it would be easy enough to concoct a reason that would not be questioned – I stood, smoothed my skirts – no feathers here – and walked to the door. Where I paused, looking back at the serenity of the Virgin, all the old questions forcing their way into my thoughts to disturb and destroy my certainties.
Why had I defied my mother and the King to marry a lowly household knight, rejecting some puissant marriage that was planned for me? Never had I been asked that one question, except by Will in a fit of pique, not expecting me to explain. Why had I done something so reprehensible, so contrary to my upbringing, treading a path so shocking that it would set the court into a blaze of malicious chattering? I had wed a man with nothing to recommend him other than a handy sword in battle and a handsome face, a man with neither money nor family nor influence. Why would I be persuaded to throw away a future of pre-eminence as wife of some great magnate or European prince, a foolish step that would seem beyond comprehension?
I walked slowly back to kneel once more before the Blessed Virgin, choosing possibilities as I had so many times before, rejecting most of them as of no account.
Thomas had barely wooed me, possessing no troubadour skills to awaken the yearning of a woman for a lover. The arts of courtly love had passed him by. It had been a soldier’s wooing, plain and unembellished. ‘Tell me the name of a knight who would not willingly kneel at your feet.’ The most dramatic declaration to fall from Thomas’s lips. He was not given to flights of fancy or romantic gestures, but it had not mattered. I had not needed them.
I had known that my mother would oppose this union. Was this a true reason, to thwart her dreams in a fit of immature defiance? I thought not, although there was an attraction in such subversion. I could not quite reject the tingle of excitement when I knew that I had stood against my mother, destroying any plans she might have been carefully knitting together for my future.
Did I love Thomas Holland? Was it love, my senses overcome by a youthful infatuation, that drove me to launch myself into so foolhardy an act? Did I know enough about love to give myself into his hands when all about us would cry foul against both of us, and against him, for seducing a young and royal maid? But I had not been seduced. I had not been persuaded against my will. I had not been an unwilling bride. I could never shift the blame to other shoulders than my own wilfulness. A woman growing up in a royal court grew up fast. I knew well my own mind.
I studied the star-crowned Virgin, the grave face that looked down on me with her enigmatic smile, full of compassion, as if I would find an answer there, and indeed I did, although it was already resident in my own heart.
I loved him. Thomas Holland had claimed my heart and I had willingly given it. When he had left me it had hurt my heart, a frenzied fluttering like a moth against a night shutter.
It was undoubtedly love for the man who had taken me out of the confined household of royal children, addressing me as a woman who might have the safekeeping of his own heart, even if he would never use such poetic terms. I was moved to desire his face, his superb stature. I looked with favour on his skills, as I applauded his ambition. He would become a great knight, as famous as Sir Galahad. He would be lauded, hung about with rewards, and I would be his wife. He was a man, experienced and confident, where those around me were still mere youths, untried and without polish. He had stirred my emotions into a flame that lit every corner of my existence.
But there was a canker in the perfect fruit, born of my own experience and my mother’s warning. Was Thomas attracted by my royal blood as a path to greater ambitions? I was considered a valuable bride in the Monatgu marriage; I would be doubly valuable to Sir Thomas Holland.
It was not a worthless thought. Those with a cynical turn of mind, or even a worldly one, would say that Thomas Holland had an eye to the future, catching a willing princess as a trout would catch a mayfly. The Earl and Countess of Salisbury had been keen to snatch me up; would not Thomas Holland show equal desire to tie my future to his own self-seeking side? It could be that his plain words spoken in the mews hid the scheming of a man who sought earthly greatness through the blood of his wife, opening many doors for him, or would have if I had gone to him with royal blessing. It could be that Thomas Holland would have wed me had I been the most ill-visaged princess in Europe rather than Joan the Fair. It could be that I had been trapped, against my better judgement. If that was so, then I would be well rid of him if I rejected Thomas in favour of Will. If I allowed my love to wither and die, choking it with bitter recrimination.
But I had not been trapped. I was as much to blame as Thomas for this predicament.
‘Is Thomas Holland nothing but a knave?’ I asked the Virgin.
Despite her silence, I did not think so. All I saw in him was a grave honesty. What I did think, as I left the Virgin to her tranquillity, was that we would both be in disgrace when this debacle fell at the feet of the King and Queen.
I would be no one’s path to greatness.
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