DIVINE
INTERVENTION
A Novel
By
Jeannette Scollard
Copyright © 2012 Jeannette Scollard
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THANK YOU, dearest DEAN.
This book is dedicated to the many remarkable resourceful achieving women who have been overlooked by historians. It has been a privilege and a delight to “get to know” Philippa of Lancaster (1359 to 1415).
“A 600-year-old love story that changed the course of history, as compelling and fresh as the tabloids at today’s checkout counter.”
The story of a 14th century marriage between an ambitious queen and an obstinate king which evolved into a great love affair that changed the history of the world.
Based on real people and events.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
Chapter
9
Chapter
10
Chapter
11
Chapter
12
Chapter
13
Chapter
14
Chapter
15
Chapter
16
Chapter
17
Chapter
18
Chapter
19
Chapter
20
Chapter
21
Chapter
22
Chapter
23
Chapter
24
Chapter
25
Chapter
26
Chapter
27
Chapter
28
Chapter
29
Chapter
30
CHAPTER ONE
The sun crested the green hill and sparked gold on the tall arched windows of the massive old grey castle. Shimmering shafts of sunlight sparkled in the dew atop sorrel and clover, and violets and bluebells. A family of squirrels cavorted and leapt limb to limb. Doves cooed. Thrushes chirped. Tits and finches trilled in a sweet avian cacophony. It was a balmy spring morning, a blessing after a week of continuous rain.
Beyond the stately oaks and birches surrounding the centuries-old fortress, a multitude of servants and staff members began their daily chores tending the castle’s every nook and cranny. Outside, in gardens and sheds, a blacksmith with a leather apron stoked two fires, four butchers with bloody aprons trimmed a boar and two deer, two arrow makers sorted their goose feathers, three spinners twisted their wool yarns and a milk maid churned the rhythm of her butter.
A small army of washerwomen dunked fabrics in tubs of hot water heated in adjacent cauldrons. Lavinia, fifteen years old and new to her job as a junior lace laundress, thought working in the castle kitchen garden was a privilege. She breathed the fine fresh air and concentrated on her wash. She kept a wary eye on the six black and white spaniels lathered by two liveried stewards in the far corner of the grassy courtyard. The last thing Lavinia wanted was for the feisty palace dogs to run pell-mell across the fragile Flemish laces in her custody. Her family had sold a year’s hoard of honey to pay for the shoes and stockings she wore for this job and she was determined to excel at her work, to move up in the castle.
She handled the tatted undergarments as tenderly as a hummingbird’s nest. She gently strung exquisite petticoats across the clotheslines. She spread diaphanous bodices and dainty handkerchiefs on the springy petals of the round bushes of crimson roses so that their fragrance would linger in the laces.
Lavinia was as proud to tend the lace as she would have been to own it. There was status in the mere proximity to exquisite wealth. “The young duchess Philippa dresses like a queen,” she whispered to Bertha.
“The young duchess has rejected a dozen suitors in the time I’ve been working here, and now the King of France wants to marry her,” replied Bertha. With two years seniority she pretended she was privy to special scuttlebutt. “The young duchess better take the King’s offer. The King of France! She’s getting old. She’s twenty-five. It seems she’s too picky to marry.”
“I’d be just like Lady Philippa, if I were a Lady,” Lavinia gushed.
Bertha glared at Lavinia as though she were stupid. “Of course. So would we all.”
Bertha was herself exceedingly interested in boys. “That’s a likely looking lad over there,” she observed. Her freckled face resembled an exotic bird, with tiny pursed lips and unruly red hair that escaped in unlikely tuffs from her white starched cap. She arched her back instinctively to point her small breasts to their best advantage. The steward, a lanky lad with arms like sticks, paid her no heed.
Lavinia’ guarded the clothes in her care like they were the crown jewels. When she had children and grandchildren of her own she would be able to brag about her service to the most popular noblewoman in the land. Lavinia dreaded that random misfortune might interfere with her service. Unfortunately, her apprehension was warranted.
The dreaded mischief arrived from an unsuspected source, as mischief tends to do. And it arrived fast. It originated at the far edge of the courtyard with Albert, eight-years-old and muddy-fingered, because he was bored with being apprentice to his father the blacksmith on so fine an English morning.
Dangling a fragrant bit of jerky, Albert enticed Scratches, a barn cat with six spunky kittens, to come close enough for Albert to grab her. He instantly ignited her tail with a candle lighted for just that purpose. With eye-popping feline fury, smoke billowing from her tail, Scratches catapulted so high up into the air that Lavinia thought the cat might actually take flight. Lavinia surveyed the howling apparition closely, prepared to throw herself atop the laundry to protect it should the cat’s inevitable descent endanger the precious lace clothes in her keeping. She tracked the caterwauling creature’s sky bound arc and prayed for a happy ending, but feared the worst.
*****
That same fine morning the Duke of Lancaster’s daughter, Lady Philippa, had sneaked away from her entourage to gallop gloriously solo through the emerald-toned primeval private forest that surrounded Lancaster castle. She savored the few delicious moments alone, away from bodyguards and staff, as she leaned forward on Fleet, her surefooted stallion, his ear turned toward her breath and her whisper. Fleet was warm and muscular. He flew down the trail like the wind. The plumes in his bridle undulated as though yet attached to preening birds dancing to entice their mates.
She and Fleet moved as one. They whipped between the yews, under the oaks, past yellow forsythia and fragrant lavender. They hightailed it past hazels, hawthorns, junipers and scots pines, around downy birches, crack willows and wych limes. She felt as primal as any fern, as determined as every oak, and as full of yearning as a sapling fighting for a space in the sun. Philippa dashed as though she could speed up her life.
