21 Manor of Bisham, Berkshire, May 1346

21

Manor of Bisham, Berkshire, May 1346

Jeanette rolled over in the bed, awakened by the sound of William washing his face in the ewer. He was naked, and the early morning light picked out the lines of muscle and sinew and tendon. Strong thighs, widening shoulders, taut, flat belly, the base thatched with curly, coarse blond hair and sizeable genitals. His fair hair gleamed. Watching him, she was unmoved by his looks and physique, and silently hoped he would leave the room and summon his attendants to his wardrobe chamber so she could have this space to herself.

He dried his face and looked over at the bed. ‘I know you are awake,' he said. ‘Do not pretend to slumber.'

Jeanette sat up, clutching the sheet around her breasts. ‘Why? Is it better that I am awake?'

‘I am going away to war this morning – I might not return. I know you would not care if that happened, but I thought you might have a shred of honour and decency to at least bid me farewell in a manner fitting to your station – and mine.'

Jeanette felt the guilt like an irritation of grit in a shoe. ‘Do not worry,' she said haughtily, ‘I will bid you a fitting farewell when you leave and no one shall fault my manners. But if you want me to beg you not to go with tears on my lashes, you will wait for ever. Do as you must and acquit yourself well. I will pray for you.'

He curled his lip. ‘To do what – die?' The bright morning light revealed the anger and misery in his face, and she knew those same emotions must be reflected in her own.

‘Never that,' she replied. ‘I would not do that.'

‘Would you not?' He stalked from the room, leaving her alone, calling for his servants.

Jeanette flapped back the covers and went to sit on the latrine. He had been at Bisham for three days and was preparing to ride to Yarmouth – to war. The King was mustering for a great battle campaign in France and had been ordering ships and supplies for most of the year. Now, in May, he was making ready to sail. William was serving in Prince Edward's contingent, as was her brother, under the keen eye of the earls of Warwick and Northumberland, although the division was ostensibly under Edward's command. The youths were going to be knighted once they had made landfall in Normandy and would receive their first proper taste of warfare, rather than in the chivalrous arena of the tourney field. William had talked of little else, regarding it as a great adventure.

Jeanette had briefly visited the court at Easter, but had gleaned little information. Like many of the other women, she only knew that the men were going away to fight and that all the decisions for running the estates at home would devolve on the shoulders of wives, mothers and deputies. Thomas had been absent from court, busy garnering supplies for the campaign. She worried that despite his sworn intention of winning her back, he was letting matters ride, and that she would be stuck with William Montagu for the rest of her days – in which case, those days would be numbered.

Everywhere men were flocking to the muster. Archers both mounted and on foot. Soldiers and spearmen, labourers, cart drivers, carpenters, grooms, cooks, younger sons seeking adventure and fortune. Men with everything to gain. Men with nothing to lose.

These recent three days at Bisham had been particularly difficult because William had detoured specifically to visit her, with the express command from his family to leave behind an heir to the earldom before he went to war. Elizabeth had been forcing all manner of potions down Jeanette's throat to aid conception, and making sure she had no opportunity to make herself sick. Jeanette had succeeded on at least two occasions to avoid the full act with him, but last night was not one of them. He had threatened to bring in his men to hold her down, and she had yielded to him, and now she had to wait in trepidation.

The cavalcade prepared to leave Bisham and take the road to Portsmouth. The wains and wagons were laden with armour and supplies including sheaf upon sheaf of arrows. She watched William mount his palfrey and bit her lip. If he did lose his life to a Genoese crossbow or a French sword, she knew that guilt would weigh her down. She wanted to be free of him, but she did not wish him dead. She had a terrible notion that if she did wish such a thing on him, it might reverse itself and Thomas might die instead.

She brought the stirrup cup to his saddle and presented it to him. ‘God speed your journey,' she said, ‘and may God keep you safe.'

He raised his brows.

‘I truly mean it.' Heat rose in her face. ‘I would not wish harm on you.'

He gave her a hard, but slightly puzzled, stare.

‘You are going to war,' she said quietly, so that only he could hear. ‘I would call a truce for now.'

He lifted the cup and drank. ‘A truce,' he said with a grimace. ‘Very well then. And may I return to good news.' He glanced pointedly at her waistline.

Jeanette took back the cup and performed a modest curtsey. ‘I shall pray for good news every day,' she said. Let him take that as he chose.

He gathered the reins and the cavalcade rode out of the gate with a flourish of drums and trumpets. Jeanette stood and watched until the dust had settled in their wake and the poultry returned to pecking in the yard.

