The First Princess of Wales (19 page)

Joan wondered if she had so much in common with Louis de Male then—a man who had lost his father and now hated the Plantagenets for that loss. He smiled at them and was forced to hold his tongue against their power even as she did. She, too, smiled and picked up the thread of conversation as though nothing were amiss.

“Until they are properly attached, my lord? That rather sounds terribly cynical, rather like something the prince would say.”

“Aye,” he said and led her over to a table near the raised dais where the guests of honor would dine. “To tell truth, Lady Joan, that is who did say it first.”

As if their speaking so had summoned him, the prince approached them from behind a carved screen near the dais. He looked resplendent in the royal colors of azure and startling gold, his elaborately belted
surcote
quartered to flaunt both the leopards of England and lilies of France. His brawny legs were encased in hose of darkest cobalt blue which fit like a second skin. A short
surcote
with side slashes lined with black dotted ermine made his massive shoulders look even broader. His low-slung belt displayed a jewel-encrusted dagger and on two of his fingers, ruby rings winked bloodily at her in rampant candlelight. She no longer wore the beryl ring he had given her so long ago with such pretty words and she saw by his quick glance at her hand he had noted that fact well.

“There you are, my lord prince,” William said smoothly. “I had begun to wonder if I was to seat the lady and have her taken off my hands later.”

“No—thank you, Will. The queen and I will see to her quite well enough from here on.” The young Salisbury bowed stiffly, smiled his familiar smile that suddenly infuriated Joan, and backed adroitly away.

“Take me off his hands?” Joan sputtered. “Why did no one tell me of such seating arrangements, Your Grace?”

He took her velvet arm firmly and led her toward the raised dais where the Plantagenets, but for the king and queen, were gathering, still half-hidden from the other diners by the carved screen. “Now why should you be told ahead, sweet Jeannette?” he countered calmly. “So you could fuss like this or look grim like that or do something silly like refuse to come down to Isabella’s feast at all? I suggest you act civil for her sake if not your own. Besides, I would wager the queen has agreed to my dining with Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, betrothed to Thomas Holland, partly to reward me for the preparations for this whole extravaganza. Do you not approve of anything then?”

His big arm swept the room, the raised table, while his crystalline blue eyes went over her in obvious appreciation. She had worn a lilac-hued velvet and satin gown today, a gown that set off the color of her eyes. The kirtle was daringly tight-fitted both at bodice and waistline before draping to soft folds about her curved hips. Dangling from each elbow a fur-lined velvet piece called a liripipe nearly trailed on the floor. The
surcote
was a deeper violet trimmed in white, plunging low over the bodice to reaveal the taut thrust of her breasts against the velvet kirtle. A single, huge Majorca pearl the Princess Isabella had given her hung at her throat to match the knotted filigree belt studded with clustered pearls. From beneath her skirts peeked violet velvet, low-heeled slippers with the fashionable elongated toes she and the princess now favored. And though it was not her wedding week, in honor of Isabella’s approaching nuptials, Joan had combed her flowing tresses straight back and bound them with a circlet of her own thick braid to let the golden abundance flow in ripples down the center of her back nearly to her hips. All this the prince’s eyes took in just before the blare of trumpets announced the arrival of his royal parents. The Plantagenets, joined by Louis de Male and Joan of Kent, took their appointed places at the long, raised table.

The prince grinned inwardly that Jeannette was seated on the end with only him to converse with easily. Let her lean over him and tease him with her sweet scent that put these strewn table flowers to shame if she wanted to talk to Isabella on his other side. Let her press close so he could drink in the intimate view of her elegant face with those beautifully chiseled features and that champagne riot of loose hair if she dared whisper to Isabella. She would spend the long evening of feasting, entertainment, and dancing with him whether she thought she wanted to or not. St. George, he would have some honeyed smiles from those sweet, red lips or else begin the first of his planned onslaughts and show the wild, little beauty no mercy even if they were right under his watchdog royal mother’s nose!

