Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (20 page)

“I am sorry I have frightened you, Mother.”

Margaret shushed her, stroking her shoulder, kissing her hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. My fear strengthened my resolve to secure you a safe haven, and I have. I have good news! With the king’s blessing, you are to marry into the Montagu family after all. As soon as Earl William returns, you and his son Will are to pledge your troth.” She smiled her encouragement, but in vain. Joan did not look at her but down at the ring. Margaret gently lifted her daughter’s chin. “Montagu, the king’s champion, who has loved me for so long. Where could you be safer?”

Joan grasped Margaret’s forearm so tightly that she winced. “I cannot marry him.”

Margaret patted her daughter’s cold hand, imagining that this strong emotion was fear of the wedding night. “You will wed, but not live together—not for several years, I promise you. We simply wished to settle this while we enjoy the king’s pleasure. He commands only that we wait for Earl William’s homecoming for the official betrothal, which he promises will be no later than the autumn. That is soon, my love. Soon you will be free of any fear of Albret.”

“You don’t understand. I am pledged to Sir Thomas Holland.” Joan extended her left hand. “He gave me this ring on our betrothal.”

God in heaven
. Margaret closed her eyes and worked to steady herself. “Thomas Holland, of the king’s household?”

“Yes. You see why I could not tell Aunt Blanche.” Blanche was a Lancaster; it was her uncle whom Thomas’s father betrayed.

“Why have you done this?” Margaret had not meant to shout, startling her daughter.

“I had to help myself escape Albret, Mother. No one else would. I knew Thomas would save me. And I love him.”

Love him? What did a child know of such love? Margaret poured herself a modest amount of wine, but it was Joan who lifted the cup to her lips and drained it.

“Since when do you drink like that?”

“It’s for courage. I have a tale to tell. Will you hear me out?”

Margaret poured some wine for each of them, placing the jug out of Joan’s reach. “Tell me all.”

She held her breath as Joan began, telling her of Sir Thomas’s kindness on the crossing, her first impression of Albret, the news of the prince’s proposed betrothal, her growing understanding of the king’s desperation, the effect Albret had on her, Sir Thomas’s friendship … Margaret wanted to cover her ears as Joan tearfully spoke of her changing body, with its unfamiliar and frightening sensations, and Albret’s seduction. She thanked God that Holland had found Albret and Joan beneath the willow—what had the queen been thinking to allow her to walk about by herself when so many men were gathered under their roof? And then the Van Artevelde scheme ripened. They had used Joan and Thomas’s infatuation, spinning stories to enhance her daughter’s fears, exaggerations. Gascon nobles were proud, far too proud to ever tolerate a man such as the Van Arteveldes had painted Albret to be, fathering so many bastards that they made up his personal army. But children believe such tales. And he
had
attacked Joan. Her fear was too strong for it to have been imagined, surely. When her daughter, breathless, stopped at last, Margaret let the silence expand until she felt that she might trust her temper.

“I’ve heard them saying that Thomas is considered one of the heroes in the Battle of Sluys. The king holds him in high regard, Mother.”

Not for long, if he hears of this. A man more than twice Joan’s age. How dare he entrap her!
Margaret’s head was spinning.

“I have not heard whether he was injured,” Joan said. “Do you know?”

Would that he had been gelded
. “I know no more than you.” She watched her daughter twisting the ring. “You care for him deeply.”
But you hardly know him
.

“I do, Mother, and I believe he loves me. Have you heard anything from his family?”

There it was, the telling detail, the lack of any communication from his family—proof that he had toyed with Joan, then abandoned her. Margaret’s heart hurt. “Nothing, my dear. Nothing.”

“I don’t understand. But, of course, to find a messenger—it could be months before his letter makes its way to his family.” Twisting the ring. Twisting, twisting.

It had already been months. Margaret understood well enough. Even had Thomas been in earnest, his mother would not be such a fool as to condone his abduction of the king’s cousin. Maud Holland had fought as hard for her family’s survival as Margaret had for hers. She would have forbidden the match.

“Do you swear that you have heard nothing from Lady Maud or Lord Robert Holland?”

“I would not keep such a thing from you, my child.”

