The First Princess of Wales (9 page)

“It is too warm to wear today.”

“Just do as I say. I will not have your reputation ruined or even enhanced should someone see you coming back with me all disheveled and half-dressed.”

“Half-dressed!”

“Gossips at court,
ma chérie,
or have you not noticed yet? Let us at least guard your honor until we see the rewards not to are sweeter yet, eh?”

She moved away and, with her back to him, bent to awkwardly pull on one stocking and then the other. St. George, the maid was as naïve as she must be chaste, he told himself, but he could not stem the flow of desire that made him go weak-kneed as he surveyed her rounded derrière while she stubbornly struggled to replace her stockings and slippers without sitting on the grass. The palms of his hands tingled to touch her again, to tame her, to force her, no matter how she ranted and struggled.

“Now the hairpiece,
demoiselle.
”

“I can just coil my hair and push it up under this vile, old thing.”

His eyes went over her champagne-colored hair loose to her slender waist. “That flowing bounty? Nonsense.”

But she tugged it back and caught the wild ends in one of her discarded cauls, balancing it atop her head while she replaced the angular, two-tiered, green headpiece dangling its gauzy tippets. “I hate these, I hate head covers,” she ground out low, and he felt his face break into a grin.

“I too,
chérie,
but the fashions at court must be obeyed, you know.”

“Must they? Someday, I intend to set my own no matter what they all think.”

“They? Their Graces?” The thought amused him mightily that she could hate Plantagenet fashions and orders, for did not he himself at times feel that same way?

“My lord, you would not tell the queen about today, would you?” she asked, making an attempt at contriteness.

“Not unless you carry on so foolishly again. As I was saying, certain ones must be obeyed. Would you not obey the king, for example?”

He carried her lute, but steeled himself not to touch her as they walked back out of the forest toward the castle walls.

“The king? Aye, we all obey the king?”

“The queen?”

“Of course. She is my legal guardian, and I owe her love and obedience in all things, sir.”

Better and better, he thought, and his heart beat strangely faster.

“And Edward, Prince of Wales, our next king?”

She turned to face him in full sunlight as they emerged from the shadowy fringe of forest, and her eyes shimmered a violet velvet that smote his heart so deeply he almost stumbled. Her clear brow crinkled ever so slightly over her graceful, arched brows.

“Aye, as princes must be obeyed by us all. Is he a friend of yours, then?” she ventured.

“I have been most privy to our Prince Edward’s desires since his birth,” he answered feeling suddenly guilty that he had teased her so. Their exchange reminded him of a jousting match, the kind he knew from the very inception he would surely be able to win. But he was not certain how this vanquished girl would react.

He considered himself quite weak of a sudden, so weak that he desired to take her in his arms and tell her tenderly who he was and ask her name. But, St. George, whoever she was, it did not matter now, for she would never escape him. Lavender eyes locked with crystalline blue ones as they hesitated at the little wooden postern door in the stone walls of Windsor. He sensed she must have guessed: the awed question or the sharp demand to know his identity would soon be on those rosy, pouting lips he longed to kiss again.

As if to decide it for them, he knocked on the wooden door which was immediately opened inward by the fat, one-eyed man who swept them a low bow. “My lord Prince Edward,” he ground out in his guttural voice, “yer men were lookin’ for ye but I told them what ye said an’ they were not ta be disturbin’ ye and they should just get unpacked an’ do as they will.”

“Aye, old Peter. Thank you then.”

He could feel her wide eyes on him and heard the little intake of quick breath. Coward that he suddenly was, he did not look at her face as he indicated she should precede him through the door. They had just walked into a stone archway out of sight of old Peter when she halted and turned to face him. Her cheeks and throat had flushed scarlet, and her beautiful lavender eyes had gone wide. She reached for her lute and he let her take it. Damn, but he was not enjoying this victory half as much as he had imagined he would. He cleared his throat.

“Am I to assume you are your own best friend, Prince Edward of Wales, my lord?”

“Aye,
chérie.
And now you have me at a great disadvantage, for I do not know by what name to call you.”

Tears filled her eyes, but did not spill, and she bit her lower lip for a moment. “I have you at a disadvantage?” she floundered. “You dare—”

She bit off the words and looked so appalled he yearned to touch her, just as in the song he had ordered Hankin to sing repeatedly last night.

“I should have known by your resemblance to His Majesty, the King,” she said quietly. “And now you have let me insult you, and I am certain it was all a marvelous jest to you, Your Grace—my Lord Edward.”

