The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  But he served you, mayhap he saved your son’s life. The temptation to blurt out the truth beckoned like the Devil. Yet to what avail? Foisting herself on a man who no longer cared?

  Isabella saved her from answering. “But I have. Are you questioning my judgment, Roger? Are you?”

  Johanna set a respectful hand on the queen’s arm. “My liege lady, I have no wish to be a bone for you two to fight over. Question Lancaster’s jester. He was once my husband’s esquire.”

  “A jester,” jeered Mortimer. “Upon my word, this story will grow horns and a pointed tail. What sane knight employs a jester as his esquire?”

  The queen scraped back her chair upon the flagstones. “I shall have no more wrangling. Give her the deed!”

  Johanna noted the resentment flicker in the earl’s eyes and little doubted he would continue the battle of wills with Isabella in private by more subtle means.

  He gave it to Johanna with a fulsome flourish. “You are become an heiress, my lady. I congratulate you.” The leather creaked as he clicked his heels together and bowed to Isabella with frosty hauteur. “By your leave, madam.”

  Isabella busied herself sorting the letters, but she watched him go, her lower lip folded in pensively. “Do not let him trouble you, Johanna. He likes to bare his teeth occasionally to remind me I am just a woman.”

  “Mayhap he is right about the grant, my liege lady. This kindness may make wranglings. Are you sure you do not wish to reconsider this when the campaign is over?”

  “No,” Isabella replied firmly. “And do not let Mortimer put you down. You laboured long and hard on my behalf and, by the Blessed Virgin, I cannot see why you are less deserving. Keep it. Sometimes he needs to be reminded that but for my gender, I would now be ruling France.” She sank down again upon the chair with a sigh. “But I do love him, Johanna. I know I am a fornicator or whatever other dirty labels Holy Church can nail on me, but I need him and he is risking his life for my cause.”

  “It is a just cause, my lady, and no one despises you. All the bishops save Walter Stapledon have come to pay you homage. They respect you as their sovereign lady.”

  “Only while I am useful. I know I should not be sharing my bed with Mortimer but no more of that. Now, let us be cheerful. Read the deed.” She pinched Johanna’s cheek. “I want to see you smile, hein.” She took another letter awaiting signature from the pile.

  “My gracious lady, this is too much.” Johanna looked up in tearful happiness.

  “Attention, darling goose, you will make it blotchy.”

  Johanna shook her head. “I understand why you are doing this and your kindness is beyond thanks.”

  The queen leaned her chin upon her hand. “It was Gervase de Laval who sang last night, oui? Gervase and Geraint are one. Why will he not own you as his lady? Is there something or someone he fears?”

  Johanna stared bleakly up at the wall-hanging of Christ healing the blind upon the road from Jericho. “I do not know,” she answered sorrowfully. It was a relief to air the wound. “It is as if some canker is eating him.”

  Unhappily, the queen took her meaning at skin surface. “Quel horreur! Bah, non! He looks hale enough to me. There is no evidence of lung rot or any outward manifestation of disease, no rash or leprous marking.”

  “No, madam, I mean his soul is bitter.”

  “Ah. Well, mayhap he will turn cheerful when he hears that you shall be rich once le mauvais Hugh and his abominable father are in their coffins.”

  Johanna grimaced. It was not pleasant to think her future prosperity depended on Hugh Despenser’s death, and if the queen thought Gervase’s love could be bought with manors, it was because she did not know the man. But then, thought Johanna sadly, nor did she. Not even his true identity.

  Thirty-one

  THE QUEEN’S STAY at Gloucester was memorable for two things—the ghastly delivery of Bishop Walter Stapledon’s head in a canvas drawstring bag and the tidings that the king had moved on to Hugh Despenser’s castle at Chepstow and had given orders that all the loyalist troops were to assemble in Bristol under the command of Hugh Despenser the Elder, Earl of Winchester. With her men anxious to see battle, Isabella took repossession of Berkeley Castle and, advised by Mortimer and Leicester, resolved to lead her army towards Bristol next morrow.

