Palace of Westminster, January 1241
Snow had fallen earlier in the day, covering the ground in white smocking, and flakes still drifted through the early winter dark, softening edges, melting into the deep glitter of the Thames. The buildings blazed in the gloom, lit by lamps and candles and firelight.
Within Westminster’s great hall, seasoned logs burned in the hearths, dark-scaled on the surface, cracked and red-bellied beneath. Everyone wore their fur-lined cloaks against the cold, but under their winter weight, silk and cendal gleamed, embroidered with gold in honour of the Feast of St Edward the Confessor, beloved of King Henry’s heart.
Joanna wore her best blue gown and the silver brooch the King had given her two years ago. Earlier, the court had crowded into the abbey, braving the snow, first to worship the saint, and then to witness the King knighting several lords, barons and young men, among them the Queen’s uncle Peter of Savoy who had arrived to take his place at court and be granted a lifetime title of Earl of Richmond.
Between the evergreen swathes decking the great hall, the shields of the attendant barons proclaimed their owner’s lineage. The lions of Marshal and Bigod, the blue and gold chequers of de Warenne, the horseshoes of Ferrers, the bold red chevrons of de Clare. Many of her mother’s relations were here, the majority of whom she did not know, even if she recognised their powerful, firelit blazons.
Her father was here from Swanscombe and stood talking to Iohan and her uncle Gilbert. Joanna had barely spoken to him because he had been busy with ‘important’ matters. He had provided a purse of money for her upkeep and enquired after her welfare, but with the air of a stranger undertaking a duty.
‘You look so like your mother when she was a girl.’
Joanna turned and curtseyed to the woman who had spoken. Her aunt Mahelt was a handsome woman with high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and watchful dark eyes. Her mouth had a bitter curl directed at life in general. She was the widow of the Earl of Surrey and Warenne and Dowager Countess of Norfolk. Joanna’s mother had been her youngest sister. Her second husband, thirty years her senior, had recently died and she had come to court to settle the matter of her dowry and her children’s future.
‘I am often told that, madam,’ Joanna replied. She was unsure what to make of her aunt Mahelt and her razor-sharp gaze that pared everything and everyone to the bone.
‘But you are yourself too, remember that, child. You are privileged to be raised at court, although I have never cared for its madness and falsehood myself.’ Her aunt gave a mordant smile. ‘You have your mother’s eyes, for she would look at me as you do – dutifully, but guarding her thoughts. Your mind is alive, child, and it needs to be.’
‘Did you know my mother well?’ Joanna ventured, hoping for crumbs.
Her aunt held out her empty cup to a passing servant to be refilled. ‘I was married with a child before she was born, but I saw her sometimes and I grew to know her better when our father was dying. We sang to him, your mother and me. She was young and shy, but he took great delight in it and it was a moment of light and blessing amid his pain.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘Our mother died less than a year later and I cared for your mother until she came to be wed. That is why I say you are like her for I knew her well when she was your age. I miss her. I miss all of my sisters. I am the last one. None have made old bones.’
‘I am sorry, madam,’ Joanna said. Her aunt Isabelle, Mahelt’s sister, had died bearing the child she had been carrying at the Queen’s churching – a stillborn son. Her husband, the King’s brother, Richard, had since departed on crusade with Simon de Montfort who was making good use of his exile. ‘I am sorry for the loss of your husband too.’
‘Him I do not miss,’ her aunt said brusquely. ‘Marriage is a bargain, and you make the best of your circumstances. If you are fortunate you will bear sons and daughters to nurture and shape, who will be your consolation and make you proud.’
She beckoned to a junior squire who had been attending on the newly knighted Peter of Savoy.
The boy joined them, and bowed. Joanna eyed him curiously. He had glossy crow’s-wing hair and dark-brown eyes set under slanted brows. He was of about her own age and she recognised his guarded expression from her own repertoire. Her aunt introduced him as her son, John de Warenne, who was entering the household of the newly knighted Peter of Savoy as his squire and ward, where he would be trained to knighthood.
The boy bowed again and gave Joanna an evaluating, slightly wary look. She could almost see prickles bristling on him like a defensive hedgehog. She understood his tension for she had reacted in the same way when she first arrived at court.
‘I will be glad to have another cousin to talk to,’ she said.
He inclined his head and was obviously relieved when Cecily summoned Joanna to help prepare the Queen’s chamber for her retiring.
Her aunt Mahelt gave her a cool, dry kiss on the cheek. ‘You do your mother proud and I am glad to be reminded of her,’ she said, her expression almost wistful.
Joanna curtseyed dutifully. Her cousin John bowed and darted her another look from under his fringe.
Joanna perched little Edward on her knee and fed him small squares of rose-water sweetmeats from a silver dish. The young heir to the throne was thoroughly enjoying himself, lunging forward to catch each cube in his mouth and grabbing her hand to pull it towards him. ‘More,’ he cried, ‘more!’ and kicked his chubby legs. She gave him another and ate one too. The sweetness burst on her tongue, tasting of roses. Edward flung his arms around her neck and branded her cheek with a big sticky kiss. Joanna wrestled him round to wipe his mouth with a moist cloth. ‘You little tyrant!’ Laughing, she hugged him.
He wriggled off her knee and dashed to the cradle to look at his baby sister, Margaret, who had been born in September, a year after the Queen’s dramatic churching ceremony. She was golden-haired and blue-eyed like Edward, but a sweet little thing rather than a force of nature.
Joanna ruefully eyed the sticky fingerprints on her gown but she was smiling, for Edward was so loveable and their connection was mutual and strong. She had folded his napkins and rocked his cradle; had soothed his hot gums when he was teething; had helped him form his first words. She had supported his wobbly little legs as he learned to walk. The women, teasing, called her his little mother.
She was cleaning her gown when a page arrived to say that her father was preparing to leave and wanted to bid farewell. Immediately, Joanna’s stomach lurched with tension. Cecily rose to accompany her, and touched her hand in reassurance as they made their way to the great public hall beyond the King’s painted chamber.
Cloaked and booted ready to leave for Swanscombe, Warin de Munchensy exuded an air of impatience. A soft paunch rolled over his belt, mounding his tunic.
Joanna approached him and curtseyed deeply. ‘My lord father.’
He raised her to her feet, and kissed her cheek, then drew back and wiped his lips with a slight grimace. Setting her hand to her face, Joanna was dismayed to feel a lingering residue of Edward’s sticky kiss: her father must think she had been gobbling sweetmeats in the bower.
Other than their brief meeting yesterday they had barely spoken, and now he was leaving. Iohan had already departed with Gilbert Marshal, so had clearly made his own farewells earlier.
‘You have grown, daughter,’ he said with strained pleasantry. ‘You are a fine lady now, eh?’
