Jeanette

THE VIRGIN OF KENT a novel by Caroline Harbord

Winter 1336

I wondered what it would be like to sleep with my cousin’s new husband. He was a good-looking man: tall and fair-haired, with pale blue eyes, narrow shoulders and a passing resemblance to my Mother’s favourite greyhound. That day he looked particularly fine in his crimson and blue surcote with the new-fangled buttons. There seemed to be a remarkably large amount of leg on show but I thought perhaps that was the fashion. I could see Margaret’s bridal gift, a jewelled clasp fashioned into an intricate pattern of acanthus leaves, gleaming on his chest, and I noticed how frequently he fingered it. Alice said he was very pleased with the marriage; but I was not deceived; I knew that men were all the same and that once the candle was out they would be occupying far too much of the bed. I felt sure that Sir John Segrave was no exception. Margaret, who was beautifully dressed in silver and ivory, with pale yellow ribbons studded with seed pearls plaited through her dark hair, seemed very small beside her husband, yet, the night before she had occupied more than half the mattress.

There had always been the three of us – Margaret, Alice and me; but soon there would only be two and I did not like the idea.

“Perhaps you could refuse to marry Sir John,” I said hopefully

“Don’t be silly, Jeanette. My father would order my stepmother to beat me until I agreed,” said Margaret.

“But what if you still refused, even after you had been beaten,” I persisted.

“Then I should be locked in a chamber, starved and beaten until either I consented to marry him or was too weak to protest when they forced me to the chapel. Whatever I wanted, the marriage would take place because my father wishes it.”

I considered the situation.

“But surely you are not pleased to marry?” I asked.

“Of course I am pleased,” replied Margaret. “Any girl in her right mind would be pleased. I am sixteen years old and I have had enough of my father and his brother deciding everything. I am not consulted at all; it is as if I do not exist except as a child’s doll to push around – put her here, marry her there! After tomorrow there will be nobody to decide where I live or whom I see or what I may do or not do, and that pleases me immensely.”

“Sir John may order you, surely?” said Alice.

Margaret threw her sister a pitying look.

“When I am Lady Segrave, no man, not even Sir John, will tell me what to do.”

***

Sleeping with my cousins was one of the enjoyments of my visits to Norfolk, but that February, because of the wedding, we had been forced to accommodate the hated Beatrice Mortimer. This had pleased none of us. Beatrice had once been married to my cousin Edmund and despite being more than twelve months a widow she was still living under my uncle’s roof.

“Why doesn’t she return to her Mother’s house?” I asked Alice.

“She is soon to marry my stepmother’s brother,” replied my cousin. “It seems more sensible for her to remain here with us.”

“Well, I do not like her; she is such a misery; always moping around with downcast eyes, looking as if she would burst into tears any moment.”

“Don’t be so uncharitable, Jeanette,” said Alice. “The years have not been easy for her and surely you must pity her with a lifetime of Sir Thomas Braose to look forward to.”

I giggled; for Sir Thomas was old, irascible and suffered mightily with gout. He was said to have been recently struck down with an affliction of the bowels and I wondered if Beatrice was destined to be disappointed a second time. Edmund had been a sickly boy and even though he and Beatrice had lived as man and wife for two years, Alice whispered that they had seldom shared a bed.

“My brother is too weak. He cannot manage to be a husband to her so he keeps himself apart.”

I had thought ‘lucky Edmund’, for I should not have cared to sleep with Beatrice; but then he died, and I hurriedly did penance for my thoughts before anyone could discover them.

For the forthcoming celebrations, the living quarters of my Uncle’s house were crammed full of people, all of us packed together like fish in a salt barrel. Even the tiniest space was occupied by somebody’s bed or somebody’s coffer; there were clothes hanging in every corner and passageway, and I felt sure there could not possibly be enough food in the kitchens to feed so many guests. I worried in case there might not be enough for me. I was eight years old, I was cousin to the King, and this was my first wedding.

