Chapter 22
J oan of Kent was a stranger to worry. Whenever something unpleasant crossed her mind, she firmly pushed it aside in favor of happy thoughts. When Brianna told her that she had been betrothed last night, Joan wondered what she would do if the king summoned her to solemnize her betrothal to William de Montecute. She immediately sent off a note to Fish Street, then put the whole matter out of her head. Her golden prince would take care of everything.
She took out the little casket that held all Edward’s love letters and sat upon the cushioned casement window seat to read and dream away the afternoon hours. When she had reread them all, she spoke to Glynis. “One of my letters from Edward is missing!”
“Are you certain, my lady?”
“Yes, ’tis my favorite. I remember his words to me after the king announced my betrothal. He said, ‘I am more angry at this moment than I have ever been in my life!…You are my precious love and so you shall remain.’”
Glynis asked, “Didn’t you sleep with it under your pillow?”
“Yes! Oh dear, then in the morning we left for Bedford. The maids must have thrown it away.”
Glynis frowned. “By Our Lady, I hope they threw it away. It would be terrible if it fell into the wrong hands.” Glynis knew none at court could be trusted, least of all the maids. “You had better warn the prince that one of his letters is missing.”
“Oh, Glynis, you worry too much,” Joan chided.
And you don’t worry nearly enough , Glynis thought darkly.
As the evening shadows were gathering, Joan was pleasantly surprised to get a visit from her brother, the Earl of Kent.
“Get your cloak, love. I’m taking you to Fish Street.”
“How wonderful! Glynis, run along to Brianna’s chambers and ask her if she’ll accompany me.”
“No!” Edmund warned. “You are to come alone, Joan. Our business is private. That’s why I’m here to escort you.”
Joan quickly gathered up her precious letters and put them back in their filigreed casket.
“Don’t forget to mention the missing letter,” Glynis reminded.
“Missing letter?” Edmund echoed.
“These are Edward’s letters to me,” Joan explained.
“And one is missing? God’s feet, Joan, sometimes you act like seven rather than seventeen. Fetch the bloody letters with you!”
The prince was waiting in Edmund’s house when they arrived in Fish Street. Though he greeted Joan tenderly, he was in a serious mood. “There is no time to lose. Lady Bedford is officially betrothed and you will be next. My father already approached Edmund about the betrothal to De Montecute, but your brother informed him you had been betrothed to Sir John Holland.”
Joan’s eyes flew to Edmund’s face.
“The king was angered, to say the least. He demanded I produce the signed contract to marry.”
Prince Edward unfurled the crackling parchment. “Holland has already affixed his signature; it only requires yours.”
Joan picked up the quill. Holland’s handwriting was thick and bold. She shuddered. Her brother’s writing beneath it was beautiful. He had witnessed the contract and dated it three months ago. Her hand hesitated. She looked up at Edward with beseeching eyes. “I don’t wish to wed Holland,” she whispered.
“My sweetheart, there is no question of that. It’s a delaying tactic. When Edmund produces this contract, it will be impossible to betroth you to De Montecute, no matter how earnestly the Countess of Salisbury presses my father. When they reach an impasse, my father will likely send to the Pope in Avignon to decide. It could take years.”
Joan gave him a grateful smile. “You are brilliant,” she said, affixing her signature with a flourish.
Edward picked up the sand-caster to blot the ink, then rolled the parchment and handed it to the Earl of Kent. With a strong hand at the small of Joan’s back, Edward moved toward the garden that led to his own house.
Edmund picked up the casket Joan had set down. “Be sure to tell His Highness of the letter,” he admonished.
She snatched her precious letters from Edmund’s hands and tucked them beneath her cloak.
The next four hours were among the most precious of their lives. Edward and Joan played and laughed and loved, totally carefree of what the future held for them. They shared a loving cup, brimful of wine, yet both knew it was their closeness that made them intoxicated.
It was long past the hour of midnight when they began to sober. “How long before you leave?” Joan whispered, clinging to him.
His lips brushed across her fair brow. “A week, mayhap.”
Joan drew in her breath on a sob. “Edward, I cannot bear it.”
He kissed her and ran his hand down her silken back in an effort to soothe her. “Hush, sweeting. I go to win my spurs. When I return I will be your true knight errant.”
Joan smiled tremulously, knowing men hated tears. “I’m cold.”
Edward slipped from the bed and tossed her his robe, then bent to light them a fire. The black robe, with its fierce dragon of Wales, engulfed her. She wrapped it about her twice and came to stand at his shoulder as he knelt before the fire. “I’ll read your letters every night,” she promised.
He slipped a protective arm about her to draw her close. “I’m afraid not, precious love. For your safety and mine, we must destroy them.”
“No!” she cried, “I cannot bear to part with your love letters.”
He drew her into his lap. “We’ll read them together one last time, then we will burn them in the fire.” He brushed her tears away with his fingertips, then crushed his mouth down on hers, mastering her, forcing her to his will.
