The Shadow Queen

‘Yes, Thomas. I do wish it.’

Indecision must still have impaired my expression when he had expected nothing but delight. His brows drew together.

‘I am not convinced.’

‘Well, you should be. If my answer were no, I would have hidden until I saw you ride out of the gates on your way to war.’

But how could I not be uncertain? What I desired weighed heavily against the consequences that snarled and snapped at the edge of my determination until it was ragged. What we did here today could not be hidden for ever. Thomas’s voice fell gruffly, not into chivalric declarations of love, which I might have liked, but into legal niceties, which were certainly more pertinent.

‘There is no bar, Joan. There is no impediment to what we will do.’

‘But there is no permission either.’

‘We do not need permission. Only our own desire to take this step.’

‘They would stop us if they knew.’

‘So they do not know. Nor will they. Or not yet. Not until I have made a name that cannot be balked at.’

I did not think he was naive, but it seemed to me that his eye was on the immediate fight, not on the vista of the whole battle. Now he was looking over his shoulder, at his page and squire who had entered and occupied the small space with us and the hunting birds, so closely that the page threatened to stand on my hem.

‘You two are here to witness what we say. You will not speak of it to anyone, until I give you permission to do so.’

‘No, Sir Thomas.’ The squire’s reply was trenchant. The page, simply overawed into silence, shook his head.

‘On your honour,’ Thomas demanded.

‘On my honour,’ the squire repeated. The page gulped.

He turned back to me.

‘A pity you could not bring one of your women with you. She would be a better witness and one not likely to die in battle.’

The page paled.

‘I could, of course. But only if you did not mind it being gossiped from one tower to the next within the half-hour.’

Sometimes men, even much admired men, were highly impractical. I hoped Thomas’s minions were not given to gossip, or were so afraid of his revenge that they would keep their mouths shut. The page’s mouth had fallen open in distress.

Thomas was holding out his palm.

‘Let it be done.’

‘Let it be done,’ I repeated.

I placed my hand in his, palm to palm, my fingers lightly clasped around his wrist, and his closed around mine as he began to speak.

‘This is my intent. Today I am your husband. If you want me as your husband.’

The birds rustled, a fragile-seeming merlin beginning to preen with intensity, while I repeated the words.

‘This is my intent. Today I am your wife. If you want me as your wife.’

‘You have my love and my loyalty and the protection of my body until death claims me.’

‘You have my love and my loyalty and my duty as your wife, until death claims me.’

‘I am your husband of my own free will.’

‘I am your wife, without duress. So I wish it.’

So speaking our intent, we stood and regarded each other. It was not a marriage I had envisioned. Here was no ceremony, no panoply, no festive celebration. My garments were not the lavish extravagance of a bride and Thomas was dressed starkly in wool and leather, fit for travel. No incense, no choir, so flattering candle flames. Here was no royal union, only a simple statement between a man and a woman. If the hawks heard our vows they were entirely unreceptive.

I sneezed again in the close atmosphere. Not the most romantic of gestures.

‘So it is done.’ Releasing my hand, Thomas signalled with a tilt of his chin to the squire and page who made an exit, leaving us alone. ‘It is legal and binding. Except for the consummation.’

Now was no time for hesitation. ‘Where?’ I asked.

With his shoulder he pushed at an inner door that led into the domain of the falconer, where there was a stool, a coffer, a peg to hold a cloak, and a rough cot.

‘It’s the best I could manage.’

He made a bow worthy of the most elegant of courtiers, then closed the door at my back.

So the falconer’s cot with its musty covers – and some feathers – witnessed the fleeting physical union of a Plantagenet princess and a minor knight from the depths of Lancashire. Hearing tuned for every fall of approaching footstep, I later admitted to not enjoying to any degree the overwhelming passion that I had hoped to experience. Instead it was fast and uncomfortable and undignified. I would not admit to the sharp pain, even though I suspected that Thomas was considerate in his urgency, having all the experience that I lacked. The surroundings were not conducive to lingering kisses, the circumstances not engaging to passion. The falconer’s bed with its disreputable mattress made me aware of fleas and mites rather than the culmination of physical longing. Yet my virginity was gently won by a man who said that he loved me.

It had made me his wife.

We set our clothes to rights, which took little time since few had been removed in this briefest of interludes.

‘When will I see you again?’ I asked.

‘When I have made my fortune.’

‘When will you tell the King?’

‘When he is in the mood to listen. I had hoped immediately.’ Thomas, thoughtful if somewhat inept, was helping me to secure my veil, brow creased in concentration. My firmly plaited hair had barely been disturbed. ‘Unfortunately, as it is he’ll give me short shrift so I’ll not risk a blast of temper.’

I did not argue. Edward was not in the best frame of mind to listen to anything other than finance and war against the bloody French.

Leaving me to make a better fist with my veil, Thomas fastened the buckle of his belt, stooping to collect the sword that had been placed against the wall. ‘Edward admires courage and initiative.’ He shrugged a little. ‘If I earn a reputation for bold resourcefulness, I don’t think he will be slow in giving this marriage his support. And now I must go.’

He kissed me on his way to the door, for that was the truth of it. He was a soldier, with no other means of earning his bread or a reputation. I had known how it would be, but perhaps I had not expected to be abandoned so precipitately almost before I had donned my cloak, with one final word of advice.

‘You are not to speak of this, Joan. It is my place to tell the King, not yours. He may be your cousin, but I’ll not have his wrath turned against you.’ And then, unexpectedly stern: ‘I worship the ground that you tread, little princess.’

As if to prove it, he dropped to one knee, lifting my hem and pressing it to his lips.