“Perhaps they await some word from me?” Joan wondered.

“The king has given his blessing to your marriage to Will Montagu. He would never agree to your marrying Thomas Holland now, nor do we or the Hollands dare ask it.”

“I would have been free of the king’s control. Free of the court.”

Was she so naïve? “Oh, my dear girl, you cannot escape who you are—the king’s cousin.” Margaret shook her head. “You are to forget him, Joan.”

“But our vows! I love him, Mother. I gave myself to him. We lay together after pledging our troth. We are husband and wife.”

The words pierced Margaret’s heart, and for a moment she could not remember how to breathe. Her child, her angel. She could forgive much, but not that. “What? Where?”

“At the Van Arteveldes’ home. I insisted.”

“
You
insisted,” Margaret snapped, “and a man twice your age knew no better than to heed you? God’s blood, you are not such a fool as that, daughter, I know you are not.” She winced at her daughter’s pain, wishing she could retract her angry words. But the girl must face the truth. “I know it is difficult for you to see, but Holland is as much to blame as Albret. He took advantage of a frightened child, an innocent.”

“You intended me to marry Earl William’s brother Edward two years ago. He is of an age with Thomas.”

“That is not the point, child. Nor would we have permitted you and Edward to lie together for several years.” Margaret hated how her voice shook.

“I love Thomas,” Joan sobbed. “I am bound to him. Helena was witness, and the Van Arteveldes. They will vouch for us. We vowed before God and consummated our marriage. We are husband and wife.”

Helena witnessed it. Margaret closed her eyes and waited for the flush of anger to subside. But it would not. “You vowed before scheming shopkeepers and a maidservant they provided you, no doubt to spy on you, to find your weaknesses. You have told me enough for me to see that the Van Arteveldes led you to this.” She saw a recognition in Joan’s face. “I see that you know it. You understand how they manipulated you.” But why had they pursued this? So that they might use it with the king? To what purpose?

Joan sniffled. She was still such a child. “I know they did, Mother, but we chose to seize the chance. Thomas discovered
the next day that they had exaggerated my danger. He was so angry. He would not lie with me the night before he left on a mission.”

“Would that he had come to his senses sooner. What he did—had you bled yet?”

“I had. I never would have forced him—”

“Forced him?” Margaret closed her eyes and waited until her heart slowed.

“I frightened him away,” Joan said, sobbing.

Margaret set aside the wine and climbed into bed beside her daughter, holding her, gently rocking her. “Hush, my sweet Joan. Rest. Rest now. All will be well.” She lay there until her child’s breathing slowed and deepened and her slight body relaxed, all the while praying for God’s guidance in coping with this crisis. At least Joan was not with child.

When Margaret left to have some food, she found Blanche pacing the hall. “Well? What did you learn?”

For a moment Margaret considered saying,
Nothing
. But Blanche would find out. Nothing could be kept from her for long. “Joan believes herself betrothed to Thomas Holland.”

“Never!”

“You must swear you will say nothing to shut her up, Blanche, else I will take her away as soon as she wakes and you shall not see her again until after she is betrothed to Will Montagu.”

“So you will not waver in that?”

“Of course not. I have fought too hard for such security for my daughter.”

“Then I have no need to say anything. Come, let us share some food and talk of this.” Blanche was helpful with questions of a practical nature Margaret might pose to Joan that would help her see how impossible such a marriage was. How would they live? Where?

“I daresay he never spoke of such things. He’d no intention of honoring his vow,” Blanche sniffed.

By the time Margaret returned to the chamber, her heart was too heavy for sleep. Rather than wake Joan with her tossing and turning, she settled in a chair by the fire.

Damn you, Edmund, for challenging Isabella and leaving me to raise our children among your predatory family
.

S
LATS OF SUNLIGHT STRIPED THE BED WHEN
J
OAN WOKE
. H
ELENA
smiled from the window seat.

“You slept late, my lady. Are you hungry?”

With a jolt, Joan remembered telling her mother everything. And then she’d held her until she slept. “Where is Mother?”

“Down in the hall. She told me to let you sleep as long as you wished. Shall I dress you?”

