‘Rest for a couple of hours while your mother is prepared for her journey. I will see that the baggage is packed, and I will wake you.’
He swallowed and, relinquishing control to her, lay down on the bed.
Katerine lay in Woodstock’s chapel through the day and overnight while Jeanette made arrangements to return the body to Bisham Abbey to be buried beside her husband. She had woken William as she had promised so that he could escort his mother’s body to the chapel. She ordered the stained sick-room sheets to be taken and burned, and the floor rushes too. The shutters were to be left open to allow the miasmas to dissipate, and she had had fresh candles lit in the chamber and prayers said. And then she joined William in his vigil and knelt with him until the dawn rose. She had barely slept herself for two days but was too restless, and it didn’t matter. Time enough later for sleeping.
Leaving William again, she took Katerine’s keys and went to sort out the strongbox and the coffers to ready them for the travelling carts. She did not know their contents, for Katerine had always kept the keys about her person. The two large iron-bound chests nested smaller boxes inside, and several drawstring bags were lumpy with coins and jewels. One chest held clothing, and among the robes, veils and hair pieces, Jeanette recognised one of the King’s blue garters with its golden buckles and daisy studs.
She laid Katerine’s cloak in the chest. One of the smaller coffers yielded several more pouches of coins, and a box of documents. There were receipts and recipes for herbal remedies and nostrums, some of which she recognised as having been given to herself, and she grimaced, feeling nauseated. These she took and cast down the latrine shaft. Several letters tied togetherwith a piece of ribbon bore her own mother’s personal seal, and she caught her breath. She had no time to read them now, but feared they would disappear if Elizabeth or William got hold of them, so concealed them in her own jewel casket beneath the wax casings holding her rings.
By late morning the cavalcade was ready to begin the journey to Bisham. Lady Elizabeth was travelling straight from Oxford to meet them there for the burial. Jeanette was preparing to climb into the travelling cart and William was already mounted on his palfrey when, with a fanfare of horns and trumpets, the King arrived. William instantly leaped down off his horse and bent his knee. Jeanette dropped in a deep curtsey.
Edward gazed at the cortege and the bier on the cart with its pall of red and gold silk draped over the shrouded coffin and tucked around the sides. The courtyard fell silent beyond the tread and snort of the horses and the banners flapping on their poles.
The King approached the bier, removed his cap and bowed his head. ‘God have mercy,’ he said, and his eyes were wet. He turned to William, bade him rise, and embraced him. ‘Your mother was a great lady and will be long remembered with affection and respect by all. I shall have masses said for her in Windsor when the Garter Order gathers, and I will expect you to be there.’
‘Yes, sire,’ William said huskily, and swallowed.
Edward gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze. ‘God grant you a safe journey,’ he said, and turning to Jeanette, raised her to her feet. ‘I do not know what the future holds for you, cousin,’ he told her, and his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Even the will of kings is powerless against the will of God. I wish you safe journey to Bisham and I hope you will honour the Countess as befits your rank and hers.’
Jeanette heard the undercurrent of warning in his tone. ‘I shall indeed, sire,’ she said. ‘Whatever differences we had, I shall support the Earl of Salisbury in burying the Countess with honour, and I shall pray for her soul.’ She raised her head and looked him directly in the eyes. ‘If you will permit me to give you something . . .’ Leaving him, she went to the waiting cart, and a moment later returned with the blue personal garter she had discovered. ‘She would have wanted you to have this,’ she said. ‘It was among her treasures.’
Edward took it, looked down at it in his hands, and swallowed hard. Without a word he turned away, his movements stiff and jerky, as though all the joints in his body had seized together.
The royal household troops formed a guard of honour for the entourage, and dipped their banners as the cavalcade made its way out of Woodstock’s gates and took the road to Bisham.
Jeanette sat before the fire at Bisham, warming her hands. Spring was taking its time to take hold. The weather had turned chilly for Katerine’s burial, and Jeanette still felt cold from the long hours of masses and prayers. She had been forced into the company of the lady Elizabeth, but the old woman had lost her power to bite, and was an irrelevance. William had retired to his chamber, and she was alone.
She picked up the letters she had taken from Katerine’s strongbox, unfastened the ribbon and, feeling queasy but determined, unfolded the first one and started to read, and as she did, hot and cold prickles flashed down her spine, for the letters made it clear how much her own mother had colluded with the Salisbury women in keeping her under their regime. Margaret had encouraged Katerine and Elizabeth to confine her and not spare the rod. Her mother declared in no uncertain terms that she refused to have her daughter wed to a lustful household knight with a disgraced father and vowed to assist theMontagu family in any way she could to fight the false marriage claims. She reiterated her belief that Thomas Holland had forced himself on an innocent young girl, thereby robbing her of that very innocence.
Jeanette resisted a powerful impulse to screw up the parchments and cast them on the fire, for this was damning evidence of the scheming against her. Indeed, rather than destroy the letters, she would have a scribe multiply them into several copies and send a set to Thomas.
Hearing footsteps outside the door, she hastily pushed the letters under her bedcovers as William entered the room.
‘I could not sleep,’ he said. ‘I thought you might still be awake.’ He was still fully dressed, although he had removed his belt and his hair stuck up in tufts from where he had been lying on his pillow.
‘What of your grandmother?’
He grimaced. ‘What of her? She has retired for the night and she will return to Oxford to her nunnery in due course.’
Going to her bed, he slumped on it.
Jeanette eyed him. ‘Do you want some wine?’
He gave her a half-hearted nod and she sent a servant to fetch a flagon. Then she folded her arms. ‘Your mother is laid to rest,’ she said. ‘Can we now lay our marriage to rest also?’
He regarded her with dull, bruised eyes. ‘Not until we have the papal ruling. My mother’s dying wish was that I saw it through to whatever end, and I shall do so.’
‘Is that what you think she meant by “promise me”?’ Jeanette raised her brow. ‘Even when you know what the result will be?’
William rubbed his temples. ‘I have such a headache; I wish I could sleep.’
‘You will not do so until this is sorted out. I do not know why you persevere.’
‘Because what do I have if I do not?’
The maid arrived with the wine. He sat up, and the pieces of parchment crackled beneath him. ‘What is this?’ He flapped back the coverlet to reveal the letters and she darted forward to grab them, but in the same moment changed her mind and drew back.
‘They were in your mother’s coffer,’ she said. ‘Letters from my mother to her. Read them if you will, and then tell me you still want to stand in the field with your sword in your hand and not let me go.’
