I grunted in agreement, but the prince saw something amiss in my countenance. “Methinks that there is a black cloud hanging about
you
, Potenhale,” said he. “What has put you out?”
“
This fellow Holland….” I burst out, but I’d no sooner said it than I saw that the prince was not listening.
All around us a stream of perplexed brows and inquisitive eyes had turned toward an alcove in the southwest corner of the hall; the prince’s own gaze had followed the same path. Thither, at the conclusion of the last dance, King Edward had escorted his fair cousin, and there they still stood. Or rather, there the lady Joan stood, while is majesty knelt on the flagstones beside her, picking up what seemed to be a scrap of linen.
“
Sweet Mary!” murmured Sir Bernard Brocas, who was standing close by me. “’Tis the lady’s garter.”
A lady tittered on my right. From somewhere in the crowd, I could make out Audley’s harsh croak—“it were a right cousinly duty, to put the garter back on the lady’s leg.”
On the other side of the room Sir Walter Manny manfully manufactured conversation with Thomas Bradwardine. “Simple truth is a luxury that the warrior does not know….”
“
Hussy!” breathed a lady in red and silver, the same lady who had been guarding the door the time I entered the queen’s pavilion.
“
Hush,” breathed another, with a graying head of hair.
Queen Philippa, from her seat on the dais, placidly and pointedly directed her attention elsewhere.
But though Philippa chose to ignore the pretty scene in the alcove, it was there that the crowd as a whole had focused its attention. The actors in the corner continued their play. King Edward, laughing, stood up and in his hands he held a piece of lace. “The spoils of war,” he jested merrily and then tied the garter securely around his own leg. General laughter followed; a few gentlemen applauded as if they were viewing a rude burlesque.
The prince stood like one transfixed. His fingers, vine-like, wound tightly about the half-filled flagon in his hand. His eyes were as wide as a full moon in harvest. His jaw had tightened with such force that I doubted it would ever open again. “God in heaven!” he breathed between clenched teeth. “And is this why he bade me not to touch her?”
Someone came close to the prince and gripped his wrist warningly. It was Brocas. “Quiet, highness!” he said, and the prince said no more.
The king, meanwhile, had at last become aware of the staring crowd. He posed nonchalantly with hand on hip, extending the leg that now held the garter. “Cousin!” he said to the lady Joan, “Your beauty has overpowered them all. Look, they stare like men bewitched!”
Joan stood silently, with her eyes on the floor and a warm tinge of red lighting up her golden complexion. “Please, sir,” she said softly. “Do not make a shame of me before all these people.”
“
Shame?” echoed the king in an expression of surprise. “Why, what is shameful in this? The lady has dropped her garter and I have picked it up. Is there any harm in that? Ho, Bradwardine! You are my confessor. Have I aught to confess for removing a lady’s garter from the floor?”
“
I cannot say,” said Bradwardine straightforwardly, “since I do not know how the lady’s garter came to be loosened. But there are many here who think that something shameful has come to pass. Do you not see it in their faces?”
The king gazed around the room slowly, meeting every eye and matching every stare. “Is this then what you all think, that there is something shameful between myself and the lady Joan? As God is my witness, there is no shame here. The real shame lies in you. Shamed be him who evil thinks!”
At this rebuke, the crowd began to blush along with the lady in question. Some turned their heads immediately, trying to pretend that they had not noticed the king’s conduct. Sir Walter Manny stepped forward, offered the lady Joan his arm, and gallantly escorted her to a chair. The king dropped the subject entirely, and began to rally Bradwardine about his latest writings. Slowly, conversations began to resume.
His royal highness, it seemed, was the only one unable to conveniently put the episode out of his mind. Brocas, however, performed a friend’s office, and cajoled the prince outside into the open air. A moment later, Brocas reappeared. “The prince has returned to his quarters,” he said to me. “He requests you to tell his mother that he is unwell and to take leave of her for him.”
I nodded and made my way to the dais. King Edward had returned there before me and, in low tones, was exchanging words with his lady. I stood at a respectful distance, but by careful concentration I could just make out their words.
“
You are not angry with me, my love?” said the king.
“
Nay, lord,” answered Philippa. “But the common folk are foolish in their talk. Have a care or rumors will fly so thick that no man will wed my sweet Joan.”
“
That would be a great pity,” said the king, “for I have a marriage in mind for her already.”
“
Indeed?” asked the queen. “I had hoped that you would turn this affair over in your mind. How soon will the match take place?”
“
Soon enough. We leave Calais within the fortnight. I can announce the betrothal on our arrival in England.”
“
That is well,” said the queen, “yet sooner would be better still; I have had much ado to keep him from seeing her. He kept to himself well enough as long as the Brabant betrothal lasted, but now, alas….”
The king shook his head in displeasure and murmured something I could not catch. I had stood there too long for my own comfort. Anxious to avoid being labeled an eavesdropper, I stepped forward noisily and fell to one knee. “What is it, sir?” demanded the king.
“
Your Majesties,” I said, addressing them both, “his royal highness the prince feels unwell and has retired to his tent. He sends his regretful apologies that he cannot attend the remainder of your fete and takes humble leave of you both.”
“
Please God he not be taken with the plague!” said the queen, a mild terror audible in her voice. “I will have my leech sent for, and any care he needs shall be provided.”
I assured her that he had shown none of the symptoms common to the pestilence, neither spots nor swellings of any kind. She bade me look after him well, and on her word of dismissal I turned about to leave. The hall was crowded and it took some skill to thread my way through the dancers. I was not sad to leave early; the ball had been nothing but frustration for me. But as I went out the door I could not forbear taking one last look behind me to see Margery in her sky-blue dress; she was seated on a bench and frowning heavily as she watched Lady Joan dance with Sir Thomas Holland.
