Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (24 page)

K
neeling in the Tower chapel, Philippa gave thanks for hers and Edward’s safe crossings, the joy of their reunion with their children Ned, Bella, Joan, Lionel, and John, and for the continued health of the babe in her womb. She felt bathed in the joyous warmth of God’s grace.

She was home, despite Van Artevelde and all the others who had thought to keep them hostage until such time as Edward paid them all he’d promised. They’d slipped away like thieves in the night, she and Edward. Some would see it as a humiliation.

In truth, she’d enjoyed it. The journey proved an ordeal, as it would have been even had she departed in splendid ceremony; but she had the pleasure of reliving her last meeting with Van Artevelde over and over as she lay in the cabin aboard ship. The little weasel.

He’d strode into the hall, chest puffed out. “I pray that the king is much improved and might grant me a brief audience, Your Grace.”

“I thought I made it clear in my message that that is impossible. The thigh wound His Grace suffered at Sluys has festered and his leech is bleeding him for the next several days. He must rest.”

“I pray you, Your Grace, I ask for but a glimpse of the king. I do not like to say it, but a rumor has caused great concern among my fellow captains, a river man reporting that His Grace took ship two nights hence, slipping away by night from us, his creditors.”

It was true. Edward was by now halfway across the North Sea, heading home. As she would be within hours. Tonight she would follow by a different route. She rose up, indignant. “You accuse my husband of abandoning me, his wife and queen, when I am with child? I say again, you shall see him in due course.” Even as she spoke to the arrogant little man, her household was readying her departure. Some already waited in the ship at anchor downriver.

Van Artevelde shrugged. “I have no control over the rumors spread among the captains of the city, Your Grace.”

“No?” She’d feigned surprise.

He’d seen through it and bristled. “I pray you do not think to steal away to attend the betrothal of Lady Joan and young Will Montagu, Your Grace.”

She wondered who had told him of the plans for Joan and the earl’s son, but had no doubt why he’d brought it up—he would now think to shock her with the news of Joan’s earlier vow. Foolish weasel. She’d known about his betrayal for months. For every Helena planted in her household, there were three servants in his who kept Philippa informed.

“Their betrothal? It is none of my affair. But you seem to find it significant. I suppose your daughters thought to see Joan again. They had become such friends.”

“In faith, Your Grace, I am unhappy for Lady Joan, being forced to break her pledge to another.”

There it was. At last.

“How thoughtful. But you should know that she fooled you. She was betrothed by proxy to Will Montagu several months
before she repeated those vows with Holland. He had quite swept her away, with your considerable assistance, but we had seen the trouble brewing—Albret’s change of heart, Holland’s interest—and bowed to the Earl of Salisbury’s petition.” It was partly true. Montagu
had
presented the petition just after the turning of the year, but Edward had not yet decided against Albret, so they had put it aside.

She’d smiled sweetly as she sent her regards to Katarina and the girls and called a servant to show the gawping little weasel to the door, where two guards awaited to escort him to a monk’s cell for the night. It would not do to have him raise a hue and cry. Her only regret was that Katarina had not accompanied him. How Philippa would have enjoyed seeing the harpy declawed, her wings clipped.

Yes, she had enjoyed that last meeting with Van Artevelde, the upstart commoner. But enough reverie. She rose from her prie-dieu in the Tower chapel, anxious to settle in the great hall before Edward arrived so that she might witness the dowager queen’s reaction to the announcement of Joan’s official betrothal. It should be entertaining, as Isabella blamed William Montagu for her lover Mortimer’s capture and execution.

“Your mother has no love for Montagu. What has she to say of this match?” she’d asked Edward the previous night, drawing a curse. “You’ve not yet told her, have you?”

“I thought you might. You did encourage this match, my love.” He’d leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Catherine Montagu is one of your favorite ladies of the chamber, is she not? Are you not happy that she will be further linked to our family?”

