Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (7 page)

“Could you not at least allow her to undress behind a screen, Your Grace?” Lady Angmar whispered. “Young girls are so easily embarrassed as their bodies begin to change.”

“If you think it so necessary, arrange it. And have another brazier brought in to warm her.”

Angmar rose to see to it.

Philippa sipped a soothing tisane while observing how Lucienne’s gown hung on Joan’s smaller frame, the low-cut bodice, weighted with pearls, dangling almost to her waist, the skirt pooling at her feet. Lucienne’s lady’s maid tugged at the top, demonstrating to the others the tucks to be taken, the modifications to be made.

“Remove the pearls before you do any cutting,” Lucienne said.

“I’ll see to it, my lady,” said the maid.

When Philippa’s view was blocked by a carved wooden screen, she turned to Lucienne to ask her maid’s name.

“Felice, Your Grace.”

“You will share Felice with Lady Joan. The girl needs more than a maidservant, and Bella’s Sandrine is not nearly as skilled in such work.”

“I can manage with only my maidservant for the day, Your Grace,” said Lucienne.

“Not just for the day. Lady Joan has more need of Felice’s skills in dressing than you do at present.”

“As Your Grace wishes.” Lucienne looked away, but Philippa had seen the murderous expression. Perhaps she’d gone too far, the maid as well as the gowns. It was unfortunate, but she must now stand her ground.

When the screen was moved aside so that Philippa might approve the work so far, she circled Joan, suggesting a lower waist to accentuate what little hips the girl had, and tight sleeves fastened with tiny silver buttons at the wrists. She indicated that they should use the buttons from one of Lucienne’s other gowns.
“Taper the sleeves to points to show off her long fingers.” Satisfied, she ordered them to finish the work in the chamber her ladies shared.

“I am to cross the corridor in such disarray?” Joan asked.

Felice showed the women how to temporarily adjust the gown so that Joan might be more at ease.

Philippa nodded to herself. “Felice will serve you well, Joan. Lucienne shall work with your maidservant, who will benefit from her instruction. You would not deny her that, would you?”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Joan lowered her eyes, but her voice and the stiffness of her minuscule bow suggested anger.

“Perverse child, we are making you beautiful.”

As Philippa returned to her seat, Lady Angmar sighed.

“In a little while, go to her,” said Philippa. “You seem to have a calming influence.”

“She is but a child, Your Grace. Must you—”

“Yes, I must. You heard how she insulted the dowager queen. She must be tamed. And we must stop thinking of her as a child.”

J
OAN TURNED THIS WAY AND THAT
,
LOOKING AT HERSELF IN THE
mirrors Felice and Sandrine held up for her. The eyes that gazed back at her were huge with fear. Her Grace meant her to look ripe for the marriage market, and she had succeeded. Nothing could make her intention clearer. Joan was glad when they helped her undress so that she could join Bella in bed. It was late, the work having continued through the day and into the evening, pausing only for meals.

“He won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” Bella whispered. “That’s why you’re afraid, isn’t it? The Gascon stallion.”

“He needed no such encouragement.”

“I have good news. William Montagu returned today. Father will confide in him, he always does, and if Earl William
sees cause for concern he’ll say so, and he’ll alert your mother, won’t he? Are they not friends?”

Joan suspected that her mother’s long affair with William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, was not the secret the two lovers thought it was. As one of the king’s most valued barons and his good friend, the earl often interceded on Margaret’s behalf with the royal couple. Bella
would
notice, having a nose for gossip.

But would he intercede for Joan now that she was not to wed his brother?

She lay awake long after Bella was asleep, remembering how the heavy silk caressed her skin, how her body had tingled. Much like when the Sire d’Albret had kissed her palm. She shivered and turned onto her side, drawing her knees up together and calling on her father to watch over her. Tonight it was his kind face she saw, not Sir Thomas’s. She would not be so silly with Thomas again. He had reeked of Lucienne’s rose and spice scent that morning. And, in the gown fashioned from her rival’s, Joan smelled like her as well. It was so unfair.

L
ucienne turned from the other ladies as the king’s household knights arrived, Sir Thomas Holland bringing up the rear. How handsome he was in the dark velvet ablaze with the king’s arms, the three golden lions of England on a red field. She quickly stepped forward so that he would see her first.