The late July sun hammered down like a fist, adding heat to the fires roaring up from the burning buildings amid a battle stench of smoke and blood. The screams and shouts of men fighting for survival on both sides mingled with the devouring crackle of the flames. Thomas felt the fiery heat on his face as he, Otto and their contingent surged through the city of Caen on a red apocalyptic wave of English soldiers, their senses on edge with the horrible exhilaration of destruction.

The troops were wild with blood lust and the scent of success, putting Thomas in mind of hounds at a kill. He could feel that energy surging through himself – a primeval drive to rend and tear with the barriers between life and death all ragged and bleeding into each other.

The King had issued a ban on looting, pillage and rape, but in the heat of battle it was like trying to control a wildfire. Yet Thomas, as a commander, had to be a river to cleave and quench that fire. He had to bring his men under discipline through his own force of will, and control them, even while slackening their leashes.

The English army had landed at St Vaast twelve days ago, seizing and burning eight French warships as they sailed into port. Having disembarked, organised the chain of supply and rested the horses after their sea voyage, they had set out along the French coast, heading east, burning and plundering as they went, and taking down any resistance they encountered until they came to Caen.

Their own division under Prince Edward's banner had attacked the town from the Porte aux Dammes and forced open the Western gate. Together with Lord Talbot's men, the Earl of Warwick's troops and archers had poured through the gap on to the bridge between the old town and the new, and the morass of heavy hand-to-hand fighting had resembled a shoal of live fish flashing and writhing in a net.

The King had ordered a retreat in an effort to maintain discipline, but it was impossible amid the press. Whipping frenzied hounds off a kill was never an easy task and for the moment the English were forging forward, intent on taking the main obstacle in their path – the tower of the Pont St-Pierre.

The English forced the French back across the bridge to the very gates of the tower where some French knights in a fury of heavy fighting gained that safety. Others strove to make their escape into the citadel in the newer part of the city, and were cut down.

Breathing hard, blinking stinging sweat from his good eye, Thomas paused in a moment's lull to study the tower. The door might hold, but not for long – the seething mass of English foot soldiers hammering at it would soon break through. Gouts of smoke gusted over the bridge from the burning ships on the river, and the water was full of men struggling and drowning.

A window high up in the tower suddenly popped open, and someone thrust out a banner on a pole, heavily tasselled, glinting with embroidery, and beside it, flapping limply on a spear, a stained white shirt. Thomas squinted up through his smarting vision.

‘Hah, they want to surrender!' Otto said.

Others had seen the banners, and baying jeers rose from the clot of English soldiers on the bridge – and the attack on the doors increased.

Thomas stared, thinking quickly. ‘That's Raoul de Brienne's banner!' He had not seen de Brienne since the Prussian campaign, but they had made a lasting bond during the many convivial evenings they had spent together at the camp fire. He was also the Comte d'Eu and a superb ransom prize – if he wasn't slaughtered first by the bloodthirsty mob.

The banners withdrew into the tower and a head emerged, wearing a pot helm that exposed the face. ‘Thomas!' de Brienne bellowed. ‘Thomas Holland! In God's name, man, as you love me, get me out of here, and give me – us – shelter!'

Thomas looked round. He was the only commander in the vicinity, and in this moment, if he succeeded, here was his miracle – his promise of enough wealth to take his case forward to Avignon and win Jeanette back. He raised his hand and waved to Raoul to acknowledge him, then spurred Noir forward. At first no one paid him any heed for they were too caught up in the intensity of their own desires. Thomas drew breath and gave out the cry that called his own men to rally around his banner, a loud ‘Hoo!' sound drawn from the chest and the base of the throat. Otto took it up, then de la Haye and de la Salle, and the rest of the squires and knights of his immediate retinue, and it resonated, gaining power. ‘Hoo, Hoo, Hoo!'

‘Make way!' roared Otto. ‘Make way in the name of King Edward!'

Gradually the soldiers fell back, although some had to be clubbed and struck with whips; but the majority came to heel.

Thomas rose in the saddle. ‘I have orders to take alive an important hostage for the King!' he roared. ‘Let no man stand in my way on pain of his own death!'

He rode up to the doors, dismounted, and banged upon the nail-studded oak with his sword hilt. ‘Open up by order of King Edward, King of France and England!' he bellowed.

