Chapter 23
Over the next few months, while Edward was busy with his father – although he had to rest frequently – Jeanette reacquainted herself with a very different court from the one she had left eight years ago.
Queen Philippa’s death had hollowed out the maternal heart of the household and the King had made it clear that, while he welcomed Jeanette and Edward home from Gascony, he did not want her to put her feet under his table except in a public and formal way.
Jeanette herself had no intention of sharing a chamber with Alice Perrers unless forced and had retreated to Kennington Palace, where Edward would come to recuperate, making the river crossing regularly from Westminster.
Despite maintaining her distance, Jeanette kept abreast of the doings at court.
She refused to become embroiled in the febrile gossip and political machinations, but living in ignorance was dangerous.
She had to know friend from enemy, and the neutral from the hostile.
A player on a chessboard had to plan ahead and not just react in the moment.
She accompanied Edward to his mother’s recently carved tomb in Westminster Abbey.
Here was no slender bejewelled queen, but a woman whose body wore its years of life, including the bearing of thirteen children.
The torso was slack-fleshed and matronly.
Philippa’s face was faithfully rendered with its square jowls, thin lips and strong nose.
Jeanette wiped away tears to see the realism and wished she had paid more attention to Philippa in life instead of taking her for granted, especially when she herself had been a silly and difficult young woman.
Philippa had fulfilled her duty as Queen of England with compassion and with the grace that was lacking in the dumpy figure carved in eternal stone. She had been real and true, and Alice Perrers now occupied in falsehood the hole Philippa’s death had ripped in the fabric of the court.
Edward’s eyes glistened. ‘She was so brave and bold to do this,’ he said.
‘I love her dearly for it.’ His jaw worked.
‘Promise me when my time comes, you will remember me as I was, not as I am now. I want to show the world that which I was in my prime, even if I am no longer living that life. I want our son to have the awareness of what his father was when he dwelt in the world as a whole man.’
Stricken, Jeanette grasped his hand.
‘Not yet, if God wills it,’ he added hastily, ‘but given that my illness fluctuates and I am never truly well, there will come a time when I meet my end. I want to have everything planned. My mother did not spend her last months lying in her bed bemoaning her fate. She chose the image she wanted all to see. I have no wish to be remembered on my tomb as Edward the Sick, but as Edward the proud prince and victorious knight. I want my people to remember me thus, and my son too.’
‘And how shall I remember you?’ Jeanette asked, feeling ill.
He was choosing to be represented in his full military glory, and it should be his decision alone.
A tomb in Canterbury Cathedral was his frame and his performance, not hers.
When she thought of her own effigy, the image that came to her was of lying beside Thomas, her first love, at Stamford.
She thought about asking what happened if he outlived her, but this was not the moment to broach the subject.
‘You have always been the ideal prince to me,’ she said, ‘and always a whole man. If it is your wish, so shall it be – although I pray God, not for a long time to come.’
He smiled at her and looked almost cheerful. ‘It is indeed my wish,’ he said. ‘I can be who I was.’
Sitting beside Edward at the high table, Jeanette watched her father by marriage ease himself carefully into his own chair. He was using a silver-topped stick to aid his progress, and his hands shook with a distinct tremor, but his expression was bright enough.
‘My father looks well today,’ Edward murmured.
‘Yes, he does,’ she replied tactfully.
Eltham Palace was decked out for the Christmas and New Year festivities with swathes of evergreen and holly edging the wall tapestries.
Eltham was only ten miles from Kennington where she and Edward spent most of their time, with occasional forays over to their castle at Berkhamsted.
Edward was currently well, able to sit a placid horse and have sufficient energy to take part in government, which was fortunate.
In the early autumn, the King had suffered a nasty fall from his palfrey that had knocked him senseless and left him with heavy bruising, cracked ribs and a damaged hip.
His physicians had feared for his life, but he had gradually healed, although three months later he still had to use a stick.
