The Shadow Queen

‘I thought I would be alone here.’

The voice, quiet yet unexpected, made me jump so that I dropped the route between London and Jerusalem, illuminated with tiny pictures of towns on the way, that I was holding.

The King clicked his tongue and picked it up, smoothing it back onto the table, casting an eye over it.

‘I was not aware that your interests were in discovery of the world, Joan. Or of going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sites.’ There was a gleam in his eye. ‘My advice is to go to Canterbury first, to see if you have a taste for the pilgrim life.’

My cousin, twenty-eight years old now, hardened and bloodied from campaigning, a ruler of supreme confidence and some renown, was laughing at me. The life of a pilgrim with hard travel and noxious inns with their communal beds and lice would not suit me at all.

‘No, my lord.’ I felt a need to be formal. He might be my cousin but he was King and this was his library in which I was trespassing. ‘They are beautiful to look at. I am sorry if I should not have unwrapped them. I know their value.’

His gaze moved from the map to me. ‘There is solace in beautiful work, as I know. If I were not King, yet still I would be a collector of books.’ Then he smiled so that the sombre lines of his face were transfigured into prints of pleasure. ‘I would not have thought you unhappy, with your marriage imminent.’ I tensed. Did he know? Had he some presentiment of the difficulties? ‘The Salisbury boy is well favoured and good natured.’

No, he did not know. I breathed out slowly. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘William is blessed with both face and character.’

‘I wager he’ll make a good husband. I know of no vices.’

‘No, sir.’

I thought that I might tell him, that I might appeal to his judgement for a resolution of my case. Would he not have compassion and rescue me? But Edward was speaking, accepting of my compliance.

‘Marriage can be a vital element, particularly if there is love or strong affection. I miss Philippa.’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘She will be returned from Ghent before your marriage. She will be here to wish you well.’

He sifted through the documents as I had done, selecting one that showed the stretch of water separating England from Flanders and France. And here was my chance.

‘Will you show me where Prussia is, my lord?’

‘We are very formal today, Joan. Here.’ He turned the map so that I could see where his finger pointed to the east. ‘Why do you need to know?’ Then fortunately not waiting for an answer, he added: ‘There are a number of my English knights fighting there in the crusade. The Teutonic knights are intent on taking this piece of territory from the Slavs and Christianising it. A worthy cause. I know Thomas Holland has gone there after Tournai – making quite an impression too, so I hear. I need more knights with the courage and commitment of Thomas Holland.’ He smiled a little wistfully. ‘I recall knighting him some years ago now, at the end of the Scottish campaign. He was very young but impressive even then.’

His name, dropped into the conversation, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, wiped my mind of comment. Then again I saw my chance, running my tongue over dry lips.

‘Is he fighting bravely?’ I asked with all the insouciance in the world. I found that I needed to talk about him, just to hear his name mentioned without vilification.

‘Indeed he is. He has been wounded, but nothing short of a spear through his heart will stop Thomas.’ Edward massaged his thigh with his fingers. He still felt the spear wound. ‘I have had reports that he continues fighting, even with a bandage around his head.’

I inhaled slowly. ‘So he is not dead?’

‘Very much alive. Making important friends on the battlefield too.’ Edward’s glance was suddenly keen. ‘I had no idea that you were interested in military campaigns either.’

‘I am not. Except when it is an English victory. And to know that our English knights are fighting bravely.’

Fortunately for me, Edward’s thoughts were elsewhere, his attention claimed by a chart that showed the northern areas of Flanders and France, and his tone became dark with an unexpected foreboding.

‘My task is not finished there.’ He jabbed at it with a finger. ‘I signed a truce with the King of France because I had not the money to continue the siege at Tournai. It was not a bad truce, you understand. I came out of it before my money ran out.’ He grimaced. ‘What King enjoys defeat? For me the truce had the degradation of failure. But I will fight again. My claim on the throne of France through my mother’s blood is one that must engender respect. We will achieve a great victory there one day with the aid of my brave young knights.’ His gaze, still centred on the map, softened. ‘My son Edward will be a greater warrior than I could ever be. He will make of England a name that will last for ever where tales of greatness and valour are told.’

