16 A campaign tent somewhere in Prussia, February 1341

16

A campaign tent somewhere in Prussia, February 1341

The pain was excruciating. Thomas writhed on his pallet, sweat-soaked, raging with fever. Dreams of demons and angels fighting over his soul had accosted him throughout the night and now he stood on the edge of hell's pit, so close he could feel the flames searing his skin and biting at his injured eye socket. He thrashed, trying to escape the fiery, sulphurous stink of the shark-mouth and dripping yellow teeth.

Voices resonated inside his skull like shouts in a cavern. Someone was holding him down, telling him not to fight, that all was well, but he knew it wasn't.

‘Help him, in the name of sweet Christ, do something!' He recognised Otto's voice, breaking with tears.

‘My son, it is in God's hands now,' came the answer, wearily patient.

If it was in God's hands, then Thomas knew his transgressions were weights at his ankles, dragging him into the pit. He had seen enough Dooms in church paintings to know the fate of sinners.

Someone set a cup to his lips and dribbled cold liquid into his mouth. He choked and tried to fend them off, but his arms wouldn't work. A cold compress covered his brows and eyes and his vision brightened with vivid colours while pain seared through him in ropes of lightning. He heard Jeanette screaming out to someone that he was not dead and saw her curled in a ball, inconsolable with grief.

‘I am not dead!' he shouted. ‘I will come to you, through hell if I must.'

He fought to leave the bed, but hands held him fast like shackles and he had no strength to break free.

‘Do not dare die, you selfish whoreson,' he heard Otto croak, and felt himself being grasped and shaken. ‘I refuse to bring home your horse with an empty saddle and tell our mother you're never returning. I don't want to face everyone who loves you with a box in my hands holding your embalmed heart. Have you not done enough to us already, you bastard?'

The demons pierced him with their claws, and his soul teetered on the edge. Otto was sobbing while Henry de la Haye murmured consoling platitudes. Thomas gathered every part of himself and made a final tremendous effort, throwing himself forward, screaming that he repented of everything and rejected Satan and all his works. He struck out, and suddenly there was a white sword in his hand and the devils drew back from him. The light returned, burning through his skull, and he reached into it. The left side was black and swirling with red heat and he could see nothing, but on the right, through stinging sweat, he made out a room with a fire, and people gathered around him. Other wounded men lay on pallets on the floor and he could hear their groans. Was this his deathbed? Perhaps they were waiting for their souls to be harvested – an unholy convoy. While he was trying to puzzle out his surroundings, oblivion descended on him in a snuffing black cloak.

He woke again to throbbing pain on the left side of his face, but the fire and the hallucinations had gone. Winter daylight cast the room in stark tints of blue and grey. Looking round, he could see nothing out of his left eye, but his right took in Otto, sitting at his bedside, head drooped in slumber, sandy hair lank and surcoat grimy. He tried to speak but all that emerged was a corvid croak.

Otto shot awake at the sound and leaned over him. ‘Thomas? Thank Christ!'

Thomas struggled to speak, feeling as though his throat was full of dust and feathers, and Otto roared for help. Moments later a priest arrived with Henry and John de la Salle on his heels.

The priest poured water and lifted Thomas's head to drink. He was so weak he could barely swallow, but he still managed to drain the cup, and when the priest refilled it, he drank that too.

‘Thank God to see you return to the land of the living,' Otto said, sleeving away tears. ‘I feared for your life. I was despairing of what I would say to mother of your demise.'

‘I heard you,' Thomas said huskily. ‘You were standing with me at the gates of hell and I thought for sure that was where I was bound.'

‘We thought you were going to die. You have been sick with wound fever for five days.'

‘Wound fever?' Thomas slowly put his thoughts together. To have wound fever he would have to be badly injured, and the only place he was aware of pain was his face. Raising his hand, he touched bandages on the left side, and a fleeting memory came to him of a moment of impact and a white-hot streak of sensation.

