John lightly touched her arm. ‘She gave us life, and we can thank her and give her due honour for that gift at least. She did what she thought was best, even if it was sometimes for the worst. I know you suffered, and I am sorry, but until you forgive her, you will suffer more.’
Jeanette said nothing. Let her brother believe as he wished and she would keep her own thoughts to herself.
John dug into the purse on his belt. ‘She gave me this while she could still speak, and said you should have it, for it was yours.’ He took her hand and dropped her first wedding ring into her palm.
Jeanette rubbed her thumb over the cold, smooth gold and shivered, feeling sick. ‘She told me she had got rid of it.’
‘Clearly she didn’t.’
Jeanette slipped the ring on to her finger. It was too big since it had belonged to Thomas – she would have to resize it by wrapping it with twine – but to have it back in her possession was a miracle. ‘Did she say anything more to you?’
‘Only that she had always done right by you and this was her last act to be taken as you willed, and that she would answer to God with a clear conscience for the rest – as you must answer to God with yours.’
That was typical, Jeanette thought. She had her own victory in regaining possession of her ring, but her mother had still had the last word that couldn’t now be contradicted.
‘Let her rest in whatever peace she can find,’ she said. ‘And while I will not bestow my forgiveness since she has not asked for it, I shall pray for her soul.’
A fortnight later, having dealt with her mother’s funeral, Jeanette left Donington Castle to return to the Queen. The day was cold with the first chill of autumn blowing.
As she put distance between herself and the castle, a sensation of lightness filled her being. She truly was riding free, under her own hand and the future rising like the sun before her. No one was going to drag her back, imprison and threaten her if she opened her mouth. No one was going to force her to drink vile tinctures to keep her silent, to make her fertile – to make her miscarry.
She thought of Thomas and how her road to him was open, only awaiting the Avignon verdict. It had been so long since their courtship and love-making in Flanders – such a very long time – and she had been naive and untested then. A petulant girl, she admitted to herself, whereas now she was a mature young woman of three and twenty. Would Thomas have changed after all he had endured? From gallant young buck to an experienced veteran of war and diplomacy. They had barely spoken to each other down the years – except in small moments snatched from scrutiny, hidden and filled with fear and volatile, complex emotions. The young knight for whom she had felt such a fierce, liquid desire might be a very different prospect now. They had changed apart not in unison, and although she was buoyant as she rode, she wondered how it would be. What would it be like, too, to lie with him after so long a time? Would they still want each other? It was such a delicate, fragile thing. All her hopes were like beautiful eggshells, and she dared not tread too heavily for fear that they would shatter.
One of Philippa’s dogs had chewed her bedspread again, and the tailors had come to remove it for repair. The scolded dog, a white bundle of fluff called Snowflake, had gone into hiding under Jeanette’s chair. Exasperated, the Queen waved her hands.
‘Take him, take him!’ she cried. ‘Enough is enough! The amount of cloth that animal has ruined!’ She fixed her gaze on Jeanette. ‘You are clever with dogs. You have him, otherwise I will have the kennel keeper wring his neck! I should have kept with squirrels!’
‘Thank you, madam.’ Jeanette wondered if being given custody of the little dog was a gift or a curse given his propensity for textile destruction. At least he and Nosewyse were playmates, not enemies. She would have to train him out of his fabric-chewing habits and ensure he had bones and sinew instead.
In the two months since her mother’s funeral Jeanette was still growing accustomed to a life without constraints. She dwelt at court with the Queen as she had done throughout her childhood, acting as one of her ladies. Sometimes she saw William when the King was at court and he was attending on him, but their contact was distant. Everything was in limbo, waiting. Her brother was absent, busy about the affairs of the earldom and their mother’s estate.
She scooped the little dog out from under her seat and stroked his silky white curls. The tailor and his assistant departed with the chewed bed cover, and as they left, a messenger arrived with letters from the court which Philippa retired to read in her inner sanctum.
Jeanette took Snowflake and Nosewyse for a walk along the paths outside Langley Palace. A cold wind was gusting and the last of the autumn leaves swirled inside it. Soon the light would fade and night would press against the buildings. Everyone would sit around the fire, roasting chestnuts, listening to stories, telling them, and singing songs.
Jeanette lingered, enjoying the moment alone, even while looking forward to returning to warmth and food. Nosewyse continued to following various enticing scents, Snowflake trotting at his side. A few spots of fine drizzle freckled her face, and a squire came hurrying towards her, commanding her to return to the royal apartments immediately. Her heart skipped, for she knew the Queen must have received some correspondence pertinent to her situation. It might be concerned with her mother’s affairs, or it might be about her marriage.
She hurried to return, and handed custody of the dogs to the squire with instructions to find them some antler pieces to chew on. Then she went to Philippa, curtseyed, and was directed to a stool at the foot of her chair.
‘The King has sent me a copy of a letter he has received from the papal court,’ she said.
Jeanette sat very still.
Philippa’s eyes were sparkling. ‘I shall not keep you in suspense,’ she said. ‘Cardinal d’Albi has ruled that the marriage between yourself and Thomas Holland is valid and that the match you made with William Montagu was unlawfully conducted and all ties to be severed forthwith. You and Thomas Holland are to solemnise your married state before a priest as soon as you may.’
Jeanette stared at Philippa, frozen in the moment. Through so many years of struggle and heartache she had waited to hear this, and now, with the words ringing in her head, she could not respond.
The Queen gave her a perplexed look that was almost an echo of the one bestowed on her when she had told Jeanette she was to marry William Montagu. ‘Are you not pleased?’
Jeanette tried to speak, but her vision had whitened at the edges. She felt the Queen’s hand on her arm, and then someonewas burning feathers under her nose and Jeanette coughed at the acrid stink.
Philippa gave her a drink of sugared rose water in a glass goblet, and as Jeanette took a few sips, her head began to clear.
‘It must have come as a surprise even though we were expecting such news,’ Philippa said. ‘And I hope it is good news . . .’
‘Indeed so, madam,’ Jeanette responded faintly, ‘but I have been waiting for ever to hear it. It is as though I have been pushing a boulder before me for so long that when it suddenly vanishes, I fall flat on my face!’
The Queen laughed at the comparison and embraced her. ‘Very true, and I understand. Now the verdict has been declared, we shall have your vows properly solemnised at court!’