“My Lord Edward. I like that. Being with you has pleased me, lady. We were honest—just two people who liked each other at the start, but argued, too. No one dares to treat me honestly or argue either—but I dare to hope you still shall even now you know who I am.”

She flushed again as his eyes met hers. Surprisingly, she dropped him a quick curtsy, then shot out, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must be going back. I pray you will not amuse yourself at my expense further by telling anyone—the Princess Isabella—of my foolishness with you.”

“Cannot you see my pleasure is not the same as my amusement, sweet lady? Tell me your name now, and I shall let you go.”

“And if I refuse, Your Grace, as you refused to tell me when you should have? Would you chain me then in your deepest dungeon?”

She looked horrified at her words the moment they were out, and she jumped nervously when he threw back his head and roared in laughter. He must let her go without telling him; he saw that now. It mattered naught; he would have her name from the queen or Isabella in a trice. Wide-eyed, she curtsied again and moved sideways away from where he had her nearly pinned against the wall. This time, today only, because he had feared he had hurt her spirit and lost the battle where he had meant to have such a victory, he forced himself to let her go.

“I will see you tomorrow then,
ma chérie,
and we shall begin over again with everyone knowing who everyone is then,” he called softly after her. But what he wanted to say was, Chain you in a dungeon, love? Never. More like chain you to the foot of my bed when you are tamed and mine. Chain you to my heart, mayhap, whatever befalls.

The last flick of green kirtle and floating headscarf disappeared around the stone archway. He sighed and walked slowly the way she had gone hoping perhaps this wretched waiting for a war of any sort was now over.

CHAPTER FOUR

N
ot so much ashamed of the turn of events with Prince Edward as she was frightened by her devastating reaction to him, Joan kept herself closely confined for the next two days. After all, her stomach was a bit unsettled even if she did not feel so physically unwell as she let the other
demoiselles
of Queen Philippa believe, and besides, she needed the time alone. All this courtly banter among the ladies, the giggling, gossiping, and darting about took a toll on her inner, private self, and now that intimate world had been further breached by the clever and terrifying assault of a man who turned her quiet thoughts and very body all topsy-turvy. Even if she could manage to hold off Edward, Prince of Wales, the next time they met, it worried her that for the first time in her life, someone else could hold such sway over her emotions.

Even the pain over the mother love she had lost, if indeed the Lady Margaret of Liddell had ever loved her “dear, dear Joan,” even the ever-present ache for a departed father whom she was said to resemble but had never known; even the bitter separation from Marta and her home to come here—all that had been walled up in a tiny, unfathomable inner recess where it touched her not. But this! This sweep of longing, this rush of weakness mingled with joy when she merely laid eyes on a man she had known but a little over a week and, of course, could never hope to keep—by the blessed saints, there were no thoughts, no words, no songs or music to even begin to delve into that unreachable realm!

She sat now alone in the chamber she shared with Constantia and Mary, clothed to go out, full of a delicious meal from another tray the Princess Isabella had sent to her by her own servants with a cheery, little message in French begging her to eat and get well of whatever distemper had seized her and to come at midmorn before the others arrived. Whatever the bland, sweet dish Isabella had sent had been, it had warmed her as much as the note except for the tiny postscript in Isabella’s flowing hand, which read, “And my dearest brother, our Prince Edward, has returned to us from one of his journeys to say he would like to meet his distant cousin, Joan of Kent.”

That
had moved her to get up and stop the cowardly sulking, to set aside her rushing fears more than all else. It was a challenge from him, albeit a gentle one, and she would not have him think he had bested her, even though—blast the royal, arrogant knave—he had for now.

She had dressed in the second finest of the four gowns Edmund had purchased for her. Though it was rather too fine for a day gown, she knew Isabella always dressed resplendently even during the day, and she intended to show her, and her vile tease of a brother, that she could array herself every whit as elegantly. Marta had claimed this kirtle and
surcote
were the most marvelous because they matched and set off her eyes that were the color of Marta’s beloved Scottish heather. The kirtle was a lavender velvet which deepened to gentle purples in the soft folds of drapery clinging at the waist and bosom. As was fashionable, the material, soft as ducklings’ down, molded itself to the swell of her breasts, then to her ribs and flat belly and tiny waist before falling gracefully over her hips. The sleeves were tight from shoulder to extended wrist and from her elbows dangled long, slender bannerets of matching fabric called liripipes.

The armless
surcote
over the kirtle was of a deeper purple banded with the fur of pure white miniver. If she were to walk outside in the spring sun, of course, the whole ensemble would be too warm, but she would stay in the cool rooms of Isabella’s lofty suite today, and besides, she had felt flashes of chill these last several days, so she could most truthfully say she had not been well.

