32 Manor of Broughton, Northamptonshire, March 1349

32

Manor of Broughton, Northamptonshire, March 1349

At his manor of Broughton, Thomas had spent the morning going over the accounts and discussing the sowing of the fields and other matters of agriculture with his steward. Thus far the village had avoided the pestilence, but he was on constant guard, for this might be the still before the storm. In places, entire communities had been wiped out. Cities had been devastated, with no one to attend the dying, or to say prayers for the dead, and in some cases even to bury them. People were terrified and helpless, for there was no outrunning the disease, and despite fervent prayers and penances, God appeared not to be listening.

He had stayed away from the court; indeed, had no reason to be there. France and England were at truce as they dealt with the pestilence. He had been to Calais a few times on the King's business, but nothing more, and Parliament had been suspended until Easter.

Leaving the accounts, he went to saddle his palfrey, intending to ride him out to check the progress of the ploughing. In the stables, he found his archer Samson spending time with his young colt, now nine months old, Thomas's gift to him as promised during their campaign in France. Samson had named the colt Cygnet, for although the foal was a warm, bright chestnut, his dam was a white brood mare named Swan. When not practising at the archery targets, or tending his plot of land, Samson was usually to be found at the manor stables visiting the colt, bringing him titbits and lavishing him with attention.

‘How's he doing?' Thomas enquired.

‘Grand indeed, my lord,' Samson replied, his wide grin exposing a missing front tooth. ‘He knows his name, and my special whistle, don't you, lad?'

The youngster butted him. He had a thin white blaze running from his forelock to the tip of his nose and two short white socks on his hind legs.

‘You have a good one there.'

‘Aye, my lord, and thank you.'

Otto arrived and joined him for the ride. Thomas eyed him critically. They had been training less than they should – there had been no incentive in the winter without tourneys to attend. Otto was developing jowls and a soft pouch to his gut, and Thomas knew they needed to get back in the saddle and to their weapon play. While both men had been recuperating from the malaise that had struck them down in Avignon, and Otto especially since he had been hit the hardest, it was time to return to business.

Thomas's spirited liver-chestnut palfrey had belonged to John de Warenne. The Earl had died the previous year, leaving several horses in his stable to Thomas and his family. Two Spanish mares now ran with the Holland stud herd on the main estate. His sister Isabel had returned to their mother following John's death. The Earl had left her well provided for in his will with money, robes and a casket of jewels, but Thomas knew they were no compensation for losing John himself, and Isabel was in deep mourning.

Master Beverley had set out for Avignon again for the next sitting of the council. Thomas had stayed behind to tend his manor and was busy making it his home, rather than a distant source of income. A place fit for him and a princess to be alone for a while and make up for lost time. Pray God that soon he would be able to bring her here.

Riding with Otto, he looked out over the ribbed black soil and the people going methodically about their work. It wouldn't be long before it was time for sowing seed. ‘We are fortunate,' he said. ‘Here we still have people to work the fields; we still have our priest and the space to bury our dead. No one has perished of the great sickness. In London they do not even have enough linen for shrouds and they are tipping people into the graves, rich man and pauper alike, with no one to say words over them, poor souls.'

‘Perhaps we are looking at the end of mankind,' Otto said. ‘Perhaps the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields will inherit the earth. Perhaps God's wrath is such that there will be no people.'

It was a disturbing thought, and Thomas decided they definitely needed to take themselves in hand and begin training.

After their ride, Thomas returned to the accounts he had abandoned for fresh air, but still did not feel like tackling them. Going to the hawk perch near the window, he took Empress on his wrist and fed her a few gobbets of raw meat from his cupped fist. The action made him think of Jeanette and their time in Flanders, and he wished he could have those moments again for the first time.

Otto arrived with a jug of wine to share, and Thomas returned Empress to her perch. The two brothers were standing side by side when John of Kent's messenger dismounted in the courtyard.

Thomas's chest tightened with anxiety. With the pestilence rife, the expectation was that anyone bearing letters might be the harbinger of terrible news.

De la Salle brought the messenger to Thomas's chamber and the man knelt before Thomas and produced a small packet from his belt pouch. Thomas broke the seal, opened the letter, and swiftly read the lines.

‘I do not believe this,' he said grimly. ‘How can this be?'

‘What is it?' Otto asked.