The echoing room quieted somewhat as guests washed their hands at the gushing ewers at both sides of the room and sought their carefully selected seats. Fifty ushers arranged them by rank and quickly the vast chamber was awash with waves of liveried servants: the butlers rolled in carts of chilled wine bottles; sewers stacked the massive sideboards with covered dishes and began to taste the food to be certain it was not tainted or poisoned; the pantlers cut and tasted bread, delivering salt to the lower tables in hollowed out, day-old loaves like those most of the feasters would use as their plates. Here, at the head table and that of a few honored others, only the king’s favorite, fresh white bread from Chailly was served, diners helped themselves to salt from the elaborate, tall, gilded and jeweled salt cellars, and the guests dined from gold plates. Perfumed, heated wash water was continually offered at the king’s table.

It amused the prince mightily that the first of the fish and egg courses had even been served before Jeannette managed to reerect her pretended wall of indifference and undertake some conversation to ward off his silent stares. Her graceful hands took only a few jellied eggs on her plate and the slightest helpings of seethed pike in claret and salted herring in ginger.

“You made a disparaging comment upon our arrival today, my lord prince, concerning my attitude toward my betrothed, Sir Thomas. I feel you must realize I was pleased to see him briefly in London before he left for his lands in the north. His wounds, though painful, will heal well enough given time.”

“I know that,
ma chérie
Jeannette. I made certain he had the best surgeon’s care on the night he was hurt. But stomach injuries can sap a man’s strength. It is best you are apart for a while then.”

She shot him a sideways look through her thick lashes, but his face was neither taunting nor bitter. “Do not believe I wish him any harm, Jeannette. He is a dear companion-in-arms, a brave warrior older than I who has taught me much. He told you, I suppose, that before he was hit by a damned French crossbow, he captured the Count d’Eu and Sire de Tarcarville on the field at Crécy and will ransom them for the hefty sum of seven thousand pounds? The money, no doubt, will go to formally furnish his new castle in Normandy with which the king has rewarded him for his bravery and loyalty. A moated castle called Châteaux Ruisseau near the River Risle at Pont-Audemer. He told you all this?”

There was a strange edge to his voice, a tenseness of expectancy his calm demeanor could not belie. He watched her carefully, his big, bronzed hand grasping, then ungrasping the stem of his gem-encrusted goblet.

“Aye, he told me all of it. The castle and farmlands do sound pretty. We are betrothed, so why should he not tell me of it?”

“Why not, indeed? You find the betrothal pleasing then? I would have to say your demeanor here with the ever-avid Salisbury suggests the whole thing does not mean a fig to you.”

“Saints, Your Grace. You know how it goes at court with betrothals!”

“And with fidelity in general.” He leaned closer to her as if to check to see if her wine goblet were filled. She had not touched her food but had managed to drink frequently from the goblet, perhaps to hide behind its fluted rim. His pulse thudded as his eyes dipped to the sweet, shadowy cleavage between her breasts pressing against the soft velvet and rich satin. There must be a way to be alone with her, to slake his perpetual thirst for her. He was a fool, and so was his temporarily amenable lady mother if either of them believed a little time with this blond Jeannette would ease his need for her. He motioned to one of the hovering butlers who filled Joan’s goblet with the rich, burgundy wine.

“Not hungry tonight,
ma chérie
? I have heard that when one’s heart is smitten, the appetite flees. In your case, in longing for the lucky Thomas Holland or someone closer, I know not. Perhaps you will play your lute and sing for me if you are too fond to eat all these delicious dishes for Isabella’s joyous betrothal. How is it that little song about love goes now? Ah, I have it.” He sang the words, low and raspy, his voice almost a sensual whisper that sent shivers along her spine to flutter little butterflies wildly in her stomach:

“Alas, my love hath gone away

And now no meat nor drink, I say,

Shall ever please me more until

He loves me of his own free will.”

“Singing at table is forbid in mannerly company, Your Grace. I fear
you
have been away too long at war to remember that. And I care not for your reading of my light eating. Mayhap my kirtle is just fashionably tight-fitted enough or I do not wish to be overstuffed for the dancing. I promised several handsome lords a dance, you see.”

