Leeds Castle, Kent, Summer 1441
Leeds Castle, Kent, Summer
THE GHOST OF Queen Joan is all around this castle.
She was here for years, never accused, never brought to trial, no evidence against her, and – most importantly – no one to speak for her.
Her husband, who adored her and married her for love, was dead; and her stepson, Henry V, could not afford her widow’s dower.
That was the cruel truth of it: she never did anything wrong, but the young hero bundled the old lady into Leeds Castle and left her there, while he spent her dower on war in France, throwing her chaplain Friar Randolph into the Tower, to make a stronger case against her.
The household at Leeds Castle loved her, ignoring the claims that she had used dark arts to seduce the old king and employed a wizard-chaplain to draw a horoscope predicting the death of the young one.
‘A horoscope?’ I ask of the groom of the household, who was here to serve and guard her and now serves and guards me.
He nods. He has heard all the gossip from London, and he believes I am no more guilty than the beloved dowager queen. ‘So they said, Your Grace. They said her chaplain Friar Randolph predicted the death of the king – treason, punishable by death.’
‘No fault of hers,’ I say firmly. ‘Unless she ordered the horoscope.’
‘She always said that she did not,’ he confirms. ‘But . . .’
‘But?’
‘But nobody ever admits to doing something that they could die for,’ he says very reasonably.
‘A queen does not lie,’ I tell him grandly. ‘Nor does a royal duchess. If I ever stooped to such a crime, I would admit it, rather than lie. My honour is more precious to me than my life itself. I am a lady of the Order of the Garter. I would rather die than stoop to tell a lie.’
I am impressive; he steps back and gives a little bow. ‘Of course, Your Grace,’ he says. ‘And I am sure you’ll soon be going back to London to clear your name.’
‘It’s a certainty,’ I tell him.
If I could announce a pregnancy, they would have to release me, I would return to Humphrey, and there would be no possibility of punishment.
But I have no signs of normal pregnancy.
I am sure that I am carrying a baby from that dark night, but my belly is flat and I have felt nothing like a quickening.
I suppose that a baby conceived as mine was, in darkness with a dark father, might be slower to move or might be still as a corpse till birth.
I dare not consult a midwife in case there are signs of the father on the baby in my womb.
I would trust Margery Jourdemayne, but I cannot send for her until she is cleared by the inquiry.
The thought of her cheerful face gives me a moment’s pang.
What if she cannot come to me? Everyone who should care for me is gone.