his hand dropping to his side. “Tell your mother to be careful. My father said, ‘There is treachery afoot. Beware your wife and your sons.’”
She stared at him. Treachery? Her brothers and Mama?
“Do you understand now?” he asked.
“No.”
“I’m glad of it. Tell your mother what he said. Maybe it will come to nothing.”
Joan’s feet were rooted to the floor.
“Take her back to the queen,” the knight ordered. As Amaria bundled her out the door, she heard him say, “God go with you, child.”
Mama looked up expectantly and smiled to see Tessie, but Joan found she could not repeat Lord Raymond’s words. When Amaria did, Mama’s face didn’t change. She said, “That is all? Hmph. The count’s impudence must have angered him.”
Supper progressed as if the air held no hint of trouble. Joan watched her father eat, laugh, rise from his chair to pace and talk to other men, all as in a typical meal. Lord Raymond did not return to the dining hall. Joan was glad. She didn’t want to face him.
When her father and the count of Maurienne announced John’s betrothal, Joan spied on her brothers. Henry was scowling. His friends beside him scowled, too. Richard’s face was impassive. Geoffrey frowned.
“Mama? Did Papa agree to give John the castles?”
“Yes, child.”
Twisting her hands in her lap, she asked, “Henry knows?”
“Yes, he does.”
After supper, they were obliged to pass right by her father. He laid a stern hand on her shoulder and demanded, “Joan, where did you disappear to with that ruffian?”
She looked up. “I lost my doll. But he found it.” She lifted the doll to show him.
He scooped her up into the crook of his arm. “You lost Tessie!”
Tessie! Papa remembered Tessie. Her heart crumpled before it could swell. She nodded.
“Well, well. We must make him a present. What should we give him?”
She tried to think of something outlandish. “A horse?”
“A horse for a doll?” He laughed loudly, turning her back and forth. The men beside him laughed, too. “A horse it is, then.” He set her down and turned to his wife. “You shouldn’t let her wander off with young men. Especially men with reputations.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “I doubt the young lord misuses children.”
“Mother your daughter, Eleanor. I’ll see to our sons.”
T W O
IN THE MORNING, THE MEN GATHERED IN THE COURTYARD for a hunt. Standing with Agnes in the arched gateway, Joan peered into the horde, hoping to find her brothers and wish them good fortune. Men called to each other and whistled for their dogs. Horses trotted about, splattering mud. She knew the disorder was less than it seemed, but she found it frightening nevertheless.
There was Papa. Astride the large brown mare he favored for the chase, he rose half a head taller than the lords flanking him. When he saw her he smiled, but after last night, she did not trust his good humor.
Across the yard, the men of Toulouse waited in a tight cluster. Her knight was seated upon a fine strong destrier, black as soot. She recognized the horse, a brute that had once kicked in the head of a groom. Her father never let his own sons near it. Was this how the king rewarded kindness?
She heard the blast from the herald’s horn and watched the hunters depart through the main gate. The flash of scarlet mounted on black receded from her visi
on. Lord Raymond rode with confidence, showing off his skill. Mama would say he should show better sense. What if he were hurt? She gnawed on her thumbnail until Agnes brushed her hand from her mouth.
“I must take you inside, child.”
“Can I see my mother?”
“No. She is busy with the countess. I’ll take you to the nursery where the other children are playing.”
“I don’t want to play. I am not feeling well. Can I go to our chamber?”
Agnes looked at her with pity. “Yes, Joan.”
The large room comprising the second story of the guest tower was, thankfully, unoccupied. Agnes sat in a chair near the window and took up her mending; Joan sprawled on the bed they shared and played listlessly with Tessie. If Papa was angry again, it was Henry’s fault—Henry, the “young king.” Ever since his coronation nearly three years ago, all he and Papa ever did was fight. The coronation had only been performed because Papa had taken ill and wanted to ensure the succession. He recovered, yet the way Henry had been acting recently, so impatient, you’d think he wished Papa had died.
Joan crossed herself quickly; she hadn’t meant that. To chase away wicked thoughts, she tried humming a hymn she’d learned long ago in Fontevrault Abbey. Very few such memories of her early life remained, only songs, snatches of prayer, the wrinkled, kind faces of nuns whose names she no longer recalled.
When she turned five, Mama had claimed her from Fontevrault and brought her to Poitiers. There Eleanor ruled in her own right as duchess, although Richard, as heir to Poitou and Aquitaine, had already taken charge of the soldiers. Mama was so proud of him.
Agnes said, “Would you sing something else, Joan?”
She hushed, feeling guilty. Agnes had been with her at the abbey. Quiet, pious, and not very pretty, perhaps she would have preferred to stay there.
“Will you play merels with me?” Joan asked.
Agnes laid down her mending. “If you like. I thought you felt ill and didn’t want to play.”
“I don’t want to play with people.”
The nurse produced the board and pegs from one of the trunks. Richard had taught Joan the game, where players took turns placing pegs in holes in the board. Three pegs in a row meant she could capture his peg. She must also remember to block his rows, so he could not take hers. Richard always won, but still it was more fun playing with him. Agnes didn’t like merels.
The Queen's Daughter Page 2