Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (51 page)

“Merde!”
whispered the healer, shaking her head at the stench of the wound.

“It is my medicines,” said Simon, insulted by the very presence of such a woman.

But Joan saw by Gabriella’s expression that it was the wound that stank, already corrupted. The healer wanted to open the stitches and clean and repack the wound with boiled boneset and heal-all. Simon disagreed, threatening to leave the camp
if she defied his authority. The men sided with him. But Joan trusted Gabriella, who had warned her privately that Simon either knew nothing of healing or purposed to kill his lord. Joan overrode the men’s protests, insisting that the midwife was right; the wound needed to be opened and drained of corruption. She stayed with Thomas throughout the terrible ordeal, holding his hand, praying with him.

Afterward, he slept more peacefully. Hugh apologized for doubting Joan’s judgment.

At daybreak, they discovered Simon still there, humbled, he said, by the midwife’s superior skill. It took two days of slow riding to reach the château.

A few days after their return Gabriella vanished, leaving no trace.

“It is not uncommon in the field, my lady,” Hugh assured her. “They come for the comfort and leave as they will. She was skilled, though. We will miss her.”

For Joan it was like losing Efa again, for she had no confidence in Simon’s skill. She sent out a few servants to search for the woman, but Thomas put a stop to it.

“The loss of a midwife is of little importance, Joan. We have Simon.”

Reluctantly, Joan let the apprentice work on Thomas’s leg. She watched him like a hawk, and Helena did as well. They relaxed a little as Thomas gained some strength, enough to order his men, then walk short distances, and finally ride, though he needed help mounting and dismounting. They were to shift their base to Rouen in December to meet with churchmen and barons. Joan was more than ready to leave. Simon put them off for a few more weeks, to give him more time to drain the pus.

“It is important that Earl Thomas regain his strength before the journey,” he told Joan, “for the pestilence has returned—the winter one, the one that robs breath, the silent killer.”

Joan lay awake nights, praying that God spare her family, selfishly arguing with him that she’d waited so long for joy that she deserved his protection.

Often she discovered Thomas sitting up to massage his leg, and she would take over. By an unspoken agreement, they kept their conversations in the night to their children and the plans they had for their properties—safe topics, looking forward to a future together. But one night, when Thomas’s pain was grievous, he confided that he did not believe he would see his children again.

“God would not be so cruel,” Joan whispered, drawing Thomas into her arms. But his constant pain worried her.

The first stage of their journey was by sea, from Barfleur to Honfleur. Then they would ride south along the Seine, their party too large to be accommodated on the river. An icy rain fell as they disembarked to continue on horseback.

T
HEY RODE SIDEWISE AGAINST A GALE WIND AND DRIVING RAIN
,
forcing Thomas to press his thighs into his mount to stay balanced, the wounded one throbbing and burning. Faith, his whole body burned, yet he shivered as the storm soaked through his heavy cloak, the heat within consuming, not warming. Broken, useless, he sat by the riverbank as his men made camp, watching the flow, wishing he might just glide in and let it take him, like the filthy cloth the current tore from the hand of the woman kneeling on the bank, washing bloody clothing.

As if hearing his thoughts, the woman turned, smiling, and whispered, “You’re mine.”

How could he hear her at this distance, in this storm? He called his squire, told him to bring her to him.

Giles squinted through the rain. “Who, my lord?”

“The washerwoman on the bank. With the bloody clothes.”

Giles shook his head. “There is no one there, my lord.”

Thomas saw that it was true. She was gone. “I must have fallen asleep.” Giles looked askance, as well he should. Asleep in the icy downpour? Something flickered in memory: Efa’s voice, telling the tale of the washer at the ford.
When you see her, you are about to die
. “Is that a ford, Giles?”

“They say it is in summer, my lord. But not in this season.”

So this was it. Thomas forbade Giles to mention the incident to anyone. Joan must not hear of it.

E
VERYONE WAS DISPIRITED BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED IN THE CITY
,
Joan most of all. Thomas was slipping from her, despite Simon’s constant care.