For a few moments she became Diana, goddess of the hunt, reincarnate. Her long russet hair tumbled wild and free. Her longbow was slung over her shoulder and her jeweled quiver half filled with arrows. She dreaded meeting the King of France because she believed reports that he as too young and unhealthily unstable for a match. She imagined that she was already married to a king who adored her, who awaited her in his castle as she arrived breathlessly across the moat, who rushed to sweep her into his arms as she jumped down from Fleet’s back, who kissed her hello and declared his joy to see her. It was a fantasy. But if she could imagine it, could it not happen? She savored the image and then gulped the terror she felt about her future. What if she never found a King? What if she became an old maid shuttled around her brother’s courts, a childless failure, excessive baggage that was laughingstock? Moreover, how could she fool herself into thinking that love would be a part of any match she made?
Angry with herself for nurturing a fool’s paradise, Philippa pointed Fleet to hurl toward her father’s castle, the flags and pennants that flicked its turrets, Lancaster blues and reds. The young duchess and her steed clattered into the kitchen courtyard. The spell of the forest shattered under the clothesline of lace.
Philippa’s interlude of solitude ended as abruptly as it had begun. She was late. It was to be another busy day crammed with legions of people, servants, supplicants and guests, another day unmarried with no prospect in sight.
*****
The screeching cat was a surprise. Ablaze, it etched a trail of dark smoke descending from its odyssey toward the clouds, directly down toward Philippa. It arrived as though it had hung in limbo, waited for her to ride in and rescue it. It writhed and plummeted to handy snatching distance. It was a serendipitous end to a howling sojourn.
Dexterous and quick, she made an easy save. She smothered the cat’s flames inside her cloak as she leapt from Fleet’s back. She sped to the well and doused the blackened tail of the furious feline in a bucket of water.
Scratches was well named. The poor cat clawed herself ferociously from Philippa’s grip and sped high up a tree. Philippa looked aloft into the cat’s furious feral eyes, before it turned its complete attention to licking its burnt tail.
Philippa rinsed her scratched bloodied hands. Her cloak still smoldered. Out of the corner of her eye, Philippa noted that a boy, the culprit no doubt, skedaddled. When Philippa turned to ask about him, the two tidy laundresses who were washing her personal laundry were open-mouthed and goggled-eyed. Being royal could be burdensome, surrounded by staff that viewed her as more than human. Philippa sighed.
“Where’s the boy who did this?” she asked the older of the two laundresses, a pert redhead who resembled a rooster. The girl was rendered speechless by Philippa’s attention.
Philippa raised her eyebrows, queried the second with a nod. “Mi…Milady. He’s Albert. The smith’s son,” the maid replied.
“Your name?” said Philippa. She liked the frank clear brown eyes of the maid, in her mid-teens. The girl had her wits about her.
“Lavinia.”
“Fetch Albert, Lavinia. I have better things to do than save cats.”
Lavinia darted around the corner and returned dragging Albert by his ear. Grimy with unkempt hair, he looked like he dreaded the whipping he deserved. He was momentarily mesmerized by snarls from Scratches in the tree above. The cat’s contempt was so great that even from a distance Albert recoiled.
Philippa kept her amusement well concealed. “Do you know the punishment for what you’ve done?” she demanded.
Albert quaked so hard that his teeth chattered. “All the boys do it for sport.”
“Since when?”
“Father told me about it when he came back from Brittany. The French burn all their cats.”
“One more good reason the French are our enemies,” snapped Philippa. “Did you plan to eat the cat for dinner?”
“No, Milady! Cats go crazy when we set their tails on fire. Run in circles until they die. Then they are too charred to eat.”
“I forbid you to kill for sport,” declared Philippa heatedly. As she delved into her pocket Albert flinched. He no doubt expected a lashing.
He was a child. He could learn. Philippa handed him a half-farthing. “I’ll pay you a coin for each cat you save, every time you stop a boy from setting a cat afire.” Albert’s relief was so great Philippa had to restrain a smile. He was a good boy.
“Henceforth, you are responsible for the safety of all castle cats,” she said sternly, over her shoulder, as she headed briskly toward the castle entrance. “Don’t ever make me late again for my appointments. Moreover, should any cat burn, you’ll get a whipping.”
As Albert realized the full responsibility he was being assigned, his jubilance faded. Philippa heard Lavinia whisper to Alfred. “I’ll help you save cats. For half.”
Philippa snapped her fingers toward the stewards and they released two shiny spaniels, freshly dried, which bounded joyfully in her direction. Marjorie, her most trusted lady-in-waiting, waited for her at the door. Marjorie glowered as she pointed toward the sundial and the shadow that indicated they were off to a late start. Philippa shrugged.
*****
The defiant indifference implied in the subtle twist of Philippa’s fair shoulders, enwrapped in green silk, bespoke generations of the bluest blood in Europe. Her deft dainty shrugs indicated that, in the end, playing by the rules for her not as much of necessity as choice.
Two massive jewel-encrusted medallions proudly hung around Marjorie’s neck attested to her distinguished career serving the highest in the land. She had served not one but two English queens. That service, to Philippa’s grandmother and great grandmother, had well acquainted her with patrician gestures of indifference. In her sixteen years tending to Philippa, serving first as tutor then as her major domo, Marjorie had come to realize that the shrugs were a part of Philippa’s nature. Albeit, they were not Marjorie’s favorite aspect of her ward.
