Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  'You play with words,' he said and twisted her roughly in the measure. As they came close he let his body press hers for one moment. She moved back rather too hastily and in that moment felt her garter loosen and slide down her leg. There it lay on the floor for all to see, a bright blue thing, embroidered with rose buds and tiny green leaves. Embarrassed, she halted in the dance, aware that every women's eye would be on her. In that brief instant she saw Isabel's sly glance, several knowing looks. Someone tittered and a voice somewhere said clearly, 'If that is all the lady has lost . . .' and was hastily hushed.

  The King stepped forward and swept up the offending garter. With slow deliberation he tied it round his sleeve and surveyed the other dancers with an expression the court knew only too well. 'The Devil,' he said loudly, 'brings evil to those who think it and I will do in like manner. Cousin Joan, come to the Queen and we will sit awhile.'

  He swept her away and she whispered, 'Dear Cousin Edward, thank you. I am more than grateful, but even so – '

  'What can't be, can't be, it seems,' he said and gave her one swift brilliant smile for which she could have kissed his hand.

  The Queen was laughing at the incident. 'You are the most perfect chivalrous knight, my lord,' she said. 'Is he not, my love? And to wear your garter on his sleeve like a badge! Who but he would have done that? Come, sit down by me and forget your blushes.'

  'A badge it shall be,' the King said suddenly, 'of chivalry, as you say, my dear heart. I shall make it the emblem of my new order – not of the Round Table, but of the Garter. How do you, like that, little cousin?'

  She responded to his mood, managing to say gaily, 'A generous thought, sire, to honour one who was so careless.'

  'Not so careless,' he answered drily. Caught by the new idea, he called for a clerk, and while the dancing went on amused himself with quill and parchment scribbling for some moments. 'There,' he finished triumphantly, 'there too is our motto – "evil be to him who evil thinks". Isn't that the right spirit for a true knight? My son,' he called to the Prince, 'do you not approve?'

  Edward leaned forward to look at the several versions scribbled in that bold hand, and the final one: Hon y soit qui mal y pense. 'My lord, you could not have chosen better. Dear Jeanette, we shall always remember you for giving us this. When will you set it in hand, sire?'

  'As soon as we are home,' the King said. He seemed to have forgotten his momentary annoyance at Joan's rebuff. 'We'll have robes made and badges and it shall be done with all solemnity. St George's day would be apt, eh? And, the Lady Joan shall grace our ceremonies with my Queen.' He was in high good humour and Joan sat through the rest of the evening with her head swimming between pride and relief.

  But she was not destined to see the ceremony to which her garter gave its name, nor the inauguration of the King's proud order.

  On a bleak November day, a few weeks after their return to England, William came into the solar in Salisbury House in London. There was a black frown on his face such as she had never seen there and he was shaking with rage. In a thick voice he dismissed her ladies.

  'What is it?' she asked urgently. 'William, what has happened?'

  'I have just heard,' he said and confronted her, his arms folded, 'I have just heard something that I can scarce believe, though God knows it may not surprise you.’

  'What?' she cried again. 'For pity's sake, tell me.'

  Had he listened to some cruel tongue? Could he know of the King's fulfilled desire of last May? She waited in terrible suspense, her hands gripped together.

  William said, 'Tom Holland has gone to Avignon. He is so rich now he dares to approach the Holy Father.'

  'The Pope? But why, why?' Shock made her limbs tremble, the truth already dawning on her.

  William was watching her face. 'Don't tell me you don't know.'

  'I know nothing – nothing!'

  He gripped the back of a chair, staring at her. ‘I wonder if I believe you. He has gone to ask for our marriage to be annulled. To claim you as his wife!'

