Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (42 page)

O
THO HAD LOCATED
W
ILL
M
ONTAGU
’
S PAVILION
. “H
E’S JUST ARRIVED
with his men. They are setting up on the far edge. I have one of our men watching.”

Thomas nodded. “Come along, then.”

I
SABELLA SWEPT TOWARD HER
,
THE SILVER EMBROIDERY ON HER
dark blue gown shimmering in the candlelight that enhanced the pale sunlight coming through the window at her back. Her grace belied her age, the lines around her eyes and mouth visible only as she reached for Joan’s hands.

Joan tucked her hands behind her back and bowed. “Thank you for seeing me, my lady.”

Isabella ignored the slight, nodding to a servant and gesturing to Joan to sit.

Refusing the servant’s offer of wine, Joan chose a seat by the unshuttered window, grateful for fresh air. The dowager queen apparently saw no need for the juniper fires.

But as Isabella took a seat near Joan she held a spice ball to her nose. She was not so confident. “I know of your letter to Bella. It was clever of you, knowing that she would share it with my grandson. You meant it to be the catalyst for his humiliation of Will Montagu.” She leveled her gaze at Joan. “Such a public attack. I cannot have this, Joan. Such fighting among the Garter Knights demeans my son’s order.”

“I have no control over Ned.”

Isabella laughed softly. “You have only to curl your finger and he comes to your side. It has always been so. Perhaps it is my fault. It was my astrologer who named you his queen.” She tilted her head, studying Joan. “You sit there, judging me. You. All I’ve done, I’ve done for the realm. You care for nothing but your own comfort.”

“You had my father executed for loyalty to his brother, the anointed king.”

“Your father changed course with the wind, Joan. He could not be trusted. Even so, I did not approve his execution.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A shrug. “Not long ago I met Arnaud Amanieu, the husband my son intended for you. He is a handsome young man, gentle where his father is brusque, a poet of life. I think you would have loved him well. It is a pity you let such a ragtag group deceive you—the common Van Arteveldes, the trollop Lucienne Townley, and her lover, the sly Holland.” Her lip curled over their names. “Bernardo Ezi was enchanted by your blossoming womanhood, no more. He never sought to deflower you. Such a pity. All this suffering you caused, for yourself, Montagu, my son, even the Hollands—to spend Eu’s ransom on you rather than shoring up their lordship—such a waste.”

Mother in heaven, she knew just where the blade went deep. “What is done is done,” Joan said, the words sounding sharper than she’d intended. “I want you to withdraw your lawyers and order the Montagu lawyers to stand down as well.”

A surprised laugh. “Why should I? How would this benefit the Crown?”

“If Will wins, I will fight against those vows as I’ve done for eight years. And Ned will think he need only bide his time to have me. But if Thomas wins I will happily disappear from court. Ned will forget me.”

“Oh, my dear Joan, is this what you bring to the table? It is nothing. My grandson may yearn for you all he wants. But, when the time comes, he will wed whom the king chooses.”

“He’s avoided that so far.”

“You’re arrogant like your father, and as much a fool,” said Isabella with a silken shrug. “I am no friend to the Montagus, it is true. But you risk much in asking for my help. If His Holiness should learn that I supported you, he would choose Montagu simply to spite me. He blames me for my son’s war with France.” Her smile was cutting.

“How is he to know who withdrew the lawyers, my lady? If done discreetly …”

“What is done is done, as you said. Withdrawing at this late date would serve little purpose, except to make us look weak—and that, my dear girl, would not do. We are at war, after all. Have you been too busy with your romantic entanglements to notice?” Isabella rose, forcing Joan to do so as well. “It was good of you to visit me. I hope you enjoy the festivities.” This time she did not extend her hand, but turned to talk to her lady’s maid.

Joan was shaking when she stepped out into the busy ward, her confidence in her purpose utterly undone.

T
HE NOISE AND CHAOS OF THE CROWD MADE IT EASY TO SEPARATE
Will Montagu from his men. Otho came up behind him, Thomas grabbed Will’s shoulders and pulled him round, slamming him back against the tower’s uneven stones. Will’s felt hat gave little protection to his skull as it made contact. Thomas took an unholy pleasure in the sound. Cursing, Will fumbled for his sword, but Thomas was there first. He pulled it from its sheath and pressed it to Will’s neck.