“My lady,” he folded the lean, muscular body she knew so well in a formal bow. “How beautiful you are.” She liked that he looked her in the eye as he said so. But it was a fleeting triumph, someone just behind her now catching his attention. “Is that Lady Joan?” His eyes had not shone so for Lucienne.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, your ungrateful little friend in
my
dress, cut down, taken in—ruined—on the queen’s orders. Her Grace has given her my lady’s maid as well. I am lady bountiful.”

“Surely you will be rewarded for your largesse, Lucienne,” he said with an affectionate smile.

She laughed, regretting having sounded so shrewish, and made him promise to dance with her. They were preparing to leave for a feast at the Duke of Brabant’s, and he was said to have the best musicians in the city.

“I shall fight to claim your first dance, my lady.” Thomas
kissed her hand and moved forward to bow to the pretty Plantagenet.

J
OAN WATCHED WITH ENVY AS
L
ADY
L
UCIENNE GREETED SIR
Thomas. How gracefully she moved, how easy she was with him. She hated that, with every move, her own body heat stirred the ghost of Lucienne’s perfume in her gown. Perhaps if she stood very still. But what about at the feast? What if they danced?

“Lady Joan.” With a flourish, Sir Thomas bowed to her, then kissed her hand. “How you tricked me with your earlier disguise. I thought you a mortal child, but you are an enchantress come to steal my heart.”

Oh, those dimples. “I promise to keep your heart safe, my lord.” She smiled and hoped she sounded lighthearted even as her heart broke.

“By all that is holy, is this little Joan?” Earl William’s voice boomed, and Thomas was gone. Montagu turned his head to study Joan out of his good eye. “Cursed Scots. A man wants two eyes to admire such beauty.” He’d been blind in his left eye for more than a year, since a war hammer bashed in his helmet. Even so, he was a commanding presence. “Such a gown! I fear Her Grace is pushing you from the nest before you have the strength to fly. I’d not thought our situation so desperate that our children were put on such display.” He sighed. “But then you are a marriageable Plantagenet. Such a pity His Grace refused my brother as your husband.” He tucked her hand round his arm. “Let me escort you to the litters.”

“My lord, I am comforted by your presence.”

“Are you, now? Fretting about feasting at the ducal palace? Do not worry. You are not intended for Brabant’s son and heir, you can be thankful for that.”

“It must rankle, playing at courtesy with Duke Jan, the man who has held you hostage for the king’s promises,” she said.

“He has treated me with great courtesy. I’ve lived here comfortably, albeit not freely, and all in the service of my king.” Montagu handed her into the waiting litter, bowing and kissing her hand, then backing away so that the curtains might be drawn. Nothing in his behavior suggested that he meant to rescue her.

By the time the litter stopped and a servant opened the curtains to proffer an arm for her support in stepping out, Joan felt hot and disheveled. Felice and Lady Lucienne took her in hand, straightening her gown and repinning her hair, even retucking the silk padding in her shoes, finishing just as Bella came rushing over.

“Come, let me introduce you to Henri of Brabant.” Taking Joan’s arm, she led her over to where the duke, his daughter, and a young man with a too large nose and knobby knees were greeting King Edward and Queen Philippa.

The queen looked Joan up and down, then nodded to the king and the duke with a satisfied sniff.

“My dear cousin.” King Edward bowed over Joan’s hand. “I cannot imagine the man who would not fall in love with you on sight. Am I right, Lord Henri?”

The young man smiled uncertainly.

“Will you take us to see the peacocks in the garden, Lord Henri?” Bella asked.

Looking relieved, he offered Joan one arm, Bella the other. “It will be my pleasure, Princess Isabella, Lady Joan.”

“Now lift your chin and carry yourself with pride,” the queen whispered as Joan brushed past her. “You are a Plantagenet.”