  The move exacerbated Johanna’s short temper. It was not only the constant travelling that irked her but also the fact that Roger Mortimer had told his gossipmongering son about her prospects. Since then she had been pestered by a swarm of land-ravenous fortune hunters who did not give a fig for her feelings or opinions. Every time she caught sight of Gervase’s azure-plumed helm as he rode with Bishop Orleton’s company, her bad humour flamed up.

  What might have been—what could be—but for Gervase’s cold-heartedness, threatened to choke her. If only they were not constantly treading the same ground; the very air between them was a brooding thunderstorm and the lightning glances she sent him were returned in full measure. What ailed the man?

  “Make him jealous,” advised Isabella, locking her jewels into her small travelling coffer as they were about to leave Berkeley. “I will see you down in the courtyard in a thrice.”

  “I cannot,” muttered Johanna. She seized the ring handles of the box containing the queen’s perfumes and lotions and was halfway down the spiral stone staircase when one of the knights, bounding upwards, barely saved them both from tumbling headlong.

  “Oh, it is you,” she growled. Gervase, Geraint—whatever he was damnably called—was blocking her way like an irritating rockfall, all sharp armour and hard edges. There was no convenient landing at hand to let him pass, so she turned with an oath to mount the stairs again only to find his arm insinuate itself around her waist and whirl her to face him.

  “Do not struggle unless you want us both to topple.”

  “An excellent idea!”

  “Johanna.”

  “I do not know you, sir. Let me go!” She wedged the coffer stalwartly between them.

  His gaze searched her face. “I love you.”

  “Love me!” Johanna exclaimed, nearly letting Isabella’s precious fragrances smash over their feet. “Love me! God help us, sir, your disease is tardy. It would not have anything to do with the epidemic of land grants, would it?”

  “What in God’s Name are you babbling about?”

  “The Devil take you! Ha, you come sniffing at my heels, whining of love because your precious Mortimers have blabbed that I shall have manors in plenty. Your wretched, poor wife whom you scorned, Gervase de Laval—or whatever poxy name your mother gave you!”

  “God ha’ mercy, do you think I give a toss what you are worth?”

  “Yes, you lying dog! Or do you change like the wind? ‘Today I think I shall love my wife,’” she mimicked. “Oh, go and be hanged!”

  “Very well, have it on your terms!”

  To add to her woes, she arrived down in the bustling courtyard only to discover a newly arrived contingent of sweaty knights and horses adding to the confusion. The air was ripe with Northumbrian and Yorkshire curses—and a voice she had lit candles and said a thousand prayers never to hear again: Fulk de Enderby, snarling at his men.

  * * *

  BRISTOL, LIKE LONDON, was caught between appeasing the lord in charge of its fortress and its instinct for choosing the winning side. The moment the queen’s army was sighted from the walls, the mayor and his aldermen rode out to offer their sovereign lady the city’s allegiance. Meanwhile, Hugh Despenser the elder, Earl of Winchester, stood on the ramparts of the castle and refused to surrender. The queen, bivouacking with her troops and tents, prepared to lay siege. She ordered the setting up of trebuchets, mangonels and belfries. Engine-makers and those knowledgeable in mining were summoned to discuss how best the walls were to be breached.

  Geraint, in full armour, stormed into Edmund’s tent. The matter had been pricking him like a stone in a shoe since Berkeley.

  “I have a quarrel with yo
u!”

  Edmund was at a disadvantage. One of his esquires was wrapping shinbands, strips of blanket, round his worsted hose.

  “You are not still maddened because I suggested you toss a leg over the porter’s daughter at Berkeley.”

  “Johanna FitzHenry tells me you have been spreading gossip of her becoming an heiress.”

  Edmund frowned. “It is not a rumour, Geraint. My father was there when the queen gave her a deed promising her some of the Despenser lands in the Marches. Mighty foolish he thinks it too, giving the manors to an unprotected widow. What of it?” As Geraint made no answer but a growl, Edmund looked round at him. “Ho, so you reckon there lies your answer, an heiress, eh? Well, go and wag your tail around her skirts along with the rest of ’em. Lost cause, I reckon. The wench is still claiming her husband is—”

  The thunderous expression on Geraint’s face must have betrayed him for Edmund, not usually so fast in such matters, suddenly added up the sum of things. “Oh, upon my father’s soul it is Lady Johanna! She’s your . . .” In a stride, Geraint had grabbed him by his shirt.

