Praise for Anne O’Brien

‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale’

The Times

‘[A] fast-paced historical novel’

Good Housekeeping

‘Anne O’Brien has unearthed a gem of a subject’

Daily Telegraph

‘A gripping story of love, heartache and political intrigue’

Woman & Home

‘There are historical novels and then there are the works of Anne O’Brien – and this is another hit’

The Sun

‘The characters are larger than life…and the author a compulsive storyteller’

Sunday Express

‘This book has everything – royalty, scandal, fascinating historical politics’

Cosmopolitan

‘A gripping historical drama’

Bella

‘Historical fiction at its best’

Candis

Also by ANNE O’BRIEN

THE SHADOW QUEEN

THE QUEEN’S CHOICE

THE KING’S SISTER

THE SCANDALOUS DUCHESS

THE FORBIDDEN QUEEN

THE KING’S CONCUBINE

DEVIL’S CONSORT

VIRGIN WIDOW

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Anne O’Brien 2017

Anne O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9781474050739

Version: 2019-04-12

For George, as ever, my love and my thanks for his cheerful tolerance of all things medieval. His appreciation of Joan of Kent’s wayward lifestyle was often more balanced than mine. The Fair Maid owes him a debt of gratitude too.

‘…the most beautiful lady in the whole realm of England, and by far the most amorous.’

Jean Froissart

‘…concerning whose birth (Richard II) many unsavoury things were commonly said (of her), namely that he was not born to a father of the royal line, but of a mother given to slippery ways – to say nothing of many other things I have heard.’

The Chronicle of Adam Usk 1377-1421

‘The gentle prince married… a lady of great renown, who kindled love in him, in that she was beauteous, charming and discreet.’

Chandos Herald

‘Prudence teaches the princess or great lady how above all things in this base world she ought to love honour and good reputation.’

Christine de Pisan

Contents

Cover

Praise

Also by Anne O’Brien

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Extract

Acknowledgements

What inspired me to write about Joan of Kent?

In the steps of Joan of Kent

And Afterwards:

Epitaph of Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales

About the Publisher

Prologue

I stared at the reflection, with appreciation. The eyes – bold, self-assured – stared back at me.

To mark the celebration of the day of my birth – I do not recall which year it might have been except that I was still little more than a child – I was given this mirror by Philippa. Queen Philippa, my cousin by marriage, wife of my royal cousin King Edward the Third. I think that I had no gift from my mother on that occasion. My mother had mislaid the celebration amidst all the other burdens on her memory. As for my father, he was dead by an axe reserved for those condemned for treason. But Queen Philippa remembered and marked the day. I valued that mirror highly.

‘Don’t look in it too often, Joan,’ Philippa advised in her kindly manner, when she saw me glance in its silvered surface for the third time within the reading of our daily prayers. ‘It will set your pretty feet on the path to vanity and self-will, neither of which are admirable qualities in a young woman.’

It was a beautiful thing, the glass embellished by an ivory mount, the back smooth-carved with two figures of a knight and his lady. She was crowning him with a garland to symbolise their love. The mirror was made to hang from a cunning little hasp at my belt.

Lifting it, now that I was alone and at leisure to do so, I angled it towards the light and studied the face that looked back.

Fair hair, as fair as that of the Blessed Virgin in my Book of Hours, was pleated and pinned and tucked beneath a coif in seemly fashion, so that there was little to see of it, but I knew it was much admired by the women who cared for me. Pale skin without blemish or unsightly freckle. A straight nose. Brows darker than my hair, arching impressively with a touch of female artifice. Eyes that were agate-dark, with lashes that were the envy of my female cousins. A graceful neck. Which was as much as I could see in the small aperture, but it was enough. I enjoyed the experience.

I was Joan of Kent. Joan the Fair. Even now my praises were being sung where men admired female loveliness.

‘And in the taverns too, I don’t doubt.’ My cousin Princess Isabella had a caustic tongue. ‘I would not be proud of that.’

‘But then, dearest cousin, you can lay no claim to my degree of beauty. Although,’ I adopted a nice tone of condescension, ‘the ground lily root with egg yolk has been miraculous in ridding your skin of blemishes.’

Isabella, pretty enough, glowered.

Beware conceit, Queen Philippa would admonish. Her beauty was neither in her face nor her figure, rather in her loving heart, but I was too young to acknowledge that allure of the flesh could be of less value than winsomeness of the spirit. How could I not be vain when I had been so gracefully blessed in face and form?

What would the future hold for me?

Whatever I wished it to hold, of course. Was I not of royal blood? I tilted my chin, liking the result as the light glimmered along the fine line of my brow, softening my perfect cheekbones. I must practise looking imperious. I was sure that it would be a most useful attribute.

Chapter One

Late Autumn, 1340: Windsor Castle

A servant, opening the door with well-worn deference, bowed briefly and generally to the crowded chamber. For the most part, inured to such interruptions and intent on our own pursuits, we, the youthful but high-bred occupants, ignored him. There was music, there were books and counter games. There were small animals to be teased and cosseted. The boys were clustered round a longbow in need of repair. We, my sister and female cousins, were draping a length of luridly-vermillion embroidered cloth, discovered in one of the King’s Twelfth Night dressing-up coffers, around the short figure of Princess Isabella.

The servant cleared his throat, to no avail.

Who were we, to ignore what would be a summons from some higher authority for at least one of us? We, as we were all supremely well aware, were of the highest blood in the land.

Here in my company, or I in theirs if rank was of supreme importance rather than age, were the royal daughters of King Edward the Third and Queen Philippa, the princesses Isabella and Joan. There, his head bent over a harness, working with ferocious attention at a detached buckle, was William Montagu, heir to the Earl of Salisbury who was at this moment prisoner in France, captured during the French wars. The vivid, dark-haired lad with the bow in his hand, reattaching the bowstring with some skill, was Edward of Woodstock, the heir to the throne, who should have been engaged with the Master at Arms in polishing his military skills but had escaped to talk battles and horses with William Montagu and my brother John, Earl of Kent, for all his youth. And then there was Lionel, another prince of the King and Queen’s growing family, still barely two years and under the close eye of his nurse as he staggered on unsteady legs after his magnificent brother.

The servant, undeterred by our lack of response – for which Queen Philippa would have taken us to task, for nothing excused ill manners in her book of how royal children should be raised – allowed his eye to discover and rest on me. I was sitting on the floor, passing pins to my elder sister Margaret with instructions on how to fit the damask bodice as becomingly as possible to Isabella’s flat chest.

The servant loomed over me. I looked up.

‘A message for you, Mistress Joan. Your lady mother, the Countess of Kent, has arrived. She wishes to see you. If you will present yourself at her chamber.’ When I did not stir, other than to hand another pin to sister Margaret, he added. ‘Now, mistress, not some time at your convenience. It might be best.’

So my mother was at Windsor, and it was implied, by being graced by her full title rather than the simpler Lady Margaret, in a hasty mood. My mother travelled often, so much so that I rarely saw her. So why had I been summoned, selected out of her three offspring? No, it would not be politic to waste time. My mother had a temper born out of disappointment and past humiliations brought on by an absent and horribly dead husband.

So I stood, pushing the pot of pins into Margaret’s hands. Spurred by curiosity, Isabella detached herself and, trailing velvet damask, accompanied me to the door, pulling at my sleeve when I did not moderate my step.

‘What do you suppose she wants?’ Isabella, four years younger than I, was considered precocious for her age. ‘Have you committed some sin? If you have, I don’t know about it.’ Her eyes gleamed with the prospect of some conspiracy. ‘Tell me!’

I had no intention of telling Isabella, an inveterate gossip, anything at all.

‘I will soon know,’ I said.

I looked down at my side-less surcoat, pulling it and the sleeves of my undergown into order. I had not dressed with any care that morning, nor had sitting on the floor improved my skirts that were now creased. My mother had an eye for appearances and she was not tolerant. If it was a matter of sin, better not to earn her displeasure before she took issue with me.

‘Let me.’ Accepting my brusqueness as normal in the circumstances, Isabella stretched up and straightened my coif, tucked my hair almost out of sight before picking the evidence of fur from the small grey cat from my bodice. ‘That’s better, although red does not become you.’

‘Better than vermillion becomes you, cousin.’ I became aware that she was looking at me, lips pursed in thought. ‘What?’

‘Did you go to Mass this morning?’

‘No.’ She knew very well that I had not.

‘Then this might be useful.’

Shrugging aside the damask so that it fell in a heap to the floor, from her bodice Isabella unpinned a jewelled reliquary, far too fine for so young a girl to be wearing but Isabella had insisted. It was hers to wear, given at her birth by an indulgent father who saw no wrong in his wayward daughter. It contained, as we all knew since repeated frequently to impress, the tears of the Blessed Virgin herself.

Isabella’s bright face was lit with intrigue.

‘I think you should wear this.’

‘I am honoured.’

And I was. Isabella did not give possessions willingly. She transferred it from her bodice to mine, where the gold glittered impressively as I moved.

‘But why would I need a symbol of such power?’ I asked.

‘It will keep you safe from sin.’

‘I have committed no sin.’

‘No, but your lady mother might think that you have.’ She might indeed. I kissed Isabella’s cheek.

‘But take good care of it,’ she admonished. ‘I want it back when this interview is over.’

‘Quickly if you will, mistress.’ The servant, breathing heavily, was still waiting in the doorway.

Following the servant to my mother’s distant chamber, I still found the opportunity to linger on the way. I disliked being beckoned in such a manner when she had not seen me for more months than I could recall. She would not have demanded my brother’s presence so forcefully, but then, to her mind, sons were of far greater value than daughters.

I stopped by a window, to press my cheek against the cold glass, a luxury on which the King had just spent a fortune in an attempt to ward off the draughts. Since my veils fluttered a little, it had not been a great success.

‘Mistress!’

‘I am coming!’

I entered her chamber to curtsey with practised precision and innate grace, but if I had intended to make a good impression, I failed.

‘Joan. At last.’

My mother. Margaret, Lady Wake, Lady of Badenoch, Dowager Countess of Kent.

