Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (44 page)

Her own readiness surprised her. She touched his cheek. “You are certain?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

“What of your brother Robert? What if the king punishes him?”

“Let Robert rot. He’s done nothing to help us.”

She rose up on her toes to kiss him. “We take our fate in our own hands, Thomas. I am with you.”

Up the path, the king’s household guards waited with another horse to take them to the palace. Helena would follow on foot with Joan’s page. It was a cold, brisk day, frost softening the bare trees and the thorny shrubs. The company proceeded in silence until, halfway to the palace, they were greeted by Ralph Stratford, Bishop of London. Thinking he’d surely been privileged to hear the pope’s judgment before the meeting, Joan tried to read his expression, but could not. That frightened her even more. Had it been good news, would the bishop not have some reaction? Was she about to become a traitor to her own cousin? In the yard, they came upon Will talking sternly to a groom. She’d not seen Will since the Garter celebration in spring. The servant turned to bow to the bishop and his companions. Will’s gaze went right to Joan’s and Thomas’s joined hands.

“God be praised that you’ve both survived the Death,” he said stiffly.

“And you,” said Thomas.

Will nodded to Joan. “I am sorry for the loss of both your mother and your uncle.” His eyes were so cold. There was so much enmity between them. How could anyone expect them to live together? She could not bring herself to speak to him.

Within, minstrels played softly in the hall. Joan withdrew to the chapel to pray until the king sent for her. She wondered what Thomas was thinking. Had he any hesitation? Could he truly love her so much? She shivered as she bowed her head and prayed that Thomas would never regret his choice. When the king’s summons came, Joan was grateful that her legs did not buckle under her fear as she followed the page to a corner of the hall that had been enclosed by elaborately carved wooden screens, chairs arranged around a small table, with benches for the king’s clerks forming an outer circle. A brazier warmed the area, for which Joan was grateful. Even better, the page led her to the seat closest to the fire.

King Edward welcomed her as
our cousin, Joan
, though his eyes looked elsewhere as he addressed her. Thomas stood and solemnly bowed to her. Will, a sheen of sweat on his pale face, stiffly leaned forward, as if he could not bend at the waist. Simon Islip, the archbishop of Canterbury, did not rise, but extended his ring for her to kiss. The good friend of Elizabeth, dowager countess of Salisbury, Islip was the one whose influence Joan most feared, and she prayed that he had no sway in Avignon. Bishop Stratford, perhaps to temper the archbishop’s formality, took her hands and greeted her for the second time that day with a blessing. The clerks, who’d risen in respect, resumed their seats.

The archbishop now instructed them all in courtesy and restraint, and the bishop led them in a brief prayer. Then the king nodded to the clerk who held the roll.

“Speak with good voice and measured pace,” he commanded when the clerk had risen.

Joan struggled to find her breath as the clerk proceeded through the preliminary greetings and blessings.

“We might have dispensed with all this,” the archbishop growled.

“Amen,” Will muttered.

The clerk stumbled and glanced at His Grace, who gestured to him to continue.

Praise for Dame Katarina Van Artevelde, steadfast in her friendship, and the servant Helena, the squire Hugh. Condemnation of several of the offending attorneys and a reprimand to Will that a husband’s vow was to love and protect.

Joan stopped breathing. Did that mean he had won? She felt detached, as if hovering above the gathering.

Finally, the decision. The pope ruled that the contract entered into by Sir Thomas Holland and Lady Joan Plantagenet had been and still was a valid and binding marital union. Joan was to be restored to Thomas at once, and their union was to be solemnized publicly. He concluded that the
de facto
marriage between Sir William Montagu and Lady Joan Plantagenet was null and void.

Through the haze of emotion, Joan saw Thomas thump the arm of his chair with his fist. “God be praised!”

The king grunted. “Well, cousin, you have prevailed.”

The king’s temper brought Joan down to earth. She bowed to Edward and turned to Thomas with a full heart. “God did not forsake us, husband.” Her voice broke.

Will muttered something unintelligible and sank back as if suddenly weary.

“You have heard the judgment,” said the archbishop. “It shall be as His Holiness Pope Clement proclaims.”