‘You do know what they will say, don’t you? That I wed you only because you are the King’s cousin. That I shame my knightly calling.’ His face uplifted to mine was unexpectedly grave, the lines between his brows savagely wrought.

‘I know it. But I know the truth,’ I assured him.

‘I want you for yourself. Never forget that.’

Then while I was recovering from so unexpected a piece of courtliness, Thomas had risen, bowed with his fist against his heart and made his departure.

What was left for me? I climbed to the tower to watch him ride away to join the King’s military force, complete with his armour and weapons and travelling coffer, his page and squire in attendance and a small retinue at his back. I had a husband. I was married to Sir Thomas Holland. I was now Lady Holland. He would go to war and I would return to England with the Queen’s household.

I thought that I might weep at this precipitous loss; it had, after all, been an emotional day. But I did not, for there was no grief in me. An exasperation perhaps, a longing, a momentary flash of panic, like the sun against the metal of Thomas’s helm, but that was short lived. The household within which I lived would remain in ignorance until a better time. I hoped, all things considered, that I was not carrying his child. If so, the consequences would crash over my head sooner than I expected.

I had no desire to be subject to Edward’s wrath.

***

In Philippa’s chapel at Havering-atte-Bower, the beam of sunlight moved, blinding me for a moment with rainbow brilliance, bringing me back to the present. Deciding that it would be better if I were not discovered here – although it would be easy enough to concoct a reason that would not be questioned – I stood, smoothed my skirts – no feathers here – and walked to the door. Where I paused, looking back at the serenity of the Virgin, all the old questions forcing their way into my thoughts to disturb and destroy my certainties.

Why had I defied my mother and the King to marry a lowly household knight, rejecting some puissant marriage that was planned for me? Never had I been asked that one question, except by Will in a fit of pique, not expecting me to explain. Why had I done something so reprehensible, so contrary to my upbringing, treading a path so shocking that it would set the court into a blaze of malicious chattering? I had wed a man with nothing to recommend him other than a handy sword in battle and a handsome face, a man with neither money nor family nor influence. Why would I be persuaded to throw away a future of pre-eminence as wife of some great magnate or European prince, a foolish step that would seem beyond comprehension?

I walked slowly back to kneel once more before the Blessed Virgin, choosing possibilities as I had so many times before, rejecting most of them as of no account.

Thomas had barely wooed me, possessing no troubadour skills to awaken the yearning of a woman for a lover. The arts of courtly love had passed him by. It had been a soldier’s wooing, plain and unembellished. ‘Tell me the name of a knight who would not willingly kneel at your feet.’ The most dramatic declaration to fall from Thomas’s lips. He was not given to flights of fancy or romantic gestures, but it had not mattered. I had not needed them.

I had known that my mother would oppose this union. Was this a true reason, to thwart her dreams in a fit of immature defiance? I thought not, although there was an attraction in such subversion. I could not quite reject the tingle of excitement when I knew that I had stood against my mother, destroying any plans she might have been carefully knitting together for my future.

Did I love Thomas Holland? Was it love, my senses overcome by a youthful infatuation, that drove me to launch myself into so foolhardy an act? Did I know enough about love to give myself into his hands when all about us would cry foul against both of us, and against him, for seducing a young and royal maid? But I had not been seduced. I had not been persuaded against my will. I had not been an unwilling bride. I could never shift the blame to other shoulders than my own wilfulness. A woman growing up in a royal court grew up fast. I knew well my own mind.

I studied the star-crowned Virgin, the grave face that looked down on me with her enigmatic smile, full of compassion, as if I would find an answer there, and indeed I did, although it was already resident in my own heart.

I loved him. Thomas Holland had claimed my heart and I had willingly given it. When he had left me it had hurt my heart, a frenzied fluttering like a moth against a night shutter.

It was undoubtedly love for the man who had taken me out of the confined household of royal children, addressing me as a woman who might have the safekeeping of his own heart, even if he would never use such poetic terms. I was moved to desire his face, his superb stature. I looked with favour on his skills, as I applauded his ambition. He would become a great knight, as famous as Sir Galahad. He would be lauded, hung about with rewards, and I would be his wife. He was a man, experienced and confident, where those around me were still mere youths, untried and without polish. He had stirred my emotions into a flame that lit every corner of my existence.

But there was a canker in the perfect fruit, born of my own experience and my mother’s warning. Was Thomas attracted by my royal blood as a path to greater ambitions? I was considered a valuable bride in the Monatgu marriage; I would be doubly valuable to Sir Thomas Holland.

It was not a worthless thought. Those with a cynical turn of mind, or even a worldly one, would say that Thomas Holland had an eye to the future, catching a willing princess as a trout would catch a mayfly. The Earl and Countess of Salisbury had been keen to snatch me up; would not Thomas Holland show equal desire to tie my future to his own self-seeking side? It could be that his plain words spoken in the mews hid the scheming of a man who sought earthly greatness through the blood of his wife, opening many doors for him, or would have if I had gone to him with royal blessing. It could be that Thomas Holland would have wed me had I been the most ill-visaged princess in Europe rather than Joan the Fair. It could be that I had been trapped, against my better judgement. If that was so, then I would be well rid of him if I rejected Thomas in favour of Will. If I allowed my love to wither and die, choking it with bitter recrimination.

But I had not been trapped. I was as much to blame as Thomas for this predicament.

‘Is Thomas Holland nothing but a knave?’ I asked the Virgin.

Despite her silence, I did not think so. All I saw in him was a grave honesty. What I did think, as I left the Virgin to her tranquillity, was that we would both be in disgrace when this debacle fell at the feet of the King and Queen.

I would be no one’s path to greatness.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.