His heart in his boots, Thomas handed him the letter. ‘Master Heath has been arrested and thrown into prison for speaking against the King and the King's justice. He is no longer representing Jeanette and will be replaced by another attorney.' He clenched his fist and struck the wall. ‘I do not believe this. Christ! I met Master Heath in Avignon and I seriously doubt he would have said such things.'

Otto shook his head in bafflement.

‘I suspect someone has been interfering, and since it is by order of the King, a seeker for answers would not have to look very far.' Thomas dismissed the messenger and sat down heavily on the window bench. ‘They won't win,' he said grimly. ‘When I dig in for a fight, it is to the death – I care not who my enemy is. I have gone too far and too deep to lose it all now.'

On an early April morning, Jeanette arrived at the royal hunting palace of Woodstock in the Montagu travelling wain. The harnessed horses drew to a halt and she stepped from the cart with relief. The journey from Oxford had been relatively short – only a few hours – but it was still too long a time to be confined at close quarters with Katerine. They had been visiting the priory of St Frideswide, founded by Lady Elizabeth, who was lauded there at least for her pious works. If only they knew, Jeanette thought.

They had spent three days at the priory. The pestilence had been gaining ground in Oxford and the city had been cloaked in a vile miasma of smoke and stench. Jeanette had been thankful to leave and return to Woodstock's pale walls and tranquil, rustic surroundings. Elizabeth had chosen to remain at the priory rather than make the journey, bedevilled as she was by her aching hips and increasing infirmity. King Edward was at Langley Palace with Philippa and their family, but the wider court and hangers-on were domiciled here at Woodstock.

Instead of following the others inside, Jeanette clipped a leash to Nosewyse's collar and slipped away, desperate for a moment to herself after the confines of the cart. She drew her skirts through her belt in the style of a farmer's wife so they would not obstruct her and strode out with the dog, taking pleasure in the easy strength of her young body. Nosewyse ran ahead, chasing scents along the woodland paths. They followed the line of a stream and she inhaled the pungent aroma of wild garlic from the early white ransom blooms. The gardeners had been less diligent since the pestilence and many areas had become overgrown and weedy. Not caring that she would be scolded on her return, Jeanette sped along the muddy trail after her dog.

She had heard nothing from Thomas, who was not at court because the King did not require his services during a truce. She prayed every day for his safety. Master Heath's arrest had shocked her deeply – all Katerine's doing, she knew, and stemming from that conversation where she had trapped Master Heath into speaking the words that had brought him down. In the last few months, Jeanette had run the gamut of every emotion from despair, to hope, and back to despair. It was like constantly going up and down a set of stairs. Reach the top, retreat to the bottom, then begin climbing again. Somewhere along the way she had realised, with relief, that she did not need to be in constant motion, but could wait in the middle and be stronger and less exhausted. These days she no longer railed against Katerine and Elizabeth, but showed them her indifference, and that gave her power. The same with William, although he too had reached a similar settlement. His resolve to do nothing had changed from an aimless drift to a point of anchor.

The stream eventually led to another garden with a pool and a spring. Nosewyse stopped to drink, lapping with his swift, pink tongue, and she crouched beside him and scooped the clear, fresh spring water into her mouth. Supposedly a king, hundreds of years ago, had housed his mistress here and this garden and well were dedicated to her. Her name had been Rosamund and she had died while still a young woman and had been buried at the nunnery at Godstow. Jeanette imagined her sitting by this spring trailing her fingers in the water, perhaps with a dog like Nosewyse for company. She made a wish to the lady of the well, asking her blessing to keep Thomas safe, and to bring them together, and promised to light a candle next time she was in church.

‘Where have you been?' Katerine demanded when Jeanette returned. ‘You look as if you've been walking through hedgerows.'

Jeanette looked down at her damp, muddy skirts. ‘I nearly have,' she replied with a smile. ‘My legs were cramped and I had to stretch them after the journey, and Nosewyse needed to walk. You wouldn't want him to make a mess in the chamber, would you?'

‘Well, change your gown, you look like a hoyden.' Two deep vertical frown lines sat between Katerine's eyebrows, and a light sheen of sweat gleamed on her skin.

‘Certainly not the sort of wife you would want for your son,' Jeanette said pertly, and went to her bed space where her garments hung over a clothing pole.

The maids helped her to change into a fresh gown of apple-green silk trimmed with fur and re-dressed her hair, tucking it inside her wimple.

Servants brought food to the chamber, and the women dined there rather than go to the hall. Katerine picked at her food, eating a few flakes of herbed salmon and then pushing her dish aside. Jeanette fed small morsels to Nosewyse, who plucked them delicately from her hand.

