The Shadow Queen. Anne O'Brien
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England.
Philippa, being pregnant and indolent, was not enthusiastic about travelling to Brussels, and so declined the promised jollity. I was more than enthusiastic, as was Isabella, nor was Edward averse to having decorative females present to grace his ceremonies. Looking round for a likely escort, he beckoned to the first passing knight of the household.
‘Sir Thomas will escort you and see you safely there.’ And to Sir Thomas: ‘Don’t let them out of your sight. They are valuable.’ And to us: ‘Mind you do what Sir Thomas says.’
Sir Thomas bowed. He looked as if he would rather not.
He had masterful features and a shock of dark hair with more than a touch of autumn where it curled against his neck. He was young too. And stalwartly built. With such an attractive prospect, I chose to ride beside him, in spite of my high status that might have pushed Edward into ordering me to make use of the Queen’s travelling chariot if he had had the time to think of it. Unused to escorts who would rather be elsewhere, I was intrigued. A man who was unmoved by my renowned beauty was out of the ordinary.
‘You don’t have to watch over us like a herding dog,’ I said, to promote some response.
‘I do. My King commands it. My lady.’ He stared straight ahead, allowing me a splendid view of his straight nose and clenched jaw.
‘Then you could smile. As if obeying the King gives you some pleasure.’
‘I could, my lady.’ The jaw remained clenched.
‘Where would you rather be?’ I asked, now with more than a passing interest.
‘Back there,’ he gestured, ‘with my horses and equipment.’
‘Do you not have a squire?’
‘I do.’
‘Then he will look after them for you. Will you fight in the tournament?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you enjoy it?’ This was hard work, but I imagined that his voice held a pleasing tone when not so brusque.
‘I need the money, my lady.’
Of course. He would earn little as a household knight. ‘Are you a good combatant?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
His confidence was as impressive as his stark features.
‘I will give you my favour to wear if you wish,’ I offered. ‘To bring you good fortune.’
For the first time his head turned imperceptibly towards me. ‘Your cousin the King would not approve.’
‘Why would he not?’ I certainly knew that Philippa would disapprove of this conversation. Which made me smile. I so rarely had the opportunity to converse with a young knight with what might be considered impropriety.
‘I am a knight with little to recommend me. You are of royal blood.’
‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But are you not a valiant knight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will be my valiant knight in the tourney.’ I became expansive, abandoning the modesty of my upbringing. ‘You will be my Sir Galahad.’
His eyes slid fully to mine.
‘It would be my honour to fight for you.’ It was the first time, I thought, that he had looked directly at me. ‘But will you watch me fight? There will be others more worthy of your notice. Some Brabant lordling in gilded armour, I expect.’
So there was a hint of pique in my Sir Galahad. ‘Well, if there is a gilded lordling, I will watch him, but I will promise to watch you too.’ How cheerfully I set out to destroy his grave displeasure. ‘I wager that you will be beaten by some Flemish knight in the first bout.’
Sir Thomas Holland’s brows flattened. ‘What will you wager?’
‘This.’ Stripping off my glove, I waved my fingers so that the deep red of a ruby glowed.
‘You cannot wager that against my skill.’ How uncompromising he was.
‘Why not?’
‘It is more valuable than all my Holland inheritance put together.’
‘It was a gift to me and so is mine to wager.’ I smiled at him. ‘You must make sure that you win.’
Sir Thomas slowly returned the smile. ‘I always win.’
‘Is she annoying you?’ Following rapidly in our wake, Edward drew alongside.
Sir Thomas rearranged his features into the stern visage of a royal escort. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Hurry up then. We haven’t all day.’
And since Isabella joined us our conversation was at an end. But it was a conversation that remained with me, embedded in my mind, trivial as it was. I had flirted. I had been artful. I had enjoyed it. And so, I decided, had Sir Thomas Holland.
Sir Thomas Holland won his bouts against any number of Brabant and Flemish lordlings, gilded or otherwise. Against English ones too, impressing me with his fighting skills, whether with sword or lance. His lack of wealth and status stood for nought when he beat his opponent to the floor, then with a strikingly gracious elegance offered his hand to pull him to his feet.
In the end I kept the ring.
Miraculously, I lost my heart.
I knew not how it could happen, or when, for I had no experience of such emotion that compromised my breathing and disturbed the beat of my blood at wrist and throat. Somewhere between his kissing my fingers when I pinned a scarf to his sleeve and his kneeling to accept a purse of coin from King Edward, I was smitten with a yearning that he would look at me again, and often. The clouds were low and grey but he shone in my sight. I was ashamed to acknowledge that I watched him to the exclusion of any other knight on the field. I did not understand it, but it was as if some finest of threads had been spun by an invisible hand to connect us, one to the other. Was it a malicious hand, for we were not equal in status? I did not care.
I was desolate when he did not escort us back to Ghent, the task being given to an ageing knight who had nothing to say for himself.
I discovered a need to put myself in my erstwhile escort’s way, not difficult in the lax household at Ghent where knights and damsels mingled more freely than at Windsor, and so did royal cousins. Everyone passed through the Great Hall at some point in the day.
‘Did you make your fortune, Sir Thomas?’
‘No. I did not.’
He was no more forthcoming than on the road to Brussels but he looked at me, a direct stare that stirred a little warmth into my blood.
‘But you caught the King’s admiration,’ I suggested.
‘On this occasion it was not the King’s admiration I was thinking of.’
He frowned at me, as if he might wish the words unsaid.
The tilt of my chin was unforgivable. ‘Who was it that you wished to attract? Some Flemish lady perhaps?’
‘No. An English lady.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘I imagine you know very well.’ His stare became fiercer, his response more particular than I had expected. I was considering how to reply when he continued. ‘You are far beyond my reach, my lady.’
Indeed I was.
‘I think that I am not,’ I said.
‘The Queen would tell you differently.’
Indeed she would.
‘The stories in my books,’ I said, ‘tell me that nothing should stand in the way of love. I am an enthusiastic reader