Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (19 page)

As Joan’s external wounds healed, Margaret began with
simple questions about the queen, the infant princes, the cities she had visited. But when all was met with silence Margaret grew certain that the crossing was only part of whatever troubled her daughter, and that the ring held the answer.

“You have not heard a word this whole meal. What troubles you?” The abbess reached for Margaret’s hand across the little table, comforting in her warmth and kindliness.

“Forgive me. I selfishly forget that you have your own worries about your brother.” Earl William had been badly injured when taken by the French at Lille in April, a head wound that left him confused. Like Joan, Margaret thought, sick that her daughter should share such an experience with a seasoned warrior.

Matilda did not know that her guest was her brother’s mistress. Few did, hence Margaret’s pretense of forgetting. “My daughter’s failure to thrive frightens me. I believe that it is not only the attack that troubles her, but what it is—I do not know how to help her.”

“Have you told her of your plan?”

“She knows it has long been my intention that she should join your family. But no, I have not yet spoken of it to her. I await the king’s pleasure.”

“Countess Catherine wishes her daughters to become better acquainted with Joan. She desires to know when she might expect you at Bisham.”

“Never if King Edward refuses us once more, late summer if he agrees to Joan’s marriage to young Will Montagu.” The earl had first approached the king and queen with a proposal for a match between his son and Joan at the beginning of the year, as Albret’s behavior grew worrisome—and Margaret’s own missive to the king had forced William to step forward.

“Surely His Grace will agree, after such an embarrassment, and my brother’s courage, his sacrifice.”

Margaret had shared with the abbess Lady Lucienne’s account
of Albret’s reprehensible behavior, and Earl William’s last message, sent just before Lille:
I do not know the whole of it, but Her Grace is now inclined to support our petition to the king, motivated by her deep regret
.

“I pray you are right,” said Margaret. “Sometimes I wish I were a merchant’s wife, free to speak my mind without losing all.”

“No one is so free as to lay blame at the feet of the king and queen, my lady.” The abbess rose. “Shall we kneel before the Virgin and pray for our loved ones?”

T
he metallic tang of blood and the sour odors of tar and sweat filled Thomas’s head, a ringing in his ears muffled the battle sounds round him as he slashed his way across the deck of the ship, lurching over bodies, sliding in the blood. Lunge, turn, slash, shout a warning to one of his men, duck, roll, slash, kick the corpse out of the way—he danced the deadly dance, afire with bloodlust. Rising up on the lee side of the listing cog, he came upon a man whimpering that he was just ship’s crew, not a soldier, imploring Thomas to let him live. He let go of his hold on the side and dropped to his knees with hands pressed together over his head. Unmoved, Thomas raised his battle-axe and brought it down, severing the man’s spine below his neck. As he kicked the body aside, he saw another crewman trying to crawl away. Down came Thomas’s axe, the ringing now a roar in his head.

Afterward, he celebrated with a two-day drunk during which he was hailed as a hero of Sluys, which had been a resounding victory for the English. The French fleet was destroyed. The tides ran red for days.

He came to on his cot, his head pounding, his tongue thick in the desert of his mouth. Shielding his eyes from the light shining in through the open door, his stomach burned as he remembered the crewman’s pleas. God help him, he’d become a
monster, a mindless slayer. In his rage, all the men aboard the French ships, soldiers or crewmen, had become Joan’s attackers and he’d felt free to slaughter them with impunity. Vengeance, not courage and honor, had fueled his bloodlust. Vengeance and frustration.

He had not learned of the pirate attack on Joan’s ship until more than a month after the event. It had happened while he engaged the French outside Lille, then followed Montagu’s captors across into Cambrai in a failed attempt to rescue the earl. The pirates had meant to kill her, his beloved, and he had not even known that she was in danger.

But this slaughter was not the way to protect her. As soon as he could walk in a straight line, he sought out the chaplain to make his confession.

