by Anne O'Brien
A map of England was of no value to me. A painted copy of Mappa Mundi with Jerusalem at its centre intrigued me when I found England tucked along the edge but it did not aid me in discovering where Prussia might be. And even if I found it, I acknowledged in sour mood, what value would that be to me? It could be years before Thomas returned with his weapons and horses and coffers of coin.
I slapped my hand down on the precious document, raising a cloud of dust.
I understood perfectly why Thomas was driven to use his skills in theatres of war. My mother’s slighting of the Holland family had been more than accurate. Thomas had no claim to greatness other than the reputation that he could win with his own endeavours. Besides, he liked soldiering. After the very briefest celebration of our wedded bliss, Thomas had pledged his everlasting love, packed his fighting equipment and, with page and squire had taken himself to join the King, eventually engaging in the Battle of Sluys, the battle where King Edward had made his mark in a magnificent victory, as well as taking a French spear in his thigh that kept him to his bed for two whole weeks. And then, in a matter of days, both King and Thomas had been engaged in the siege at Tournai that had achieved little but an expensive truce between England and France.
Edward was now recently returned home from his campaigning against the French, seething with anger of his lack of money and his discovery of the abominable lack of defence of the Tower of London in his absence, but Thomas was not. Thomas had found a need to go to Prussia. It would avail me nothing to know where Prussia actually was but my spirits were at a low ebb. Abandoning my search, I began to shuffle the maps back into order. I had been chasing a wild goose, and it had escaped me.
‘I thought I would be alone here.’
The voice, quiet yet unexpected, made me jump so that I dropped the route between London and Jerusalem, illuminated with tiny pictures of towns on the way, that I was holding.
The King clicked his tongue and picked it up, smoothing it back onto the table, casting an eye over it.
‘I was not aware that your interests were in discovery of the world, Joan. Or of going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sites.’ There was a gleam in his eye. ‘My advice is to go to Canterbury first, to see if you have a taste for the pilgrim life.’
My cousin, twenty-eight years old now, hardened and bloodied from campaigning, a ruler of supreme confidence and some renown, was laughing at me. The life of a pilgrim with hard travel and noxious inns with their communal beds and lice would not suit me at all.
‘No, my lord.’ I felt a need to be formal. He might be my cousin but he was King and this was his library in which I was trespassing. ‘They are beautiful to look at. I am sorry if I should not have unwrapped them. I know their value.’
His gaze moved from the map to me. ‘There is solace in beautiful work, as I know. If I were not King, yet still I would be a collector of books.’ Then he smiled so that the sombre lines of his face were transfigured into prints of pleasure. ‘I would not have thought you unhappy, with your marriage imminent.’ I tensed. Did he know? Had he some presentiment of the difficulties? ‘The Salisbury boy is well favoured and good natured.’
No, he did not know. I breathed out slowly. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘William is blessed with both face and character.’
‘I wager he’ll make a good husband. I know of no vices.’
‘No, sir.’
I thought that I might tell him, that I might appeal to his judgement for a resolution of my case. Would he not have compassion and rescue me? But Edward was speaking, accepting of my compliance.
‘Marriage can be a vital element, particularly if there is love or strong affection. I miss Philippa.’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘She will be returned from Ghent before your marriage. She will be here to wish you well.’
He sifted through the documents as I had done, selecting one that showed the stretch of water separating England from Flanders and France. And here was my chance.
‘Will you show me where Prussia is, my lord?’
‘We are very formal today, Joan. Here.’ He turned the map so that I could see where his finger pointed to the east. ‘Why do you need to know?’ Then fortunately not waiting for an answer, he added: ‘There are a number of my English knights fighting there in the crusade. The Teutonic knights are intent on taking this piece of territory from the Slavs and Christianising it. A worthy cause. I know Thomas Holland has gone there after Tournai – making quite an impression too, so I hear. I need more knights with the courage and commitment of Thomas Holland.’ He smiled a little wistfully. ‘I recall knighting him some years ago now, at the end of the Scottish campaign. He was very young but impressive even then.’