  “. . . embroiderer,” croaked Edmund placatingly.

  “Sirs!” yelled the esquire, wriggling out on his hands and knees from between the two men.

  “Out!” Geraint snarled at the youth. “You whoreson, Edmund, if you dare blab one further word about Johanna in any way whatsoever . . .”

  “Ho! So she definitely is—”

  “I told you hold your tongue!”

  “You go too far. Remember who I am, Geraint de Velindre. My family gave you board and lodging at Bishop Orleton’s request, else you would have starved. And my father is about to knock the bloody Despensers into the ground or had you forgotten!” Released, he straightened his shirt. “Anyway, what is the matter with you, man? Since we arrived back from France you have had a burr beneath your saddle. Is it this Johanna? She is better favoured than my Elizabeth and probably complains less, so why do you not poxy well take her back and have done, especially if she is going to be rich, and do not give me one of your lectures—ouch!” Geraint had grabbed him about the wrist.

  “Because of your meddling, Edmund, she thinks I only want her for her money.”

  “Well, she has none yet.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “Sirs!” The esquire charged back into the tent. “Guess what’s afoot! Old Hugh has surrendered. The Bristol garrison’s rebelled.”

  Edmund gave a whoop, freed himself from his astonished assailant, buffeted the esquire and charged out of his tent, the strips of blanket unwinding foolishly from his knees.

  Snatching back the canvas flap, Geraint swore as he watched the footsoldiers cheering and leaping onto each other’s backs as if they had won a great victory. Geraint de Velindre. He was no more that than de Laval or the other names he had used. With an oath he shut out the celebration, helped himself to Edmund’s supply of Bordeaux and drank deep.

  AFTER SUPPER JOHANNA excused herself from the queen’s presence and stood outside the gaudy tent between the gye ropes. Tomorrow they would ride triumphantly into Bristol Castle and old Hugh would be tried by Mortimer, Leicester and William Trussell, one of the Boroughbridge rebels who had been in exile in France. It was Trussell’s bloody utterances on what he would like to do with the Despensers that had driven her from the royal tent.

  “Well, well.”

  Her former husband—greyer, balder and quite as terrible—stood between her and the tent entrance. In the four years since he had abused her, Johanna’s scars of memory had faded. He was not forgiven but it was a different lady—at ease, confident and worldly—who faced him now and she astonished herself by being charitable.

  “I was sorry to hear about Edyth’s death. She did not deserve so cruel a fate.”

  For an instant the man was floored by the admission and then he rasped, “Hypocrite! You wished her dead.”

  “No, not true, sir,” she answered honestly. She had lit candles for Edyth’s salvation—out of guilt and pity. But why should she defend herself to this beast in human guise? “Have you buried poor Maud yet?” The wealthy widow had snared Fulk within a few months of the court hearing.

  Always that snide, arch look. “No, she is at home with my son.”

  It was foolhardy but she had to say it. “Your son, Fulk?”

  “Strike her, b . . . bully, and I will k . . . kill you this time! Give you good day, Mallet.”

  Had the millennium come? Johanna caught at the gye rope as if the world had turned ethereal. Time could have gone into reverse, except her younger husband was reeling.

  “And you preferred this to me?” sneered Fulk. “I will not take advantage of a drunkard but your time will come, boy. I will deal with you, be sure of that.” His smile for Johanna was as nasty as a venomed arrowhead. “Still barren, I hear.” He adjusted his helm beneath his arm. “You poor strumpet, between two stools, you fall to the ground.” With that, he directed a gobbet of sputum at her feet and strode away.

  She let her breath go in a soft sigh. “Upon my soul,” she whispered, as Gervase stepped back heavily. Since the canvas wall failed to support him, he sat himself down with a mumbled curse. The mitten flopped back from his wrist as he attempted to prop his chin upon his hand. “You look abominable. Drained a firkin, have you?”

