Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (9 page)

“My lady, Lady Joan, you are dreaming,” one of the wet nurses whispered as she gently shook Joan.

She sat up, hugging herself to stop the shaking. “God be thanked.”

Bella had a pillow atop her head, already back to sleep.

Felice had raised up on one elbow. “You were thrashing about and gasping as if you would scream, my lady. Should I send Mary for some wine to soothe you?”

Joan had already seen that her maid was not asleep at the
foot of the bed, as she should be. It did not matter. She could see a hint of dawn out the window. “There is no need. Go back to sleep.”

When Felice’s breath steadied, Joan rose and dressed, telling the wet nurses that she would be in the chapel. Her soft shoes whispered down the steps and across the tiles of the great hall. She slowed down as she walked through the kitchen, savoring the warmth and the ordinariness of the servants beginning their day, then wrapped her short cloak round her and stepped out into the garden. She meant to gather dew from the lady’s mantle growing there, her nurse Efa’s herbal spell to free one’s soul from a frightening dream—a thimble’s worth of dew, then thrice round a willow. There was a great old willow out beyond the fruit trees, so old that it had been there when the river wall was built and it curved around it, leaving just enough space for a slender person to pass between the wall and the trunk. She and Bella sometimes hid there to trade gossip. She picked a leaf from the bed of lady’s mantle, tipping back her head to drink the sweet dew. Now for the willow. Removing her shoes so the dew damp grass would not ruin them, she tucked her front hem into her girdle and ran across the lawn to the dry ground beneath the ancient willow.

It was dark beneath its thick, hanging branches, and the bole so broad that someone might hide on the far side. Three grown men might just span the trunk with arms outstretched. She would not have dared make the circuit had this not been such a protected place, an abbey garden surrounded by high walls patrolled by the king’s guard. Even so, she shivered as she moved into the absolute dark inside the hanging foliage between the trunk and the wall, feeling her way over the twisted roots, one hand on the rough trunk for balance, barely breathing. Coming round to the orchard side she found the rosy dawn replaced by a soft river mist, settling down over the fruit trees, chilling the air.

Taking a deep breath, Joan wrapped her cloak more tightly
about her and forced herself to begin the second circuit, telling herself that, now that she knew what to expect, it would not be so frightening. But the gloom had deepened and her heart pounded as she fought the memory of the dream, the hot breath on her neck.
Who had it been? No, do not think of it. This is a cure. It will take away all memory of the horror
. Her hand on the trunk, she focused on placing one foot in front of the other, whispering Hail Marys. The prayer was not part of Efa’s cure, but it felt right.

Her teeth chattered as the cold spread upward from her chilled feet.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I do not feel the cold, I do not feel the cold. My feet are warm. I am walking on sun-warmed sand
. Coming out again within view of the orchard, she was torn between pushing on for the third circuit, because to pause was to cool down even more, or to sit down on the grass and cover her feet until they warmed a little. She remembered Efa telling her that a counterspell, once begun, must not be abandoned or else the power of the original spell tripled.

She pushed on, back into the darkness, her feet so cold now that she had trouble feeling for her balance. But the dream had been so frightening, she must complete this counterspell or she would be afraid to sleep. She felt the wall beside her, the halfway mark. A shudder went through her, forcing her to pause and catch her breath. She felt a presence. Behind or ahead? Behind. She hurried forward, saying a prayer of thanks when, once more, she could see the orchard through the foliage.
Silly Joan, you frightened yourself
. But she had completed the spell. The dream was dead. Slipping down, she rested against the trunk, closing her eyes, catching her breath.

“What have we here? An orchard sprite?” Startled, Joan tried to rise, but Lord Bernardo put his hands on her shoulders as he crouched down, trapping her as he slipped a hand beneath her skirt to touch her bare feet. “Is she real? Ah, yes, I feel flesh. But so cold!” He rubbed a foot in his warm hands, the
action pushing up her skirt and causing a strange sensation up her thighs. Her whole body flushed and tingled.