‘Scatter from a slingshot,' Otto said. ‘You took off your helmet for a moment and down you went. Raoul de Brienne got the bastard, but you were off your guard.'

Thomas touched the bandage again. ‘How bad?'

Otto looked away for a moment and then back at Thomas. ‘We do not know yet, but likely you have lost the sight in your left eye.'

The water he had just drunk threatened to come back up. ‘So, I am half blind.'

‘Probably, but your limbs are still sound, and you have the sight of the other eye. You will still be able to do a soldier's job with a little adjustment.' He cleared his throat. ‘Do not think too hard on it now. Rest and get better first.'

Thomas's eye socket throbbed to the pounding of his heart, signalling that he was indeed alive, but very changed. Perhaps Jeanette would not want him now that he was not whole, and perhaps it was the price that God was exacting from him for his sins. He was lethargic with exhaustion even though he had only been awake long enough to take a drink, and he felt utterly wretched.

‘Sleep now,' said the priest. ‘I will return shortly and dress your wound and see if you will take some broth and bread.'

When he had gone, Otto plumped Thomas's pillow. ‘I am glad you are still here,' he said.

Thomas was not sure he felt the same way. It might be better for all if he had died. They would grieve and then they would move on and he would have a hero's memory in their thoughts. Jeanette would be free to wed again, and everything would return to the stream as if there had never been a flood. But if God had willed him to live, it must be for a purpose – or because he had more punishment to fulfil.

Sleep swept over him and this time it was dreamless and only lasted from noon to compline. When he woke again, he was lucid and hungry, and death's shadow had left the room.

Jeanette went to her wedding in a state of numb shock, silently screaming for help but with none to be had. She had been convinced each morning that something would happen to prevent it. God would stop it somehow, but God was not listening – at least not to her.

Her mother and her uncle had kept her closely guarded, giving her no opportunity to speak out about her first marriage. Thomas might be dead, but potential for bringing scandal to the family remained, and she had been warned that if she said anything at all she would be severely punished and sent to a convent. From now on, her behaviour must be impeccable. They had taken her ring away by force, although she had managed to conceal the ruby and the little belt pendant from them.

She hated her wedding robes. Her undergown of pale gold silk was topped by an overgown of blue and gold brocade, heavy as a hauberk with a trailing hem that took four maids to hold when she walked. She was just the support to wear it and exhibit the wealth and importance of her family – a princess. The headdress was secured tightly to her scalp and her hair had been braided and coiled either side of her temples. Already her head ached from the tug against the pins. She thought of the simple elegance of her first wedding gown, worn from a choice of her daily clothes, and her hair loosely plaited, with barely a pin in sight. She remembered Thomas's hands in her hair and the melting sensations as they kissed, and lay together. The thought of having to do that with William Montagu made her want to vomit.

Her mother's and Katerine's ladies primped and fussed, tweaking and arranging. Queen Philippa had sent her a magnificent pearl brooch, and as she watched Hawise stab the pin into the fabric, it felt like a dagger in her flesh, even though her skin lay beneath miles of heavy cloth. She and Hawise exchanged a knowing look. So much enforced silence adding to the oppressive weight of the burden she carried.

Her mother, wearing a severe but splendid gown of embroidered dark blue velvet, looked her up and down, and brushed an imaginary speck from Jeanette's shoulder. ‘Remember what I have told you,' she said. ‘Remember our bargain. Your life can be comfortable, or not, and the same goes for those of your household who are attending you in service.' She cast a withering glance at Hawise, who looked down and withdrew a pace.

‘Yes, mother, I remember our bargain with every breath I take,' Jeanette said, filled with pain that it should come to this with no going back. The bridge was well and truly burning.

Her uncle Thomas, robed in velvet and furs, a gold chain around his neck, arrived to escort her to church. ‘It is time.' He held out his arm. ‘You know what you must do. It is not about you this day, but about your duty to your lineage, and its future success.'