Katerine retired to her bed space at the back of the room but Jeanette was not ready to sleep and sat by the open window, watching the stars, while Nosewyse curled up on her coverlet. She remembered the times with Thomas in Ghent. Sneaking out of the ladies' chamber to join him and the other knights, and rolling dice in the tavern. She thought of spring evenings when she was still innocent with the world before her at sunrise, and her eyes stung with tears. Where was that future now?

Eventually, with a sigh, she summoned her maid to undress her to her shift and plait her hair into a soft braid, then, holding the little book of psalms in her hand, she knelt at her bedside and said her prayers, asking God to watch over Thomas and Otto, and everyone she cared for. And then she lay down to sleep with the book still in her hand, and Nosewyse curled at her feet in an imperfect circle.

In the middle of the night, she awoke to the sound of Nosewyse softly growling, and low moans from the direction of Katerine's bed. It was still dark, but a glimmer in the sky hinted at dawn. Jeanette pushed aside her covers and went to Katerine, to find her sitting up, drinking from a cup, with her maid in attendance.

‘Go back to bed,' Katerine said sharply when she saw her.

‘I thought something was wrong.'

‘Nothing is wrong, go away.'

Jeanette did as Katerine bade her, but being wide awake by now, she slipped her feet into her shoes, pulled a loose gown over her chemise, topped it with her cloak, and left the chamber, saying she was taking Nosewyse to relieve his bladder.

Outside, the dawn was breaking in a glorious wash of egg-yolk gold. She inhaled the sweet air and listened to the twitter of birdsong and the cries of the roosters on the dung heaps. The air smelled enticingly of spring and growing things. She took Nosewyse on a circuit of the smaller garden close to their lodgings. The dew soaked through her shoes and darkened the hem of her gown but she did not mind; indeed, she enjoyed the invigorating sensation of the sparkling cold against her skin.

From the gardens, she walked to the kitchens and purloined a small loaf from a scullion to whom she sometimes talked, much to the disapproval of Katerine and Elizabeth, who considered that fraternising with common people would bring about the ruin of the already precarious world order.

By the time she and Nosewyse returned to the ladies' chamber, replete and scattered with crumbs, it was full daylight. This time no one asked where she had been. One of Woodstock's physicians was leaning over Katerine, and her chaplain stood nearby, looking perturbed, running his prayer beads through his fingers.

‘What is happening?' Jeanette asked.

‘The Countess has a fever and a headache, my lady,' a maid said, her face pallid with fear.

Watching Katerine toss and moan, Jeanette felt queasy, and the bread she had just eaten sat uneasily in her stomach. Bruise-like swellings were developing under Katerine's chin, and Jeanette sensed the fear in the room, tangible as a heavy cloak. This terrible thing feeding on Katerine might turn on her next, but no matter the loathing she had for her mother-in-law, she could not abandon her.

Without Katerine, she was the senior lady in the household, and after a hesitation she turned and addressed the head chamber squire. ‘Rob, fetch a scribe and find a messenger to ride to Langley. The lord William must know of this immediately. And send another to the lady Elizabeth,' she added, although she did not relish the thought of the old woman coming to Woodstock. ‘Langley first, since it is further.'

The squire departed, his gaze wide with shock, and Jeanette turned back to the sickbed.

As the spring day strengthened into full sunshine Katerine's condition deteriorated. Her fever brought on convulsions, and in between them she muttered in semi-delirium through cracked, dry lips. Jeanette had dreamed of gloating, but looking at this woman who was rapidly approaching death's door, she was indifferent beyond a touch of pity.

Katerine's eyelids fluttered open and she focused on Jeanette, suddenly lucid. ‘Well,' she croaked, ‘all you need do now to win is to survive me.'

‘What kind of victory is that?' Jeanette took the cloth, infused with rose water, wrung it out, and laid it on Katerine's brow. ‘I will never get back the years that you and others have stolen from me. I shall be glad you are gone, but I shall not dance on your grave. Let God be your judge.'

Katerine stared at her with glazed eyes and licked her lips.

‘I shall not forget you,' Jeanette said. ‘You have shown me what I hope never to become in the time that remains to me, and I am grateful. I do not expect you to ask me for forgiveness, nor do I ask any in my turn from you. But I advise you to ask it of your son before it is too late.'

By the following evening, the swollen lumps in Katerine's throat had been joined by others in her armpits and groin. The tips of her fingers and toes had blackened and she had begun to spit blood. The priest had heard her confession and the household had gathered around the bed to wait and to pray.