“Sir Thomas Holland and my cousin, the Lady Joan, will be formally wed at Westminster in a week’s time,” said the king. “Stratford will officiate.”

He clutched the scrap he might yet control.

“I would be most honored, if it is the couple’s wish?” Bishop Stratford looked from Joan to Thomas.

“It is
my
wish,” Edward snapped. “The queen will attend with me.”

“I would be honored, my lord bishop,” said Joan.

“William, be assured that no blame comes to you,” the king added with a nod to the still silent Will. Then Edward rose and withdrew to his inner chamber.

Islip and Stratford came forward to congratulate Joan and Thomas and wish them all happiness. When they had departed, Will rose to take his leave.

“I wish you much joy in your marriage.” He said it flatly, looking down at his hands, and hurried away before either Joan or Thomas could respond.

So long separated, Joan and Thomas held hands and watched each other begin to believe. Eyes brightened, hers with tears; smiles relaxed into contentment. Slowly they came together, a quiet embrace, lacking all haste. There was no longer any need.

F
OG ROSE FROM THE RIVER
,
GLIDING TO MEET
J
OAN AND
T
HOMAS
,
their hoods up as they rode through a soft mist, like a benediction, toward the barge landing. They’d waited on horseback at a distance until Will’s barge departed, cherishing their togetherness, loath to share it with one who had every cause to resent it.

As the barge Blanche had hired for Joan’s journey swung into the dock, Helena and Hugh joined them, singing a bawdy song.

“Someone’s sampled the brandywine we hardly touched,” said Thomas as he swept Joan up and carried her onto the barge.

Once Thomas’s packs were loaded and Helena, Hugh, and the page were settled, Thomas took Joan on his lap, holding her tight as he kissed her again and again. Her body was flushed
with joy, and she laughed to find her hands even warmer than Thomas’s.

B
LANCHE CRIED OUT TO SEE THE TWO OF THEM AT THE DOOR
,
HUGGING
Joan and Thomas in turn. “Seeing you together restores my faith in a benevolent God. Now, up to the solar, the two of you. We can talk tomorrow. Tonight you dine alone.”

A fire glowed in the brazier, silver dishes and Italian glass goblets caught the candlelight on the small table, the large bed was piled high with cushions and coverlets.

“It is even more beautiful than the chamber Katarina prepared for our betrothal night,” Thomas said. “Do you remember?”

How could Joan forget? And the beautiful nightgown Katarina had given her, lost in the fire on her crossing. “So long ago, but my memory is so vivid I feel I could reach out and touch the linens in that room. And now, my love, here we are again. But this time with no fear that we can be pulled apart.”

Their lovemaking was slow, punctuated with whispers and laughter. When Joan woke at dawn to the sounds of the household beginning the day, she snuggled closer to Thomas and drifted back to sleep, wondering at the blessing of this moment. By the time she once again opened her eyes, hearing Jester whimpering and scratching at the door, pale winter sunlight lit Thomas, sitting at the foot of the bed watching her.

“Do I sleep prettily?” she asked.

“You snore. But very prettily indeed.” He crawled over to start again where they’d left off as sleep took them.

After they’d broken their fast with the food from the night before, which had gone untouched, they crossed the square to church and gave thanks. On their return, Blanche awaited them. “
Now
you must tell me all! How did His Grace take his defeat? When will you wed? Where will you bide?”

She smiled and nodded as they recounted the meeting, amused by the king’s insistence on when and where they would solemnize their vows. “Well, we cannot deny him that crumb. It would seem petty. And where will you bide? Do you need to send a messenger to prepare for you?”

“Our manor of Upholland, in Lancashire, is Mother’s wedding gift to us, and I should indeed send word to Upholland that we will be there for the Christmas season,” said Thomas.

“Good. Well away from the court and interfering relations. After so many years of waiting, you deserve time alone, time to become acquainted.” She tilted her head at Joan’s soft laugh. “You’ve never lived together. Mark me, you will soon discover how little you know each other.” She suddenly rose to hug them each in turn and whisper an apology. “I feared I would go to my grave still bowed with remorse over my intervention. May God watch over you.”

After wiping her eyes, she lifted her goblet to toast them once again. “And now—a wedding at St. Stephen’s, Westminster? You’ll need a very special gown for that!”

