19 Manor of Bisham, Berkshire, December 1343

19

Manor of Bisham, Berkshire, December 1343

Jeanette drew rein and waited for the falconer to join her, so that she could place Frederick on his glove. It had been a productive morning's hunt and two pigeons and four mallards hung at the man's saddle. The dogs were panting and ready to turn for home, but Jeanette wasn't. Riding out on a day like this was as close to freedom as she could come and it kept her from going utterly mad. The December day was crisp and sunny even if the air was bitter. The fresh air, the frosty scent of winter and the movement of the horse beneath her soothed her raw, hurting soul. It was a great pity that her unwanted boy-husband was riding with her, but she was ignoring him, and pretending he wasn't there.

She tried to avoid him as much as possible and he spent most of his time in reciprocation. He was mostly absent, dwelling in Prince Edward's household, but was visiting Bisham for a couple of weeks, and to Jeanette, every hour seemed to stretch for a year. One of the reasons for his visit was the necessity of begetting an heir to secure the family dynasty, even though he had a brother. His parents desired the connection to royal blood and she and William had been married for nearly three years with no sign of offspring.

He had come to her chamber a few times, but she had lain as limp as a corpse and dissuaded him in every way possible, knowing he too had little taste for the deed, and it was only the insistence of his mother and grandmother that pushed him. The old lady kept giving Jeanette fertility tisanes that Jeanette contrived either to spit out, or swallow then visit the latrine and stick her fingers down her throat.

She had heard nothing from Thomas, but then she was stuck at Bisham, and from the little she had been able to glean he had been absent on campaign, fighting in Brittany, in Gascony and in Spain, even under the command of William's father the Earl of Salisbury at times. Wherever there was war he had been a part of it. She was hoping he might broach the subject of their marriage with William's father, but she had heard nothing and it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe they would ever be together. Since the only alternative was despair, she clung grimly to her hope, but it didn't make her happy. She did not know where he was now, whether still on campaign or at home.

Tears would fill her eyes when she thought of hawking and hunting with Thomas in Flanders. The joyful companionship, and the breathless, exquisite moments by the riverside or in the woods. In her mind's eye it was perfect. To be out on similar pursuits with William Montagu made her feel as if those moments were being sullied by a tarnished overlay of discontent.

Unable to bear the thought of returning to the manor and the gimlet scrutiny of Lady Elizabeth, she gathered the reins and dug in her heels. The mare took off with a startled snort, and Jeanette urged her on with voice, hands and heels to a swift gallop. As the ground rushed beneath the mare's hooves, and the wind streamed past Jeanette's face and rippled her headdress, the tight knot inside her started to unwind and she shouted with exhilaration, wishing the mare would race faster still.

Hard, fast hoofbeats thundered behind her and she knew without looking round that William was in pursuit and gaining. She urged the mare on, determined not to give in, but his horse was faster, and he drew alongside, reaching out, seizing her rein and heading her to a rearing stop so that she had to hold on hard to prevent herself from falling off.

‘Where do you think you are going?' he demanded angrily. ‘Off to your imaginary husband, I suppose!'

‘I would if I could!' Jeanette retorted. ‘And he is not imaginary. You are the one who does not exist!'

He raised his whip to strike her and she did not flinch. ‘Hurt me all you want, but it will never change the truth.'

He pulled the blow, his blue eyes glittering. ‘You keep up this pretence beyond reason. If Thomas Holland was your sworn husband he would have come for you by now, but he hasn't, has he? Hah, he ignored you at court when he returned and said nothing to the King. It never happened!'

‘You will see,' she said with a toss of her head. ‘And you will remember this time and all the other times I told you it was true.'

He made an exasperated sound. ‘You are foolish.'

‘If I am then you should help me, for who would want such a wife in the first place?'

Returning to the manor in hostile silence, they found it in a state of upheaval. A messenger had arrived from court, and William's grandmother was chivvying the servants and lashing out with her fearsome ebony walking stick to assert her authority. ‘We are summoned to Windsor for the Christmas season,' she said irritably, as if it was their fault. ‘Who knows if this weather will hold, and the cart needs a new wheel.'