Tall and spare, my mother gave off the air of a determinedly held widowhood. Her close-fitting gown was rich but sombre in layers of grey and black and the deep purple of autumn blackberries. Her veil was richly embroidered but not one curl of hair was allowed to show beneath the wimple that she still embraced despite the dictates of fashion. Her face was long, the skin finely grained, but there was no evidence of any humour or pleasure in her existence. Indeed, her stark solemnity with its close folding of her lips was intimidating, as was the heavy musk of her perfume as the satin of her skirts rustled into stillness. She looked older than her years. She had barely more than forty to her lifespan.

‘I expected you a half hour ago.’

An exaggeration, of course. My mother did not touch me. The Queen, who had absorbed me into the royal nursery when I was no more than two years old and had supervised my upbringing ever since, would have folded me into her arms after such a lengthy absence. Queen Philippa would have smiled at me.

‘I came as quickly as I could, madam. I was reading with the princesses.’ The lie came easily, slipping off my tongue. I had lied before. ‘Our tutor wished us to have knowledge of the life of St. Ursula who is the patron saint of young virgins, such as we are. We will be celebrating her Feast Day on the twenty-first day of October with a masque before the court. We were commended on our reading.’

My mother had not led the easiest of lives. Some would say a life full of degradation. Perhaps she deserved my pity; when a woman’s husband was executed for treason, and that in disgraceful circumstances, and she within weeks of producing a child and under arrest for her husband’s sins, she will not feel blessed. And then there was the resulting loss of lands and titles and pre-eminence as a consequence of that husband being declared traitor. My mother had lived under suspicion because she had set her own hand to some of the treasonous letters.

But that was all in the past. Since a royal pardon had drained away a portion of her guilt but not all of her bitterness, my mother had dedicated her life to the reinstatement of her family. A laudable objective, but sometimes I found it difficult to experience any emotion but resentment.

As now.

‘That is good. I approve of St. Ursula,’ she said, still seated in the high-backed chair beside the window where the light fell on her unflattering hair-confinement. ‘I hope that you are a credit to the Queen and to your governors. Do you take heed of all your lessons?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Do you observe your daily prayers? Do you attend Mass?’ ‘Yes, madam.’

Standing now, she approached, to walk in a circle around me, before stopping to lift my chin with her fingers. I was not sure that she believed me, but her reply was complimentary.

‘Then you are everything I had hoped for in a daughter.’

Released, abruptly, I lowered my eyes.

‘I hope so, madam.’

‘A beautiful girl, well nurtured, without sin.’

‘I make confession, madam.’

I prayed, aware of the weight of Isabella’s powerful reliquary against my breast, that my mother could see no colour of culpability in my cheeks. It seemed, from the faintest of smiles that was bestowed on me, that she could not. But then the smile vanished.

‘I trust that your behaviour is decorous and seemly when at court, when you are in the company of the King’s young knights. I do not wish it to come to my attention that you are of a flirtatious disposition, Joan.’

‘My deportment is exemplary, madam. Queen Philippa commends me on it as an example to her own daughters.’ My reply was supremely colourless.

‘So I have heard.’ The Countess returned to her chair, seating herself in a billow of silk, before pinning me with a direct stare. She breathed in, her nose narrowing as it did when she was displeased. ‘I can rest assured that you have been well chaperoned.’ She considered me, the soft pads of the fingers of her right hand tapping against the Book of Hours that she had picked up and now rested on her lap. ‘It is, I think, time.’

When I remained silent under her regard, my mother stopped tapping but instead curled her hands around the fierce animals, carved with open mouths and sharp teeth along the arms of her chair.

‘A marriage has been arranged for you,’ she announced. ‘Your hand has been sought by the most pre-eminent of families.’

There it was, declaimed without warning or fanfare, the announcement I had feared, even though I had always known that in the making of alliances, daughters were of inestimable value. Margaret and I would be expected to marry well, but this was the moment I had been dreading. I swallowed soundlessly, gaze still lowered to the hem of her gown, while the Countess took my silence for demure acceptance.

‘I see it is no surprise to you.’

Obviously my dissembling was sufficient, but it was a surprise. Given my young age I had not expected it to be quite yet, accepting that such plans would be postponed for at least another year, perhaps two. And that it would be a lengthy betrothal rather than a marriage. My sister Margaret, older than I by one year, was betrothed to an important Gascon nobleman, Amanieu d’Albret, a man she had yet to meet. There was no talk yet of their actual marriage on the near horizon.

Oblivious to the thud of my heart beneath the Virgin’s Tears, my mother was continuing. ‘You must have known well what was planned. The King wishes to reward his closest friend, the Earl of Salisbury, sadly still under French restraint and likely to remain there until a ransom is paid. What better way to show royal gratitude for Salisbury’s service to the Crown at home and overseas than for the King to give the hand of his cousin, a Plantagenet princess in her own right, to the Earl’s son.’

So I was to wed Will Montagu, the boy with the harness. I could think of nothing to say.

‘Does it not please you?’ The edge in the Dowager Countess’s voice was emerging as the silence played out.

What could I say that would not cause an eruption of temper?

‘Yes, madam. It pleases me.’

It was the only possible reply.

‘It will be an exceptional alliance. The King and Queen are in full agreement. As for the Salisbury boy, you know him well. You have been raised with him. There will be nothing for you to dislike in the match.’

‘No, madam.’ I decided that I must say something else to deflect the flare of impatience. ‘I like William well enough.’

She nodded. ‘You are much of an age. You will wed, but of course you will continue to live as you do now, until you are both deemed old enough to take on the responsibilities of marriage in the flesh.’

I kept my face expressionless, my eyes abandoning the hem to focus on the toes of my mother’s shoes, expensively gilded.

‘In the absence of the Earl, we will meet with the Countess of Salisbury this afternoon when we will sign the contracts of marriage.’ At last she managed a smile that was more than a bleak movement of her lips. ‘Your father would have approved, Joan. I have carried out this negotiation exactly as he would have wished.’ She looked at me. I could feel those eyes searching my face. Her fingers, relaxed in satisfaction, now clenched. ‘Have you still nothing to say?’

No, I had not. Nothing to the point. Nothing that would not shake the ground beneath her feet. And beneath mine. My thoughts tumbled over each other, searching to find something appropriate, and failing.

‘Thank you, madam.’

My mother sighed as she deigned to explain further.

‘William will be a worthy husband. An alliance with the Earl of Salisbury will be nothing but advantageous for our family. It will be a final mending of our reputation.’

I was not aware that it was broken beyond repair. Did the Queen not love me as much as she loved her own daughters? But treason could cast a long shadow, and my mother had had her own unfortunate role in it. There was much that needed to be healed. Yes, perhaps my mother did deserve my pity and my compliance.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘And you will make a good wife.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Tell your women to dress you as befitting a royal audience. I will fetch you when it is time.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Now you may go. Perhaps you can summon some expressions of gratitude and delight at the marriage before I see you again.’

‘Yes, madam. I will.’

At last I got to the door, and outside it, with nausea churning in the pit of my stomach. My mother hoped that I would be instrumental in stripping aside our family’s disgrace to finally heal the wounds of the past.

She was doomed to disappointment.

I knew full well what would be my own doom. Many would say that I had brought it on my own head.

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.

Upon which he flushed. ‘It could well be. But… ‘ He hesitated, then said, more brightly: ‘But, of course. There is another matter to be considered for true legality. The matter of consummation. Without this, there is no marriage at all, my dear girl, no matter what vows were spoken.’

My gaze was steady on his, admitting no embarrassment. ‘Our marriage is consummated.’

‘Are you certain? You are barely of an age to be wed.’ His cheeks were aflame. ‘It may be that you are not quite aware of what…’

‘Yes, Father. I am certain. I am well aware of what is required for consummation and it is more than a quick kiss. And I am of an age to be wed.’

Father Oswald fretted, his fingers tearing at the quill so that it was all but destroyed. He had written nothing. ‘Even so… Your lady mother will not like this. For all sorts of reasons.’ He looked back over his shoulder, to where my mother and uncle were in deep conversation with a distraught Countess of Salisbury, and Will looking merely bored. ‘Where is he now, the young man in question?’

‘Fighting somewhere in Europe. When I last heard.’

There was a faint easing of the consternation.

‘And you have not heard from him for six months?’

‘No, Father.’

‘So it may well be that…’

I did not want to guess at what he was thinking. Six months of silence from a man engaged in warfare could mean any number of things. Mentally I swept them aside, for it was a path my mind had long followed of late.

‘Sir Thomas assured me that the vows were binding,’ was all I would say. ‘He assured me that I am his wife.’

‘I am afraid that I agree with him.’ The priest sighed, took me by the hand and led me back to the lowering group who had resorted to finishing the flagon of wine.

‘Well?’ My mother faced us, demanding and expecting a retraction.

‘She speaks the truth, my lady,’ Father Oswald pronounced with all the authority of Holy Mother Church invested in him. ‘She and the young knight are married. Not in the manner that the Holy Father would smile on, but it is a lawful union and it is in my mind that it will stand up as such in any court.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It is so, my lady.’ The priest was proud to display his erudition dropping into impressive Latin. ‘A marriage per verba de praesenti.’ He was nervous but pursuing, sure of his legal grounds. ‘The young people expressed their intentions. In the present tense you understand, and before witnesses. I regret but it is a binding union.’ He turned his regard to me. ‘Who are the witnesses, Mistress Joan? You did not say.’

‘Never mind the witnesses. What about the consummation?’ My uncle Wake, beyond any sensitivity.

‘It was, by your niece’s own words, consummated.’

‘But it can be annulled.’

‘No, my lord, it cannot.’ Father Oswald was adamant, enjoying his moment of authority. ‘The marriage has been consummated. It was entered into willingly and with no duress. There is no room for annulment here, despite the lady’s young age. Unfortunately, a consummation makes the oath doubly binding. If that had not occurred, there may have been room for an annulment. As it is, my lord, on the word of the lady here present…’

If there was silence before on my first pronouncement, it was doubly so now.

My wrist was instantly transferred from the priest’s gentle hand once more to my mother’s fierce grip, hot with a barely controlled fury.

