Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  William was startled, both by Tom's unexpected appearance and by the unfamiliar title. 'All my life I will remember it was by my hand he lies there,' he said and did not know why he should say it to Tom Holland, but it seemed that at such a moment old friendship counted for more than recent enmity.

  Tom answered quickly, forgetting formality, 'William, he would not wish you to dwell on that. There's no blame.'

  William gave a little shake of the head and as the Earl of Northampton came over to offer a blunt expression of sympathy, William de Bohun having no way with words, Tom bowed over Joan's hand. His lips were warm on her fingers, his grip tight. He saw her eyes fill again and hoped that this time it might not be for the dead Earl. 'Always?' he asked.

  'How could I stop loving you?' she whispered. 'But it is over, Tom, over. You must never speak to me of it again.' And she left him, walking out of the church, the Countess of Salisbury now, her hand resting on the arm of her husband, the new Earl, while Tom stood rigid, watching them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Prince of Wales had not yet visited his principality nor his palatinate of Chester, but money and men he must have. There was cash enough surely in the wool from the Welsh sheep and the stanneries of Cornwall to yield a handsome profit. He had had new armour made, black, his favourite colour, and new caparisons for his horse. His men must be well-fitted, archers from Wales and Cheshire bearing the deadly longbow which, he thought proudly, only the English knew how to use. It all cost money but he was determined on this, his first campaign, to make his name feared among the French. He was already tall and strong, his muscles well developed from hours of practice with sword and lance, tilting at the wooden quintain, shooting at the butts – he and Simon Burley and William de Montague, all under the eye of Sir John Chandos whose skill was unparalleled.

  His mother had not long ago built and endowed a college at Oxford and his name had been entered as a student, but he had no desire to sit all day listening to a fusty scholar, and with his father to aid him had eluded the call to further learning. Dr Burley, the King said, had put enough into the boy's head, and war under England's banner would teach him what was more necessary. Now all the troops were summoned, the ships built and soon the army would meet at Portsmouth for the greatest campaign yet against their old enemy.

  In this room his chancellor and treasurer and his clerks all endeavoured to keep his multifarious interests in order and he demanded once more whether they had heard aught from Chester.

  'The men are expected this day or tomorrow,' one of the clerks said. 'At least a hundred bowmen, my lord, and the writ to Wales was sent a week or more ago.'

  Edward nodded impatiently, annoyed that the response was so slow or so it seemed to him, forgetting that the troops must march on foot for many weary miles to join him.

  In his retinue he had eleven bannerets and some hundred knights with double that number of squires, a chaplain and a surgeon, and vintners to see they were well supplied. Now he was eager to be away, to ride out followed by so great a train.

  There was a knock on the door and Bart Burghersh came in, his puckish face wearing his usual smile. 'The Countess of Salisbury is here, my lord. She wishes to see you.'

  'My cousin?' Edward sprang up, upsetting a pile of papers and sending a clerk scrabbling on the floor to retrieve them. 'I did not know she was in London.'

  'She rode in a few moments ago. Shall I escort her up here?'

  'Yes,' Edward said, 'at least into the ante-chamber, and see that wine is brought.' He strode into the adjoining room and when Joan came pushed back her hood and kissed her cold cheek.

  'Jeanette! It is good to see you. I thought William might ride straight to the coast.'

  'He has.' Joan let a page take her cloak and serve her with wine, a rich red wine from Bordeaux that put warmth back into chilled and stiffened limbs, for she had been in the saddle since first light. 'I came with Lady Furnival,' she said. 'She is returning to one of her own manors soon and taking Philippa my sister-in-law with her. Philippa wanted a sight of Roger Mortimer before you go – you know they are betrothed now? This place is like a beehive today.'

  He nodded and sat down opposite her as she held out her hands to the flames of the logs crackling in the hearth. 'There is so much to be done. My father has found work for every idle hand. Do you remember when we talked at Woodstock of knighthood and what it means?' He raised his vivid blue eyes to hers. 'The moment has come, Jeanette. My father says he will knight me, with William and Roger and Tom Holland too and a few others. We have to win our spurs to prove ourselves and I must not fail.'