‘To Windsor, madam?' Jeanette strove to flatten her joy lest it further antagonise her husband's grandmother. ‘Has the King summoned us?'

‘Who else?' Lady Elizabeth snapped. ‘I need not tell you that any nonsense from you will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, madam.'

Jeanette dropped her gaze while inside she was dancing with excitement. Thomas might be there, and even if he wasn't she could still find out what had been happening. They wouldn't be able to keep her shut away all of the time.

Arriving in Windsor, Jeanette felt as though she had been pitched into the middle of a storm. The town and the castle were bursting at the seams with knights and soldiers and hangers-on. There were armourers and harness makers, traders selling belts and spurs and daggers. Gaudy jewellery, pilgrim badges, fertility badges, hot wafers drizzled with spiced honey, eel pies, gingerbread, purses and pins, false hair, candles, pigs and poultry, and whores, cut-purses and masters of the loaded dice seeking gullible victims. Bemused by the mad cacophony, Jeanette wondered if her reaction was caused by the bucolic existence she had been living. It all seemed so noisy and sprawling, garish, with fierce colours and exotic aromas. She looked out for Thomas, but it was like seeking a particular pebble on a beach full of pebbles.

Entering the castle grounds, she was amazed to see a great circular construction in the upper ward, surrounded by scaffolding. The sound of hammering rang out and workmen toiled, red-cheeked in the winter afternoon, working on the roof shingles. The knight who was escorting them to their quarters grinned at their astonishment and puffed out his chest to share his knowledge that the King had ordered the building of a great dwelling he was calling the Round Table in which he intended to hold feasts and entertainments where deeds of prowess would be performed, reminiscent of the court of King Arthur.

‘Forty thousand oak roof tiles,' he announced, gesturing to the men hard at work. ‘A grand tournament is to be held with twenty-four of the King's best knights against all comers!'

William's eyes sparkled. Jeanette wondered as to the identity of the knights, suspecting that Thomas and Otto might be among them, and her breathing shortened with anxious anticipation while Lady Elizabeth looked around with the superior air of someone pretending to have seen it all before.

Their lodgings, as usual when attending such events, were a couple of large tents, lined with rich silk and luxuriously furnished. They had been set up in the outer bailey in the lee of a wall. Lady Elizabeth wallowed out of the cart and grimaced as she landed on her bad hip, then proceeded to scold the attendants as if it was all their fault. Jeanette gave the men a sympathetic look. At least she wasn't lashing about with her notorious stick, because she was using it as a support.

Their horses were led away to the stables beside the smithy, and the party took refreshment and exchanged their dusty garments for fresh clothes appropriate to the court. Elizabeth, her stout figure encased in dark-red wool, ordered Jeanette to wear her plainest wimple and conceal her hair. ‘Have you painted your lips and cheeks?' she demanded suspiciously.

‘They're just cold-reddened, my lady,' Jeanette replied. It wasn't exactly true; a touch of the rouge pot might have been involved. If she had to wear a head covering that made her look like a nun, then she would be an exotic nun – a fallen one. The notion made her lips curl with a bitter smile.

One of Queen Philippa's squires arrived to escort them to her lodgings in the upper bailey and William formally offered Jeanette his arm. She declined to take it, but did walk at his side.

The Queen's lodging stood against the north wall of the upper bailey, incorporating the nursery, her private chamber, and her own hall for receiving guests and supplicants. Today the latter was full of people drinking wine, talking in groups, and being presented.

Resplendent in purple velvet embroidered with golden squirrels, Philippa sat on a gilded chair at the far end of the chamber. The royal children attended on either side. Prince Edward and his sisters Isabelle and Joan, now twelve and ten. Five-year-old Lionel was present and three-year-old John. Edmund, aged two, were in the company of their nurses while Philippa's ladies stood in attendance nearby, including Katerine of Salisbury.

Jeanette curtseyed to the Queen, who gestured for her to rise, and smiled warmly. ‘It is good to see you,' she said. ‘How are you faring, my dear?'

‘I am well, madam,' Jeanette replied, aware that Katerine and Elizabeth were watching her closely for any infraction.