His name, dropped into the conversation, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, wiped my mind of comment. Then again I saw my chance, running my tongue over dry lips.
‘Is he fighting bravely?’ I asked with all the insouciance in the world. I found that I needed to talk about him, just to hear his name mentioned without vilification.
‘Indeed he is. He has been wounded, but nothing short of a spear through his heart will stop Thomas.’ Edward massaged his thigh with his fingers. He still felt the spear wound. ‘I have had reports that he continues fighting, even with a bandage around his head.’
I inhaled slowly. ‘So he is not dead?’
‘Very much alive. Making important friends on the battlefield too.’ Edward’s glance was suddenly keen. ‘I had no idea that you were interested in military campaigns either.’
‘I am not. Except when it is an English victory. And to know that our English knights are fighting bravely.’
Fortunately for me, Edward’s thoughts were elsewhere, his attention claimed by a chart that showed the northern areas of Flanders and France, and his tone became dark with an unexpected foreboding.
‘My task is not finished there.’ He jabbed at it with a finger. ‘I signed a truce with the King of France because I had not the money to continue the siege at Tournai. It was not a bad truce, you understand. I came out of it before my money ran out.’ He grimaced. ‘What King enjoys defeat? For me the truce had the degradation of failure. But I will fight again. My claim on the throne of France through my mother’s blood is one that must engender respect. We will achieve a great victory there one day with the aid of my brave young knights.’ His gaze, still centred on the map, softened. ‘My son Edward will be a greater warrior than I could ever be. He will make of England a name that will last for ever where tales of greatness and valour are told.’
And in spite of my own selfish preoccupations, I was drawn into his vision.
‘I have a thought, you know. Come and look at this.’ He drew me away, a hand on my sleeve to lead me to a book that he took down from a shelf. Opening it, he turned to a picture that I knew well, for these stories had stirred the romance in my youthful soul: a vivid illustration of King Arthur, seated around a vast table with the best of his knights.
‘It is my thought to create an order of knights,’ Edward was explaining, ‘the bravest ever seen since the days of King Arthur. Men who will fight for right and justice and wisdom, for the glory of England and of God. I will choose the finest, the most chivalric, just as Arthur chose. It will be a great honour for a knight to be invited to join such an august gathering.’ Forgetting about me at his elbow, he was fired with the dream, his eyes alight as he turned the pages to illustrations of Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain and a host of others of repute. ‘I see them bearing an insignia which will be known the length and breadth of Europe. My eldest son will be one of the first. William of Salisbury too, my closest friends who have stood in battle with me. Then there are others, young men such as Thomas Holland. We will test their skills in tournaments where they will show their prowess before the whole world. Perhaps even some of the greatest knights from Europe too will be invited…’
It startled me momentarily, that Edward would include Thomas within his pre-eminent body of man. And yet why not? In my eyes he was brave and bo
ld and everything a knight should be. I could see him in my mind’s eye with that shining insignia on his breast, whatever it might be, the magnificent cloak, if Edward decided that is what they would wear. I knew well the King’s taste for the dramatic in clothing. I was swept along with the glory of it, although Edward was unaware.
‘I will have them take an oath to fight against evil, a stern and binding oath to God and St. George. Now he will be the best saint for our emblem, would he not? My knights will promise to fight the good fight, to stand firm. What a magnificent achievement it will be! King Arthur’s knights have lived long in song and story. Mine will live even longer. I will even have my own Round Table…’
I nodded to encourage his enthusiasm, my thoughts with distant Thomas, recipient of such glory.
‘I have a thought about the insignia. A garter with the words Honi soit quit mal y pense. Evil be to him that evil thinks. What do you think to that?’
Again I nodded.
