Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (5 page)

“Fortunate you. As long as you are small enough to sneak about, you will remain the queen of rumor.”

“But I’ll have no one to share it with.”

“I wish your mother had agreed to Sir Edward Montagu’s
suit. I like him. He’s handsome and loves to dance. I could have been happy with him, and I might have stayed at court with you.”

“Mother had nothing to do with that. It was Father who put a stop to it. What would he gain in giving you to the Montagus? William Montagu is already his closest friend, and absolutely loyal.”

So Bella did not know of her grandam’s part in the decision.

Sandrine held up a mirror for Joan to see her work. Two braids entwined with gold thread and pearls held Joan’s hair back from her face and looped round a gold circlet from which a small pearl pendant hung down her forehead.

“Oh! How lovely,” Joan whispered, smiling sincerely for the first time that day. “Mary, I hope you were watching how Sandrine did this. Mary?” Her servant had fallen asleep on a stool by the door, Joan’s shoes forgotten in her lap.

Sandrine fetched the shoes.

“Your mother might have sent you with some new gowns,” Bella said. “That one’s tight and a little short.” She leaned close to whisper, “And why did she send you with Mumbling Mary? You need a lady’s maid.”

“She says that, as your mother ordered me here, she can pay for new gowns or a lady’s maid.” Joan resented her mother for it, and Bella for erasing the speck of confidence she had found in her reflection.

“Mother pay for it? She says Parliament has left us begging. Both crowns have been pawned to bribe our allies. You’ll have nothing from her.”

Perhaps Joan should be grateful. Her mother’s meanness might keep suitors away. Except that the king was desperate.

Bella swept a bow and extended her hand. “Might I have the honor of escorting you to the great hall, Lady Joan?” she said in the lowest key she could manage.

Joan took Bella’s hand and twirled her around, then, hand in hand, they hurried off.

A raucous swirl of color greeted them in the crowded hall.

“We’ll be able to see from atop a bench.” Bella had a servant lift her up onto one near the door, then Joan. With much giggling, she pointed out the French fashion some of the young men were wearing—short jackets that revealed the shapes of their buttocks, ballock-knives hanging over their codpieces. “Lady Lucienne says if you’ve as yet no fortune, display the goods.”

Lucienne, Lady Townley, was the liveliest of all the queen’s ladies, a songbird among the crows. She was so out of place in the household that Joan’s mother believed the aged and infirm Lord Townley must pay the queen handsomely to keep his wife in the thick of the action so that he might have peace on his northern estates. Bella, Ned, and Joan believed Lucienne was the queen’s spy among her fellow courtiers, but so far she’d evaded their attempts to trap her. It was true that her husband denied her nothing—when she traveled, she required a large cart and a dozen packhorses to accommodate her wardrobe. What Joan and Bella liked best about her was her irreverent wit and her refusal to shelter them from the salacious goings-on at court.

Bella exclaimed over the prancing ponies and wondered how some of the younger women ever dared bend over, their bodices were laced so tight and cut so low. “There is Jan, Duke of Brabant.” She pointed to a squarely built man in a calf-length houppelande of green brocade with deep blue trim, a peacock feather in his hat. “That is not a friendly but a cunning smile.”

“I will remember that.”

“And the young woman surrounded by Mother’s ladies is Ned’s future queen, Marguerite, daughter of the cunning peacock.”

Ned’s future queen had a plain, though pleasant, face, but in her bright yellow silk gown with slashed sleeves, revealing a deep green silk beneath, she seemed elegant, regal. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen. But look, follow her gaze.”

It led back to a strikingly handsome man talking to Marguerite’s father. Though his jacket was not cut so high as to be lewd, he wore it to such advantage that Joan felt herself blush to look on him, standing with chest thrown out, chin up, one leg slightly bent in front.

“The Gascon stallion,” Bella whispered. “Can you blame Marguerite for adoring him?”

Dark hair, dark eyes, chiseled face, full lips, his garb sable velvet but for a crimson hat. “Who is he?”

“That, cousin, is Bernardo Ezi, Lord of Albret, a powerful Gascon. Another man Father needs on his side. He is said to have asked for
my
hand. For his son. But Father will not hear of it. I’m for someone grander. A pity. If his son is half as beautiful … Oh, look. There is someone far too skinny for the short fashion.” Bella giggled.