There was a taut silence from behind the door. At Thomas's back, Otto organised their own men and archers into a defensive seam to hold back the tide. Then they heard the rough scrabble of the draw bar, and the door yielded a crack to reveal the sweaty face of one of de Brienne's adjutants.

‘Bring down your lord,' Thomas said brusquely. ‘We offer him safe passage if he comes now, but I cannot guarantee his life beyond these moments. You see how it is. Those who would live, do it now and swiftly while you can.'

The door closed again.

‘This is dangerous,' Otto muttered.

‘When are our lives not bounded by danger?' Thomas replied with a mordant smile. ‘How else do we know we're alive save when we are facing what we might lose and what we might gain?'

Otto grimaced at him. ‘I prefer your reflections over a cup of wine after the fight, not on the battlefield.'

The door opened fully to reveal Raoul de Brienne and his knights and squires, battered, bruised, one of them sporting a blood-soaked arrow wound below his collar bone.

De Brienne bowed to Thomas and presented him with his scabbarded sword. ‘My lord, I yield myself and my men into your care and cry surrender.'

‘And I accept your surrender in the name of King Edward of France and England,' Thomas declared loudly, accepting the blade. ‘You are now under his protection and you will not be harmed. I give you my oath, even as you give me your surrender. Now come, and let us have you to safety.'

Leaving the tower, Thomas felt the hair prickling on the back of his neck for the atmosphere was as taut as a bowstring and the common soldiers resonated with tension, holding in the fragile moment between action and deed. A horse was found and de Brienne scrambled into the saddle, although the others had to go on foot, surrounded by Thomas's men.

‘I owe you my life,' Raoul said as Thomas and his contingent pushed a path through the combatants, with Otto and Henry bellowing ‘Make way, make way!' and the Holland lion banners wafting conspicuously.

‘Indeed you do,' Thomas replied, although he tinged the words with sympathy. ‘And more than that, you owe me a ransom.'

‘I did not think you rescued me for love and chivalry alone,' the Frenchman said wryly.

‘We are both men of the world who know how to deal in practicalities.'

Their conversation ceased as Thomas concentrated on taking his prize out of danger, and sent him on to the baggage camp under Otto's escort with several knights.

Once he was certain that his prize was clear and away, he returned to the fray with renewed vigour and determination, feeling rather like a blacksmith faced with hammering a molten piece of iron into a useable tool.

Thomas took a cup of wine from his squire in the hall of the Abbaye aux Dames where his men had laid claim to a sleeping area. He had removed his armour, washed and changed his clothes, but his nostrils were still full of the smell of blood and battle, of sweat and dust, smoke and ordure. He excelled in that arena, indeed took joy in the play of weapons and strategy, but today he had had a surfeit of carnage. The streets of Caen were littered with the gore of death – mostly French, both soldiers and civilians.

He had taken oaths of ransom and saved many from slaughter, putting them under the protection of his banner on promise of payment, but he could not save everyone and he had had to take a pragmatic approach. Save the wealthiest; save those who could help themselves and send the weak to the wall. That was how it had to be.

He took a drink to clear his throat and approached his most important catch of the day – Raoul de Brienne, Comte d'Eu, who was sitting on a straw mattress on the floor. His armour had been taken away, and also his shoes – a precaution given that the battle was not long won and that Raoul might attempt escape, although he would be mad to do so given the volatile mood of the soldiers and the difficulty of returning to his own side.

Thomas handed Raoul a cup of wine and hooked up a camp stool to sit on.

‘I cannot thank you enough for saving my life,' Raoul said. ‘Anything you want, my family will see you receive it.'

Thomas drank and did not answer immediately. In the way of things, he would not be collecting Raoul's ransom in person, but would sell it on to either the lord Edward or the King himself for an agreed sum. How much was negotiable, but Raoul was worth a tidy sum that would enable him to hire a good lawyer and begin his campaign at the papal court.

‘I hear there are many dead,' Raoul said.

‘That is so – but it is the nature of war. You could not have held us off whatever you did. Do not take yourself to task.'

‘I know . . .' Raoul rubbed his face. ‘I realise you must speak to the King about my ransom, but will you get word to my family that I am safe?'

‘Of course.' Thomas refilled their cups. ‘I shall require your formal pledge, but you will not find your captivity too onerous I hope.'

Raoul set down his cup and slid a signet ring from his finger, the centre set with an engraved Roman sardonyx. ‘This I swear by my own privy seal,' he said. ‘On my oath and on my soul and the souls of all my forefathers, I pledge myself to your keeping until the ransom shall be paid.'