William arrived at dawn, having ridden by torchlight from Langley as soon as he received the news. He was flushed, sweating, grimy, and stank of horse as he burst into his mother's chamber. Seeing the grief in his expression and the disbelief, Jeanette experienced an uncomfortable wave of compassion.

‘Mama.' He shouldered his way to the bedside and, kneeling, took her blotched hand in his. ‘Mama, I am here.'

She turned her head towards him, but when she tried to speak, blood trickled from her mouth.

‘Do not go, Mama, do not go. We need you here.'

Jeanette swallowed, feeling desperately sorry for him.

‘My boy,' Katerine croaked. ‘I wanted so much for you . . . everything has been for you. Promise me . . . promise me you will abide by . . .' She fought for breath, and fresh blood gushed over the pillows.

‘I promise,' William said. ‘Mama, whatever it is, I swear on my soul.'

Katerine shuddered and convulsed again, and ceased to breathe. The priest placed a cross between her hands while someone hastily opened the shutters on the pearly morning light to let her soul fly free.

William stumbled to his feet, tears streaming down his face, and Jeanette's own throat tightened to see his grief. She gently touched his arm. ‘William, I am so sorry.'

He cuffed his eyes and pushed her off. ‘No, you are not,' he answered bitterly, and roughly pushed past her and out of the door. But once outside, he stopped and put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Jeanette ordered two attendants to bring a bowl of warm water and some food to the empty chamber next door. Also, to set up a bed there with fresh sheets. Then she went to him. ‘Come,' she said. ‘You rode hard to get here in time. Let me find you some clean raiment and food.'

‘Why should it matter to you?' he spat. ‘You have never cared before.'

‘I have grown up,' she said. ‘I shall continue to fight against this sham of a marriage tooth and nail, but it is my Christian duty to offer you clean clothes and food, and to say I am sorry.'

‘I do not want your pity,' he said fiercely. ‘I do not want you to look at me as though I am a wounded animal you want to put out of its misery.'

She turned away to compose herself and think of a reply, for that was exactly how she thought of him.

The maids arrived with a brass bowl of steaming water, soap of Castile, and a towel. Jeanette went to rummage in a clothing coffer to find robes that would fit him, and found a soft velvet tunic that had been his father's. Katerine's death had cut him adrift. He would pick up the threads again because he had to, but he was also going to lose the case, and that meant his mother, his wife, his future would all be gone. His grandmother had been a looming presence with Katerine alive, but at one stroke she had become a powerless old lady – as if all her teeth had been pulled out at once.

‘You need to rest,' she said. ‘When you have slept, we shall do what must be done.'

‘I cannot sleep,' he said. ‘What about the vigil?'

‘Rest for a couple of hours while your mother is prepared for her journey. I will see that the baggage is packed, and I will wake you.'

He swallowed and, relinquishing control to her, lay down on the bed.

Katerine lay in Woodstock's chapel through the day and overnight while Jeanette made arrangements to return the body to Bisham Abbey to be buried beside her husband. She had woken William as she had promised so that he could escort his mother's body to the chapel. She ordered the stained sick-room sheets to be taken and burned, and the floor rushes too. The shutters were to be left open to allow the miasmas to dissipate, and she had had fresh candles lit in the chamber and prayers said. And then she joined William in his vigil and knelt with him until the dawn rose. She had barely slept herself for two days but was too restless, and it didn't matter. Time enough later for sleeping.

Leaving William again, she took Katerine's keys and went to sort out the strongbox and the coffers to ready them for the travelling carts. She did not know their contents, for Katerine had always kept the keys about her person. The two large iron-bound chests nested smaller boxes inside, and several drawstring bags were lumpy with coins and jewels. One chest held clothing, and among the robes, veils and hair pieces, Jeanette recognised one of the King's blue garters with its golden buckles and daisy studs.

She laid Katerine's cloak in the chest. One of the smaller coffers yielded several more pouches of coins, and a box of documents. There were receipts and recipes for herbal remedies and nostrums, some of which she recognised as having been given to herself, and she grimaced, feeling nauseated. These she took and cast down the latrine shaft. Several letters tied together with a piece of ribbon bore her own mother's personal seal, and she caught her breath. She had no time to read them now, but feared they would disappear if Elizabeth or William got hold of them, so concealed them in her own jewel casket beneath the wax casings holding her rings.

