Chapter 10 Smithfield, London, May 1362 #2
Jeanette said nothing as she assimilated this new landscape, which she would not have been facing if Thomas had not died.
‘After what went before with your forced match to William Montagu, I thought you might object.’
She shook her head. ‘Those who did the choosing did not love me – the situation was different. This girl might be a good choice for Tom, but I have his welfare at heart.’ She continued to wash his back.
‘You should talk to him first, and we should observe how he and Alys react together. They must at least like each other. Domestic warfare is no basis for a marriage.’
‘I agree. Let us watch them together for a while and we shall see, and in the meantime consider possibilities. There is no harm in exploring other avenues.’
Jeanette set the washcloth aside and began removing her own clothes. ‘There is also the matter of our own heirs,’ she said, ‘and what we should do about them.’
Two months later, Jeanette waited in Queen Philippa’s apartments at Westminster Palace to attend Edward’s investiture as Prince of Aquitaine.
The Queen was well today. The return of the sunshine had brightened her mood, and her health had improved, although she told Jeanette that she was steeling herself for the forthcoming hours of ceremony and celebration that involved bearing the weight of the garments adorning her body.
Jeanette’s own gown was so heavy with embroidery and jewels that it was like carrying another person.
‘How am I ever to find myself in all of this?’ she asked ruefully. Her wedding gown was as nothing compared to this current burden of adornment. A single pearl was as light as air, but not a thousand!
‘This is who you are now, my dear,’ Philippa replied.
‘You are the consort of the heir to the throne and about to become Princess of Aquitaine. You shall have a great household to direct, and you will be responsible for holding the reins when Edward is absent. People will look to you as a peacemaker and binder of ties. They will expect magnificence, and you must give it to them while maintaining your dignity and kindness. You shall be the highest lady in the land, and to be that lady, you must become that lady. You know this, for you have been raised at court and to high estate already.’
‘Indeed, I do know it,’ Jeanette said, ‘but I am learning from someone who has occupied that role since she was a girl. I have performed similar duties as the Countess of Kent, I am used to being the focus of attention, but that focus has both expanded and sharpened.’
Philippa’s smile was amused and knowing. ‘If eyes are upon you, my dear, it is because of your great beauty, and perhaps because of the scandal that has followed your reputation.’
Jeanette flushed and stood taller, but Philippa wagged her finger to forestall a riposte.
‘You must let their eyes dwell upon you as a princess and consort.’ She held out her hands to display her numerous rings.
‘You do not have to wear these clothes every moment of every day. Each garment is a part of your role. Who is the real Jeanette, who is the real Philippa? Only we know that truth, and we are at the core of everything we do, regardless of how many layers we inhabit. We came into the world naked, and we shall return to God in that same fashion and become dust. In between we do our duty according to our station.’ Philippa gave her a shrewd look.
‘When you were a girl, you did not care for duty and often rebelled, but you were always loyal and courageous – I am counting on those traits now. You have a backbone, and you will need it to bear the weight not only of your clothes, but of a crown. You are a queen in waiting.’
Jeanette swallowed hard at Philippa’s words, and at the warning of what was to come. ‘I will not let you down,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I am older and wiser now, and I have tempered my dreams.’
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ Philippa said wryly, and patted Jeanette’s cheek. ‘I am always here to help and advise you. We have not always seen matters the same way, but that is in the past, and we are united now. I could not wish for a better wife for my son – he needs you.’
Jeanette remembered Philippa’s words as she processed to the great abbey for the investiture ceremony and bore herself as though she was being carried by angels – as if all the layers of costly jewelled garments were fashioned of air and light.
How much harder must it be for Philippa with her ailments and encroaching age to walk with stately grace?
The crowds cheered and cast flowers before the procession. Jeanette followed behind Edward, walking under the shelter of a silk canopy held aloft on poles at each corner by four of Edward’s senior knights wearing embroidered jupons.
Once within the soaring majesty of the abbey, Jeanette inhaled the sacred fragrance of incense and watched it float in the atmosphere in cobweb layers.