And in spite of my own selfish preoccupations, I was drawn into his vision.

‘I have a thought, you know. Come and look at this.’ He drew me away, a hand on my sleeve to lead me to a book that he took down from a shelf. Opening it, he turned to a picture that I knew well, for these stories had stirred the romance in my youthful soul: a vivid illustration of King Arthur, seated around a vast table with the best of his knights.

‘It is my thought to create an order of knights,’ Edward was explaining, ‘the bravest ever seen since the days of King Arthur. Men who will fight for right and justice and wisdom, for the glory of England and of God. I will choose the finest, the most chivalric, just as Arthur chose. It will be a great honour for a knight to be invited to join such an august gathering.’ Forgetting about me at his elbow, he was fired with the dream, his eyes alight as he turned the pages to illustrations of Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain and a host of others of repute. ‘I see them bearing an insignia which will be known the length and breadth of Europe. My eldest son will be one of the first. William of Salisbury too, my closest friends who have stood in battle with me. Then there are others, young men such as Thomas Holland. We will test their skills in tournaments where they will show their prowess before the whole world. Perhaps even some of the greatest knights from Europe too will be invited…’

It startled me momentarily, that Edward would include Thomas within his pre-eminent body of man. And yet why not? In my eyes he was brave and bold and everything a knight should be. I could see him in my mind’s eye with that shining insignia on his breast, whatever it might be, the magnificent cloak, if Edward decided that is what they would wear. I knew well the King’s taste for the dramatic in clothing. I was swept along with the glory of it, although Edward was unaware.

‘I will have them take an oath to fight against evil, a stern and binding oath to God and St. George. Now he will be the best saint for our emblem, would he not? My knights will promise to fight the good fight, to stand firm. What a magnificent achievement it will be! King Arthur’s knights have lived long in song and story. Mine will live even longer. I will even have my own Round Table…’

I nodded to encourage his enthusiasm, my thoughts with distant Thomas, recipient of such glory.

‘I have a thought about the insignia. A garter with the words Honi soit quit mal y pense. Evil be to him that evil thinks. What do you think to that?’

Again I nodded.

‘They will live up to their oath to uphold God’s and my law, on pain of dismissal. We will have no more scandal in this land. My reign will be remembered for all time for the honesty of its King and its knights. The law will be sacrosanct. It is a dream I have.’

Edward’s words struck home.

An oath. A solemn, binding oath to live a blameless life, full of honour and sanctity.

‘I will not have scandal and treachery and dishonour in this land. I will not have such a travesty of God’s laws. Any knight who dishonours God dishonours me and will be stripped of his knighthood and cast out of the kingdom.’

It made me shiver.

‘But those who are worthy. What do you think, cousin? What colour shall I clothe them in? You have an eye for colour.’

I sought for a reply, while my mind dismantled Edward’s dream.

‘Blue,’ I said. ‘The blue of the Blessed Virgin’s gown.’

‘I knew you would choose well.’

‘I am not sure that I have any bearing on your decision, Edward,’ fear making my reply acerbic. ‘You have made up your own mind. As you usually do.’

He laughed, before sobering quickly, his face once more losing its light. ‘I think that you at least would tell me the truth. I am beset by enemies, Joan, men who sit at my own board, eat my bread, yet would wish me ill. The Archbishop of Canterbury, God rot his treacherous soul, has proved to be no friend of mine.’

I pretended not to understand, when in fact the whole court understood. To Edward’s wrath, Archbishop Stratford had accused Queen Philippa, that most moral of women, of being in an adulterous relationship, since the child she was now carrying must have been conceived when Edward was engaged in the siege of Tournai.

‘Rumour and gossip! How would the scandalmongers know when and where Philippa and I came together to get this child? And were they counting the weeks and months of its gestation?’ Edward railed, his low voice rendering his displeasure even more implacable. ‘They, with their crude and vicious lies, are the true demons in a well-ordered state. My wife is the most loyal, most honourable woman I know. I’ll not allow vicious tales of impropriety to destroy her reputation. You’ll do well to mirror your own deportment on hers, Joan. There must be no stigma in this marriage with young Montagu. I’ll brook no dishonour, no outrage. Get an heir as soon as possible and settle down into married life.’