By late morning the cavalcade was ready to begin the journey to Bisham. Lady Elizabeth was travelling straight from Oxford to meet them there for the burial. Jeanette was preparing to climb into the travelling cart and William was already mounted on his palfrey when, with a fanfare of horns and trumpets, the King arrived. William instantly leaped down off his horse and bent his knee. Jeanette dropped in a deep curtsey.

Edward gazed at the cortege and the bier on the cart with its pall of red and gold silk draped over the shrouded coffin and tucked around the sides. The courtyard fell silent beyond the tread and snort of the horses and the banners flapping on their poles.

The King approached the bier, removed his cap and bowed his head. ‘God have mercy,' he said, and his eyes were wet. He turned to William, bade him rise, and embraced him. ‘Your mother was a great lady and will be long remembered with affection and respect by all. I shall have masses said for her in Windsor when the Garter Order gathers, and I will expect you to be there.'

‘Yes, sire,' William said huskily, and swallowed.

Edward gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze. ‘God grant you a safe journey,' he said, and turning to Jeanette, raised her to her feet. ‘I do not know what the future holds for you, cousin,' he told her, and his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Even the will of kings is powerless against the will of God. I wish you safe journey to Bisham and I hope you will honour the Countess as befits your rank and hers.'

Jeanette heard the undercurrent of warning in his tone. ‘I shall indeed, sire,' she said. ‘Whatever differences we had, I shall support the Earl of Salisbury in burying the Countess with honour, and I shall pray for her soul.' She raised her head and looked him directly in the eyes. ‘If you will permit me to give you something . . .' Leaving him, she went to the waiting cart, and a moment later returned with the blue personal garter she had discovered. ‘She would have wanted you to have this,' she said. ‘It was among her treasures.'

Edward took it, looked down at it in his hands, and swallowed hard. Without a word he turned away, his movements stiff and jerky, as though all the joints in his body had seized together.

The royal household troops formed a guard of honour for the entourage, and dipped their banners as the cavalcade made its way out of Woodstock's gates and took the road to Bisham.

Jeanette sat before the fire at Bisham, warming her hands. Spring was taking its time to take hold. The weather had turned chilly for Katerine's burial, and Jeanette still felt cold from the long hours of masses and prayers. She had been forced into the company of the lady Elizabeth, but the old woman had lost her power to bite, and was an irrelevance. William had retired to his chamber, and she was alone.

She picked up the letters she had taken from Katerine's strongbox, unfastened the ribbon and, feeling queasy but determined, unfolded the first one and started to read, and as she did, hot and cold prickles flashed down her spine, for the letters made it clear how much her own mother had colluded with the Salisbury women in keeping her under their regime. Margaret had encouraged Katerine and Elizabeth to confine her and not spare the rod. Her mother declared in no uncertain terms that she refused to have her daughter wed to a lustful household knight with a disgraced father and vowed to assist the Montagu family in any way she could to fight the false marriage claims. She reiterated her belief that Thomas Holland had forced himself on an innocent young girl, thereby robbing her of that very innocence.

Jeanette resisted a powerful impulse to screw up the parchments and cast them on the fire, for this was damning evidence of the scheming against her. Indeed, rather than destroy the letters, she would have a scribe multiply them into several copies and send a set to Thomas.

Hearing footsteps outside the door, she hastily pushed the letters under her bedcovers as William entered the room.

‘I could not sleep,' he said. ‘I thought you might still be awake.' He was still fully dressed, although he had removed his belt and his hair stuck up in tufts from where he had been lying on his pillow.

‘What of your grandmother?'

He grimaced. ‘What of her? She has retired for the night and she will return to Oxford to her nunnery in due course.'

Going to her bed, he slumped on it.

Jeanette eyed him. ‘Do you want some wine?'

He gave her a half-hearted nod and she sent a servant to fetch a flagon. Then she folded her arms. ‘Your mother is laid to rest,' she said. ‘Can we now lay our marriage to rest also?'

He regarded her with dull, bruised eyes. ‘Not until we have the papal ruling. My mother's dying wish was that I saw it through to whatever end, and I shall do so.'

‘Is that what you think she meant by "promise me"?' Jeanette raised her brow. ‘Even when you know what the result will be?'

William rubbed his temples. ‘I have such a headache; I wish I could sleep.'

‘You will not do so until this is sorted out. I do not know why you persevere.'

‘Because what do I have if I do not?'