The priest quickly absolved him of the blood on his conscience with a standard reminder that as a soldier he’d merely been honoring his duty to King Edward. But in response to Thomas’s confession about Joan, how he should have investigated the man in the church but instead used Joan’s fear to the end he’d so desired, the priest had more to say. Thomas’s sin was not his love for Joan but his betrayal of his king, the king for whom he’d bloodied his hands. He must ask King Edward’s forgiveness.
You pledged your troth to your lady and lay with her. It is fitting that you should strengthen your vows together before a priest, but you are already bound in law. That you took her to wife without your lord’s permission, and he her cousin and guardian
, that
is your transgression
.

Thomas sought out a clerk to pen a letter to his brother Robert, Lord Holland, and his mother, Maud. Van Artevelde’s insistence that he wait be damned—he’d stalled long enough. His family must welcome Joan and take her in, ensure that no harm came to her. Only then would he make his peace with King Edward, when he knew that she was safely in the protection of his family.

I
n late summer, Margaret sent for her brother’s wife, Blanche, Lady Wake, hoping that Joan might confide to her beloved aunt what she hid from her mother, as she had in the past, and in doing so begin to recover. On the day Blanche was expected, Joan declared herself well enough to ride out along the road to Barking to meet her. But by the time she was dressed she was breathing shallowly and admitted with some surprise that she had not the strength to ride out. Instead, she would sit by the fire in the guesthouse hall and let her aunt come to her. Even this was a change from the past months, though, and Margaret welcomed it.

They had not long to wait. Within the hour Blanche arrived in the company of two pages, three serving women, two lady’s maids, as well as a tailor, a seamstress, and their servants. As always, Margaret felt as if she were bracing for a storm as she welcomed her brother’s wife, a formidably large, handsome woman with a voice that demanded attention and an energy that left most breathless.

“Where is Joan?” Blanche cried as she dismounted from her palfrey. “I expected to see her miles before we reached the abbey.” While the abbess quietly ordered lay sisters to prepare more rooms in the guesthouse as well as the cottage in the outer
yard for the men, Lady Blanche hurried into the guesthouse hall, halting with a soft cry of dismay to find Joan nodding by the fire. “Is it the head wound, Margaret? Has she healed properly? Did a physician see her?”

Margaret assured her that a physician had declared the wound healed, and that this lethargy was of the spirit, not of the body.

“Lethargy? She is asleep in the middle of the day. Our Joan!” Blanche bent down to her niece, whispering her name.

Blinking awake, Joan threw her arms around her aunt’s broad shoulders. “I meant to ride out to meet you, Aunt. I have missed you so.”

“Oh, my dear, I so wish I had been with you.”

Margaret smiled at a sudden image of the redoubtable Blanche fighting off the pirates. “Would that you had.”

“We’ll walk twice a day. Good long, brisk walks. You’ll be back to your accustomed health in a week,” Blanche declared. She held her hands out to Joan. “Shall we begin?”

“But you have been riding for hours.”

“I need a good walk before I sit down to my needlework. Come, my love.” She urged Joan to rise. “Janet, Agnes, come walk out with us.” The two lady’s maids seemed dismayed by the prospect, but they smiled graciously and joined their mistress. “You, too, Margaret. It will put roses in those sallow, sunken cheeks of yours.”

“Someone needs to see to the rest of your company, Blanche. Do go. It will be good for Joan.” With a smile, Margaret turned to the task at hand, her way of dealing with her sister-in-law for the first few hours, until Blanche exhausted her momentum.

Margaret had just sent off the last of the servants when the four women returned, Joan in tears, Blanche unusually quiet, Janet and Agnes talking softly between themselves.

Blanche took Margaret aside. “I fear I blundered, asking about Lady Lucienne’s burns.”

“I should have warned you—she does not like to be reminded of the attack, the horrible death of Lucienne’s maid. Perhaps you are right, I should consult another physician regarding her head wound.” Margaret watched her daughter settle back into the chair she’d vacated for the walk. Within moments, her chin dropped to her chest. “Did she walk far?”

“Far for an aged invalid, not for our Joan.”

H
ER SLEEP WAS CURSED
. A
S SOON AS
J
OAN CLOSED HER EYES
,
THE
terror returned—the ship ablaze, Felice shrieking, the knife sinking into the pirate’s stomach, his warm blood gushing down her hand. The priest said she was shriven, that God had accepted her penances. Why, then, was her sleep cursed? The women fluttered about her, coaxing, cajoling her to tell them what haunted her, then shook their heads at her terror, assuring her that it was over. But it wasn’t over. It would never be over.

