The First Princess of Wales (31 page)

Straight-backed, chin up, she fetched her lute and sat in the chair next to Roger Wakeley’s while they sang, whispered of old times, and played on and on. To play and sing at all—but especially to play with Master Roger whom she revered and had thought of so fondly all these years—was pure joy. As if she had taken a heady drug, the worry of the prince’s glowering stares slipped away. They sang of wassail and green woods and unrequited love. They romped through melodies Joan thought she had long forgot, and she followed his lead through new ones, her delicate voice blending with his full tenor. Their little audience became rapt, applauding at times, laughing at ribald lyrics or even singing along. Aye, finally now, the prince’s new musician seemed to be completely at ease.

The skilled lutenist sitting beside the beautiful Lady Joan led her into yet another melody. His fingers and voice were true and sure but his mind wandered. She looked stunning, he thought, utterly exquisite and somehow completely unaware of her physical and personal attraction for the prince. An innocent she was not, no doubt with that face and slender, beguiling body, but he would have to assure the king that she hardly led the prince on as he had believed when he’d assigned the musician to watch them in this lucrative post the prince believed he only had arranged.

Ah,
sacrebleu,
this life among the young and lively was a blessing after those six years at that wretched castle set amidst the forsaken, barren land above the Wash in western England. Blessed Mother of God, he was grateful the deposed Queen Isabella had behaved herself and earned her way back into King Edward’s trust or he might have been there until he rotted away singing her eternally grievous love songs.

What marvelous fate to be reunited with the little Joan whose moated manor at Liddell in Kent had been one of his pleasantest assignments except for the broken leg and that vile touch of plague he had unfortunately spread to the young Joan herself and two of the manor’s servants. He wondered in these times of rampant pestilence if she realized she had been touched by its grim hand once and had survived. He ought to tell her, remind her, so she did not fear the Death as others not so blessed must. But,
sacrebleu,
if she ever knew his two-year stay at Liddell before her eldest brother threw him out was not mere chance but an assignment to be sure the little family of the executed Edmund of Kent would cause the king no more trouble, what would she think of her dear Master Roger then?

His eyes returned to scan the table of revelers. The prince tried to keep his face passive, his eyes from the Lady Joan, but he was trying much, much too hard, and to practiced eyes, that gave it all away. Some lovers’ quarrel or a love the Lady Joan did not return perhaps. Roger Wakeley shook his head in wonder and led his charming, little lute partner into another song of unrequited love.

As the evening wore on, these two musicians swelled to a group of six as some of Isabella’s guards played halting crumhorn, fydel, and gittern. The
demoiselles
sang their well-rehearsed Yuletide songs while the bay-scented candles melted lower. The Yule log burned down and a silver-crimson pile of ashes deepened on the broad, open hearth. Several of the prince’s friends cavorted about springing jokes on others while the foaming wassail cups went round and round. Sir Robert Grey plucked a bough of mistletoe from off the swags of greenery and took to stealing ladies’ kisses while everyone laughed and cheered.

Unaware her musical partner Roger Wakeley observed her and the prince closely, Joan struggled not to watch him with Constantia, but some of their antics were hard to miss. Really, she surmised, it was a case of the flame-haired beauty throwing herself at the prince, but he made no move to say her nay.

Late, sometime surely after midnight, when people were feeling their wine and starting to act either flippant or drowsy, Hugh Calveley dashed in from somewhere and announced—with a snowball smacked into the wassail bowl—that it was snowing heavily outside. In a screaming, cavorting hubbub, they all rushed for capes and cloaks to venture out. The prince, near the doorway, pointed to Roger Wakeley and motioned for him to follow with a quick nod and sharp glance. For one second Joan started, thinking he summoned her so peremptorily. Roger Wakeley noted well the alarm that froze her lovely features.

“
Sacrebleu,
whatever His Grace says to me, this night I treasure always, sweet Joan,” he whispered to her as he cradled his lute and hurried after the prince up the stairs.