  CHAPTER NINE

  The window of the tower chamber looked out over the grim walls to the sodden fields stretching into the grey, rain-soaked distance. A mile or so away the delicate spire of Salisbury Cathedral, built by Bishop Poore more than a hundred years before, was a grey finger pointing upwards. He had taken the stones of the old church here to erect his magnificent new building and on this high mound there were only heaps of rubble left to show where it had been. The old Norman castle was austere and lacking in many comforts though William, to give him his due, had done his best to see that Joan had all she needed. Only her freedom was lost and throughout the wet spring she had sat at this window and watched the rain sheeting down, adding to her own heaviness of spirit. The ground was clogged and muddy, seed mouldering, and men began to fear a bad harvest, or no harvest at all and winter starvation.

  She had women to keep her company – Lady Mary Beaumont and Agnes Soughden whom the Countess had sent, to spy on her, Joan thought. Agnes had got herself into trouble, she had given birth to a stillborn child, and no one knew who the father was. Joan suspected William's brother John but for once Agnes did not screech the tale to the world, only she was poor company and Joan sat often alone.

  The past was gone and no amount of yearning could alter it. The future, so unknown, was filled with terrifying doubt, and yet the present held nothing but emptiness. Fear and hope and then despair alternated, wrecking her sleep. A chapman visiting Salisbury with a pack of silks and ribbons came to her rooms, and while she was choosing what she should buy he slipped a note into her hand. It was brief and evidently written in haste and it was from Tom. He had found Lady Cross and Master Rice, the clerk, and their depositions had been witnessed and sent to the papal court. On that day hope had risen high. On another she heard that the King had sent Lady Furnival to Avignon on her grandson's behalf and she was cast into gloom again.

  William, standing for the moment on his husband's right, permitted her no visitors, and she was dependent for news of the outside world on her squire Robin and on chatter at the dinner table. Perhaps, she thought, there would be some talk today to beguile the tedium.

  Emma came in bearing a mantle. 'There, my lady, it be mended. Will you ride this afternoon?'

  'Perhaps. The rain seems to have stopped,' Joan said wearily. 'But I'll have only that stiff Sir Henry to accompany me, I suppose. Oh Emma, how I miss the court and the hunting and the dancing in the evenings. I want to know what they are all doing, the Prince of Wales and Princess Isabel, my sister-in-law and her bridegroom, Mortimer, and so many others.'

  'I know, my lamb,' Emma said. She had grown more matronly and affectionately familiar with the years, with no desire to wed but only to stay with her mistress. 'But the Holy Father'll decide and then ye'll be free. Come,' she poured water into a basin. ‘'Twill soon be the dinner hour and cook be makin' y'r favourite dish o' partridges.'

  Joan got up and dipped her hands into the cool water. 'It seems so long since we came to this place and still I wait and wait.'

  'Aye. 'Tis puzzlin' to a plain girl like me.'

  Joan gave a little laugh. 'Well, it is not often that a lady has two husbands at once, which it seems I have.'

  'Sir Thomas be y'r man,' Emma said stubbornly. ‘'Twas cruel o' the Earl t'shut ye up here.'

  'I am tired of it,' Joan agreed and held out her hands for Emma to dry. She had beautiful hands, long and tapering, the nails perfectly shaped, and she looked into the steel mirror to see her face. It seemed a very long time since anyone had enjoyed her beauty.

  Had she been right to defy William? She could remember the scene so vividly, her whole soul and body responding to Tom's dash to Avignon. He had said nothing, sent no message to prepare her, and his trust in her love and her loyalty staggered her. She had cried out to William, 'Then I am with Tom. He was my husband first and the Pope will know it.' She had never seen William so angry, not even when Tom first came to claim her and was refused. The
Countess too had been furious and berating William for having been too gentle in the first place, had urged him to lodge her here in Salisbury. Her own mother had sent her a harsh letter asking if she wished to bring the whole family in disgrace, and it seemed as if everyone had turned against her. She felt desperately alone and not even a message from the Prince of Wales urging her to keep her courage up had comforted her.

  The household here she had won over in a few days, but they obeyed their earl nevertheless and watched her carefully. If she rode out she was well guarded.

  'It is wicked,' Robin Savage had protested, his young face red with anger on his lady's part. 'Madame, I will try to get you away.'

  'Where?' she asked sadly. 'Until I know the Holy Father's ruling I can go nowhere.'

