The Shadow Queen

I stood outside the door, leaned back so that the wall was cold against my back, and took a breath as I willed the initial panic to subside. Until, that is, I saw in the shadow of a pillar at the far end of the chamber three figures in descending height: William Montagu of Salisbury, Edward the princely heir and my brother John, all of whom had followed me to discover the need for such a summons. They were clearly waiting for me because as soon as I appeared they began to cover the ground between us. Pushing myself upright, with what I considered to be an innocent expression I walked slowly towards them, arranging my thoughts into what I might and might not say.

‘What did she want?’ John demanded without ceremony.

‘Nothing for your little ears, brother,’ I said, but my eyes were on the scion of the House of Salisbury.

Did William know the subject of my interview? Had he already been informed that I would join my hand with his in Holy Matrimony? It might well be. Not a word had passed his lips, but William was perfectly capable of keeping his own counsel. I regarded him through my lashes. Here, at our parent’s planning, and that of the King and Queen, was my future husband, and since I had not been sworn to secrecy, perhaps it would be a good time for me to comment on the fact that we were destined, by forces beyond our control, to spend our future life together.

Except that sharp fear gripped my throat so that I could not force the words into being.

But William could. He pushed John aside.

‘Have you told your mother the truth?’

My eyes narrowed.

‘And you need not lie to me,’ he continued. ‘I know all about it. I have friends in low places. What possessed you, Joan? Had you no sense?’

Which censure soon restored my voice.

‘Have you been listening at doors, Will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which doors?’ Edward, ignorant of what was passing between us and immediately interested, his eyes were travelling speculatively between William and me. John, interest lost, had climbed onto a window seat where he sat like a crouching gargoyle, hugging his knees.

William nudged Edward, ignored him.

‘You have to say,’ he ordered me. ‘You have to tell her.’

‘I know.’

‘If you don’t, I will.’

Of course I must tell the truth. But when I decided, not at the prompting of my betrothed. For a moment I imagined his standing foursquare between our respective mothers, announcing what I had done. I imagined the combined fury of two irate women raining down upon my head.

I took a rapid step: I seized Will’s arm. ‘You would not dare!’

But William shook me off, in no manner intimidated. ‘Not dare? Of course I dare. If I do not, what sort of a fool will I look, when all is discovered? And discovered it must be.’

William could be formidable when he chose, even though our gaze was on a level.

‘Shh!’ I hissed. His voice had risen in pitch, to echo through the antechamber.

‘Tell them Joan, or I will.’

‘Tell them what?’ Edward would not be deflected a second time.

‘Be quiet, Ned! You are too young to know anything about it,’ I said.

‘Only because you won’t tell me,’ he replied with superb logic. He stopped fidgeting from one foot to another and for a moment looked like a royal prince and with all the pride of his Plantagenet heritage. ‘You must tell me. I insist.’

‘If Joan confesses,’ William said, ‘then all can be put right and there’ll be nothing to tell.’

‘I will tell my mother,’ I said, back on my dignity, except for the evidence of my fingers tightening once again on his forearm, making him wince. ‘How do you know?’

‘A page. A terrified rat who fell over me in his hurry to pack up his lord’s armour when we were in Ghent. I picked him up. He was shockingly talkative. Until his mouth clammed shut like a wolf-trap.’

A flutter of rising panic unnerved me. Of course, William had been with us in Ghent. ‘Did the page tell anyone else?’

‘How would I know?’

All I could do was pray that he had not. I released Will’s arm. ‘You must promise me you’ll not say a word.’

Unimpressed, William strode off with the final sally: ‘I promise nothing!’, leaving Edward regarding me with what could only be described as haughty demeanour.

‘You should not allow Will to talk to you in that manner.’

‘I know.’

‘You are of royal blood. You are my cousin.’

My thoughts were elsewhere. ‘The King is my cousin, not you.’

Ned’s brows climbed, his reply was curt. ‘As near as makes no difference. You are my family. You must tell me if Will does not show you the respect due to you.’

‘Oh, I will.’