His mind had moments when its usual sharpness would become dull, opaque and obstinate.
It was like clouds over the sun, covered and uncovered, but akin to an autumn day, not a spring one.
Alice Perrers had stayed at his bedside throughout his slow recuperation, and although Jeanette loathed her for her corrupt dealings at court, her devotion to and care for the King’s well-being was genuine.
Of course, her lover’s survival was essential to her position, and she had three small children to think about, the youngest girl a babe in arms, so her concern was hardly altruistic.
But her care had been constant and unfailing.
Now she clung to his side like a velvet-clad leech, plumping his cushions, smiling as she took his stick and handed it to a squire, so that the action became hers, not the King’s.
He gave her a grateful look and indulgently patted her hand.
Jeanette observed the interplay and bit her tongue.
John of Lancaster had returned to England in November with Constanza his recent bride, but this court meeting at Langley was the first opportunity Jeanette had had to speak with either of them and offer her congratulations.
Constanza, in the first months of pregnancy, had mostly been resting in her chamber and Jeanette had visited her briefly there, but John had spent his time mingling with the courtiers and joining in the entertainments.
Candles brightened the room against the encroaching winter dusk.
The courtiers drank mulled wine and ate hot cheese wafers.
Servants set up a large wooden lectern on a pedestal before the dais, and a dapper man in his late twenties with a pointed brown beard stepped up to it, clutching a sheaf of parchments.
Geoffrey Chaucer was a young yeoman of the chamber in the King’s household, valued for his diplomatic skills and his way with words.
When obliged to be at court, Jeanette would come across him working away at his observations in window seats and corners, his fingers ink-stained.
He had already conducted several diplomatic missions on the King’s behalf.
His ancestors had been tavern keepers, and the family had risen through their connections with the fine wines of Gascony.
Geoffrey’s charm, intelligence and particular way with words had raised him higher yet.
A great favourite of Queen Philippa’s, he had entertained her with stories in her chamber during which time he had met and then married her lady, Pippa de Roet.
John of Lancaster was one of several patrons and he had written an acclaimed work dedicated to Duchess Blanche following her death.
Jeanette knew from other recitals that Master Chaucer had a sharp eye and was not averse to salting his stories with scurrilous and bawdy incidents that poked fun at his characters, who might, with a bit of sleuthing, be recognised among the denizens who populated the court and the Church.
Today, though, since youngsters were present, his tales were humorous and suitable for everyone, featuring a great knight and the battles he had fought, and of his prowess in tournaments.
The younger military men of the court received the tale with appreciation as did the ladies, luxuriating in the vivid descriptions of rich textiles and chivalry.
A second story followed about a very fine barnyard cockerel who was snatched by a fox because he took too much pride in his plumage, but then succeeded in escaping the jaws of death by tricking the fox into opening its mouth.
Another story involved a covetous priest who was seized by the devil and carried off to hell.
From the corner of her eye, Jeanette saw Edward and John chuckling together at the story.
The readings finished to great applause for Master Chaucer and refreshments were provided for the gathering.
Jeanette could tell that Edward needed to rest and drink his tincture.
John saw it too. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I will escort you to your chamber and see you settled, and we can enjoy each other’s company as brothers.
’ He nodded to Jeanette, his glance meaningful.
‘Stay here and enjoy the company a while longer.’
Jeanette smiled at him gratefully, ensuring that Edward did not see, and when they had gone, sought out Master Chaucer to tell him how much she had enjoyed his stories.
‘I hope to hear you again on another occasion, for I am sure you have many more tales to tell,’ she said with a smile.
‘I could see each character clearly in my mind’s eye. ’
He bowed to her, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Madam, while people populate God’s good earth, I shall run the course of my life before my tales are done.’
‘You recognise us well, Master Chaucer,’ she said, ‘with all our failings and weaknesses and our little ways. You puncture our pride and make us see others and ourselves as we are – if we have that capacity, of course. You might make enemies that way, sire, but also many friends and admirers.’