Marjorie walked Philippa across the castle at a trot. Felicity, a young energetic lady-in-waiting, whose pink cheeks matched her pink dress, trotted behind.
“Lucky cat,” Marjorie said to Philippa.
“Lucky catch,” Philippa admitted.
“That too. We’re late.”
“The hunt.”
“Always the hunt. Always late.”
“Is brother Henry coming?” asked Philippa.
Marjorie hated to answer. Philippa’s young brother was heir to all the titles and wealth of the duchy and reportedly would make Lancaster Castle his own someday, to the complete exclusion of Philippa. He had never discussed his plans face-to-face with Philippa, but permitted gossips to break the news instead.
“Well?” queried Philippa.
“No word,” said Marjorie. She could see in Philippa’s expression what she was thinking: Time was running out. Philippa needed to find a suitable duke or king to marry, or she would be relegated to live in a small manor in the English countryside, far removed from the rivers of people and ideas that flowed through the house of a man with power, as in this house of her father, the Duke. Philippa would inherit no influence of her own. And, her days in her father’s palace and castles were numbered.
*****
They rushed under the ivy-covered loggia around the courtyard and entered the back palace stairs, chiseled from grey granite worn round and lower in the middle by millions of trudging footsteps over hundreds of years. Marjorie took Philippa’s cape. She examined the smoke damage from the cat and tsk-tsk-ed as she handed it over to Felicity.
“Tell me about my day,” Philippa asked Marjorie as they entered the bustle of the main castle corridor lined with life-sized portraits of Lancaster ancestors. Filled with hurried staff, lolling visitors, nervous supplicants and local farmers who wanted simply to ogle, the hallway traffic was more like a public street than a dwelling. Those who recognized Philippa bowed, gaped and gasped.
“The mapmakers await. The bishop will disapprove that you invited them,” said Marjorie.
“The bishop can’t see beyond the end of his greedy little nose. He should realize that the more gold England gets, the more he can ship back to the Pope. Consider the profits we could make if we trade directly with India. We could be richer than Venetians…”
“You’ll get to tell the bishop directly when he shows up unannounced tomorrow or the next day. He always does, you’ve noted, when he thinks you’ve committed heresy,” said Marjorie.
Philippa formed an almost imperceptible shrug. Marjorie repressed a smile. The bishop was no match for the queen’s granddaughter. “I haven’t told you the rest of your day,” she said.
“Tell me the good parts first,” said Philippa, pausing to permit Felicity to adjust a ribbon in her hair, tug the folds of her green silk gown into place.
Marjorie pulled Philippa gently forward by the arm. “Lunch with Geoff Chaucer. Vespers with John Wycliff.”
“Master Geoff will make me clever. Friar John will make me pure of heart.” They were two of Philippa’s favorite intellectuals supported by her father.
“But after lunch you adjudicate nasty real estate disputes. All afternoon. Two farmers claim ownership of the same hill. The next argues for access to a river. The next involves an inheritance, a farm,” Marjorie continued. Philippa grimaced.
“The Earl of Hainault is guest of honor at the evening banquet,” Marjorie continued.
“Cousin Hans is a bloody bore. Seat me far away, next to someone witty,” Philippa said.
“You have to host, in your father’s chair. Hans will be next to you. There’s no escape,” said Marjorie.
“Seat the Bishop next to the cartographers,” suggested Philippa. “That guarantees a heated debate, should bring a little life to the dinner table.”
“Too heated, mayhap?”
“Seat Chaucer between them. He’s a natural diplomat.”
Marjorie’s admiration must have shown on her face because Philippa giggled. “Even Cousin Hans can’t make this group boring,” Philippa said victoriously.
*****
Down the busy passageway on the street level of the castle, Marjorie and Philippa passed a priest going the other direction. He was about 30 years old, sturdily built. Dressed in a dusty brown cassock, his hair in a tonsure, he walked with vitality and confidence.
He looked like no ordinary priest. Philippa locked eyes with him.
She noted something regal, almost defiant, in the thrust of his shoulders and the way he moved. His eyes were dark. His nose was exotic, long and slender. His lips were full and friendly like a cherub. As Philippa paused to look back at him, he turned to stare at her. Her dogs ran over, tried to sniff his crotch. She summoned them back to her side. They left the priest reluctantly. Philippa would have begun a conversation with him if she had her way. His contemplative gaze must have rested on many a sight. Why did so many attractive young men become priests?
Philippa felt he wanted to ask her a question. “Do you seek someone or something?” she asked the stranger, in Latin since he was a monk.
“I seek divine intervention,” he said. Had he not appeared completely solemn, she might have laughed. But his serious demeanor indicated mirth would not be embraced.
“Omnipotent?” she asked. “Or would partially angelic suffice?” She thought she saw a hint of a smile.
“Good question,” he responded, and seemed to give it thought. “Incarnate,” he said. “Do you know where I will find the Duke?”
“If he’s in the castle, he’ll be in the main receiving hall,” she pointed. “Would any other person do?” she asked. “His daughter sometimes receives visitors in his place.” She ignored Marjorie’s grimace at her forwardness.
But her advance seemed to have missed the priest completely. “It’s the Duke I seek,” he said.
“To the disappointment of those mere mortals who pass you in the hall,” Philippa said. Marjorie yanked her arm, pulled her forward. Philippa turned reluctantly.
“You have no time for banter,” chastised Marjorie.
“Can’t you put him on my schedule?” Philippa said. “He looks interesting.”
“He’s a priest. Have you no shame?”