‘I will remedy this.’ She swept the room with a regard designed to intimidate. ‘The arrangements for this Salisbury marriage are by no means in abeyance. I suggest that you discuss this with no one until the matter is settled, one way or another.’ The glint in her eye settled on Will who looked to be about to burst with a need to tell all. ‘It would be wise to keep this from any ears but our own. And now Mistress Joan…’

I was led from the room with far less grace than I was brought into it.

Looking over my shoulder before the door was closed at my back, I saw that the faint air of malice or boredom in equal measure had been wiped from Will’s face. Almost I could read sympathy there. It made me feel no better. Now I had to withstand my mother’s displeasure, as I had always known I must. In that moment I wished that I had confessed my marriage to my mother when it was first done. I had chosen otherwise because I had envisioned it being when I decided would be the best time, of my own free will, most crucially with my new husband at my side to plead my case and smooth over any unpleasantness. I had expected Thomas to be somewhere at least close, with his feet in the same realm. Now I was alone, Thomas Holland wielding sword and lance against the infidel in Lithuania in the name of the Teutonic Knights, where he would have no idea of the repercussions of our wilful actions for me in England. Thomas was not one for either reading or writing letters.

Now, alone, I must face the drums and trumpets of my mother’s wrath.

I had misjudged the situation. I should not have allowed myself to be left in so vulnerable a position; rather I should have insisted that we announce the deed when it was done rather than let time pass by. It was enough to make me vow, silently, as I matched my footsteps with the staccato beats of my mother’s flat soles, that I would never again act against my better judgement. I would never allow myself to be persuaded to renounce what I knew to be in my best interests.

Was this the decision of a selfish young woman? It was. I knew it and had no compunction in making my private vow. I had learnt from my mother that a woman had to keep her wits and her desires sharp if she were to follow the path of her own choosing. My mother, led into treachery by the man she loved, had been left to make what she could of her life without him. I would do better. It was always better to rely on oneself rather than on the promises of a man, however attractive he might be.

But now all I felt was fear. I might appear undaunted, indomitable even, but what would be the outcome? It was beyond my ability to foresee. Would my mother be able to force me into compliance with her wishes? I feared that she would.

It was in my mind to resist, to deny, to refuse.

Blessed Virgin! Give me wisdom and strength to follow my own path.

‘Where is he? Where is the despicable cur who lured you into this abominable contract? This rogue who inveigled you into rank scandal that will shake the foundations of our family?’

My uncle, who had accompanied us, invited or not, his anger crackling across the room like a summer storm as soon as the door was closed, turned on me as if he and I together could conjure Thomas Holland into being. His face was suffused with a venom that reverberated outward to the walls and back again. I could taste it on my lips.

My uncle’s fingers stretched and fisted, his hair hung dull and lax in disarray on his brow.

‘Where is he? I swear he will face the wrath of the King who will strip him of his knighthood before he can step out of his boots on English soil. This is no act of chivalry worthy of a knight, to take a young woman to his marriage bed without the consent of parent, of guardian or priest. He will answer for this.’ He turned on me, looming over me, all attempts at controlling his speech failing. ‘I presume he did discover a marriage bed for you to honour this travesty.’ His lips twisted. ‘Or was consummation nothing but a quick fumble behind a pillar or a squalid hanging, as if you were a servant and knew no better. Or even an act of rape…’

‘Tom…’ my mother warned.

But he was past warning. ‘Holland will answer for this,’ he repeated. ‘I will hunt him down…’

I stood between mother and uncle, bearing the weight of their joint disgust. There would be no compassion here. But then, I could expect none. My choice that day, my own choice, for Thomas had not inveigled me into anything I had not wished with my whole heart, had tottered on the edge of propriety. On the edge of scandalous impropriety. I had always known what was the expectation for me, and I had thrown it away. Willingly. With heartfelt joy.

There was no joy between these four walls. I could see no joy at any point in the future, near or far. Well, I had done it. No point in retreating now.

I spoke a flat, easy denial, of the one fact in all this complicated weave of which I was quite certain. ‘Thomas Holland did not inveigle me, sir.’

It was not so difficult, I decided, being aware of a surge of courage. My spine was as straight as a Welsh arrow, my chin raised, my hands loose at my sides. I was Plantagenet, the blood of kings in my veins, and I would not be cowed by my uncle. I would not be reduced under his displeasure to a trembling puddle of regret and repentance. Queen Philippa had tried her best to instil in me some of her gentleness but to no avail. It was not in my nature. I called on that spirit of rebellion now, even as I vowed to keep my temper under close rein.

‘He must have.’ My uncle dismissed my calm assertion with a slice of his hand through the air. ‘It must have been against your will, for, before God, such an act was against every moral tenet of your upbringing.’

‘It was not against my will. I wished it. We both did.’

‘You were not raised to be a whore, Joan.’

His lip curled as, disbelieving, I felt the flush of humiliation high on my cheekbones. I was no whore.

‘You married this man of no birth, of no family, without permission. How could you be so maladroit?’

So my good intentions died a rapid death. Anger, stoking the humiliation of being branded a whore, spurred me into unfortunate retaliation. ‘I am not the first member of this family to wed without permission, sir.’

My mother froze. My uncle burned with ire. This was obviously a day for sharp silences. I did not wait for their response, continuing with the righteousness I felt in my bones, first to my mother:

‘You married my father without his brother, the King’s, permission, madam. The King was not pleased, as I have heard. And you sir,’ I held my uncle’s eye, ‘married Blanche of Lancaster without her father’s permission. In the light of such impropriety, it is not appropriate for you to take me to task for doing exactly the same.’

Perhaps not the wisest of moves to brave these two furious lions in their den. But it was true. Neither marriage had been well received, both denigrated because of the Wake family’s lack of sufficient grandeur.

My uncle pounced on the the weakness in my own argument.

‘Not appropriate? Your mother’s husband was a King’s son. My wife was daughter of an Earl. We chose well. We made good marriages. This man that you have tied yourself to is not worthy of our consideration. Your argument is specious, Joan.’

‘But at least I cannot be accused of overweening ambition, sir. I wed Thomas Holland for his own qualities. I have heard it said that you and my mother had nothing but your pre-eminence in mind. I am not guilty of self-aggrandisement.’

For the briefest of moments I thought he would strike me, yet I stood my ground. Then my mother picked up the gauntlet and stepped onto the battleground.

‘Leave us, Tom.’

‘Not until we’ve shaken some sense into your daughter.’

‘If there is any shaking to be done, it will not be done by you. Now go away and leave her to me.’

Ungraciously he went. No sooner was the door slammed behind him than the onslaught began again, each word carefully enunciated in her wrath.

‘Do you not realise what you have done? How outrageously thoughtless you have been? You know the ambitions that drive young men of no particular blood or background. You know what they will venture, to find a niche for themselves, to gain land and power, and you have played so magnificently into this man’s hands. I know who he is. A younger son, with no inheritance of any merit, a knight of no importance from some insignificant estate in the north if I recall the matter. One of the household knights with a life to make for himself, a handsome face and a soldier’s agility, but no prospects other than those he might win on the battlefield. His father was notable for a despicable default in loyalty on the battlefield, leading to his murder by his erstwhile friends. And you have been wilful enough to ally yourself with such a family, wasting your royal blood on a man without name or fortune.’

She stopped, but only to draw breath. Yet before she could continue, in pure self defence:

‘So was my father executed as a traitor,’ I said.

It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong time to say it, even though there was no doubting it. Whereas my uncle had restrained himself, my mother lashed out with her hand, catching me with a flat blow against my cheek that made me stagger. She had never struck me before. Verbally yes, but never with such physicality. I read her anger in the engraved lines of her face, as I refused to raise my hand to register the raw impact of the blow. Instead I simply stood and faced her, eyes wide on hers.

‘Your father was pardoned,’ she said, as if the violence had never occurred. ‘His reputation and his name were wiped clean from the filth of treachery by King Edward himself.’

‘You were involved also, madam.’ The outline of her hand still smarted, so I gave no quarter, whatever the wisdom of it. ‘Were you exonerated too?’

‘Your defiance is unacceptable.’

My whole body tensed, until my mother grasped at her dignity, threading her fingers together, moderating her tone.

‘You know that I was. And you too, or you would not have been given the honour of royal status in the queen’s household.’ Her fury might be under control but she had still not finished with me. ‘Are you so credulous? I did not think a daughter of mine would fall into the hands of a man of no distinction, like a ripe plum into his palm. All he saw was an indiscreet girl with royal connections who could pave his way to some place in the royal court, opening the doors to patronage and wealth and royal preferment. How could you have been so immeasurably foolish?’

‘Thomas did not want me for patronage and preferment.’

‘Do you say?’ Her mouth twisted in an unmistakable sneer. ‘He must be the only man in the realm who would not!’

It had more than crossed my own mind, yet still I believed that Thomas Holland saw more in me than a path to royal approval. Love was a powerful bonding.

‘Joan!’ My mother, abandoning accusation, fell back on a false softness. ‘Tell me that he persuaded you with honeyed words. If that is so, this marriage can be annulled before anyone else is the wiser.’

I could not imagine Thomas using honeyed words. Thomas was a soldier, not a troubadour, his knowledge of songs limited to those a troop of militia might roar round a campfire after victory. Or possibly those employed by harlots in a camp brothel to seduce the coin from a soldier’s purse.

‘I was not persuaded,’ I said, ‘if you mean lured into impropriety against my will. I gave my full and free consent. I wished to be married to him. I love him. And he loves me.’

But she would not let the battle lapse, driving on with all force. ‘You knew it would be unacceptable. So did he. Did he persuade you to such subterfuge? If he was a man of chivalry, a true knight, he would not have wed you in secret.’

‘We knew you would not support it. We had no choice.’

‘You knew well! I wanted this Montagu marriage, as did the King. Our future would be safe, secure, our inheritance inviolable from attack. Your children would be Earls of Salisbury. I could not believe our good fortune when the Montagu connection looked in your direction.’

I frowned a little.

‘But who would attack our inheritance? The King has restored all our father’s lands to us. John’s ownership as Earl of Kent is unquestioned.’

Were we not safe enough now that the Mortimer treachery had been so ruthlessly stamped out? The King had openly forgiven my father’s involvement in the plot to undermine his power. It was all so long ago in the past. I could not truly understand why my mother should still feel so insecure.

