She was Countess of Kent still; no one could touch her.
* * *
It was a June afternoon as wet and miserable as any in the depths of winter when Master Robert Sigglesthorne of Beverley returned to Broughton after his fifth trip to Avignon on Holland’s behalf. Reining in his palfrey at the entrance to the manor house, he dismounted and rapped loudly on the heavy wooden gates. After a brief pause, the grille set in the gate opened, and Wat Preston’s face peered out.
‘Good day to you, Master Preston,’ Sigglesthorne said cheerfully.
Preston rolled his eyes heavenward to take in the relentless torrents of rain. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, his voice becoming muffled as he moved away from the grille to remove the bar on the gate, swinging one half open to create a gap just wide enough for Sigglesthorne to lead his horse through. ‘How was your journey this time?’
‘Awful,’ admitted Sigglesthorne, as Preston closed the gate behind him. ‘These are ill times, Master Preston.’
‘That they are,’ the serjeant agreed dourly.
The pestilence had swept through the length and breadth of the land in the past few months, leaving no town or village untouched by its corruption, slaughtering one person in three without mercy. No one was immune; from the lowliest churl to the king’s second eldest daughter, all were carried off regardless of their rank and station, even the new Archbishop of Canterbury, John Offord. It slew weak, new-born babes and it slew strong men. It had slain the heathen and now it slew the Christian; it took Frenchman and Englishman alike, without regard.
What had caused the pestilence no one knew, although the most learned men agreed that it had been brought about by a fatal conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars in the sign of Aquarius, and ordained by God in his wrath at the sinfulness of man.
What it had caused was plain to see. As fields and streets filled not only with dead people but also livestock, no one could deny that the pestilence was a disaster of Biblical proportions. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were abroad, or so it seemed. Pestilence and Death cut down people in their thousands. The shadow of the war with France still hung over the realm despite the truce and a poor harvest was made poorer still by a shortage of labour to bring it in. The only thing that might yet keep famine at bay was the fact there were so many fewer mouths to feed.
But the widespread feeling that the world was coming to an end did little to mitigate behaviour; if anything, people began to act with abandon, as if, with the end of the world nigh, it no longer mattered what they did. Peasants could no longer be bothered to work so untended cattle died and fields of grain ripened and rotted with no one to harvest them. Labourers took advantage of the shortage of manpower to demand higher wages. Whole villages became deserted except for the dead. Manorial mills fell into disuse. Financially ruined, many landlords like Sir Edward Montague turned to crime and became outlaws, Sir Edward himself stealing horses and cows, and eventually battering his wife to death out of jealousy for her liaison with the king.
Many people turned to God, but more turned to drink or lost themselves in other carnal pleasures. Some who had lost loved ones went mad with grief, imagining themselves to have the symptoms of the pestilence even when they were perfectly healthy, throwing themselves into the common burial pits to die atop the putrid corpses of their friends and families. Merchants shut up shop. The parliament summoned for January had to be postponed, and then postponed again, until there was no meeting of the parliament that year. The law courts went into recess, giving men another excuse to resort to the violence they had practised in France to solve their problems in England.
Sigglesthorne was shown into Holland’s chamber in the main house where the knight was studying a chess problem. The room was Spartan and furnished in accordance with the taste of an unmarried man more at home on campaign than in an English manor house.
Sigglesthorne was followed in by a servant carrying two cups and a large flagon of claret; Holland had soon learned how to make the serjeant-at-law feel at home during their association. They greeted one another cordially before getting down to what Sigglesthorne referred to as the serious business of the day, pouring himself a generous measure of wine.
‘Tell me, Master Sigglesthorne: why have I the feeling that the case has not yet reached a resolution?’ asked Holland.
Sigglesthorne grimaced. ‘The attorney claiming to represent Lady Joan still had nothing to submit to the court. There is no longer any doubt in my mind: he does not act on her behalf at all, but on behalf of Montague. Montague’s legal advisors know our case is strong and they are resorting to delaying tactics.’
