Chapter 25 #2
Returning with Richard to their chamber, she gave him a small pouch of jewels for his chequerboard as she had promised, and had sweetmeats brought for them to eat.
The wind had increased, and rain was slamming sideways against the window glass.
She shivered, thinking of the men at sea heading to relieve La Rochelle; heaven help them.
They might be shipwrecked and drowned before ever they reached port, and if the worst happened, she had to be ready.
Richard was a little living spark of the royal line, and she knew how easily that flame could be quenched.
She thanked God her son was too young to have the understanding to connect the storm outside with the way the men in the council chamber had looked at each other and at him. The worry was all hers.
Drenched by the lashing rain, Tom could see no break in the clouds.
The seas were raging – furious grey-green marbled with foam, tossing over the decks of the cog as she hurled up and slid down each wall of wave.
They were barely out of port, but the land mass was invisible through the sheets of wind-driven rain.
The English fleet had scattered like blossom petals as each captain made the best headway he could.
‘I’ve never made a crossing when it’s been this rough!’ Tom bellowed to Roger of Clarendon, but his words were immediately snatched by the wind.
Roger’s complexion was green and his face full of fear.
‘We cannot go on!’ He hunched over and retched, bringing up thin strings of yellow bile.
His stomach contents had gone overboard long ago.
A small mercy for Tom was that, like his mother, he had a steady sea-belly, but so many of the men were incapacitated.
His archer Samson, now a yeoman of his personal guard, was also one of the few not disabled by the roiling seas.
‘We’ll have more salt in us all than a barrel of old stockfish by the time we reach La Rochelle,’ he shouted during a brief lull in the gale, ‘and in no condition to fight!’ He was stating what everyone knew.
Beneath his craggy eyebrows, Samson’s gaze was glass sharp.
‘I never shirk a battle, sire, but we are not winning this one.’
Tom didn’t offer platitudes. If this was God’s will, then God was never gainsaid.
He had left Alys two months from bearing their second child, and he didn’t want to drown at sea and never again see his wife, his little daughter and his new baby.
Bid farewell to tasting life’s sweetness.
‘I will speak to the Prince,’ he said, and staggered his way to the covered shelter where his stepfather sat half slumped under a curtain of waxed canvases, looking as though he had been dragged out of his coffin.
Tom crouched to him. ‘Sire, how do you fare?’
Edward’s grin was a mirthless rictus. ‘How does it seem to you?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I suppose the morning after a Twelfth Night celebration could be no worse,’ he said, making a stab at humour, and Edward replied with a grunt of sour amusement.
‘My father’s ship,’ his stepfather asked, wiping his dripping nose, ‘and Lancaster’s?’
‘Sire, it is difficult to say. The sailors cannot go aloft to seek, and we cannot hear horns or see lanterns in this blow. It’s like being battered by a witch’s fists!’
His stepfather clenched his jaw.
‘We are being beaten hither and yon and making no headway. The wind is against us, and the men are sick – as you are yourself, sire.’
Edward’s eyes flashed. ‘My sickness is no worse than that of any other. I have sworn to come to the rescue of La Rochelle and to do my utmost to succour those who wait for us. I promised my father. The storm will abate, we just have to ride it out. The King will decide if we turn back or not, and we shall obey his will.’
Tom thought they might all be at the bottom of the sea very soon if such was the case. He continued to look at the Prince, and Edward waved an impatient hand.
‘This is our final opportunity to win. We have an army, and our best commanders. If not now, then when?’
The last sentence hung between them. Sometime never.
‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sire,’ Tom said, then pressed his lips together.
‘Then set to endure and keep the lookouts keen.’
Tom saluted and staggered back out into the gale, but on his way he looked over his shoulder and saw that the Prince had shut his eyes.
He wondered if he was actively seeking death on this campaign but quickly shook off the notion.
Edward would not leave everyone in the lurch, especially his wife and small son.
He knew his stepfather did not want to be here but was doing his duty; turning back would be a dereliction of that duty and a stain on his honour.