Still Jeanette hung back, trying to delay the inevitable.

‘I know you are afraid and that you do not want to do this,' her uncle said, ‘but many young women feel exactly as you do at the outset. The boy is nothing to be afraid of, and if you are a good wife, you will do well together. It will be of great benefit to you to have a settled home and a family away from the court, and one day you shall be a countess, just like your mother.'

Jeanette swallowed bile. Her uncle was a hypocrite. He had married his own wife, Blanche of Lancaster, for love when he was eighteen and without royal consent. Indeed, he had been heavily fined for it, even if the bride's father had approved. However, he appeared to have conveniently forgotten the circumstances of his own match in his determination to push hers through. His wife, her aunt Blanche, was kind and sympathetic, but neutral, and she could tell everyone thought she was making a fuss over nothing.

Waiting at the church door was Lord Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, with his household, everyone robed in rich winter furs and heavy fabrics. Her husband-to-be, golden-haired and handsome, stood beside his father. At thirteen years old, his features were still cherubic and boyish, but with a glint of hair on his upper lip. The thought of sharing a bed with him repulsed her. She prayed she would not have to consummate the marriage, but knew it would probably happen, for an unconsummated marriage was one that could be dissolved and they would want to secure her dowry and the tie of bloodline. She had nowhere to turn and nowhere to run. The King and Queen were present as witnesses, and both were smiling with benign delight.

The Bishop of London, Ralph Stratford, was present to marry them, adorned in his full robes of office. Closer and closer drew the moment until it was upon her, and the weight of the burden increased until she felt as though she was being crushed. She mumbled her responses without raising her eyes, and refused to look at William Montagu as he pushed the thick gold wedding ring on to her finger. Unable to bear what was taking place, she shut herself away, and it was an emotionless shell that made its way through the ceremony. It was not happening to her, but to someone else who stood in her place.

Following the wedding mass, the party processed to a banquet in the great hall and Jeanette had to rest her hand along her new husband's arm. His manner was supercilious, and she wanted to kick him. She told herself that soon he would return to Prince Edward's household to continue his military training, while she would live at court and they would only meet in formal circumstances. Just a few more hours and it would all be over.

The wedding feast involved numerous courses and entertainments to celebrate the marriage and while away the long winter afternoon. Dancers, jugglers and tumblers performed by the light of torch and candle and fire. Beef in rich sauce glistened in the dishes. There was wheat frumenty with spices and dried fruits. White bread, sweet raisin wines and almond sugar-paste, which the pregnant Queen consumed in large quantities.

When it came time for the bedding ceremony, Jeanette retreated further into the shadow-life and let the shell take her place.

A sumptuous chamber had been prepared for the event with braziers burning to keep the cold at bay and the bed piled with covers and furs.

The Queen kissed Jeanette warmly on the cheek, and taking her hand, placed it on her own pregnant belly. ‘May fortune favour you tonight,' she said. ‘I shall pray that you conceive an heir for your lord.'

Jeanette almost gagged. She swallowed hard, and Philippa pinched her cheek. ‘Do not be shy now,' she said with a soft laugh. ‘All will be well; it is a natural thing.'

But it wouldn't be well, it would never be, however anyone tried to cloak it. And it didn't seem a natural thing at all.

The Queen stepped back and the King took Jeanette's hand and patted it. ‘You must put the past behind you,' he said, his expression benign, but warning in his voice. ‘It is time to settle down and find fulfilment in becoming a good and dutiful wife.' He chucked her chin and looked into her face. ‘Courage, my dear. You were always a wilful child, but now you have it within you to become a strong woman, and one day a great matriarch. Listen and learn, and you will do very well.' He kissed her cheek, released his grip, and took his leave.

‘Remember what I have taught you,' her mother said when her turn came. ‘Do not disgrace your family.'

‘I do not think my family could carry any more disgrace than has already been heaped upon it at this moment,' Jeanette replied in a low voice.

