‘No, sir, you can’t do that,’ agreed Preston, and grinned. ‘But we can,’ he added, indicating himself, Conyers and Kemp.
Preston outlined his plan to Holland, who reluctantly gave his assent. ‘Don’t forget,’ he called after them. ‘You’re not in France now, so for heaven’s sake try not to kill anyone.’
Preston grinned, and the three archers made their way down the Strand, past Henry of Derby’s mansion, the Savoy Palace, and the Temple Bar – where a chain between two posts symbolically delineated the western limits of the City of London – by the buildings that had once belonged to the Knights Templar, before the suppression of that order had led to all its properties being handed over to the Hospitallers. There the Strand became Fleet Street, and just beyond it stood the House of the Carmelite Friars. Between that and Saint Bride’s Church stood Salisbury House.
Two men-at-arms stood guard outside the main entrance, and since Preston had no wish to be arrested for brawling in the street, he led Kemp and Conyers along Saint Bride’s Passage, down the side of the inn towards the Thames. A stone wall about eight feet in height ran alongside the inn’s extensive and well laid out gardens. Preston clasped his hands together with the palms upwards to make a step-up, boosting up first Kemp and then Conyers. The two men sat astride the wall, hauling Preston up between them. He was heavy even without his armour, and they grunted under the strain as his feet scrabbled against the brickwork. Finally the three of them dropped down into the garden, landing in a flower-bed, and crouched down behind some rose bushes that hid them from view of the inn.
‘I’d much rather have done this at night,’ grumbled Conyers, who had some experience of breaking and entering. ‘Do you think anyone saw us?’
‘So what if they did?’ responded Preston. ‘This is England. We’re not at war. We can do what we like.’
‘The word “trespass” springs to mind,’ Kemp pointed out.
‘We’ll be all right. The Pope ordered that Lady Joan be set free, didn’t he? We’re only obeying the Pope’s orders. No one can argue with that.’
‘They’ll try, though, I’ll wager,’ said Conyers.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Preston. ‘Now let’s stop wasting time and get on with it. You go first, Lancelot,’ he added to Kemp. ‘Rescuing a damsel in distress should be right up your alley.’
Kemp led the way, creeping between the bushes and flowerbeds as stealthily as he had done on scouting missions in French-dominated territory. They managed to reach the back door without any shouts of alarm being raised. Preston tried the door. It was locked. ‘We’ll try round the side,’ he suggested.
They made their way round to the far side of the house where some stables abutted on to an enclosed yard with a gateway opening out on to Fleet Street. Two more men-at-arms were on guard at the gate, but they had their backs turned to the yard. Another door was set in the side of the house, also locked, but hidden from the gateway by an outhouse. Kemp was about to kick it open, but Conyers hurriedly pushed him aside.
‘Do you want to alert the whole household?’ he whispered. ‘Leave this to someone who knows what he’s doing!’ He took some small, curiously shaped tools from his purse, and inserted them in the lock, fiddling about for what seemed an inordinately long time.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ muttered Kemp. ‘At this rate the ceremony will be over by the time we get inside.’
‘You obviously don’t know how long these ceremonies take,’ replied Conyers, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on his work. ‘A job like this requires a craftsman, and a craftsman requires…’ the lock snapped open, and Conyers smiled ‘… a little time.’
‘Which is something we’ve just run out of,’ said Preston, as the two men-at-arms rounded the outhouse and marched purposefully towards them.
‘Hey! What are you three doing? Don’t you know you’re trespassing?’
‘Where can I find the captain of the guard?’ Preston demanded, in his most commanding tones. His self-assurance was such that the two men-at-arms were momentarily thrown.
One of the men-at-arms removed his helmet and pushed back his mail coif to scratch his scalp. ‘That’s me, I suppose…’
‘His right reverence has hired us to make sure that his guards were rigorous in their approach to their duties,’ explained Preston and, as the two men frowned with worry, Kemp and Conyers each laid one of them out with a punch to the jaw. ‘And I’m afraid you two fall woefully short of the mark.’
