King drew him forward into the family group, placing a compassionate hand on his arm.
‘We have heard of your exploits, Thomas. And now we see the consequences of being in the thick of battle. How did this come about?’
‘It was nothing, sire.’
‘Modesty becomes you, but tell us. Here’s my son who would dearly have loved to have been fighting beside you.’
Thus summoned, and it had to be said with a bad case of hero-worship for any knight who had enhanced his reputation on the battlefield, Ned took the jewelled cup from Philippa to hand to Thomas. And Thomas, accepting and raising it in a little toast, launched into the tale of his adventures on the field of battle. The battle where evidence told, horrifically, of his wounding.
The battle, the blows, the courage of his fellow knights, the victorious outcome; the King and Prince and Will, as well as my brother, John, hung on every word. And then Thomas was coming to an end with a wry smile.
‘I have taken an oath to wear this mark of God’s grace in sparing me, until I have fulfilled my duty to His cause. And my duty to yours too, my lord King, on the battlefields of Europe. God spared my life. I will dedicate my sword to Him. And to you. And this badge of my wounding will be seen and noted from one end of Christendom to the next.’
It was a brave speech with all the energy and dedication I recalled which would make him a prime candidate for the King’s new order of knights. And I could not take my gaze from him, from his face where he wore a flamboyant strip of white silk to hide the damage to one eye. Here was my knight who had caused me so much trouble, tall and lean and bloodied in battle, his darkly russet hair still curled against his neck, his face fair as ever, his uncovered eye bright with the emotion of his welcome amongst us. He had lost the other in some distant conflict.
Watching him in the centre of the little group of those with whom I had grown up, here was Thomas Holland, a man amongst boys. A knight amongst squires. Thus I studied him, assessing my own reactions to the man I had married against all good sense. A strange mysticism hung about his figure as he came to sit at Philippa’s feet, the silken band not a blight, not a disfiguring in my eyes. It was a glamour that he had been hurt so desperately but yet continued to burn with knightly fervour. And how intriguing that he had chosen to enhance the glamour with white silk rather than a common strip of leather. There was much to Thomas Holland that I did not yet know.
And perhaps never would.
‘Can you not see?’ Ned was asking, kneeling beside him, appalled at the prospect of suffering such a fatal disability for a soldier.
‘I see well enough with the eye that God has seen fit to spare, my lord. The infidel who dealt me the blow no longer breathes God’s air.’
‘But perhaps you can no longer fight.’ Ned was frowning. ‘With the sight of only one eye.’
Thomas smiled, which stirred my heart a little. ‘The King of Bohemia, famed throughout Europe for his courage, has lost his sight completely. He is determined to fight again on the battlefield with his knights leading him into the fray. Why should he not since he can still ride a horse and wield a sword? My state is not so desperate. I will assuredly fight again.’
Filled with awe, Ned reached across to touch the white silk. ‘I would be as brave as you.’
‘As you will, my lord.’
At my side, Will was as silent as I.
Until Edward led Thomas away, leaving a little hiatus of disappointment now that the excitement was gone. I simply sank to the ground with a mouth as arid as a summer stream, still clutching the lute. Thomas had managed one more fleeting glance in my direction, which might have been a question, or perhaps even a warning that he would in the fullness of time seek me out.
But not before I sought him.
‘Are you going to play that?’ demanded Isabella who had not been centre of attention for a good half hour. ‘If not, give it to me.’
‘Take it!’ As I handed it over, since playing dulcet melodies on a lute was no longer a priority for me, a hand fastened round my wrist. I looked up at Will who was on his feet, standing over me.
‘What are you planning to do?’ he asked, sotto voce.
‘Find some means of speaking with Thomas Holland in private, of course.’
How could he even ask? The three of us could not remain incommunicado, hoping that this problem would simply evaporate in the warm air. What did Will think that I would do?
‘I forbid it.’
Exasperation took its toll of my tone. ‘You have no authority to forbid it.’
‘I have every authority. You are my wife.’
I stared at him until he blushed and released me.
While I was moved by a little compassion; this was not Will’s fault. ‘I have to see him, Will. He needs to know. I have to discover some means for us to meet alone.’
‘So he does need to know, but it is a matter of much interest to me, what exactly you will say to him. And how he will reply.’
It was a matter of much interest to me too.
‘I will be sure to tell you,’ I said. ‘Every word.’
‘You will not allow him to kiss you.’
‘I doubt that in the circumstances he will discover any desire to kiss me. I expect he will find my behaviour sufficiently incomprehensible to douse any passion!’
Allowing Will to pull me to my feet, I curtsied neatly towards the Queen, and began to walk away in the direction of the departed King and his brave knight.
‘In fact,’ Will added, keeping pace with me. ‘I am coming with you.’
I hurried my steps.
Thomas, my courageous, lamentably absent but heroically wounded husband, met with me in the private chapel, an intimate space much used by the Queen. Set aside to the honour of the Blessed Virgin, Thomas was directed there by a servant I had dispatched, for I could think of no other means of ensuring the lack of an audience at this time of day when the public rooms were full of servants and those who would come to petition the Queen in her abundant mercy. I was waiting for him, offering up a final silent prayer at the little jewelled altar with its benignly smiling Virgin when Thomas, offering a coin to the page, walked in.
I had heard his firm footsteps approaching. This time I was prepared.
‘Joan.’ For a long moment, as I turned to face him, he stood and looked at me, then held out his hand. ‘How could I have forgotten that my wife was beautiful?’
His face, bronzed and a little hardened through campaigning, undoubtedly lit with pleasure, which should have pleased me. And it did, flattering as it was. But once the pleasure had been buried, I knew that this was going to be just as difficult as I had envisioned.
‘Thomas.’
I placed my hand in his and angled my cheek for a kiss.
‘Can I not claim your lips? You were my wife when I left. Even though the Blessed Virgin had not sanctified our union.’
‘You have been gone a long time,’ I said, uncertain whether I wished to throw myself into his arms or retreat beyond Philippa’s little prie-dieu. My emotions were all awry. He was all I recalled, dominating the little space with his height and his military air of polished competence, but there had been far too much water under this particular bridge to simply take up where we had left off.
‘A year,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little more.’
The expression on his face had stilled, becoming wary as if he saw a distant troop of horsemen approaching, and he was unsure whether it be friend or foe.
‘Which is a long time for a wife not to hear from her husband.’
Startled