Joan sat alone, in the suddenly still Great Hall while, in the distant reaches of the manor, squeals and cries and pounding feet reverberated as the revelers seized garments and ran outside. She could feel Woodstock empty of sounds of life. No servants even stirred to clear away the final course of pastry dishes and wine goblets. The fire felt warm on her back, and she was suddenly drowsy. Aye, whatever the prince or anyone else said to her, she would treasure this night with dear Master Wakeley always too. How sad she had been that he had gone away years ago, how furious with Edmund that he had ordered him to leave. On the morrow they would catch up on all the years between they had not already whispered about between songs. And wait until Marta heard the news! Whenever the prince’s retinue was at Windsor, she would be certain to see Master Roger and then the old, lost days at Liddell could live again.

Joan jumped at the deep voice so close and her eyes flew open. “I do not doubt you are sleepy, Jeannette. I sent your ‘Ro-jer’ out to hold torches with the other servants, I am afraid. Do you no longer taste for adventure and will you sit here like a coward before a warm blaze while everyone else frolics outside?”

A swirl of black velvet cape enveloped the prince’s tall form as he towered over where she sat. Low fireglow etched each proud, handsome feature as his eyes glittered over her. She rose to her feet in order not to feel at such a disadvantage

“Everyone will ruin their finery if they get it all wet, Your Grace,” she managed lamely. “Besides I am not in the mood to dash about in the cold and get pelted with snow.”

“No? But not pining for Holland or Salisbury either, I warrant. You did note I brought neither of them with me?”

She smiled at him but did not let him rile her into making a flustered or angry answer. Saints, she did not intend to be teased or to fight with him and ruin this beautiful evening. She could tell her ignoring the taunt unsettled him as he shifted from one big foot to the other.

“Best you go out, Your Grace, or they will miss you. The little—or should I say, big—red-haired Tia, especially.”

“Dearest, sword-tongued Jeannette, how I would still like to think it mattered to you, damn my stupid, foolish heart. How can I or you or any of us sit here like we have in these terrible times and be really happy? I have seen it on our land, Jeannette, the hand of the Black Death, the grim harvester of agonized people. If we have enough serfs and villeins left for next spring planting, enough soldiers to return to France for another victory, it will be a miracle. The people, rich and poor, serf and noble, are much like grains beneath the thresher’s flail in this.”

Her rancor at him, the tense expectation of his next tease or gibe, flowed out of her. “I see it grieves you sore, my lord prince. I did not realize—”

“How could it not? Someday, Jeannette, long years away, I pray, this realm will be mine and I would spend my blood not to only increase it, but to spare it.”

They stood close together bathed in the champagne glow of the dying fire, staring calmly, deeply, into each other’s eyes. An urge to comfort, to embrace and touch him nearly overwhelmed her in that perfect moment, but she fought to control whatever feeling it was. “I think I understand, and I admire you for that, my lord prince.”

He looked touched. “Do you, Jeannette? Then that helps a bit, almost as though I had been able to play a skillful lute and sing to catch your smiles and fancy tonight. Here, put this cloak around your shoulders and come out with me to the little chapel outside the walls. I need to talk to you and the others will not miss us there. And if we sit here, I warrant, they would all come tramping back in. Come now.”

She stiffened at his low-spoken, but unmistakable command. “To the chapel? But, of course, the others will miss you and wonder where you are. If you are going out, you will need your own cloak.”

“Come with me now, Jeannette. Isabella and my men will care for the others.” She sensed further floundering protests were useless as he wrapped her in his cloak and took her arm to lead her from the hall. She almost hesitated when she saw he meant to go out through the back kitchens but her inner resolve and peace at his side grew with each step. To the little chapel, he had said, and surely he would not hazard any angry or foolish moves in a sanctuary and with the others close about.

As they stood gazing out at the back door, she gasped to see the deep cover of pure snow upon the ground in so short a time. Huge, lacy snowflakes floated downward silently. The black velvet sky of chill air was pierced with excited shouts and shrieks from around the far side of the manor. She could almost envision the others playing ducks and geese by the summerhouse, throwing snowballs, or sliding across the iced surface of the three shallow fish ponds.

“I had best go up for my boots, Your Grace,” she said as he lifted a glowing cresset lamp from a peg at the door.

“No,” he said. “We must talk now and I have decided on the old chapel out by Fair Rosamonde’s bower. Do you know the story, Jeannette? Here, trust me and do not kick the cloak into this lamp. I am going to carry you.”