***

“I cannot understand why father did not choose to celebrate Margaret’s marriage at Orwell,” grumbled Alice in frustration, trying for the third time to make enough space in our chamber for all Beatrice’s belongings. “There is far more room there and we would have been much more comfortable.”

With the irritation of one who has been forced into tasks she has no inclination for, she gave the great linen chest a shove across the floor towards the window, knocking it against a small table which carried Margaret’s favourite box – a dark wooden coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl. All Margaret’s jewels were kept in it, but luckily for Alice it did not fall off.

“Be careful, you stupid girl,” snapped my cousins’ stepmother. “Sometimes you are so clumsy, Alice! Your father chose to have the wedding here to oblige the King, so that is an end to it. I want no more arguments. There is quite sufficient for me to organise without wasting my time listening to your complaints. Tomorrow is an important day for your father and I want no more fuss.”

My cousins’ stepmother was not much older than Margaret.

“She is very young,” I had said the first time I had met her. “Surely Uncle Thomas could find an older lady to marry.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Jeanette,” my mother had said. “Thomas will marry whom he thinks fit and it is not for you to comment.”

Margaret and Alice missed their mother.

“You are lucky to have a mother,” Alice had said. “Now all I have left is a father.”

“You are lucky to have a father,” I replied, “and, if you wish, you may have my mother, for she is a great trial to me.”

***

First of all there was a dispute over the candle. Beatrice proffered no opinion on the matter being sunk in her usual state of abject misery, whereas Alice and I protested loudly; but to no avail, for Margaret had the advantage, not only of seniority as the eldest cousin, but also as a person of some importance in the following days’ festivities, and she insisted that it should be extinguished.

“What will Sir John say tomorrow if his betrothed has been reduced to a smouldering pile of ashes overnight,” she said.

Remembering that Margaret’s slaps were both painful and easily provoked, I bit back the retort that he would certainly find somebody else equally suitable to marry; somebody who was perfectly happy to sleep in the dark.

“Girls are frequently burned to death in their beds just because they are too stupid to realise that bed curtains catch fire,” she continued, “and even if you are content to endanger your lives that does not mean that I wish to do the same. It’s bad enough having to share a bed with you two and your disgusting habits without having to end up as a charred corpse.”

With that she blew out the candle and climbed onto the far side of the bed beside Beatrice, leaving Alice and I to cling together in the dark on the narrow part that remained to us.

As we lay in some discomfort, trying to settle ourselves into the curves of each others bodies, Margaret’s voice cut through the blackness.

“Stop fidgeting Jeanette; and keep yourself well away from me; I have no desire to catch any of your fleas.”

“Jeanette has no fleas,” said Alice, “and even if she did, I’m sure Sir John would not mind if you brought one or two into your marriage bed.”

“You know nothing at all about marriage or about what Sir John might or might not like, Alice, so keep your thoughts to yourself and your legs over your side of the bed,” hissed Margaret.

She pulled the fur coverlet over her shoulders and turned her back on us. Beatrice gave a muffled sob. Snuggled up against Alice’s body I wondered about Sir John’s legs and whether they would be as unwelcome to Margaret as her sister’s were. I devoutly wished that God might make it a bit warmer; I did not know why Norfolk was always so cold.

***

My mother used to say that Uncle Thomas was singularly unsuccessful in arranging satisfactory marriages for his children, and she was enjoying this opportunity to revisit her opinions.

“That Mortimer girl was a disaster and Sir John Segrave is hardly an inspired choice,” she remarked as she tugged and fussed over my hair. “He is an inconsequential nobody, and this is not a particularly brilliant match for Margaret.”

I squirmed on the stool; I hated my mother doing my hair; she was always so rough. Alice’s fingers were far gentler.

“I suppose the Fitzalan connection is advantageous to your Uncle, but I really feel he could have done better. Keep still, Jeanette!”