The decision now was whether to ride it out in the Channel or run for Brittany – if they could stay afloat.
The gales and hard rain continued day upon day.
Jeanette dwelt at court and when not occupied with Richard spent her time cultivating the men who populated its corridors, particularly those who had displayed a glimmer of interest and indeed self-interest in befriending her.
She knew they were calculating how best to serve themselves.
Her task was to ensure that serving themselves involved serving her too, by doing what was best for Richard.
She made special efforts to woo the leading London merchants and citizens, inviting them to dine at her table and attend entertainments at Kennington.
She encouraged them to bring their wives and daughters and she was smiling, attentive, amenable and persuasive.
She hoped Queen Philippa would have been proud.
Alice Perrers was keeping her distance, which was a great mercy.
The King’s mistress had retired to one of her many houses, perhaps to pace and bite her nails and pray for her lover’s safe return.
Certainly to plot, Jeanette had no doubt.
Alice had her spies at court, and her bejewelled fingers in nearly every pie, but for now her absence meant she was not a thorn in Jeanette’s side, whatever she might be doing out of sight.
The weather this early afternoon was still blustery, and Jeanette decided she would go to Kennington for a couple of days.
Richard was not imminently required to attend matters of state, and it was so difficult to relax in the tense atmosphere at Westminster, even if being there was a political necessity.
The wind churned the waves in the estuary, blowing hard as the royal barge crossed the river.
The canvas cover of the deck shelter flapped sharply.
Richard knelt up on the bench and looked over the side, fascinated by the slop of the water against the strakes of the barge – fearless.
‘Do not lean so far!’ Jeanette cried, and Mundina dragged him back on to the cushions while Richard laughed, his blue eyes alight.
He didn’t kick and scream when made to sit down, but as soon as the women relaxed, he was leaning over the side again, much to Jeanette’s consternation, even while she was proud at his sense of adventure.
The journey was a short row across the river and the crew barely needed to touch the oars because wind and tide were with them.
Soon they were disembarking at the Kennington jetty, and Jeanette stepped ashore with a rush of affection and relief.
This was her home, close to Westminster, but where she could do as she pleased.
She could discard her wimple and free her hair to tumble down her back.
She could remove her outer garments and relinquish the weight of public expectation.
Richard was eager to return to his toys, to the pictures in the books he was allowed to enjoy, providing his hands were clean.
He would gaze entranced at the illuminated illustrations for hours, absorbing himself in the images and colours, pretending he was part of the stories depicted.
Jeanette had some cold supper brought to her chamber – bread and cheese with wine for her and buttermilk for Richard.
She sat by the window overlooking the park to deal with her correspondence with a couple of clerks and William her chaplain in attendance.
Looking out at the evening sky, grey on gold, the candlelight behind her, she was interrupted by Hannekyn.
‘My lady, the Prince’s barge is here at the jetty,’ he announced. ‘They are bearing him from there on a litter.’
She shot to her feet. Hannekyn was already opening her cloak to drape around her shoulders. Thanking him, and fastening it as she ran, she sped from the chamber, her unbound hair flying.
As the party came along the path from the jetty her first sight was of Tom, Roger and two other young knights bearing an open litter on which Edward lay swathed in furs.
She ran to greet them, filled with relief to see them and fear for her husband.
By the time she reached the litter, she was gasping for breath.
Edward’s eyes were closed, and shock jolted through her at the sight of his gaunt, drawn frame, for he looked like a corpse on a bier. All the weight he had gained since his return from Gascony had melted away. ‘Edward,’ she whispered, barely able to speak through her own struggle for air.
His eyelids fluttered and lifted. ‘Jeanette, thank Christ.’ His own voice was thready. ‘I told you I would come home.’ He closed his eyes, and his chest shuddered.
She whirled and, one hand pressed to the stitch in her side, issued a spate of orders, sending her ladies and attendants running to have his chamber made ready, more fires kindled, more candles lit.