The three men slipped inside and found themselves in the kitchens. The house seemed deserted, most of the guards and servants having accompanied Montague and the countess to Westminster Palace as part of their retinue. As they entered the dining hall, they were challenged by two more men-at-arms.
‘We’ve orders to fetch Lady Joan,’ said Preston, with all the confidence of one who spoke the truth.
‘From whom?’
‘Sir William, of course.’
‘Let’s see them,’ the guard suggested sceptically.
‘Spoken orders,’ explained Preston.
‘Then you’ll have to go back and get written ones, won’t you?’ said the guard. ‘I’m under strict instructions from the countess. We’re to let no one see her ladyship without written and sealed authorisation from the countess until she returns.’
Preston, Kemp and Conyers exchanged glances. ‘Shall we show them our authorisation?’ asked Kemp.
Preston nodded.
Once again Kemp and Conyers threw their punches simultaneously, and the two guards went down as one, sprawling on the polished wooden floor. Then Preston directed Conyers to go to the stables and saddle three horses, while he and Kemp searched the upper storeys. ‘How will we find her?’ asked Kemp, when they reached the first-floor landing. ‘We don’t even know if she’s here at all.’
‘If she’s here, we’ll find her,’ said Preston. ‘Search every chamber. These are the residential apartments. If she’s not on this floor, she’ll be on the next one up.’
Kemp nodded, and they headed off in different directions. Kemp had not gone far down one corridor when he encountered a chambermaid carrying a pile of neatly folded bed-linen. ‘Can you direct me to the Lady Joan’s chamber?’ he asked her.
‘Go to the end of the corridor, up the stairs, and it’s the second door on your left.’
‘Thank you.’ Sometimes it was as easy as that.
Finding the door, he tried the handle. It was locked.
‘Who’s there?’ a woman’s voice called from within.
‘Who’s in there?’ responded Kemp.
‘Joan of Kent. Is that Will Falconer?’
‘It’s Kemp, my lady. Martin Kemp, of Sir Thomas Holland’s retinue.’
‘Martin! I remember you. Is Thomas here?’
‘He’s waiting not far from here. He sent me to fetch you. Can you let me in?’
‘I fear not. The door is locked…’
Kemp raised one leg and smashed the sole of his foot against the door, close to the jamb and just below the handle. The heavy door sprang open under the force of the blow. ‘Not any more, my lady,’ he said, and then gasped in astonishment for several moments before averting his eyes. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady. If I had known…’
Smiling, she wrapped a sheet about herself. ‘My mother had the chambermaids take away all my gowns so that I could not go anywhere in her absence.’
Kemp hurriedly turned his back on the chamber. ‘Have you any idea where they were taken?’
‘To the garderobe, I expect, to be aired. You can turn around now, if you like.’
Kemp did so, and immediately wished he had not. At twenty, Joan was in the full bloom of her womanhood, a fact that was patently obvious even through the sheet enveloping her. He turned away again, flushing.
She chuckled at his embarrassment. ‘Poor Martin. Do you recall the last time we met?’
‘No, my lady,’ he lied, although the im
age of her lying in Holland’s arms in the stables at Calais flashed through his mind.
‘You always seem to find me at embarrassing moments.’ From the tone of her voice, it was obvious that these moments were more embarrassing to him than they were to her.
Summoned by the sound of the door being kicked open, Preston came hurrying up the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’
Kemp jerked his head towards the room behind him, at the same time spreading his arms to block the doorway as fully as possible. ‘I’ve found her.’
‘Well done, lad.’ Frowning, Preston tried to peer past Kemp. A sudden widening of his eyes indicated that he had seen her. ‘Nails and blood!’
‘Her ladyship’s mother took all her clothes away,’ Kemp explained. ‘She says they may be in the garderobe.’
Preston nodded. ‘I passed it earlier. I’ll go back and see what I can find.’