Apparently Sir John was related to the Fitzalans through his mother, and it was said that Richard Fitzalan was intent on becoming the richest man in England. He was somebody my mother disliked but then he had stolen her castle at Arundel so you could hardly blame her.

“Who will Alice marry?” I asked.

“Hah!” said my mother, snorting in disgust. “Your cousin Alice is to marry Sir William Montague’s eldest boy. Thomas believes he has come to a pecuniary arrangement with the Montagu’s, beneficial to himself, and has sold Alice along with the lands. Let us hope they agree she is worth it.”

My mother did not like Sir William and Lady Catherine Montagu either, but then the list of people my mother disliked was remarkably long. She was a bitter woman and I was annoyed she had not remarried because I would have liked a step-father; but after my father’s death the King had not insisted, leaving her to wallow in her widowhood with her dower lands for support. Perhaps her memories of my father were so sweet that she could not bring herself to take another man but somehow I doubted it, for she was not that kind of woman; more likely, knowing her shrewish nature, the King was unable to find someone who would agree to marry her.

“And what about me?” I asked.

“You?” said my mother surprised that I was asking the question. “Why, the King will choose your husband of course.”

***

Once upon a time my mother had everything; she had a castle with hundreds of servants to do her every bidding; she had silver coffers full of rubies and pearls; she had a handsome husband, half-brother to the King, who was wealthy and powerful; and she had three small children and another in her belly to prove her success as a wife and a mother. But she lost it all. One fine spring day she lost her castle; she lost her servants, her jewels and her husband. All that was left were the children, and somewhere along the way, through the nightmare months of imprisonment and the grief of her disgrace and abandonment, she lost us as well. My brother Edmund, the eldest, died of a fever that first year, brought on no doubt by the damp and chill of those prison rooms in Salisbury Castle; and Margaret, the second one, followed soon after. Then baby John and I were sent to live in the royal nurseries – a signal mark of favour from the young Queen, but a blow to my poor mother, a final dispossession of everything she had once believed was hers.

My mother told me there had been a time, when my cousins were little, when neighbour fought against neighbour and men took up arms against the anointed King; battles raged across the Kingdom and rebels were hanged in chains by royal command in every town and village. Then, civil strife and chaos, when no man knew where his loyalty should lie or whom he could trust, had given way to tyranny and repression. The scheming French Queen with the help of her lover, Lord Mortimer, had led a rebellion against the King, seized the crown and installed her young son on the throne; her husband, the pair had left to rot, first in the Earl of Lancaster’s castle at Kennilworth, then in the castle at Berkley, and finally in the dungeons at Corfe, while they busied themselves seizing the wealth of anyone who had opposed them and many who had not.

My father had tried to rescue his half-brother and had paid for his efforts with his life. But Lord Mortimer did not enjoy the fruits of his misdeeds for long. The young King, enraged at having his royal authority usurped, had devised a plan to overthrow the tyrant. One dark night, together with a few loyal friends, he had crept into the castle at Nottingham, where the dowager Queen and her lover where lying, and ignoring the pleas of the King’s mother to show mercy to her ‘gentle Mortimer’, they took him at the point of a sword, trussed him up in a bundle and dragged him off to London. He was far too dangerous to be allowed to live so they hanged him at Tyburn.

Two weeks later, the King had my mother released from her imprisonment at Salisbury.

***

I had lived with the royal children since I was two years old and I sometimes thought Queen Philippa was more a mother to me than my own. I rather enjoyed my position as the eldest child in the household for Edward, Bella and Joanna were all younger than me. Of course there were other children there too, under the care of Lady St Omer - little Roger Mortimer and my baby brother John - for the Queen was unfailingly kind to the orphans of her husband’s supporters and enemies alike. Edward was my special friend; he was two years younger than me, which meant I won all the games we played together. He kept trying to impress on me his importance as the eldest son of the King, but I was not fooled, and even his possession of an earl’s title could not change the balance of power in our friendship - I led, he followed.

