The King was busy speaking to the tiler from whom he was commissioning a pavement for the chamber floor. The decoration of this room where he spent so much time when in Westminster was his passion and his joy.
Iohan arrived with John de Warenne, the latter bearing a heaped bowl of cherries, and sat down with her in the window seat. Joanna immediately set her sewing aside for cherries were her weakness and she did not want to spoil her work with their juice. The orchards running down to the river were laden with them just now.
‘I hope you had permission,’ she said.
Iohan grinned. ‘Of course we did. We said we had been sent by one of the Queen’s ladies.’
She gave him a reproving look.
‘We were just anticipating your desire, and anyway, it means less for the pigeons.’ Iohan offered her the bowl. Abandoning her censure, she delicately took four of the glossy fruits, their red so dark that they reminded her of the shiny hide of one of the King’s palfreys.
Her brother and their cousin John had struck up a friendship, and although they had different lords and duties, they would seek each other’s company if they were at court together. They were riding and wrestling partners – friendly, highly competitive rivals – and comrades in mischief. John, taciturn on the outside, was gradually emerging from his shell.
Joanna popped a cherry in her mouth and worked her teeth around the stone, then delicately spat it into her cupped hand. The boys competed, seeing how far they could spit their own stones. They seemed cheerful today and none the worse for their ordeal a month ago, when they had witnessed the death of their uncle Gilbert the Marshal at a tourney held at Hertford.
The trial of arms between the English barons and the Queen’s Savoyard relatives had been presented as a friendly gathering to test out new horses and prove valour rather than as a tourney, because the King was deeply concerned about the disruptive and dangerous potential of such gatherings which often escalated into full battles and riots. But everyone had known it was a tourney by a less volatile name. Their uncle Gilbert had been chosen to lead the English barons and Peter of Savoy the foreign lords, and thus Iohan and John had been in attendance.
Uncle Gilbert had been showing off the paces of his new spirited Lombardy stallion, charging him up and down, when the horse’s reins had suddenly broken and Gilbert had been thrown. His foot had caught in the stirrup and he had been dragged for several minutes along the hard, dry ground until someone managed to catch the horse, by which time their uncle was already dying from his injuries. His body had been borne back to London for burial in the Temple Church beside his father and brother.
The King had been so furious on learning of Gilbert’s death that he had refused to grant Walter, Gilbert’s brother and successor, his inheritance, although Joanna expected he would in time – for a price. Iohan had been taken into Henry’s entourage for now.
She prayed for her uncle’s soul every day, and remembered him each time she rode Arian. She had not known him well, but he had always been kind to her and she was sad to think she would not see him again. Even the King, through his anger, had grieved. ‘We had our differences,’ he said, ‘but he was a stalwart tree in the forest and now he is gone I can no longer call upon his shelter and support.’
John spat out his last cherry stone and declared himself the winner, and Iohan protested, which resulted in a bout of elbowing and half punches, causing Joanna to roll her eyes and wonder why boys and men had to behave like this. She gave a small sigh, and turned her gaze to the painters who had finished their own food and were preparing to resume work. One man was working below the frieze, mapping out the figures of Faith, Hope and Charity in deft charcoal strokes.
John was summoned away by an older squire, for the Earl of Richmond desired him to run an errand.
‘You have cherry stains round your mouth,’ Joanna told him, and with a helpful smile handed him a scrap of waste linen from her sewing basket.
‘Hah, “cherry lips”!’ Iohan quipped, referencing a common name for a lady of dubious repute and easy favours.
John thumped him with amiable violence, then wiped his mouth with the cloth and departed, waving assent over his shoulder to Iohan’s shouted invitation to play dice later.
With his friend gone, Iohan folded his arms and looked at Joanna. ‘They say Uncle Gilbert was murdered,’ he said.
Joanna hastily looked round, but no one was within earshot. ‘Who says?’ she whispered.
Iohan shrugged. ‘People. Servants gossiping in corners.’
‘Why would they say such things?’
‘Because Uncle Gilbert was always talking about foreigners forcing their way into court circles and having too much influence. He had many enemies.’
Joanna dropped her gaze. Iohan had still not learned to be circumspect, and perhaps never would, but she could only admonish him so far.
‘The horse was a new Lombard stallion and hard to control, so it might have happened anyway, but someone must have cut his reins because they do not just break.’ Iohan lifted his chin. ‘He was a Marshal – he knew the importance of caring for equipment.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘It may just have been a servant with a grudge – but you never know what is waiting round the corner, do you?’ He shivered. ‘I do not think I will ever forget the sight of him being dragged across the ground with his foot caught in that stirrup.’
She laid her hand on his arm to comfort him and he gave her a wan smile and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘I should go too,’ he said.
‘Thank you for the cherries.’
He smiled at her. ‘I spat the furthest stone whatever John says,’ he said, and took his leave.
Joanna noticed he had left the bowl, which would have to be returned to the kitchens. She thought of the madman in the palace at Woodstock, and how they all lived with bars on the windows now. She was glad that her place in the world was not exalted. Better to be a pawn on the edges, or not on the board at all.
