Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (2 page)

Now Joan cringed to see her mother’s expression of dismay as she, too, stared at the banner, then looked around, searching for her daughter.

Time to run
, Ned whispered.
You first
.

Joan backed away from the screen, then turned to dash out the garden door. Outside, her puppy greeted her with his terrier’s high-pitched bark. She had forgotten him in the excitement. “Bruno, stay!” she ordered pointlessly as she hitched up her skirts and took off running through the garden and into the woods, dodging branches and jumping over exposed roots. Bruno was in hot pursuit, but with his short legs he fell behind, his barks growing fainter as Joan ran.

Halfway down Ned passed her, laughing, flying like the wind on his long legs. “Grandam knows it was you!”

“Who else would it be?”

Ned waited for her beneath the great oak, their special place, taking her hands as she arrived and spinning her round and round until he had no more breath and they both slumped to the ground, leaning back against the wide trunk.

It was here, three years ago, that he had found her, crumpled on the ground in pain, her ankle so swollen that her soft boots were cutting into her skin. She’d run out of the hall in a temper, disgusted by her mother’s passive acceptance of the
dowager queen’s condescension, determined to run away from court and never return. An exposed root had caught her foot, twisting her ankle as she pitched forward. By the time she reached the oak, she could only hop on her good foot. Climbing back up the hill to the palace was impossible. Ned had stayed with her as night fell, covering her with his padded jacket, shooing away the night creatures, sharing some dried apples meant for his horse, telling her tales of how she would be his queen one day, the most beautiful and powerful woman in the realm. They had been good friends ever since, delighting in elaborate japes and escapades, fierce in defending each other.

Now he was grinning ear to ear as he caught his breath. “That was better than Will’s sword belt falling off in the mock tournament! Or the bees in Roger’s helmet!”

“This was no jape but a reminder,” Joan said. “Your grandam must never be allowed to forget what she did to my father.” Her head pounding from the run, she leaned back against him, smelling his boy scent—sweat, earth, animals.

He sat up abruptly, jarring her so that she bit her tongue. “Ouch!”

“Shh! Someone’s coming.”

She heard it now, leaves rustling and twigs snapping. Someone followed their path, quick but light. They both stood, ready to run. But it was just little Bruno who burst from the brush, barking triumphantly, his tail wagging wildly as he rushed up to claw at Joan’s skirts, then at Ned’s leggings.

“Cursed cur!” Ned scowled and kicked the puppy. “He peed on my shoe.”

Joan scooped Bruno up and held him close, letting him lick her face. “He’s excited. He loves a good run.”

Ned sat back down, still frowning, pulling off his shoe and reaching for the hem of Joan’s gown to clean it.

She plucked her skirt out of his hand. “No! And don’t pout.
You remind me of your grandam when you pout. Let me enjoy my victory for a while. Mother will sour things soon enough.”

As if she’d conjured her, Joan heard Countess Margaret far away, calling her name. Let her worry. She was consorting with the enemy. Joan looked at the still grumbling Ned—at such moments she disliked him as well. He, too, was the enemy. The whole royal family. They’d not even tried to save her father.

Hugging Bruno close, she started down the slope in the direction of the village. Ned might do as he pleased. She had just stepped out of the woodland path onto the village track when he caught up with her.

“Look.” He pointed. “On the church porch.”

It was a young couple in their best clothes, turning to each other to clasp hands, an older couple holding flowers and murmuring encouragement.

“Bran and Tam are finally exchanging vows!” Joan was fond of the two villagers, who worked in the palace kitchen on state occasions, good-naturedly looking the other way when the children helped themselves. “He must have had a good harvest.”

They crept to the side of the church and peeked round the corner. As the man began to speak, Ned turned to Joan, taking her hand and echoing Bran’s vow in his high voice, changing only the names, “I, Edward of Woodstock, will take you, Joan of Kent, as my wife.” As Tam began, he whispered, “Now say your part.”

Joan shook her head. “Vows are not a jape, Ned, and our parents will never agree.” Besides, she was almost as good as betrothed to Sir Edward Montagu, a handsome man she liked very well, the youngest brother of her mother’s lover. Bruno had been Sir Edward’s pre-betrothal gift to her.

“Say it.” Ned squeezed her hand too hard, and she saw the temper in his eyes. In such moods, he could forget his affection for her.