When I was younger I enjoyed telling the story of how the King had rescued my mother and her four little children from the dungeons in Salisbury Castle where they had been thrown on the orders of the evil Lord Mortimer and his paramour, Queen Isabella.

“What’s a paramour?” asked Edward.

“Oh, some sort of conspirator,” I replied airily, having, at the time, no idea myself, but knowing the word from my mother’s intemperate outbursts on the subject.

“Why was your mother in the dungeon? My father only puts dangerous prisoners in dungeons.”

“She was dangerous, silly boy,” I replied, thinking how stupid Edward could be at times. “Lord Mortimer had killed her husband and Queen Isabella had snatched her rubies and pearls, so she would have had her revenge and torn the two of them limb from limb if she had escaped.”

“But my father did it first.”

“Your father may have hanged Lord Mortimer but your grandmother, is still here; she still comes to visit; I’ve seen her.”

Edward sucked his thumb. He was really only a little boy even though he was my friend.

“I expect my grandmother is sorry,” he ventured at last.

“It is not enough to be sorry,” I said. “She stole my mother’s jewels.”

“But my father gave them back.”

Indeed, the King had returned much of what Lord Mortimer and the Dowager Queen had taken from my mother; but not everything. Some things could not be given back: Richard Fitzalan still had the castle at Arundel and my father was dead.

***

There was less than a day left before the wedding celebrations and my Aunt was in despair. With no time to make fresh arrangements, not only had the specially engaged troupe of acrobats and minstrels failed to arrive from St Albans where they had been lodging a full month ago, but it seemed as if the promised visit of the King and Queen might be delayed by the bad weather. The wind had been blowing small flurries of white flakes up from the east since daybreak and by mid-morning, with snow clouds building on the horizon, there was still no sign of the royal party. I was certain that by nightfall we would be smothered in snow and it seemed that my Uncle Thomas thought likewise.

“I knew we should have waited until after Lent,” he muttered morosely. “Travelling at this time of year is a hazard no-one would undertake lightly.”

My Aunt looked as if she would burst into tears. My mother attempted to console her, taking her arm and whispering in her ear.

“Mary, my dear,” she said. “Every wedding seems as if it will be a catastrophe but in the end all is well. You must not allow yourself to become distressed. No-one will mind if the entertainments are not as you planned. As long as the wine flows and the dishes are plentiful, the men will be happy; and if the men are content then so will be the women; and as for Margaret and John – I doubt if they will be paying much attention to anything other than each other.”

“But I wanted this to be perfect for Thomas’s sake,” she wept. “It is important for him to impress the King. He has been in so much trouble recently – his men have been riotous and his Grace blames Thomas for not controlling them.”

Then, in the late afternoon, just when everyone had finally given up all hope, I heard the distant sound of the herald’s trumpet and a shout from the lookout tower, and shortly afterwards a clattering of hooves and a cacophony of voices as the sweating horses with their burden of weary travellers streamed into the courtyard. The King always travelled with much pomp and I counted twenty out-riders all wearing the King’s arms, as well as the equerries and other servants who accompanied the royal party. I realised at once that my Aunt would be dismayed for, not only was the King’s retinue considerably larger than she had anticipated, but riding behind the royal couple, muffled in a luxuriant green hooded riding cloak trimmed with ermine, was a familiar figure: the King’s mother, the Dowager Queen Isabella.

“Where shall I put her?” cried my Aunt in horror, turning to my mother as if hoping she could conjure another bedchamber out of thin air.

The King’s mother lived at Castle Rising, near the great port of Bishop’s Lynn, less than one day’s journey from my Uncle’s house, but there was no commerce between the two households, and I was somewhat surprised that the old Queen had made the effort to see her niece married. It was not as if my Uncle had been a full brother to her dead husband; like my own father, he was merely a half-brother, a late son of a second marriage; and she did not like him. To me she looked ancient, but she could not have been above forty and had apparently been a beauty in her youth. Her predatory eyes swept over the assembled company; they paused temporarily as she saw me and then passed on until she saw my mother. I felt a frisson of fear down the back of my neck.

