1
Donington Castle, Leicestershire, June 1338
Sitting at the river’s edge, enjoying the sun on her face, Jeanette was watching Grippe hunting water voles among the reeds when she heard her brother’s shout, and turned to see him running towards her.
The terrier splashed over to greet him, whiskered muzzle dripping, and John fended him off with laughing protests. ‘Mother’s looking for you,’ he announced.
Jeanette observed the antics of dog and boy, her amusement edged with irritation, although not at either of them. ‘What does she want now?’
John shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Things to do with returning to court and crossing the sea. She’s not happy you gave your maids the slip.’
Jeanette rolled her eyes, knowing she would be lectured on her appearance, her deportment, her attitude.Walk don’t run. Think before you speak. Listen to your tutors and your elders. Don’t stare. Don’t be so forward. Remember the duty to your blood, and to your father’s memory. Remember you are royal.Every time she came home from court it was the same. She always hoped it would change, but it never did.
‘I wish I was going to Flanders.’ He was nine years old to her twelve, and eager for adventure.
Jeanette tossed her head, irritated by his envy. ‘You’ll be in Prince Edward’s household with your friends and training with weapons. You’ll be allowed to go riding and camping while I’ll be cooped up sewing with the women.’ All under the watchful gaze of the ladies of the court, including Katerine, Countess of Salisbury, who was her mother’s close friend and whom Jeanette heartily disliked.
‘But you will be crossing the sea on the King’s own ship and seeing new things!’
There was that, Jeanette conceded, although how much of Antwerp she would actually encounter was another matter. Queen Philippa was expecting her fourth child in the late autumn, and would keep to her chamber even if she did entertain guests. Opportunities to roam further afield would be few, unless they were clandestine – Jeanette had developed a certain expertise at absconding when driven by the desperation of boredom.
Sighing, she stood up and shook out her skirts. Grippe immediately sprang at her, leaving two perfect muddy paw-prints at knee-height on the pale rose velvet.
‘Hah, you’re in trouble now.’ John grinned, although without malice.
‘When am I not in trouble with Mama?’ Jeanette said impatiently, and with a sinking stomach, turned back to the castle.
John darted in front of her and practised running backwards. ‘She’s proud of us and scared for us – that’s all. She wants us to do well.’
‘Then she will forever want, because I always disappoint her.’
‘She’s just worried about you.’
Jeanette eyed his earnest, bright face and shook her head. Perhaps their father’s execution ten days before his birth, and the uncertainty and hardship of house arrest in the months afterwards, had imprinted upon his being and given him a different insight. As far as Jeanette was concerned, her mother’s worry was all about the family lineage and reputation, not her daughter’s well-being.
Jeanette often imagined herself as a caged hawk, eager to fly but thwarted by the conventions of her sex and the expectations of her rank as the daughter of a prince and cousin to the King. Next thing they’d be marrying her off to some flabby old baron as a sweetener to a peace treaty or a pact of war. She knew how it worked and wanted no part of it.
On her return from court a fortnight ago, she had been desperate to run to her mother, hug her warmly and be hugged in return, to have that contact and acceptance, but the moment had been as stilted as usual. Her mother’s embrace had been brief, her fingers hard and thin, patting Jeanette’s back, her kiss a cool peck, before she remarked how much Jeanette had grown and would need money for new gowns. In the next breath she had been asking how her lessons were progressing. It was about appearance and achievement, nothing of the heart.
Stiff with apprehension, Jeanette beat at her stained skirts to no avail, tucked a wayward strand of thick blonde hair inside her coif, and approached her mother’s chamber.
Margaret Wake, Dowager Countess of Kent, widow of Edmund, Earl of Kent, uncle to the King, was poring over account ledgers with her clerk, two deep frown lines scored between her brows. Glancing up at Jeanette’s arrival, she pursed her lips, her taut expression more eloquent than words. She dismissed the clerk with a brisk command, and after he had bowed from the room and closed the door, she regarded the paw-prints smirching Jeanette’s velvet skirts and sighed.
‘It’s nothing,’ Jeanette said defensively. ‘They will brush out.’
‘It is not “nothing”,’ Margaret snapped. ‘That velvet cost seven shillings an ell. We are not made of money – and are those grass stains? For a certainty they will not brush out!’
Jeanette pressed her lips together and stared at her feet, feeling mutinous.
‘You must learn to be responsible for your possessions and your expenditure,’ Margaret said with exasperation. ‘You are of an age now to marry. Certain standards are expected of any bride that joins a family. I do not want to hang my head in shame at your behaviour. Your actions reflect on me, and also back to your father, God rest his soul.’
Jeanette blinked hard. She wanted to love the memory of her father, not have it used as a constant rod for her back. Her every action was measured against propriety these days. She had a vivid memory of playing at hobby horses with her brother and Prince Edward, and being told it was no longer seemly for her to straddle a pole – that she must be a lady, not a hoyden. Protests had been met with a day of bread and water, and the fierce, thin pain of a willow rod across the tender palms of her hands. It wasn’t fair; nothing was fair. And she certainly didn’t want to marry anyone.
‘You might have a position at court, but it costs silver from my coffers to equip you. That money is hard won by my toil, and not yours to fritter.’
Jeanette looked up. ‘I do not fritter!’
Margaret’s stare was relentless. ‘You would improve matters by not running wild with the dogs, letting them jump all over you, and by not riding through thickets, losing your headdress and tearing your sleeves. There is a difference between being lively and being wayward.’ Her mother’s frown deepened. ‘What am I to do with you? You pass the time of day with kitchen maids and servants as if it is an acceptable thing for a lady to do.Yesterday I found you sitting with the bee-keeper, licking honey from the comb and letting it drip all over your clothes.’