Holland wearily ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Is there anything I can do to spur things on?’
‘Nothing can be resolved until her ladyship’s side of the story has been heard. The Pope has already decreed she be freed to appoint her own proctor; I suggest you make sure she is given an opportunity to do exactly that.’
Holland smiled. ‘I think I can manage that much.’
‘Be careful, Sir Thomas,’ warned Sigglesthorne. ‘If you rescue Lady Joan from wherever it is that Montague has confined her, his attorneys will be able to claim that you have abducted her, and it is you who is imposing your will upon her, not Montague. Any action you take must be done in co-operation with the proper legal authorities. You cannot afford to put any arrows under the belts of Montague’s attorneys at this delicate stage of the proceedings.’
Holland nodded. ‘I think the perfect opportunity may be about to present itself.’
* * *
The king spent most of that year at his palace at Havering atte Bower in Essex to avoid the pestilence, but in June the court made its way to Westminster for Sir William Montague’s investiture as Earl of Salisbury. Montague had reached his twenty-first year, and although ceremonies of investiture were usually carried out in the presence of the parliament, which did not meet that year, the king could not reasonably put off Montague’s elevation to his father’s earldom any longer.
A great banquet was held in Westminster Hall the night before the ceremony, but the mood of the guests was low. The king set the tone. He had recently been forced to make a proclamation to peg down wages and prices, which were increasing as the survivors of the pestilence sought to profit from the shortage of manpower. He sat at the centre of the royal table, truculent and ill-tempered, drinking aggressively and glowering all the while.
The days after Despenser’s death had been days of terror for the countess. All in the castle had waited in trepidation for someone else to fall prey to the pestilence; for the countess there had been the added fear that someone might yet accuse her of murder. But as the days passed into weeks, it became clear she had escaped both pestilence and accusation. Then, two weeks before Montague’s investiture, her brother had died of the pestilence at his estates in Wake. She had never cared for him, and his death meant that she inherited both his title and estates as Baroness Wake.
Now she forced herself to smile. Her daughter was about to become Countess of Salisbury, a destiny she had hoped for since she persuaded the king to arrange Joan’s marriage to Montague. Holland’s unexpected claim that he had already married Joan had almost upset the apple-cart, and the regular reports she received from the tribunal in Avignon worried her. Her one consolation was that now her son-in-law was about to become Earl of Salisbury, the king, who was known to have little time for the Papacy, would not accept any ruling by the Papal Court against the son of his old friend, the previous Earl.
Montague himself seemed equally glum, the wine making him maudlin. The countess leaned across to clasp her son-in-law by the shoulder. ‘Why so gloomy, William? Have you forgotten that by sundown tomorrow you will finally be Earl of Salisbury, one of the senior peers of the realm? This is supposed to be a joyous occasion!’ the countess told the company in general. ‘Let there be more wine, more music. Minstrels! Play a lively tune there!’
After a few moments, the minstrels beg
an to play an estampie. Montague turned to Joan. ‘Will you accompany me on to the floor?’ he asked, offering his arm.
She shook her head. ‘I fear I must decline, my lord,’ she responded distantly. ‘I should like to retire, if it pleases you. I do not feel well.’
‘Should I call for a physician?’
She shook her head again. ‘I am tired, that is all. It is nothing that a good night’s rest will not cure.’ She bade him good night and, with a number of her husband’s liveried retainers to accompany her as a bodyguard, she left Westminster Hall for the Bishop of Salisbury’s inn where she, her mother and her husband were lodged. Montague slumped in his seat with a sigh, more depressed than ever despite the merry music of the minstrels.
The countess had caught the gist of their conversation, and she leaned across to address her son-in-law once more. ‘My daughter has been your wife for eight years now and yet you continue to treat her as a lovelorn squire treats a lady from whom he seeks the gift of mercy.’