I had always known that she did not like me. I tried very hard to remember my manners when she was present, ensuring that I curtsied deeply and stood with downcast eyes, never speaking unless I was spoken to and behaving like a high-born girl who knew her proper place at all times.

“Perhaps it is because she is French,” said Alice, valiantly looking for some explanation.

“Perhaps it is because Edward likes me best,” I said.

“It is far more likely that it’s because you are your mother’s daughter,” said Margaret knowledgeably.

***

By next morning the snow lay thick on the ground outside and the water in the privy ewers was frozen. Nobody had thought to bring us any hot from the cauldrons and I was hoping I could just quickly pull on my shift and gown and wrap myself in my fur mantle. As I stood with my bare feet on the stone floor, somehow the importance of gold pins and brooches and fashionable girdles seemed to matter less than the need for warmth. I had no wish to prolong the supposed enjoyment of getting dressed for the wedding ceremony. I pulled my nightshift close round my shivering body and tried not to think of the freezing water.

“Perhaps nobody will notice if we do not wash,” I whispered to Alice.

“Your mother will get down and sniff your feet, so I should not take the risk,” replied my cousin sagely.

She was probably right. I wondered if I could put my fur mantle on underneath my gown, and then another one on top; but I thought not; my mother would be bound to notice and then I would be in trouble. I knew the importance of good behaviour when older people were present, particularly important older people, and even more particularly - important older men. We girls were trained from the moment we opened our eyes in the cradle, to respect our elders, but sometimes it was remarkably difficult, especially when the rules we had to follow seemed so foolish. I didn’t see what could be wrong in wearing two fur mantles. With as much speed as I could muster, I sponged my face, hands and feet and dried myself on the drying sheet, which was starting to stiffen in the icy cold. With chattering teeth and shivering limbs, I pulled on my clothes, pleading with Alice to hurry up and fasten the buttons so that I could wrap myself in my fur mantle. Buttons might be more fashionable but they were a lot more work.

Amongst the muddle in the bedchamber Margaret, half-dressed and already in a state of pre-marriage nerves, was finding fault with everyone, throwing Alice’s new girdle across the floor and screaming at Beatrice who was attempting to comb out her hair. It would be a great shame, I thought, after today, to plait and hide those long dark tresses beneath a wimple, but then as my mother was always saying, married women have to suffer.

“Quickly, Alice, Jeanette! Out of here and leave Margaret to prepare herself for her wedding in peace and quiet.”

My Aunt chased us out of the bedchamber. As we disappeared down the passageway we heard further screams.

“Poor Sir John,” said Alice.

Three hours later, at the doors of the new abbey church, in the sight of God and the King, and everyone who had managed to squeeze between the high protecting walls of the house, Margaret was duly passed from her father’s care to that of Sir John Segrave. I did not know what settlements had been made in order to effect this marriage, but I was certain that Margaret would have been well-provided for and that my Uncle would have attempted to enrich himself in the process.

Shortly after both the Segrave father and grandfather had been killed fighting in Aquitaine, Uncle Thomas had purchased from the King, the right to marry Sir John to Margaret. Ten years ago, when both my cousin and Sir John were mere children, it probably seemed a good investment; now it was apparent that it was not, but according to my mother, my uncle was putting a brave face on it. Of course ten years ago, the Segraves and their Fitzalan kin were riding high in royal favour; but disgrace and disinheritance, had tarnished the glitter of success and now Sir John was not worth what my Uncle had hoped. When the King had eventually restored the young Richard Fitzalan to his Earldom and his estates, somehow the Segrave wealth had not benefited. The Fitzalans in contrast had prospered mightily.

The wedding Mass was long and tedious and my mind wandered. Several times Alice pinched me to pay attention.