Finally, with infinite sadness, she read his letters aloud; unshed tears making her throat husky. After each letter, she kissed it good-bye and handed it to Edward, who touched it to the flames. They watched each page flare up, turn black, then fall to ashes in what seemed a mystic ritual.
She began the last letter: “ I kiss your lips, I kiss your heart, but save the other kiss for lower …” He took the letter before she finished it and threw it onto the fire. Then he pushed her back upon the fur hearth rug and unwound the robe from her pretty body. His lips proceeded to kiss the intimate places he had described in his love letter.
Each afternoon King Edward and his marshal, Warrick, held a strategy meeting with the members of the king’s carefully chosen war council, comprised of earls of the realm and experienced military knights. Also present was the Prince of Wales and Warrick’s sons. Warrick suggested they give the French knight Godfrey de Harcourt the rank of marshal because he knew the terrain of the coming battle better than any man in England.
In various parts of France, England had had troops fighting for the last two years. Since Queen Philippa was from Flanders, the Flemish were Edward’s allies. English troops, permanently stationed in Bruges, Ghent, and Ypres were presently engaged in battles and skirmishes along the French border.
Brabant also was an ally of England, but between Flanders and Brabant lay the great city of Tournai, which was occupied by Philip of France. England’s allies insisted Tournai must be the first town captured in the war. However, King Edward kept a Court at Bordeaux and the royal family spent much time there. England owned the southern provinces of Gascony, Guienne, and Poitou, collectively known as Aquitaine. As a result most Anglo-Normans owned land and castles in this southern territory, and large English garrisons of troops kept it from being overrun by the French. At the present time this standing army was being decimated and was in desperate need of reinforcements.
King Philip put his son, John of Normandy, in charge of an army so large that any day it threatened to overrun all the southern provinces that had been owned by England for two hundred years.
At King Edward’s war strategy meetings opinion was divided. Most of the nobles who owned property near Bordeaux voted to land the army there. The large contingent whose interests lay in Flanders, under the leadership of Sir Walter Manny, argued that the king should join up with his allies. All clustered about a massive map table boasting miniature armies and warships that could be moved around.
The king wanted a decision. He chafed visibly to get this assault underway. He waved his arm toward the map table. “Warrick—Bordeaux or Flanders?”
When the Mad Hound spoke, all listened. “Neither! Taking an army of twenty thousand across the Bay of Biscay is foolhardy. If we land along the coast of Normandy, Philip will be forced to divide his army in the south and march them north to fight us. Before he reaches us, we can ravage across northern France collecting enough spoils to pay for the cost of the operation. Then we can join with the Flemish armies to swell our ranks. In the unlikely event the rumors are true about the size of Philip’s army, we can recross the Channel quickly through the narrow Strait of Dover.”
As Hawksblood listened to his father, he could not help but grudgingly admire the tactics he set forth. The Prince of Wales, who had studied strategy all his life, also agreed with Warrick’s plan.
King Edward studied the faces about him. Most had their own ideas and were fairly bursting to set them forth, but the ultimate decision was his and so he approved Warrick’s plan.
The king spent his last night at Windsor with his family. He visited the nursery to roughhouse with his younger children. He lavished attention upon Isabel, promising to keep his eyes open for a worthy husband for her, then admonished Lionel to help his mother administer the country in his absence.
Having done all this, he took young John of Gaunt aside for a more serious talk. “If ill should befall me, John, I want you to be loyal to the Black Prince. You have the brains of the family, John. Edward will need your advice and your support, and when you are older he will need the combined military strength of the House of Gaunt and the House of Lancaster when you marry Blanche.”
“I know, Father,” John said solemnly. “Lionel will be nothing but trouble. He attracts men who will manipulate him to commit treason. Edward knows I shall always support him.”
“Good man,” said his father, gripping his shoulder with approval. It meant more to John than the crown jewels.
Earlier, in the hall, Katherine, Countess of Salisbury, had shown the king that she would have none of him. She was furious that the Fair Maid of Kent had been allowed to sign a contract to marry Sir John Holland, when Joan and her estates had been promised to her son.
After dinner, she swept from the hall without a backward glance, but Edward was determined to clear the air between them before he departed on the most important campaign of his life.
One look at her face when he opened her chamber door told him she intended to play the shrew. “Katherine, I like it no better than you. Lady Kent has behaved wantonly to encourage two suitors at the same time.”
“You are the king, for God’s sake! You can order her to marry William.”
“Katherine, Sir John Holland has a valid contract signed by Joan and her brother, the Earl of Kent. It is not a matter for the crown, but for the Church to decide. I’ll set the matter before the Pope.”
The Countess of Salisbury was only slightly mollified. Her stony heart did not soften toward Edward.
“I have other news that should please you.” He watched her face closely. Her eyes brightened, she caught her breath as hope was kindled. “Even though it was against my better judgment, I offered to exchange the Earl of Moray for the Earl of Salisbury.”
Katherine clutched his hand, unable to conceal the depth of her emotions.
“Philip of France has accepted with unseemly eagerness,” he said quietly.
