The Cardinal gave him a narrow look that suggested he thought Thomas was being discourteous, but then he sighed. ‘I will speak to his Holiness, and we shall see what can be done. For now, we shall adjourn and reconvene here in three days’ time.’
Thomas swept out, his fists clenched. Beverley and Vyse joined him in the courtyard, and Thomas rounded on them furiously. ‘This is intolerable. I have done everything according to the law. Not once have I overstepped the bounds. I could have abducted my wife on the back of my horse years ago – perhaps I should have done!’
‘I doubt you would have lived in peace for very long,’ Beverley said drily. ‘I do not know why Lord Montagu’s attorney has not appeared to continue his presentation. Perhaps he is late, in which case the Cardinal is giving him another three days of leeway, and during that time he will speak to the Pope.’ He touched Thomas’s arm as Thomas gave a huge puff of exasperation. ‘We are very close to winning this. Just one more effort.’
The following day, they were summoned into the papal presence. Pope Clement sat in his great chair between two fires burning herbs and incense to purify the air. Behind him, sumptuous wall hangings depicting biblical scenes decorated the walls. The Pope, in late middle age, handsome and urbane, rested his chin on a long, pale hand and regarded them through a veil of smoke.
‘This case has been a difficult one from the beginning,’ he said. ‘I would have expected its resolution long ago, but Cardinal Adhemar informs me that the attorney representing the Earl of Salisbury has not appeared, and without him we are at animpasse.’ He shifted in the chair and the light gleamed on the gold thread polishing the hem of his robe, from beneath which an embroidered scarlet slipper peeped out. ‘Therefore, I have taken the decision to appoint a new cardinal and committee to adjudge this case – I am giving Cardinal Bernard d’Albi full authority to make a ruling on the first day of November.’ He made a firm motion with his hand. ‘That decision will be final. There will be no more of this journeying back and forth’ A signal brought two court officials forward to escort Thomas and the two attorneys away to another chamber.
Thomas had heard these sorts of promises before ad nauseam, but had no recourse to argue with the Pope. Beverley and Vyse were optimistic though. ‘We have a date for judgement,’ Beverley said. ‘And that will be the end of it.’ But still Thomas shook his head, unwilling to invest his faith in yet another shift of timescale.
‘Why do you think Montagu’s attorney did not present himself?’ Otto asked Thomas as they sat in a hostelry to eat and drink.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Perhaps because he knows the matter is a lost cause and not worth his time to put in an appearance. William Montagu has no interest in fighting the marriage now. There are rumours he is seeking to make another match. If so, then the only protest remaining is that of Jeanette’s mother, and given the rest of the evidence, it will carry no weight. I suspect the Montagu attorney has decided there are more fruitful cases to pursue, closer to home.’
‘It has been a long road,’ Otto said. ‘I pray that God has seen fit to finish testing you. I would have given up long before now – I can only admire your fortitude.’
Thomas shook his head. Otto’s answer was not one of unqualified enthusiasm. ‘I am not admirable, brother,’ he said.‘If I have fortitude, it is because others have been staunch and supported me against all odds – I will never forget, I promise.’
Otto smiled to lighten the moment. ‘Well, that is good to hear,’ he said. ‘Be sure I will always be at your side to remind you!’
Several weeks later, Thomas was standing before mounds of freshly dug earth and staring numbly at two graves side by side. His mother and his sister Isabel had both succumbed to the great pestilence during his and Otto’s absence in Avignon. So many dead. After he and Otto had been so ill there and survived, he had been lulled into a false hope that God might be merciful. Now he was brought back to reality with the impact of a heavy fall. Never to see his mother again when he was so close to achieving his goal. Never to have her wisdom, or Isabel’s pithy observations on his state of grace. He swallowed the painful lump in his throat as guilt and grief surged over him, for he could easily believe it was all his fault. He should have been here, instead of in France. He should have been at her bedside while she was dying. He imagined her waiting for him, waiting for news, and him not being there. And Isabel too, who thought him a reckless fool. She was probably right.