Closing the pages with a clap that raised yet another cloud of dust, returning the book to the shelf, Edward angled a glance at me, all comfortable intimacy over in the shade of scandal and adultery. ‘Should you not be learning suitable texts or setting stitches, or whatever it is young brides do?’

No, I could not tell him of my predicament. Edward could not rescue me. Indeed, unwittingly, Edward had made all things clear to me, as terribly shining as the gilded image of King Arthur, that he had just hidden with some force.

Chapter Three

Early February 1341: St. George’s Chapel, Windsor

The Bishop cast his eye over the assembly gathered before God, where the royal blood of England was all-pervading, admonishing them to silence with the mere lift of a finger. Edward and Philippa stood amidst the throng. Returned from Flanders, the Queen had honoured me by attending my marriage, before she would depart to the little manor of King’s Langley for her seven-month confinement, closed off from the world until the birth of this child.

All eyes were focused on me. On William Montagu.

A quietness of expectation fell. The Bishop of London beamed at me. Not the Archbishop of Canterbury in spite of my mother’s hopes. He was persona non grata, not welcome in the royal presence as things stood.

Will turned his head, stiff-necked, to give me the glimmer of a nervous twitch that might have been called a smile, before turning to fix the Bishop with an anxious stare.

I was as cold as death. No smile. No anxiety. Nothing beneath my girdle but a grim certainty.

Indeed, my mind was empty after weeks of maternal bombardment, Philippa’s gift of silk and figured damask chill against my skin, heavy in its weight of gold tissue, eminently suitable to a princess on her wedding day. My lungs were icy as I inhaled every incense-filled breath. The only warmth was William’s hand around mine, clammy with nerves. Despite the February damp, I could see perspiration on his brow if I glanced sideways. It had, I surmised, nothing to do with the new liking for sable fur at neck and cuff and hem that gave him a marked resemblance to the monkey, an ill-considered gift from some foreign ambassador to the royal offspring.

I was standing at the altar, hemmed in by the fixed regard of congregation and of the carved saints and martyrs, my hair released into virginal purity, uncovered by veil or coif, rippling magnificently over my shoulders in bright gold, that challenged even the crucifix before which we would take our vows.

The progression of the marriage ceremony wrapped me about, heavy with portent, impossibly different from my first marriage which had been private, personal, secretive. Utterly lacking in any ceremony. Here we were trapped in formal ritual, the Bishop’s robes more bejewelled than mine. If I looked to my left Edward and Philippa were resplendent, lacking only their crowns to enhance their regality, both so young and hopeful, yet to reach their thirtieth year. Ned too was burnished beside Isabella, ostentatiously wearing her reliquary which was no more magnificent than the Salisbury livery collar that was a gift from William to me. It rested on my collarbones, the gems glinting as I breathed with hollow foreboding.

Thomas Holland, I recalled, briefly, had given me no gifts of any kind.

My mother was engorged with her success. Lord Wake merely looked threateningly fierce whenever he caught my eye, which tended to stir a note of hysteria within me. When I had made my vows to Thomas our company had also been of the raptor variety, although they had ignored us.

Countess Catherine was supported by Lady Elizabeth, clad in a vast array of ancient gems. The Earl was still absent, still sojourning as unwilling guest of the French king.

At last the Bishop turned to Will. It was as if the congregation held its breath to absorb the holy vows on our behalf.

‘William Montagu, vis accípere Joan, hic præsentem in tuam legítimam uxorem iuxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclesiæ?’

I heard Will swallow, but he did not hesitate.

‘Volo.’

He would not dare.

The space around me grew, leaving me alone and insignificant. This was it. This was the moment for my own declaration of intent.

‘Joan, vis accípere William, hic præsentern in tuum legítimum marítum iuxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclesiæ?’