  'You won't,' she said. She wished Tom's name did not still send every nerve fluttering. His position as steward to the house of Salisbury had never officially been rescinded and William, after his father's death, had surprisingly suggested that they put aside the past and let the appointment stand. Perhaps those few words in the church of the White Friars had moved him to do it.

  His mother, busily engaged in litigation to try and gain more of the Montague inheritance for her second son, had little to say to William and Joan these days, and Lady Margaret was frankly disgusted. But Lady Furnival took her grandson's part and to his wife she said, 'I commend you, child. You have put past foolishness behind you and if there is still any tattle this will settle it once and for all.'

  Fortunately perhaps Tom was seldom present for the King often found his services of use on some mission or other, whether by design or not Joan did not know. On his brief visits to keep William's affairs in order he behaved correctly, was closeted all day with the clerks, and Joan scarcely saw him. There was nothing to be served by contact with him, yet she longed for the few casual words at the dinner hour, even under William's watchful eye.

  It was a strain on them both and she felt sure that was why he endeavoured to be at Montacute when they were in London or in London himself when they were in Somerset.

  Yet brief as their meetings were, and never in private, she felt he was watching, waiting, that those hastily whispered words after the late Earl's requiem were a true indication of his mind rather than the pleasant casual exterior he showed to the world.

  Her own feelings she hid beneath a gaiety that was not forced for she enjoyed the life of the court and her respect for William's generous nature grew. He endowed churches, gave to the poor and allowed no one to want on his estates, but their moments of loving were brief, his desire soon satisfied, leaving her tense with longing, unfulfilled and lonely. She began to wish for a child to fill her heart but none came, only fear that she might be barren. Her days were busy enough, and she found money at her disposal as it had not been in her girlhood. She ordered silks from Spain, velvets from Paris, furs and jewels. Every latest fashion tempted her and the ladies at court, seeing how exquisitely she wore the vivid colours, the newest cut, followed her lead. Today even her cousin, whose head was filled with the preparations of war, could not help but notice how the apricot velvet gown sewn with pearls became her.

  'I'm so glad you are all to be knighted,' she said. 'I wish I could be there. Do you know your father has given me a blazon of my own? A white hand on a ground of gules. My squire Robin Savage carried it for the first time today.'

  'He showed me the design. It suits you, Jeanette. I shall be glad to clip the tails from mine.' His face grew more serious. 'I have been to Walsingham this Lent, to offer my sword and ask Our Lady's blessing on my knighting.'

  'I've never been there. What is it like?'

  'Crowded,' he told her. 'So many people and so many of them poor and evil-smelling, with sores and lice – and the fleas! I swear there was not a part of me that did not itch! But we walked barefoot from the new built Slipper chapel to the Holy House, a full mile, and inside – inside one is alone for a few moments at least. There's a priest with his box held out, of course, but the place is holy and I believe Our Lady listens.' He paused for a moment, searching for his meaning, for he spoke of such things only to her. 'Only I feel closer to
God at Canterbury in the chapel of the Trinity. I mean to go there before I ride to Portsmouth. The Abbot of Tichfield has offered lodgings for me and my household while we wait for the wind for France.'

  'I will journey to Canterbury too,' she said, 'and pray for you, dearest Edward. How soon do you go?'

  He caught her hand, the introspective mood vanishing into more urgent matters. 'As soon as the good weather comes. Lionel is to be regent. He's only nine but if aught should befall me he is father's heir.'

  'Don't speak of it,' Joan said hastily. 'I wish you were not all going.'

  'Why, what else is there for men but fighting? How else do we show we are men? We can't always play with hollow lances.'

  She gave a little shudder. 'And God knows that is not always harmless. William still blames himself for his father's death. It changed him, Edward.'

  'I can understand that,' he said soberly, 'but the war will give him something else to think about.'