Philippa leaned forward to pinch Jeanette's cheek. ‘You look a little downcast, my dear. We shall have to feed you up and put a glow back in your complexion if you are going to bloom for your husband and give him some little ones!' She cast a twinkling look at William, who blushed and dropped his gaze.

Jeanette pressed her lips together for want of a suitable answer and curtseyed again.

Philippa beamed, but her shrewd eyes missed nothing.

Katerine hurried Jeanette away as soon as possible while the Queen was receiving other supplicants. ‘If there is a single moment of nonsense while we are here,' she said against Jeanette's ear, ‘you shall be sent straight back to Bisham.'

Jeanette looked daggers at Katerine. ‘Do not worry, I shall do exactly as you expect of me.'

The words, decidedly ambiguous, made Katerine frown.

Prince Edward joined them, and Katerine had to curtsey. He acknowledged everyone's deference, and grinned at William. ‘I hope you'll be returning to Berkeley after Christmas, but I'll understand if you do not!' he said, winking at him, then turned to Jeanette. ‘I am so glad to see you here, cousin. If you need cheering up as my mother says, I promise you masques and dances and tourneys. There will be no time to be glum, not at this great "Round Table".'

Jeanette smiled, because this was Edward and his humour and friendship always lifted her spirits, even if it was more of a candle flicker than a steady flame. ‘I am glad to see you too, sire,' she murmured.

Her brother John had been standing behind Edward, and now came forward to kiss her. ‘Sister,' he said. ‘How is it with you?'

Jeanette gave him a look. What did he know? He was three years younger. His close friends were Edward and William, and he truly had no notion of the reality for her. ‘I am glad to be back at court,' she said, and meant it, but with a horrible churning in her stomach when she thought of the false life she was leading. But confiding in anyone would only see her forced back into house arrest.

As they returned in a group to their tents in the lower ward, a party of knights arrived from the training ground, jesting together after their exertions, exuberant, red-faced, breath smoking the air. Jeanette's gaze lit on Otto, and then Thomas at his side, and she inhaled sharply. So he was back then! He was deep in conversation with another knight but looked up, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met with an intensity like fire. And then the groups passed each other and the moment moved on, but she was shaken, and desperate to escape somehow and speak to him.

In the late winter afternoon, the court had gathered in the King's Great Hall in the lower bailey to feast on small dainties and be entertained by minstrels, tumblers and tale tellers. The building had been transformed into the court of King Arthur for the duration of the winter festivities. Hangings of painted canvas draped the walls, festooned with swatches of evergreen. Embroidered hassocks covered the tiered benches and white napery cloths gleamed on the tables. Glass goblets and dishes of silver-gilt adorned the high table itself.

King Edward presided over the packed hall, not just playing at but becoming King Arthur, with Queen Philippa beside him as his Guinevere. He wore red velvet, embroidered with golden lions, and Philippa the same. Poppet had a collar stitched with gold crowns and acorns from which dangled a leash of golden leather.

Jeanette had been presented with a crimson velvet gown trimmed with ermine, and a gem-set gold circlet for her hair, engraved with running deer. She had been given the part of a court damsel and been presented with an obligatory basket of artificial petals to throw at the knights and performers as they entertained the crowd with feats and tumbling skills.

Thomas stood among the knights gathered around the King and Queen, resplendent in his royal livery of forest-green and scarlet velvet. Jeanette watched him, pouring all her love, longing and frustration into her stare. He avoided looking at her, keeping his focus firmly on the King and Queen.

For the next entertainment, a group of knights disguised in costumes of green rags and dyed red feathers leaped into the centre of the room, twirling and dancing before their audience as ‘wild men of the woods' brandishing crude wooden clubs. Jeanette saw Thomas unobtrusively leave the room. She started to follow him but her wrist was immediately grasped by her mother-in-law. ‘Stay with me,' Katerine commanded. ‘I know your propensity for wandering off and there are too many young knights here with their eye on a chance.'

Jeanette set her jaw and looked at Katerine with loathing.