‘I was not given authority over all the estates. A permanent punishment, a constant reminder that I must watch my step.’ Oh, she was aggrieved, and not only towards me. ‘Who’s to know what the King might be moved to take from us if displeased? How do we read the future?’ She turned away as if the sight of me was anathema. ‘What do we do now? Accept it? Father Oswald was plain that it was a legal binding if you exchanged vows and with witnesses. How do we circumvent such an appalling outcome? And you confirmed that it was consummated…’

On a thought she whipped round, her whole expression arrested. ‘That’s it! Did he force you, before the marriage? Was that how it was? Are you carrying his misbegotten child, so that you must wed him?’ Her eyes travelled over the flat expanse below my girdle as if she would delight in seeing evidence of my sin. ‘No, of course you could not. When did this travesty take place? May? And as he has not been in England since to my knowledge, it’s a specious argument.’ I could feel my face flame, whereas my mother’s was still full of a bright but false hope. ‘Yet if he did force you, it would provide grounds for an annulment.’

I read uncharitable anticipation there. My mother would willingly discuss my rape if it could sever the terrible bond with Thomas Holland.

‘He did not force me. I did not wed him to save my reputation. I will not cry rape.’

My mother’s accusations lurched into a different track as she strode the length of the chamber and then back again. ‘Were you so carelessly chaperoned? I cannot believe that the Queen would allow the young women of her household such license. We will send for Holland. We will make him retract his words, the whole disgraceful debacle. We will know the truth.’

‘You cannot send for him,’ I said, wishing that she could, wishing that I could.

My mother once more stood before me. ‘Why not? Where is he? We are not at war. There is a truce. Where is this bold knight who besmirched your reputation but leaves you alone to face the world with the repercussions of your mistakes.’

I told her what I knew. It was not much. ‘He has gone, I think, to Prussia. There was an appeal from the Holy Father and the Teutonic Knights…’

I was interrupted. ‘A crusade? A knight who follows the cross? God was far from his thoughts in this recent venture. He is mired in sin.’ Then once again my mother’s eyes lit with a sudden realisation. ‘When did you last have news of him?’

‘He left after we were wed, in spring.’

‘And now it is October. Have you heard from him since?’

‘No.’ I could read the direction of her thoughts as if they were bathed in golden sunlight, rather than hidden in the black shadow of loss for me. Had I not thought of this possibility, again and again?

Her fingers tapped against her girdle. ‘Six months, with no news. Do you suppose that he is dead? It would solve the problem with no more need for our anxiety.’ She scowled at me when I made no reply, for how could I? My heart was sore with the foretaste of death on some distant battlefield. Already his body might be reduced to a carrion-stripped carcase, and I not know of it.

‘Yes. That is it,’ my mother was saying, her voice becoming smooth in her certainty. ‘He is dead. Nor do I admit the legality of a form of words, whatever the priest’s opinion. There is a way out of this, for all of us.’ She took my hand, more gently now. ‘You will forget this man. You will forget this day, and the day that you claim you exchanged facile promises. The details of your marriage to William Montagu will be formalised between myself and the Countess of Salisbury, and it will happen.’

I heard her instructions but I would not obey.

‘I will not wed William Montagu,’ I said.

‘You will be there at the altar and you will give your consent.’

‘I will not. I cannot. My holy vow is given elsewhere.’

‘You will do as I, your mother, command.’

When she released me I closed my hand hard over Isabella’s reliquary.

‘In the sight of God I am wife of Sir Thomas Holland. I cannot, I will not, wed William Montagu.’

My holy vow is given elsewhere, I had said. I love Thomas Holland, I had said. Was this true, that my heart resided in the keeping of a poor knight on some distant battlefield in Prussia? In those days, love seemed far distant from me, so distant that it sat on my conscience. Was I so shallow, so superficial that I should doubt that love as soon as its power was challenged?

I did not think that I was shallow. I would swear before the Blessed Virgin that my heart had been given honestly and lastingly.

That was not the end to it. I never thought it would be, rather it would be a matter of whose will proved the stronger, mine or the combined weight of the Wake and Montagu families. Furthermore, more persuasive than all the rest, did not this marriage have the blessing of the King himself? I would have to gird myself like any knight to wage this war of attrition, to withstand the siege of my will and my senses.

Or no. This was no siege at all, rather a relentless campaign. It was not a matter of wearing down my assertions in respect of my wedded state. My mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury simply rode roughshod over all legal and personal denials. I would wed William Montagu as soon as we could be brought before the altar with the banns called and a priest, ignorant of the true state of affairs, sufficiently acquiescent to record our vows before God.

But I had witnesses, even though they were crusading with Thomas, and some might say their witnessing worthlessly obscure. Yet did I not have the family priest who had declared my marriage valid even though not officially blessed? Would he stand me in no good stead? My mother snapped her fingers in dismissal when, once again, the relevant families met together and I raised my well-versed, frequently voiced objections.

‘You have no witnesses, Joan. It is an invalid act. The priest was mistaken.’

I tried no more. What had my mother done, I wondered, to be so certain of her victory? Bribed the priest? Warned him to hold his tongue on pain of dismissal? With my mother and uncle and the Countess of Salisbury united in a determination to tie the nuptial knot between myself and William, the triumvirate once more embarked on detailed discussion, while, drawing him aside, as a betrothed had the right to do, I tested the water with William.

‘Do you want me as your wife, Will?’

If he objected, then there was hope.

‘I don’t see why not.’ He looked at me warily but with good humour. ‘I know your temper, and how to avoid it. And you are very pretty.’

‘I have no fortune to bring as a dowry.’

I had practised every detrimental argument.

‘You have royal blood. My mother hopes that the King will dower you substantially.’

‘The King is short of money. His foreign matters against France do not prosper, pinned down as he is with sieges of towns that have no intention of surrendering. I doubt he can dower me to any degree.’

William looked at me with owlish bewilderment, his brows forming astonished arcs. He did not believe me. William did not listen to court gossip as much as I.

‘I cannot love you,’ I said.

I liked him well enough. With his equable demeanour, he would make some woman an excellent and devoted husband.

William grinned, a sudden lightening of his rather heavy countenance. ‘My mother says that you will grow to love me. As I will grow to love you. I can sing you songs of love and devotion.’

‘You, Will, cannot sing at all, unless you call that raven-like croak singing. And you do not love me.’

‘No, but I will be a chivalrous knight. Not like Holland who wed you, bedded you and fled the country.’

I wondered where he had discovered that particular comment. Probably, from the polite tone, from his mother. Not from Lord Wake who tended to be crude in these matters.

‘Thomas will come back.’

‘My mother says he is dead.’

I felt a lick of temper heat my blood. ‘So does mine. Just wishful thinking on their part. And on yours. If you were not a creature of straw, you would support me and refuse my hand.’

‘I’m no creature of straw, and there’s no point in your taking out your vexation on me, Joan. I am impervious.’

Irritated beyond measure, I tried the final throw of the matrimonial dice. ‘Listen to me, Will, not to your mother.’ I shook his fur-cuffed sleeve for emphasis. ‘If my marriage to Thomas is valid, as the priest says, then mine to you would be invalid. Any heir I bore you would be illegitimate. Any son born between us could never be Earl of Salisbury when you are dead, and there would be terrible scandal. What would you think of that?’

His grin fading, Will flushed as bright as a cider apple, but he replied readily enough. ‘My mother says that we will not live as man and wife for the next few years. By then any legal problems will have been smoothed out. Besides, Joan, our marriage will be valid. There will be no scandal, and you must not say anything that would rouse a breath of it. If you do, they will punish you, you know.’ And then, his brows meeting above his nose: ‘They’ll probably punish me too, for not stopping you from spreading false rumour. I wouldn’t like that.’

He had been well schooled. And there at the end the hint of a threat. When he patted my arm in a clumsy fashion, as if that would make all well, an unpleasant helplessness gnawed at my determination to hold out. Will would simply go along with the family demands and plans. There was no hope of escape for me here.

I released myself from the patting and went to stand at the window so that I might look out towards the east. I thought of sending Thomas a letter, paying a courier to deliver it. But how to find him in the vast expanses of Prussia with the Teutonic knights. And even if I did, would he drop his weapons and ride hotfoot back to England? I would like to think that he would. I prayed that he would. I needed help and time was running out.

I saw more of my mother in those next weeks than I had in all the previous years of my life since Queen Philippa had been so touched by compassion at our situation that she took us under her wing. There my mother had been content to leave me during her extensive travels; now, with the need to bring the marriage to its conclusion, her lectures were long and detailed. And so I listened to my mother’s instructions of what was required of me, standing firm under the pinching fingers of the sempstresses whose task was the sewing of a gown fitting for a future Countess of Salisbury, the rich cloth a present from the Queen.

Meanwhile I survived the clipped animadversions, on which pertinent facts from my past I should forget and pretend never happened. I absorbed the detailed disclosures of what would be my life after this marriage; a wife but not a wife. We would live separately, I completing my lessons and acquiring court polish while William continued to hone his skills for warfare to follow in the footsteps of his gallant father. We would probably be granted money and an estate by the King, in recognition of our married state, for our new household.

I would hold fast to the undoubted fact that I was a virgin. I would never voice the possibility that this was not so.

There were no difficulties foreseen.

‘We will make no fuss about this little matter of Thomas Holland,’ my mother completed her lecture as if the sempstresses did not exist. ‘The least said the better. There will be no washing of the dirty linen of your making in public. Once the marriage to the Montagu heir is witnessed under the auspices of Holy Mother Church, by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself if we can get him, then we can all breathe a sigh of relief. No hint of scandal must reach Edward and Philippa. What they do not know they will not worry about. It is a blessing that they are both still in Flanders.’ Philippa and Edward were still together in Ghent in the aftermath of the French truce. My mother almost smiled. ‘The war against France has an unlooked-for benefit.’

To which I replied on every occasion, when I was allowed to break the flow.

‘I will not marry William. I am already the wife of Thomas Holland, before the law and before God.’

My mother never struck me again, whatever the provocation, and there was much, even though I stood in silence to hear her pronouncements and agreed that the gown with its carved buttons and embroidered hem was superb. She merely ignored what I said as beneath her notice and covered any reticence with her own cold certainty. I would marry as my family instructed, as any well brought up daughter would accept the duty of obedience.

