Joanna executed several small, neat stitches. Cecily’s bond with Countess Eleanor made her hesitate, as did her knowledge of Eleanor’s high connections and friendships. On the other hand, she trusted Cecily who had her own wells of knowing and silence. ‘My brother asked me about things I heard in the Queen’s chamber,’ she said at last. ‘I refused to tell him because it was breaking a trust.’
Cecily’s expression softened. ‘You have a wise head on very young shoulders. Often people will ask you to break faith, and you must always resist them – doing so will only add to your lustre. Never be ashamed.’
Joanna smoothed her sewing. ‘He told me things too – things he had overheard.’
‘Then I hope your refusal to join in will make him think twice next time. I am glad you had the strength and maturity to withstand him. There are too many wagging tongues at court.’
Joanna’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘He said the reason Countess Eleanor does not like me is because I am part of the Marshal family.’
‘Tush, child!’ Cecily said sharply. ‘The Countess of Leicester does not dislike you. Indeed, she does not know you. Pay no heed to what others say – always trust your own judgement.’
Joanna swallowed. The trouble was that her judgement told her that Eleanor de Montfort disliked her, and Iohan had given her a reason for it.
Cecily said briskly, ‘Returning to court is an adjustment for the Countess of Leicester. She will settle with you – you will see. She may be in dispute with your uncle Gilbert, but these are legal matters far removed from your sphere and have nothing to do with you – I hope you understand.’
‘Yes, madam,’ Joanna said dutifully, although for the first time she was not sure if she believed Cecily.
‘I am always watching out for you, remember that,’ Cecily said firmly. ‘Now, go and take your sewing to the window seat. You cannot see to stitch in this dark little corner, nor should you dwell there from choice. Always seek the light.’
Over the next few days, Iohan got over his sulk and the air of constraint between brother and sister gradually thawed, although Iohan made a pointed show of not talking about court business at all. In the Queen’s chambers, the Countess of Leicester often summoned Joanna to perform tasks and dance attendance on her. Eleanor was autocratic and abrupt, firmly putting Joanna in her place as a subordinate. Cecily observed and said nothing, but quietly gave Joanna tasks that kept her out of Eleanor’s way whenever possible. Sausagez enjoyed twice as many walks as usual.
If Joanna had to be in the Countess’s vicinity, she was unobtrusive and obedient, which seemed to calm Eleanor’s critical regard. When the Countess departed home to her baby son at Kenilworth three weeks later, riding a black Spanish palfrey and laden with gifts from the King and Queen, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief. Simon de Montfort, however, remained at the King’s side and dominated the court with his ebullience and charisma. He was easier to avoid than his wife, and Joanna made sure that she did, and although she was wary, life returned to a more comfortable routine.
One of her regular tasks was to rub the Queen’s feet. ‘You have the tenderest touch of all my ladies,’ Alienor said, leaning back against her pillows. ‘You remind me of my little sister Sancha – I miss her so much. Your hair is like hers with those chestnut lights in the sun, and so thick and smooth too.’
Embarrassed, Joanna concentrated on her task. She had sometimes peeked into the Queen’s ivory mirror, but pretty women were golden-haired and blue-eyed like her aunt Isabelle or the Countess of Leicester. Her own eyes, like her hair, were brown, and she had freckles.
The Queen smiled. ‘When you are grown up and married, you will still be my favourite and I shall keep you at court with me. I shall have the King find you a fine and worthy husband. Won’t that be wonderful?’
The Queen’s words were like an extension of one of the stories read aloud in the bower during leisure time, but Joanna was already sceptical. Choices concerning her life were always made by others, no matter what Cecily said. What if the ‘worthy husband’ was like Simon de Montfort or one of the other forceful barons at court, striding about in their assured arrogance. She would be eaten alive. If he was like the King, it might not be so awful, for she had observed that Henry was generous, kind and thoughtful, but such traits were rare and never considerations when it came to arranging a marriage.
‘Yes, madam,’ she said meekly. ‘Thank you.’ She made the correct reply, but without enthusiasm.
‘You are still very young,’ Alienor murmured, opening one eye. ‘Do not worry. When the time comes you will be ready, I promise.’
4
Palace of Westminster, London, June 1239
In the anteroom to the birthing chamber Joanna was folding the linen napkins and swaddling clothes ready for the new baby’s arrival. Lady Sybil Giffard had given her the task to keep her busy while they waited. The Queen had been labouring since dawn, and now the western sky was deep teal with new stars pricking through like silver pins. Joanna had lit the candles as dusk encroached and they blazed in every sconce and holder.
Joanna prayed as she folded. Her mother had died giving birth to a stillborn son, and she was worried for the Queen’s safety even while knowing that Lady Sybil was a highly respected and experienced midwife. The King was holding a prayer vigil in his private chapel and kept sending servants to ask how matters were progressing and they received the same patient answer despite Lady Sybil’s exasperation at the constant enquiries. All was well; the birth would happen in due course; just let the women do their sacred work.
Joanna stopped folding and her heart began to race as she heard a long, agonised groan from the inner chamber. Then another, and the voice of Lady Sybil, calm, encouraging and urgent all at the same time. And suddenly, another sound – a baby’s wail, heralding the arrival of a new soul into the world. The other ladies waiting in the antechamber with Joanna exchanged glances, crossing themselves, casting looks at the door.
The wails grew stronger. Willelma opened the door, her creased face bright with joy and relief. ‘The Queen is safely delivered of a fine son!’ Her smile was wide and beautiful despite several missing teeth. ‘Send the news to the King and let him rejoice. Praise God, a healthy prince is born!’
Within moments of receiving the tidings, Henry rushed into the chamber, his face flushed with emotion. The ladies curtseyed at his arrival but were disconcerted at the irregular etiquette for a man had no place in the confinement chamber, even if he was the King and this his firstborn son. ‘Ladies.’ He swept them with a single bright look before entering the inner sanctum and closing the door.
Everyone started talking at once, filled with excitement, and a little shock at the King’s defiance of propriety. Roberga poured wine, and they toasted the new prince and his parents. Joanna wanted to jig and twirl, and it was an effort to maintain her decorum and keep her feet still. Sipping wine from one of the cups being passed around, she wondered eagerly when she would be able to see this new little person.
The bells began tolling from the abbey, ringing out the birth of the royal heir in exultant peals that spread across the night sky and resonated through Joanna’s body, touching her soul.
Eventually, the bedchamber door opened and the King emerged, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. ‘I have a son! Praise God, I have a son! Ladies, thank you all for your care and devotion to the Queen. I shall not forget. You shall all have gifts!’ He gazed towards the open shutters. ‘Do you hear the bells?’ He paused to listen, his expression beatific, and then he smiled at all of them. ‘I shall remember this moment for ever,’ he said, and left the room, wiping his eyes.
Joanna went to the window and leaned into the open air. The sound of shouting filled the warm June evening and torches were being waved about in wild sweeps of flame as the inhabitants of the Westminster complex celebrated the birth of a future king born on the cusp of midsummer. He was to be named Edward after a long-ago King of England who had been a godly man and a saint. A pious, peacemaker king. Henry wanted to renew that bond like a golden chain, connecting the past to the present via a son bearing an English royal name of ancient descent.
Listening to the revellers, to the bells, and to the cries of the new-born child, Joanna’s eyes filled with tears of joy.