Her lavender velvet was set off by her favorite silver belt slung low on her hips from which dangled a sweet-smelling pomander ball she had stuffed today with essence of dried lily petals that Lady Euphemia had given her. Her short, slender dagger for use at meals rode over her right hipbone. Beneath her gown, when she walked, white stockings and pointed purple slippers peeked out. She had spent over an hour on her own hair without using either of the two maids the three ladies of her chamber could summon to help. Besides, Constantia and Mary always had the two of them hopping about at their beck and call to fix this or fetch that, and Joan’s toilet was so simple compared to the stylish complexities of the others.

She glanced quickly at herself in Constantia Bourchier’s polished bronze mirror, a gift from some valiant admirer. Aye, her coif looked fine, if a bit unfashionable for the garments. She had parted it in the center, yet let some wayward, forward curls tumble over her white brow. But the heavy masses of hair were neatly plaited and coiled in two huge circlets over each ear, except for the foolish curls at the back of her head which tumbled down the nape of her slender neck. She pondered wearing the heavy gold locket which bore the engraved imprint of her father’s crest, a white roe-buck, one foot raised in stride, with the ivy leaf behind; but decided against it. Of her few jewelry pieces, this thin gold signet ring would have to do.

She half-wished Constantia and Mary could see how well she looked, but they would only dart each other secret looks or gaze down their pert noses at the new country girl who had come to court and taken the Princess Isabella’s affections merely because she was some distant, long-lost relation and somewhat resembled the royal family in coloring and—she had heard them whisper—in her arrogant and self-important demeanor. How she would love to set them back on their silken heels by telling dear Isabella they had gossiped about that!

Joan walked slowly from the queen’s wing to the northwest section near the Chester Tower where Isabella and her younger sister Princess Joanna and the new baby Mary had their rooms when the Plantagenets were all here at court. Fortunately, she thought, she did not need to traverse the even more distant honeycomb of chambers where
he
stayed with his closest retainers when he condescended to visit.

Relatively few courtiers were in the main halls this early, for since the king kept late hours sequestered with his advisors planning some sort of grand retribution on the French, people tended to keep his hours. Some sort of covert English plans would be unveiled as soon as this present peace treaty ended and the Plantagenets could fairly claim their French lands owed to the English King through his French mother Isabella, the grandmother for whom her dear friend Princess Isabella had been named.

At least the guards at the princess’s door recognized her. No need to knock and have them call out her name today. When Edmund came back after fruit harvest at home to see how she got on in the vast court, she would perhaps have to tell him she was not prospering so well at all; other than Isabella and her eight ladies, who seemed not to favor her at all, she had only met the king once briefly, her royal guardian the queen not at all, and if Edmund asked about the Prince of Wales—oh, a pox on this whole mazelike place and all its busy, distant people!

“Joan, Joan, my dear friend, I am so delighted you feel put to rights at last!” The delicate Isabella bestowed one of her lightning-quick hugs and flounced back to her dressing table in a whirl of golden brocade robe. “Sit,
ma chère
Joan. I am a bit late this morn and just about to soak my hands in this warm goat cream. I detest the stuff if it cools. Tell me now, do you prefer goat or sheep cream for your soaks?”

Joan sat on the cushioned stool wishing Isabella had at least noted her fine new kirtle and miniver
surcote,
but what was that to her when she had gowns ten times ten that were far better and when she was so used to worrying only about getting herself ready to be
trés chic
?

“I use neither, Your Grace, just wash water with sage and marjoram and essence of roses, since—”

“Oh, aye, that is what Constantia told me. How wonderful to have your natural beauty with none of this paint and art.”

“But, forgive me, Your Grace, you are so fair and younger than I. The older maids, I know, but—are you certain you need all this?” Joan’s hand swept in the direction of the clusters of perfume, paste, and unguent jars of fine, colored glass.

Isabella wiggled her fingers in the warm cream before she answered. “True, mayhap, dear Joan, for
‘Suis-je belle’
—we are both fair, but it is the style, you know. Maud,” she called over her elegant shoulder to her waiting, tiring woman, “dry my hands as I am ready for the rest.”

While Joan sat beside her princess wishing she had not arrived so soon, the nimble-handed Maud scrubbed Isabella’s teeth with green hazel twigs and polished them with a soft, woolen cloth. She rubbed sweet ambergris in the young woman’s scalp and essence of gillyflower cream on her slender, white neck. Carefully, she plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs and smoothed the pale, white cochinal paste made from delicate seashells over her brow and nose before applying tinted hues to her eyelids, cheeks, and lips.