Joan glanced at the young noble, whose leggings hung like empty sacks, but her eyes were drawn back to the Gascon stallion, then to a dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty in deep green silk slashed with cream and decorated with seed pearls headed in her direction.

“Lady Lucienne!” Joan called.

Perfuming the air with roses and spice, Lucienne bowed to Princess Isabella and whisked Joan away, keeping up a merry banter about the guests to put her at ease. She introduced her to German lords, dignitaries of Antwerp, Vilvoorde, and Brussels, as well as to one of Queen Philippa’s brothers and an elderly aunt. Queen Philippa herself took over to introduce Joan to the duke, his sixteen-year-old daughter, and the Sire d’Albret before handing her back to Lucienne.

“Why was Her Grace so keen for me to meet the Gascon stallion?” Joan asked Lucienne.

Lucienne’s laugh was wickedly throaty. “Never let Her Grace or the other ladies hear you refer to him that way. Is that
all Princess Isabella told you of him? Not how important he is to His Grace in Gascony?”

“Yes, but what is that to me? Is he peddling an heir?” Joan pretended she did not know where this might be going, curious to hear Lucienne’s take.

“Aren’t they all? Or a blushing daughter. Faith, I know little of his family but that his wife, Lady Mathe, was disappointed to be married off to someone not remotely related to Philip of Valois, no matter how handsome. How cold-blooded she must be. He is beautiful, is he not? Like a god, so …” Lucienne’s voice trailed off as Sir Thomas Holland entered the hall.

Joan’s heart dropped to her stomach as she watched Lucienne watching Sir Thomas all the way to one of the lesser tables, where he joined his fellow knights in the king’s guard. How could she hope to compete with the beautiful and experienced Lady Lucienne?

“Sir Thomas and I shared a pleasant meal on deck the last night aboard ship. After everyone slept,” she said with more than a little venom.

Lucienne looked down at Joan as if she’d forgotten who she was. “Did you?” She wrinkled her nose. “How kind of him. You must remind him of his little sisters.”

That jibe had certainly come back to prick her. “Do you know him well?”

A lusty laugh. “I know every part of him very well indeed. When my dear Townley breathes his last …” She wiggled her brows as she took Joan’s hand. “But to the matter at hand. We must find your place at the high table.”

All the fun had gone out of the day. “I was hoping to sit with Princess Isabella.” To whom she could make her moan.

“Not today. Her Grace wishes you to sit between Marguerite of Brabant and—” Lucienne’s violet eyes sparkled with glee as she mouthed
the Gascon stallion
.

“I would prefer Bella.”

Ignoring the comment, Lucienne swept her over to the bench, ensuring that she had sufficient cushioning and instructing the servant to make certain that Joan had only watered wine. “For we do not want you to embarrass yourself adoring the Sire d’Albret,” she whispered. And, with a throaty chuckle, she was gone.

Marguerite of Brabant slipped into place beside Joan. As the first course was served, the two exchanged pleasantries, then Marguerite turned to address the person on her other side.

“My lady, have you tasted the mead?”

Joan had not noticed the deep resonance of his voice when the queen introduced them. It was like a warm hand on her heart. She turned to the Sire d’Albret. “No. Mead is too strong for my liking.”

“Too strong?” He reached beneath her hair, gently lifting it to the light, then arranging it on her shoulder, his hand brushing her neck. “You have the Plantagenet coloring and beauty, Lady Joan. Even young as you are, I see the woman who will be, a pearl beyond price.” He proffered her his mazer, holding it close so that she smelled the honey. “A taste to bring a blush to your cheeks.” He held it to her lips and tilted it. She sipped, feeling the heat.

He smiled, lines radiating from his eyes. “Ah, another course.” He abruptly turned away, breaking the spell.

Joan had been holding her breath. Now, with the warmth of the mead coursing through her, she breathed deeply and stared down at her untouched food, her neck warm, her heart racing. She managed somehow to make idle conversation with Marguerite, though in her mind she was reliving how Albret had touched her hair, her neck, how strange he’d made her feel.

By the time the meat courses gave way to savories, even the watered wine was too much for Joan and she pushed her chair a little away from the table, preparing to withdraw with the excuse that it had been a long, tiring journey.