Rather than risk his lashing out she bowed her head, crossed her fingers on both hands, and rushed through the words, “I, Joan of Kent, will take you, Edward of Woodstock, as my husband.”

“Now kiss me.”

Bruno wriggled out of her grasp. She pecked Ned’s cheek.

“We are now betrothed, and you cannot accept another gift like Bruno.”

“I have him. I don’t need another dog.”

Ned gloated. “Grandam will be furious when I tell her you’re my betrothed. It’s better than your banner. Joan of Kent, Queen of England. Hah!”

He would make a mess of it. “No! You must promise me you’ll say nothing to Lady Isabella. Nothing. Or she’ll punish Mother.” Joan knew that vows taken on a church porch might bind commoners, but not the son and cousin of the king, not Plantagenets. Even so, Ned’s taunt would give the dowager queen an excuse to do something unpleasant. Or to make certain her son the king refused Edward Montagu in favor of a husband who would take Joan far away from home. Isabella hated the Montagus even more than she did Joan’s mother. “Promise.”

Ned made a face, but muttered, “I promise.”

Joan went off after the scampering terrier.

Late in the afternoon the cousins walked back hand in hand, Bruno leading the way. At the bottom of the garden, they came upon a group of young boys from Ned’s household.

One of them stood with head bowed, hands tied behind his back, wearing the white hart banner as a tabard. Joan halted, transfixed in outrage.

“Here stands before you Edmund, Earl of Kent, traitor to the crown!” another boy called out.

“My father was no traitor! Isabella and Mortimer were the
traitors!” Joan snapped, running forward to tear the banner off the boy. “How did you get this?”

“The dowager queen had it thrown out onto the midden, where a traitor’s banner belongs,” said the one who had spoken.

Ned reared back and punched him in the nose, then pushed the other three to the ground. “My uncle was no traitor. Apologize to Lady Joan!” His voice might be that of an eight-year-old boy, high-pitched, ill suited to such declarations, but as that of the future king it held power over the boys. They mumbled their apologies to Joan.

Ned handed her the banner. “Keep this as a reminder of our troth.”

She recoiled. “It’s a reminder of my father.” Though it was now tattered and stained, a muddy footprint dulling the colors, she clutched it to her heart and turned away, stumbling on through the garden, blinking back tears as she slipped into the palace and prepared to face her mother.

C
OUNTESS
M
ARGARET PACED HER BEDCHAMBER
,
SO ANGRY THAT
her voice was like a growl. “Did I not teach you never to let her see your pain, daughter? Do you hear nothing I say? Where is your pride?”

“You’d let her forget him. I won’t.”

“As if reminding her might make her care? Teach her remorse? Pah! The prince put you up to this, didn’t he? You are three years older than he is. Stand your ground! You’re always the one punished, never him. And this time your own maidservant will suffer as well. Kit’s confessed to bribing the servant to climb up there and switch the banners. I’ve sent her to the scullery. Mary will replace her as your maidservant.”

“Mary the telltale tit?” Joan cried.

“Precisely. I will know what you do, to whom, and when.”

Margaret took Joan by the shoulders and shook her. “How could you do this to me? Your safety is within reach. We need only the king’s blessing on the betrothal.”

“I cannot bear how she orders you about as if you’re still in her household. She had Father beheaded!”

“And would have had me follow him to the block but for the child I carried in my womb. Mark me, we will both pay for this.” Margaret left the room in a silken fury.

Joan pressed the banner to her heart and flung herself on the bed, cursing the boys who had ruined it. Not for a moment did she regret angering Isabella with the banner. She regretted only her mother’s distress. She understood why Margaret so wanted her wed to a Montagu—Joan would be safe from the dowager queen’s meddling in the bosom of the family Isabella so detested.

By the time her mother returned, Joan was ready to beg her forgiveness for jeopardizing her hard work.

Margaret hugged her daughter. “I understand how you feel about Isabella, my love. This banner—it is beautiful work. I shall clean it and mend it, then hang it in our hall.” She kissed Joan’s forehead.

“And Kit? Can I have her back?”

“No, Kit needs to learn her place.” Margaret mimicked Joan’s pout, but smiled to soften it. “Mary cannot be all bad. Bruno likes her.”

It was true. He went to the maidservant as readily as he did to Joan, happy to be held by her. “All she knows how to do is gossip and find ways to avoid her duties.”