The wild woodmen cavorted and danced in their ragged costumes, uttering halloos, striking their wooden batons against each other, click-clack. A core of them performed an intricate percussion in the middle of the room to the lustful wail of bagpipes, while those at the edges ran at the young women, leaping and leering, wagging their backsides, their behaviour straddling a delicious line between outrage and stomach-clenching mirth, making their victims scream.

When they eventually capered from the chamber, uttering loud wails and unearthly shrieks, the squires and naperers came around the tables and boards with dishes of nuts and sweetmeats, and replenished the jugs. To a fanfare of trumpets at the end of the hall, the doors swung open and Thomas Holland rode into the room on Noir. The stallion's mane was combed over to one side in a rippling black waterfall twined with red artificial flowers and his harness and breast pieces were spangled with gold stars. Thomas wore a royal livery robe, but of a different style with fancy dagging at the hem and sleeve ends, each point stitched with a golden crotal bell.

He made Noir rear and paw the air, and when he dropped to all fours, Thomas leaped up on to the saddle and stood with his hands on his hips, smiling broadly. He performed a back-flip over Noir's rump and then made the horse lie down, stretch out its neck and pretend to be dead. He selected a young page from the audience to come and cup his hand over the horse's ear and whisper the magic words of revival. Noir snorted, pushed to his feet and shook himself, to great laughter and applause.

Thomas commanded him to paw the ground with his hooves to count out how many children the King and Queen had, right leg for the boys and left leg for the girls. And finally, at a touch, Noir bowed his head and foreleg before the diners at the high table. Philippa clapped, enchanted, and threw Thomas a soft velvet purse of coins. The King's son John offered Noir an apple, which the stallion took with precise delicacy before loudly crunching it up. Man and horse bowed once more. Thomas leaped back into the saddle and rode out. On the way, Noir snatched a hat off someone's head to raucous applause, and Thomas retrieved it and set it on his own.

Jeanette's hands stung with clapping and her heart brimmed with pride. She remembered how he had always been teaching Noir such tricks when they were in Flanders. Some people had frowned on it, but Thomas said that a fully trained horse was a partnership you could trust in battle.

Katerine's lips were tightly pursed, but her husband was cuffing tears of mirth from his eyes – until Katerine spoke to him in a low voice that did not carry but which wiped the humour from his face and replaced it with irritation.

When Thomas returned to the feast, to loud acclaim and whoops of delight, Katerine grabbed Jeanette's arm. ‘Make one move towards that man and you shall be on the cart back to Bisham tomorrow morning, I swear,' she warned, and drew her away into a tight group of ladies, which only increased Jeanette's determination to find a way to speak with Thomas – even if it was to bid farewell.

Katerine personally escorted Jeanette back to the Salisbury tents and soon afterwards the Earl arrived, still looking annoyed. He sat down on a chair in the main tent and punched the fleece-stuffed back cushion. Then he regarded Jeanette, his brows drawn into a heavy frown.

‘I have heard arrant nonsense about this supposed marriage between you and Thomas Holland for almost three years now and I have held my tongue and left my wife to deal with the matter,' he said. ‘But it seems I must step in. I well know these young bucks at court and their ways, especially those Holland boys. Without them the Flanders brothels would not have turned so great a profit while we were there. Do you really think a match between you and the younger son of a disgraced knight will stand up to scrutiny? You were married in church to our son and the match has been consummated. We have clear evidence and reliable witnesses, which is more than you have for your tawdry claim to be wed to Thomas Holland.' He leaned forward, fixing her with his stare. ‘We were on campaign together for nine months and not once in that time did Holland broach the subject to me. Nor has he made any approach since we have returned. Why is that, do you think? Perhaps because it was never real? Perhaps because it was a foolish flirtation best forgotten by all?'

Jeanette swallowed a choking sensation of fear. What if he was right? ‘He is my husband, sworn before a friar and witnesses at the Abbey of Saint Bavo, and although my own mother took my ring and tore up one contract, there are others. There is plenty of evidence.'

The Earl raised a scornful brow. ‘So much evidence that Holland hasn't seen fit to come forward to put his case?'

‘Because he has no funds to do so. God knows the truth.'

