‘Your sister?’ De Montfort looked him up and down. ‘Remind me who you are.’
‘Iohan de Munchensy, son of Warin de Munchensy of Swanscombe, sire,’ Iohan said, jutting his chin.
De Montfort’s smile lost some of its humour. ‘A Marshal by maternity,’ he said. ‘Well, your mother’s family came from the stables, I suppose.’ He looked round at his companions and laughed, and then pressed his heels into his mount’s sides. The horse surged towards Joanna, hooves dancing. She sprang backwards, feeling sick, and scooped the hysterical Sausagez into her arms. Iohan stepped in front of them, his body a rigid shield. De Montfort smiled and pranced closer again. The palfrey’s hot breath gusted and the shod hooves flashed. Joanna whimpered. De Montfort made a contemptuous sound and pulled the big chestnut back. ‘What a fine little hedge knight you are, Iohan of Swanscombe,’ he said. ‘Begone to your nursemaids. I do not make war on milksops and mongrels.’ Abruptly he reined the horse away and clopped across the courtyard to his waiting groom.
Joanna blinked, determined not to cry. Iohan wrapped his hands around his belt. ‘Don’t worry, de Montfort won’t be staying long.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because his wife is great with child. He’ll be going to Kenilworth for the birth as soon as he has reported to the King.’
Joanna shuddered. The dying blood-red light in the west, the steaming horses and the raw masculine power seemed like a weight dropping across her shoulders, heavy with threat.
‘He doesn’t frighten me,’ Iohan said.
She didn’t believe him. She had been terrified, and he was no braver than she was.
*
That night the court gathered in Woodstock’s great hall to enjoy conversation, music and games of chess and dice. Simon de Montfort had been welcomed back into the royal household now that his match with the King’s sister had received the Pope’s sanction. Henry was being conciliatory towards his new brother-in-law, and the Queen was effusive, for Simon’s wife was soon to bear her first child and she harboured hopes of her own fruitfulness.
While the King was occupied to his personal delight with the artists and craftsmen who were designing a new mural for the Queen’s bedchamber, de Montfort stood at the fire with a cluster of knights and courtiers, roasting chestnuts on the wide, flat blade of a serving knife. Their mood was convivial and the jests and laughter increased in volume as the wine sank in the flagons.
The blaze from the hearth heated Joanna’s cheeks, and almost seemed to connect her with the red-faced laughing men. Their strength and vital masculinity intimidated and fascinated her. She looked around, seeking reassurance, but Cecily had discreetly retired to empty her bladder, and Lady Giffard and Madam Biset were on the other side of the room, playing chess.
De Montfort caught Joanna’s gaze and fixed her with his stare. ‘Come here, child,’ he said, beckoning.
Joanna’s stomach churned, but courtesy brought her to her feet and towards him, like the chicken charmed by the fox.
‘Ah, my little mistress of Swanscombe,’ he said with a vulpine smile. ‘You did not give me your name earlier. What would it be now?’
Joanna swallowed, for anonymity was protection and she hated being singled out. ‘Joanna, sire.’
‘Well then, Joanna of Swanscombe, would you like a nice roast chestnut?’
She gazed at the nuts jumping on the flat blade of the knife, and then looked into his eyes, and they were steely like the metal.
He winked at her and stooped to a pile of blackened shells in a shallow cup on the hearth. ‘Here, have this one – it’s cooling down.’ He held it out on his palm. His fingers were thick and powerful, muscular from controlling spirited horses and wielding weapons.
Joanna stood transfixed, her fists clenched at her sides. The men with de Montfort chuckled, watching her.
‘Take it,’ he urged. ‘I promise it won’t hurt.’
Against her will, she held out her hand, but dropped her gaze. The nut was still hot, although not enough to burn.
‘Eat it, young mistress, it’s good.’
They watched her with an avid pack hunger that made her terrified to be the focus of their attention. She raised the chestnut to her mouth and bit into the burned shell, before spitting it back into her hand and throwing the fragment on to the hearth; and then fled, her eyes blurring with tears. An acrid taste soured her tongue and she was mortified by the sound of the laughter trailing in her wake. She was so distraught, she did not see Dame Cecily until she ran into her.
‘How now, child.’ Cecily took her by the shoulders and held her fast. ‘Come, come, this is not my steady, sensible Joanna. What is wrong?’
Joanna gulped and dashed her sleeve across her eyes.
Gently but firmly, Cecily took her hand and examined it. ‘What is this?’
‘The men …’ Joanna’s voice hitched. ‘They are roasting chestnuts and … and Messire de Montfort made me take one.’ The story sounded feeble when spoken aloud, but her humiliation was intense.
Cecily tightened her lips. Taking a firmer grip on Joanna’s hand, she marched back into the hall and, going up to the laughing men, addressed them fearlessly as if they were recalcitrant youths. ‘What are you doing that you have nothing better in your minds than teasing a child?’ She fixed de Montfort in particular with a gimlet stare.