“Your mother is watching you,” she whispered.

“She can’t see me,” I whispered back. “There are too many people, we are well hidden.”

In truth, I could see very little. I could just make out the Montagues, all puffed up and important as usual. Sir William was supposed to be the King’s closest friend and my mother said that Lady Catherine was becoming greedy for the advantages that the King’s favour would bring. The two elder Montague children were present: William, who was betrothed to Alice and was about my age, and Elizabeth, who was older. There was another boy and two or three more little girls, but clearly they were still in the nursery.

“I can see your beloved,” I whispered to Alice.

She threw me an amused look.

“I have only met him once; I do not think great love can spring from such meagre acquaintance.”

“But you will marry him?”

“My father and his father have arranged it, so it appears that I will.”

“When will you marry?” I pressed her.

“William is not old enough yet, he is only your age, Jeanette. It will be many years, I believe.”

“But you are ready?”

“Only just,” she laughed. “Only since Christmas. Why are you so anxious to have me married off? Are you planning to elope with some boy and want me out of the way in case I notice what you are doing?”

“I shall never elope,” I said firmly. “I shall have a huge wedding just like Margaret. “I shall have lots of food and I shall only invite the people I like.”

Alice kicked me.

“Shh! Your mother is frowning at you.”

***

The tallest of all the men was the King. With his dark-golden hair and beard and his splendid blue and gold, attire, not to mention his crown, he was by far the most impressive man in the gathering. Although he was my cousin and I had shared a nursery with his children, I hardly knew him. Queen Philippa had often visited the nurseries at Woodstock, enjoying being with her son and daughters, but the King had usually been far too busy doing whatever Kings did. On special occasions the elder children had been taken to visit their father, but Joanna and we fatherless wards remained behind.

“A kiss for your King!”

We all laughed as the King seized Margaret and placed an enthusiastic kiss upon her upturned lips.

“Very satisfying, John,” he smiled. “She tastes of honey and spices; you are a lucky man.”

He pulled her to him and squeezed her waist.

“Ripe as a plum and all ready for plucking! I trust you are feeling energetic for I feel certain your wife will keep you awake all night. Is that not so, Margaret?”

Margaret blushed but she looked pleased. I was very surprised because Margaret was always complaining if she did not get a good night’s sleep.

***

As we walked in procession up the steps to the great hall for the wedding feast, my mother inclined her head towards my Aunt.

“I wonder you are happy to give house room to that French whore,” she said, clearly forgetting that Alice and I were right behind her and could hear every word.

“She is his mother, my dear, what else could we do,” murmured my Aunt, leaning close, endeavouring that no-one else should hear this unwise conversation. “Thomas would never offend his Grace by suggesting that she was not welcome; and besides this is Margaret’s wedding day and . . . well, perhaps after all this time we should let the past rest.”

My mother was incensed.

“All this time?” she hissed. “It is less than six years.”

“Six years?” I whispered to Alice. “What is less than six years?”

Alice shook her head.

“I have no idea.”

The hall was ablaze with the light of a hundred candles, each flickering flame reflected in the triumph of Margaret’s eyes. She sat with her husband of less than half a day on the high dais beside the King and the Queen, where they would be treated to the finest cuts of meats and the choicest dishes and by far and away the best view of the performances. I wondered why she looked so pleased with herself, for I could think of twenty better men to marry than Sir John Segrave.

Dish after dish was placed in front of us, messes of every variety of meats and sauce imaginable, fruits, nuts, roasted flesh, and of course the one I liked best, tiny larks and curlews laid out on silver plates. Alice and I consumed so much food that I felt sure I would burst, and the wedding guests kept eating as if another meal might never come; even the elderly Bishop seated opposite me was wiping the grease from his mouth and patting his belly as he helped himself to yet more venison. The three serving boys carrying wine ewers were kept busy running up and down the length of the hall refilling cups, and I noticed, for I could not help noticing, that Sir John’s hanap was replenished more frequently than anyone else’s. His face had become flushed, and instead of talking to the Queen as custom demanded, he was leaning sideways fondling Margaret’s hair; but my cousin brushed away his hand as one might an irritating insect.