‘There was no first marriage,' Katerine said coldly. ‘You would have needed the consent of your mother and the King, and since neither were forthcoming, it renders the matter null and void. The burden of proof may not fall on us, but such falsehood certainly falls upon our reputation. We shall not allow our honour to be sullied by your pernicious lies and silly delusions, and you shall certainly not be permitted to spread them abroad.'

‘They are not lies and delusions!' Jeanette cried in distraught frustration. ‘I am telling the truth!'

‘I have heard enough,' the Earl growled, and he looked at his wife and mother. ‘I see what you are up against. Take her from my sight and confine her until she learns that silence is a virtue. I shall speak to Holland myself, and see what can be done.'

Jeanette stood her ground, ready to fight, but a flick of the Earl's fingers brought his squires from the side of the room, and they took her by the arms and dragged her away to a separate tent and set a guard. Lady Elizabeth followed and, leaning on her stick, regarded Jeanette with angry contempt. ‘I will tie you to the tent post if I must,' she said.

Jeanette knew Elizabeth would do exactly as she threatened, and beat her too. She sat down on the bed, folded her arms and turned her head away, determined she would find a way to contact Thomas. If he believed the marriage was not real, then let him tell her himself.

* * *

Thomas was sitting on his bed polishing his tourney armour, and Otto was resting on his own pallet, arms behind his head, when a squire put his head through the tent flap to announce that the Earl of Salisbury desired to have words.

Otto stood up and donned his cloak. ‘I'll be over at Walter Manny's tent if you need me,' he said with a knowing look, and departed, holding the tent flap open on the way out for the Earl.

‘This is an unlooked-for pleasure, sire.' Thomas set his armour aside. ‘Shall I send my squire for wine?' He wondered what Montagu wanted – it must either be concerned with the forthcoming tourney where they were both taking part as royal champions, or something to do with Jeanette. On so many occasions during their campaign in Granada last year he had almost spoken to him but at the last moment held back, knowing there was nothing to be done at that point, and indeed that such engagement might endanger his life even if the Earl was an honourable soldier.

Montagu grunted irritably. ‘It is no pleasure, and I am not here to drink with you,' he said curtly. ‘I have come on a serious matter pertaining to my family's honour and I want to clear up certain matters between us.'

Thomas's gaze sharpened. There were no doubts now. ‘What certain matters would they be, my lord?'

The Earl curled his lip. ‘Do not act the innocent with me, Holland, you know very well what I mean.' He folded his arms and scowled at Thomas. ‘My son's wife is making preposterous claims that you and she were married at Saint Bavo while you were a household knight protecting the Queen. I can understand how an impressionable young girl might attach herself to a handsome young chevalier, but this fantasy of hers has gone too far and is threatening my family's honour.'

‘It is no fantasy, sire,' Thomas replied. ‘I can summon my brother and he will tell you precisely what happened, for he was a witness to the event, as was my man John de la Salle, my knight Henry de la Haye, also my wife's chamber lady Hawise. And in the presence of a Franciscan friar.'

The Earl's face brightened with anger and the veins bulged in his neck. Thomas surreptitiously glanced around for his sword in case he needed to defend himself.

‘I have no doubt that you employed some kind of trickery to win a vulnerable young woman's affections – trickery that, whatever you say, would not stand up in any English ecclesiastical court.'

‘I did no such thing, my lord,' Thomas said with quiet vehemence. ‘Jeanette is my beloved wife – in every way.'

The Earl's complexion darkened further. ‘If I were you, I would not cast such words abroad. I can assure you that the King will not want to hear any of this and it will be your downfall if you go to him with your preposterous claim.'

‘Are you so sure of that? I have the proof and witnesses.'

‘I am very sure,' Montagu ground out. ‘Look, this is ridiculous. Let us stop this nonsense now. How much do you want to walk away? How much will it take for you to leave us alone, including that poor, deluded young woman?'

Thomas rubbed his chin as if considering, but in truth he had been pole-axed by astonishment. Clearly the Earl thought him the kind of man who could be bought off with a bribe. The kind of man who would resort to bribery in the first place. Someone dishonourable. And by making such an approach, Salisbury was smirching his own honour.

