Edward nodded and, with a sigh mostly of relief, dropped the matter as his mother suggested, for what she said was true, and his conscience was clear. He had done his best. Jeanette might change her mind about her willingness to be wed to William Montagu, and if later a dispensation was required, it could be obtained. Thomas Holland had no funds to pursue his case, and might give up and seek elsewhere for a wife, and in the meantime, he had his career to pursue.
For now, even if the dogs were not yet sleeping, let them lie.
21
Manor of Bisham, Berkshire, May 1346
Jeanette rolled over in the bed, awakened by the sound of William washing his face in the ewer. He was naked, and the early morning light picked out the lines of muscle and sinew and tendon. Strong thighs, widening shoulders, taut, flat belly, the base thatched with curly, coarse blond hair and sizeable genitals. His fair hair gleamed. Watching him, she was unmoved by his looks and physique, and silently hoped he would leave the room and summon his attendants to his wardrobe chamber so she could have this space to herself.
He dried his face and looked over at the bed. ‘I know you are awake,’ he said. ‘Do not pretend to slumber.’
Jeanette sat up, clutching the sheet around her breasts. ‘Why? Is it better that I am awake?’
‘I am going away to war this morning – I might not return. I know you would not care if that happened, but I thought you might have a shred of honour and decency to at least bid me farewell in a manner fitting to your station – and mine.’
Jeanette felt the guilt like an irritation of grit in a shoe. ‘Do not worry,’ she said haughtily, ‘I will bid you a fitting farewell when you leave and no one shall fault my manners. But if youwant me to beg you not to go with tears on my lashes, you will wait for ever. Do as you must and acquit yourself well. I will pray for you.’
He curled his lip. ‘To do what – die?’ The bright morning light revealed the anger and misery in his face, and she knew those same emotions must be reflected in her own.
‘Never that,’ she replied. ‘I would not do that.’
‘Would you not?’ He stalked from the room, leaving her alone, calling for his servants.
Jeanette flapped back the covers and went to sit on the latrine. He had been at Bisham for three days and was preparing to ride to Yarmouth – to war. The King was mustering for a great battle campaign in France and had been ordering ships and supplies for most of the year. Now, in May, he was making ready to sail. William was serving in Prince Edward’s contingent, as was her brother, under the keen eye of the earls of Warwick and Northumberland, although the division was ostensibly under Edward’s command. The youths were going to be knighted once they had made landfall in Normandy and would receive their first proper taste of warfare, rather than in the chivalrous arena of the tourney field. William had talked of little else, regarding it as a great adventure.
Jeanette had briefly visited the court at Easter, but had gleaned little information. Like many of the other women, she only knew that the men were going away to fight and that all the decisions for running the estates at home would devolve on the shoulders of wives, mothers and deputies. Thomas had been absent from court, busy garnering supplies for the campaign. She worried that despite his sworn intention of winning her back, he was letting matters ride, and that she would be stuck with William Montagu for the rest of her days – in which case, those days would be numbered.
Everywhere men were flocking to the muster. Archers both mounted and on foot. Soldiers and spearmen, labourers, cart drivers, carpenters, grooms, cooks, younger sons seeking adventure and fortune. Men with everything to gain. Men with nothing to lose.
These recent three days at Bisham had been particularly difficult because William had detoured specifically to visit her, with the express command from his family to leave behind an heir to the earldom before he went to war. Elizabeth had been forcing all manner of potions down Jeanette’s throat to aid conception, and making sure she had no opportunity to make herself sick. Jeanette had succeeded on at least two occasions to avoid the full act with him, but last night was not one of them. He had threatened to bring in his men to hold her down, and she had yielded to him, and now she had to wait in trepidation.
The cavalcade prepared to leave Bisham and take the road to Portsmouth. The wains and wagons were laden with armour and supplies including sheaf upon sheaf of arrows. She watched William mount his palfrey and bit her lip. If he did lose his life to a Genoese crossbow or a French sword, she knew that guilt would weigh her down. She wanted to be free of him, but she did not wish him dead. She had a terrible notion that if she did wish such a thing on him, it might reverse itself and Thomas might die instead.
She brought the stirrup cup to his saddle and presented it to him. ‘God speed your journey,’ she said, ‘and may God keep you safe.’
He raised his brows.
‘I truly mean it.’ Heat rose in her face. ‘I would not wish harm on you.’
He gave her a hard, but slightly puzzled, stare.
‘You are going to war,’ she said quietly, so that only he could hear. ‘I would call a truce for now.’
He lifted the cup and drank. ‘A truce,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Very well then. And may I return to good news.’ He glanced pointedly at her waistline.
Jeanette took back the cup and performed a modest curtsey. ‘I shall pray for good news every day,’ she said. Let him take that as he chose.
He gathered the reins and the cavalcade rode out of the gate with a flourish of drums and trumpets. Jeanette stood and watched until the dust had settled in their wake and the poultry returned to pecking in the yard.
The late July sun hammered down like a fist, adding heat to the fires roaring up from the burning buildings amid a battle stench of smoke and blood. The screams and shouts of men fighting for survival on both sides mingled with the devouring crackle of the flames. Thomas felt the fiery heat on his face as he, Otto and their contingent surged through the city of Caen on a red apocalyptic wave of English soldiers, their senses on edge with the horrible exhilaration of destruction.
The troops were wild with blood lust and the scent of success, putting Thomas in mind of hounds at a kill. He could feel that energy surging through himself – a primeval drive to rend and tear with the barriers between life and death all ragged and bleeding into each other.
The King had issued a ban on looting, pillage and rape, but in the heat of battle it was like trying to control a wildfire. Yet Thomas, as a commander, had to be a river to cleave and quench that fire. He had to bring his men under discipline through his own force of will, and control them, even while slackening their leashes.
The English army had landed at St Vaast twelve days ago, seizing and burning eight French warships as they sailed into port. Having disembarked, organised the chain of supply and rested the horses after their sea voyage, they had set out along the French coast, heading east, burning and plundering as they went, and taking down any resistance they encountered until they came to Caen.
Their own division under Prince Edward’s banner had attacked the town from the Porte aux Dammes and forced open the Western gate. Together with Lord Talbot’s men, the Earl of Warwick’s troops and archers had poured through the gap on to the bridge between the old town and the new, and the morass of heavy hand-to-hand fighting had resembled a shoal of live fish flashing and writhing in a net.