Philippa had closed her eyes and snaked a hand round his neck to bring him closer for another kiss, smiling as if savoring the moment. He must never know how she watched him with Catherine, noticing every smile, every touch. Were they lovers? She did not believe it, but Catherine was beautiful in
a way Philippa could never be, and Edward’s clear admiration hurt. Still, she was fond of the woman, which is why it hurt so that Catherine returned Edward’s looks.

But a queen must rise above such things. Philippa would receive Catherine back into her household after Christmas. Unfortunately, with this betrothal Lady Joan would become a more permanent member of Philippa’s household as well, whether she bided with her mother or her mother-in-law, for both were frequently with the queen. That troublesome young woman underfoot again. At least she would soon be wed, and Ned would understand that his cousin Joan was out of reach once and for all.

“You are right, my love. I have encouraged it, I benefit from it.”

“My dear Philippa, my heart’s ease.” Edward drew her from her seat and kissed her warmly.

“But it is you who must break the news to your mother. She will simply argue with me, believing it possible to dissuade you. She must hear it from you.”

From the chapel Philippa made her way into the hall, having her servants set up a comfortable resting place in a corner shielded by a carved wooden screen that would allow her to witness the dowager queen’s reception of the news without discovery.

In the event, Isabella’s performance lived up to Philippa’s expectations. She was livid, spitting out “the Earl of Salisbury” as if it were a curse, pacing away, then turning sharply, her silk skirts swirling. “Montagu’s blood mingling with ours? Do you not see the abomination of such a marriage, the insult to me?” Rage distorted her features, her beauty unseated by her temper.

“Be relieved that the trouble is laid at Montagu’s feet,” Edward reasoned. “For Joan will be trouble, you can be sure of that. Remember the white hart banner at Woodstock.”

“There is nothing wrong with my memory, Edward,” Isabella
snarled. Philippa saw her husband flinch in the heat of his mother’s eyes. “She’s just a girl. You might have tamed her. Instead you’ve bent to Margaret of Kent, the countess of schemes. Next she’ll demand one of my granddaughters for her son.”

“Never.”

“You say that now.” Isabella strode from the room, majestic in her fury.

Philippa rose from the window seat to embrace her beloved. “You expected nothing less, my love. As for Margaret’s son, we shall find a foreign wife for him, eh?”

“I count on you to arrange that when the time comes.” He rested his head on hers for a moment, holding her tight. “You are my anchor, Philippa, you and William.” He kissed her, then called to his dogs and strode out into the falling snow.

And William. And Catherine. Philippa folded her hands over her heart. She would not think of that.

B
undled against the cold, Joan, Bella, and Bess sat on a bench at the edge of the practice yard watching the prince take on a series of opponents in sword practice. Since his first lessons, Ned had excelled in the arts of war, and he’d only improved while Joan had been away. But, much to her surprise and secret delight, her own brother, John, was proving a challenge, quick and impetuous, catching the prince off guard at every turn. Ned rallied in the end and brought John to his knees sans sword, but he was sweating as he loudly thanked her brother for giving it his all. Joan tried not to cheer so enthusiastically that she insulted Ned.

And then there was Will, poor Will, limping away after a fierce attack that left him with his shield arm hanging oddly.

“Ned’s a bully,” Joan muttered.

“Will has no backbone,” said Bella.

Joan feared it was true. She kept searching for something to admire, or at least like, in Will, but so far there was just the incident with the ring.

It did not help that Ned looked more and more like his father every day—tall, fair, with sharp blue eyes and a smile that rivaled the sun. Even now, his face flushed, his hair wild, he pleased the eye. Despite knowing Ned’s dark side all too
well, Joan often caught herself envying Marguerite of Brabant. Watching the first few exchanges with the next combatant, Joan guessed that he would best Ned. Choosing not to witness the unpleasantness that would surely follow, she declared herself too cold to sit there any longer and took her leave, catching up to Will as he limped back toward the hall.

“You should fight back, Will. You’re several years older and surely stronger.”

“He’s my prince. Someday he’ll be my king.”

“In the practice yard he’s your equal. Stand up to him.”

Will started to shrug, then groaned, pressing his injured arm to his side. His face was white and pinched with the pain.