I allowed a slide of eye to my mother’s austerity. I saw fear there. I had been declaring my wish to repudiate this marriage since the day she had seized hold of the Montagu proposal.

I lifted my eyes to the Bishop who was nodding encouragingly. My voice was clear and cool. No hesitation. No stammer. Had I not made my decision? I would not go back on it now.

‘Volo.’

Momentarily I closed my eyes, held my breath, anticipating the bolt of lightning that would strike me down, for surely God would judge my vow and find me wanting. Or some busy person in the congregation would decry me false.

Nothing. No flash of light, no voice raised in condemnation.

Behind me, my mother’s sigh was almost audible. Will’s hand closed convulsively around mine so that I winced a little as we exchanged an awkward nuptial kiss.

‘I wasn’t sure you would go through with it,’ he whispered, his cheek pressed to mine.

The ceremony continued. The drama had been played out, brought to its glorious, heart-stirring end by the choral offering of glory to God. I imagined most of our companions were now anticipating a warming cup of spiced wine before the overblown festivity of the wedding feast. I was the wife of William Montagu. One day I would be Countess of Salisbury. William and I would be cornerstones in Edward’s splendid court, our children securing the Salisbury inheritance for all time.

Why had I abandoned all my professed principles of honour and loyalty to the vows I had made to Thomas, rejecting at the eleventh hour all my fine words that I would never join my hand with that of William Montagu because it would be invalid for me to do so? Many would deem me weak, easily influenced, readily submitting to minds and wills stronger than my own; or to a streak of pure worldly ambition as wide as the River Thames. I could imagine the scorn at my sudden inexplicable change of heart.

Was I driven by an ambition to be Countess of Salisbury in the fullness of time? Surely it was a more advantageous future for a royal daughter to be Countess of Salisbury, rather than the wife of a mere household knight, living on a meagre income? Perhaps it was family pressure, too great to withstand, ultimately being dragged to the altar by a determined mother who issued dire threats of my being forced to take the veil if I continued in my disobedience. Or, in the end, did I just give up hope and submit to the easiest path?

It might be that many a daughter, caught out in the sin of worldly disobedience, would do exactly that.

So why did I abandon my oft-repeated intent with such glib readiness? Because in the closing days of the old year my duty had been made as clear to me as the brilliant glitter of my new collar. Thus I had walked of my own volition to place my hand in Will’s. Once more I had taken these new vows without threats.

Let the world judge me, as it doubtless would, the chroniclers dipping their pens in poisonous ink when they discovered what I had done. At best I would be deemed a pawn in the maw of family political intrigue. At worst an ambitious power-seeker, acting with cold and cruel dispassion, abandoning one husband for a better.

I cringed at the worst.

But so be it. I could keep my own counsel. Who would be interested in my reasoning? The deed was done and there was no hand to it but my own.

Let the world judge as it wished. I raised my head to acknowledge Will’s faint smile of relief, and later, as we shared a marital cup of wine, our lips matching on the rim to the murmured appreciation of the glittering aristocratic throng, there was only one thought in my mind.

I would have to face the repercussions when Thomas returned to England.

I must be strong enough to bear it.

It might be that I was now the wife of William Montagu in the eyes of God and Man and the King of England. It might be that King Edward’s cheerful beneficence was marked by his allowing my distant father-in-law to grant property to Will and myself. It might be that we had an allowance which I was able to spend on the fripperies of life. It might be that we were in possession of the manor and lordship of Mold in North Wales and the eventual reversion of the manor of Marshwood in Devon, where we could establish our household if and when we so chose; both of them too far from court for my liking.

All of that might be true, but there were few changes in my life at this time.

We did not live in our new properties; I did not even visit them. My life, and Will’s also, was still fixed at the peripatetic court wherever it decided to travel and put down its temporary roots. I continued my education. Will continued to flourish as a future knight. I could not imagine living alone with my own household, far from the centre of court and the intrigues of government. This was what I had known my whole life. I could not imagine having no one with whom to have an intelligent conversation other than Will, Countess Catherine or Lady Elizabeth.