Marjorie paused outside the heavy wood doors and pulled a tiara from her pocket. Philippa positioned it on her head in preparation to enter her chambers where guests waited. Marjorie folded Philippa’s sash so that a smudge was hidden. Felicity tidied Philippa’s hair. “Silk wasn’t made to be worn to a hunt,” Marjorie chided.
Philippa shrugged, and then approached her liveried doormen who bowed as they flung open the massive doors carved with lions and roses.
*****
Marjorie enjoyed the way Philippa entered a room. She exuded a mysterious energy that entranced everyone around her. She swept in. She had an impeccable innate sense of timing, a brief pause to let everyone notice she was there and to let the news travel the room. She paused until the musicians suspended their play, until all conversation halted mid-sentence. Then she drew herself tall and smiled just enough to acknowledge everyone. She was granddaughter of the king, daughter of the richest noblewoman in England, God rest her soul. Breeding showed.
Philippa’s private receiving room was filled with awaiting guests, relatives and servants. The salon was long with a towering ceiling and huge windows that faced the front courtyard of the castle. Flemish tapestries with unicorns and grey hounds back-dropped silver urns jammed with yellow roses. Maids in starched aprons served tea and fragrant cinnamon apple cakes to visiting relatives, minor nobles from other parts of Europe. They gossiped at one end of the room. A flautist played lilting English folk songs. The air was redolent with the combined scents of cinnamon and roses.
When Philippa first entered, the action in the room froze for several heartbeats. Then, as on cue, everyone bowed, some to the floor. Philippa nodded toward the musicians to resume mid-note where they had left off.
Marjorie beckoned forward an entourage of robed men in scholar’s robes, scarves and jewels indicating their position and achievements. A plump Majorcan, 45, wearing a yarmulke, with astute brown eyes, was apparently in charge since he stepped forward to greet her. Philippa clasped his hands cordially in hers. She smiled with the fresh and dazzling warmth that without exception melted the reserve of first time guests. He was no exception.
Philippa ooh-ed when the cartographer, Ibrahim, pulled out a large world map, painted on canvas. It was the famed Catalan Atlas, updated. China was drawn as described by Marco Polo and Africa from the experiences of seasoned Arab traders. The map showed all the ports where the Venetians shopped.
“I am not to be disturbed,” Philippa announced to her liveried guards.
Marjorie seated herself before her embroidery stand, set up as usual nearby and holding an altar cloth she was completing. She happily picked up her needle to resume sewing intricate lilies of the valley and ivy. Busy fingers contributed to her clarity of mind.
Philippa was enrapt as the cartographers explained their map. When other of her dogs wandered in, she fed them treats and ordered them to lie down. When a puppy sucked on the train of her gown, she swooped it up and patted its belly. But she never took her eyes off the cartographer except to turn to Marjorie. “There’s nothing that prohibits us English from sailing to all these places.”
Ibrahim smiled. “There are obstacles, but none insurmountable.”
*****
Thomas, a handsome young guard at the door, cleared his throat conspicuously.
Marjorie beckoned him to enter. He crossed the room and whispered into her ear about an exiled noble seeking safe haven. Just as she dismissed him, bells rang in the courtyard. Philippa was running late again. Marjorie pointed to a sundial on the wall.
As she arose signaling her audience was over, Philippa did not try to hide her disappointment from the cartographers. They smiled at their beautiful hostess as they stepped backwards toward the door. They bowed deeply and, it seemed, from the heart.
*****
“A Portuguese noblewoman asks to see you. She seeks sanctuary,” Marjorie announced.
Thomas escorted in three people, dressed as ragged priests, hoods pulled low.
A tall slender dark-eyed woman threw off her robe. Her dark lustrous hair looked like it had been chopped off with a knife. She was dressed in the expensive silk leggings and tunic of a squire. “I am Ana de Baccaranza, Baroness of Portugal. My family was slaughtered by the Castilians,” she pronounced in accented throaty French. “Our estates have been usurped. My mother and sisters hanged themselves.” She gulped back a primal sob, but swiftly regained her composure. “Father was murdered.”
She unscrewed the handle of a jeweled sword. Inside was a cavity, the contents of which Ana emptied onto a table. Some jewels and a ring rolled out. She pulled it on and flashed it so they could see.
Marjorie examined it, and then nodded affirmatively. “I recognize your father’s ring. It was my privilege to sit across the table from him at several banquets at Windsor Palace. He was a brave man, a gentleman,” Marjorie attested.
At Ana’s nod, the two men with her shrugged out of their cassocks. They were fine strapping men in matching uniforms, wine velvet leggings and purple leather tunics clasped with silver buckles, clearly elite bodyguards. “It’s a pleasure to welcome a Baroness disguised as a monk disguised as a boy. My castle is your castle,” welcomed Philippa. Ana bowed deeply. Her bodyguards bowed flat on the rich Persian carpets.
As Thomas escorted them out, Lucy, a new lady-in-waiting, appeared at the salon door. “Ahem,” she said. Marjorie scowled. Lucy, a pale 18-year-old third cousin of Philippa, fresh from Ghent, had come to work for Philippa, to improve her French and her chances for a noble marriage. Marjorie had instructed her (as she did all the ladies-in-waiting) that waiting was the key part of the title. Don’t disturb the young duchess. Wait until you are acknowledged.
Lucy ahem-ed again and flushed bright red. She looked one sniffle away from tears. Marjorie took pity and nodded.
”A Slovenic knight awaits downstairs. He has a marriage proposal,” Lucy blurted.
“What knight dares ask to marry me?” thundered Philippa.