  Her head was tilled with questionings. She wanted to know what her royal cousin had said about it all, and the Queen too. She had heard that he had indeed founded his 'Order of the Garter' despite her temporary disappearance. Robin, who had talked to a knight journeying home from Windsor, repeated the details of that great tournament, some of the chosen knights jousting on the King's side, others on Prince Edward's, among them Sir John Chandos and surprisingly Tom himself, back from Avignon to await the Pope's decision. She heard of the solemn Mass, the offerings, the great banners over the members' heads, the garter – her garter – as their badge.

  'Russet robes they had,' Robin told her, 'and embroidered with blue garters all over. It must have been a noble sight.' He had asked the knight how it came about that Sir Thomas Holland had been admitted to the order, for all England knew of the scandal involving the Earl of Salisbury, his Countess and Sir Thomas. The knight said he thought it was the Prince of Wales who had requested it and apparently King Edward had answered that he could not deny one who had served the crown so well at Crecy. As for the feasting afterwards, the knight said nothing like it had ever been seen before. To celebrate the foundation there had been no less than nineteen tournaments throughout the spring and summer, despite the rain.

  Joan listened hungrily and wept with sheer disappointment, only tinged with relief at the King's fair words. Yet, bored and frustrated and sick with impatience as she was, she was oddly happy. Tom had fulfilled his promises, his whispered words, his determination to have her who was his true wife, and she brought his ring from its hidden corner in her casket where it had lain all these years. She hung it again about her neck, dreaming of the time when he might once more set it on her finger, and it grew warm against her flesh: and surely the King would not be turned against her? Having taken her himself, she thought with unusual cynicism, he could hardly blame one who had a better claim. Perhaps too, the King was aware that she held their secret in her hands.

  Emma had tidied her head-dress, a winged thing of wire and gauze that framed her face, and with a little sigh that no one of any account would appreciate her care in dressing, she turned to the door. It opened before she could reach it and to her surprise William stood there, still splashed with mud from his ride from London. She had not seen him since he had sent her here and her hand went to her breast. Surely there must be news – but she could not read that stern face and waited breathlessly for him to speak.

  'The Holy Father,' he said in his slow manner that played on nerves already tense, 'has ordered that you should not be held so close. He commands a Cardinal, no less, to speak for you and is sending someone to consult with you.'

  She turned sick and giddy and sank down on to a chair clutching at the arms, trying to assimilate what he had said.

  'My poor lady,' Emma cried. 'My lord, 'tis a shock after all these months,' and she bustled about finding a cup of wine and a cushion for Joan's head. Joan drank and the colour came back to her face.

  'That will do,' William said. 'You may safely leave your mistress now,' and as Emma hesitated he added sharply, 'Go, girl.'

  Emma went out, closing the door, and Joan leaned her head back and momentarily shut her eyes. There was hope at last, real hope! And she opened them again to look at her husband. 'William – you need not have punished me so, nor stayed away so long.'

  'What was there to bring me here?'

  At the sound of his expressionless voice she flinched. 'I have wanted to talk to you, to tell you –'

  'Yes? What?'

  'Only to say again what I told you that night when Tom came back and you found out. The fault was mine for being too afraid to confess when we were wed. I should have spoken then, I knew it – and yet I thought you had forgiven that.'

  'I had,' he answered, 'and you swore to be a good wife to me, to think no more of Tom

  Holland.'

  'I tried, indeed, I did try. You cannot complain of me on that score. But when he went to Avignon – then I had to decide and you know I loved him, I shall always love him. What else could I do but honour my first vows?'

  'Loyalty!' He walked away to the window and leaned against the wall, arms folded. Not yet twenty-one, he was now a seasoned soldier, an experienced jouster, respected everywhere he went, and he seemed old beyond his years. 'It is a strange thing. Once I thought it straightforward but it is not. Now I suppose loyalty to the Church will make me obey the Holy Father – whatever he decides.'

  'And – and if he gives me back to Tom?'