‘They will live up to their oath to uphold God’s and my law, on pain of dismissal. We will have no more scandal in this land. My reign will be remembered for all time for the honesty of its King and its knights. The law will be sacrosanct. It is a dream I have.’
Edward’s words struck home.
An oath. A solemn, binding oath to live a blameless life, full of honour and sanctity.
‘I will not have scandal and treachery and dishonour in this land. I will not have such a travesty of God’s laws. Any knight who dishonours God dishonours me and will be stripped of his knighthood and cast out of the kingdom.’
It made me shiver.
‘But those who are worthy. What do you think, cousin? What colour shall I clothe them in? You have an eye for colour.’
I sought for a reply, while my mind dismantled Edward’s dream.
‘Blue,’ I said. ‘The blue of the Blessed Virgin’s gown.’
‘I knew you would choose well.’
‘I am not sure that I have any bearing on your decision, Edward,’ fear making my reply acerbic. ‘You have made up your own mind. As you usually do.’
He laughed, before sobering quickly, his face once more losing its light. ‘I think that you at least would tell me the truth. I am beset by enemies, Joan, men who sit at my own board, eat my bread, yet would wish me ill. The Archbishop of Canterbury, God rot his treacherous soul, has proved to be no friend of mine.’
I pretended not to understand, when in fact the whole court understood. To Edward’s wrath, Archbishop Stratford had accused Queen Philippa, that most moral of women, of being in an adulterous relationship, since the child she was now carrying must have been conceived when Edward was engaged in the siege of Tournai.
‘Rumour and gossip! How would the scandalmongers know when and where Philippa and I came together to get this child? And were they counting the weeks and months of its gestation?’ Edward railed, his low voice rendering his displeasure even more implacable. ‘They, with their crude and vicious lies, are the true demons in a well-ordered state. My wife is the most loyal, most honourable woman I know. I’ll not allow vicious tales of impropriety to destroy her reputation. You’ll do well to mirror your own deportment on hers, Joan. There must be no stigma in this marriage with young Montagu. I’ll brook no dishonour, no outrage. Get an heir as soon as possible and settle down into married life.’
Closing the pages with a clap that raised yet another cloud of dust, returning the book to the shelf, Edward angled a glance at me, all comfortable intimacy over in the shade of scandal and adultery. ‘Should you not be learning suitable texts or setting stitches, or whatever it is young brides do?’
No, I could not tell him of my predicament. Edward could not rescue me. Indeed, unwittingly, Edward had made all things clear to me, as terribly shining as the gilded image of King Arthur, that he had just hidden with some force.
Chapter Three
Early February 1341: St. George’s Chapel, Windsor
The Bishop cast his eye over the assembly gathered before God, where the royal blood of England was all-pervading, admonishing them to silence with the mere lift of a finger. Edward and Philippa stood amidst the throng. Returned from Flanders, the Queen had honoured me by attending my marriage, before she would depart to the little manor of King’s Langley for her seven-month confinement, closed off from the world until the birth of this child.
All eyes were focused on me. On William Montagu.
A quietness of expectation fell. The Bishop of London beamed at me. Not the Archbishop of Canterbury in spite of my mother’s hopes. He was persona non grata, not welcome in the royal presence as things stood.
Will turned his head, stiff-necked, to give me the glimmer of a nervous twitch that might have been called a smile, before turning to fix the Bishop with an anxious stare.
I was as cold as death. No smile. No anxiety. Nothing beneath my girdle but a grim certainty.
Indeed, my mind was empty after weeks of maternal bombardment, Philippa’s gift of silk and figured damask chill against my skin, heavy in its weight of gold tissue, eminently suitable to a princess on her wedding day. My lungs were icy as I inhaled every incense-filled breath. The only warmth was William’s hand around mine, clammy with nerves. Despite the February damp, I could see perspiration on his brow if I glanced sideways. It had, I surmised, nothing to do with the new liking for sable fur at neck and cuff and hem that gave him a marked resemblance to the monkey, an ill-considered gift from some foreign ambassador to the royal offspring.