The guards at the door questioned Marjorie with their eyes. Should they admit the knight, or the two waiting solicitors who had previous appointments? “Wait,” Marjorie told them. Then, to Lucy, she said, “The knight has no appointment today. The Duchess is fully booked. She’s behind schedule because of the Baroness.”
“He’s tall and good-looking,” Lucy persisted.
“Aren’t they all?” sniffed Philippa, still held rapt by the atlas the cartographers had left behind.
“He smells of garlic, his saddle and his horse,” said Lucy.
“The garlic is a nice touch,” said Philippa without lifting her eyes.
“The knight bears the proposal of a Count Bertrand, whom he serves.” Lucy twisted a handkerchief around her fingers and sniffed as though tears were collecting in her nose.
“A mere Count!” said Philippa. “Stonehenge will rot before I marry so far beneath my station. Nothing in Slovenia could interest me.”
Lucy inhaled a sniffle as a tear escaped down her cheek. Philippa capitulated. “Don’t fret. Bring the smelly fellow up. Lady Marjorie will meet with him. I shall withdraw to the chapel.”
“You can pray for a King to appear,” said Marjorie.
“That,” said Philippa, “will require a miracle.” She set the puppy in her pocket. Arms extended, she carried the map before her, engrossed. She whistled to the other dogs to join her as she entered the small private chapel at the end of the room. “The dogs can join me in prayer,” she said. “Perhaps more prayers will garner more divine attention.”
“Sacrilege is not a queenly virtue,” warned Marjorie. Marjorie knew Philippa flaunted her irreverence to annoy Marjorie. The young noble had Marjorie’s number.
““Queenly virtues are of little use since I’m far from being anyone’s Queen, Heaven help me,” said Philippa as she snapped the chapel door shut behind her.
*****
As a rule, knights possessed an inherent arrogance that overwhelmed any sexiness they might possess. Marjorie found Heinrich was no exception. He was about thirty, dressed in brown leather, a strapping man. He stomped in through the door and leisurely ogled the opulent fabrics, the silver. He was a genuine hick.
A stink wafted in with him. Marjorie shielded her face with one hand, wrinkled her nose, and sniffed the aromas that clung around him like flies to honey. “My master instructed me to meet with the Duke,” he said officiously. She knew he felt meeting with a woman was beneath his image of majesty. He had been on his horse too long, too high up, she ascertained.
“The Duke is at Windsor Castle with the King,” she explained. It was a lie. The Duke was trysting with his mistress Katherine. They were picnicking that day in a meadow adjacent to a heap of rocks that 400 years ago had been a Norman fortress.
“Then I should speak to the gentleman in charge,” persisted Heinrich, a heavy emphasis on the word “gentleman.”
“Duchess Philippa is in charge.”
“Most irregular.”
“In any case, she is not available. She is at her midday prayers.”
“A pious woman. That is most admirable. Who is next in charge?”
“I, Lady Marjorie, Lady-in-Waiting to the young Duchess, formerly in similar service to Queen Philippa. Before that, to Queen Isabella.” Marjorie had served Philippa’s great grandmother and grandmother before Philippa’s father, the Duke, had pleaded for Marjorie to help raise his young motherless daughter. That was sixteen years ago.
She sat ramrod straight, her chair elevated on a small platform to facilitate her looking down her nose at him. She knew Heinrich had never before been as close to someone who had long lived amidst generations of power. She enjoyed the moment while he collected himself, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.
“My master, Count Bertrand of Slovenia, would be honored to discuss the possibility of marriage to the young duchess Philippa.”
He accented “young”. It was sarcasm. Philippa’s age and lack of marriage were the subject of gossip across Europe. Marjorie boiled at the insult but hid her anger behind her neutral face, the one that out-foxed Philippa at chess. Heinrich handed Marjorie a roll of creamy parchment, sealed with red wax. She cracked the wax and studied the document, which listed the Count’s titles and assets. It was most unimpressive. He was desperate for Philippa’s money.
“The Duke will consider this,” she lied. “If you would like to stay until he decides, please accept our hospitality before you depart.” Marjorie signaled the guards.
“A steward will show you to a bath,” she said as she held out her hand for him to kiss.
Heinrich walked out the door with a stomp that would have been appropriate had there been a vat of grapes underfoot.
*****
“Rude smelly Slovenian bastard,” Marjorie mumbled as she opened the chapel door for Philippa to exit, the dogs at her feet.
“I submitted both human and canine prayers. Were they answered? Did a fabulous king arrive begging me to marry?” Philippa said.
“Piety is valued in Slovenia,” said Marjorie. “Apparently so is sausage. I could smell it on that pompous oaf.”
“My prayers are for naught,” said Philippa. This time she spoke as though her prayers had been genuine. “I can marry for love, or never marry and live a happy provincial life of no consequence. Or I can find a king and live life on center stage. But either way, dear Marjorie, can I be happy? I’d be miserable living life in the provinces, married or not. But is there a king I can love?”
Marjorie’s heart ached as she tried to envision a happy life for Philippa. It was inevitable Philippa would someday be expelled from the vortex of Lancaster power and politics, forced to choose the direction of her life. If she found a king suitable for marriage, could she expect happiness too?
There was no street in the duchy busier than the public corridor of the castle. Open to the masses with only cursory inspection by the guards at the moat, it was crammed with everyone from the Duke himself to the humblest simpleton come to ogle. Marjorie felt its accessibility was one of the Duke’s best innovations. Just walking through it gave her a sense of the mood of the people. It seemed as though everyone who passed through England passed through those halls.