‘I do not believe it,’ Otto said, wiping his eyes, and Thomas set his arm across his shoulders and hugged him fiercely, silently cursing this horrific, dark and deadly disease that trailed a slime of tragedy in its wake.
Others in the village had succumbed to the pestilence, brought by a travelling haberdasher who had spent the night in the manor. The next day he had been raving, and the following day dead, but not before he had passed the malady to several others. It had struck lightly before moving on, but had claimed a forfeit of the lives of Maude and Isabel Holland.
A letter of condolence had arrived from the Queen, and Jeanette had sent a message with the royal courier, saying how sorry she was for she knew how close he had been to his mother. She had sent, too, garlands of twisted wire flowers to lay upon the graves, and he did so now, feeling bereft that his mother would never truly know Jeanette or love the children they might have. All she had seen was the heartache and striving, not the fruition, and that knowledge hurt – deeply.
‘She loved us,’ Otto said hoarsely. No matter what we did, we were still her boys – and we can never have that again.’
Thomas could not speak for a moment because his throat was so tight. ‘We should do our utmost to honour her,’ he said at last, ‘and make all her sacrifices worthwhile. From this day forth, I make that my sacred oath.’
Jeanette had sworn never to set foot in her mother’s Westminster house again, yet here she was, about to do so. When the messenger had arrived at court with the news that Margaret too had been stricken by the pestilence, Jeanette had been beset by a storm of volatile emotion. She had believed her mother to be indomitable, capable of outlasting everyone, and yet she had succumbed like so many others, including Jeanette’s uncle Thomas, who had died in early summer.
Once again she travelled from the court to Westminster by barge. The sky was grey today with rain in the wind but she sat under a sheltering canopy of brightly coloured flags. The river, opaque and heavy with the tide, smelled brackish. She wished Thomas was here to hold her hand, but he was still absent with his family on their estates, sorting out their mother’s legacy. She vowed that as soon as they could be together, they would be as one, and they would make a family without any of the contamination that had bedevilled her own. Instead of thinkingabout her mother, she conjured an image of Thomas, and of the life they would build to replace everything they had lost.
The sunset was a wide golden band behind her, hemming the sky beneath dark clouds and gleaming in the diamond panes of the windows, when the rowers brought the barge into the landing stage at the Kent Westminster house. Her brother was already there and greeted her as she stepped off the barge.
‘Does she still live?’ Jeanette asked as he embraced her.
John shook his head. ‘She died an hour ago while you were still on your way. I arrived this morning and she knew me, but not for long.’ He was dry-eyed, his mouth tight, and his face showed the strain marks that would one day become deeper lines.
Jeanette unfastened her cloak. ‘She and I had already said everything there was to be said between us,’ she responded, ‘and our ways had parted long before then.’
‘Do you want to see her?’
She grimaced. ‘No, but I shall do so nonetheless.’ Only by seeing her could she be certain that it was over.
John led her to the room where their mother was laid out, a silk cover draped over her body. A smell of incense permeated the chamber and the windows were open, allowing the breeze from the river to wind through the room and mingle with the scent of death and corruption. Her mother’s hands were clasped upon her favourite prayer beads with the cross uppermost. Her jaw had been bound with a linen bandage and her eyes were closed, but only in the way of the dead, and a glint of pupil showed beneath the lids. Jeanette shuddered. She didn’t want to go near her, either to kiss her brow or touch her body. She didn’t want to think of any part of herself coming from this woman, but she could not erase that particular truth.
She crossed herself in protection, although outwardly the gesture looked like a mark of respect, and then she bowed herhead and sat for a moment, before turning away. She was aware of John observing her with shrewd eyes.
‘I cannot mourn for her,’ she said. ‘I do not grieve that she is dead. Let us bury her and be done.’
‘I pity her,’ John said with sad compassion as they left the room.
‘Then you are better than I am, brother. The best I can say is that it is finished.’