“Her parents have been good and loyal servants. It is up to you to train her to be likewise.”

A
FEW DAYS AFTER
M
ARTINMAS
, J
OAN WOKE SHIVERING
.
THE ALCOVE
in which she slept with her maidservant, Mary, was ice-cold.
“Bruno!” She sat up. “Where are you, my little hand warmer?” He was always there with her when she woke. But not this morning. “Bruno?” She flinched as her bare feet touched the wood floor. “Bruno!” Pulling on her fur-lined cloak, she padded out to the landing. Down below, Mary huddled with Ned and two of the kitchen servants.

“Have you seen Bruno?”

She saw it in their faces even before Ned stepped forward with the puppy, lying limp and lifeless in his arms.

“No!” she screamed, rushing down to them.

“We found him in the horse trough, my lady,” said one of the servants. “In a bag weighted down with stones.”

Joan sobbed as she took him. “Who did this? Who drowned my Bruno?” She turned on Mary. “How did he get out? Did you take him?”

“No, my lady.”

Joan did not believe her.

“I’ll give you another terrier,” said Ned, pressing his forehead to her shoulder and trying to hug her.

She backed away from him. “I don’t want another terrier. I want Bruno back!” Cradling the tiny lifeless form, she struggled back up to the solar and curled up against the wall by her bed, choking with tears, rocking Bruno and praying that he had not suffered.

She sensed her mother in the doorway before she spoke. “I heard what happened.” Margaret crouched down to stroke Bruno between the ears. “Shall I have a servant dig a grave for him in the garden?” She kissed Joan’s forehead.

“Not there. I’ll find a place.”

Joan emptied a little wooden coffer of the few toys she was not ready to give up. She wrapped Bruno in a length of soft wool and tucked him in, kissed his nose, closed the lid, her cheeks wet with tears. Her mother helped her carry him down to the chapel.

That is where Ned found her.

“I dug a hole for him out in the woods, beneath our tree.”

It was a good burial place. Dressed warmly, they each took a handle and carried the little wooden coffin down through the woods to the great oak, where they buried him.

“I swear I had nothing to do with his drowning.”

He’d guessed by her silence that she suspected him. Of course she did. He’d been jealous of Sir Edward Montagu, and Ned was one for a grudge. He and his grandam, the dowager queen Isabella, were Joan’s only suspects. With Mary as helper.

“I don’t want to talk about it now.” Kneeling at the grave, she closed her eyes and imagined her father crouching beside her, his arm around her shoulders, protecting her.

Ned stamped his feet. “It’s bitter cold.”

“Go. I want to be alone with him.”

Her mother had hot spiced wine and heated stones waiting when she returned.

“Can we dig him up and take him when we go home?”

“That depends on how long we are here. The dowager queen has not decided how long she will stay.”

“I hate it that you do what she says. What if she was the one who ordered Bruno drowned?”

“Then we thank God that she did not do something worse.”

“Like what?”

“I pray you never learn what that might be.”

Joan blinked back tears. “Tomorrow I will talk to the servants. Someone must have seen or heard something.”

“And what will you do with such knowledge? Could you hate Isabella any more than you do now? Would you believe it if fingers pointed to your precious Ned? I forbid you to pursue this. Bruno’s drowning was a warning. It is time for you to grow up, stop all this nonsense about remembering your father. You’ve no idea—”

Joan dived beneath the covers and closed her eyes, letting her father’s voice cradle her grief.

But he could not quell her fear—as heinous as was Bruno’s murder, if this was Isabella’s revenge she might not be finished with Joan, and even Edmund of Kent had been no match for the dowager queen.

Q
ueen Philippa tossed aside her eldest child’s letter. Such hateful words. Clearly, his tutor Burley had not seen it. Ned defying protocol was nothing new, but more disturbing when she and his father were not there in England to rein him in. They’d taken up temporary residence here in Antwerp while securing allies for an invasion of France.
Rest easy
, she coached herself.
He is shouting into the wind
. His beloved cousin Joan was even now on her way to Antwerp and a future far away from Ned. And he was powerless to stop it, his angry letter serving only to reinforce Philippa’s confidence in the decision. In truth, though she missed Ned, she was grateful to be spared the witnessing of his tantrums. She would pray for Burley and the others in his household.