As she rushed along beside Philippa she took note of three pilgrims in tattered but clean sackcloth studying the ancestral portraits. One, bald and grizzled, with huge brown eyes came to a halt, turned. He stared at Philippa. He blanched, as though he had seen a ghost, or a goddess.
“The queen in my vision,” he exclaimed. He fell to the floor, prostrate in his bow, and blocked Philippa’s path. “You are real. I never knew you were real. I was looking for you. But not expecting to find you. Bless me, my goddess.”
Philippa, perplexed, stopped, since the pilgrim blocked the corridor. Other visitors paused to watch the spectacle unfold.
The other two pilgrims stared at Philippa as though she were divine. “He’s spoken of nothing else since his dream,” explained one colleague, short and skinny with a huge Adam’s apple and eyes that appeared ready to pop out of his head.
“I’ve had visions of you seated on your throne,” the monk on the floor intoned. “Night after night.” He smelled of hay. Had he slept in a barn?
The short skinny pilgrim bowed. “Dear Lady, we are monks from Edinburgh returning from three years journey to the Holy Land. I’m Friar Thomas. Friar Matthew,” he gestured toward the giant of a man on his left. Matthew’s neck was as thick as Thomas’ chest. “Friar Nigel, at your feet, has been having visions for the past year. The same one, night after night. Apparently, it was of you.”
A circle of onlookers had formed, curious. Nigel screamed, writhed. “The dreams were real. Have I been chosen?” Marjorie was alarmed. Zealots could be as dangerous as enemies. She looked down the corridor where sentries stood guard. She waved her arm and beckoned them.
“Did the dreams tell you to come here to find me?” Philippa asked Nigel.
“No. We are passing through to the North. We only came through the castle because it is on our route. But these ancestral portraits intrigued me.” He pointed to a painting of Queen Philippa, the grandmother for which young Philippa had been named, and to whom she bore an uncanny resemblance. “That is similar to my dream.”
He jumped up and slapped his face, leaving marks from his fingers. “Am I going mad?” Two sentries grabbed his arms.
“Hear him out,” said Philippa. “Let him be.”
“We mean no harm. We are men of God,” said Nigel, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Your dream?” asked Philippa.
“You, and I am certain it is you, sit on a throne. The sun shines behind you, so bright it hurts my eyes. You look golden. You are a queen and your dark-eyed king sits beside you. And, there are nine baby chicks at your feet. I count them out loud in my dream. One, two three… You smile. Then, you and a rooster sail away.”
Philippa smiled.
“It’s the same smile. It’s you. I’m sure it’s you.” Friar Nigel broke loose from Thomas and threw himself to the floor again. “Are you the queen of heaven?”
“No, she’s hardly that perfect,” said Marjorie, laughing. Her lightness touched the crowd and they laughed too.
Philippa joined in. “I’ve never been mistaken for a saint before,” she grinned.
“Not a saint. A queen,” corrected Nigel.
“Guards, show these three priests to guest quarters and offer them our hospitality for the night, a ducal respite on a courageous pilgrimage Seat them at my table this evening. I’m sure they have marvelous adventures to relate and I look forward to hearing them,” said Philippa.
Philippa’s grace was always just behind the surface, thought Marjorie. She would make a fine queen indeed. But for whom?
*****
“Do you think Nigel’s chicks meant nine children?” Philippa asked her father, astride their respective horses trotting on the pathway that circled the castle moat. They were on a sunset ride they often took together, their bodyguards instructed to lag far enough behind so that she and her father could speak in private. As a military man the Duke had learned to heed omens and trust his gut.
“Time’s running out,” he said. His daughter might have been born at the wrong time, he feared. All the good kings were already married, as were the few powerful dukes of Europe.
“You don’t have to remind me that I’m twenty-five.” She looked harried.
“I know I’m getting old.”
“You can never be Queen of England.” He reminded her. “England has plenty of male alternatives. Even your little brother Henry could yet be king. But he already has Mary Bohun for his wife, for his Queen. Henry has no need for you. And, I’m sure you’ve heard he wants Lancaster Castle for his own someday, as well as my London Palace. You’ll have to establish your own home, your own nobility, after I’m dead.”
“I’ve lived too long in the center of everything. I refuse to be inconsequential.”
“Time is not your friend. You’ve got to marry a king soon or forget the nine children of which the pilgrim dreamed. There’s only Charles of France.”
“They say Charles is demented.”
“We have to decide for ourselves. Our choices are few.”
“I’ve got high standards. I got them from you.”
“If you want to be queen, you’ll have to take any king you can get. Soon.”
“It’s humiliating,” she declared. “All Europe knows I’ve been looking. Now obscure counts in Slovenia…”
“Even Slovenia?”
“Even Slovenia. He made fun of my age.”
Her forlorn face touched his heart.
“I’ll race you,” he yelled, off to a head start. His steed was bigger, stronger, but Philippa’s horse hated to lose a race. Fleet lunged forward and won by a nose.
Philippa jumped off, hugged Fleet and pulled an apple from her pocket. Fleet devoured it with one chomp. “This is the dearest horse I’ve ever had. Fleet has so much heart,” she said.
The Duke tousled Philippa’s hair and wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they walked back to the castle, to host yet another banquet in honor of yet another distinguished guest. As long as the Duke was alive and well, Philippa was secure. Come the day he was not, she was the most useless woman in the kingdom. She had to marry well, construct her own life. She must find the perfect husband within the year. The perfect husband must be a king.
