Windsor Castle, Spring 1423
Windsor Castle, Spring
I HAVE WRONGED Duke Humphrey: he has not forgotten his oath of fealty to my lady, and when he finally comes to Windsor Castle for the annual feast for the Order of the Garter, he offers her the greatest honour of England: a stall in the chapel, a place in the Order.
She will have a special set of robes, her own seat in the chapel, her banner with her black and red lions above her head.
The ceremony puts her in the company of the great knights of Christendom, sworn to support each other.
In one move, Humphrey has given his lady a powerful network of support.
All the greatest lords have a place in the chapel – only her cousin Philip of Burgundy refuses the honour.
‘But why does he refuse?’ I demand of Owen ap Maredudd, as we stand in the body of the church to watch my lady being shown to her stall in the chapel by one of the heralds.
They rehearse her: where she should sit and where she should stand and when she should step forward and kneel. ‘I thought it was such an honour?’
Owen ap Maredudd tips his head towards my lady. ‘She’s why,’ he says simply. ‘No Knight of the Garter can make war on another. Philip of Burgundy has kept himself free to make war on her, if she ever gets back to Hainault.’ Owen pauses. ‘That’s quite a threat.’
‘But why? Why would he threaten to fight English troops in Hainault, when he supports them in France?’
‘Exactly! If there’s war in Hainault, there’ll be war in France too.
And if we lost the friendship of Philip of Burgundy, we’ll lose France and all our French lands and fortunes.
He’s sending a warning.’ He nods at my lady, now being shown to the cushions on the floor, where she will prostrate herself before the altar before being raised and knighted.
‘England can’t take her side,’ he tells me solemnly.
‘We dare not offend Burgundy. If you’re in her confidence, you should warn her. ’
He takes my hand; I feel my colour rise at his touch. ‘Is this what your master thinks? Or is this the advice of a squire?’ I ask impertinently – but I let my hand rest in his.
‘He doesn’t think of strategy – he dreams of chivalry.’ He draws me closer; I turn so I can watch Jacqueline at the high altar and step back a little, so that my back is against his chest and his arms are around me.
‘What about chivalry?’ I ask.
I can feel his lips curl against my bare neck.
‘It’s for storybooks,’ he whispers, gently kissing below my ear, ‘and for children riding hobby-horses. In the real world, chivalry is just playacting – like that.’ He raises his head to nod towards my lady, now kneeling on a cloth of gold cushion while they mime knighting her.
‘Your lord is a master of chivalry.’ I am completely distracted by his arms tightening around me. If he turns me around to face him, I will not be able to resist him.
‘Oh yes!’ He laughs softly and bends closer, so that he is leaning over my shoulder, kissing the hollow of my collarbone.
I close my eyes as I feel his curly hair tickle my cheek.
‘It’s all show and dreams. He imagines himself a great champion of England or riding out as a great chevalier for your lady.
Neither are true or possible. If you want to serve your country, you should tell Countess Jacqueline to find a simple soldier, not an artist – a good commander, not a hero. Spare him from heroism.’
I turn a little, so he can see my face blushing rose, my eyes, as dark as slate with desire, my lips smiling and soft. ‘And why should I spare your master?’ I ask him. ‘Do you ask as a favour?’
As if my words are a trap, he does not step closer and hold me but pauses to study them.
‘No, I can’t ask you for any favour,’ he says; his accent is lilting like a love song.
‘I’m in no position to ask for anything – I’m a Welshman from beyond the pale; I don’t even have citizenship of England.
Anything between us must be given freely: unasked.
I’m not an Englishman who could make you an offer, Mistress Cobham; I’m a Welshman with nothing to offer.
I can’t even ask for as little as a kiss on the lips. It has to be given for love.’
I take a little breath at the word: love. ‘You mean for free.’ He waits to see if I will step into his arms.