Her mother narrowed her eyes. ‘You are a wife now,' she said curtly. ‘Do your duty.'

‘As well as you have done yours, mother,' Jeanette answered, adding yet another row of stones in the wall between them.

The guests undressed the newlyweds to their undergarments of chemise and shirt, and placed them side by side in the great bed together. The Bishop intoned a blessing with a sprinkling of holy water, and then everyone departed, the priest the last to leave, closing the door behind him – although Jeanette knew someone would be listening outside with an ear flattened against the wood.

She looked at William Montagu with distaste even though he was handsome and well made. ‘You shall not touch me,' she warned. Flinging herself from the bed, she went to stand in a corner of the room with her back against the wall.

He gazed at her in astonishment, then rose and came straight after her. ‘You are my wife now. You have to do as I say, and if you defy me, I have the right to beat you.' He raised a clenched fist to emphasise his point.

‘Oh, such bravery.' She curled her lip. ‘Do you truly think that will work? If you beat me, I will fight back, and how will that look when you emerge tomorrow morning covered in bites and scratches? How do you think others will respond when they see my bruises? Some might smile and say it is what I deserve, but remember, I am the King's cousin. My father was a prince, and my grandfather a king.'

His gaze flickered. ‘But you have sworn in church to obey me and do your duty, and do it you will, because it is God's holy law and you are required to pay the debt.'

Nausea roiled in her belly. He was still a boy, even if he stood on the cusp of manhood. Was he even capable? She cast a quick look in the direction of his groin, but there was nothing to see. With a shrug, she flounced past him to the flagon and cups set out on the trestle. She poured wine and drank it down like a soldier about to go into battle, and then again, before going to lie on the bed. Putting her knees up, she opened her legs. ‘Well then,' she said with weary scorn, ‘let us have it over and done with – if you must.'

He eyed her like a startled hare, and his face flushed scarlet. But then he rallied to her challenge. He too poured himself a drink and gulped it down, and then leaped on her, crushing her flat, and dragging up her chemise. ‘You will not taunt me!' His voice broke with an adolescent crackle.

‘I am not taunting you; I am doing my duty as you have said I must. I am not stopping you!'

He fumbled between his own legs and she felt heat against her thigh and realised he was indeed capable and erect, and suddenly she wished she had not challenged him. He pushed at her and she gave a strangled yelp, for his jab was sore, but then he gasped and she felt him spill against her thigh, too overwrought to follow through. After a moment he rolled off her, his chest heaving, and turned his back. Jeanette sat up and with a grimace wiped herself on her chemise. She said nothing to taunt him further but he turned to look at her, his face filled with fury and shame.

‘Don't you dare say a word of this outside this room, or you will be sorry.'

Jeanette shrugged. ‘Why would I? You have done your duty, and I have done mine. It is no one else's business. Neither of us need say anything at all.'

He glowered at her and got back into bed and turned his back. She heard him sniff and wondered if he was crying. She got into bed too and lay on the edge, with the cold, sticky patch clamming her chemise.

She remembered lying with Thomas. The melting, glorious feelings and the moments of intimacy when they could not get enough of each other and were one creature, limbs entwined, fitting together, sword and sheath. Even in anger there had been a full and burning passion with both of them committed full tilt. Tears prickled her eyes and she bit her lip and despaired to think that this might be how it was for the rest of her life.

In the morning the women came to take the sheet to wash it, and Lady Katerine contrived to smear some blood-stains over the linen from a phial concealed in her hand, and then disposed of, as proof of the consummation. Jeanette's contempt for Katerine and her mother increased. William distanced himself from the women and made a swift exit, complicit with Jeanette in mutual antipathy. He had no desire to bed with her and face further humiliation, and she equally had no desire to bed with him.