*****
Joao had accomplished the arduous journey in twenty days. To walk on his own two legs, to stand on terra firma, was a mercy. The cities he had galloped past were a blur, San Sebastian, Bordeaux, Nantes, San Malo, Portsmouth, London.
On horseback he had ample time for many prayers. One prayer had been answered during the trip across the channel from San Malo when the winds and tides had been in his favor. Another prayer had been spurned when the Duke was not in London and Joao had to ride even farther, to the castle in Lancaster on the way to nowhere but Ireland and Scotland.
Coming all this distance to plead for help was prompted by an event over two hundred years before. A story Joao learned as a boy predisposed him toward the English. There was a time in 1147 when the English had saved Portugal. Then, a large contingent of English crusaders en route to fight against the Moors in Africa were forced by a storm to seek refuge on the Portuguese coast, at the crucial moment when the city of Lisbon was collapsing under a debilitating siege by the Moors. The crusaders were a godsend. They pitched in and defeated the Moors. It was the turning point, after centuries of struggle, that forced the Moors to retreat to Africa.
The Portuguese were a generous appreciative people. Even two centuries later their gratitude was undiminished. Joao had come to beg the English to help save Portugal a second time. Hopefully, there would never be a third.
Joao gave his very last coin to the steward who guarded access to the Duke’s hall. He straightened his shoulders, pulled himself tall and spoke perfect French to impress the stewards at the door since his tattered cassock did not inspire deference.
It worked. The doormen scurried to tell the Duke that he was there. An Abbot, son of the King of Portugal had arrived on urgent business, the urgency being the survival of his battered kingdom.
Joao peered into the Duke’s great long hall, its rafters decorated with paintings of flowers and the forest. The fireplaces roared in the dark late afternoon, and there were enough candles ablaze to light an entire village for a month. Beautiful young maids in starched white hats served trays of snacks and sweets. Joao had never seen so much food, or so much silver. Who were they trying to impress?
The Duke was a commanding presence, with the face and head of a Roman Caesar and the confidence of a beloved king. He studied a map with robed academicians around him, and a lady at his side.
The damsel was none other than the russet-haired beauty, a chin like a sparrow and the huge eyes of an owl, Joao had encountered in the castle corridor. How naïve of him to assume that she was a visitor too. Now he understood what she said when she asked if he could see the Duke’s daughter instead. She had made him look like a fool. Here she was ensconced, enough jewels on her tiara to buy a small province. Someone approached her, bowed deeply. She must be the Duke’s daughter, Philippa? If so, was she privy to all the Duke’s business? Joao’s gut said that she was.
She had the Duke’s poise and carriage, his confidence in the way she surveyed those around her, but her heart-shaped face must have been inherited from her mother, a great beauty. Philippa was more appealing than anyone had mentioned. He was furious that she had toyed with him in the hall, taken advantage of his ignorance. Did she take him for a rube?
Joao shuddered. The minx Inez had been his undoing. He needed another woman in his life like he needed a dead horse.
*****
The Duke looked in Joao’s direction, and nodded for the stewards to admit him.
Joao could see Philippa assess him. Those huge eyes took his measure. He felt self-conscious that he had not bathed for days or shaved and that his eyes felt gritty from the dust and fatigue.
“I thought you were a visitor here, too,” he said her. “You seemed too...exuberant to be…”
“To be?”
He stared at her tiara and the silver urns filled with lavender behind her. How could she waste so much and not take heed? “You wanted the incarnate, not the partially angelic. Turns out you get us both,” she said, switching from French to Latin. She sounded as though she might be teasing him.
“All this,” he said. He frowned and waved his hand to indicate the sumptuousness with which she was surrounded. He disliked being at a disadvantage, a bumpkin in a rich woman’s court.
She shrugged. “You say you are an Abbott. An Abbott’s robe is elaborate. Why don’t you wear it?”
He couldn’t afford to make an enemy of her. “A monk’s anonymity is better than a dozen bodyguards. But a woman like you wouldn’t understand those things.”
“Two unannounced important Portuguese visitors in the same week. Baroness Ana just arrived. Even a mere woman like myself might deduct things are not going well in Portugal,” she said.
“Amid such comfort, you yet inquire of the rest of the world?” He felt reckless. Surely his request to the Duke would not be crossed by this spoiled noblewoman’s interference.
“Those not confined to monasteries might agree that comfort is not a bad thing,” she said. He was certain that she was being condescending. Fair enough. After all, had he not
criticized her wealth? “Is poor Portugal yet independent?” she continued.
“It’s independence or death,” he said.
“You sound more soldier than priest,” said the Duke, also in Latin.
“Not by choice. There’s no one else left in Portugal to lead,” admitted Joao.
“You’re the last natural son of the king? Your mother was the Galician mistress?” said Philippa. “All the others are dead, if I recall. So there’s only you now.”
How could she know so much about his country, he wondered. She couldn’t have been forewarned of his arrival, yet she knew much about his kingdom. She couldn’t possibly be informed about everyplace. Could she?
Joao glanced at the cartographers. He had met them before in Braganza. It was they who first suggested that the Duke might help Portugal. They were surprised to see him, nodded his way with smiles. “You’ve met?” said Philippa.
Joao ignored her and instead replied to her father. “They suggested you might be interested in a further alliance with Portugal.”
The Duke chuckled, looked at Philippa fondly and returned to speaking French. “Actually, it’s my daughter who invited the cartographers. She is the adventurous one. I am more of a fighter myself.”
Joao couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He hated himself for feeling useless in the presence of women. A woman, calm and assured, like Philippa, was painful to experience.