Thomas slipped the ring on to his own finger. ‘I accept your pledge in good faith and I will see that you are well treated.' He beckoned to John de la Salle. ‘You will attend to the needs of the Comte d'Eu while he is in our charge. See that his armour is cleaned, and find him some soft shoes to wear.'

‘Sir.' De la Salle bowed and set about his task.

‘You will find John quick-witted and competent,' Thomas said. ‘I will appoint others to care for your needs in due course, but it can wait until later.'

Raoul finished the second cup of wine and a flush mounted his cheeks. ‘You know you cannot win. Your king has just had good fortune with him so far.'

Thomas smiled tolerantly. ‘Everyone said that we would be destroyed at Sluys,' he replied. ‘The French fleet was many times larger than ours. Yes, we had the luck of the wind and tide, but we made our own luck too and our king is skilled at spinning it from whatever fleece the fates give him, while yours doesn't always know what to do with his distaff.'

Raoul gave a snort of disagreement and waved his hand, but good-naturedly.

John de la Salle returned with a pair of soft-soled shoes from the spare baggage that were a reasonable fit once Raoul had laced them up.

‘But beyond fortune, we have this,' Thomas said, and taking Raoul outside led him to the archers' tents set up under the Holland banner, where his and Otto's men were stirring a cauldron of stew and tending to their equipment.

‘Samson, Godwin, bring your men,' Thomas commanded. ‘I want you to show the Comte d'Eu how you earn your pay. Bring as many arrows as you can shoot to a count of sixty. I'll pay you a penny for each one.'

The men gathered their bows and strings and followed Thomas to the abbey gardens where one of them set up a series of markers.

Raoul looked sidelong at Thomas. ‘Archers?' he said dubiously.

‘Watch.' Thomas nodded to Samson, the group's leader. ‘And pray for France.'

The archers had strung their bows, and Samson ordered them to nock their arrows, draw and loose. The barbed shafts hissed overhead and plummeted over the marker line. Thomas steadily recited the paternoster and the archers continued to shoot, emptying their arrow bags until Thomas cried ‘Amen' and sent Joss, sixteen, the youngest of the group, to run and gather up the loosed arrows and bade him count them.

‘Seven times seventeen, in the time it took me to say a paternoster,' Thomas said. ‘Now tell me how many bolts one of your Genoese can shoot with his arbalest in the same time.'

‘About six,' Raoul said, looking wry, ‘but they have great accuracy and power.'

‘Indeed, and are rightly to be respected.'

Thomas instructed Samson to set out the targets of cloth-stuffed straw at the range the men had been shooting, and had each archer take his turn at the target. No one missed, and all were near the centre.

‘Now,' Thomas said, ‘imagine you are charging into a rain like that on the back of a horse, and imagine that there are not seven men, but seven thousand. The best, like mine, will shoot seventeen arrows in the time it takes to say a swift paternoster, and even the worst will shoot twice as fast as your crossbowmen, and straight into your horses. They cannot miss. And in front of the archers, ranked up, will be the spearmen in a forest of blades. And the knights behind them are fresh and have yet to bloody their swords and lances.'

He thanked and dismissed the archers with a wave, telling Samson to come to him for payment in a while, and bidding them enjoy their dinner. Then he returned to his lodging with a subdued Raoul at his side.

‘Now do you see?' he said. ‘They are like good hounds, and they take great pride in their pack, but when it comes to battle, they become wolves – wolves that know how to stand hard. You cannot win against such pride and skill.'

Raoul rubbed his beard and said nothing. He returned to his pallet and sat down, his expression sombre. Thomas gave him more wine.

‘One city does not a victory make,' Raoul said after a moment, but his tone was dull and heavy.

‘No, but how do you think the rest of the campaign is going to go?'

Raoul swallowed and shook his head.

Thomas gripped his shoulder. ‘We both know what can be won and lost. For now, be my valued and valuable guest.' Indeed, more valuable than Raoul de Brienne could imagine.

The English army rested for a few days, recuperating from wounds, amassing supplies and plunder, burying the few dead from their own ranks, mainly foot soldiers, and allowing the survivors of Caen to bury theirs.

On the other side of the city stood the great Abbey of St Stephen that housed the tomb of the King's ancestor, William, Duke of Normandy, called the Bastard and the Conqueror. Thomas took a moment to visit the tomb. As a child he had been told the grisly but fascinating tale of how King William's corpulent, decomposing corpse had burst as the mourners tried to place it in a stone coffin too small for the body, and how the overwhelming stench had almost felled the congregation.