They were to bide in a town house Ned had acquired as part of a ransom, and the staff who had traveled on ahead to ensure all was ready had done their job well. The servants welcomed them with hearty food, fine wine, soft, warm, dry beds. The cellars were well stocked so Joan and Thomas might woo the French nobles and churchmen with lavish entertainment. Tempers were high, for there was much at stake, and much resentment on all sides. But clearly Thomas had not the strength for such diplomacy. Joan assured him that the king would understand that he could not fulfill this part of the mission. But Thomas insisted that she carry on, with Hugh’s help.

“Wear your elegant gowns, your jewels, and fit Hugh out in my velvets and silks. Preside over a table aglitter with silver plate, Italian glass goblets and jeweled mazers. You’re a better countess than I’m an earl. You’re a Plantagenet. Finish this for me, my love.”

“We will see.”

First, she sent for the infirmarian of the Abbey of Saint-Ouen. Simon overheard and expressed outrage. Rudely, and with far too much panic in his voice. She ignored him, leaving
orders that he was not to be permitted into Thomas’s chamber until the infirmarian had rendered his judgment.

Brother Francis was a compact man with huge, moist eyes. He listened with bent head to Joan’s account, whispering to himself and here and there asking for clarification. “I will see him now.” Stepping over the threshold of Thomas’s chamber, he paused, sniffing, then hurried to the bed, stopping only to bow and introduce himself. “I would see the wound, my lord.” And without waiting for permission he lifted the covers. “Mon Dieu,” he whispered, moving up to sniff Thomas’s breath. He turned those moist eyes on Joan. “My lady, is there a urine sample?” A servant stepped forward with the flask. Francis sniffed, then shook his head, and, bowing to Thomas, took Joan aside. “I would meet this Simon, assistant to your king’s physician.”

But Simon was nowhere to be found. Cursing herself for not locking him up, Joan ordered Hugh to organize a search for him. “And find out whether any of our barons are in France. The archbishop will know.”

When she returned to the infirmarian, Joan found Thomas sleeping naked on the bed, a novice washing him with warm cloths. His right leg was dark, angry red streaks radiating out from the putrefying flesh surrounding the wound.

“God have mercy,” she sobbed.

Francis took her hands and drew her out into the corridor. “I have given him something to make him sleep while Antony bathes him and then opens the wound to drain.” He kissed both her hands. “I am sorry, my lady. Earl Thomas is far too weak to survive surgery to remove the leg. The poison—it has already so weakened his heart. I am too late. There is little I can do.”

For a moment, Joan forgot how to breathe. “What
can
you do for my husband?”

“Make him as comfortable as possible, that is all. It breaks my heart to tell you this, my lady, though I see that you are not entirely surprised.”

“Did Simon poison him?”

“Tell me about his care. All that you know.” Francis listened intently, asking here and there for clarification. At the end, he sighed. “He did not need poison. With neglect, he turned the earl’s body against itself. The midwife said as much, did she not? And when he saw that she knew, he killed her, I’ve no doubt. May she rest in peace.”

Joan crossed herself.

“Did he leave you any physic?”

“No. He kept close control. All his things are gone.”

“I ordered my assistant to keep the soiled cloths with which he’s cleaning the wound,” said Francis. “We might learn more. But it will not save your husband. We will make him comfortable, then take the cloths away. I will return in the morning—with answers, I hope. May God watch over you.”

When the monk had gone, Joan sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing the damp hair from Thomas’s forehead, kissing his brow, his cheeks, his lips. Taking his hand in hers, she bowed her head and silently prayed that he suffer no more pain, prayed that her children were safe, prayed that whoever had set Simon on them died a long, painful death.

Thomas woke in a few hours, seeming more lucid. He wanted to hear all that Francis had said. When Joan hesitated, he told her about the washer at the ford.

She felt a dread chill. “Why did you keep this from me? We should have put Simon in chains there, at the ford.”

“The harm, if it was done by him, is done. My love, promise me that you will not waste your life searching for my murderer.”

“Thomas!”

He put a finger to her lips. “I might have died a thousand times on the battlefield, or in a raid. This is no different.”

“It is, Thomas. He was an assassin. I would know who sent him.”

“Promise me, Joan.”

“Our fathers—”

“All the more reason to prevent our children from suffering as we did, carrying the burden of resentment for a past that cannot be undone.”