The maid arrived with the wine. He sat up, and the pieces of parchment crackled beneath him. ‘What is this?' He flapped back the coverlet to reveal the letters and she darted forward to grab them, but in the same moment changed her mind and drew back.

‘They were in your mother's coffer,' she said. ‘Letters from my mother to her. Read them if you will, and then tell me you still want to stand in the field with your sword in your hand and not let me go.'

‘You took them from my mother's coffer?' he accused.

Jeanette suppressed her irritation. ‘Do not make it about that,' she said. ‘I was forced into a match that both your mother and mine knew was wrong. You were pushed into it too. Read them and know the truth.' She gestured with an open hand.

He shook his head at her, but did as she suggested; but after he had read a couple, he tossed the rest aside.

‘What will you do with them?' he asked.

She saw him look towards the hearth, and prepared to intercept him. ‘They should go to my attorney and to Master Beverley,' she said, ‘but I do not trust them to arrive safely in the right hands, so I shall keep them for now, and send copies.'

‘Put them somewhere safe then, and out of my sight. I do not need to read the rest – I am too heartsick already.'

Jeanette hastily stowed them back with her jewels and locked the box.

He looked at her miserably. ‘I do not suppose you will stay here now for there is nothing to keep you, is there?'

She shook her head. ‘I need to visit my mother. I have things to say to her face, rather than let them continue to fester within me.'

He nodded wearily. ‘But you will accompany me to Windsor for the ceremony of the Garter in Saint George's Chapel, won't you?'

She looked at him in wary surprise. ‘The court will be there and the other Knights of the Garter, including Thomas. Are you not taking a great risk?'

William shrugged. ‘You hated me at the outset, and I felt the same about you. I even thought you were a little mad, and I listened to others because I was too young to know what I should do – to be a man. But we understand each other better now. I hope you would not smirch my honour, and the same for Thomas Holland, even if for no other reason than that it would hamper due process.'

‘I have never been the one hampering due process,' she said shortly, ‘and neither has Thomas, but you need not worry about any unseemliness. I shall put the letters in Master Beverley's hands until I have a new attorney, and after Windsor I shall go to my mother.'

‘And after that?'

‘To the Queen's household until the case is settled.'

William lay back down on the bed and looked at her. ‘If not for your match with Holland, we might have made a good marriage eventually,' he said, almost wistfully.

‘We would have rubbed along together, perhaps – it does no good to speculate. You should find yourself a wife of your own choosing.'

He snorted. ‘I intend to, but until then I shall live very well in Edward's household. But supposing the papal court decides our marriage is valid after all?'

Jeanette shuddered. ‘Do not tell me you are still wishing for such an outcome.'

His complexion darkened, and he looked away. ‘No,' he said. ‘But I still wonder . . .'

‘Well, don't,' she snapped.

He closed his eyes and she waited until he had fallen asleep, then left the guest house and walked Nosewyse along the moonlit garden paths. She did not wonder at all: she knew such a burden would be intolerable.

In the morning, William came to her as she was packing her baggage. ‘Listen,' he said, setting his hand on her sleeve, ‘I want to make it easier for both of us.'

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘In what way?'

‘You asked me about standing in the road with my sword and I have been thinking about it ever since. I have been defending what in truth was a dishonour from the start. My own attorney knows this is a lost cause and although he has not said so, I know he thinks that attending the hearing in Avignon is a waste of his time. It will have to go forward to a judgement and a conclusion, but I will not encourage the fight. I shall tell him I have no interest in continuing with the marriage and I expect him to concede so that I may wed elsewhere.'

Jeanette stared at him. ‘Truly?'

‘Truly. Let it be finished.'

Jeanette's heart danced that he was finally ready to give in, but she was angry too. What a shame it could not have been long ago.

His smile was humourless. ‘After the trials of recent years, I am ready to dwell at court and serve as a bachelor for a while.'

‘Then I wish you well,' she said, and strove to remain neutral. ‘And I hope only good things for you.' She sat back on her heels. ‘We were both put in an impossible situation. Let us part in mutual courtesy whatever has gone before, and with dignity, so that we may find it possible to speak with each other at court in times to come.'

‘Of course. I am sorry for the lost years – for both of us.'

‘So am I,' she said stiffly. Her younger self would have thrown one of the portable candlesticks at him, but these days she had more control.

‘We can make up for them in how we live from now on,' he said.

It was a comforting platitude, and she said nothing. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and left her to her packing. She felt pity for him amid the greater emotions of hope at the thought of impending freedom and fear that it might still be snatched away.