Agnes looked up at her from light hazel eyes. ‘When I grow up, shall I be like you?’
Joanna stroked Agnes’s smooth honey-brown plait. ‘Perhaps you shall, for you are very like me when I was a child.’
‘Were you good?’
Joanna laughed. ‘Well, I tried hard to be, for the King would have sent me away otherwise, and I did not want that to happen.’ A frisson ran through her body, as she remembered the fear of not measuring up, or of being ostracised and punished. None of that had occurred. She had had to wait until she was older to realise such nightmares.
Agnes hugged herself. ‘I would not want that to happen to me.’
‘And it will not, my love. The King is your uncle and he loves you dearly. Besides, you are mine, not his, and I would never send you away. You will always belong to me, even when you are married with children of your own.’ She gave her a cuddle.
Agnes played with the tassel for a moment. ‘Mama, I am frightened,’ she said in a small voice.
Joanna’s stomach twisted, for she was frightened too. ‘Come now, what of ?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘I hear you and Papa talking but then you stop if you think I am listening, and then I know something is wrong, or I think that it is something I have done.’
‘Oh, hush child, never that!’ Joanna cried, mortified that Agnes should harbour such fears, and kissed her cheek. ‘We love you dearly and if we needed to scold you, we would do it openly, not in whispers. Do not be afraid. Your father and I will deal with whatever problems arise, and do our best to protect you, for you are our first consideration. Whatever is happening is caused by the quarrels of grown-up people. It has nothing to do with you or your sister and brothers.’
‘If you were not here, I do not know what I would do,’ Agnes said with a little sniff.
‘But I am here,’ Joanna said fiercely, ‘and I always will be here for you – now and when you are a grown woman. Wherever I go, I promise you shall come with me. Now, dry your tears.’ She wiped Agnes’s face with a scrap of linen and hoped she could keep that promise. All her children were precious, but she had a special, tender spot for her eldest daughter who was swiftly coming to understand things beyond the nursery. Iohan, over a year older, was more resilient. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘bring your cloak and we shall sew on this lovely tassel.’
In Oxford, the sun had finally pierced the clouds and for once it was not raining, although still cool for June. William sat on an oak bench in the recently constructed Dominican Priory where the barons had gathered to continue discussions arising from the confrontation in April. They were also using the gathering as a muster to march on Wales to deal with the threat from Prince Llewelyn, although William knew the latter was a ruse for men to bring retinues and weapons to the meeting.
The atmosphere in the city overflowed with tension like the air before a thunderstorm. William had taken to wearing a light mail shirt under his tunic. There was widespread discontent over Henry’s rule – with his inability to control the finances and govern with a firm hand; with his spendthrift ways and his favouritism towards his friends and relatives. Some even blamed him for the bad harvests, as if he was a conduit for the very failure of the land.
The reforming barons were determined to curtail Henry’s powers and were like stampeding horses in their eagerness, but William knew the ringleaders were out for their own profit, however much they dressed it up in the language of a campaign for justice. A new document had been drafted for the perusal of the King’s twenty-four counsellors filled with grievances and demands. Hugh Bigod had been appointed to the role of justiciar and was to go on a judicial circuit to hear and deal with pleas and complaints. The twenty-four had been whittled down to fifteen with an authorisation to govern in Henry’s name. William, his brothers and John de Warenne had been omitted from those fifteen. No chancery writs of any importance were to be ratified without the agreement of the fifteen and all castles and royal possessions were to be returned to the Crown. Any major grants to be made would have to go under the scrutiny of the fifteen too. Already the constables of more than twenty of Henry’s castles had been replaced with men favourable to Simon de Montfort. Effectively, Henry was being robbed of his power.
The demand for the return of the castles was a direct attack on William. Hertford, Pembroke and Goodrich were all on the list. Now the fifteen were demanding that every baron present at this parliament swear an oath to uphold the provisions and return their castles to the Crown. Anyone who refused would be considered a ‘mortal foe’ and treated as such.
William unclenched his fists. He breathed out slowly but his tension remained at the same level. Henry had asked him to take the oath in order to keep the peace and preserve his skin, but he could not bring himself to do it. Even Henry’s promise that he would restore the castles after William had taken the oath had not been enough, because he did not believe him.
He looked up as John de Warenne arrived. ‘I cannot swear to this, John,’ he said. ‘For my own sake, for Henry’s and for Edward’s. They are taking away our very manhood.’
‘I cannot agree to it either,’ John said. His mouth twisted as though he had taken a gulp of vinegar. ‘My brothers are all for it of course, although Hugh sees it in terms of reforming the law. Roger wants to punish you for disputing with him over estates, and he is angry with the King. Indeed, many are angry with the King, and I understand why, but much of this is an exercise to seize power and wealth. Edward says he is going to refuse to take the oath because it weakens the monarchy, and what will be left for him when it comes his turn to rule?’
William exhaled hard. ‘We are looking at King Simon de Montfort. His ambition is boundless.’
He pushed to his feet, and together they entered the friary where a crowd had already gathered. Henry sat on a dais, raised above his barons, his complexion so pale it was almost waxen. He wore one of his many crowns, and a robe edged with cloth of gold. In his right hand he clutched a jewelled rod of state.
Needing to feel the solidarity of kinship, William crossed the room and joined his three brothers Guy, Aymer and Geoffrey. Edward and his cousin Henry of Almain walked over to the Lusignans.
‘They are going to demand that we agree to the conditions of the provisions,’ Edward said.
William nodded grimly. ‘I know, sire.’
‘It is your choice whether or not you do.’ Edward gave him a calculating look.
‘I have no intention whatsoever of swearing to the terms,’ William replied with revulsion. ‘My estates were given to me from the hand of your father as my sovereign lord, my own brother. I serve him, not Simon de Montfort, Roger Bigod or Richard de Clare.’
‘My father may have no choice but to agree to the provisions,’ Edward said quietly. ‘For now, at least.’
‘That may be so, but I shall not let the likes of Simon de Montfort coerce me into anything.’
‘I have told him I shall not, and neither will my cousin.’ Edward indicated Henry of Almain, who nodded agreement.
One by one the gathered barons swore an oath before Henry to abide by the provisions set out in the reform document. Some gave their fiat with firmness, others with less aplomb, but still with compliance. The ruling fifteen, including de Montfort, the Bigod brothers and Richard de Clare, all willingly attached their seals and vowed in clear, carrying voices to abide by the terms. Young Guillaume de Munchensy, who had not long come into his patrimony, smiled broadly as he took the oath and shot a look of triumphant challenge at William.
