‘If that is the case, then where is this supposed husband of yours?’ Margaret scoffed.
‘He is away fighting, but he is going to return for me.’
‘I see. So, he is not here to protect you or claim his right? How very convenient. If you think you can escape from a marriage lawfully contracted by your guardians with such tales, you are mistaken, and I shall hear no more of your nonsense.’
Jeanette stood her ground. ‘I have a contract, and I have witnesses,’ she retorted. ‘I can prove my marriage before man and God.’
Margaret narrowed her eyes. ‘Then tell me who you think you have married and we shall see.’ Her mouth twisted in revulsion. ‘In God’s name, do not tell me you have disgraced yourself with some peasant and given yourself in return for a ring of plaited rushes and a false promise.’
Trembling, Jeanette delved beneath her neckline and produced her wedding ring on its silk ribbon. ‘No, mother. I havea ring, a contract and witnesses, as I have said – and I will stand before God and proclaim it to all!’
Her mother made motions with her jaw as if attempting to chew on nails. ‘You are lying,’ she said icily. ‘The Countess of Salisbury has had your care for two years and she would know if such a thing were true, and would certainly not be involving her son if it were.’
‘She wants my dowry and a closer connection with the King,’ Jeanette retorted.
‘A gold ring proves nothing, and you have many in your coffer. You shall consent to this marriage.’
‘I shall not,’ Jeanette said fiercely, her will to fight thoroughly aroused and caution thrown to the wind.
‘Show me this contract of yours,’ Margaret said. ‘If it exists.’
Jeanette marched away to fetch it with sparks in her heels, snatching the parchment from the bottom of her jewel coffer, her anger incandescent. She marched back to her mother and thrust the document under her nose. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Thomas, Lord Holland and I were wed on the Feast of Saint George before he sailed for England to assist with the King’s fleet. I am no virgin and we have lain together as man and wife on many occasions – and my wedding ring bears his seal!’
Margaret snatched the contract, stared at it, then looked at Jeanette, her complexion white. ‘You have disgraced yourself and you have disgraced your family,’ she spat, her rage so full and tight that there was no room for it to burst. ‘This man is a nothing. The son of a traitor, and you of royal blood. I have no doubt he tricked you into the match in order to despoil your body. No daughter of mine shall wear such shame. I call the marriage dishonourable and false.’ She jerked to her feet, stalked to the brazier and thrust the parchment into the coals, grabbing the poker to push it down and let it burn.
Jeanette gasped and lunged, intent on recovering the smouldering piece of parchment, but Margaret held her off with the poker, a glint in her eye just as fierce as Jeanette’s.
‘You will not put a stop to this!’ Jeanette shouted. ‘I am married in the sight of God, and there is nothing you can do! There are other copies, there are witnesses!’
Margaret brandished the poker. ‘I will not see the sacrifices I have made for you and your brother be brought to nothing! Your reckless father died and left me to fight for your inheritance and try to prevent it from being swallowed up by ruthless men who would pick our family to its very bones. Your marriage to William Montagu will secure our dynasty and bring lustre to theirs. You shall wed William Montagu and no tawdry, worthless contract of lust will stop it from happening.’
Jeanette barely recognised her mother. Before, even if there had been impatience, even if there had been irritation and distance, there had still existed a spark of connection, but this flame was from an entirely different kindling.
‘No,’ she said, immovable herself. ‘I will not. You will never make me!’
‘We shall see what your uncle says on the matter.’ The poker still in her hand, Margaret swept from the chamber, and seconds later the key turned in the lock.
‘No!’ Jeanette ran to the door and tugged on the ring, but it did not yield. She banged her fists on the wood and kicked it, stubbing her toe, to no avail, and still she continued to thump and kick and scream until she exhausted her energy, and finally slumped, leaning against the door and sobbing, feeling desperate and abandoned. Thomas was far away, and she had no one to help her. She had been so determined not to be a pawn, but had become one anyway. The thought of marriage to William Montagu made her flesh crawl, and she rubbed her arms.
The daylight through the open shutters faded and a deep winter dusk darkened the room. The candles burned low on their prickets and the fire in the hearth turned to hot ash, and still she sat, head down, tears drying on her face. She wanted to run away, but where would she go? Finding Thomas would be an impossible task. She could continue to refuse the marriage, but what might they do to Thomas when he returned? They would get rid of him by either arranging his death or buying him off. Her fear – as great within her as her fear for his life – was that he might agree to take their money, because it had more value than his vows to her.
At last, in the near dark, the key grated in the lock, and she sprang to her feet and faced the door, shivering.
‘Now then,’ said her uncle Thomas, entering the room, closing the door behind him and squinting at her through the gloom. He was tall and thin, the seams of life on his face like worn, carved leather. ‘Niece, what is all this nonsense? I have just been confronted by your mother in a terrible state.’ His eyes were serious and grave, devoid of their usual twinkle.
Jeanette’s chin wobbled. He had stood in lieu of her father as head of the family since she was a tiny child, and she had always had a certain fondness for him. He was less strict than her mother, albeit from a distance. He opened his arms, and she stepped into them for a hug, inhaling the scent of the wool oils in his thick tunic and responding to his comforting gesture with a suppressed sob.
‘Come, child, I am certain we can mend this misunderstanding.’ He patted her back before drawing away and made her sit down near the brazier while he mended it with fresh coals, and revitalised the candles. Eventually he sat down opposite her, lapping his cloak over his bony knees. ‘This marriage proposal may have surprised you, but it was bound to happen sooner or later, and there are many far lesssuitable candidates with whom you could have been matched, believe me. Montagu’s a handsome lad, and his family has high influence.’
‘Uncle, it is not a misunderstanding,’ Jeanette said. ‘Certainly not on my part. I cannot wed William Montagu for I am already married to Sir Thomas Holland, as I am sure my mother has told you.’
‘Yes,’ he said neutrally. ‘And she mentioned the contract.’
‘Which she threw into the fire,’ Jeanette said angrily. ‘How could she do that to her own daughter? It matters not – there are copies.’ She had little hope that he would listen. He would endorse her mother, and do what profited the family, no matter her wishes. ‘I am married to Thomas Holland,’ she repeated. ‘We were wed at Saint Bavo’s before witnesses on the feast of Saint George.’
‘And you have evidence of this, beyond that scrap of parchment you showed to your mother?’ He leaned towards her, his gaze intent, searching her face.
Jeanette tossed her head. ‘It was far more than a “scrap of parchment”. It had Thomas’s seal pressed in the wax from his own signet ring with which we were wed. Of course I have evidence! The marriage was witnessed by Sir Otto Holland, by Henry de la Haye, by Thomas’s falconer John de la Salle, and by my chamber lady Hawise. She married de la Salle at the same time and Thomas and I stood in mutual witness of their marriage – and all this was before a Franciscan friar.’