  Geraint groaned and rubbed his chin. “That is not an honest question for a drunkard, my lady.” He was convinced he was quite sober, especially if he remained as close to the ground as possible. “Aye, but you are right, Johanna. I need a shave and my mouth is as dry as the road to Jerusalem.”

  He blinked up at her. The dying sun’s blood red light reflected on the gold cross upon her breast and enhanced the pollen yellow of her kirtle. A stone monument, his Johanna. No, not his. She was looking at a wrecked man, like to crash on the rocks at any moment.

  “Do you . . . do you think you could lower yourself for a moment.” Surprisingly she sank down onto the October grass beside him, disconcerting him by being amenable; ironic that she must prefer him with a sail missing and despair settling in like fog.

  For a moment they watched a pair of gulls soaring. “Wh-what think you of the news?” Did his voice sound as weary as he felt?

  “I met him only once. Old Despenser,” she explained, unperturbed by his fierce scowl. “About two years ago. Edyth—someone had. . .” She must have read his confusion for she waved her hands as if to wipe away the words. “Oh, to be brief, he and his son warned me to cease my work against them.”

  “D-did you?”

  “Since they threatened not only to harm my mother and Miles but you as well, I did. Why do you smile?”

  “Smile, Johanna? No.” He buried his face in his hands for an instant, summoning up his courage. “My love, I have no right to ask anything of you, but—”

  “No, you have not!” Wise grey-green eyes evaluated him before she finally stood up. It was tactful and necessary to stay at her feet where the world seemed steady, for she had sprung mentally ahead of his soused mind. “I take it you still want me to declare you dead, sir.”

  He might as well be.

  “What you will but . . .” Perhaps he should exert the paltry authority she needed. He clutched at the gye, thought better of it lest his weight bring the tent down and stumbled unsteadily to his feet. The ground still heaved beneath his soles. “I . . . I want you to leave at first light. Make any excuse. Go back to. . .B-Blessington FitzHenry. I will arrange with Bishop Orleton for you to have an escort.”

  He had to wait several heartbeats before she finally answered.

  “Why? Because of Fulk?”

  “No. I do . . . I do not want you arguing, lady. There will be things happen that no woman should see. I . . .” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to clear his mind. “Believe me, Johanna, you have no idea what men can do to each other.” He closed his eyes painfully; the light on the tent was blinding him.

  “Do you think I should not like to leave here, sir? D
o you think this constant carting thrills me? You know what I want? Not to go back to my mother. No, I want a hearth and a hall to call my own and a babe in a cradle and . . . but you would not understand. Good night, Gervase.”

  “Geraint, my name, Johanna, is Geraint.”

  She halted and turned. “Yes, Geraint of some little obscure hamlet in Wales and Bishop Orleton is your father. It is too late for the truth.” The winter words, bleak and unforgiving, requested no answer. “I understand why you could not trust me, but there are others who do. My place is with the queen and I shall not leave her now. She at least needs me.”

  HAD PONTEFRACT BEEN like this for Lancaster’s trial? Did the Romans lick their lips and queue from sunrise to see the Christians eaten? The throng of gaping faces, the hunger for barbaric entertainment in a people that claimed to believe in Christ’s forgiveness, terrified Johanna.

  Hugh the elder looked closer to four score years than sixty-four when they marched him into the great hall at Bristol castle. Unshaven, red-eyed, stooping, his sparse silver hair unkempt, his wrists and ankles shackled, he looked defeated—a tired officer of government, the accomplice to his son’s hunger for wealth. A scapegoat almost. Why had he foolishly stayed behind in Bristol while his son and the king fled to safety? Surely he must have known the opinions among his men, that the city and garrison would not stand? Johanna frowned as realisation dawned. Dear God in Heaven! The old earl was buying time for them.

  For an instant, the prisoner seemed to recognise her as she stood behind the queen’s chair. The images! Upon her soul, it was not her fault he drooped there in chains. This was not Edyth’s doing nor hers, but there was nought in his face now save bleak acceptance as his accusers and judges were one. They sat across the dais like archangels on Doomsday.

  “You counselled our lord King Edward to set aside the laws of this land,” thundered Mortimer, “and you deprived Holy Church of its rights.”