‘You may go,’ William said, ‘and I hope to talk to you again before you are given into your mother’s custody. I shall organise that exchange once we reach Gloucester. For now, you will be kept under house arrest – although not in my household. I shall arrange for you to join the Earl of Gloucester – it will suit both our purposes better. I hope you will accept the terms of release by giving your word as a knight. I would hate to see you back in fetters.’ He indicated the red bracelets of chafed skin on Guillaume’s wrists.
‘You have my word,’ Guillaume said stiffly.
William gestured for his knights to escort Guillaume out, and when he had gone he heaved a deep sigh and, leaning back, raked his hands through his hair. Then he poured another half cup of wine and ate a second pastry because doing such mundane things put normality back in the world. He would never come to any sort of friendship with Guillaume de Munchensy – there would be friction even in times of peace – but for now it was settled.
He still had so much to do. De Montfort was dead but pockets of rebellion remained and nothing would be untangled in a day, or even a month. Everything had changed. Like Henry’s great painted chamber, the fabric might remain, but recovery from fire meant what was laid over that fabric would be very different.
42
Winchester, August 1265
Sitting on a window seat in the great hall of Gloucester Castle, Joanna had never seen such a bustle of industry at a court gathering, as though Simon de Montfort’s death had torn open a sealed-up beehive. The place thronged with nobles and officials, with hangers-on and servants and supplicants. William had yet to arrive and the waiting made her stomach churn with tension. They had been apart and in peril for more than sixteen months. Isabelle had been in her womb when they parted; now she was walking and saying her first words.
To meet him, Joanna had donned the best gown of those she had left – the blue silk with the embroidery of ruby martels – but the hem was dusty from all the bustle in the courtyard and hall. She kept searching for him among the crowds in the hall, and Iohan had gone to look for him outside.
Five days ago she had learned of the victory at Evesham in a letter from William filled with relief and thanksgiving and telling her to come to Winchester with the children. She could barely come to terms with knowing it was over and that Simon de Montfort was dead. She had feared him since her childhood, and now he was gone. She ought to be dancing with triumph, but she kept thinking of Eleanor de Montfort as a wife and mother and how devastated she must be. They had been enemies, they disliked each other, but they shared the common ground of family and motherhood. It could so easily have been her in Eleanor’s place.
Arriving at court, Joanna had been appalled to see Henry’s gaunt frailty, his trembling hands and drooping eyelid more pronounced than ever. He had made wrong and foolish choices, but to drag him into a battle, unmarked, unknown, certain of death, was unforgiveable.
Without warning, as she was craning her head one way, William arrived from the other side, and the first she realised was as he knelt at her feet with head bowed. ‘My lady wife,’ he said. ‘My heart, my reason, my hope.’
Her own heart turned over and melted. He was wearing his heraldic surcoat over a plain blue tunic and his Limoges enamelled sword belt, every inch the supplicant knight to his lady. She gasped and put her hands in his hair, just to feel the luxuriant curl. The familiarity and the relief were like gold within her. He looked up and they searched each other’s faces.
‘I trusted you to come through, and you did,’ she whispered, ‘but oh, I have missed you and prayed for your safety.’
She laid her palm against his cheek and he moved his head sideways until her hand was upon his lips, and he kissed it. Then he sat beside her on the window bench and drew her into his arms as though they were alone together and not in a crowded hall.
‘And I trusted you too,’ he said. ‘You are so brave and capable – but to see you now and touch you, and know you are real when you have only been in my mind for all this time. That is all I can think of beyond anything … and that I really do have a family, and it is not in my imagination – that I do have something to be proud of. I can begin to believe that everything is going to be all right.’ His voice wobbled, and as he kissed her again, she tasted his tears.
‘Oh, William,’ she said softly.
Iohan arrived and loudly cleared his throat. ‘I see you have found each other,’ he said.
William rose from Joanna’s side and clasped his son in an emotional embrace, man to man. ‘You have done a fine job keeping the family safe,’ he said. ‘I am proud of you.’
Iohan flushed with pleasure, but he was frowning too. ‘I wish I had been there.’
‘No, you do not,’ William answered quickly, with a shudder of revulsion. ‘Why would you go to hell if you did not have to? I would not wish such a thing on any son of mine. There will be times in your life when you will have to fight and attend your lord in battle, but what went forth at Evesham was something you would never want to witness.’ With hands either side of Iohan’s face, he kissed his forehead in blessing. ‘The Earl de Warenne is outside; you had better go and see if he needs you for anything.’
‘He has grown again,’ he said to Joanna as Iohan shouldered his way through the busy hall.
‘Yes, there’s not a pantry big enough to feed him at the moment.’
He greeted the other children, marvelling at how they too had grown, and his eyes filled at the sight of Agnes. Fourteen years old – almost a woman, with a willowy figure and his own steady grey-hazel eyes.
‘My lord father,’ she said with a smooth curtsey.
‘Are you not glad now that she is not yet wed?’ Joanna asked.
‘Yes, you were right,’ he answered gruffly. ‘Plenty of time for that later.’
He lifted Agnes to her feet and hugged her, then turned to embrace Margaret, stroking her tumbled curls with warm affection. He admired Will’s new knife and exclaimed on his growth too, saying he would soon be old enough to become a squire. And then Joanna presented him with their youngest daughter.
‘This is Isabelle,’ she said. ‘Almost born on the road to Cookham Abbey, but none the worse for her ordeal, save that she has a penchant for wandering!’
William took her solid weight in his arms and gazed at her rosy cheeks, her whorls of golden hair and bright blue eyes. He held her close, inhaling her infant scent, so different and healing after the stenches of the battlefield. He looked at Joanna again. ‘What you had to do,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What you had to endure. Yet you have come through it all and kept the children safe and increased their number. You truly are a remarkable woman.’
‘I do not feel remarkable,’ she answered with a tremulous laugh. ‘I did what I had to do, and you the same.’