Here were the tombs of kings and queens, knights and earls, their effigies lying in stone repose, their tombs decorated with colourful enamels and gleaming mosaics.
All bearing mute witness to the ceremony.
Edward wore his armour, under a crimson and blue jupon embroidered with the arms of England. A belt of jewelencrusted gold squares girded his hips. Bare-headed, he knelt before his father’s throne and performed homage for Aquitaine, setting his clasped hands between his sire’s thin fingers.
The King kissed him on both cheeks and their beards mingled, badger-silver against rich brown.
A charter was read aloud, declaring the terms by which King Edward awarded his eldest son Aquitaine for his natural life for the payment of one ounce of gold at Westminster every Easter in recognition of his overall supremacy.
The King then placed a coronet of golden flowers upon Edward’s head and kissed him on the lips.
Then it was Jeanette’s turn to kneel before her father-inlaw and acknowledge that she was subject to his will. She swore to aid her husband in all he did and pledged her allegiance. King Edward bent over and kissed her too. ‘Honour this vow you make before all,’ he said.
‘So help me God, I shall,’ Jeanette replied. She was never going to love Edward’s father, but this wasn’t about love, it was about honour, as he said, and she would keep her part of the bargain. This was for Edward and their future in Aquitaine.
Following the ceremony, the company returned in procession to Westminster Palace, where a banquet had been set up in the great hall.
Jeanette took her seat under the emblazoned canopy on the dais, carefully arranged her skirts, and looked out over a throng composed of every high noble and prelate in the land.
She could never have imagined this future for herself, sitting in magnificence, her responsibilities as heavy as the sumptuous gown into which she was laced.
She and Edward were the focus of people’s attention, rather than the King and Queen – the rising young couple, dazzling in majestic beauty.
She made herself smile, fulfilling her duty, and felt the weight upon her of every single jewel stitched on her robes.
Although his mother’s position had been prominent during his stepfather’s investiture, Tom had not been involved in the ceremony beyond his duties as a squire.
Currently, he was in attendance at the banquet.
It was too soon in his training to be carving meat or serving the dishes, but he had been given the task of seeing that the wine jugs were in place for the senior squires and sewers to present to the table, and that the ornate aquamaniles for hand washing were full and ready for service.
He had been kept on his toes, fetching, carrying, running errands, but with immense pride to be wearing the Prince’s badge for all to see.
He had polished his stepfather’s fabulous golden belt this morning and helped him dress for the occasion.
Never had a man looked so splendid, not even his own father adorned in his Garter robes.
Prince Edward’s bastard son Roger of Clarendon was working beside him, and the youths had become good friends, any rivalry between them that of lads learning the skills of manhood and challenging each other’s physical prowess.
Roger, smiling at something behind Tom’s back, bowed and said, ‘Ladies.’
Tom turned to see Alys FitzAlan with her friend Rohese de Bohun in tow. Alys was holding a platter of small pastries shining with honey-glazed nuts.
‘These have just come to our table and my mother thought you might like some,’ she said.
Roger, ever the slave to his appetite, accepted with alacrity and immediately took two, sucking honey off his thumb.
His manners in that department had yet to be honed.
Tom accepted one with caution, wondering why Lady FitzAlan would think to offer two squires a platter of sweetmeats.
However, he wasn’t going to decline; they were delicious.
‘You have one too,’ he said to Alys.
She needed little persuasion, and neither did Rohese, but both girls were dainty and delicate about the process like the gently raised young ladies they were – although Tom knew from playing hide and seek that they could be just as rumbustious as boys when not under the parental eye.
Tom acknowledged Lady FitzAlan’s gift by bowing to her across the room, and she smiled graciously in return. Her husband, looking amused, leaned over to murmur in his wife’s ear.
‘Do you think you will like Bordeaux?’ Alys enquired.
Tom took another pastry. So did Roger. ‘I expect so,’ he said with a shrug.
‘I will be with my family and serving the Prince, so I do not suppose much will change.’ But her words gave him pause for thought.
His stepfather would be ruling lands and making the decisions, and his mother would be holding court – a queen in all but name – so life would probably be grander every day than it was now.
‘How long will you be gone?’