The serjeant-at-arms seemed to take for ever to return and Kemp, standing in the doorway, expected the alarm to be raised at any moment. He could hear voices downstairs. Then Preston reappeared, clutching a bundle of clothing which he hastily tossed through the door, his eyes closed. He pulled the broken door to.
The raised voices were coming closer. ‘Has anyone searched upstairs?’ called someone.
‘Nails and blood!’ Preston exclaimed again. ‘How are we going to explain this one to the justices? I hope Sir Thomas is prepared to pay Master Sigglesthorne to get us out of it.’
Half a dozen guards emerged from the stairwell at a run. ‘There they are!’
Kemp and Preston drew their daggers, bringing the six guards to a sharp halt. ‘Drop your weapons!’ the leader of the guards ordered nervously. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you hope to achieve but, if you surrender now, the countess may yet be merciful.’
‘Kiss my arse,’ sneered Kemp.
‘Right, lads!’ the leader told his men. ‘On the count of three. One, two…’
At that moment, the door opened behind Preston and Kemp, and Joan appeared. ‘What’s going on, Rokeby?’
The leader bowed and, seeing the bruise on Joan’s cheek, jumped to the obvious if incorrect conclusion. ‘Have they harmed you, my lady?’
‘Harmed me? No. Why should they have?’
‘They knocked out three of my men…’ Rokeby, the man who had admitted to being the captain of the guard, neglected to mention he had also been knocked out.
‘Are you sure it was these men? These men are loyal servants of a close personal friend of mine.’
Rokeby removed his helmet and pulled back his coif so that he could scratch his scalp. ‘Well, my lady, now that you mention it, I suppose it might have been two other men. But we saw the broken door…’
‘Hadn’t you better search for those two other men?’ Joan dissembled magnificently. ‘How do you know they are not loose in the bishop’s vaults?’
A look of horror crossed Rokeby’s face. ‘Quick, men, to the vaults! No, wait, you two stay here and guard her ladyship…’
‘That will not be necessary, Rokeby. I think Wat and Martin are perfectly capable of taking care of me. Have one of your men go to the stables to saddle my white jennet.’
Rokeby looked confused. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but the countess said that I wasn’t to let anyone out of or into the house until she got back. That’s why I was so concerned about these two, you understand.’
Joan’s amusement turned to anger. ‘Which countess was that, Rokeby?’
‘Why, my lady, the Dowager Countess of Kent.’
‘You forget, Rokeby, that by the time my mother returns from Westminster Palace, there will be a new Countess of Salisbury.’
Rokeby hung his head. ‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘Wat? Martin?’
Preston and Kemp stood to attention. ‘My lady?’ said Preston.
‘Would you be so good as to escort me to the stables?’
Preston grinned. ‘It’ll be our pleasure, your ladyship.’
* * *
The king sat on his throne on the dais at one end of the White Chamber in Westminster Palace, dressed in his full robes of state and surrounded by the officers of state. Clad in a ceremonial vesture of honour of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine and miniver, the garter of the Companionship of Saint George tied just below his left knee, Montague approached the king, flanked by the earls of Northampton and Oxford who were acting as his sponsors. The Bishop of Salisbury read out the patent of creation and then Montague knelt before the king, who rose to place a sword in its scabbard around Montague’s neck. Montague drew the sword, resting its point on the flagstones before him, his hands clasped around the hilt.
‘Before God and the eyes of my peers and sponsors, by this sword I solemnly swear to hold the Earldom and County of Salisbury in fiefdom from my liege lord, his Royal Majesty King Edward, the third after the Conquest, and hereby renew my pledge of fealty.’
The king clasped his hands over Montague’s to receive the oath of homage.
‘I become your man of such tenement to be beholden of you, to bear to you faith of life and member and earthly worship against all men who live and can die, saving the faith of my lord Edward, King of England, and his heirs, and of… of my…’
Becoming aware of a commotion at the far end of the chamber, Montague stumbled over the words. Even the king had taken his eyes off Montague to stare over his head, and Montague could no longer resist glancing over his shoulder to see what all the fuss was about.
As he did so, his heart sank with despair.