“I’ll say this once, Montagu. Touch Joan again and you die. Do you hear me?”

Will reached for the knife, but Otho had removed it. He dangled it in Will’s face.

“And if the pope decides in my favor?”

Thomas pressed the sword into Will’s windpipe. “You will suffer a fatal accident. Call off your lawyers. Quietly. No hue and cry, or I will finish this.”

“If harm comes to me—” By now Will was shaking and soaked in sweat.

“You drink too much. Everyone knows it. You’ll reek of brandywine.” Thomas slammed Will against the stones one
more time. “Meanwhile, do not touch her.” He forced himself to let go of Will while there was yet life in him. The coward sank to the ground, pissing himself. Thomas nodded to Otho. They strode off with Will’s weapons, dropping them in one of the horse troughs.

Otho laughed. “That’s how to deal with swine.”

Thomas spit on the ground. “Not a word to Joan. Alan swore not to tell me.”

“Pray God he was shriven before he died.”

“God would understand. What that bastard did—” Thomas clenched his fists.

Otho put an arm round him. “You showed remarkable restraint. Now for some ale to cool you down.”

C
ROSSING THE GREAT HALL
,
DODGING LADDERS AND STEPPING OUT OF
the way of overburdened servants, Joan was almost upon Ned and his ten-year-old brother, Lionel, before she saw them, their heads close as they tried to converse in the chaos. What a fine boy Lionel was—dark-haired, olive-skinned, with soft gray eyes, a wide mouth, and a laugh that rang in the rafters. She’d not seen someone so happy in many a day. Ned ruffled his brother’s hair, amused, but never so carefree as Lionel, always checking to see who watched, to whom he was playing. His sweep of the room almost caught her. In no frame of mind to talk to them, Joan backed up, looking round for a quick exit.

“Come!” Bella startled Joan, taking her hand. “We’re going to ride to the river. Master Adam says the wind is fresh today, we need not fear.”

Joan shook her head. “I don’t think—”

“You’ve been with Grandam. You need this more than any of us. Come!”

She pulled Joan toward her brothers, calling out to Ned. He glanced over, a smile forming, quickly turning to a frown. He
bent to say something to his brother, who took a step back as if not believing what he’d heard.

“But the ride was your idea,” Lionel was saying.

“Ned! Look who’s joining us.” Bella held tight to Joan’s arm. “Fresh from Grandam’s torture chamber. I don’t know what she said, but look how pale our cousin is.”

Ned studied Joan’s face. “What did she want with you, cousin?”

“
I
begged an audience. Your mother handed the matter of my marriage over to the dowager queen, and I’d hoped—” Joan brushed it away. “I do not want to think about it now. I understand that I owe you a debt of gratitude for seeing to Will.” She touched his arm.

He stepped back and glanced around as if alarmed by her touch.

“What’s wrong, Ned? What did I say?”

“Nothing, cousin. You are welcome. I was just telling Lionel that I can’t ride after all. I must confer with Father regarding the tourney.” His bow was stiff, formal, so unlike his usual behavior toward her that she asked again what was wrong. He shook his head and backed away, striding quickly toward the king’s chambers.

“Come on, John’s waiting for us.” Lionel led them out of the hall. “You can ride Ned’s mount,” he called back to her.

“Don’t worry about Ned,” said Bella. “He knows how you’re feeling. Grandam raked him over the coals for taking Will down in such a public way. He’s shied from her ever since.”

“I’m not dressed for riding,” Joan said, but she did not protest too long. A ride out in the fresh air was just what she needed to clear her head.

S
LIPPING FROM THE BEDCHAMBER SHE SHARED WITH HER MOTHER
and Lady Maud, Joan went to Thomas that night, saying nothing
of her interview with Isabella, wanting to treasure their time together.

“Alan and Lucienne are smiling down on us,” he whispered as he drew her to him. It was the best thing he could have said.

Before dawn, Hugh escorted Joan back to her own bed. As Lady Maud sleepily made room for her, Joan could almost believe that this was the first of many such family gatherings. Until Efa handed her the bitter drink to prevent conception.

“Patience, my lady.”

Joan imagined the dowager queen grinning as she drank.