What was he doing? She pushed at his hand and pressed her legs together, trying to twist away. “Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Let me warm the other, my sweet.” He kissed her forehead as he reached for the other foot, tucked farther under her.

“Don’t touch me!” She shrieked, hoping someone would hear.

“My lord!” a man’s voice called sharply.

God be thanked
. Thomas had come to save her.

With amazing speed, Bernardo scooped Joan up and turned with her in his arms. “Ah, Sir Thomas. You catch me in the act of rescue. It is most fortunate that after a long night in the war room I came out to clear my head. I discovered Lady Joan asleep beneath the tree. The fog moved in so quickly—she is cold to the touch.”

“Yet warm enough to cry out, my lord. My squire will see her safely to her quarters,” Thomas said firmly. He handed Joan’s shoes to Hugh and then lifted her from Bernardo’s arms, steadying her as he set her down.

She was crying by now, her relief overshadowed by her humiliation. She frantically scrubbed at her forehead. “Come, my lady,” Hugh whispered, holding out a hand to help her balance as she stepped into her shoes, let down her skirt. He began to lead her out through the trees, guiding her with his voice and a hand gently holding hers, but Joan stumbled as they reached the paving stones, blinded by her tears. “It’s best that I carry you through to the great hall, my lady. Do I have your leave?”

Joan nodded. “Take me to the queen’s chamber.”

Hugh lifted her as if she were a small child and carried her through the warm kitchen and into the great hall. There Lady Lucienne rushed across the tiled expanse toward them, crying out their names. The sight of her brought on a fresh torrent of tears.

P
HILIPPA TOOK IN THE SHIVERING GIRL
,
HER HAIR WILD AND TANGLED
with willow leaves, her gown and shoes wet and stained with grass and mud, her eyes swollen from weeping. Clapping her hands, she sent her ladies and the servants scurrying for a cushioned chair, blankets, heated stones for Joan’s feet and hands, and strong brandywine.

Lucienne told her what she knew. “Sir Thomas is escorting the Sire d’Albret from the abbey grounds, Your Grace.”

“Bring Holland here when he returns,” Philippa ordered. “No mention of this is to leave this chamber. Do you hear me?” All present bowed their heads in submission. “Now go, wait without.”

She smoothed Joan’s forehead and squeezed her shoulders, then, easing into the chair across from the girl, she took the icy hands in hers. “Tell me everything, as best you can.”

Joan haltingly described what happened.

Philippa was relieved to hear that Holland had arrived in time. The girl was frightened, but intact. God be thanked. What was Albret thinking, rubbing the child’s feet, such an intimate touch? “Do not for a moment believe that you are in any way to blame, Joan.” Philippa kissed the girl’s icy hands. “Lady Angmar will escort you to your bed in the nursery, where you are to remain for a good, long rest—I shall send along a soothing draught for you. Angmar, tell Princess Isabella and all in the nursery that Lady Joan frightened herself with a silly spell and Holland found her curled up and weeping beneath the willow.” Bella would eventually find out the truth, but a few days’ delay would give Joan time to recover her composure.

Felice and Mary would be reprimanded for their negligence, and all the household would be ordered to ensure that from now on neither Bella nor Joan left the nursery without a companion.

As Joan departed in the company of Lady Angmar, Thomas Holland arrived. Philippa noted the cold look he gave Lucienne as their eyes met. A romance gone sour? Or did he blame her for the negligence of her lady’s maid?

“I commend you on your timely arrival and swift, decisive action, Sir Thomas.”

Hands crossed over his heart, he bowed. “It was the cook, Brother Piers, who alerted me, Your Grace. He knew Lady Joan was alone in the orchard, and, seeing Lord Albret out there, he sent a boy for a guard.”

There was the potential source of the gossip—the kitchen staff. Philippa summoned the cook, commending him and then ordering him to silence his staff.