But then neither could I imagine living in isolation with Thomas Holland on some estate near Upholland in the far distant and drear reaches of Lancashire.

Yet Will and I preserved, in a superficial manner, the appearance of a married couple. We had plenty to say to each other when we met. At meals. At receptions. At embassies. At the hunt. We were the Earl and Countess of Salisbury in waiting. Will made a point of coming to see me every day.

Sometimes he kissed my cheek if no one was watching.

More often than not he made do with a salute to my fingers.

I curtsied and bade him welcome.

The livery collar – for was I not now a Salisbury possession? – was placed in Countess Catherine’s jewel coffer for safe keeping while Will and I danced, our steps matching with some exactitude. We had danced together since we were both old enough to stand. We had a lifetime of familiarity between us to give us an ease in each other’s company. Seeing us together, my mother, relaxed, decided that she could afford to smile on me. So did Countess Catherine. And Queen Philippa.

Will was my friend. Despite the vows and the priest’s solemn words, we lived as we had always lived since we were still considered too young to share a marriage bed. Indeed, Will, his age the same as mine, seemed content to wait. I prayed that he would continue to be so. My mind was full of waiting. I could speak to no one, although I did try.

‘What will you do when Thomas returns?’ I asked Will.

‘I doubt he will ever return now. How long has he been gone?’

‘A year.’

‘My mother says that he is dead.’

I pursed my lips.

‘You don’t miss him, do you?’ Will sounded anxious.

How could I say yes? It was a strange sort of missing. How could I miss a life I had never experienced? Sometimes it seemed that Thomas was disappearing into a distant void. To my shame, recalling his features was no longer an easy task.

‘You are my wife, Joan.’ It was the ultimate statement of possession.

‘I acknowledge it.’

‘And Thomas Holland is assuredly dead.’

Thus Will had it fixed in his mind that Thomas would never return to cast a cat amongst any flock of pigeons. He no longer thought about my promises to another man, or worried over the knowledge that Thomas had known me intimately. For him all had been wiped clean under the holy auspices of the Bishop of London. Will had no fears for the future.

But I had.

Late Summer 1341: The Royal Manor of Havering-atte-Bower

The first intimation that the day was to hold something out of the ordinary was the bounding into our midst of the hounds, pushing and investigating with no thought to royal deference. The second was the glow that spread over the Queen’s stolid features as she looked up from the small garment she was stitching. Both were enough to inform us who had arrived. We all, apart from the royal infants, rose to our feet, only to be waved back to what we had been doing.

We were sitting beneath the trees, in a number of artful groups, enjoying the warm days of late summer, with Queen Philippa keeping a watchful eye on her youngest children, John and the baby Edmund who, unbeknown to him beneath his downy thatch, had caused all the trouble between King, Queen and Archbishop. Their nursemaids were in attendance. So was Ned, as well as Will who had journeyed to visit Countess Catherine on some matter of estate affairs, and had come to make his farewell to me before returning with Ned to the manor at Kennington where the Prince’s household was established. We were a large and noisy group, which became even noisier when the King arrived with his dogs and the usual parcel of attendant knights, squires and huntsmen.

Without ceremony, Edward kissed Philippa’s cheek, patted Isabella’s head, cuffed his heir a light blow to his shoulder with a wry comment on the splendour of his new satin-lined cloak, anchored by two uncommonly large gold buttons, before inspecting the two-month-old baby in his crib. Then, all niceties accomplished, taking us all in with a smile and a mock bow, he announced:

‘Look who we have here, for our entertainment.’

Edward beckoned.

‘Someone for you to welcome, newly returned from brave deeds and doughty fighting. We will be pleased to listen to all he has to say about distant wars.’

I had no premonition of this. Not one shiver of air had touched my senses, not one whisper of warning. Stilling my fingers on the lute I had been playing, I looked across with open interest, a ready smile for a visitor with a tale to tell. As did we all.

My fingers flattened with a discord of strings. I forced my lungs to draw in a steady breath. Thomas Holland was not dead. Thomas Holland was not severely wounded. Thomas Holland was no longer committed to the religious fervour of a crusade.