After a moment he pulled himself together. He had no intention of letting this go, but he had to ponder how to cast his own dice. ‘You are generous indeed to think of bartering funds for my silence, but you are mistaken if you believe I would sell my mortal soul for coin or privilege. If I did agree to your suggestion – and I am sure your terms would be most generous – I would be endangering my eternal soul. In God's eyes I am a married man, my lord, and it is your son who has wed the lady under false pretences.' He paused to steady his voice. ‘I have it on good authority that the lady was persuaded into the match because her mother told her I was dead, and that the marriage was conducted under misapprehension and not truly of the lady's free will, for she was not in her right mind at the time.'

Montagu unfolded his arms. Thomas could see his heart beating hard in his throat and the Earl's eyes were glassy with rage. He was not accustomed to being gainsaid. ‘You could lose everything over this,' he snarled. ‘You have no money to fight your case and the King will not listen, for it is not in his interests to do so. Take stock of what I have said and reconsider. There is nothing in this for you.'

‘There is nothing for you either,' Thomas retorted. ‘How secure do you think your heirs will be with a claim of bastardy hanging over them because their parents' marriage was invalid?'

‘You would not dare!' Montagu spluttered. ‘I will see you dead first.'

‘Is that why you sent everyone away? So you could threaten me?' Thomas curled his lip. ‘Do you think if I die, that Jeanette will hold her peace? Do you think Otto will, or the other witnesses? Yes, I lack the funds to pursue this through the English courts, but I will find the wherewithal – whatever it takes.'

‘You are as deluded as she is.'

‘Well then, we are matched in our convictions, and we clearly deserve each other,' Thomas retorted.

Montagu straightened and puffed out his chest. ‘I have tried to be reasonable with you, but I warn you now: take this further, and your career will perish and your family will suffer – I will make sure of it. If you have any sense, you will accept my offer and walk away. There are plenty of other heiresses in the world without stealing what belongs to my son. It is up to you.' Turning on his heel, he shouldered his way out of the tent like a thunderstorm.

Thomas exhaled on a hard sigh. The cool ice that sustained him in battle situations retreated and he only held himself together by keeping every muscle tight, and bunching his fists.

Otto slipped back into the tent a moment later. ‘What was that about?' he asked.

Thomas shuddered and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘He offered me money and advantages to walk away from my marriage with Jeanette and pretend it never happened – and threatened to make it difficult if I did not.'

‘Judging by the look on his face when he came out, you refused him.'

‘I did – and in no uncertain terms.'

‘Perhaps he has a point, for how are you going to prove this against such opposition, even with witnesses? You say you will not give her up, but you do not have her now. How will Jeanette fight when they have her as their hostage? And how will you when you cannot and will not be heard?'

‘So you think I should accept his offer and walk away, instead of striving to regain my right?' Thomas glared at his brother, feeling as if he had been kicked in the teeth twice.

Otto opened his hands. ‘You should consider it. I know you probably won't, but if not, then you know what you are setting on yourself. I will support you whatever you do because we are flesh and blood, but if you ask my advice, I would say you should look at the practicalities.'

‘I have looked at them, and believe me, I have considered walking away, but in the end I cannot. I admit Montagu's offer might be tempting, depending on what he puts on the table, but Jeanette trusts me to get her out of this sham of a marriage, and I have sworn I will do so. You know me, Otto. If I go into battle, I mean it.'

‘Yes, I do know, and I also know the cost.' Otto grimaced. ‘The only way forward is to increase your reputation as a battle captain and become indispensable to the King, and by taking rich ransoms. You will have to put yourself in the thick of the fight.'

Thomas met his brother's candid gaze. ‘If I forfeit my life, then it will be honourably, and if I succeed, I shall have the resources to claim Jeanette. I cannot trust the English Church – they will support the King and the Montagus. I will take my claim to the papal court at Avignon – eventually. It doesn't matter what trials are set before me, I will accomplish them or die in the attempt.' He gave Otto a twisted smile. ‘Is that not what it means to be a true knight of the Round Table?'