‘Would you have me cease to love her because we are married?’ asked Montague, signalling for one of the pages to refill his goblet with wine.
‘If you wish to earn her love, first you must earn her respect. Why do you think she clings to this childish infatuation for Sir Thomas Holland? She needs a man who will dominate her, not one who lets her walk all over him.’
‘Perhaps you are right.’
‘Of course I am right. Do you not think I know my own daughter? Go to her. Make her respect you.’
But Montague could not leave the great hall until his liege had expressed the desire to turn in for the night, and that was not until the small hours of the morning, by which time he had consumed more wine than was good for him. He forced himself to be merry, and danced with the young ladies-in-waiting of the court, flirting with them, much to the king’s approval. They seemed to find him attractive and he decided he could have slept with any one of them if he had so chosen.
He was swaying unsteadily when he made his way along the Strand. As he passed the House of the Carmelite Friars he felt a shudder run down his spine, as if someone had stepped on his grave. Finally he reached Salisbury House, close by the bridge leading across the River Fleet to the City of London. When he entered the main bedchamber, Joan was already in the huge four-poster bed, apparently asleep.
Montague bolted the door and began to undress, falling across the bed as he struggled to remove his hose. Then he blew out the candles he had used to light his way to his chamber and slipped under the covers beside his wife. Feeling her warmth beside him filled him with lust. He reached across to fondle her breasts.
She brushed his hand away. ‘Not tonight, William,’ she mumbled, still half asleep.
Montague decided that this was the perfect opportunity to assert himself as her husband. ‘Aye, tonight, my love.’ He began to fondle her once more.
She knocked his hand away. ‘I told you, I’m not well.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he snapped.
‘You’re drunk,’ she told him testily.
‘What of it?’
‘You should sleep it off.’
‘There’s plenty of time to sleep in the grave,’ he said, trying to kiss her as he climbed astride her under the covers.
She struggled against him. ‘Stop slobbering over me! I’m not in the mood.’
‘But I am, my love,’ he said, fumbling with the laces at the neck of her nightshirt.
She slapped him hard across the cheek.
‘Damn you!’ Losing his patience, he began to rip at her nightshirt, the delicate material tearing easily in his hands. ‘You are my wife, and I shall have you as and when I please.’
‘William! What’s come over you? Stop it!’ She tried to push him off. ‘Get away from me, you filthy beast!’
He tried to thrust himself into her, but her legs were squeezed too tightly together. Losing his temper, he punched her on the cheek, just below her left eye. The sudden pain was such a shock that she did not even cry out, and merely stared at him in astonishment in the glow of the dying fire. Realising that he had struck her harder than he had intended, he felt a pang of guilt.
‘Oh, God save me! I’m sorry.’
‘Get out!’ she hissed, backing away from him on her hands and knees.
He tried to grab her, but she dodged him easily, and he landed face-down on the bed. She sprang from the mattress and, crossing to the end of the bed, where her gown was folded on the chest, plucked her dainty dagger from the jewelled sheath attached to her girdle. She pointed it at him as he rose from the bed.
‘Stay away from me!’
‘Joan!’ he protested, holding his arms wide as if to embrace her.
She waved the dagger under his nose. ‘You heard me. Stay away!’
He beat his fist against one of the bedposts. ‘Damn you, Joan. You are my wife, I will have my way with you. It is your duty!’ He lunged, and she slashed at him with her dagger.
Backing away, he stared in disbelief at the blood coursing from the long but shallow cut on his forearm. ‘You – you bitch! Damn you, Joan. Don’t you see? If I am to be Earl of Salisbury, I must have an heir!’
‘Not by me, you won’t. You’ve had your way with me plenty of times before, and naught has come of it. Come near me again, and it won’t be your arm I’ll cut.’