He grinned wickedly at the ploy as though he believed it not. And then, she forced him to eat the words of his song as she tried to eat enough to match him helping for helping at the sumptuous feast. From the meat course she took generous portions of stag haunch, chicken boiled with ginger, and seethed partridge colored sky blue with mulberries. He eyed her hotly while she tried to best him with frosty stares and a large plate at the next course consisting of apricots from Armenia, pomegranates, dates, plum porridge, Brie cheese, and candied flower petals. They ate sometimes without speaking, annoyed that the unspoken challenge of their game was occasionally interrupted by Isabella’s chatter or numerous healths drunk to the affianced couple. Even the king’s boisterous asides to them hardly halted their gustatory battle. Joan almost bolted from the table when she licked her fingers in an intentionally annoying way only to have his strong knee and thigh thrust against her leg under the tablecloth. But when the servers cut a huge, hollow pastry before the queen and twenty black pigeons flew out to circle to the lofty ceiling, Joan stopped long enough to realize she felt as stuffed as the roast peacocks with lighted tapers in their beaks had been.

The prince’s eagle eye saw her waver, her lips tremble. “St. George, I favor a maid with a hearty appetite.” He grinned at her. “Those other huge pastries in the shape of the leopards, mounted knight, and town of Calais will be cut soon and I shall summon us a big hunk of them. Some of that sweet orangeade from that castle moat too, I think, before you have to leave me for all that lively, bouncing dancing with your handsome knights.”

She knew she had overstepped and badly. The room seemed to blur; the gay colors on the floating scarves of ladies’ headpieces below merged and wavered. Too much wine, both ruby red and white and too much food, spices, and sweets. Saints, why had she let the devilish beast goad her into this display and on Isabella’s betrothal eve? The queen would be furious. But if she sat here to gaze on the next course of sweets she would be sick before them all.

“I fear I must excuse myself for a few minutes,” she heard herself tell him. She tried to force a smile. Never, never had she done something like this, never felt so full and floaty all at the same time. If it happened here in front of him, she would simply die of shame.

He leaned forward to pull back her heavy chair for her. Surely, she thought, people will think nothing of this as guests frequently made quick visits to
garde-robes
during a long banquet with much drinking. If only she could navigate that whole long room to the door—smiling, nodding—get upstairs, and find her room without being ill here, she would be eternally penitent.

He said something to Isabella and her smiling, handsome betrothed de Male, a word to the queen, too. He took her arm and she was glad. Others had risen to drink and chat, watch the dizzying jugglers, choose a first dance partner, or just stretch their stiff legs after the four-hour meal. She felt hot now, then cold, and her stomach twisted in a fierce knot.

They were nearly to the door where she would bid him good-night, then flee. She tried to be calm: thank the blessed saints, he did not jest or goad her now. People kept talking to the prince along the way, bowing and curtsying, crazily shouting out, “England and St. George!” or
“Vive Crécy!”
But they went on.

Near the doors a sturdy, square-looking man leaned a black velvet shoulder on the wall and peered over the edge of his wine cup grimly at her until he noted the prince and bowed stiffly. Her eyes snagged with his and despite her discomfort, she hesitated a moment. Black hair etched with silver fell nearly to shaggy brows to cover a wide forehead over deep-set, dark eyes. He looked to be about forty and five years of age. His long, aquiline nose seemed strangely in contrast to his square jaw, narrow eyes, and tiny mustache. He lifted both one disconcerting eyebrow and his cup to her as they went out.

“Can you make the stairs,
chérie,
or shall I carry you and let them all whisper about it later?” The two guards who must be with the prince fell in step behind them.

“No—I can walk. I am fine, really.” They went up the endless, wide stone stairs.

“I am sorry I taunted you to this, Jeannette. You look grayish pale, and I believe I have foolishly lost you for the rest of the evening.”

With great effort she arranged her thoughts and summoned her words: “That man back there—with grayish hair at the door. Is he a Flemish burgher? He looks—a villain. I thought I maybe should or might know him.”

Prince Edward helped her up the last steps, his touch strong on her elbow. “The one all in black velvet? No—he lives here now though and is a fine ally to King Edward. I am certain you have not met him. Here, we are almost there. I will summon a maid for you and hurry back down before they all suspect the worst. The man you mentioned—his name is John de Maltravers.”