And then the arrogance was gone, leaving only a young man growing into his strength and impeccable rank. ‘I’ll be kind to you, Jeanette.’

‘I know you will.’

I patted his shoulder. He might be the only one who was kind when all was revealed.

I walked with him back to the Painted Chamber, brother John running ahead to catch up with William who might prove to be better company, Edward fast forgetting his irritation and making practice sweeps with the new sword, a gift from his father and from which he was inseparable. When we arrived, to my relief, William was not there, nor was my sister, but Isabella was and must have read some emotion in my face for she gathered me into her arms in a quick embrace, stroking her fingers over the amulet at the same time as she ordered her brother to go away. Which he did with a stern nod of his head and a distinct swagger.

‘Did it work? Did the Blessed Virgin fill you with grace?’

I shook my head. ‘Not noticeably. I think I would like to keep it,’ I suggested. ‘Until supper. If you would allow.’

I thought I would need the continued offices of the Blessed Virgin Mary before this day was out. Before I could answer any more questions, I was swept up by my women. They had work to do on my person if my mother was to be satisfied. They would not let me out of their sight until I was groomed and polished like Ned’s new warhorse.

Who were we, this royal but troubled family? Who was I, to be raised in a royal nursery, yet to be used by my mother to rebuild our future security, to repair a damaged reputation?

There was no question about my royal blood. My dead father was Edmund, Earl of Kent, son of King Edward the First by his second wife, which made him half-brother to the previous ill-fated King Edward the Second, and uncle to the present King Edward the Third. There was no question about my impeccable lineage. As I had reminded Ned, I was first cousin to the King.

My mother Margaret, Lady Wake, was of a lesser rank. A young widow, her hand in marriage had been sought by my father, a marriage that had been frowned on by his royal brother. My mother came from good stock, but one which was neither wealthy nor influential in the politics of the day; she was not the woman King Edward the Second would have chosen for his brother. Notwithstanding, my parents married for love, were ultimately accepted back into the royal fold and produced four children in as many years, of whom I was one. Why would they not enjoy a life at the royal court, under the patronage of the King?

‘Why is our blood besmirched?’ I asked when my mother had regretted the descent of royal disfavour on her and her children.

‘Your father was unwise,’ my mother said. ‘And I allowed myself to be drawn into a plot that brought us to our knees.’

For my parents became involved in the events that removed the second Edward from the throne, casting government into the hands of Earl Mortimer and the Queen, Isabella, who between them brought the young Edward the Third to the throne as the Mortimer puppet. My father, discovering that his brother King Edward was incarcerated in Corfe Castle far to the west, under the control of Earl Mortimer, became involved in a plot to rescue and restore him to the throne, writing letters to that effect, letters that fell into the hands of Earl Mortimer who used them to rid himself of my father.

So my father was taken prisoner, condemned to death for treason in being part of a plot to oust the rightful King Edward the Third. The new young King gave his assent for his uncle’s death, which seemed a cruelty beyond belief to me in my youth but later I understood. For my father to have rescued the old King would have threatened not only Earl Mortimer and Queen Isabella, but would have snatched the newly won crown from young King Edward. My royal father, even before I knew him, was executed outside the walls of Winchester Castle.

Thus ended my father, and thus my mother’s perennial discontent. We were all blighted by treason, for she too had set her hand to some of those subversive letters. Our titles were gone, our lands confiscated, my mother’s jewels and possessions removed, leaving us in woeful condition. Even when Earl Mortimer and Queen Isabella were overthrown in an audacious coup by the young King Edward, we and our estates were duly cast into the King’s vengeful lap.

My mother and my eldest brother, polished for the occasion, made petition for mercy and restitution. Now escaped from the Mortimer iron hand, my cousin Edward was of a mind to be magnanimous. My mother was forgiven her treason, my family pardoned, the lands and title restored to us, but only in the sense of my mother being awarded wardship over a selected few of our estates during my brother’s minority. The rest remained firmly in King Edward’s hands. We children were taken into the royal nursery at Woodstock under the benevolent dominion of Queen Philippa with the Earl and Countess of Salisbury as our governors.