Discomfitted and slightly bored, since she had frequently observed Mary and Constantia perform the same ritual, Joan sat woodenly, her mind wandering, wondering just why Isabella had sent for her so early, before the others. Now will that not add to their whispered chagrin when they discover I have been summoned an hour before? she thought grimly.

But as soon as Maud had finished with Isabella’s face and had begun to comb and plait her hair, the awkward silence was over. “Maud is a find, an absolute jewel among jewels, Joan. We shall have to see about finding you a skilled handmaid. I shall speak to the queen on it now she is nearly recovered.”

“But I have not even met Queen Philippa yet, Your Grace. I hardly think—”

“Oh, do not fuss so whenever anyone offers you a gift, Joan. It is done here all the time, I daresay. Besides, they give me whatever I ask, the king especially. That reminds me, I wanted to show you my new gowns but there is hardly time now. Did that porcupine seethed in almond milk I sent help to settle your stomach?”

“I believe it did help, though I did not know it was porcupine. I am so grateful for your gifts, please believe me, and I do not wish to seem otherwise.”

“Aye, well, the queen loves seethed porcupine when she is under the weather so I thought you might, too. Maud, fetch the gown or he will be here while I am yet half naked.”

Isabella rose so quickly from her little carved dressing table that all her cosmetic bottles jumped and shuddered.

“He, Your Grace? A man, some
beau
is coming here now?” Joan asked.

“My dearest silly goose”—Isabella’s voice became muffled as an exquisite kirtle of white India silk embroidered with gold thread was slipped carefully over her coif—“it is only my brother Edward. Surely, you know a lady with any sort of reputation to guard does not receive
beaux
in her chambers.”

Prince Edward, here, soon. That was why Isabella had summoned her early, of course. He had arranged it to force her out of her safe haven. He would amuse himself by teasing and taunting her in front of the others who would swarm in here like butterflies—no, more like buzzing bees or stinging wasps—in just a little time.

“Now, Joan, do not look so ponderous, if you please. I meant not to scold about
beaux charmants.
You have only been here a little while and you are so lovely, you will attract someone, you will see. And do not be nervous about meeting my Edward,” Isabella chattered on, alternately surveying the array of winking jeweled rings Maud offered her on a velvet-lined tray and popping one or another on her slender fingers to admire as it glittered in the light. “You may have heard somewhere that our Prince of Wales is stern and moody browed, but do not be afraid. With me he is always a mere puppy and we get on famously. He has only been here for two days now as he is always out riding circuit to his lands somewhere. He has visited me each day, and today he has said all my dear friends should be here and he especially wanted to meet you. It is such fun, dear Joan—all of the ladies go simply aghast and blush and stutter all over themselves when my dear Edward spends the little time with us he does. It is such a great jest how they act. I tease them for days after.”

In the moment’s respite while Maud and Isabella conferred about what gems should dangle from her jeweled girdle today, Joan tried desperately to regroup her senses. All the grand Plantagenets liked to torment and tease others, then. And the prince had no doubt arranged this trap for her in front of all the others to amuse himself at her expense just as he had the other times when he had goaded her to insult him, all the while knowing she would simply die of shame when she learned who he was in truth. By St. George and all the blessed martyr’s blood, she would find a way to pay him back if he meant to torment her again. And Isabella—had he told her and had they shared plans for that jest together?

Joan’s eyes darted to Isabella’s final primping. The princess bent her knees slightly while Maud placed a tall, pointed headdress that trailed tippets and scarves of whitest silk and then fastened the towering, unwieldy thing under Isabella’s chin with a single white ribbon.

“Maud. Tell the guards to summon the others. I beat the prince’s grand entrance at least so I shall not have to hear from him how I fuss entirely too much, the blackguard.
‘Suis-je belle?’
dearest Joan?”

“
Oui, ma Princesse.
You are very fair,” Joan assured the younger maid and paced over to glance out the window to steady her knees and make herself as inconspicuous as possible for whatever Isabella meant by “the prince’s grand entrance.” Mayhap he was bringing with him all his cronies who had clattered into the courtyard the other day to laugh at her too.

The princess’s eight other maids trooped in, and they all stood about like vibrant silk and velvet flowers waiting for the sun to rise. It annoyed Joan mightily today that they spoke in hushed tones, trading
bonbons,
giggling, and most of all telling her how happy they were she was hearty and back among them, for she did not believe that from their red, pouting lips.