‘I know, my love, I know,’ Alienor soothed, putting her arms around him. ‘Do not worry, we shall find a solution. Let those who have the fighting skill fight, and those who have the diplomatic skill weave their threads. I shall write to my sister and she shall speak to Louis. Women are after all the peacemakers.’ She stroked his hair, calming and gentling him. ‘The Earl of Leicester should never have spoken as he did, but that is his way and it did not reflect well on him. Tomorrow, when the dust has settled, we shall see what is what. Perhaps because he is your brother-by-marriage he thinks he has the leeway to speak bluntly; there are even times when such a thing is useful. You are his king. He owes you his allegiance and his respect, but do not disown him because of his behaviour, even if that is your first instinct.’
Henry lifted his head and looked at her, wide-eyed.
‘If he wants to put his fist in a soldier’s glove then let him,’ Alienor said. ‘Why should a man have a guard dog and bark himself ? If he has military advice then let it become deed, not word after the event. If he succeeds, reward him. If he fails, then it shall be his fault, not yours.’
Henry relaxed a little and kissed her cheek. ‘You are wise beyond your years, my love.’
‘I look and listen and learn.’ She signalled Joanna to come and pour wine. ‘You are the King, do not let men use you, save that it be to your advantage.’
Joanna curtseyed after she had presented the filled cups. ‘Sire, madam, you shall always have my service,’ she said, wanting to give something to heal what had happened, and she touched the silver brooch pinning the throat of her gown.
The King gave her a harassed smile over the rim of the goblet. ‘You are a treasure, my dear,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, bless you, I know you will be steadfast.’
7
Windsor Castle, Berkshire, December 1245
It had snowed overnight, the first full fall of the year, and the children in the royal nursery were engaged in a competitive snowball fight. Six-year-old Edward, cheeks and lips as red as scarlet cloth from the cold, was determined to win. His voice shrilled as he aimed and threw, striking Joanna’s brother on the side of his cloak. Iohan laughed and retaliated, but Edward ducked and the ball exploded against the wall.
Joanna and Edward’s little sister Margaret had joined the fray, hurling snowballs at the boys. Powdery white smudges patterned Joanna’s cloak where she had protected the little girl from the boisterous attacks of the boys. Margaret, despite her haphazard aim, was resolute and Joanna was taking the brunt. Her thick brown braid had straggled loose and she was breathless with laughter. Her cousin John de Warenne lifted Edward up piggyback and Iohan did the same with another of their cousins, Henry of Almain, and the boys indulged in a snow-joust, jostling, shoving each other, grunting and struggling. Sausagez danced around them, barking. Grey-muzzled and middle-aged he might be, but his terrier enthusiasm remained undampened.
Joanna moulded another mitten full of snow, but paused before throwing as one of the King’s chaplains, Brother Thomas, approached the group. She dropped her missile and dusted off her hands and the boys ceased their rough and tumbling. The friar studied them from under bushy silver brows before addressing Iohan, who was brushing snow from his tunic. ‘Master Munchensy, the King wishes to see you and your sister, and you, my lord,’ he added to John de Warenne. He turned to encompass Joanna in his stare, and she hastily tidied her hair back under her cap, wondering what had happened or what they had done. ‘Come,’ the friar said, his gaze sombre. ‘We should not keep the King waiting. He has important news.’
Henry, clad in a mantle lined with squirrel fur, sat by his hearth, surrounded by clerics, barons and administrators. He was busy dictating, but looked up as Joanna and the two youths were ushered into the room. A gesture and a word dismissed those around him, including Simon de Montfort, who regarded the three youngsters with fierce eyes. He and Henry had again patched up their differences and made a bygone of the words exchanged in Gascony, but they disliked each other; however, since they were kin-by-marriage, they existed in a state of uneasy truce, bolstered by their wives.
Joanna’s frozen fingers started to tingle as she stood near the fire, and her stomach churned with tension because Henry looked so serious. Everyone had retreated, but the clerks lingered, distant enough to give space but sufficiently close to be summoned, and the nearest stood clutching an assortment of parchment sheets, their seals dangling.