Today, the unfortunate drama and indignity of that long ago interment lay beneath an engraved slab lacking an effigy, or any of the embellishments required of tombs these days. Austere, hard, like the reputation of the man whom Thomas's ancestors had followed across the Narrow Sea in search of fortune.

‘Eight generations,' Prince Edward said, sauntering over to stand beside him. ‘I wonder what he would have thought of me.'

‘That you were a worthy scion, sire,' Thomas said diplomatically, but meant it too.

Edward gave a lop-sided smile. ‘I hope so. My father has one of his rings, but he has to wind thread around it. Our ancestor had big hands – and now he is dust, but he lives on in me.' He looked at Thomas. ‘That was well done yesterday to contain the soldiers and take Raoul de Brienne for ransom.'

‘Yes, sire,' Thomas said. ‘And that is a matter that needs to be arranged. I hear that Thomas Daniel took Robert de Tancarville, and that you have agreed to go surety for the ransom.'

‘Indeed he did.' Edward studied his ancestor's tomb. ‘I will speak to my father concerning de Brienne's ransom. I think he may decide to take it on for himself.'

Thomas had been considering asking the Prince to go surety, but he had already pledged for the seneschal, and his being a close friend of William Montagu added an extra layer of delicacy since Thomas would be using the ransom money to fund his petition in Avignon.

‘Sire,' he said neutrally.

‘It will be dealt with in due course.' The finality in the Prince's tone made it plain that he was not going to pursue the subject here and now.

Thomas was thoughtful after Edward had gone. Leaving the church, he returned to the camp. The English troops were besieging the castle, where the defenders were still holding out. Realistically he did not think their troops would take it, and they could not afford to be bogged down in a siege. The booty from the sacking of the town itself was being transferred to English ships and most of the hostages were being taken to England, but Thomas was keeping Raoul with him for the time being until he had secured the ransom deal.

Four days later the English army left Caen. The castle remained untaken, but the city had been stripped to the bone. Raoul rode under guard among Thomas's men on a plodding bay gelding.

As Thomas walked through the camp to his horse, he noticed a group of youths lounging together and laughing as if they were at a court picnic rather than preparing to ride out in the train of the English army. He tightened his lips as he noticed William Montagu among them. He had done his utmost to be professional and pragmatic around these friends and companions of the Prince, and to treat them as he would any other young knights in an entourage, but sometimes he was hard-pressed to be civil.

On first landing, the King had knighted the youths before all the company, girding on their swords and giving them the blow of knighthood with his clenched fist. Most of them were incapable of growing beards, but deemed ready for their first taste of battle. In truth they had been nowhere near the fighting and always well protected, but nevertheless their banners had shimmied there, proclaiming their rank to all. He had been little different himself at their age – perhaps a little more driven – but their presence was a constant thorn in his side, especially Montagu. When he imagined him with Jeanette, his stomach curdled.

The youths were sniggering as he walked past, swapping ribald tales about women. One boy had just ended his story, and rocked back with folded arms, laughing. ‘I swear her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when she saw the size of it!'

‘Women,' William Montagu boasted, not to be outdone. ‘You have to show them who is master and bring them to heel. It's exactly like owning a dog. Jeanette might snarl at me but she soon answers to the leash when I'm on top of her.'

The words were like the sting of a lash to Thomas, and whipping round, he strode over to them. ‘As I recall, you took your oath of knighthood when you landed on these shores,' he snapped. ‘You will not disrespect women – indeed women of your own family. You should be about your duties, not gossiping as though you're in a drinking house. Go, all of you! Mount up and make ready.'

As they moved off, red-faced and resentful, he stepped in front of William and faced him eye to eye. ‘If you ever speak that way again within my hearing, you will be cleaning armour for a week. Understood?'

The young Earl of Salisbury jutted his chin, resentment in his eyes.

‘I said, is that understood?' Thomas clenched his fists, pushing down to restrain himself from striking the youth.

‘Yes, sire,' William said stiffly. His gaze flicked to his friends.

‘Get out of my sight,' Thomas said, his voice curdling with disgust. ‘Do not think that privilege will protect you, for even if your father was the Earl of Salisbury, I think you will find that in matters of military discipline, the King will heed me, not you.'

