‘You are going to get better,’ she told him fiercely. ‘You have been a fighter since the day you were born.’ She wiped him and soothed him with soft words, and she prayed.
A new candle had burned halfway down on the pricket when Eleanor de Montfort returned to the bedside. ‘The Queen is sleeping,’ she said. ‘I will take over now.’
Joanna had no recourse but to yield her position to the Countess of Leicester.
‘I know what it is like to watch over a sick child,’ Eleanor said as she laid the cloth upon Edward’s brow. ‘When my son had spotted fever last year I would have given my life for his. You have yet to know the pain, but you will find out, should God grant you children.’
‘I lost my brother to fever and flux, I know what that pain is,’ Joanna replied defensively.
‘You know a vestige, not the whole,’ Eleanor contradicted. ‘For a child is born of your body and nurtured in your womb.’ She gave Joanna a hard look. ‘I shall speak plainly to you. My first husband was your uncle, and he too died of a flux. Had he lived, I would still be Countess of Pembroke, not of Leicester, and I would have the lands that have been vouched to you and your kin. You were not born with the expectation of prestige and now your lawyers fight mine to deny me my dower rights. You will understand why, unless you grant me those rights, we shall never be allies or even friends. You impoverish me, and you impoverish my husband and sons.’
Joanna’s mouth was dry but she stood her ground. ‘The law exists to negotiate such matters,’ she replied with dignity. ‘As you say, I was not born to the lands, but they have come to me – by the will of God, and the law of the land. We may have different views on this, my lady, but I am not your enemy, and I hope you are not mine.’
Eleanor shook her head and said with bitter scorn, ‘You stand in my way and look at me like a wounded innocent, while you and that foolish boy-husband of yours take what should be mine.’
Joanna fought a scalding wave of anger. At least Eleanor was being candid. Now the antagonism had been voiced, she could see how deep it ran. ‘I am truly sorry, my lady, that we should be in dispute over our inheritance, but this is not the time or place. The lord Edward is very unwell and the King and Queen are rightly worried for his wellbeing. Surely, even if we are on opposite sides of a dispute, we should make a truce and do our best to support them.’
Eleanor flushed, then nodded curtly. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The Queen is asleep and I am sure you have duties to attend to elsewhere for now, but we know where we stand.’
Joanna curtseyed formally to Eleanor. ‘Perfectly,’ she replied. She leaned over to touch Edward’s damp cheek. ‘I shall return later, sire, to see how you are faring. Remember what I said – be as strong as three lions.’
She left the Queen’s apartments, and once she had closed the door she drew a deep breath and pressed her hand to her midriff. Dwelling at court, she was accustomed to the rivalries permeating and poisoning the air. The ones that led the men into intrigues, disputes and fights. The reasons why tourneys were banned and swords left at the door. Among women too there were rivalries of dynasty and more subtle struggles for power and control, the weapons those of words and bodily nuance. The exchange with Eleanor de Montfort had frightened Joanna but it had also made her more determined to seize her inheritance and hold on to it with tooth and claw. She too would be as strong as three lions.
William walked under the decorated archway of the Temple Church entrance and paused in the round nave, deep with night and shadows but illuminated by lamps and candle light enough for vision. Here, entombed under effigies, were various knights and worthies of the Templar order, among them two of Joanna’s uncles and her grandsire, armed for battle, and reaching for their swords. William shivered and a feeling of unworthiness ran through him – that he should not be here in this sacred place, that he was a fraud.
Knights and chaplains of the order surrounded the prostrated Henry. William joined him before the altar and sank to his knees, signing his breast with the cross. Henry looked up in acknowledgement and directed William’s attention to the embellished rock crystal vase standing on the altar surrounded by a blaze of candles. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a most precious relic, sent to me by the Patriarch of Jerusalem. It contains drops of Our Saviour’s holy blood, for which I have the Patriarch’s seal of authentication. I shall present it to the abbey on the Feast of St Edward, but for now I am praying that it will wing my prayers to God and that He will show his great mercy and spare my son.’
William gazed at the flask in awe, for here was a power greater than any earthly king’s. The precious blood of Christ the Redeemer. Its presence took him to silence. He prostrated himself beside Henry and with arms outstretched prayed with all his might that Edward might live.
A mile away from the Temple, dawn light stole across the floor of Westminster Abbey, touching Joanna where she had been kneeling in prayer all day and night, enveloped inside a dream world of glitter and gold and building dust from the new alterations to the church. She had neither eaten nor drunk in that time and her lips felt flaky and dry as she tried to moisten them with her tongue. Others had been praying at her side, part of a large congregation from the royal household invested in beseeching God to spare Edward’s life. And behind the prayers, the continuous chanting of the monks. The light and heat from the forest of candles had burned her supplications into her brain. Edward had to live because her brother had died; otherwise there was no balance in the world. Hour upon hour the words flowed together and became senseless.
A light touch on her shoulder jolted her out of her trance and she turned with a gasp to see William. His eyes were darkly smudged and he looked as exhausted as she felt. Fear flashed through her, but then she saw the relief in his expression.
‘The lord Edward’s fever has broken,’ he said. ‘He is sitting up and asking for food and drink. Our prayers have been answered.’
She uttered a small cry of joy and relief, and then swayed. ‘I am all right,’ she said, rallying as he exclaimed and caught her. Her throat was so dry she could barely speak. She managed to stay upright, but leaned against him, grateful for his strength. Together they lit more candles to thank God for His great mercy and then left the abbey side by side, touching shoulders.
To reach their lodgings at Westminster Palace they had to cross Henry’s great painted chamber. In the breaking dawn, the first colours had begun to tint out of the grey light. The painted figures of Faith, Hope and Charity stood in three arched panels, each one wearing a jewelled crown. Faith carried a cross, Hope, clad in a lavender-blue gown, hinting at a gleam of silk, walked among the stars while trampling the serpent of Despair under her bare feet, and Charity stooped to bestow a cloak upon a beggar.
‘That is what you are,’ William said, standing before the middle figure of Hope. ‘You look like her and you are my hope and my love.’
She gave him an exhausted smile and reached up to touch his face, feeling the prick of stubble under her fingertips. ‘I do love you,’ she said, and stood on tip-toe to kiss him. ‘Even when we argue.’ She turned to regard the figures. ‘I remember the artist and his apprentice painting these. I often crept away to watch them.’
Diverted, he looked at her. ‘How old were you?’
Joanna shrugged. ‘A child, but an older one. Perhaps eleven. Sometimes I would give them food or drink from the King and Queen, and if I was walking Dame Willelma’s dog, they always petted him.’
William looked between her and the figure, narrowing his eyes. ‘I think the painter used your face for inspiration,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I am certain of it.’
Joanna blushed. The thought had never occurred to her before, but she suspected he was right. Hope had always been her favourite. Feeling shy, she looked down.
‘What a discovery,’ William said. ‘You truly are Hope among the Stars.’
In their chamber, Weazel was curled on their bed fast asleep, his stomach full of fish trimmings fed to him by Jacomin. Bread, cheese and wine awaited Joanna and William. They wolfed the food in tired, hungry silence, occasionally looking at each other, taken beyond words by their ordeals and discoveries.
Eventually they retired to their bed, undressing to their undergarments. The church bells were ringing to celebrate Edward’s recovery and Joanna remembered their joyous pealing on the night of his birth. The dance of life could end as suddenly as a single mis-step. She clung to William, seeking his lips, her fingers in the curling vigour of his hair. He kissed her in return and rolled over with her, and they made love, all dishevelled and exhausted and unwashed as they were, celebrating what they had in the moment – and hope for the future.
14