He soon fell asleep, and Joan stayed beside him, holding him as if, by her will, she might draw him out of the clutch of Death.

In the early morning, Thomas cried out in his sleep that something was chasing him. When he rose to consciousness he complained of a dry mouth, a racing heart. Joan sent for the infirmarian, refusing to wait until Brother Francis saw fit to appear.

In the hall she found Sir John Chandos, one of Ned’s most trusted knights.

“My messenger found you?”

He nodded. “My lord Prince Edward sent me to observe the meetings. But the news—Earl Thomas—I have sent a message to my lord at Calais. I know he holds you in the highest regard. I very much think that he would wish to know, and that you might find comfort in his knowing—and his presence, if it is possible. I will see to it that the nobles and churchmen understand the situation.”

“I am grateful for your kindness, Sir John.”

Despite Joan’s summons, Brother Francis did not arrive until late in the afternoon. “I wanted to have an answer for you, and I have. The residue in the cloths was a grease with no healing qualities whatsoever. His poison was neglect, as I said. This Simon was no healer.”

“God rot his soul.”

Thomas shook his head. “Forget him, my love.”

His breathy speech caused Brother Francis to lean close, smelling Thomas’s mouth, then putting an ear to his chest. He shook his head as he rose. “Your chest fills with fluid.” He called
to the servants, “Cushions! Ensure that the earl is upright at all times.”

Joan crossed herself as she witnessed how much assistance Thomas needed to sit up.

Brother Francis took her aside. “He is sinking rapidly. I would purge or bleed, but he is too weak. A sweat might help draw out the poison.”

Joan sat with her beloved as he slept, watching Brother Francis’s novice place hot stones wrapped in cloths soaked in a physic at Thomas’s feet, all along his sides, tucked in toward his neck. As the sweat came forth, Antony bathed Thomas with fragrant water, praying all the while. She sensed Thomas relaxing under the regimen.

Yet in the morning Thomas was so weak that he could not hold a spoon. Joan fed him some broth. In halting, slurred speech, he apologized for his condition. The fear in his eye made her cold.

“My love, my love, do not agitate yourself with worry for me. I thank God that I am here with you. I love you, and I will do everything in my power to bring you back to health.”

Shakily, he curled his hand round her wrist and drew her close, pressing his forehead to hers. “I have been so blessed to have your love.”

She did not leave his side except to relieve herself. Sometimes she stood and walked slowly round his bed as he slept, and sometimes she slept beside him.

O
NE MORNING SEVERAL DAYS AFTER HE
’
D TAKEN TO HIS BED
,
Thomas asked for a priest. “I would be shriven, in case.”

Joan was privy to his halting confession of minor ill feelings, a few politic lies, his doubts about his father’s honor.

“Doubting God is a sin, my son, but doubting that you understood
another’s heart—there is no blame in that,” said the priest.

Joan wished Thomas would save his strength. As if he’d heard her distress, the priest cut the confession short and gave Thomas absolution, then the last rites.

The following day, Thomas did not seem to know any of the old comrades who came to pay their respects, even Hugh. Joan and Hugh held each other’s hands as they sat beside him after the others had filed through.

And then, a commotion at the door, a scent of myrrh and fresh air, and Ned strode into the room. He bowed to Joan, hand to heart, then dropped to one knee beside Thomas and took his hand, and with bent head remained there a long while, sometimes murmuring prayers, sometimes silent.

When at last he rose, Ned joined Joan and Hugh, taking Joan’s free hand in both of his. His warmth steadied her.

At one point Thomas woke, asking for her, and Joan went to him, whispering comfort. He put a shaky finger to her lips, smoothed her hair.

“I see him there,” he whispered. “He has waited for you all this time. I hated him for it. But now—”

“Hush, my beloved. You have my heart, now and forever.”

“He can protect you. And the children.
Let him
.”

Joan silenced him with a kiss, then stretched out beside him as he drifted off again, whispering to him of her love, of the joy he had brought her, and speaking of their beautiful children. Now and then his eyelids flickered and his breathing changed. Once he groped for her hand. She believed he heard her endearments. She was still there beside him, in the dark of the night, when Thomas breathed his last, a much quieter exhaling than before, and then, a terrible peace.