Clutching his arm in an effort to stanch the flow of blood, he gazed at her in horror, unsure whether to believe her. The look in her eyes suggested he would be wise not to take any chances. He found a tippet and wrapped it around his arm as a makeshift bandage, then donned a robe.
‘Damn you, you bitch,’ he hissed, retreating to the door. ‘Damn you to hell!’
* * *
The ladies and gentlemen of the court gathered in Westminster Hall for breakfast at dawn the following morning. Several members of the court remained in their beds, nursing sore heads after their night of revelry, but Montague and Joan were most notable by their absence. The king turned to the countess. ‘Does Sir William sleep late on this morning of his investiture?’ he asked her, with a smile.
‘I know not, your Majesty,’ she said, and waved a page across. ‘Attend to Sir William, boy, and find out what delays him.’ The page nodded and hurried out of the hall. He was back before the end of breakfast, still panting from the exertion of his ride back to Salisbury House. The countess’s face grew dark as the page whispered in her ear, but she forced herself to smile as she turned back to the king. ‘It seems Joan is ill, sire.’
A hint of fear entered the king’s eyes. Even he had already lost a daughter to the pestilence. ‘It is not…?’
The countess shook her head hurriedly. ‘A little overindulgence, sire. Joan is not used to strong wine.’
‘And William?’
‘He is attending her. I shall go in person to fetch him.’ She rose to her feet and curtseyed out of the king’s presence.
Once out of the hall, her face darkened again as she mounted her palfrey and rode back to Salisbury House. Inside, she rapped on the door of Montague’s chamber.
‘Who is it?’ called Montague’s voice.
‘Margaret of Kent.’
The door opened. Montague was already dressed, in his finest robes of red and white silk. Joan, however, remained in a state of undress, sobbing silently as she sat on the edge of the bed. The bruise on her left cheekbone was so livid that no amount of face-paint could disguise it.
‘A word, if you please, William,’ said the countess, beckoning for Montague to join her in the corridor outside.
As he stepped outside and pulled the door to behind him, the countess rounded on her son-in-law with a snarl. ‘You damned fool! She cannot attend your investiture looking like that.’
‘Do you not think I realise that?’ Montague snapped back. ‘The ceremony will just have to be postponed, that is all.’
‘Again? And disappoint all the good and noble people who have gathered here for this occasion? I think not. I have t
old his Majesty Joan is unwell; that explanation will have to suffice for her absence from the ceremony. It is a great shame, but the gossip will be the less than if she turns up looking as she does this day.’
‘You would have me attend my investiture without my wife?’
‘Rather than put off the ceremony again? Aye. You have brought this on yourself, Montague; do not blame me.’
* * *
Montague and the countess left Salisbury House with their combined retinues less than an hour later. As they rode past the stone cross erected at the hamlet of Charing in memory of the king’s great-grandmother, they passed five beggars who sat by the roadside, their cowls perhaps hiding the faces of lepers. The countess tossed one of them a shilling.
‘Thank you, your ladyship!’ grunted the beggar. He waited until the tail of the cavalcade had passed by, and then flipped the shilling to the man sitting next to him, before pulling back his cowl to reveal a face with a white silk patch over one eye. ‘She was not with them,’ he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Sitting next to Holland, Brother Ambrose tossed the shilling to the third man. ‘No, Sir Thomas,’ he said sympathetically. Holland knew all about Montague’s forthcoming investiture, even though he had not been invited. He had hoped to use the public ceremony as an opportunity to demand that Joan be allowed to appoint a proctor of her own choosing.
Wat Preston tossed the shilling to the fourth man, John Conyers, who slipped it into his purse. ‘Perhaps they left her at Salisbury House, Sir Thomas?’ Preston suggested.
‘It’s possible,’ agreed Holland. ‘But the inn will be guarded, and if the guards are under instructions to keep any one man away from Joan, that man will be me. I can hardly force my way into the Bishop of Salisbury’s inn and break her out, can I? The scandal would destroy us all.’
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