Two days later, he departed with Prince Edward and Jeanette's brother, John, for Edward's household at Berkeley. For her part, Jeanette remained at Langley for Queen Philippa's lying in, as did Katerine and Katerine's mother-in-law, Elizabeth de Montfort, a stout, overbearing woman who had come to dwell in the Salisbury household to help educate – and manage – the new bride.

As Jeanette's mother prepared to return to her estates at Donington, Jeanette asked her pointedly for her casket of jewels now that she was a wife in her own right.

Margaret fastened her cloak and turned towards the waiting cart. ‘When you have proven yourself a responsible wife, you may have them,' she said.

‘But they are mine!'

‘And you shall have them – when you show me you are worthy.'

Jeanette pressed her lips together. There was no point in protesting since her mother did not have them with her, but she knew the time would never be right. Her uncle Thomas kissed her cheek and she bore it stoically, but as far as she was concerned, he had colluded in this betrayal and that particular bridge was burned too.

A few weeks after Jeanette's marriage, John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey came to Langley, bringing with him his young mistress, Isabel Holland. Thomas had often mentioned his sister with affection and had explained to Jeanette the circumstances of her relationship with de Warenne.

A pang of loss and longing tore through Jeanette as she watched Isabel curtsey to the Queen, for the young woman so resembled her brother, with the same dark eyes and hair. Isabel was graceful like Thomas as she rose from her curtsey, and Philippa gestured for Jeanette to bring Isabel a drink.

‘We were so sorry to learn of your brother's death,' Philippa said. ‘He was a promising knight of the household and a good companion. We deeply mourn his loss.'

Isabel blinked in surprise. ‘Madam, I do not know where you heard such news, but Thomas is certainly not dead. He was wounded in the face, and has lost the sight of an eye, but Otto wrote to say he is making a good recovery.'

Jeanette gasped, and the world spun. Someone took her arm and helped her to a bench. Someone else hurried to burn feathers under her nose in case her womb had gone wandering around her body.

‘Jeanette is a new bride,' Katerine said with gentle concern as Jeanette coughed and spluttered. ‘It would be best if she went to lie down for a while.' Her words held a certain intimation for those who might want to jump to conclusions given the recent marriage and wedding night.

‘Of course,' Philippa said, also looking concerned.

Isabel Holland gazed at Jeanette with narrowed eyes and set lips.

Jeanette batted away the woman holding the bunch of singed feathers. ‘Let me be, I am all right!' she said crossly, but Katerine would hear none of it, and hurried her from the room.

‘My mother lied to me!' Jeanette rounded on the older woman. ‘She told me Thomas was dead, when he was not. And if he is not dead, then I am still wed to him and my marriage to your son is invalid!'

Katerine seized Jeanette's arm in an iron grip. ‘Hold your tongue! I will brook no more of your foolish behaviour. Your mother has told me all about your ridiculous claim to be married to the man, and for a certainty, your head is in the clouds if you think it ever meant anything to him. This news is still only hearsay, and Thomas Holland is not here to prove with his body that he still lives. Your marriage vows were made and witnessed before the King and Queen with the approval of the entire court. Whatever you think happened in Ghent is nothing but a figment of your imagination and the duping of a silly girl by a grown man who took advantage, to your shame and his disgrace.'

‘It was real,' Jeanette said in a wobbling voice, ‘and I was not duped. If Thomas is alive, then I am still his wife.'

‘And if you know what is good for you, you will keep your mouth closed,' Katerine retorted. ‘Who is going to take your part? Certainly no one here. Who is going to believe a girl's silly prattling? Do you truly believe that, if Thomas Holland is indeed alive and returns, he will still want to claim you for his wife when you have married another in his absence? Mark my words, he will not ruin his life for you. Even supposing he might have considered it once, if his fighting skills have been damaged by his injury, he will be useless to the King. As a younger son with nothing to his name to live on, he will have no livelihood to support you. What then? Will you be content to live in poverty on a dung heap? Give up this foolishness now, for everyone's sake including your own.'

Katerine's words sank into her like a lead anchor, dragging her down. She was determined not to give in, but tears rolled down her face.