Was the young King suffering a fit of remorse for allowing his uncle to be executed? I expect that he was. He would make amends, yet it did not salve my mother’s wounds. She remained permanently embittered, regretting royal refusal to restore her complete authority over the Kent lands, spending her life in wearying travel to oversee and protect those she had in her keeping. A constant hard-won vigilance to oversee the work of her stewards. It was a heavy responsibility.

For me there was no bitterness. I was too young, too naive perhaps for bitterness. But not for ambition. I was royal. I would never give King Edward reason to regret his recognition that I was a worthy cousin.

How did I see myself in years to come with true maturity? The image was not clear, shrouded in mists. All I knew was that I would be myself. Joan of Kent. Princess Joan. Admired and of fine repute.

My mind was set on it.

At two hours after noon, we met in a festively painted and tapestried audience chamber to formalise the agreements over my marriage to William Montagu, heir to the Earl of Salisbury. Clothed in a tightly buttoned cotehardie, a side-less surcoat of rich satin damask cast over all with a jewel-set girdle to anchor it to my hips, as for a royal audience at my mother’s request, I entered the chamber at her side, assessing the occupants who, in various attitudes, awaited us. My mother paused to make effect of her majestic presence, smiled with condescension and pushed me forward, determined to dominate the proceedings and achieve the connection she desired, the Earl of Salisbury being King Edward’s oldest and most loyal of friends, a friendship stretching back to the days before he achieved the Crown. Salisbury was the man who had stood at King Edward’s side when they had taken Roger Mortimer prisoner. The King’s gratitude for this loyalty could not be measured.

Those who peopled the chamber were no surprise to either of us. My uncle Sir Thomas Wake to give some weight and support to his sister in the absence of my father. There was the Countess of Salisbury, Catherine de Grandison, in the absence of the Earl. Will was here, standing stiffly beside his grandmother, the ancient Lady Elizabeth Montagu, who had remained seated at our entrance out of pride rather than advanced age. And then there was our family priest to deal with any matters of a religious content. I studied his benignly smiling face. He had no idea of the cataclysm that was about to fall on his – on everyone’s – head.

I allowed a trickle of relief that King Edward was not one of our number. Nor Queen Philippa, which would have been even worse. I might own a strong streak of defiance, but royal displeasure at close quarters was not something to be sought.

I curtsied to the Countess, as I did every day of my life, for she had the role of Governess over me and all the younger royal household. I curtsied to Lady Elizabeth and was acknowledged by an infinitesimal nod of her ruffled veiling. Momentarily I stared at Will, then looked away. I was still wearing Isabella’s reliquary, wishing that I had more faith in the efficacy of the Virgin’s tears. She had not preserved me from this marriage alliance. Will, dressed as finely as I, incongruously formal in a knee-length gypon and an eye-catchingly domed beaver hat, complete with feather, was studying his linked fingers. He was deliberately not looking at me.

‘We are met today,’ Sir Thomas announced, taking control of the proceedings in true Wake fashion, ‘to make formal agreement of a marriage between my niece, Joan of Kent, and William of Salisbury. Such fine young people, here with us.’

I curtsied again, staring once more at Will, silently commanding him to look at me. Will bowed, and refused. We knew what was expected of us, and there was a little ripple of pleased concurrence as two servants poured wine into fine silver cups and awaited the direction to carry them round.

‘Our lord the King has given his blessing,’ Countess Catherine, now seated before the fireplace, remarked. ‘So has my husband in absentia. I am only sorry that the Earl could not be here, but the arrangements need not wait on his release. We strongly desire this match for our son.’

And so followed a discussion of the extent of my dower. Of legal requirements. Of the publication of banns. Of when the marriage would best be solemnised. Of where we would live and when it would be considered proper for us to live intimately as man and wife. All the complex and heavy detail necessary for a marriage between scions of two important houses. As for when, since the festivities of Christmas and New Year were fast approaching, it was considered by our priest to be most appropriate to celebrate our marriage after the festivities and before the penitence of Lent, which would necessitate abstention.