William stalked off, and Thomas tried to choke down his antipathy. Young Montagu was a typical privileged youth on the cusp of manhood, bragging in front of his friends on his first battle campaign where bravado and bawdy talk were ways of dealing with the experience. He had tried not to single him out because of his tie with Jeanette, but some things were intolerable. It made him even more determined to establish Raoul's ransom, begin court proceedings and detach Jeanette from her travesty of a marriage to this callow boy.

Jeanette crouched inside the gardener's shed with five-year-old Prince Edmund. She inhaled the earthen smell of well-used tools and netting in the semi-darkness. Outside they could hear the shouts of the other children and nurses engaged in a game of hide and seek in the sultry August afternoon.

‘They won't find us!' Edmund piped, and then giggled.

‘They will unless we stay very quiet.'

‘Shush, shush!' Edmund put his hands over his mouth.

The children had come outside to play with their nurses and attendants, and Jeanette had leaped at the chance to be away from the Queen's stuffy confinement chamber. Philippa, following the birth of Mary last year, had recently been brought to bed of another little girl, baptised Margaret, in part after the patron saint of women in childbirth. Philippa had requested Jeanette's presence at Windsor during her confinement to assist the nurses in caring for the boisterous crowd of royal offspring. The Salisbury women had had no option but to comply with the summons.

Outside the shed door, paws scratched and a dog whined, then uttered a short, sharp bark. ‘Nosewyse, go away!' Jeanette hissed to her small, tawny terrier who had an unfailing ability to sniff her out. Hearing her voice, Nosewyse merely increased the volume and persistence of his yapping.

An instant later the door was tugged open. ‘Found you!' sang seven-year-old Lionel, capering in triumph. ‘Found you, I found you!'

Nosewyse launched himself at Jeanette, frantically wagging his tail, tongue licking at the same speed, and she lost her balance, tumbling backwards into a pile of netting. Edmund sprang nimbly out of the way, while Jeanette shrieked and giggled, and finally, breathless, prised the dog off, regained her feet, and batted at her now dust-smeared skirt. One of her plaits had come adrift again. Her mother-in-law would call her a hoyden, but she didn't care.

‘Now it's your turn to hunt!' Lionel cried, but an ominous rumble of thunder curtailed their intent. While Edmund and Jeanette had been hiding, the sky had rapidly darkened, and sudden spots of rain as large as groats sent them scurrying for the Queen's hall. By the time they arrived, the rain was sheeting down amid jagged blinks of lightning.

Laughing, half drowned, they tumbled into the Queen's chamber. The children were taken by their nurses, and Jeanette hurried to change her sodden garments, and saw from a side glance Lady Katerine's purse-lipped disapproval. Hawise quickly helped Jeanette into a dry undergown of grey silk, laced the sides and buttoned the sleeves with nimble fingers, then moved on to Jeanette's hair, tidying the plaits and coiling them beneath a fresh veil.

While the royal children had been romping in the garden, the other ladies of the Queen's chamber had been busy preparing for Philippa's churching. Gowns and rich fabrics were spread across the bed in a sumptuous array. Boxes of pearls, jewels and spangles twinkled, waiting to be stitched on to the garments after the final fitting. Two extra seamstresses had been employed to see to the task. Philippa's squirrel had to be firmly dissuaded from trying to bury a nut amid a bundle of furs.

Jeanette went to the window to watch the lightning flash against the boiling clouds. She loved the excitement, the elemental power. Even getting wet had been exhilarating.

A messenger had arrived with the storm on his heels, and the Queen had taken him aside to receive his news, but now she returned to the centre of the room and clapped her hands for attention. Her face was pink and her brown eyes luminous.

‘The King sends news of a great victory!' Philippa shouted above the rumble of thunder. ‘The French army has been routed in the field with very light losses to our side, but complete devastation to theirs!'

A hubbub of excited congratulation ensued, and Philippa raised her hand for silence. ‘The King wishes me to join him – once I am churched, we shall make preparations to cross the sea. For now, we shall celebrate his victory!' She sent servants to broach a keg of the best sweet wine.

Jeanette's heart danced as she thought of seeing Thomas again. She had heard nothing so far, for Katerine and Elizabeth were vigilant in keeping her away from news, and she could only glean small grains of information when rubbing the Queen's feet or listening behind curtains. She knew there had been a victory at Caen where a great deal of booty and prisoners had been taken, and this new triumph presumably meant more of the same, but other than that she was ignorant. She knew William was safe because he had written to his mother. She could only assume that Thomas was too; he was a senior battle captain and mention would have been made had he fallen. For now, she had to ride the waves, but it felt like being alone in a small, oarless rowing boat.