She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘It might be appropriate for my husband in our bedchamber but hardly the attire for greeting lawyers and abbots!’
‘It might be interesting though,’ he said, and sauntered out, sinuous as Weazel on a hunting expedition.
Nicola arrived to coil and tidy Joanna’s hair and pin on her wimple, all without comment. Joanna pushed her feet into her shoes and smiled in a way that would certainly have raised the brows of the Abbot of Dene could he have seen it.
William and Joanna spent the remainder of spring and early summer at Hertford, making occasional forays to nearby manors but never staying more than a day. They studied the accounts with their stewards and lawyers, and embarked upon building and decorating projects, aided by gifts of wood and building materials and more money from the King. They went hunting together with the hawks and dogs, and explored every inch of their domain.
Sometimes William returned to court and spent a few days with the King and occasionally Joanna accompanied him, but then they would eagerly return to Hertford and their delayed honeymoon.
One morning in early June, Joanna woke to sunshine streaming on to the bed clothes through the open shutters. She had slept longer than usual and still felt tired even though the dawn had long gone. William’s side of the bed was empty, but he was an early riser and had left her to slumber. Sitting up, a wave of nausea assailed her and her breasts felt sore and full. She would have to tell him today. For several mornings she had been thinking about it, but holding back because she had been wrong before, hoping and not daring to hope. Leaving the bed, she began unplaiting her hair and counted again the weeks since her last bleed. Before they came to Hertford. The end of March or early April. And it was now the second week of June.
William breezed into the chamber smelling of outdoors and hot horse. He had a small loaf in a cloth and a large piece of cheese. Joanna inhaled the various smells and her stomach wallowed. She pressed her lips together and clenched her fists until the sensation diminished.
‘Everyone will be calling you “slugabed”,’ he teased. ‘Never mind breaking your fast, this will be your dinner!’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I am not hungry.’
Immediately his face filled with concern.
‘Well, perhaps just a little dry bread – not the cheese.’ Even saying the word made her feel sick.
‘Are you ill? Shall I fetch a physician?’
She saw the fear in his eyes – there was summer pestilence in London less than a day’s ride away. ‘No, but I will do better if you take that cheese away … leave the bread.’
He did as she asked and brought her a drink of wine. She took a sip, washed it around her mouth, and nibbled on the bread. Her stomach still roiled, but with anxiety.
‘What would you say if I told you that you were going to be a father?’
He stared at her. And then slowly he smiled, wider and wider, a big smile full of hope. He took her by the shoulders. ‘Truly?’
She looked down demurely. ‘I believe there is a very good chance, and that with God’s help, come midwinter, we may have an heir.’
‘This is the best news you could have given me!’ His voice caught. ‘This is proof that …’ He shook his head, unable to continue.
‘That neither of us is barren?’ she said tremulously.
‘Well, that, yes … but it is validation too. Of us. Of our marriage, whatever the detractors say. I am so proud.’ He wrapped his arms around her and they hugged. She leaned against his chest and felt his heart beating in solid, steady strokes and thought that there was a child growing inside her womb with a beating heart too, and that they had at last been favoured by God. It was indeed validation against all comers.
18
Palace of Westminster, November 1249
Sitting with the women in the Queen’s chamber, Joanna felt as dull and heavy as the low grey clouds of the November afternoon. Her pregnancy, now into its seventh month, had been difficult and she had been sick for much of the time. The growing baby was vigorous and busy, just like his father – she was certain it was a boy. Sybil Giffard had been feeding her mashed liver and dosing her with all manner of strengthening tisanes and potions, and William fussed over her with a combination of anxiety and pride that she appreciated even while it almost drove her mad.
Aliza was accompanying her to Hertford for the lying in. Her daughter, little Alienor, was just over a year old, a beautiful little moppet, already toddling, providing she had a hand to grasp. Joanna wondered what it would be like to have a small person, part her and part William and all God’s creation, holding her own hand in complete and vulnerable trust.
She looked up at a flurry of motion at the door as the Queen’s uncle, Boniface, Archbishop of Canterbury, arrived. He had been absent in Rome during the year of Joanna’s marriage. Tall, florid-faced and authoritative, he had a mind like a trap and was highly protective of his own power and the boundaries of affinity. An enamelled gold cross flashed on his breast, and he punctuated his stride with thumps from an intricate ivory-headed crosier.
Everyone dropped to their knees in obeisance. Hampered by her size, Joanna was the last to do so, swallowing bile. Boniface greeted the Queen warmly and she knelt to kiss his ring of office. The rest of the ladies were presented, and the Queen gestured for Joanna to rise. ‘You will excuse my sister,’ she said. ‘She is soon to retire from court to her confinement.’
‘Sister?’ Boniface eyed Joanna speculatively.
‘Wife to my lord King’s brother, William de Valence.’
The shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘I bless you, my dear, for your fortitude and courage,’ he said. ‘I am sorry I was not present to celebrate your marriage.’
Joanna sensed a nuance of distaste in his manner, as though he was regarding something soiled and debased. The Queen looked between them with raised brows. The tension was subtle, like a cloud crossing the sun when previously Joanna had been unaware of any clouds in the sky.