Taking no part in any of this, because none was required except for me to stand and look royally obedient and flattered, my thoughts hopped and churned. I allowed none of it to show on my face, not even when I felt the sharpest of glances, finally, from my soon to be betrothed.

The discussion was drawing to an end.

‘The two young people know each other well. It will be most advantageous for both, and for our families to be drawn into this felicitous alliance.’

My uncle Wake again persuading us all of what we already knew. At last, business done, I could feel the general smiling regard turned in our direction.

‘At least they will know each other’s faults and failings before they are committed to living together,’ Lady Elizabeth observed. ‘They are to be envied. The same could not be said for my own marriage.’

‘I deny any faults and failings in my son.’ Countess Catherine was not quite in accord with her mother-in-law. ‘William, of course, will soon soften Joan’s sharpness of tongue and unpredictable spirit.’

Now, to my right, I could feel Will’s regard, fierce as an eagle, for so mild tempered a youth. I returned it.

‘We will make it a superb occasion. It may be that the Earl is released, making it a double celebration. Edward and Philippa will of course attend.’ My mother, her habitual caustic utterance overlaid with bright anticipation, incongruous in her sombre figure.

I saw Will’s lips part, his brow furrow.

I frowned at him, even as I knew I must bow to his command. I could remain silent no longer.

‘There is no impediment to this marriage that will require a dispensation,’ our priest, Father Oswald, writing down the salient points of our betrothal, spoke quietly and with satisfaction into the august exchange. Within aristocratic circles there were few betrothed couples who were not related within the forbidden degree through family intermarriage over the years. Papal dispensations were a common commodity.

‘Which is fortunate,’ my uncle Wake said with a grimace. ‘The present Avignon holder of the office is notorious for being long-winded and expensive.’

I took a breath.

William scowled.

I swallowed and spoke out.

‘There is an impediment to this marriage.’

How strong and clear my voice sounded as I launched the statement into the confines of the room, like a fire arrow winging its destructive path over a besieged castle wall to bury itself in a thatched roof of the stabling, with instant conflagration. A statement that would change everything. That would bring ire and retribution down on my head.

I saw Will flush to the roots of his tawny hair. Well, he could not complain. I had done what I said I would do.

‘An impediment?’ For the first time throughout all that discussion, my uncle Wake’s regard fell fully on me, and without approbation. His voice acquired a rough edge. ‘What ill-judged nonsense is this? Of course there is no impediment. Have we not studied the lines of descent of our two families with care? There is no connection between us. There is no complication of consanguinity.’ He glanced across at Countess Catherine, an assured smile replacing the severe lines. ‘As the Countess knows, there is no obstacle to this marriage.’

‘What are you thinking, Joan? This is no time for misplaced levity.’ My mother tried to sound amused, and failed.

‘It is a highly desirable,’ Sir Thomas continued, riding roughshod over any objections that anyone might raise. He thought that I had raised my voice because I did not like Will. Did not like him well enough to wed him. How little he knew of me, to think that I would be guided by so trivial a matter of who I liked or did not like. He did not know me at all.

Taking a cup of wine and emptying it in one gulp, my uncle was saying: ‘What could be more comfortable for you than our disposition of your future?’ He repeated the decisions, as if I had not heard them for myself. ‘You have known each other since childhood. You will both continue to live in the royal household until you are of an age to set up your own establishment. You will receive money necessary to do so. What is there not to like? I’m sure the King will settle a castle on you for your household. There can be no impediment.’

Countess Catherine looked across at her son. ‘Have you argued? Is that the problem? Arguments are soon mended.’ And then regarding me as she was want to do in the past when I was an errant child who had defied her. ‘I am sure that you have a kind nature, Joan. There will be no rift with my son.’

Yes, indeed, as if I were a child who affections could be commanded.

I was no child.

‘No, Sir Thomas, my lady, madam my mother.’ I curtsied once more. ‘I like William well enough. And I think he likes me. There has been no disagreement.’