‘In which camp do you count yourself, madam, if I might ask?’
Jeanette laughed. ‘Why the second camp, of course, for you have said nothing to make me frown and much to make me smile. I would be interested to know how you would paint me in a picture of words, should the whimsy take you.’
He inclined his head, amusement in his eyes.
‘I expect to be good and gentle and wise and beautiful,’ she added. ‘Of course, if you cast me as anything else, I will not recognise myself, so you shall be safe from my wrath!’
The amusement spread into a smile.
‘Perhaps when you have time, you will come to Kennington and dine with us.’
‘I shall be glad to do so, my lady.’
He was joined by his wife, Pippa, the Queen’s former chamber lady, and at her side her sister, Lady Katherine Swynford, carer and governess to the Lancaster children, who were visiting their grandfather the King for Christmas.
Jeanette had not set eyes on her since her own sojourn in Gascony and the sharp-featured, quiet girl of memory was now a striking young woman with high cheekbones, intelligent hazel eyes and smooth, clear skin.
Katherine was taller than her sister and possessed a quiet, willowy grace.
Recalling what her sons had said about her in connection with Duke John, Jeanette could see exactly what her appeal might be to him.
She had a steady air of maturity and was observant rather than thrusting.
John was again a married man – he had wed Constanza of Castile in September – but men being what they were, and in marriages for land and dynasty, they often looked for comforts elsewhere.
Her own husbands, as far as she knew, had never taken other women to their beds, but she had made it her business to ensure their fidelity, and they had been very much to her taste.
If the rumours were true Katherine and John were skirting the edges of a liaison However, gossip was gossip and facts were facts, and they did not always inhabit the same spaces.
Katherine dipped her head, and her neat gold wimple pins twinkled. ‘Your pardon, my lady, I must see to my charges if you will permit me.’
‘Of course,’ Jeanette replied. ‘Indeed, I shall walk with you.’
Bidding farewell to the Chaucers, she went with Katherine to another chamber where the children were at play, expending some of the energy they had stored up during the reading.
They were being supervised by a couple of squires and ladies as they chased about, springy as lambs.
Katherine’s three Swynford children were with the group, a boy and two girls.
Richard mingled with them, watched over by his nurse, and seemed happy enough.
It was at times like this that Jeanette regretted his lack of siblings and when she always experienced like a sudden cut the loss of his beautiful brother.
‘A word of cordial advice,’ she murmured to Katherine. ‘You strike me as a sensible young woman, but while in Gascony I heard rumours concerning yourself and the Duke of Lancaster – untrue perhaps, but you should tread carefully.’
Katherine flushed. ‘Such rumours are false gossip,’ she replied. ‘I am loyal to my husband and dismayed that anyone should think such a thing.’
‘I am glad to hear it, but nevertheless be warned and be careful.’ Jeanette put a hand on her arm.
‘I am not your enemy. The Duke’s new wife is a queen without a country.
She is young, fierce and proud and the marriage was made under God’s roof, even if not in heaven.
As a lady in the Lancaster household you know how the Duke felt about Duchess Blanche, and his suffering when he lost her. ’
‘She was my dearest lady too.’ Katherine gave Jeanette a direct stare. ‘I love my husband with all my heart, and I will never be false to him.’
Jeanette eyed her thoughtfully, recognising her calibre and quality, like a rare gemstone. ‘Just be aware of the danger.’
‘Indeed, I shall,’ Katherine replied. ‘Like you I was raised at court, and I know the traps and how matters are easily misconstrued. I shall guard myself and my reputation.’
The conversation ceased then, because Katherine’s youngest daughter tripped over her skirt and fell, and Katherine rushed to rescue her.
Jeanette recognised the moment as one of relief for Katherine that she was able to break away.
Perhaps she should have said nothing to the young woman, yet better said now than put aside.