‘You are deluded,’ Katerine snapped. ‘Even if by a miracle Thomas Holland has survived his wounds, it does not alter the fact that your union with him was no marriage, but the duping of a foolish girl. He won’t be able to prove it, and I doubt he will want to, for it will be his downfall. His family know this too and you will find no succour there. Nor from the King, for why should he listen to the words of a maimed man for whom he will have no use?’
Despite a prickle of terror that they were speaking the truth, Jeanette raised her chin in defiance. She would rather die than yield, and while she could not speak for Thomas, she knew her own mind.
17
Royal Palace of Langley, Hertfordshire, June 1341
Thomas drew rein as he approached the palace at Langley where the Queen was recuperating, following the birth of a fourth living son, Edmund. The heat of the late morning sun blazed across his shoulders and spine. His blind eye itched and ached behind the leather patch, and he dearly wanted to rub the area, but was striving not to inflame the healing scar.
He was growing accustomed to having sight in only one eye but he still made mistakes and misjudgements, especially of distance, and would grow frustrated and angry to the point of rage, and then be ashamed and mortified at his loss of control. He had to be able to fight and earn his wages and had redoubled his efforts. He had always been the best, and if he had to strive ten times harder than before to achieve it, he would do whatever it took.
They had been on the road home for many weeks, but at least the weather and the sea crossings had been kind. He had continued to heal and regain his strength and had declined toreturn to court until he deemed himself fit to kneel before the King.
While waiting to take ship from Flanders, he had received a crumpled, travel-stained letter from his sister Isabel, informing him that Jeanette had married William Montagu, heir to the earldom of Salisbury, at Langley in February, before the entire court, and that whatever marriage she had contracted with Thomas had been deemed null and void by her guardians, who had furthermore spread false news of his death. Reading that letter had been like being served a dish of maggots. Jeanette must have been complicit, and it had made him physically sick.
He bit the inside of his cheek. He had ridden to Ghent before embarking for England to seek the friar who had married them in St Bavo, only to discover that the young man had died of a fever in the early winter while at his ministry. Had he been of a superstitious mindset, Thomas might have taken it as an omen, but it only put iron in his soul.
A vast array of tents and pavilions had been set up near the waterside to house the servants, officials and knights of the court. Thomas rode past them, a pang of familiarity clenching his stomach like nauseous hunger. This was the life to which he should be returning, yet he was unsure of his welcome, or even if he wanted it. A hero home from the wars – perhaps – or else a one-eyed soldier, wasted before his time and of no further use to anyone, including himself and the girl who had brought him down. How much was publicly known? How much was hidden in the shadows or locked out of sight and denied? The moment he rode through those gates he might already be a marked man.
‘Tom?’ Otto glanced at him with concern. ‘You need not announce yourself today if you would rather stay and pitch our tents, or ride on.’
‘No, I shall face this now.’ Thomas set his jaw. ‘Tomorrow will not make matters any different – it will only postpone the inevitable.’
They rode on to the castle and were admitted through the gates by the guards who directed them to a place where they could pitch their tents and deposit their baggage. John de la Salle and a couple of attendants took the horses to the stable block to be watered and tended. Thomas’s throat was parched and he gulped from his flask and tasted the tannic flavour of leather. He dared not drink wine for it would only give him false courage and a stumbling tongue.
Once the tent was pitched, and the Holland flag planted, with its rampant golden lion on a blue ground, Thomas washed away the dust of the road and took his green and scarlet court tunic from his baggage, smoothing the creases as best he could. He combed his hair and recently trimmed beard. Now the moment had arrived, he was reluctant to go to the hall, but knew procrastination would only exacerbate his discomfort.
‘Good luck, sire,’ said Henry de la Haye, who was staying to guard the tents and finish unpacking their kit.
Thomas adjusted his belt, brushed his hands down his sleeves and, having given Henry a curt nod, stepped outside. Otto was waiting for him, also suitably garbed, his sandy-gold hair standing up in tufts that defied all grooming.
‘Ready?’ Otto said.
‘As much as I shall ever be.’ The turbulent energy churning inside him was almost overwhelming, and he welcomed Otto’s solid presence at his side.
‘The King will be pleased to see us.’
‘You think so?’
Otto shrugged. ‘Why should he not? We’ve gained experience and prestige and not at his expense. He will be planning new campaigns where our skills will be needed.’
Thomas grimaced, still unsure.
The hall was packed with members of the royal household dining at scrubbed wooden trestles, or at grander tables covered in white napery. Conversation was a steady rumble of voices, punctuated by the scraping of spoons on wooden dishes, and the dull chime of knives against earthenware. An usher found Thomas and Otto places by squeezing them on to the end of a board between two visiting knights. The brothers bowed to the dais where the King and Queen were dining, but with the meal already in full flow, their presence went unnoticed.
As dishes of spiced wheat grains and salmon in green herbs were brought to the board, Thomas gazed around and saw Jeanette sitting at one of the wings of the high table with Katerine of Salisbury to one side of her, and Lady Elizabeth de Montfort on the other. A plain wimple of white linen tightly framed her face, giving her the appearance of a nun. The veil part had fallen forward, covering her cheek, and her head was down. Her gown was simple too and of a grey-blue shade that drained her complexion. As she picked up her spoon, a plain gold ring gleamed on her wedding finger, and it was not his.
Thomas swallowed down his nausea. Being told in a letter by his sister that Jeanette had entered into a marriage with William Montagu was one thing, but seeing her sitting with the family was another. There was no sign of the youth she was supposed to have married and Thomas felt that he might kill him with one blow if he was here.
He took some of the frumenty and salmon, struggling for normality, but all he wanted to do was pick up the table and overturn it. Otto watched him with concern. Thomas tried to eat but almost choked on the first mouthful. He forced it down with a difficult swallow, but could not manage another morsel, and pushed to his feet.
‘No, stay,’ he said as Otto started to rise too. ‘I need to be on my own.’
He strode rapidly from the hall and immediately vomited, clammy with cold sweat. He cursed himself for the world’s greatest fool that he could face anyone in battle yet not find the wherewithal to sit and dine in the royal hall, as he had done unthinkingly so many times before his wounding and before Jeanette.
Straightening up, ignoring the curious regard of the soldiers on duty, he made his way to the stable block where he rinsed his mouth and swilled his face at the trough, steadying himself with the actions of routine. Having dismissed John de la Salle, who was seeing to Noir, he gripped his fingers in the stallion’s rippled black mane and pressed his face into the warm neck.
Jeanette had looked up from her meal when she heard a commotion at one of the benches and started when she saw Otto sitting there and Thomas leaving. Katerine had not noticed, being deep in conversation with one of the other diners. Jeanette caught Otto’s eye, and he gave a swift shake of the head and looked down.