Only then did Albret turn back to her. “Rest well, my lady.” He kissed the top of her hand, then turned it over, brushing her palm with his lips, her fingers perforce stroking his face.

“My lord,” she breathed, withdrawing her hand, confused. Why was he behaving so with her? Did he mean to tease? Whispering her apologies to Marguerite, she fled the hall without a backward glance.

A
T THE END OF THE FEAST
, Q
UEEN
P
HILIPPA INVITED
J
AN
, D
UKE
of Brabant, for a walk in the garden while the king engaged young Marguerite in his round of farewells. Philippa smiled to look on them—Edward so tall, so regal, leaning down to say something to make the young woman laugh. Marguerite’s eyes sparkled, and she seemed to grow taller as she crossed the room on Edward’s arm.

Philippa, too, had her hand through the arm of a man bent on charming her, but she knew that, unlike her husband’s, the duke’s good humor was a mask meant to shield him from scrutiny. Despite the proposed betrothal, Jan of Brabant could not yet be counted on to support Edward’s cause when the time came. Until the pope gave his blessing to the marriage of Marguerite and young Edward, and the Parliament back home raised the additional funds needed to secure this man, he was easily wooed back to Philip of Valois’s side, supporting him as the reigning and rightful king of France.

When they had passed through the yew hedge and were no longer in sight of the guesthouse, she turned to him.

“Is Lady Marguerite happy with the prospect of being the future queen of England and France?”

Jan continued to smile. “She will be when she ceases her worrying about how I shall manage without her. Marguerite was still young when her mother died. It forced her to mature too quickly, running the household and acting as my hostess.
In truth, I fear I kept her with me too long, out of selfishness. It is time she had her own household. At sixteen, my wife was already a mother. My daughter will do her duty, Your Grace, never doubt that.”

Fortunate parent to be so certain of his child’s obedience. Philippa’s son was not so easily commanded.

“Soon your husband takes his men south, into France, challenging your uncle’s right to the crown,” he said. “It must be difficult for you. His Holiness and your own mother favor your uncle’s claim over your husband’s.”

A fact of which Philippa was only too aware. Just that day she had received yet another letter from her mother, the dowager countess of Hainault, urging her to dissuade Edward from
coveting your uncle’s crown
. Her mother reminded her that she was still in mourning for Philippa’s father.
Would you add to my grief?
But Philippa was not moved by her mother’s sudden affection for her brother Philip of Valois, remembering how often she’d supported her own husband against her brother’s aggression.

“My husband’s claim is far stronger than my uncle’s. The dowager countess of Hainault will see that in the end.”

The duke murmured his agreement, remarked on the rose garden, then slowed to examine an espaliered pear as he said, “Regarding Lady Joan, Albret would be grateful for the details of her birth.”

“Her birth? She is the daughter of Edmund, Earl of Kent, son of the great King Edward, my husband’s grandfather—”

“Forgive me for not being clear, Your Grace. He asks for the date, time, anything that might be of use to his astrologer. Bernardo consults Timeus on all important decisions.”

“Why does he not ask this himself?”

Brabant shrugged. “My friend is a cautious man. He wishes to know more before approaching you. And he is—to be frank, though she is a lovely child, she looks a poor cousin, her ill-fitting
gown, her lack of jewels.” He shrugged. “And there is the manner of her father’s death, executed as a traitor.”

“My husband cleared him of all guilt years ago.”

“Of course. But the memory lingers, a slight metallic taste in the mouth. You understand. A princess, now …”

“Out of the question. As for Lady Joan’s wardrobe, she has just arrived—we’ve had no opportunity to freshen it. She is at a changeable age.”

“My apologies. I pray you, do not tell my daughter that I have offended you in my role as go-between. Lord Bernardo is certain to think differently once Lady Joan is dressed according to her status. First impressions are, fortunately, quickly forgotten.”

“Just so. What can you tell me of his son?”

“Arnaud Amanieu? He is of an age with Lady Joan and favors his father in appearance. He’s had the finest tutors and already trains with his father’s knights. He will inherit his father’s extensive lands and power.”

Philippa nodded. “I shall have my secretary gather the information.”

Jan bowed to her. “I shall inform Bernardo.”

They strolled back to the guesthouse, discussing the art of espalier.