Katherine fell to her knees before him, her face radiant, her beautiful eyes liquid with tears of joy and relief. “Edward, my love, I thank you with all my heart.” Her heart and her body softened toward him. At this moment she would yield him anything.
He raised her, and feeling most virtuous, placed a chaste kiss upon her brow. “William de Montecute is my dear friend. He is a lucky man to beget such love and devotion.”
With a sigh, the king put Katherine de Montecute from his thoughts before he entered the queen’s bower. Philippa would welcome him as gently and as sweetly as she had since she was a maid of fourteen. He, too, was a lucky man to beget such love and devotion.
Two other couples were saying their good-byes on this last night at Windsor. Adele and Paddy dined together in the hall, then slipped out to walk by the river. They felt the urgency in the air, felt it in their blood as well. Paddy couldn’t dispel the darklings. It was ever so for him before a battle. Though he couldn’t put it into words, he felt that if he made a commitment and received one in return, Fate would let him come back to fulfill that commitment.
Adele couldn’t endure the thought of losing this man when it had taken her so many years to find him. She marveled that such a strong, funny, kind man wanted a woman with a plain face who was about to turn thirty. That he was Irish made her feel doubly blessed. Their coming together this night was natural and right. They shared their thoughts, their hopes and fears. When they shared their bodies, they knew a small part of them would remain with the other. Perhaps the best part.
Ali and Glynis had no difficulty translating their feelings into words. Their spirits had much in common: fatalism, superstition, mysticism. They chose the loveliest, most serene place in all of Windsor to bid adieu. In the walled garden the night-scented flowers perfumed the air, the fountain sang its silvery song, and the slumbering sundial measured only the sunny hours. Their fingers and their breath entwined as they murmured love words as ancient as time itself.
They exchanged talismans. He gave her a translucent lump of amber with a myriad of dark inclusions and radiant sun spangles imprisoned in its golden depths. Amber was an eternal, magic touchstone whose sensuous softness was warm to the skin, and Glynis knew its luster would be enhanced by her continual touch.
Glynis gave Ali an amulet set with torbernite, a form of copper with brilliant green plates. Neither experienced the fear of the unknown, for both knew their destinies were linked.
Robert de Beauchamp knew he must speak with Prince Lionel early in the evening before he drank himself to oblivion. “This campaign could stretch into years. With the king and Prince Edward in France it is your God-given opportunity to take over the reins of the realm, take the responsibilities from your mother’s shoulders, and curry favor with the Council. Never forget for one moment that if aught befalls either of them, you will become heir to the throne. If aught befalls both, you will wear the crown.”
Lionel grabbed him in a playful wrestling hold, pinning Robert’s great arms behind his back and bending his neck forward painfully. “What are the odds?” he demanded, laughing.
Robert resisted the impulse to bring the young giant crashing over his shoulder to the floor. He was such a brainless bastard! Still, if Lionel were intelligent, he wouldn’t be able to manipulate him. “The odds are very good.” Robert was more cautious than to come right out and say he would do his best to make Lionel the King of England. “I’d say the odds were definitely in your favor.”
Prince Lionel stopped the horseplay, prepared to listen seriously to his lieutenant’s advice.
“We have some very good men in our camp, but we’ll need more. You may count on those loyal to the queen and of course the House of Warrick. I also have Wiggs and his knights from Bedford. We have John Holland and young William de Montecute is ripe for plucking. But never forget that Henry of Lancaster will back your brother, John of Gaunt.”
“Lancaster is a graybeard. He could easily fall in battle.”
“This war could change the face of England’s nobility. There could be a complete shift of power before it’s over. I want you to be prepared for any eventuality, Your Highness.”
When he quit Lionel’s chambers, Robert rubbed his neck. Christ, he ached all over. If he didn’t get some rest, he’d be dead on his feet tomorrow. He had orders to move his men to the coast and dawn came too damned early.
He had put off his leave-taking of Brianna to the last minute. She had made it plain that she would not submit to him before they were legally wed, so he decided to make no last-minute sexual demands upon her. Instead he took her a parting gift, one calculated to please and therefore bind her to him. When he arrived at her chambers, Joan of Kent was with her.
Brianna’s eyes widened in disbelief as he strode into the room. “Robert, your limp is gone!”
“Yes, it seems the king’s physician was wrong. All my leg needed was exercise. Fortune has smiled upon me. I am leading the men of the House of Clarence in the French campaign.”
Brianna searched his face. Had he lied to her about the leg? Nay, that was such an unworthy thought. He seemed so gallant, so eager to answer the call of duty.
Joan moved toward the door. “I’ll give you some privacy for your farewells.”
“No need, Lady Kent. I only wished to give my lady this parting gift of paint and brushes. Think of me, Brianna, whenever you use them.” He took her hand to his lips as if he were the most chivalrous knight in Christendom.
Brianna’s heart softened toward him. She must count her blessings. She knew she should be content to have Robert de Beauchamp for her husband, and would have been if she had never encountered the dark and dangerous Arabian. She went up on tiptoe to kiss him. “Go with God, Robert,” she whispered. Brianna meant it with all her heart.