Wending their way through the hall, Joan felt the prickle of eyes following her. But once in the garden young Lord Henri
put her at ease. Hearing that Joan enjoyed hawking, he showed her the mews, going on at great length about a treatise on falconry that he was reading with his tutor. Having read much of it herself and shared it with Ned, Joan could appreciate his clear comprehension, and soon they were extending theory into their own experience, allowing Bella to join in. By the time Henri escorted them to the high table, Joan wondered whether Bella and the earl had been mistaken and she was being wooed by Henri of Brabant, he’d been so agreeable. No sooner had Joan been seated beside Lady Lucienne than the Sire d’Albret slipped into the seat on her left.

“I will leave you now, Lady Joan,” Lord Henri said. “But I will return later to claim you for a dance, if you will.”

“I would like that very much, Lord Henri.”

When he was gone, she forced herself to look at the Gascon. “My lord Albret.”

He bowed to her and greeted her courteously, but nothing more and, throughout the courses, behaved as she would expect of a lord much her senior humoring a young girl. Had her impression of his behavior two days ago been the product of her own exhaustion, the gossip she’d heard of him, the mead? She began to relax. To her right, Lady Lucienne pointed out the nobles Joan had met before, and many she had not, and commented on the elegance of the hall, the grace and ease with which young Lady Marguerite played the hostess.

“She is suited to be a queen,” Joan said. “And her family will bring wealth and strong influence in this part of the world to King Edward and the prince.”

Lucienne stared at Joan a little too long for her comfort. “Then it is not true that you hoped to wed Prince Edward?”

Joan felt herself blush. “Who said such a thing?”

A little laugh. “No doubt someone pointed out how like the two of you are, what pretty children you would have, and it
grew from there. No one meant you harm.” Lucienne quickly changed the subject, commenting on the fashions round the hall.

During the course of the afternoon, Joan danced with Lord Henri; King Edward himself, who made small talk with jovial good humor; the duke, who thanked her for helping Marguerite feel welcomed into the family; other nobles who bragged and flirted; Earl William, who was comforting in his familiarity. But her favorite partner by far was Sir Thomas, her least graceful dancing partner, but gallant with his compliments and free with amusing observations about their fellow dancers.

Only at the very end did the Sire d’Albret take her hand and lead her out to dance, saying little, as if concentrating on the music. Of all her partners, he was the master of the dance, letting the music move him rather than moving to the music. She found herself watching him, fascinated by the perfection of his features, the grace of his gestures, the warmth of his hands. Did he perhaps hold her hand too long in each round, or was it she who held his?

And then, as he escorted her toward the cluster of queen’s ladies preparing to depart, he said, “I detect Lady Lucienne’s intoxicating scent in your gown. Is that how you sought to ensnare me, my lady?”

“Ensnare
you
, my lord? I would never wear this gown again if I thought it might do so.”

“Ah! There is the Plantagenet spirit. At last.”

“Does arrogance pass for courtesy in Gascony?” They had reached the ladies. “Good day to you, my lord.”

He reached out to touch her cheek, then kissed her on the forehead. “You are like a heady wine, little one, once you open and breathe. I shall remember that.”

“My lord.” Earl William stepped between them. “Have you a moment? I wanted to discuss with you a matter of some import.”

Joan felt faint as she joined the ladies.

“I shall speak with Her Grace about his behavior, Joan,” said a shocked Lady Clare.

When Bella fell into bed that night, she declared it a most splendid day. “I almost wish the duke had agreed to a double match. I like Lord Henri.”

Joan concurred. “I like both Henri and Marguerite, though not their father.” Once again, he had not given the king and queen the deference due them, seating himself on the same level as King Edward, his chair as grand and cushioned, his canopy as prominent, the arms of England and Brabant side by side. “I do not trust him.”

“I don’t like the peacock, either. Oh! I heard—is it true?—that Salisbury caught Albret kissing you and pulled him away?
Tell
me!”

“He just kissed me on the forehead. And Earl William did not pull him away, but stepped between us and asked to speak with him about some matter.”

Bella sighed. “Still, he
kissed
you.” Her voice was fading.

It wasn’t the kiss but the hand on her cheek that had flustered Joan. She’d felt so vindicated by calling him out for his arrogance. And then he’d touched her like that and she felt helpless again. He knew Lucienne’s scent. She wondered whether she trembled when he touched her, and whether she liked that—if what she was experiencing, these feelings that frightened her so, if this was how a woman felt with a man. If Thomas touched her so, would she like it? She thought she would. Very much.