The Shadow Queen: The Sunday Times bestselling book – a must read for Summer 2018. Anne O'Brien
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 of the adventures and amours of King Arthur’s knights.’
‘Your books will tell you that you do not understand the meaning of love.’
‘What do you think, Sir Thomas?’
His hands clenched around his belt. ‘I think that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that I would consider it my holy grail to wed such as you.’
By now the warmth in my blood had become a heat.
‘But that is not a holy grail that you can achieve, until you ask for my hand. Have you asked me to wed you, Sir Thomas?’
‘I would not. I dare not.’
Shocked at my own temerity, I placed my hand on his arm.
‘Please do, Sir Thomas.’
His eyes, softer now and very appealing, were full of raw emotion. ‘If I did, I hope that you would have the sense, for both of us, to refuse me.’
He bowed and walked away, leaving me solitary but unexpectedly exhilarated.
In whirlwind fashion and the spirit of all courageous knights, since once this attraction had gripped us it refused to grant us release, Sir Thomas Holland did ask me. I did not have the sense to refuse.
‘Yes,’ I said. And always practical: ‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Can we not wait?’ I might be in thrall to him, but this seemed unconscionably fast.
‘If we wait, you’ll be lost to me. You’ll be married to your Flemish lord before the month’s out.’ A faint line appeared between his brows. ‘I wish you were not so young.’
I smoothed it away with a finger. ‘Time will take care of that. Do you love me, Thomas Holland?’
‘More than you will ever believe. Is my love returned?’
‘Yes.’
Which settled the whole affair.
These were the days, back at Westminster, when my thoughts clung to the person and environs of my lawful husband rather than the stitching of my new garments. Where was Thomas Holland? Were his military adventures likely to demand all his concentration, or would they allow him to return home in time to rescue me from the altar? It was in my mind that he would most likely discover yet another battle in which to make his name and fortune. He did not know that his wedded state, so carefully kept secret, was about to be destroyed.
With some investigation in mind, I absented myself from my morning lessons with lute and songbook on the plea that my mother needed me for matters appertaining to my wedding and went to avail myself of my cousin the King’s library. A room full of books, leather bound, gilded, redolent of the mustiness of old ink, I entered the silent and empty chamber. But it was not the books that drew me. I was looking for the loose-leafed manuscripts, many of them gifts to the King; maps and charts, old and new, of distant lands as well as tracts closer to home, unbound and highly precious. Edward would not object if I investigated. He might be surprised that my interests had turned to what might exist across the sea, but he would not forbid it.
Discovering the sheets of vellum in a low coffer, I unfolded the leather cover, lifting them them out one by one, spreading them across the table used for such large items. I had travelled more than many persons my age. Born at Arundel, of which I had no memory, I had resided chiefly in London since my father’s death. Thus I knew the reaches of the Thames and the palaces along its length. I had lived at the Tower and at Westminster and at Havering-atte-Bower, Philippa’s favourite manor. Further afield I knew Kennington and Woodstock and, of course, Windsor where we were now based. I had also travelled to Flanders with the royal household when Philippa had chosen to follow the King on his campaigning. I knew Ghent well. But further than that was a blank space.
A map of England was of no value to me. A painted copy of Mappa Mundi with Jerusalem at its centre intrigued me when I found England tucked along the edge but it did not aid me in discovering where Prussia might be. And even if I found it, I acknowledged in sour mood, what value would that be to me? It could be years before Thomas returned with his weapons and horses and coffers of coin.
I slapped my hand down on the precious document, raising a cloud of dust.
I understood perfectly why Thomas was driven to use his skills in theatres of war. My mother’s slighting of the Holland family had been more than accurate. Thomas had no claim to greatness other than the reputation that he could win with his own endeavours. Besides, he liked soldiering. After the very briefest celebration of our wedded bliss, Thomas had pledged his everlasting love, packed his fighting equipment and, with page and squire had taken himself to join the King, eventually engaging in the Battle of Sluys, the battle where King Edward had made his mark in a magnificent victory, as well as taking a French spear in his thigh that kept him to his bed for two whole weeks. And then, in a matter of days, both King and Thomas had been engaged in the siege at Tournai that had achieved little but an expensive truce between England and France.
Edward was now recently returned home from his campaigning against the French, seething with anger of his lack of money and his discovery of the abominable lack of defence of the Tower of London in his absence, but Thomas was not. Thomas had found a need to go to Prussia. It would avail me nothing to know where Prussia actually was but my spirits were at a low ebb. Abandoning my search, I began to shuffle the maps back into order. I had been chasing a wild goose, and it had escaped me.
‘I thought I would be alone here.’
The voice, quiet yet unexpected, made me jump so that I dropped the route between London and Jerusalem, illuminated with tiny pictures of towns on the way, that I was holding.
The King clicked his tongue and picked it up, smoothing it back onto the table, casting an eye over it.
‘I was not aware that your interests were in discovery of the world, Joan. Or of going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sites.’ There was a gleam in his eye. ‘My advice is to go to Canterbury first, to see if you have a taste for the pilgrim life.’
My cousin, twenty-eight years old now, hardened and bloodied from campaigning, a ruler of supreme confidence and some renown, was laughing at me. The life of a pilgrim with hard travel and noxious inns with their communal beds and lice would not suit me at all.
‘No, my lord.’ I felt a need to be formal. He might be my cousin but he was King and this was his library in which I was trespassing. ‘They are beautiful to look at. I am sorry if I should not have unwrapped them. I know their value.’
His gaze moved from the map to me. ‘There is solace in beautiful work, as I know. If I were not King, yet still I would be a collector of books.’ Then he smiled so that the sombre lines of his face were transfigured into prints of pleasure. ‘I would not have thought you unhappy, with your marriage imminent.’ I tensed. Did he know? Had he some presentiment of the difficulties? ‘The Salisbury boy is well favoured and good natured.’
No, he did not know. I breathed out slowly. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘William is blessed with both face and character.’
‘I wager he’ll make a good husband. I know of no vices.’
‘No, sir.’
I thought that I might tell him, that I might appeal to his judgement for a resolution of my case. Would he not have compassion and rescue me? But Edward was speaking, accepting