He lifted her and they were out into the snow before she could protest. Her mind spun and whirled like these snowflakes pelting his broad, dark shoulders and her own arms placed reluctantly—no, acceptingly—around his neck. His feet crunched, crunched as they went deeper into the swirling, snow-sprinkled night.

They must talk, he had said. Near Fair Rosamonde’s bower—aye, Joan knew the story well, for the Princess Isabella deemed it a true romance and told it over and over with various embellishments.

“Fair Rosamonde’s story is terribly sad, my lord prince,” Joan said quietly in the hushed sweep of snow as the lighted manor was swallowed up behind them.

“Aye,” he agreed and his voice rumbled in his chest to which he had her tightly gathered. “But, then, before Queen Eleanor found out her husband King Henry loved Rosamonde and dispensed with her, I warrant, Henry and his Rosamonde were passionately happy here, desperately in love. If their ghosts could tell us now, I believe they would say that, despite the later grief fate dealt them, their precious love was worth whatever happened after.”

Something poignantly sweet twisted deep inside her, and she stirred in his arms to look at his profile. Those words so deeply felt were more beautiful to her ears and heart than any song of agonized love had ever been. She meant to ask him if it had ever been so for him, that sweet passion’s pain of which he spoke, but she cowered instead behind a half-jesting question.

“Do you believe queens always control their ladies’ lives at court, Your Grace?”

He turned his head to face her in the sweep of snow. His brow furrowed; his eyes fascinated her. She watched his mouth under his snow-touched mustache move as he answered. “Unlike Fair Rosamonde, you do not love your king, do you, Jeannette?”

“No, my lord prince.”

“Nor the others you have been driven to—not Salisbury, not Holland?”

“No.”

He let out a long, painful sigh as they stood still, dusted white with snow like two marble statues content to remain in frozen caress forever. “Then, for now, the rest must be left unsaid,” he added brusquely and when she thought, hoped he would kiss her, he went stolidly on.

They were both wet with heavy snowflakes when they reached the tiny chapel near the small stone house called Rosamonde’s Chamber. Reluctantly, he put her down inside the open door of the dimly lighted chapel.

“Oh, you sent someone on ahead. It is all lighted,” she breathed, suddenly in awe at the quiet beauty of the place as well as at her own acquiescence to come so readily out here with him under such strange circumstances. It worried her to see he looked so serious. He was even frowning as he took her hand in his and pulled her up the short twenty-foot nave to the stone altar. He pulled her down beside him on a bare carved bench, then brushed the melted snow away from her hair and shoulders as if from some sudden urge to touch her.

“Dearest Jeannette, would to God I had brought you here for another purpose. Perhaps, somehow, someday, I had thought—”

She tensed at the urgency of his words, the frightening intensity of his handsome face. She let him seize her hands gently. Despite this comforting touch, she instinctively began to tremble at his lightning-quick shift of mood.

“It is so strange to fathom,
ma chérie,
” he went on in a rush, “how events seem to cast us together as though we were meant to be, yet to pull us apart too. That first day you came to Windsor, there I was doing furious battle in the mud of the quintain yard. Even now when I would tell you far other than my burden of news, I—” He paused and frowned again. She marveled that his big, strong hands could be so warm when they had come through the snow.

“St. George, Jeannette, I rehearsed this all on the road between Berkhamstead and Woodstock over and over again. I was there the night your mother died at the St. Clares, remember, though you would not let me comfort you? The times are very bad, my sweetheart, hard on everyone, and you must let me comfort you now.”

Her mind raced to delve his meaning. He looked grief-stricken and almost afraid. “Comfort me? What do you mean? Marta? Is Marta dead like Morcar—at Windsor?”

She tried to yank her hands away but he held fast. A low-burning candle reflected its glow in the blue pools of his eyes. “No, my sweet Jeannette, no. I am sorry, but it is your brother Edmund and his wife Anne at Liddell and many of their household. The pestilence has thoroughly ruined that whole area of Kent.”

Her mind reeled, stopped, disbelieving. “Edmund? Anne, too? Both? No, it cannot—cannot be!”