  His face darkened. 'Don't speak of it. I don't believe he will. You are my wife before all the world, you have been so for seven years.' He paused, suppressing rare emotion. 'You must leave this place now – with me – and we will behave circumspectly. God knows there will be whispers and pointing fingers and we shall have to face that, but I'll not enter your bed again until this is settled.'

  'William,' she said and rising came to him. 'William, I'm grateful.'

  'Grateful?' He stared at her. 'For that? Or that I'm forced to free you, and look the cuckold?'

  'Oh, no!' And then in sudden horror she wondered if he had heard of the King's May loving.

  But he had not, it seemed, for he said, 'Well, I suppose it is no worse, seeing I knew you lay with Tom before, but now the whole world knows of it and it is a wretched shaming business.'

  'I am sorry,' she said again. 'William, if – if I leave you, don't think I will ever forget you behaved to me as a true knight should.'

  He gave a short laugh. 'Small credit. My mother says a beating would break your spirit, but I doubted that even at the beginning, boy as I was then. You are not to be tamed that way.'

  Her eyes filled. ‘'Tis an odd compliment, yet l think it is one.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Be ready to leave in the morning.'

  And turning, he left her.

  She swung round towards the window where a break in the clouds revealed some sky, blue as the Virgin's robe, and then fell on her knees, half sobbing out her thanks.

  The Prince of Wales' favourite residence was his castle at Berkhamstead, and intending to spend much of the summer there he invited William and Joan to join him. His kindness in thus bridging the gap between her imprisonment at Salisbury and a return to court life filled her with more gratitude, and as she and William rode through the countryside where thin corn was struggling through the water­logged soil, her spirits rose.

  William was courteous as always and his manner began to thaw a little, for he was not a man who liked unpleasantness. He told her much of what had been happening at court and of his own campaigning during the winter in Brittany. He also added worse news, that a horrid sickness, the black plague, was reported to be rife in the East and was finding its way across Europe.

  'There was an infestation of frogs in Italy,' he said seriously, 'and fire seen in the sky and I heard that a wind like thick fog is blowing the disease across France. Men are dying in Paris, but thank God we are an island and the sea may keep the sickness from us.'

  Joan shuddered. There had been an outbreak of plague when she was a child and though she had seen nothing of it, Emma had told her much, for Emma had seen a man die of it, his face black, his suffering terrible to behold. But the sea was t
here, thank God, and she tried to thrust the thought of it out of her mind.

  The Prince received his cousin fondly and spoke only of impersonal things to them both. He took them hawking through the pleasant Hertfordshire fields and woods, treated them to fine dinners and a variety of entertainments in the hall. Round its high walls were hung painted shields of his arms, those for war with the motto Ich Dien – taken from the old King of Bohemia – alternating with those for peace bearing the word Houmont “high spirits”.

  Edward kept considerable state and though he drank and gambled with his friends he was always the Prince, and anyone who overstepped the bounds of familiarity very soon found himself on his horse and riding away. But most of his companions knew their master too well to incur this devastating penalty.

  John Chandos who had a pleasing voice sang to them in the evenings, and Bart Burghersh was there with his ready wit. Joan also liked Sir James Audley, a dark-faced man who had now joined the Prince's household and was devoted to him. The Prior of St Albans was a constant visitor. Thomas de la Mare was no fat churchman filling his stomach from numerous livings and keeping a pack of hounds. He was small and balding, his face thin, his aesthetic life mirrored there. His attraction was in his large and luminous grey eyes which could be cold as ice in the face of evil but overflowing with tenderness for the poor, the sick, the lost and the lonely, and the Prince had become greatly attached to him.

  Before Whitsunday Joan went to him to be shriven. He listened attentively as, moved by his compassion, she poured out the whole story of Tom and herself and William, and even, under the seal, of the King's advances. When she had finished he was silent while. Then he said, 'Put the past behind you, child. I think you have been sinned against more than in sin yourself, though it would have been better if you had been stronger to resist sin offered by others. Put your trust in God and in our Holy Father, Pope Clement, and accept whatever is directed to you to do.'