In the hall her mother and aunt greeted her warmly, inviting her to take a seat in the sunshine. They talked quietly about nothing in particular as she broke her fast, then her mother suggested a walk in the garden.

“Might we talk some more about Thomas Holland?”

Margaret asked in such a gentle voice that Joan felt no threat. “Of course.”

“It would help to hear what plans he made for your life together. As a second son, he has no property. Did he say where you two would live?”

“Not really.”

“As a knight bachelor he would seldom be home, wherever that might be. You know that, don’t you? The king sends him where he needs him. France, the Low Countries.”

“I would go with him.”

“Indeed? Where would you bide, child? The king makes no arrangements for wives.”

Joan’s stomach hurt. She shrugged.

“And if Edward renounces him for marrying you without asking his leave—which he very well might, you know your
cousin—then what? Crusading? Thomas would surely not take you with him to live among the infidel.”

“I would go where he went, Mother.” Joan was sorry she had eaten.

“Perhaps he would become a mercenary in the Italian city-states. He would be ever on the move. Even if you went with him, you would rarely see him. And mercenaries often go a long while without pay. That’s why they become raiders. That’s no life for a young woman, a life of danger and poverty.”

Joan covered her ears. “You’re being hateful.”

Margaret gently pulled her hands away, looking on Joan with eyes full of love and concern, no rancor. “I am only pointing out the truth, my dear Joan. Surely you do not choose such a future. Surely, if he loves you as you say, he would not ask you to share such an uncertain future with him. Perhaps that is why he has not written to me. He has thought it through and sees that it is impossible.”

Joan turned away from her mother. “He loves me. He’ll find a way.”

Margaret rubbed her back. “Look into your heart, my child. Consider what I have said. That is all I ask.”

“You are wrong. You’ll see.”

Her mother did not bring it up again. She even yielded to Joan’s plea that Helena should remain her lady’s maid, in gratitude for risking her life to save Joan from the burning cabin. For a time Joan enjoyed a fragile peace, giving thanks for the respite each morning that she awoke in her own bed in her mother’s house. Margaret honored Joan’s wish not to talk of the planned betrothal even as work continued on her new wardrobe. She spoke of household concerns, the work at hand, local gossip, sweet memories. She was there when Joan woke from frightening dreams, comforting her, promising her that she was safe. Joan made an effort to engage in the design of her gowns, applied herself to much of the needlework, and did her best to
be a pleasant companion to her mother. And all the while she waited for some word from Thomas, chewing on all that her mother had said.

She had no answers. Thomas had never spoken of how they would live. Perhaps it had never been as real to him as it had been to her. Had it seemed real to her then? She could not be certain now. It almost felt a dream, the entire sojourn in the Low Countries someone else’s memory.

H
er hooded falcon, Jolie, danced on Joan’s arm as they neared the river, and when at last the bird was released she soared up, up toward the scudding white clouds, and then dived with terrifying grace, hitting a heron with such force that for a moment all that could be seen of them was a cloud of feathers. Joan’s companions congratulated her.

“Praise Jolie, not me,” she told Ned, uneasy beside him. So much had happened since they’d parted, yet he behaved as if he’d seen her yesterday. She lifted her arm and the falcon returned, already watching for her next catch.

Bella cried out in triumph as her own falcon brought down a bird.

Joan tried to lose herself in this, her favorite sport, to thrill with Jolie as the falcon soared and dived, but she could not relax with her cousins, and the knowledge that Will Montagu was near, hunting rabbits with her brother, John.

The morning’s hawking party had been planned by the Wakes as a surprise celebration of Joan’s thirteenth birthday. The prince, the princess, and Will Montagu had joined Joan and her family at the end of morning Mass in St. Stephen’s, the abbey church. As if by chance. But Joan knew better.

“Why did you do this, Aunt? I’m not ready.”

“They’re your friends, Joan, my dear. I thought on your birthday …”

“You thought what would please you.”

“Joan!” Her mother frowned and shook her head.

She’d not seen any of her cousins since her return, even though Bella and her sister, as well as the infant princes, had been sent home from Ghent a month earlier. She’d known they would expect her to talk of her coming betrothal, what happened in the Low Countries, all the things sitting precariously on quicksand while she regained her purchase on solid ground.