Later in the day Dame Katarina came to congratulate Joan and Thomas, presenting them with a beautiful jeweled mazer and a casket of fine wine.

B
LANCHE
, E
FA
,
AND
H
ELENA TOOK TURNS WITH THE THREE DOZEN
silver buttons on the front of Joan’s most elegant gown—a rose bodice and lavender skirt embroidered with roses and rosemary sprigs in silver and gold thread. Joan suggested that they let her aunt’s maid finish, as the three, so dear to her, alternately wept and laughed.

“You and your buttons!” her aunt bemoaned. But she sighed with delight. “I wish my Thomas could see you. How your uncle prayed for this day! And Margaret. Maud, too.” Tears came.

Joan leaned over to kiss her, the bell-like beads on her fillet softly ringing. Helena groaned as she lost her purchase on one of the tiny buttons.

Blanche laughed. “Bells in your hair!”

It was a gift from Bella, holding in place a jeweled gold-and-silver-filigree crispinette, one of her aunt’s many wedding gifts, that cupped Joan’s braided hair over her ears.

“My fair sister,” John said from the doorway. “Thomas sent me to see whether you’d changed your mind and escaped over the rooftops.”

“Almost there,” Helena said.

“Laces are faster,” John offered, ducking with a laugh as Joan tossed a shoe at him.

“There!” Helena declared as she smoothed down the fabric.

Joan swept round. Helena reached to adjust something on her head.

“It was good of the queen to let you dress here in the palace,” said Blanche. “The wind would have undone all our work on the ride from London.”

Down in the hall, Joan found Thomas had a partner in pacing, his brother Robert, Lord Holland, fair-weather friend.

“God in heaven, do I deserve such a bride as this?” Thomas stood in wonder.

Robert bowed low and took Joan’s hand, kissing it. “Lady Joan. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

She was saved from the retort on the tip of her tongue by John offering his arm. “It is time, sis.”

The nave was well lit with torches and tapers.

“The light is Ned’s doing,” Bella whispered, joining Joan just within the doors of St. Stephen’s Chapel. “He insisted on light as a symbol of your steadfastness.”

Joan stood still for a moment, taking it in, this so long dreamed-of moment, when she and Thomas would complete their vows. “He has given us a most precious gift,” she said to Bella. She was moved by it, accepting it as an affirmation of his vow to befriend Thomas, to respect their marriage.

Within moments, surrounded by Hollands, Wakes, and Plantagenets, Joan stood facing Thomas in the nave of St. Stephen’s, clasping his hands, pledging her troth, smiling as Bishop Stratford pronounced them husband and wife. Nine years ago, standing with Will, she’d felt diminished here, overwhelmed beneath the soaring stone vaults. This day, she felt as if she might reach up and touch the ceiling. Only Thomas’s strong grasp held her down.

Ned was the first to step forward to congratulate them. She had not seen him since she ran from him on Windsor’s battlements. “My dearest cousin, the fairest lady in the realm.” He kissed her, not on the cheek but the mouth, gathering her close. Before releasing her, he whispered, “I pray you forgive me. And, if ever you tire of him, I will be waiting.”

As Joan pushed away, her face hot, she was caught up, in turn, by the princes Lionel and John, both of whom planted wet kisses on her cheeks. And then it was her brother John’s turn, and Raoul, Count of Eu, his kiss so enthusiastic that she teased him about being too long away from his wife.

“I regret she will not meet you,” he whispered. “I looked forward to that.”

“It is my loss, I am sure.”

Then Robert Holland gave her a solemn embrace, and Otho a rib-cracking hug. “By God, we have the most beautiful sister-in-law in all the land, eh, Robert?”

Joan was quite giddy by the time she embraced her aunt Blanche, but quickly sobered when she came face to face with Queen Philippa, uncertain what to make of the tears in her eyes.

“It is a pleasure to celebrate joy after so much sorrow. May you at long last be content and fulfilled, Joan.”

“Your Grace.”

Bella drew Joan away. “I’m almost envious. The way you two look at each other!” She looked Joan up and down and nodded her approval. “You’ll have little need for such elegance away from court.”

“Nor will I have the wealth of an earldom to support it.”