‘In the name of God, see sense. It is pointless to long after an illusion.'

‘I want to speak with Isabel Holland,' Jeanette said, swiping at her tears.

‘That would be unwise. The woman is a common adulteress. I do not wish you to be more disturbed than you already are.' She took Jeanette by the shoulders and turned her face to face. ‘A man may die very easily, especially if he is already weakened by a battle injury. Think on that, my girl, when considering what you say in front of others who have power that you do not.'

Jeanette wanted to spit that she was not intimidated by threats, but Katerine was right. She was indeed powerless. Katerine and her own mother were thoroughly capable of arranging Thomas's death.

‘Do I make myself clear?' Katerine fixed her with a hard stare.

‘Yes, my lady,' Jeanette replied, still defiant, but subdued into caution. It was horrible to be pinned down, but she vowed it would not be for ever.

The opportunity to speak with Isabel Holland arrived when Jeanette went to pray with the rest of the family the next morning. Katerine had kept Jeanette close to her side, but there was a moment outside the church after mass when Isabel was standing alone pulling on her fur-lined gloves, and Jeanette joined her.

Isabel's gaze was unfriendly. Clearly, she knew Jeanette's identity. ‘While he was in England with the King, my brother told me about your marriage to him in Flanders,' she said starkly, without preamble. ‘And now you have turned your back and bigamously married Salisbury's heir.'

‘I did not know,' Jeanette said in a faltering voice. ‘I swear I did not. They told me Thomas was dead. Is he truly still alive?'

Isabel nodded curtly.

‘Oh, thank Christ – but you said he had been wounded?'

‘Yes, and we do not know how badly, even though Otto says he is recovering.' Her eyes flashed with accusation. ‘He would not have gone were it not for you.'

‘I had no choice.' Tears filled Jeanette's eyes, but part of it was anger that Isabel Holland was blaming her, when she herself had a sullied reputation. So many lies, so much hypocrisy from other women. ‘Think as you will, but you should ask yourself why it is easier to set the fault at my door than it is at your brother's.'

Isabel stood tall. ‘Are you accusing Thomas?'

‘I am saying you do not know the circumstances, yet you judge me and not him.'

Isabel's face turned pink. ‘I know my brother.'

‘Do you? I think not. And you certainly do not know me.'

‘I know enough from what I have seen,' Isabel retorted. ‘And do you always do that? From what you have seen? You did not see what happened in Flanders, and yet you sit in judgement – how dare you!'

Isabel said nothing, and Jeanette swallowed her anger for she had no time and did not want to make an enemy of Isabel, even if the signs were not auspicious. She was aware of Katerine and Lady Elizabeth descending on them.

‘Tell Thomas to be careful,' she said quickly. ‘Please, if you have any regard for the truth, tell him that this match is not of my choosing, but my family's, and they told me he was dead. I know you do not think well of me – but please, I beg you.'

Isabel arched her brows, but gave a slight nod and turned away, inclining her head to Katerine and Elizabeth, who pointedly ignored her.

‘Now we see why we cannot trust you for a moment,' Katerine scolded. ‘You should know not to keep such company.'

‘It is all the same to me,' Jeanette said. ‘I see no difference from other company I am forced to keep.'

Lady Elizabeth's florid features reddened. ‘You are insolent.'

‘I am truthful,' Jeanette retorted.

‘You are deluded,' Katerine snapped. ‘Even if by a miracle Thomas Holland has survived his wounds, it does not alter the fact that your union with him was no marriage, but the duping of a foolish girl. He won't be able to prove it, and I doubt he will want to, for it will be his downfall. His family know this too and you will find no succour there. Nor from the King, for why should he listen to the words of a maimed man for whom he will have no use?'

Despite a prickle of terror that they were speaking the truth, Jeanette raised her chin in defiance. She would rather die than yield, and while she could not speak for Thomas, she knew her own mind.