I was standing at the altar, hemmed in by the fixed regard of congregation and of the carved saints and martyrs, my hair released into virginal purity, uncovered by veil or coif, rippling magnificently over my shoulders in bright gold, that challenged even the crucifix before which we would take our vows.
The progression of the marriage ceremony wrapped me about, heavy with portent, impossibly different from my first marriage which had been private, personal, secretive. Utterly lacking in any ceremony. Here we were trapped in formal ritual, the Bishop’s robes more bejewelled than mine. If I looked to my left Edward and Philippa were resplendent, lacking only their crowns to enhance their regality, both so young and hopeful, yet to reach their thirtieth year. Ned too was burnished beside Isabella, ostentatiously wearing her reliquary which was no more magnificent than the Salisbury livery collar that was a gift from William to me. It rested on my collarbones, the gems glinting as I breathed with hollow foreboding.
Thomas Holland, I recalled, briefly, had given me no gifts of any kind.
My mother was engorged with her success. Lord Wake merely looked threateningly fierce whenever he caught my eye, which tended to stir a note of hysteria within me. When I had made my vows to Thomas our company had also been of the raptor variety, although they had ignored us.
Countess Catherine was supported by Lady Elizabeth, clad in a vast array of ancient gems. The Earl was still absent, still sojourning as unwilling guest of the French king.
At last the Bishop turned to Will. It was as if the congregation held its breath to absorb the holy vows on our behalf.
‘William Montagu, vis accípere Joan, hic præsentem in tuam legítimam uxorem iuxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclesiæ?’
I heard Will swallow, but he did not hesitate.
‘Volo.’
He would not dare.
The space around me grew, leaving me alone and insignificant. This was it. This was the moment for my own declaration of intent.
‘Joan, vis accípere William, hic præsentern in tuum legítimum marítum iuxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclesiæ?’
I allowed a slide of eye to my mother’s austerity. I saw fear there. I had been declaring my wish to repudiate this marriage since the day she had seized hold of the Montagu proposal.
I lifted my eyes to the Bishop who was nodding encouragingly. My voice was clear and cool. No hesitation. No stammer. Had I not made my decision? I would not go back on it now.
‘Volo.’
Momentarily
I closed my eyes, held my breath, anticipating the bolt of lightning that would strike me down, for surely God would judge my vow and find me wanting. Or some busy person in the congregation would decry me false.
Nothing. No flash of light, no voice raised in condemnation.
Behind me, my mother’s sigh was almost audible. Will’s hand closed convulsively around mine so that I winced a little as we exchanged an awkward nuptial kiss.
‘I wasn’t sure you would go through with it,’ he whispered, his cheek pressed to mine.
The ceremony continued. The drama had been played out, brought to its glorious, heart-stirring end by the choral offering of glory to God. I imagined most of our companions were now anticipating a warming cup of spiced wine before the overblown festivity of the wedding feast. I was the wife of William Montagu. One day I would be Countess of Salisbury. William and I would be cornerstones in Edward’s splendid court, our children securing the Salisbury inheritance for all time.
Why had I abandoned all my professed principles of honour and loyalty to the vows I had made to Thomas, rejecting at the eleventh hour all my fine words that I would never join my hand with that of William Montagu because it would be invalid for me to do so? Many would deem me weak, easily influenced, readily submitting to minds and wills stronger than my own; or to a streak of pure worldly ambition as wide as the River Thames. I could imagine the scorn at my sudden inexplicable change of heart.
Was I driven by an ambition to be Countess of Salisbury in the fullness of time? Surely it was a more advantageous future for a royal daughter to be Countess of Salisbury, rather than the wife of a mere household knight, living on a meagre income? Perhaps it was family pressure, too great to withstand, ultimately being dragged to the altar by a determined mother who issued dire threats of my being forced to take the veil if I continued in my disobedience. Or, in the end, did I just give up hope and submit to the easiest path?