  'It seems foolish to us women. It will be so dreary without you.'

  A few days later he rode away, but the King and the court took a holiday to celebrate the first of May before the final departure. Joan had a little white mare, a present from the King, whom she had named Doucette, and as the gaily dressed riders, all laughing and chattering, left the city for the pleasant woods and fields beyond Chelsea, the King ranged his powerful destrier beside her, asking if she found the mare to her liking. While they talked it occurred to him that now at nineteen she was the most beautiful woman at his court. Her figure had filled and rounded; her breasts curved beneath the pale green satin, her back straight in the saddle. Her eyes were sparkling with enjoyment and her thickly curling hair had been left loose today to flow about her shoulders beneath a simple white veil. There was a bloom of health to her cheeks that made him want to put out his hand and touch the velvet skin. When she smiled, as she did often, she showed white teeth unspoiled by over­indulgence in sweetmeats. He hoped she had forgotten that business with Tom Holland who was far too valuable a man to be sent off out of the way any more. In the preparations for war he had proved himself highly efficient and the King intended that he should be amply rewarded. This girl at any rate seemed happy enough with her young husband, and he amused himself by contemplating her without her clothes and in the marriage bed. William de Montague, he thought, was probably of too serious a turn of mind to strike real passion from this lovely creature – it needed a virile man to do that.

  The Queen had lately miscarried and was not with them and after the midday meal was eaten, picnicking on the grass, a white cloth spread before the royal party and a mass of cold meats and pasties served, Edward lay down, his hands behind his head, and gave himself up to the pleasure of desiring his cousin Joan. Ladies wandered away, collecting flowers for their wreaths, young gallants following them while their elders snoozed and the King's chaplain sternly produced a book and began to read his office.

  'Saintly fellow,' the King said in a low voice, ‘but Mayday is for lovers, is it not?'

  'Yes, sire.' Joan was smiling. 'But I have none as William is gone to the fleet and even my cousin Edward to Canterbury.'

  'Then I shall be your squire for today, for I too am without my lady,' he said, and springing up, pulled her to her feet. 'Shall we find flowers and make you a garland? What will you have, primroses, bluebells, or those little white ones?'

  'As your grace pleases,' she answered demurely and let him take her hand and lead her away. A sudden memory came of another Mayday six years ago. What a child she had been then, expecting so much. Now she knew that one accepted what there was and did not waste tears or precious hours on what might have been. And yet even such wisdom could not kill the memory nor the lively imagination with which she had been endowed, and to blot it out she smiled more warmly on the King and answered him gaily, unaware of the added charm it gave her.

  He had picked a silky willow frond and was twisting it into a circle, the green-grey leaves soft to the touch. He tried to entwine some primroses into it but they fell out and he laughed. 'My hands are too large or too clumsy. I am a poor Mayday lover, sweeting.'

  'Let me do it,' she said and kneeling, bent to pick more blooms and skilfully weave them into the garland. He swept off his velvet hat decorated as usual with a cock's feather and went down on one knee beside her and touched her cheek with his hand, as he had wished to do, seeing with delight the rosy colour leap beneath his fingers. He was about to bend towards her when he saw two attendants hovering a little way off and summarily dismissed them. When they hesitated he said, 'Good, God, do you think a Frenchman is about to let an arrow fly at me in my own woods?'

  'Sire,' one said respectfully, 'we are responsible –'

  'Then be responsible at a distance,' he commanded and turned laughingly to Joan. 'Good fellows, they watch over my body as if an assassin lurked behind every tree, but at times they weary me.'

  The sun was slanting through the beech branches overhead, patterning Joan's face and neck with light, catching a tendril of hair, and he drew in his breath. 'Little enchantress,' he said, 'you are cleverer than I. Let me place the garland on your hair.'

  He took from her head the green fillet that bound the white veil and set nature's fillet in its place. It was quiet in this glade now, the court dispersed, the sound of laughter distant, and cupping her face in his hands he looked down at her. 'By the white swan, I'm not sure I gave you the right blazon. You too should have had the swan for your neck is slender and white.' He ran one hand down it and she lowered her eyes.