And what did those who gathered in our chamber at Windsor think of my good fortune? Here with the princesses Isabella and Joan, with my own brother John, with Ned and Will and baby Lionel, my marriage to Will was accepted as a natural development of the King’s wish to reward the Earl. Will was sworn to secrecy under what threats I could not imagine since, unnervingly, he kept as silent as a Thames oyster.

‘Although I would never marry a man of my father’s choice if I did not like him,’ Isabella announced. ‘But of course you like William.’

‘You would marry exactly whom your father instructed you to marry,’ I said, patience wearing thin. But yes I did like William. That was one of the problems. I was in no mind to hurt him or tip coals of fire over his head. He must not be punished for my sins.

‘Of course, I will not marry a man unless I have formed a lasting passion for him.’ Isabella was not deterred.

‘Then I wish you well. I presume that you will take the veil when you reach your thirtieth year and your schemes have fallen flat.’

‘But they will not. I have every intention of capturing a lover who will kneel at my feet in adoration.’

‘If I might suggest, then, do not lend your reliquary to anyone. You will have constant need of it.’

Oh, I was ruffled beyond bearing.

‘I’ll not lend it to you again!’ Then Isabella’s sharpness softened, but I should have known better than to believe that I was forgiven. ‘The problem is, Joan, that you are incapable of forming a lasting passion for anyone but yourself.’

She left precipitately before I could think of a suitable rejoinder.

Notwithstanding such minor clashes, all accepted that we would be wed after the New Year and we would all rejoice. Except for Ned who took a moment from riding at the quintain, his hair plastered with sweat to his skull, still clad in mismatched elements of his armour.

‘Does Lady Margaret force you to marry against your will, Jeanette?’

Of them all, it seemed that he had seen the anxiety that I had thought well hidden. It surprised me. Ned noticed very little that did not appertain to his own rank and importance or to his future ambition on the battlefield. Also, of them all, he still sometimes addressed me by my childhood nursery name. I did not mind it, from the Prince, the heir to the throne, and for one moment of weakness I considered telling him the truth, until treading that idea firmly underfoot. It was not as if he could do anything to remedy my situation, and he would have forgotten about it after another five minutes in the tilt yard. I would not burden his kindness with an answer.

‘Why?’ Still I was interested in why he should think so.

‘You are quieter than usual.’

So I must remember to chatter mindlessly, to deflect suspicion. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I am not under duress.’

He did not believe me. ‘I understand that you have to marry. Girls do.’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have expected it. Why should it worry you? And Will’s not some disgusting old knight with greasy fingers.’

I wrinkled my nose. There were many I could name who might fit that description. ‘No.’

‘You could marry me. If you do not wish to marry Will.’ For a long moment he stared down his nose at me, registering my reaction, which had been less than flattering. ‘No, you could not, of course. My father looks for a princess from Europe with money and connections and a powerful family. There are any number to choose from.’

Which made me laugh.

‘Who is it this week?’

‘Well, it was the daughter of King Philip of France. Now I think my father has changed his mind. It is to be Margaret, daughter of Duke John of Lorraine and Brabant.’ He studied me with some speculation. ‘You, Jeanette, are probably prettier than both – not that I have seen them – but sadly you cannot hold a candle to either of them in the round of marriage negotiations.’

Which might be true, but not gratifying to hear. ‘I am a princess,’ I remarked.

‘True,’ Ned agreed. ‘A princess with no money, no influence and your father’s mistakes behind you. I need a powerful family with an army at its back and a fortune in its coffers.’

‘Whereas my brother the Earl is younger than I, so hardly likely to ride to my rescue, or yours, in moments of danger,’ I considered. ‘And I doubt his treasure coffers match your expectations.’

Ned thought about this, scratching his fingers through his drying hair so that it stood up in spikes. ‘I would,’ he said, enigmatically.

‘Would what?’

‘Ride to your rescue, of course.’

‘Of course you would.’ My heart suddenly warm within my chest, I hugged him and he allowed it. He had an affection for me, as I had for him.

‘We could not wed anyway.’ I planted a kiss on his moist brow. ‘We are well connected within the bounds of consanguinity. Your great-grandfather is my great-grandfather too.’

‘I know that. But then, I am related to almost everyone. We would get a papal dispensation. It’s not impossible.’

‘You are very kind.’ He was. My heart jumped a little at his thoughtfulness. ‘But your mother and father would not like it. Neither would William.’

‘William would not care. I would give him one of my tournament horses. He would like that just as well as a bride.’

Which was probably true. It put an end to the discussion which had become frivolous.

‘I will dance at your wedding, Jeanette.’

But I would not. It was not in my heart to dance.

The day appointed for my union with the Salisbury heir was growing closer. The banns were called without a breath of rumour raising its head. No one uttered any impediment as to why it should not take place, blessed by God and witnessed by a puissant congregation, while I suffered from a despicable fear. Could I stand up before the altar and announce before the King and Queen, the Archbishop, and the whole royal court that I was not free to marry?

It seemed that I must. It was a matter of loyalty, of honour, of dedication to the man to whom I had pledged my heart and my life. And if my pride was destined to suffer from a blast of unwavering displeasure, then so be it. My marriage to Sir Thomas Holland must be made plain to all.

My path first crossed that of Thomas Holland, through no devising of mine, in Ghent, where I had accompanied Philippa, who did not wish to be parted from her royal husband longer than was necessary despite the uneasy stalemate between France and England. Edward was planning one of his famous tournaments in Brussels with much gift-giving and negotiating under cover of the clash of weapons in mock fight. Since, as we all knew, he was intent on laying claim to the crown of France through the blood of his mother, he needed all the help he could get and had a mind to sign treaties with Brabant and Flanders. He would need allies when the King of France came to hear his ringing acclamation that the French crown belonged by right of birth to the King of England.

Philippa, being pregnant and indolent, was not enthusiastic about travelling to Brussels, and so declined the promised jollity. I was more than enthusiastic, as was Isabella, nor was Edward averse to having decorative females present to grace his ceremonies. Looking round for a likely escort, he beckoned to the first passing knight of the household.

‘Sir Thomas will escort you and see you safely there.’ And to Sir Thomas: ‘Don’t let them out of your sight. They are valuable.’ And to us: ‘Mind you do what Sir Thomas says.’

Sir Thomas bowed. He looked as if he would rather not.

He had masterful features and a shock of dark hair with more than a touch of autumn where it curled against his neck. He was young too. And stalwartly built. With such an attractive prospect, I chose to ride beside him, in spite of my high status that might have pushed Edward into ordering me to make use of the Queen’s travelling chariot if he had had the time to think of it. Unused to escorts who would rather be elsewhere, I was intrigued. A man who was unmoved by my renowned beauty was out of the ordinary.

‘You don’t have to watch over us like a herding dog,’ I said, to promote some response.

‘I do. My King commands it. My lady.’ He stared straight ahead, allowing me a splendid view of his straight nose and clenched jaw.

‘Then you could smile. As if obeying the King gives you some pleasure.’

‘I could, my lady.’ The jaw remained clenched.

‘Where would you rather be?’ I asked, now with more than a passing interest.

‘Back there,’ he gestured, ‘with my horses and equipment.’

‘Do you not have a squire?’

‘I do.’

‘Then he will look after them for you. Will you fight in the tournament?’

‘Of course.’

‘Will you enjoy it?’ This was hard work, but I imagined that his voice held a pleasing tone when not so brusque.

‘I need the money, my lady.’

Of course. He would earn little as a household knight. ‘Are you a good combatant?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

His confidence was as impressive as his stark features.

‘I will give you my favour to wear if you wish,’ I offered. ‘To bring you good fortune.’

For the first time his head turned imperceptibly towards me. ‘Your cousin the King would not approve.’

‘Why would he not?’ I certainly knew that Philippa would disapprove of this conversation. Which made me smile. I so rarely had the opportunity to converse with a young knight with what might be considered impropriety.

‘I am a knight with little to recommend me. You are of royal blood.’

‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But are you not a valiant knight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will be my valiant knight in the tourney.’ I became expansive, abandoning the modesty of my upbringing. ‘You will be my Sir Galahad.’

His eyes slid fully to mine.

‘It would be my honour to fight for you.’ It was the first time, I thought, that he had looked directly at me. ‘But will you watch me fight? There will be others more worthy of your notice. Some Brabant lordling in gilded armour, I expect.’

So there was a hint of pique in my Sir Galahad. ‘Well, if there is a gilded lordling, I will watch him, but I will promise to watch you too.’ How cheerfully I set out to destroy his grave displeasure. ‘I wager that you will be beaten by some Flemish knight in the first bout.’

Sir Thomas Holland’s brows flattened. ‘What will you wager?’

‘This.’ Stripping off my glove, I waved my fingers so that the deep red of a ruby glowed.

‘You cannot wager that against my skill.’ How uncompromising he was.

‘Why not?’

‘It is more valuable than all my Holland inheritance put together.’

‘It was a gift to me and so is mine to wager.’ I smiled at him. ‘You must make sure that you win.’

Sir Thomas slowly returned the smile. ‘I always win.’

‘Is she annoying you?’ Following rapidly in our wake, Edward drew alongside.

Sir Thomas rearranged his features into the stern visage of a royal escort. ‘No, my lord.’

‘Hurry up then. We haven’t all day.’

And since Isabella joined us our conversation was at an end. But it was a conversation that remained with me, embedded in my mind, trivial as it was. I had flirted. I had been artful. I had enjoyed it. And so, I decided, had Sir Thomas Holland.

Sir Thomas Holland won his bouts against any number of Brabant and Flemish lordlings, gilded or otherwise. Against English ones too, impressing me with his fighting skills, whether with sword or lance. His lack of wealth and status stood for nought when he beat his opponent to the floor, then with a strikingly gracious elegance offered his hand to pull him to his feet.

In the end I kept the ring.

Miraculously, I lost my heart.