Jeanette arrived at the tourney ground in the great courtyard to the south of the royal lodgings. The Salisbury matriarchs were keeping her under close domestic guard and had warned her that a single word out of place would result in dire consequences for everyone, including Thomas Holland. The onus was on her to discourage him if she did not want to see him come to harm.

Jugs of hot spiced wine were being served to the spectators to keep them warm. Jeanette's gown and cloak were lined with fur, and the obligatory thick wimple covered her tightly coiled hair. The tension was giving her a headache and she rubbed her temples.

Thomas and Otto had positions as two of the twenty-four knights of the Round Table – Sir Gareth and Sir Gawain – as they prepared, with their fellow chevaliers, to take on all challengers. The Earl of Salisbury in the role of Sir Bors was puffing about, filled with self-importance, his bluster exacerbated by his bad mood. There were mummers, tumblers, folk in fantastical disguises. A dancing bear muzzled and chained.

Jeanette had to look at Thomas. It was like a sailor's sunstone, seeking its true path across the ocean. He caught her eye and kissed his hand as he had done before. She copied his gesture in a brief flare of defiance, but she was anxious about him in the lists. He would be at a disadvantage, having the sight of only one eye and with the possible threat from the Salisbury faction. Crossing herself, she prayed to God and St Michael, patron of soldiers, to protect him.

The tourney commenced with a series of demonstrations from the squires and aspiring knights. Prince Edward displayed his skills at the tilting ring, riding his new destrier – not the one he had shown Jeanette three years ago, which he had outgrown, but another grey named Wilfrid, taller and stronger with a black mane and tail. Despite her worries, Jeanette was able to laugh and cheer him on as he slid every single garlanded ring on to his lance from the target with smooth skill, and he did look magnificent on his new horse – well made, lithe and beautiful. Glowing with pride, the Queen stood up to applaud his prowess. Edward saluted the stands, made his mount half rear, and cantered off with a flourish.

William Montagu performed the same deed and acquitted himself almost as well as Edward, to great acclaim. Jeanette watched, recognising his skill but feeling dull inside. She knew she should give praise where it was due, but sat with her hands in her lap, frozen.

After the smaller contests and some jousts and tilts run by the young knights to prove their valour came the main event while the winter light was at its zenith, and the knights chosen to represent the King's Round Table paraded out to take on all comers.

Thomas was riding Noir and the stallion's black coat was winter-plush where it showed between the blue and gold barding of the Holland heraldry. Noir's nostrils were wide, his ears pricked as he high-stepped and tossed his head. Jeanette's heart was so full of pride and fear she was certain it would burst. She had seen Thomas joust before many times in Flanders – could still remember that first time – but the sensations now were magnified to the point of pain.

The knights took turns to ride against challengers who had come to be tried in the arena. It was a way of recruiting youngsters with ability, and an opportunity for the King and his seasoned captains to see who might be worthy of sponsorship and promotion.

Jeanette tightly clasped her hands as she watched Thomas ride against Sir Reginald de Cobham, who was superbly skilled. Both men struck true and rocked each other in the saddle, but neither unhorsed the other, nor did they in the next two passes, and rode off the field together in camaraderie. Otto took on Robert Dalton and unhorsed him, and then was himself unhorsed by an eager Flemish knight, but emerged unharmed and bowed to the crowd.

The bouts and jousts continued. Jeanette tensed whenever Thomas rode, but relaxed and took pleasure in the sport when he was not on the field. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself and showed no lessening in skill despite his compromised vision, which made her appreciate the fierceness of his will and determination.

The glimpses she caught of him on the side-lines showed him comfortable in the company of other knights, talking easily, slapping shoulders, and she experienced a flicker of envy that he was free to do this in his natural surroundings, while she was trapped with these two women, who were biding their time until they could pack her off to Bisham again, or one of the Salisbury manors in Dorset, away from contact with the court.

The sun travelled low in the sky, slanting ruddy-gold light over the tourney field as the last bouts of the day were run through the mud. Jeanette folded her arms against the encroaching cold and watched Thomas ride off on Jet, his second-string stallion, followed by his squires with Noir on a lead rein. He dismounted at the corner of the lists, to stay and watch the final exchanges. His helmet removed, he glanced in her direction and gave her their hand kiss signal, which she returned. Neither Katerine nor Elizabeth noticed, for their attention was riveted on the field where the Earl of Salisbury was fretting his bay and facing his final challenger, a powerful Flemish knight by the name of Costen de Roos. The men had worked out a dramatic move to please the crowds and had been practising for several days.