  'I am well content with my hind, your grace.'

  'I am Cousin Edward today,' he corrected her. 'Look at me, Joan.' And when she did so he kissed her on the mouth, not the formal kiss with which he usually greeted her but more deeply and with growing passion. 'You are beautiful,' he muttered, 'beautiful. A true May Queen. I could take you here, now, for I want you, Joan.'

  'Cousin,' she tried to draw back a little, 'you could not. The woods are not deserted, nor has your honour deserted you.'

  'Honour? You speak of honour?' He was haughty for a moment. 'I can guard my own but that is not to say I may not pleasure myself a little.'

  'The Queen –' she whispered in swift confusion. 'I did not mean – my lord, I love her dearly and could not –'

  'Why so do I,' he broke in more lightly. 'I would not harm her for the world. She has my heart, but who shall blame us if today the spring is in our blood?' He paused momentarily as Philippa de Montague, hotly chased by her betrothed, ran squealing across the clearing. 'You see? Today is for the young.' And he kissed Joan again with great deliberation, his hand enclosing one breast.

  For one instant she yielded, her body responding, her senses leaping as they had not done since a dark head was bent above hers in that miraculous week at Woodstock, as they had not in all her nights with William. The King tall and strong, undeniably handsome, the sun glinting also on his head, the thick curling hair bright gold, his lips warm and demanding, was a man to turn any woman's head, and Joan wanted love as she had once known it.

  Voices came to her rescue then, echoing through the trees, and she slid from his arms as the Earl of Arundel, forgetting his pregnant wife and with his arm about one of the Queen's ladies, came into the clearing. He was followed by the Princess Isabel, dragging her sister Margaret by the hand, but Isabel's sharp eyes saw no more than her cousin gathering an armful of bluebells. Isabel adored her father and ran to him, taking his hand while with the other arm he scooped up Margaret and took them both to watch the moorhens on the little stream. Joan held the cool flowers to her cheek, hoping that no one had noticed the King's closeness to her, but the Countess of Northampton, who had been in charge of the two princesses, said, 'My dear, you will spoil your dress if you kneel on the grass, or –’ she broke off, the implication the worse for her silence.

  Joan rose and answered coldly, 'I assure you, madame, the grass is quite dry, nor am I so poorly supplied with gowns that I need concern myself over
much.'

  Elizabeth de Bohun, Countess of Northampton, was the daughter of that Lady Badlesmere who had once screamed abuse at the King's grandmother, Queen lsabella, from the walls of Leeds Castle, and she had inherited the same spiteful temper. She looked Joan up and down, envious of that incredible beauty and aware of her own face sadly marked by smallpox in her youth, and then with a superior and knowing smile walked on.

  It was late when Joan went to the little chamber allotted to her. It was nearly filled by the bed and Emma had perforce to take her pallet elsewhere. Joan dismissed her and without bothering with her nightgown slid between the silken sheets, stretching comfortably and thinking of the afternoon and the King's love-making. It was wrong, of course, and she should not recall how she had responded to it, but there was a tingle of pleasure as she conjured up the feel of his mouth on hers. She was wicked, she supposed, as her mother had once said, but yet she could see no great evil in a little loving. There were so many worse sins. With a deep sigh she snuggled into the bed.

  She did not know if she had slept long or how much later it was when she became suddenly alert again as a sound disturbed her. It was the door opening softly. The room was filled with moonlight and she saw the figure of a man. Swift fear came to her for there were not a few at court who had surreptitiously made their desire known to her. If she had wished she could have had half a dozen lovers, but she had repudiated them all, and she could not believe that either young Beaumont, or Oxford with his reputation for lechery or even Arundel, openly admiring, would dare to enter her chamber. She could call out but Emma was too far away to hear. Her page lay somewhere along the passage but it often needed more than a call to wake him, and Robin Savage would be in the crowded hall with the other squires, sleeping on the rushes.