I knew not how it could happen, or when, for I had no experience of such emotion that compromised my breathing and disturbed the beat of my blood at wrist and throat. Somewhere between his kissing my fingers when I pinned a scarf to his sleeve and his kneeling to accept a purse of coin from King Edward, I was smitten with a yearning that he would look at me again, and often. The clouds were low and grey but he shone in my sight. I was ashamed to acknowledge that I watched him to the exclusion of any other knight on the field. I did not understand it, but it was as if some finest of threads had been spun by an invisible hand to connect us, one to the other. Was it a malicious hand, for we were not equal in status? I did not care.

I was desolate when he did not escort us back to Ghent, the task being given to an ageing knight who had nothing to say for himself.

I discovered a need to put myself in my erstwhile escort’s way, not difficult in the lax household at Ghent where knights and damsels mingled more freely than at Windsor, and so did royal cousins. Everyone passed through the Great Hall at some point in the day.

‘Did you make your fortune, Sir Thomas?’

‘No. I did not.’

He was no more forthcoming than on the road to Brussels but he looked at me, a direct stare that stirred a little warmth into my blood.

‘But you caught the King’s admiration,’ I suggested.

‘On this occasion it was not the King’s admiration I was thinking of.’

He frowned at me, as if he might wish the words unsaid.

The tilt of my chin was unforgivable. ‘Who was it that you wished to attract? Some Flemish lady perhaps?’

‘No. An English lady.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘I imagine you know very well.’ His stare became fiercer, his response more particular than I had expected. I was considering how to reply when he continued. ‘You are far beyond my reach, my lady.’

Indeed I was.

‘I think that I am not,’ I said.

‘The Queen would tell you differently.’

Indeed she would.

‘The stories in my books,’ I said, ‘tell me that nothing should stand in the way of love. I am an enthusiastic reader of the adventures and amours of King Arthur’s knights.’

‘Your books will tell you that you do not understand the meaning of love.’

‘What do you think, Sir Thomas?’

His hands clenched around his belt. ‘I think that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that I would consider it my holy grail to wed such as you.’

By now the warmth in my blood had become a heat.

‘But that is not a holy grail that you can achieve, until you ask for my hand. Have you asked me to wed you, Sir Thomas?’

‘I would not. I dare not.’

Shocked at my own temerity, I placed my hand on his arm.

‘Please do, Sir Thomas.’

His eyes, softer now and very appealing, were full of raw emotion. ‘If I did, I hope that you would have the sense, for both of us, to refuse me.’

He bowed and walked away, leaving me solitary but unexpectedly exhilarated.

In whirlwind fashion and the spirit of all courageous knights, since once this attraction had gripped us it refused to grant us release, Sir Thomas Holland did ask me. I did not have the sense to refuse.

‘Yes,’ I said. And always practical: ‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Can we not wait?’ I might be in thrall to him, but this seemed unconscionably fast.

‘If we wait, you’ll be lost to me. You’ll be married to your Flemish lord before the month’s out.’ A faint line appeared between his brows. ‘I wish you were not so young.’

I smoothed it away with a finger. ‘Time will take care of that. Do you love me, Thomas Holland?’

‘More than you will ever believe. Is my love returned?’

‘Yes.’

Which settled the whole affair.

These were the days, back at Westminster, when my thoughts clung to the person and environs of my lawful husband rather than the stitching of my new garments. Where was Thomas Holland? Were his military adventures likely to demand all his concentration, or would they allow him to return home in time to rescue me from the altar? It was in my mind that he would most likely discover yet another battle in which to make his name and fortune. He did not know that his wedded state, so carefully kept secret, was about to be destroyed.

With some investigation in mind, I absented myself from my morning lessons with lute and songbook on the plea that my mother needed me for matters appertaining to my wedding and went to avail myself of my cousin the King’s library. A room full of books, leather bound, gilded, redolent of the mustiness of old ink, I entered the silent and empty chamber. But it was not the books that drew me. I was looking for the loose-leafed manuscripts, many of them gifts to the King; maps and charts, old and new, of distant lands as well as tracts closer to home, unbound and highly precious. Edward would not object if I investigated. He might be surprised that my interests had turned to what might exist across the sea, but he would not forbid it.

Discovering the sheets of vellum in a low coffer, I unfolded the leather cover, lifting them them out one by one, spreading them across the table used for such large items. I had travelled more than many persons my age. Born at Arundel, of which I had no memory, I had resided chiefly in London since my father’s death. Thus I knew the reaches of the Thames and the palaces along its length. I had lived at the Tower and at Westminster and at Havering-atte-Bower, Philippa’s favourite manor. Further afield I knew Kennington and Woodstock and, of course, Windsor where we were now based. I had also travelled to Flanders with the royal household when Philippa had chosen to follow the King on his campaigning. I knew Ghent well. But further than that was a blank space.

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 bold 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?

It might be that many a daughter, caught out in the sin of worldly disobedience, would do exactly that.

So why did I abandon my oft-repeated intent with such glib readiness? Because in the closing days of the old year my duty had been made as clear to me as the brilliant glitter of my new collar. Thus I had walked of my own volition to place my hand in Will’s. Once more I had taken these new vows without threats.

Let the world judge me, as it doubtless would, the chroniclers dipping their pens in poisonous ink when they discovered what I had done. At best I would be deemed a pawn in the maw of family political intrigue. At worst an ambitious power-seeker, acting with cold and cruel dispassion, abandoning one husband for a better.

I cringed at the worst.

But so be it. I could keep my own counsel. Who would be interested in my reasoning? The deed was done and there was no hand to it but my own.

Let the world judge as it wished. I raised my head to acknowledge Will’s faint smile of relief, and later, as we shared a marital cup of wine, our lips matching on the rim to the murmured appreciation of the glittering aristocratic throng, there was only one thought in my mind.

I would have to face the repercussions when Thomas returned to England.

I must be strong enough to bear it.

It might be that I was now the wife of William Montagu in the eyes of God and Man and the King of England. It might be that King Edward’s cheerful beneficence was marked by his allowing my distant father-in-law to grant property to Will and myself. It might be that we had an allowance which I was able to spend on the fripperies of life. It might be that we were in possession of the manor and lordship of Mold in North Wales and the eventual reversion of the manor of Marshwood in Devon, where we could establish our household if and when we so chose; both of them too far from court for my liking.

All of that might be true, but there were few changes in my life at this time.

We did not live in our new properties; I did not even visit them. My life, and Will’s also, was still fixed at the peripatetic court wherever it decided to travel and put down its temporary roots. I continued my education. Will continued to flourish as a future knight. I could not imagine living alone with my own household, far from the centre of court and the intrigues of government. This was what I had known my whole life. I could not imagine having no one with whom to have an intelligent conversation other than Will, Countess Catherine or Lady Elizabeth.

But then neither could I imagine living in isolation with Thomas Holland on some estate near Upholland in the far distant and drear reaches of Lancashire.

Yet Will and I preserved, in a superficial manner, the appearance of a married couple. We had plenty to say to each other when we met. At meals. At receptions. At embassies. At the hunt. We were the Earl and Countess of Salisbury in waiting. Will made a point of coming to see me every day.

Sometimes he kissed my cheek if no one was watching.

More often than not he made do with a salute to my fingers.

I curtsied and bade him welcome.

The livery collar – for was I not now a Salisbury possession? – was placed in Countess Catherine’s jewel coffer for safe keeping while Will and I danced, our steps matching with some exactitude. We had danced together since we were both old enough to stand. We had a lifetime of familiarity between us to give us an ease in each other’s company. Seeing us together, my mother, relaxed, decided that she could afford to smile on me. So did Countess Catherine. And Queen Philippa.

Will was my friend. Despite the vows and the priest’s solemn words, we lived as we had always lived since we were still considered too young to share a marriage bed. Indeed, Will, his age the same as mine, seemed content to wait. I prayed that he would continue to be so. My mind was full of waiting. I could speak to no one, although I did try.

‘What will you do when Thomas returns?’ I asked Will.

‘I doubt he will ever return now. How long has he been gone?’

‘A year.’

‘My mother says that he is dead.’

I pursed my lips.

‘You don’t miss him, do you?’ Will sounded anxious.

How could I say yes? It was a strange sort of missing. How could I miss a life I had never experienced? Sometimes it seemed that Thomas was disappearing into a distant void. To my shame, recalling his features was no longer an easy task.

‘You are my wife, Joan.’ It was the ultimate statement of possession.

‘I acknowledge it.’

‘And Thomas Holland is assuredly dead.’

Thus Will had it fixed in his mind that Thomas would never return to cast a cat amongst any flock of pigeons. He no longer thought about my promises to another man, or worried over the knowledge that Thomas had known me intimately. For him all had been wiped clean under the holy auspices of the Bishop of London. Will had no fears for the future.

But I had.

Late Summer 1341: The Royal Manor of Havering-atte-Bower

The first intimation that the day was to hold something out of the ordinary was the bounding into our midst of the hounds, pushing and investigating with no thought to royal deference. The second was the glow that spread over the Queen’s stolid features as she looked up from the small garment she was stitching. Both were enough to inform us who had arrived. We all, apart from the royal infants, rose to our feet, only to be waved back to what we had been doing.

We were sitting beneath the trees, in a number of artful groups, enjoying the warm days of late summer, with Queen Philippa keeping a watchful eye on her youngest children, John and the baby Edmund who, unbeknown to him beneath his downy thatch, had caused all the trouble between King, Queen and Archbishop. Their nursemaids were in attendance. So was Ned, as well as Will who had journeyed to visit Countess Catherine on some matter of estate affairs, and had come to make his farewell to me before returning with Ned to the manor at Kennington where the Prince’s household was established. We were a large and noisy group, which became even noisier when the King arrived with his dogs and the usual parcel of attendant knights, squires and huntsmen.

Without ceremony, Edward kissed Philippa’s cheek, patted Isabella’s head, cuffed his heir a light blow to his shoulder with a wry comment on the splendour of his new satin-lined cloak, anchored by two uncommonly large gold buttons, before inspecting the two-month-old baby in his crib. Then, all niceties accomplished, taking us all in with a smile and a mock bow, he announced:

‘Look who we have here, for our entertainment.’

Edward beckoned.

‘Someone for you to welcome, newly returned from brave deeds and doughty fighting. We will be pleased to listen to all he has to say about distant wars.’

I had no premonition of this. Not one shiver of air had touched my senses, not one whisper of warning. Stilling my fingers on the lute I had been playing, I looked across with open interest, a ready smile for a visitor with a tale to tell. As did we all.

