‘They won’t find us!’ Edmund piped, and then giggled.
‘They will unless we stay very quiet.’
‘Shush, shush!’ Edmund put his hands over his mouth.
The children had come outside to play with their nurses and attendants, and Jeanette had leaped at the chance to be away from the Queen’s stuffy confinement chamber. Philippa, following the birth of Mary last year, had recently been brought to bed of another little girl, baptised Margaret, in part after the patron saint of women in childbirth. Philippa had requested Jeanette’s presence at Windsor during her confinement to assist the nurses in caring for the boisterous crowd of royal offspring. The Salisbury women had had no option but to comply with the summons.
Outside the shed door, paws scratched and a dog whined, then uttered a short, sharp bark. ‘Nosewyse, go away!’ Jeanette hissed to her small, tawny terrier who had an unfailing ability to sniff her out. Hearing her voice, Nosewyse merely increased the volume and persistence of his yapping.
An instant later the door was tugged open. ‘Found you!’ sang seven-year-old Lionel, capering in triumph. ‘Found you, I found you!’
Nosewyse launched himself at Jeanette, frantically wagging his tail, tongue licking at the same speed, and she lost her balance, tumbling backwards into a pile of netting. Edmund sprang nimbly out of the way, while Jeanette shrieked and giggled, and finally, breathless, prised the dog off, regained her feet, and batted at her now dust-smeared skirt. One of her plaits had come adrift again. Her mother-in-law would call her a hoyden, but she didn’t care.
‘Now it’s your turn to hunt!’ Lionel cried, but an ominous rumble of thunder curtailed their intent. While Edmund and Jeanette had been hiding, the sky had rapidly darkened, and sudden spots of rain as large as groats sent them scurrying for the Queen’s hall. By the time they arrived, the rain was sheeting down amid jagged blinks of lightning.
Laughing, half drowned, they tumbled into the Queen’s chamber. The children were taken by their nurses, and Jeanette hurried to change her sodden garments, and saw from a side glance Lady Katerine’s purse-lipped disapproval. Hawise quickly helped Jeanette into a dry undergown of grey silk, laced the sides and buttoned the sleeves with nimble fingers, then moved on to Jeanette’s hair, tidying the plaits and coiling them beneath a fresh veil.
While the royal children had been romping in the garden, the other ladies of the Queen’s chamber had been busy preparing for Philippa’s churching. Gowns and rich fabrics were spread across the bed in a sumptuous array. Boxes of pearls, jewels and spangles twinkled, waiting to be stitched on to the garments after the final fitting. Two extra seamstresses had been employed to see to the task. Philippa’s squirrel had to be firmly dissuaded from trying to bury a nut amid a bundle of furs.
Jeanette went to the window to watch the lightning flash against the boiling clouds. She loved the excitement, the elemental power. Even getting wet had been exhilarating.
A messenger had arrived with the storm on his heels, and the Queen had taken him aside to receive his news, but now she returned to the centre of the room and clapped her hands for attention. Her face was pink and her brown eyes luminous.
‘The King sends news of a great victory!’ Philippa shouted above the rumble of thunder. ‘The French army has been routed in the field with very light losses to our side, but complete devastation to theirs!’
A hubbub of excited congratulation ensued, and Philippa raised her hand for silence. ‘The King wishes me to join him – once I am churched, we shall make preparations to cross the sea. For now, we shall celebrate his victory!’ She sent servants to broach a keg of the best sweet wine.
Jeanette’s heart danced as she thought of seeing Thomas again. She had heard nothing so far, for Katerine and Elizabeth were vigilant in keeping her away from news, and she could only glean small grains of information when rubbing the Queen’s feet or listening behind curtains. She knew there had been a victory at Caen where a great deal of booty and prisoners had been taken, and this new triumph presumably meant more of the same, but other than that she was ignorant. She knew William was safe because he had written to his mother. She could only assume that Thomas was too; he was a senior battle captain and mention would have been made had he fallen. For now, she had to ride the waves, but it felt like being alone in a small, oarless rowing boat.
22
Calais, Normandy, October 1346
The October evening carried a distinct smell of autumn in the air. In his tent outside the besieged walls of Calais, Thomas rolled his dice, and then snorted in disgust. He was playing with Otto and Raoul de Brienne, and Raoul was winning again. It amazed Thomas that his prisoner should be so fortunate with the dice, and yet deserted of luck at Caen – although perhaps the very fact that he had survived the slaughter was fortune enough. They were bidding for a fur-embellished cloak that was part of the campaign spoils. Black sable adorned the outer red wool, and glinted in the light of the lantern swinging from the tent roof.
Taking his turn, Raoul rattled the dice in the cup and threw a score that resoundingly beat both Otto and Thomas’s efforts. With a triumphant shout, he fisted the air.
Thomas shook his head. ‘You always were a mean dice player, Raoul, but I shouldn’t begrudge you. That cloak will come in useful during the winter!’
‘Hah!’ Raoul rose and swept the cloak around his shoulders, fastening the red silk cords from which two tassels hung down.
‘Very fine,’ Thomas said. ‘You wear it well.’
‘You are right that I find myself in reduced circumstances,’ Raoul admitted, ‘but you are accommodating.’ He looked at the brothers and folded his arms inside the garment. ‘Let me tell you this though: you will not take Calais easily – perhaps never. It is going to be a long winter for all.’
‘A good thing you won the cloak then.’ Otto rose and rumpled his hair. ‘I’m for my bed.’ Bidding them goodnight, he departed to his own tent where Thomas knew a rather delectable laundry maid was waiting for him.
Raoul removed the cloak and said, ‘I heard that Robert de Tancarville is to have his ransom set at six hundred marks. It is only a verbal agreement, but progress has been made.’
‘Six hundred?’ Thomas raised his brows as he returned the dice to their ivory box.
‘Do you not think that a fair sum?’ Raoul sat down and crossed his legs. ‘How much do you expect to get for me?’ He smiled sourly. ‘Am I worth more or less?’
‘It is not as simple as that,’ Thomas said, a cloud of frustration settling its weight on him. Every time he broached the matter of Raoul’s ransom he had been deflected by officials and told the King was too busy to see him, and that the matter would be resolved in due course. He must be patient and they would discuss the sum at a later date. Nearly three months had passed since Caen, and still Thomas was no further along his path.
He knew why. Matters had been looking optimistic and he had been promised a review, but then Queen Philippa had arrived with her women, including the widowed Countess of Salisbury, and suddenly an audience with the King had become impossible to obtain. Jeanette had arrived with the ladies, but was so closely guarded by Katerine and Elizabeth that he could not get near her. Even in the Queen’s presence, there was no opportunity for contact beyond glances. He had managed to pay a troubadour to pass a message saying he had hopes of resolvingthe situation, but he had no means of knowing if she had received it.
‘“Not as simple” – why?’ Raoul asked. ‘Are you requesting too much? Can the King not afford to pay you?’