*****
The king, as events transpired, did not wait to evacuate to England before betrothing the lady Joan. Sir Brocas was the first to have news of it. He came in suddenly while the prince and I were at breakfast and stood about woodenly until the prince asked him what was the matter.
“
Here’s a small to-do,” said Brocas with a demeanor of forced calm. “It seems that our friend William Montague has been monstrously valiant in the course of this campaign. And His Majesty, to reward said valor, could think of no better way than to unite him with the house of Plantagenet.”
“
Indeed?” said the prince with arched eyebrow. “And how is such a union to take place.”
“
By matrimony.”
The room grew warm with silence
“
What is the lady’s name?” the prince asked softly, but I think he knew the answer before he spoke the question.
“
It is your cousin, Lady Joan of Kent,” replied Brocas. “She and Salisbury are to be married upon our return to England.”
The prince hesitated. “And the lady Joan? How does she like the arrangement?”
“
They say that when His Majesty told her of this proposed marriage, she fell upon her knees and entreated him not to force her into this marriage. She said she was willing to do anything to avoid it—even willing to take the veil and join a nunnery. But your father would not relent, and in the end she said she would be obedient unto his will.”
The prince’s face was like a mask. He heard the news impassively with nary a motion or a sound. I murmured something vague about seeing to the horses and stepped out of doors into the autumn air.
I was still standing outside when Margery came, heavily cloaked and walking swiftly. Her net of red-gold curls was covered completely by her thick hood. The ivory of her face was even paler than usual and her cheeks looked drawn and haggard.
“
Are you sick, lady?” I asked, thinking anxiously of the few cases of plague that had begun to spring up around Calais.
“
Nay, only sorrowful,” said she.
“
Wherefore?” asked I.
But she shook her head and would not answer. Instead, she handed me a missive and drawing the cloak tighter about herself continued down the street.
I brought the scroll into the tent. The prince read the letter swiftly; it could have been little longer than a few sentences. Then he turned to me and said in earnest, “I have a message to send in return, Potenhale. But I cannot write it, for it must not miscarry. Can you remember my words and repeat them exactly to the lady Joan?”
“
Aye, highness,” said I. Slowly and carefully, he sounded out the message. I repeated it back to him five times before he was satisfied.
When I reached the quarters of Queen Philippa’s waiting women, I was accosted by the same haughty damsel who had sent the queen to seize my letter at the pavilion half a year ago. She wore the same red and silver colors that I had seen her in at the ball.
“
Ha!” said she. “You are the prince’s man, are you not?”
“
Aye,” said I.
“
Well then, what do you come here for?” she demanded.
I cudgeled my brain a little, knowing that it would take all my wits to gain access to the lady Joan. “I cannot help but come here, sweet lady,” said I. “The queen of my heart resides in this place—and where the beautiful sun shines, there the adoring plants will turn their faces.”
“
Then you do not come on the prince’s behalf?” the lady asked suspiciously, and I saw that she had been warned to repel all messengers from him.
“
Nay, I come on my own errand,” said I, “for I would see the cruel mistress who has captured my heart.”
“
Why call her cruel?” asked the damsel. I had piqued her curiosity.
“
For she uses my love cruelly indeed, and when I come to see her she swears she will not see me.”
“
What is the name of this cold-hearted lady?” asked the doorkeeper in red and silver.
“
I will not tell you,” said I. “For you will only make a mock of me.”
“
Nay, Sir Knight!” she protested. “How should I mock you?”
“
How?” I declaimed passionately. “You’ll scorn and flout and spread it about that John Potenhale loves Margery, and alack, she loves him not.”
“
Margery?” said the damsel, and she gave a high pitched laugh like tinkling bells. “You spoke the truth when you said your love was cruel, for Margery Bradeshaw is as cruel as a sultan to her suitors. You are right that she will not see you.
“
But come, Sir Potenhale,” the damsel continued, and a conniving look came into her eye. “I like your face. And I swear I’ll bring you to see hers whether or not she’ll grant you audience. If she spurns your suit, at least you’ll vex her sorely and put her out of countenance. For she has a way of vexing me that should surely be repaid.”
The damsel bade me follow her; I passed through a collection of chambers and corridors only to come back outside into a small enclosed garden. “There is your paramour,” said she, “in attendance on the lady Joan. I shall bring you to them and then leave you to plead your suit.”
Joan and Margery were seated on a stone bench, making use of the pale autumn sun to ply their needles. They looked up as we approached; their fingers ceased to work and they rose to their feet in greeting.
“
Who is this young sir that you bring us, Eleanor?” asked the Lady Joan in dulcet tones.
“
His name,” said the damsel pertly, “is Sir John Potenhale, but I do not bring him to you Lady Joan. He is here to place his heart beneath the heel of your wench Margery. God help him or she’ll crush it entirely!” This said, the damsel smirked maliciously and flounced away, no doubt greatly satisfied by the confusion and choler evident on Margery’s face.
“
Well then,” said Lady Joan, putting away her needlework and gazing from Margery to myself. “I shall walk over yonder, Sir Potenhale, and allow you to speak with Margery unhindered.”
“
Nay, my lady,” said Margery swiftly. “I will hear no protestations of love whereof I am the object.”
“
Then you are fortunate,” said I with a little bow, “for I have no such protestations to make.” I turned to Joan. “Forgive the deception, lady. It was necessary to gain access to your person.”
“
Who are you, sir?” asked Lady Joan, astonished.
“
He is the prince’s man,” interjected Margery, “if a man he may be called.” Now that my true mission was revealed, the scarlet cast to her cheeks had melted away into her usual sauciness.
“
Then he is not your lover?” asked the lady Joan, still confused about the introduction Eleanor had given me.