My fingers flattened with a discord of strings. I forced my lungs to draw in a steady breath. Thomas Holland was not dead. Thomas Holland was not severely wounded. Thomas Holland was no longer committed to the religious fervour of a crusade.

Thomas Holland stood in our midst. Six feet tall in his soft boots and thigh-length cote-hardie. Smiling and urbane.

How could my blood run so cold when the sun’s heat was so intense? So too was my face cold, where the welcoming expression seemed to have set into place, while my throat was constricted by a turbulence that refused to be brought into order. I could feel Will’s eyes snap to mine, but I would not look at him. This was the moment that had been an underlying murmur of trepidation through all the months of our marriage. I had anticipated it, planned for it, but now that it was here, I did not know what to do. For the first time that I could recall I was bereft of thought or decision of what I should do or say. Any memories of the emotion that had driven me into marriage with this knight were effectively obliterated. It was not love that washed over me. It was not physical desire, kept in abeyance for all the months of his absence, but fear. I felt nothing but consternation. I should have been word perfect in this initial meeting with him, particularly in company. I was not prepared, and kept my lips close-pressed as Sir Thomas bowed and made his greeting to the Queen, as one thought returned to me, the obvious one.

Did Thomas know? Had he any knowledge of the passage of events since he had been gone from England? Of course he did not. No one would have seen the need to tell him. The private and essentially intimate development of the life of Princess Joan was of no concern to a knight who did not yet have a reputation or a source of wealth to make him a notable at court. Edward was pleased to see him because here was a source of new tales of war and glory, and because he saw the military potential in him, but Thomas was not yet one of the inner group of knights in Edward’s confidence. No one would have seen a need to tell him of my change in circumstances.

No, of course he did not know.

All seemed to be held in suspension, like close-ground herbs in red wine, but that was simply my imagination. All was in fact returned to normality as if every one of my senses had been restored to life so that the scene was in brilliant focus, the scents from the roses heady with musk, the noise of dogs and children clamorous on my ear. Will shuffled at my side, suddenly discomfited since the man he had assured himself was dead quite clearly was not. Edward ordered his huntsmen to collect the hounds and dispatch them to the kennels. Philippa likewise dispatched her babies to the nursery. The older children except for Isabella, whose nose twitched with interest born purely of her own lurid imagination, returned to their own private occupations. I held the lute to my breast like a babe in arms.

And Thomas?

Thomas had all the courtly dignity not to single me out with either look or movement, except for a sleek passage of a glance as he took in those who waited to greet him. We were all acknowledged with the same courtly bow which did not surprise me for he had not spent all his life on a battlefield. No, his inherent grace did not surprise me. Nor did this state of not being dead. I had never thought that he was. But his physical appearance shocked me, so much that my breathing remained compromised.

The King drew him forward into the family group, placing a compassionate hand on his arm.

‘We have heard of your exploits, Thomas. And now we see the consequences of being in the thick of battle. How did this come about?’

‘It was nothing, sire.’

‘Modesty becomes you, but tell us. Here’s my son who would dearly have loved to have been fighting beside you.’

Thus summoned, and it had to be said with a bad case of hero-worship for any knight who had enhanced his reputation on the battlefield, Ned took the jewelled cup from Philippa to hand to Thomas. And Thomas, accepting and raising it in a little toast, launched into the tale of his adventures on the field of battle. The battle where evidence told, horrifically, of his wounding.

The battle, the blows, the courage of his fellow knights, the victorious outcome; the King and Prince and Will, as well as my brother, John, hung on every word. And then Thomas was coming to an end with a wry smile.

‘I have taken an oath to wear this mark of God’s grace in sparing me, until I have fulfilled my duty to His cause. And my duty to yours too, my lord King, on the battlefields of Europe. God spared my life. I will dedicate my sword to Him. And to you. And this badge of my wounding will be seen and noted from one end of Christendom to the next.’

It was a brave speech with all the energy and dedication I recalled which would make him a prime candidate for the King’s new order of knights. And I could not take my gaze from him, from his face where he wore a flamboyant strip of white silk to hide the damage to one eye. Here was my knight who had caused me so much trouble, tall and lean and bloodied in battle, his darkly russet hair still curled against his neck, his face fair as ever, his uncovered eye bright with the emotion of his welcome amongst us. He had lost the other in some distant conflict.

Watching him in the centre of the little group of those with whom I had grown up, here was Thomas Holland, a man amongst boys. A knight amongst squires. Thus I studied him, assessing my own reactions to the man I had married against all good sense. A strange mysticism hung about his figure as he came to sit at Philippa’s feet, the silken band not a blight, not a disfiguring in my eyes. It was a glamour that he had been hurt so desperately but yet continued to burn with knightly fervour. And how intriguing that he had chosen to enhance the glamour with white silk rather than a common strip of leather. There was much to Thomas Holland that I did not yet know.

And perhaps never would.

‘Can you not see?’ Ned was asking, kneeling beside him, appalled at the prospect of suffering such a fatal disability for a soldier.

‘I see well enough with the eye that God has seen fit to spare, my lord. The infidel who dealt me the blow no longer breathes God’s air.’

‘But perhaps you can no longer fight.’ Ned was frowning. ‘With the sight of only one eye.’

Thomas smiled, which stirred my heart a little. ‘The King of Bohemia, famed throughout Europe for his courage, has lost his sight completely. He is determined to fight again on the battlefield with his knights leading him into the fray. Why should he not since he can still ride a horse and wield a sword? My state is not so desperate. I will assuredly fight again.’

Filled with awe, Ned reached across to touch the white silk. ‘I would be as brave as you.’

‘As you will, my lord.’

At my side, Will was as silent as I.

Until Edward led Thomas away, leaving a little hiatus of disappointment now that the excitement was gone. I simply sank to the ground with a mouth as arid as a summer stream, still clutching the lute. Thomas had managed one more fleeting glance in my direction, which might have been a question, or perhaps even a warning that he would in the fullness of time seek me out.

But not before I sought him.

‘Are you going to play that?’ demanded Isabella who had not been centre of attention for a good half hour. ‘If not, give it to me.’

‘Take it!’ As I handed it over, since playing dulcet melodies on a lute was no longer a priority for me, a hand fastened round my wrist. I looked up at Will who was on his feet, standing over me.

‘What are you planning to do?’ he asked, sotto voce.

‘Find some means of speaking with Thomas Holland in private, of course.’

How could he even ask? The three of us could not remain incommunicado, hoping that this problem would simply evaporate in the warm air. What did Will think that I would do?

‘I forbid it.’

Exasperation took its toll of my tone. ‘You have no authority to forbid it.’

‘I have every authority. You are my wife.’

I stared at him until he blushed and released me.

While I was moved by a little compassion; this was not Will’s fault. ‘I have to see him, Will. He needs to know. I have to discover some means for us to meet alone.’

‘So he does need to know, but it is a matter of much interest to me, what exactly you will say to him. And how he will reply.’

It was a matter of much interest to me too.

‘I will be sure to tell you,’ I said. ‘Every word.’

‘You will not allow him to kiss you.’

‘I doubt that in the circumstances he will discover any desire to kiss me. I expect he will find my behaviour sufficiently incomprehensible to douse any passion!’

Allowing Will to pull me to my feet, I curtsied neatly towards the Queen, and began to walk away in the direction of the departed King and his brave knight.

‘In fact,’ Will added, keeping pace with me. ‘I am coming with you.’

I hurried my steps.

Thomas, my courageous, lamentably absent but heroically wounded husband, met with me in the private chapel, an intimate space much used by the Queen. Set aside to the honour of the Blessed Virgin, Thomas was directed there by a servant I had dispatched, for I could think of no other means of ensuring the lack of an audience at this time of day when the public rooms were full of servants and those who would come to petition the Queen in her abundant mercy. I was waiting for him, offering up a final silent prayer at the little jewelled altar with its benignly smiling Virgin when Thomas, offering a coin to the page, walked in.

I had heard his firm footsteps approaching. This time I was prepared.

‘Joan.’ For a long moment, as I turned to face him, he stood and looked at me, then held out his hand. ‘How could I have forgotten that my wife was beautiful?’

His face, bronzed and a little hardened through campaigning, undoubtedly lit with pleasure, which should have pleased me. And it did, flattering as it was. But once the pleasure had been buried, I knew that this was going to be just as difficult as I had envisioned.

‘Thomas.’

I placed my hand in his and angled my cheek for a kiss.

‘Can I not claim your lips? You were my wife when I left. Even though the Blessed Virgin had not sanctified our union.’

‘You have been gone a long time,’ I said, uncertain whether I wished to throw myself into his arms or retreat beyond Philippa’s little prie-dieu. My emotions were all awry. He was all I recalled, dominating the little space with his height and his military air of polished competence, but there had been far too much water under this particular bridge to simply take up where we had left off.

‘A year,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little more.’

The expression on his face had stilled, becoming wary as if he saw a distant troop of horsemen approaching, and he was unsure whether it be friend or foe.

‘Which is a long time for a wife not to hear from her husband.’

Startled at my sharpness, Thomas now regarded me with some indecision. ‘But you knew where I was. You knew my plans. Have you fallen out of love with me already?’

‘No!’ I pressed my fingers to my lips. Here was no time for emotion. ‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what? Do you feel to be a neglected wife? There’s no one to gossip here. The holy saints won’t judge us if I kiss you.’ He pulled me nearer as he bent his head to do just that. Then paused as a pair of feet scuffed the stone paving behind the pillar to my left. Thomas looked up, over my shoulder, the kiss postponed. ‘Will!’ Then back to me. ‘I did not know that we were not alone. Why are we not alone?’ I could all but see his mind working. ‘You arranged this tryst. Why did you bring Will with you?’

Because Will, with a surge of Salisbury authority, had insisted.

‘Yes, I did arrange it. There is a complication,’ I said, scowling at Will who promptly scowled back.

Catching the tone of this exchange: ‘What is it?’ Thomas asked. Then turned to Will. ‘Do you need to be here? Have you become chaperone in my absence? The lady is quite safe in my company.’

Will redirected his scowl from me to Thomas. ‘You should not be kissing her.’