Holland and Joan were marching up the aisle that ran down the centre of the chamber, the former now in his best azure and white robes. The two were surrounded by a cordon of seven archers who used strong arms to keep at bay any who sought to block their master’s path.
His face turning puce with rage, the king rose to his feet once more. ‘In the name of God and Saint George, Sir Thomas, how dare you barge in here like this?’
Countess Margaret stepped forward to stand by the king’s side.
‘See how the upstart bursts uninvited into this most solemn ceremony merely to press his own cause?’
‘All I see now is my dear cousin, Joan of Kent, her face bruised and in Holland’s custody, when I had thought her lying ill in her bed at Salisbury House,’ growled the king. ‘Have you dared to abduct her, Sir Thomas, and do you now bring her into my presence to boast of your audacity?’
Now that Holland had the king’s attention, the archers relaxed their cordon, enabling Joan to hurry forward and kneel before the king. ‘Please, your Majesty, if you have any love for me you will be merciful to Sir Thomas. He has not acted unlawfully, and has brought me here of my own free will.’
Holland also knelt before the king. ‘I crave your forgiveness, your Majesty. I would not presume to thrust my own problems before you in such a manner, did I not feel that the course of justice were being perverted in such a way that I know you would find intolerable, and would seek to remedy.’
By now the king was prepared to give him a fair hearing. ‘How so?’
‘As your Majesty is well aware, I have petitioned the Papal Court about my claim to your fair cousin’s hand, and I am sworn to abide by whatever decision that court may reach. The cardinal presiding over the tribunal has decreed the court cannot reach a decision until the Lady Joan’s side of the case has been heard. But contrary to a Papal Bull insisting that Joan be allowed to select a proctor of her own choosing to represent her, she has been kept in seclusion and another man not representing her interests has been acting on her behalf. I ask only that the demands of that Papal Bull now be met in full.’
The king’s face remained dark. ‘You know I have little love for the court of his Holiness Pope Clement, Sir Thomas.’
‘Aye, sire. But even you cannot deny the righteousness of that bull.’
The king turned his gaze on Joan. ‘Is this true?’ he asked, his voice gentler now. ‘Speak freely, cousin – whatever your feelings, yo
u know I am honour-bound to defend your interests.’
Joan nodded. ‘It is true, sire.’
‘Sir William?’ The faintest of smiles tweaked the corners of the king’s mouth upwards. ‘Or perhaps now I should say, your lordship?’
Montague hung his head, and said nothing. The king’s face grew dark again, and he turned back to Joan. ‘How came you by that bruise on your cheek?’
She blushed. ‘I would rather not say, sire.’
‘Was it Sir Thomas’s doing?’
‘No, sire, it was not.’
The king looked thoughtful and turned back to Montague. ‘Arise, William Montague, Earl of Salisbury, and follow me. Before we proceed any further in this matter, I would have words with you in private.’
A path was cleared through the noblemen and ladies who were clustered around as Montague followed the king into one of the adjoining rooms.
‘Close the door behind you,’ the king ordered curtly, and Montague did so.
‘Please, sire, allow me to…’
Before Montague could say more, the king punched him on the left cheek. Montague found himself sprawling on the floor.
‘Do I have to tell you what that blow was for?’
‘No, sire,’ whispered Montague.
‘Do you question the justness of that blow?’
‘No, sire.’
‘As a Knight of the Companionship of Saint George, you are sworn to revere women, to treat them with honour and to defend them whenever the opportunity arises. Yet I see that you cannot even protect my cousin, your own wife! And in that I am being charitable in assuming it was not you who struck her. Do you deny it?’
‘No, sire.’
‘I am of a mind to strip you of your peerage even as I bestow it, but out of love for your dear departed father I shall hold back my wrath. You have been a grave disappointment to me, William. I had hoped you might be the new Galahad at my Round Table; instead I find another Sir Kay, full of jealousy and hatred. On this occasion I shall overlook the matter, but do not try my patience a second time. Now rise, and let us return to the White Chamber.’
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