‘I am afraid I have some sad and serious news for all of you.’ Henry fixed them with a sorrowful gaze. ‘I am sorry to tell you that your uncle Ancel has died at Striguil. He was coming to court for the Feast of St Edward to be invested with the earldom of Pembroke, but he has succumbed to illness.’
Shocked, Joanna made the sign of the cross on her breast. Last month their uncle Walter had died of a flux and now his last remaining brother was also dead. A whole generation of her Marshal male relatives had been extinguished. It was like standing between sheltering trees and suddenly have a gale blow them down.
‘I shall have prayers said for his soul in the chapel of St Edward,’ Henry said, ‘and naturally I shall ensure all the business concerns of the earldom continue as usual.’ He regarded them with genuine sadness. ‘I knew your uncle Ancel when we were boys, and we played together as you have been playing today. We have not been close for a long time, but still it was a memory made.’
Others saw the King’s sensitivity as a failing, but Joanna regarded it as a sign of his goodness and sincerity, and she loved him for it. However, the enormity of the news hit her as he spoke again.
‘This will make a difference to your inheritance, my boy,’ he told Iohan. ‘Lawyers will be employed on your behalf because now your uncles have all died without issue, the lands come to their sisters and to the heirs of their sisters. Since you are your mother’s male heir, you stand to inherit her portion when you come of age. Others have details of what that entails, but it is considerable.’
Iohan stammered out a flustered response and Henry responded with a sympathetic smile. ‘Your uncle’s death is a sad shock, I know, and your changed circumstances will take a great deal of adjustment. Go and sit in the embrasure and I will have a servant bring you some wine. And then light candles in my chapel and pray for your uncle’s soul.’ He raised his hand. ‘All of you, together. Be each other’s comfort and support. I will talk to you again when I have finished my other business.’
Sitting in the embrasure, warmed by heat from a charcoal brazier, Joanna curled her hands around her cup of hot spiced wine and looked at Iohan. He was flushed and bright-eyed, for now instead of receiving an ordinary baronial inheritance from Swanscombe he stood to gain castles and lands that would vastly increase his status.
‘All of our Marshal uncles are gone,’ said John de Warenne. ‘There is no longer an Earl of Pembroke – unless the King gives you the title.’ He nudged Iohan. Ancel was John’s uncle too, but he had living older brothers who would inherit their mother’s share of the Marshal lands in due course, so the news for him was not as immense.
Iohan shook his head in bemusement. ‘I do not know what to say. Who would think that my Marshal uncles would die without begetting heirs? I would wish my uncle Ancel still alive, although I never knew him beyond a word. I want to grieve for him, but I cannot feel the sorrow.’
‘I never knew my father,’ John admitted with a grimace. ‘I never saw him. He and my mother were …’ He paused. ‘Not close. When he died, though, I wanted him back and I was angry that he could leave me and my mother without protection.’ His eyes were dark with pain. ‘I will never get to face him in manhood and show my worth before him. He failed me. I honour my bloodline, but I do not want to be him.’ He gave Iohan a shrewd, cynical look, far older than his sixteen years. ‘You are important now. Your lands will have a steward and a great marriage will be arranged for you.’
Iohan shook his head again: it was too much to take in.
‘And a greater marriage for you too,’ John said to Joanna.
She returned his look calmly, although she was not calm inside. She was more resilient to change these days, but this new alteration in status unsettled her for it meant moving into the foreground instead of service behind the curtain. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Who can tell? We should pray for our uncle’s soul.’
The three of them repaired to the King’s magnificent private chapel, gleaming with gold, ornaments and precious jewels, the air perfumed with incense. Iohan looked bemused and Joanna pressed his hand supportively. He replied with a strained smile and a slight shake of his head.
Joanna’s breath escaped in a cloud of cold vapour and she bowed her head and prayed dutifully for her uncle’s soul, for her mother’s, for those who were gone from this world and were with Jesus; and for those still treading their path on this earth, that they might find succour and healing. And with herself and Iohan in mind, that they might find the strength to face whatever lay beyond the horizon.
8