She wanted Thomas. But she must not speak his name.

B
LANCHE
’
S REGIMEN STRENGTHENED
J
OAN SUFFICIENTLY TO MAKE
the journey home to Westminster on horseback, a feat Margaret had not thought possible a month earlier. But Joan still tired easily, and her heart seemed no lighter for being in familiar surroundings. Long hours she would bide in the garden, sitting, walking, always in silence, her eyes seldom resting on the beauty before her, and never venturing down as far as the river. Silence enshrouded her. Even the bees seemed subdued in her presence. And when someone addressed her, no matter how carefully
they had made noise on their approach, she would startle and look round with such wary eyes that it broke Margaret’s heart.

Still Margaret skirted the truth when Joan asked why she was being fitted for so many gowns.
To cheer you, of course. And your birthday grows nigh. I cannot believe it was thirteen years ago I carried you
. Blanche warned her that she must tell Joan soon,
else she will never trust you in future
. Joan did not trust her now, not enough to unburden herself; Margaret intended to choose her moment.

A
BEAUTIFUL LATE-SUMMER DAY HAD CLOUDED OVER
,
AND RAIN
threatened, but Margaret hoped to finish one last piece of business before the storm broke, the glover’s shop being but a few streets from Blanche’s town house, where they were biding for a few days. When Joan removed her gloves, Margaret noticed that she was now wearing the little gold ring on her left hand.

Clearly, Blanche did as well. “Come now, do not keep the good man waiting. For a proper fit you must remove the ring. Why must you be so stubborn?” Irritated, Blanche took Joan’s hand and began to pull.

“No!” Joan cried, and slapped her aunt’s hand. “I will not remove it.”

Taken aback by the outburst, Margaret made her excuses to the glover, took her daughter firmly by the arm, and departed, not pausing until they were in Blanche’s hall. She sent her daughter, breathless from the pace Margaret had kept, to her chamber with Helena, then rounded on Blanche.

“How dare you attack my daughter! I involved you because she has always trusted you.”

“We need to know what that ring means to her, Margaret. I hoped to startle her into a confession.”

“In a shop? Are you mad?” Margaret called to a servant to bring brandywine to the guest chamber, where she would be with her daughter. “Knock before you enter.” She held up a hand to Blanche, who prepared to follow. “You have done enough.”

“You must tell her what lies in her future, Margaret. You have waited months. It is a shadow between you.”

She was right about its being months. The messenger had arrived in mid-June, as King Edward was preparing to return to the Low Countries.
His Grace prays that you and your daughter are in good health and regrets that he is not at leisure to come himself. But he wished you to know that he approves your petition, indeed blesses the proposed union. May the young couple be happy and prosper in their lives together
. The parchment bearing King Edward’s seal had lain in Margaret’s chest since then, awaiting the right time to tell Joan, when she had the strength to understand the security it promised. Perhaps it was time.

“My lady is resting,” Helena said softly when Margaret and the servant who followed slipped into the guest chamber she shared with her daughter. Though she resented the Flemish maid for her evasive answers to many questions about Joan’s time with the Van Arteveldes, Margaret appreciated the woman’s skill in creating a soothing environment for her daughter.

“I have brought wine, and Cook is heating a stew that my daughter and I can share while we talk, just we two.” Margaret nodded to the servant attending her to put the tray by the bed. “You may leave. And you, Helena, go enjoy a warm meal. I shall send for you when we are ready for the food.”

When all had withdrawn, Margaret perched on the edge of the bed and kissed Joan on each cheek. Her daughter seemed an angel with bruised eyes, her skin so pale yet glowing, as if she were lit from within.

“My heart is full, Joan. I pray that you can forgive me for sending you alone to Philippa. I know what it is like to be in your situation. When they betrothed me to John Comyn, I was so young. Though it never came to pass, I dreaded going to Scotland, living among strangers. I was so frightened. I’ve dreamed of that many a night while you were away, and I feared for you.”