Such a disturbing morning. Philippa thanked God over and over that Brother Piers and Holland had saved the day. But what were they to do about Bernardo Ezi?

She wondered what Edward thought when Albret did not return to the council room. She sent word requesting that her husband come to her at the first opportunity.

“Fetch Lady Clare. Tell her to bring her lute. I would be soothed by her music and sweet voice.”

G
RIM-FACED
, E
DWARD ORDERED HER LADIES OUT OF THE ROOM
,
then turned on Philippa. “What happened? On whose order did Holland escort Bernardo Ezi out of the abbey?”

“Albret disgraced himself in the orchard this morning,” Philippa said, keeping her voice low. “He frightened your cousin, Lady Joan, rubbing her feet and kissing her. He insulted her and us with his familiarity. She is a child under our protection.”

Edward shook his head. “I’ve had a messenger from Brabant, outraged by the insult to his friend Albret. He says Albret
treated my cousin as he would his daughter. She was cold, frightened. He was warming her before she took a chill. And for this he was treated so dishonorably? I asked you on whose order, wife.”

“On no one’s order, my lord, but spurred by the affront to Lady Joan, your cousin, our ward. You would defend him? She is not his daughter, Edward. How can you possibly condone such behavior? He offended her honor and ours.”

“Well, now he’s taken ship for home precisely when I need him most, thinking it best that he remove himself.”

“So says Brabant, the very man Albret chose to bring to us his complaint that Joan was awkward, her gowns unbecoming and marking her as a poor relation. It was cleverly done. Then his daughter urges Joan to accept Albret’s gifts, assuring her that he is just a kindly uncle who makes young girls laugh by pretending to be a lovesick suitor. And so she softens and is blamed when Albret, a man old enough to have fathered a son Joan’s age, does not have the moral fortitude to keep his hands to himself. They have played us, Edward. They have betrayed us and frightened and shamed your cousin. Where will it end? Has your mother’s ambition brought you so low? How far will you crawl for Brabant’s amusement?”

“I do not crawl!”

“No?”

“And leave Isabella out of this.”

How, when it was she who had driven him to such ends? But Philippa knew by his red face and angry eyes that she’d said enough. “Leave me now. Return when you’ve ears to hear the truth.” She turned her back on her husband, a gesture so alien to her nature and her love for him that she prayed it would shake him awake. It was not for Joan she did this but for her husband’s honor.

Behind her he growled as he poured himself some wine,
then began pacing the length of the room, pausing only to drink deeply and refill his cup. Standing sentinel, she reminded herself to breathe.

At last he came to rest so close to her that she smelled the sweet wine on his breath as he asked her forgiveness. “God blessed me with a wise helpmeet, and the wit to know I will regret it if I do not give ear to your words.”

She turned, holding out her hands to him. His eyes were sad now, his temper cooled. He grasped her hands and kissed her tenderly on the mouth.

“You are right. Our honor has been challenged by Albret’s too familiar behavior. So what should be done, Philippa?”

“We coolly correct Brabant’s account, instructing him in the nature of Albret’s transgression. And, when the time comes, if he pursues the marriage bond we reject him.”

Edward was shaking his head.

“This match has been poisoned, my love,” Philippa said.

“We shall see. For now, you will move the household to Ghent as soon as I march south. Albret will not bother you there. He distrusts the Flemish merchants as much as does Brabant.”

“So it shall be done, husband.”

“I have not said I’ve given up on this match.”

“As you wish, my love.”

P
HILIPPA WAVED
L
UCIENNE ASIDE AND LOOKED WITH STUDIED DISPASSION
at the girl standing before her, pale, with dark circles round her defiant eyes, her hands curled into fists, demanding that Albret be punished. “Be easy, my child. He has taken ship for Gascony.”

“If he still pretends to negotiate a marriage between me and his son?”

She had hoped the girl would not ask quite so specifically about that. “I am confident that the Sire d’Albret will keep his
distance henceforth, especially if you are betrothed to his son. His wife would see to that, I assure you.”