“Come. Let Efa see to that.” Joan led him into the kitchen and sent a servant for her nurse while she poured Will a cup of watered wine.

“He’ll need something stronger than that,” Efa said when she’d examined the shoulder. “It’s been pulled out of joint, and popping it back in will be painful.” She saw to it that he took a generous mouthful of brandywine, and then some more. “Now, up onto the table with you and lie down.” She recruited two muscular servants to hold still Will’s torso and legs while closing her eyes to feel round the joint. “Hold now,” she barked, and with a quick, forceful yank resettled the arm in its joint, accompanied by a howl from Will. He skipped the feast in the hall later that day.

Joan wished she had as well, or that her companions at table were better able to distract her from watching Ned. How beautiful he was in a deep blue jacket embroidered with celestial bodies in silver and gold thread. But the short jacket, tight leggings, and ballock knife strategically arranged reminded her of her first encounter with Bernardo Ezi. It embarrassed her to remember how she had allowed him to touch her neck, ply her with strong mead. And when Ned drew her out to dance she found herself blushing at the intensity of his gaze, how his
hands held hers a beat too long, how he mirrored her movements as if he could anticipate her. How had he come to remind her so of Albret?

“Someone has given you dancing lessons,” she noted as he led her back to her seat.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You love to dance, so I learned.”

“It will serve you well with Marguerite. She, too, loves to dance.”

“Marguerite. Pah. The pope will never agree to my marrying her.” He knocked John’s hat down onto his face as he strode away.

John laughed as he shook out his hat and put it back on. “Did you criticize his dancing, sis? We all let him win, you know. It’s the only way to have peace. Be nice to him, I pray you!”

“I praised his dancing, you ninny. He just objects to any mention of his intended.”

“Because she’s not you, ninny.”

Much later, after many partners, she looked up to see that Ned had returned, taking her hand from her aunt Blanche’s brother, Henry, Earl of Derby.

“Have a care that you do not pull my lady’s arm out of joint as you did that of her betrothed,” Derby said with a wink at Ned.

“His injury was due to his limp grasp of his shield, and he knows it,” Ned muttered as he led Joan into position. “If Will blamed me, he would be here in the hall seeking sympathy instead of hiding his shame.”

How little he understood Will.

“What? You are not jumping to his defense?”

“I was so thoroughly dazzled by your skill I noticed little else, my prince,” she said with a laugh as the dance began.

He muttered a curse. But by the end of the dance he was smiling again. “Come out to the stables at dawn tomorrow. We’ll have an early ride.”

“The guards will never let us pass.”

“They will. You’ll see.”

“If I’m awake.” She had no intention of meeting him.

B
UT IT SNOWED IN THE NIGHT
. S
HE
’
D AWAKENED IN THE CROWDED
bedchamber to a telltale light shining through the chinks in the shutters and tiptoed across the cold floor to peer out at fat flakes swirling in the light of the guards’ torches down below. How could she resist? Dressing in simple riding garb, she’d made it all the way to the door of the bedchamber before Helena called out to her, waking the Montagu girls.

“It’s snowed in the night,” Joan whispered. “I want to walk out in it before it’s all trampled.”

“But it will be cold and wet,” Bess whispered.

“I don’t care! Catch up with me at the stables, Helena.”

In the great hall, Joan picked her way past the noblemen and their servants snoring on their pallets, shaking the guard at the door awake so that he would let her pass. “My lady’s maid will follow shortly,” she told him.

“Brace yourself, my lady,” he warned as he opened the door against a wind that sent the banners thrumming overhead.

Joan rushed out into the swirling snow, her boots crunching on the inch or two that had already fallen, her cloak flapping round her legs. The wind sucked the breath out of her, but it was worth it, the courtyard quiet and so beautiful beneath the blanket of white. She bent her head against the wind and followed the torch-lit path. By the time she reached the stables, she was glad of the shelter, standing still for a moment to catch her breath.

Someone came up behind her, catching her hand and spinning her around.

“Ned!” She laughed to see all the snow in his hair. “Isn’t it glorious?”