‘Why not? It is perfectly acceptable for a knight to kiss a lady’s cheek.’

‘But not her lips!’

‘I have not yet done so. She has not allowed it.’ Exasperation was setting in. ‘Princess Joan is capable of being her own chaperone. She certainly was when I left. Now, go away, Will.’

At first he had been prepared to smile. But by now, sensing something truly amiss, Thomas’s hands had tightened around mine.

‘You have no right,’ Will said.

‘I have every right. What is it to you?’

My hands were released when I was placed firmly to one side. Thomas was fast abandoning discretion, while Will, grabbing at his courage, stepped out of the shadows until he stood beside us, an unholy triumvirate.

‘I know that you will say that Joan is your wife,’ he challenged.

Thomas’s eyes slid to mine, full of questions. ‘What if I do?’

‘It’s a lie. A filthy lie!’

If Thomas was surprised by Will’s aggression he chose not to respond in kind. ‘You know nothing of what is between this lady and myself.’ He punched Will’s arm, gently enough. ‘If I were you, I’d say nothing that would reflect on her reputation. It would ill-become a knight in the making to sully the good name of a royal lady.’

‘I’ll say what I like. I’ll shout out the truth, even if no one else will.’

‘Enough! You have said enough!’ Thomas took a step forward.

Immediately I was there between them, a bone between two dogs whose hackles were raised, whose teeth were all but displayed in vicious snarls. I prayed the teeth would not be buried in my flesh.

‘Joan?’ Thomas’s eye had narrowed. ‘How much does he know? Have you been indiscreet?’

Whereupon pride stiffened my spine. ‘It does you no credit to accuse me of indiscretion until you know what has occurred in your absence.’

‘Then tell me. I am lost in a fog of accusation and ignorance.’

Will retaliated with a deal of resentment and a torrent of invective. ‘We were all impressed with your fortitude. We lapped up your tales of warfare and courageous deeds, Sir Thomas. But I don’t care how brave you were. I don’t care how notable a figure you would wish to be with the white silk you wear as a banner. I don’t care how many important friends you made on the battlefield. She is not yours to kiss. Joan is my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Thomas laughed, disbelieving. ‘What nonsense is this?’

But I could see the watchfulness in every muscle braced against what was to come. It had to be said.

‘It is true,’ I stated. ‘I am Will’s wife.’

‘What?’ A harsh growl of a whisper.

And so I explained, all in a voice as sleek as the Virgin’s celestial blue robe, which reminded me so sharply of the King’s sworn intent to honour his knights in cloaks of similar hue.

‘It is true, Thomas. I am Will’s wife. We were married by the Bishop of London before the whole court in the chapel at Windsor. Everyone is very pleased. My mother and uncle are delighted at their good fortune in securing this match. The King and Queen promoted it, my royal blood a gift for the loyal Earl of Salisbury, and they smile on us. There is nothing we can do about it. I took my oath. I am Will’s wife.’

Thomas absorbed this severely pruned version of what had occurred in his absence without speech, his hands fallen to his sides, his eye on the altar as if calling for heavenly confirmation. Until I heard him inhale, saw the glint of the low light on the buckle of his belt as he moved, as he erupted into a flare of sheer temper.

‘By the Rood! Is my hearing compromised, as well as my sight? This cannot be.’

‘Most certainly it can be, Sir Thomas.’ Will was not slow in driving the knife once again into the wound. ‘My marriage to Joan is all signed and sealed with royal witnesses. Who witnessed your travesty of a match? I doubt they even exist. I think there was no legality whatsoever in your supposed union. Your return makes no difference to my legal binding with this woman.’ Will almost crowed with the achievement. Perhaps not the most tactful of responses.

Thomas looked at him, the fingers of his right hand now clenching hard on his sword hilt. Then he rounded on me.

‘Why did I not know of this?’

‘How was I to tell you? I did not know where you were.’

I would not admit that I had thought of sending a courier. And abandoned it as a lost cause.

‘How could you allow it to happen?’

Which question I expected. I had no intention of begging for a trite understanding if he chose to heap the blame on my shoulders. But then there was no need for me to find a reason.

‘She had no choice,’ Will leapt in. ‘It was the wish of my family and hers and of the King himself.’

‘Ha! The power of the Salisbury faction, of course. How could I withstand that, even if I had been aware of the skulduggery behind my back!’ Thomas loomed over me again, so that perforce I must look up. Which I did. ‘Does the King know? About our marriage? I presume not, since nothing has been said and he welcomed me back with open arms and promises of friendship. I presume he is as ignorant as I was until two minutes ago.’

No he does not know. What would be the value in bringing royal wrath down on my head. Or on yours. But I would not say it. There was no room for pity here. Instead, once again, I delivered the bare facts.

‘My mother, my uncle Wake, and the Countess of Salisbury simply swore everyone in our households to secrecy. In fact no one but our priest knew, so it was easily done.’ I hesitated, then carried on, face expressionless: ‘They all hoped you would simply not come back.’

‘Your mother hoped I was dead.’

My lack of a response was answer enough. Thomas released his sword hilt, taking a moment to marshal his thoughts and his temper while Will and I exchanged a glance that was more fury than despair.

‘But this marriage to Montagu here is invalid, Joan.’ Thomas had won his battle with pique. ‘It cannot stand before the law.’

‘No, it is not,’ Will continued the flinging down of his gauntlets. ‘It is your marriage that is not legal.’

Thomas’s hand was clenched into a fist, which I feared he might use, when once again I stepped in, gripping Will’s sleeve in a desperation of powerlessness. ‘Yes it is legal, Will. You know it is. Even our priest said it was a marriage per verba de praesenti and quite binding, even if it is a matter for disapproval. You cannot pretend that it is not. It is we that are pretending, Will.’

‘I suppose I should be grateful to hear you admit it,’ Thomas said. ‘So what do we do now, Mistress Joan? Are you Holland or Montagu? Do we live as a threesome, like hawks in a mews? In secrecy? Or do you and I announce our marriage to the world and defy anyone to question it?’

‘Only if you are prepared to include in this little plan a flight across the sea,’ I remarked, waspishness rearing its head. I had not meant to say it, but emotion overcame my best endeavours to remain calm. Thomas Holland was past being calm.

‘I have a better future in mind, and I refuse to abandon my ambitions. But hear this, Joan. I’ll not let you go. I’ll not give you up. Not to either the King or the Earl of Salisbury. You are mine by a well-witnessed exchange of vows. Nothing will change that.’

‘I will deny it,’ Will said.

‘You can deny nothing. This is a declaration of war.’ And then on a thought that pulled his brows together. ‘Has your marriage been consummated?’ Thomas demanded.

Will flushed. I said nothing, causing a bark of unkindly laughter from Thomas.

‘No,’ Will admitted. ‘Yet she is still mine.’

‘God’s Blood! We’ll see about that!’

Thomas strode out of the chapel. Will and I were left looking at each other.

‘He did not take it well,’ Will observed.

‘No, he did not. Did you expect him to? You threw down the gauntlet and Thomas picked it up.’

‘I wish you hadn’t promised him, Joan. I wish you had not got yourself into this mess. Why in heaven’s name did you do it, when it is obvious to me that you don’t have any deep feelings for the man? If you had, you would not have given your assent to wed me at the eleventh hour. Either that or you are frivolous beyond belief.’

The accusation stung. Did I too wish I had not done it? In that aftermath, in the stillness of the little chapel, I did not know. When I refused to answer his savaging of my motives and my character, Will left me there, striding after Thomas, so that I was once more alone with the Virgin and a terrible sense of disappointment. It would not be shaken away. In despair I knelt before the statue, perhaps hoping for some solace. A little beam of sunshine touched the window, then my coifed hair, the warm dust motes dancing in the still air making me sneeze.

And that was it. There I was, back to that day when I had made my promise to Thomas. Experiencing it again, I was no longer sad. I sparkled with doubt and delight and a magnificent defiance, as I had on that day. It was a glorious moment, vivid with colour, even the scents and sounds intruding as they did on that day to awaken my senses. I sat back on my heels, my hands clasped hard in my lap, my fingers intertwined, and allowed it to sweep over me, all over again.

Spring 1340: Ghent

There was Thomas Holland, waiting for me in the angle of the outer wall where a door opened discreetly into the royal mews.

‘Are we alone?’ I asked.

It seemed that we were, to all intents and purposes. His page and squire did not count. The royal falconer had been lured away for an hour by the promise of ale and a handful of small coin.

Thomas nodded, offering his hand. ‘We have time,’ he said.

At his feet, a bundle of armour wrapped in stained cloth, an assortment of swords, and a rough travelling coffer that had seen many campaigns. I noted it, acknowledging that somewhere his horse would be waiting. It all told its own story of how the day would unfurl, but I would not allow the quick slap of loss to mar what we would do together. What we would be together.

The wind whipped around the buttress to ruffle his hair into disarray and shower my veil and cloak with the dead leaves that still caught in corners such as this. Later I thought it might have been an omen but my imagination was too much engaged to look for portents of doom. Every sense was strained. I looked over my shoulder, for I would be missed soon, a servant sent to discover my whereabouts. There was a limit to the lax supervision; I might have been able to snatch more freedom here in Ghent than in Windsor, but princesses of the royal household were not free to wander unescorted.

Or to give their hands and lips where they chose.

Thomas Holland took my hand, his firm as he raised my fingers to his lips and then, drawing me closer, kissed my cheek.

‘You are late. I was in two minds to leave,’ he admitted.

It was not encouraging, but he opened the door and led me into the dusty warmth, the air redolent of straw and fur and bird droppings, but not unpleasantly so. The royal raptors shifted on their perches. A goshawk hunched its displeasure, mewing sharply at the intrusion.

I sneezed.

‘Did you think I would not come?’ I asked, recovering.

‘I wasn’t sure. Perhaps you are still too young to know your own desires.’

‘Is procrastination the preserve of youth?’ It was a phrase I had often heard Queen Philippa use when her children thwarted her wishes. ‘I am old enough to know my own mind.’

He faced me, foursquare, releasing my hand as if he could give me leave to make a bolt for freedom if I so wished.

‘Then say it, Joan. Do you wish it?’

I barely paused.

‘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.

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