I had to do it. If I didn’t, Will most assuredly would. He was already moving his feet as if finding secure ground to launch his accusation.

I spoke calmly, with faux assurance.

‘I cannot marry William. I am already married. I already have a husband.’

If I had ever dreamed of making an impact on a busy room, this was it. Silence fell. The only sound the priest, who, still writing, promptly dropped his pen with a soft flutter to land on the birds and flowers that adorned the painted tiles. I watched the expressions form and change. My mother astounded, then full of recrimination. My uncle expressing disbelief quickly subsumed into fury. Lady Elizabeth and her daughter-in-law both simply perplexed. The priest also full of anxious puzzlement. The servants with their silver flagons and ears pricked for any tasty morsel had been struck into immobility. And Will – William! – full of unholy joy at the debacle I had just created.

‘You should know,’ I added, ‘that I have been married for more than six months. Since April of this year.’

‘You do not know what you say.’

My mother took one long step to seize my wrist in her hand. It was not a gentle grasp.

‘But I do know, madam. And I have witnesses to my marriage.’

‘And who is this husband, of whom we know nothing?’ My uncle Wake, his brow thunderous.

I must of course tell them.

‘My husband is Thomas Holland. Sir Thomas Holland. A knight in the royal household. You all know him well.’

And in that moment a species of black anger shook me. For my husband of six months had wilfully abandoned me to face this situation alone.

Chapter Two

A hot barrage of question, denial and opinion was levelled at me from mother and uncle, all of which I attempted to answer as Countess Catherine had the good sense to shut the servants out of the chamber, relieving them first of the wine.

‘What possesses you to make so outrageous a claim?’

‘It is no mere claim. It is the truth.’

‘And you have said nothing? All these months?’

‘We thought it would be politic to say nothing, until Sir Thomas returns from the war.’

‘This is naught but a mess of lies, Joan. Have you no sense of morality?’

To which I would not respond.

‘An exchange of foolhardy kisses and foolishly romantic promises, I expect.’

It was more than that. Far more. I thought it was not wise to say so. Countess Catherine was simply looking from one to the other. Lady Elizabeth hid her mouth with gnarled hands. Will smirked.

‘This gets us nowhere.’ Finally my mother raised her hands and her voice in exasperation. ‘Speak to her, Father Oswald. We need to know the truth.’

The priest thus beckoned, so that we moved a little away to the end of the chamber where our only audience was from the stitched birds and hunting dogs, all keen eyes, teeth and claws which seemed uncommonly prescient. He bent his head, his tone a holy reprimand although his eyes were kind. I had known him since I had known anyone in my mother’s household. I might even hope for compassion here, unless he lectured me on the penalty for sin. He held a parchment and the recovered pen as if to note down all my foolishness that made my claim invalid.

‘My daughter. You must indeed tell me the truth, as if you were in confession. Come now, no one can hear us. I am sure that you are mistaken. What has this young man said to you, that makes you think that you are wed?’

It was so easy to answer.

‘He asked me to be his wife. And I agreed.’

‘But there were no banns called, no priest to give his blessing. How can this be so, then, that you think that you are his wife?’

I knew exactly how it could be so.

‘We made our vows together. We were married because we expressed a wish to marry. We spoke them aloud and there are witnesses to it. Thomas said it would be legal and I know that it is.’

He looked at me, worry on his brow, and lowered his voice further. ‘Were you forced, my dear? You must say if you were. There would be no blame on your head if it was against your will, persuaded by an ambitious young man against your better judgement.’ The tips of his fingers touched my cheek in compassion. ‘Was that the case?’

I thought about the wedding. There had been no force at all. I had been a willing bride.

‘No, Father. There was no compulsion. He did not have to persuade me.’

‘What did you say to this young man?’

I thought back over the six months, and repeated as nearly as I could recall, what I had said to Thomas and what he had said to me.

‘Ah ...!’ Father Oswald nodded.

‘It is legal, is it not, Father?’ I asked as he fell into an uncomfortable line of thought, his face falling into even graver lines.