The King was talking to his mother as he usually did when she was present for, as everyone knew, he was a devoted son. With a sudden sense of distress I realised that I was not a devoted daughter and reminded myself that perhaps I should try harder. I made a vow to be kinder to my mother, no matter how sorely she tried me, and pinched myself hard so that I would remember.

Alice gossiped about the guests throughout the meal; she seemed to know everyone but then she was older than me and this was her father’s house.

“Who is the tall good-looking man in green?” I asked.

“Don’t you know?” said my cousin, her mouth full of roasted partridge. “That is Sir Walter Mannay, one of the King’s best captains; he captured a pirate once, when he was fighting the Scots; he told Margaret and me all about it.”

“A real live one?”

“Yes! And then,” she lowered her voice, “he sold him to the King for one thousand marks.”

I was very impressed.

“So he is rich.”

“Yes, he must be; and the King has lately given him the Norfolk estates of the Earl of Atholl because the Earl has gone over to the Scots, so now he must be richer still.”

The fact that Sir Walter was rich as well as handsome made him even more interesting. Poor men were of no use to us girls, and of no interest, for one could not marry a man with no wealth, that would be impossibly foolish.

“Who is the mournful lady on his left?”

“Oh, that is Lady Isobel Fitzalan.”

I studied this pale-faced woman, richly dressed in brown and blue, who took no interest in her neighbours, and sat silent as a mute.

“Why does she look so unhappy?” I asked.

“My stepmother says her husband is wondering how to rid himself of her,” replied Alice. “It is rumoured he wants a divorce but is unsure of what arguments he can put forward and what his position would be with the Church.”

“Poor woman, no wonder she looks miserable.”

“Look! That’s the husband, over there beside my father.”

Alice indicated a heavily-built, dark-haired man who looked more like a pirate than a husband.

“Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel!” said my cousin.

I looked with renewed interest at this thief who had taken my mother’s castle.

“Look!” said Alice, pointing to the furthest end of the table. “There are the son and daughter.”

The children, both dark-haired like their father, were about my age, certainly not much older. They talked to each other and did not seem to be enjoying themselves.

“They may look like Earl Richard, but in character they resemble the mother I fear,” said Alice. “Did you ever see two such miserable bodies.”

I paid great attention to these two children who were lodging in my castle. If my father had not been killed, I would be living in Arundel Castle, with my mother and her silver coffer full of jewels; my brother and sister would still be alive and Richard Fitzalan and his family could crawl in the mud for all I cared. It never occurred to me to ask why the King had given the castle to the Fitzalans, all I knew was that once it had been mine.

It seemed hours before the dishes of meats and sauces had been cleared and the peacock was nothing but bones, and yet still the hall resounded with the strains of minstrelsy and bawdy laughter. Then, just when we thought we could not eat another morsel, four of my Uncle’s men paraded into the hall, dressed in their finest livery, carrying on their shoulders fantastic confections of marchpane fashioned into castles and dragons, a ship in full sail, and most magnificent of all, a leopard with sliced almonds for his menacing teeth and beautifully gilded claws. Everyone clapped and cheered and the King rose to his feet to congratulate the confectioner on his work.

“I shall have to borrow him, Thomas,” he said to my Uncle. “We can’t have you putting our royal table in the shade when it comes to sweetmeats.”

“Your Grace,” said my Uncle in his most fawning voice, “he is yours to command, whenever you wish.”

***

As I lay in bed that night, snuggled up with Alice on a mattress on the floor of my mother’s bedchamber, I wondered why the Dowager Queen disliked me so much and whether it would be exciting to marry a pirate and if Sir John was keeping his legs well out of Margaret’s way.