At the herald's signal, the men unleashed their destriers towards each other at thunderous speed; their lances cracked on their shields and shattered in a spray of splinters. The crowd roared, urging them on to a second run. Montagu turned the big bay, but as he spurred down the lists again, the stallion skidded on the muddy ground, pitched forward and fell, tossing Montagu over the saddle and slamming him on the ground. The horse rolled to gain momentum, scrambled to its feet and galloped off, reins trailing. Katerine screamed, her hands pressed to her mouth, and people went running to the fallen man, including Thomas, while others sped to catch the horse.

The Flemish lord was out of the saddle and kneeling by Salisbury's head. Jeanette saw Thomas tear off his scarf and hand it to one of the others bent over the Earl, who bound it around his arm in a tourniquet. Two attendants ran on to the field carrying a board and lifted the Earl on to it. The King's surgeon arrived to walk at Montagu's side as he was carried away to his tent.

Katerine stood up, her face white. Lady Elizabeth was gasping like a landed trout, and clutching her breast. ‘My son!' she wheezed. ‘My son!' Jeanette knew she should feel sorry for her, but that wasn't the dark feeling in her heart.

Once within his tent, the Earl was laid upon his bed. Katerine and Elizabeth pushed their way through the press of folk surrounding him while Jeanette stood outside, peering in. She could hear the Earl groaning, so he wasn't dead, but the sounds were of agonising injury.

Thomas came out of the tent and, seeing her, shook his head. ‘He fell on a lance splinter,' he said, ‘and the horse has crushed his body.' Blood from the Earl's wound had spattered Thomas's armour and his leg greaves were mud-caked. ‘He will die without a miracle.' He looked round. ‘I won't linger, but we must talk. Meet me in the garden by the long stable tomorrow morning after mass.' He took her hand, gave it a quick squeeze, and departed, calling to his squires.

Jeanette watched him walk away and took his words inside her like a golden light, before steeling herself to enter the tent.

The Earl was conscious but clearly in severe pain, with cold sweat clamming his face and his pupils wide, dark holes. William arrived, and stared in glassy shock at his father. A wave of unbidden compassion surged through Jeanette, and she briefly touched his arm, but he ignored her, his attention entirely on his father.

From what she was seeing, and from what Thomas had said, Jeanette suspected that he would not recover. William would become a ward of court under the King's guidance and the earldom would be subject to administration until he came of age, which wouldn't be for several years. What it meant for her own situation she did not know, but it would certainly change the future landscape.

The Earl was borne from his tent and taken to a room in the royal lodgings with a bed and brazier. The surgeon had managed to stem the bleeding in his arm and had stitched the wound. He had been dosed with poppy syrup to ease the pain but had several broken ribs, heavy bruising from the fall and crushing injuries down one side of his body.

The King came to visit him, and gazed at his friend, propped against the pillows, his face grey. ‘I am sorry,' Edward said. ‘Rest and get better. I would not have had this happen to you in ten thousand years.'

The Earl mumbled a vague reply, barely opening his eyes.

The King turned from the bed to Katerine. ‘Kate . . . if I had known, I would never have held this tournament. If there is anything I can do . . . I will help you in any way I can, you know that.'

A long look passed between them. ‘Thank you, sire,' Katerine said. ‘I have sore need of your wisdom and guidance.'

Observing the way their eyes met, Jeanette was jolted into sudden awareness. That look was entirely familiar, for she recognised it from her own situation with Thomas. Well, well.

The King lifted his hands as if not knowing what to do, then awkwardly patted Katerine's shoulder. ‘I will return tomorrow and see how he fares. He has the services of my physician, and I shall pray for him and beg God's mercy.'

He took his leave. Jeanette curtseyed, kept her eyes lowered and busied herself folding and tidying, making herself useful and unobtrusive, while pondering the implications of what she had just seen.