T
HE CROWD PARTED FOR
P
HILIPPA AND HER LADIES
,
CHEERING
them as they approached the viewing stands, signaling that the tournament was about to begin. She and her ladies wore deep blue mantles powdered with silver garters—the damnable garters, Catherine’s legacy.

Philippa checked her anger. Not today. Today she would remember the good in her rival. A messenger had arrived from Bisham just as Edward was leaving Philippa to join his men. Early that morning, Catherine had died of the pestilence. Edward had gone white. His lady of the garter was dead. Philippa had hated her for taking his love, but today she felt only grief.

She fought to keep her gaze high, not wanting to see the desperation in the eyes of her people, the slack faces of the ones who could not face even this day without a bellyful of wine, the disheveled garments of the heedless lovers. The first gathering of her husband’s great order deserved better than this. She had urged Edward to wait until the pestilence had passed, and with it the madness—the idea that one should take joy where one may, for the end is near. Even Joan, so careful till now, had dared to cross the line, openly favoring Holland over Montagu.

Philippa took her seat at the front of the stands, calming herself as her women settled in round her, and waited until the
crowd quieted. Now, to a loud fanfare of trumpets, clarions, and tambours, the Knights of the Garter rode onto the field, fanning out behind her two Edwards, king and crown prince. All twenty-six warriors sat astride caparisoned warhorses, men and their steeds draped in the deep azure livery powdered with the silver-buckled garters of the order. The brisk wind snapped their cloaks, punctuating the quiet as the fanfare abruptly ceased. A few uneasy horses jiggled their harnesses or snorted. How proud were the knights before her, how fierce, how heartbreakingly mortal. Already, in the year since Edward had named the Garter Knights, the pestilence had plucked two from the list, and he’d perforce named two new worthies to replace them. As Philippa raised her voice to announce the beginning of the tournament, she felt the crowd come alive with anticipation, and a thrill of pride pulsed through her, raising her high above the grief into which she’d fallen for so long. Perhaps Edward had been right. Perhaps this was exactly what the kingdom needed. They would prevail.

She noticed Will Montagu slumping in his saddle and gave him a stern look, gesturing with her chin that he should straighten up. His mother would have wished it. As if he’d seen her, he sat tall.

J
OAN
’
S EYES SLID FROM
T
HOMAS
,
PROUDLY WEARING THE BLUE
,
white, and silver of the Order of the Garter, sitting tall in the saddle, his smile so wide she could see his dimples from the stands, to the queen, lifting her chin at someone. Ned? He was not looking at her but down the line of men, then meeting his father’s gaze with a nod. A sudden movement caught her eye, and she saw Will straighten. Her heart softened a little. To parade in public with his grief so fresh—it was cruel of the king to have insisted upon it. “Your Mother deserves this honor,” he’d barked. Will had hung his head and gone off to dress. She
glanced back at Thomas, smiled, and waved. Was that a slight nod? She slipped her hand into Lady Maud’s.

“My Robert has been vindicated for all the barons to see,” Maud whispered. “His Grace would not so honor the sons of a traitor. This is well done.” She squeezed Joan’s hand. “I’m glad to see your smile.” She’d dismissed Isabella’s taunt about squandering Count Raoul’s ransom. “She doesn’t know my son Robert. He would have used it for his own pleasure, not to strengthen the estate.” She’d urged Joan to forget all the dowager queen had said. “I will not have her undermine all that Thomas, Alan, and I have fought for.”

At the feast afterward, Joan bowed to the dowager queen as she passed to the second table, giving her mother her seat at the high table, walking with head held high to sit with the Hollands and their guest, Raoul de Brienne, Count of Eu and Constable of France. The gossips be damned. There was much drinking, boasting, laughing, dancing, but there were also moments of sudden silence, a memory of Alan touching them. Late in the feast, Lady Maud rose and retreated to the courtyard. Thomas held Joan back when she stood to follow. “She prefers to grieve alone.” Raoul deftly turned the talk to the troubadour songs the minstrels were performing, pulling Joan and Thomas into a debate about courts of love and the chivalric code. She had not heard Thomas express himself so eloquently before. They’d had so little leisure together. She had so much to learn about him.

Occasionally Ned passed behind them, leading a woman out to dance. But not once did he approach Joan that evening. Nor did she see Will in the hall.