said.
‘You can deny nothing. This is a declaration of war.’ And then on a thought that pulled his brows together. ‘Has your marriage been consummated?’ Thomas demanded.
Will flushed. I said nothing, causing a bark of unkindly laughter from Thomas.
‘No,’ Will admitted. ‘Yet she is still mine.’
‘God’s Blood! We’ll see about that!’
Thomas strode out of the chapel. Will and I were left looking at each other.
‘He did not take it well,’ Will observed.
‘No, he did not. Did you expect him to? You threw down the gauntlet and Thomas picked it up.’
‘I wish you hadn’t promised him, Joan. I wish you had not got yourself into this mess. Why in heaven’s name did you do it, when it is obvious to me that you don’t have any deep feelings for the man? If you had, you would not have given your assent to wed me at the eleventh hour. Either that or you are frivolous beyond belief.’
The accusation stung. Did I too wish I had not done it? In that aftermath, in the stillness of the little chapel, I did not know. When I refused to answer his savaging of my motives and my character, Will left me there, striding after Thomas, so that I was once more alone with the Virgin and a terrible sense of disappointment. It would not be shaken away. In despair I knelt before the statue, perhaps hoping for some solace. A little beam of sunshine touched the window, then my coifed hair, the warm dust motes dancing in the still air making me sneeze.
And that was it. There I was, back to that day when I had made my promise to Thomas. Experiencing it again, I was no longer sad. I sparkled with doubt and delight and a magnificent defiance, as I had on that day. It was a glorious moment, vivid with colour, even the scents and sounds intruding as they did on that day to awaken my senses. I sat back on my heels, my hands clasped hard in my lap, my fingers intertwined, and allowed it to sweep over me, all over again.
Spring 1340: Ghent
There was Thomas Holland, waiting for me in the angle of the outer wall where a door opened discreetly into the royal mews.
‘Are we alone?’ I asked.
It seemed that we were, to all intents and purposes. His page and squire did not count. The royal falconer had been lured away for an hour by the promise of ale and a handful of small coin.
Thomas nodded, offering his hand. ‘We have time,’ he said.
At his feet, a bundle of armour wrapped in stained cloth, an assortment of swords, and a rough travelling coffer that had seen many campaigns. I noted it, acknowledging that somewhere his horse would be waiting. It all told its own story of how the day would unfurl, but I would not allow the quick slap of loss to mar what we would do together. What we would be together.
The wind whipped around the buttress to ruffle his hair into disarray and shower my veil and cloak with the dead leaves that still caught in corners such as this. Later I thought it might have been an omen but my imagination was too much engaged to look for portents of doom. Every sense was strained. I looked over my shoulder, for I would be missed soon, a servant sent to discover my whereabouts. There was a limit to the lax supervision; I might have been able to snatch more freedom here in Ghent than in Windsor, but princesses of the royal household were not free to wander unescorted.
Or to give their hands and lips where they chose.
Thomas Holland took my hand, his firm as he raised my fingers to his lips and then, drawing me closer, kissed my cheek.
‘You are late. I was in two minds to leave,’ he admitted.
It was not encouraging, but he opened the door and led me into the dusty warmth, the air redolent of straw and fur and bird droppings, but not unpleasantly so. The royal raptors shifted on their perches. A goshawk hunched its displeasure, mewing sharply at the intrusion.
I sneezed.
‘Did you think I would not come?’ I asked, recovering.
‘I wasn’t sure. Perhaps you are still too young to know your own desires.’
‘Is procrastination the preserve of youth?’ It was a phrase I had often heard Queen Philippa use when her children thwarted her wishes. ‘I am old enough to know my own mind.’
He faced me, foursquare, releasing my hand as if he could give me leave to make a bolt for freedom if I so wished.
‘Then say it, Joan. Do you wish it?’
I barely paused.
‘Yes, Thomas. I do wish it.’
Indecision must still have impaired my expression when he had expected nothing but delight. His brows drew together.
‘I am not convinced.’
‘Well, you should be. If my answer were no, I would have hidden until I saw you ride out of the gates on your way to war.’
But how could I not be uncertain? What I desired weighed heavily against the consequences that snarled and snapped at the edge of my determination until it was ragged. What we did here today could not be hidden for ever. Thomas’s voice fell gruffly, not into chivalric declarations of love, which I might have liked, but into legal niceties, which were certainly more pertinent.
‘There is no bar, Joan. There is no impediment to what we will do.’
‘But there is no permission either.’
‘We do not need permission. Only our own desire to take this step.’
‘They would stop us if they knew.’
‘So they do not know. Nor will they. Or not yet. Not until I have made a name that cannot be balked at.’
I did not think he was naive, but it seemed to me that his eye was on the immediate fight, not on the vista of the whole battle. Now he was looking over his shoulder, at his page and squire who had entered and occupied the small space with us and the hunting birds, so closely that the page threatened to stand on my hem.
‘You two are here to witness what we say. You will not speak of it to anyone, until I give you permission to do so.’
‘No, Sir Thomas.’ The squire’s reply was trenchant. The page, simply overawed into silence, shook his head.
‘On your honour,’ Thomas demanded.
‘On my honour,’ the squire repeated. The page gulped.
He turned back to me.