I hesitate. I am a girl with next to no dowry. My face is my fortune; my kisses are my only capital. If he wants me, if any man wants me, he has to offer marriage and at least the hope of a fortune.
‘My honour . . .’ I start to say.
He releases me. ‘And here we are, in the very heart of honour,’ he says loudly, as my lady comes away from the altar of the Order of the Garter and walks down the aisle towards us, her face shining.
THE SERVICE IS as grand and as impressive as Duke Humphrey – expert in ceremony and masques – can make it.
My lady goes through her paces like a stately horse: to the altar, prostrating herself, rising up, knighted with a naked blade on each of her strong bare shoulders, seated in her stall, grand in her coronet, proud in her ermine.
It goes on for hours, and she is immaculate.
Afterwards, there is a great feast, with the knights of the Order dining altogether at one great round table with neither head nor foot, no one more favoured than another, everyone served in the brotherhood of the Order and my lady as a knight equal to any one of them, sworn to friendship and comradeship with them all.
Us mere mortals sit at tables at a distance, ladies on one side of the hall and gentlemen on the other, and there is no one of interest to talk to, and there is not even dancing after dinner as the knights sit over their wine and talk about the war in France.
They drink toasts: to the baby king, his guardians, and his royal family, ignoring that they have named bitter rivals – the French mother, the regent in France, the Beaufort uncle, and Duke Humphrey.
In this night of honour and chivalry, they pretend that we are all friends, all dedicated to the little king, all working for his safe inheritance of France and England.
My lady comes to bed drunk as a lord, still impressively graceful, though leaning slightly, like a willow over a stream. ‘He will marry me!’ she tells me. ‘I’ve got my army.’
‘He will? He said that?’ I am astounded as I take the heavy robes from her shoulders.
‘He will. He spoke to me after the dinner. He asked for my hand in marriage, and I said I would marry him.’
‘When?’
‘After dinner.’
‘Not when he asked,’ I say, as patiently as I can. ‘When you will marry?’
‘Not tomorrow,’ she drunkenly reassures me. ‘But soon. And he will invade my lands and win them back for me. And our son or daughter will have them as their birthright, just as I had them from my father.’
‘He swore to it? Were there witnesses?’
She laughs at me. ‘We are all knights,’ she tells me solemnly. ‘Our word is a sacred oath.’
‘YOUR LORD IS sworn to my lady,’ I confirm with Owen ap Maredudd after chapel the next morning.
The service was poorly attended and the responses muted.
My lady is not the only noble knight with a sick headache.
Owen ap Maredudd is pale under his tan, his eyes red-rimmed, his smile rueful; but he runs up the stairs behind me, light-footed.
He takes my hand and kisses it. I lean a little towards him and let the perfume on the wisp of silk from my headdress – lily of the valley, light and sweet and springlike – breathe over him.
‘I’m sure my lord will never fail in courtesy or chivalry,’ he says.
‘He’s told you to find a priest and a time and place?’
He hesitates. ‘She can’t marry without the pope’s permission. The Rome pope, not the one in Avignon.’
I take the thick leather of his jacket in my fingers and draw him a little closer. ‘You are mistaken,’ I tell him. ‘Any pope is good enough, and a man like your master should not fear a false pope and a pretend husband. If he does not marry her and march with her into Hainault, someone else will.’
He glances up the stairs, as if he would rather be in the queen’s privy chamber, admiring the baby, than threatened by me on the stairs. ‘Oh? Who else?’ he whispers. ‘Who else in England could afford such an adventure?’
‘She’s not limited to England,’ I remind him. ‘And of course, I cannot tell you what she has in mind. Even if I wanted to . . . which I don’t . . . not much.’
He laughs at this and catches my hand and kisses it again. ‘Every time I meet you, I step forward, and then I have to step back again,’ he says. ‘What a dance you are leading me!’
‘I will dance with you at their wedding feast,’ I promise. ‘I will step forward then. So you make sure that it’s soon.’