The Shadow Queen. Anne O'Brien
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instantly transferred from the priest’s gentle hand once more to my mother’s fierce grip, hot with a barely controlled fury.
‘I will remedy this.’ She swept the room with a regard designed to intimidate. ‘The arrangements for this Salisbury marriage are by no means in abeyance. I suggest that you discuss this with no one until the matter is settled, one way or another.’ The glint in her eye settled on Will who looked to be about to burst with a need to tell all. ‘It would be wise to keep this from any ears but our own. And now Mistress Joan…’
I was led from the room with far less grace than I was brought into it.
Looking over my shoulder before the door was closed at my back, I saw that the faint air of malice or boredom in equal measure had been wiped from Will’s face. Almost I could read sympathy there. It made me feel no better. Now I had to withstand my mother’s displeasure, as I had always known I must. In that moment I wished that I had confessed my marriage to my mother when it was first done. I had chosen otherwise because I had envisioned it being when I decided would be the best time, of my own free will, most crucially with my new husband at my side to plead my case and smooth over any unpleasantness. I had expected Thomas to be somewhere at least close, with his feet in the same realm. Now I was alone, Thomas Holland wielding sword and lance against the infidel in Lithuania in the name of the Teutonic Knights, where he would have no idea of the repercussions of our wilful actions for me in England. Thomas was not one for either reading or writing letters.
Now, alone, I must face the drums and trumpets of my mother’s wrath.
I had misjudged the situation. I should not have allowed myself to be left in so vulnerable a position; rather I should have insisted that we announce the deed when it was done rather than let time pass by. It was enough to make me vow, silently, as I matched my footsteps with the staccato beats of my mother’s flat soles, that I would never again act against my better judgement. I would never allow myself to be persuaded to renounce what I knew to be in my best interests.
Was this the decision of a selfish young woman? It was. I knew it and had no compunction in making my private vow. I had learnt from my mother that a woman had to keep her wits and her desires sharp if she were to follow the path of her own choosing. My mother, led into treachery by the man she loved, had been left to make what she could of her life without him. I would do better. It was always better to rely on oneself rather than on the promises of a man, however attractive he might be.
But now all I felt was fear. I might appear undaunted, indomitable even, but what would be the outcome? It was beyond my ability to foresee. Would my mother be able to force me into compliance with her wishes? I feared that she would.
It was in my mind to resist, to deny, to refuse.
Blessed Virgin! Give me wisdom and strength to follow my own path.
‘Where is he? Where is the despicable cur who lured you into this abominable contract? This rogue who inveigled you into rank scandal that will shake the foundations of our family?’
My uncle, who had accompanied us, invited or not, his anger crackling across the room like a summer storm as soon as the door was closed, turned on me as if he and I together could conjure Thomas Holland into being. His face was suffused with a venom that reverberated outward to the walls and back again. I could taste it on my lips.
My uncle’s fingers stretched and fisted, his hair hung dull and lax in disarray on his brow.
‘Where is he? I swear he will face the wrath of the King who will strip him of his knighthood before he can step out of his boots on English soil. This is no act of chivalry worthy of a knight, to take a young woman to his marriage bed without the consent of parent, of guardian or priest. He will answer for this.’ He turned on me, looming over me, all attempts at controlling his speech failing. ‘I presume he did discover a marriage bed for you to honour this travesty.’ His lips twisted. ‘Or was consummation nothing but a quick fumble behind a pillar or a squalid hanging, as if you were a servant and knew no better. Or even an act of rape…’
‘Tom…’ my mother warned.
But he was past warning. ‘Holland will answer for this,’ he repeated. ‘I will hunt him down…’
I stood between mother and uncle, bearing the weight of their joint disgust. There would be no compassion here. But then, I could expect none. My choice that day, my own choice, for Thomas had not inveigled me into anything I had not wished with my whole heart, had tottered on the edge of propriety. On the edge of scandalous impropriety. I had always known what was the expectation for me, and I had thrown it away. Willingly. With heartfelt joy.
There was no joy between these four walls. I could see no joy at any point in the future, near or far. Well, I had done it. No point in retreating now.
I spoke a flat, easy denial, of the one fact in all this complicated weave of which I was quite certain. ‘Thomas Holland did not inveigle me, sir.’
It was not so difficult, I decided, being aware of a surge of courage. My spine was as straight as a Welsh arrow, my chin raised, my hands loose at my sides. I was Plantagenet, the blood of kings in my veins, and I would not be cowed by my uncle. I would not be reduced under his displeasure to a trembling puddle of regret and repentance. Queen Philippa had tried her best to instil in me some of her gentleness but to no avail. It was not in my nature. I called on that spirit of rebellion now, even as I vowed to keep my temper under close rein.
‘He must have.’ My uncle dismissed my calm assertion with a slice of his hand through the air. ‘It must have been against your will, for, before God, such an act was against every moral tenet of your upbringing.’
‘It was not against my will. I wished it. We both did.’
‘You were not raised to be a whore, Joan.’
His lip curled as, disbelieving, I felt the flush of humiliation high on my cheekbones. I was no whore.
‘You married this man of no birth, of no family, without permission. How could you be so maladroit?’
So my good intentions died a rapid death. Anger, stoking the humiliation of being branded a whore, spurred me into unfortunate retaliation. ‘I am not the first member of this family to wed without permission, sir.’
My mother froze. My uncle burned with ire. This was obviously a day for sharp silences. I did not wait for their response, continuing with the righteousness I felt in my bones, first to my mother:
‘You married my father without his brother, the King’s, permission, madam. The King was not pleased, as I have heard. And you sir,’ I held my uncle’s eye, ‘married Blanche of Lancaster without her father’s permission. In the light of such impropriety, it is not appropriate for you to take me to task for doing exactly the same.’
Perhaps not the wisest of moves to brave these two furious lions in their den. But it was true. Neither marriage had been well received, both denigrated because of the Wake family’s lack of sufficient grandeur.
My uncle pounced on the the weakness in my own argument.
‘Not appropriate? Your mother’s husband was a King’s son. My wife was daughter of an Earl. We chose well. We made good marriages. This man that you have tied yourself to is not worthy of our consideration. Your argument is specious, Joan.’
‘But at least I cannot be accused of overweening ambition, sir. I wed Thomas Holland for his own qualities. I have heard it said that you and my mother had nothing but your pre-eminence in mind. I am not guilty of self-aggrandisement.’
For the briefest of moments I thought he would strike me, yet I stood my ground. Then my mother picked up the gauntlet and stepped onto the battleground.
‘Leave us, Tom.’
‘Not until we’ve shaken some sense into your daughter.’
‘If there is any shaking to be done, it will not be done by you. Now go away and leave her to me.’
Ungraciously he went. No sooner was the door slammed