“You’re here for a reason other than pacing the castle hallways,” the Duke prodded.
“Men,” blurted Joao. He could not bring himself to meet the Duke’s eyes when he added very quietly, “Gold.”
“We’re already cordial with Portugal,” said the Duke.
“We need more support. Portugal and England have a common enemy. France,” said Joao. “The filthy Normans ally against us with the Castilians to obliterate our kingdom. You have already won major battles in France. Send your men to defeat French in Portugal too.”
“Meet me here tomorrow. Same time,” said the Duke. He nodded curtly. Joao had been dismissed. Philippa had already turned back to her scholars as though Joao had never been there. He deserved that, didn’t he? Hadn’t he been rude to her? But then, hadn’t she been rude first? Damn women.
“Let me show you to guest chambers,” the steward said to Joao. “We’ll prepare a bath for you and wash your clothes. The Duke will expect you at his table tonight.” Joao followed meekly. Why did the mere presence of a wealthy worldly woman turn him into a sniveling fool?
CHAPTER THREE
Philippa signaled her stewards as she veered away from the hunting party in the forest for a few quiet moments alone, on a trail she rarely rode. The mist was fresh. The air was brisk. The bright sky transformed the raindrops on the ferns into miniature prisms. Philippa whispered sweet nothings to Fleet, just for the joy of it. Her stewards knew she craved solitude in the forest, that she would not venture far or into harm’s way.
She let Fleet run fast and wild. His own strength became an extension of hers. His energy was an outlet for her own. She ducked low, hugged his neck. After a decade together, they rode as one. Suddenly there was a low branch of a yew tree. “Watch out,” she warned, more for herself than Fleet.
Fleet looked up just as a snake dangled down from the branch before his face. Fleet deftly sidestepped it. But, looking up, he failed to look down, missed seeing a deep hole in the muddy trail. His front hoof slipped into it.
There was a gruesome CRACK, and Philippa’s scream followed. She knew the hideous breaking sound was of her steed’s leg. It was a nightmarish sound that would jolt her out of sleep for years to come. The horse bravely kept his balance on three teetering legs and looked back at Philippa, tried to nudge her off. She leapt free just as Fleet crashed away from her to the ground on his side. His last thought had been of her safety. He would never walk again. He would not live out the day.
“Oh Fleet. Sweet Mother of God, please don’t let it be this way,” she wailed. She smelled Fleet’s blood before she saw the hideous mangled mess that had once been his foreleg.
“Oh Fleet,” she wept, cradling his head. “You’re the best I’ll ever find. Don’t leave me.”
She sat in the mud and held him and wept as his strength oozed away. He was the palfrey horse she had chosen over all others, with a gait so smooth she could ride him for hours without tiring. Fleet was smart, strong and agile, with a sweet devoted temperament. He was her choice over stronger, bigger, horses and smaller, faster horses, all the horses her Father had given her to choose from.
Since the Romans had occupied England, horse breeding had been a hallowed tradition in the land, with Cistercian monks, who kept records for centuries, the primary source for horse-breeders. Horses were integral additions to one’s immediate family, a member one could choose, like a best friend. Philippa had chosen Fleet. And, she liked to believe that Fleet would have chosen her.
Philippa could trace her own personal development from child to woman by the horses she had loved and owned. From when she was a toddler and had black and white Fell’s ponies that patiently pulled her little cart around the estates, and then with infinite patience permitted her to learn to ride upon their sturdy steady backs. Next she loved the small faithful deft Jennet she had owned as a young teen-ager. When she acquired Fleet at age sixteen, a fast sure-footed horse adaptable for speed and intelligence, it was a coming of age.
Now that age was gone. “Fleet, dear Fleet, I wanted my children to know you, to learn from you what a good horse could be,” she sobbed. Her mother had died when she was ten. Now her girlhood was gone. And the horse she had shared it with was dying.
*****
Philippa confronted the inevitable. Ignoring the mud and dead leaves stuck to her embroidered cloak, the rain dripping down her face, she stood up and took her longbow and her sharpest arrow, heavy and deadly. Made for war, its long pointed tip was carved so sharp it could pierce armor, bring down the strongest assailant or attacker. An arrow designed for an attacker, sadly, would now be used to sacrifice a creature that adored her without reservation. It would pierce Fleet’s heart and assure a swift instant death, more efficiently than her dagger could deliver. Philippa did not possess the strength to wield a knife. She did not trust its lethal accuracy as much.
Fleet watched her, trust in his eyes. He seemed to know. His trust made Philippa weep even harder.
She stepped away and took aim, but trembled so badly she had to pause. Philippa breathed deeply. She wiped her eyes and steadied herself. “I love you Fleet,” she said. “Thank you.” She pulled back with surprising strength, and released.
The arrow struck Fleet’s heart. It was a perfect shot. Fleet exhaled a final soft whinny.
Philippa dropped her bow and ran to cradle her beloved stallion’s head, to close his eyes with all the tenderness her heart could hold. She wiped her tears again and fought a long battle to regain her composure.
*****
Philippa blew her hunting bugle to summon the stewards. While she waited, Philippa listened to the rhythm of the rain on the dense canopy of leaves overhead. She and Fleet had always preferred a gallop in the rain and mud over one in the dust. It was as though he were as quintessentially English as she.
Philippa wiped her face with her lace petticoat when she heard her stewards near. They were frantic with worry. “My Lady, we have been searching,” said one who looked distraught.
“Fetch a litter to pull Fleet to the meadow for burial,” she instructed.
*****
The worst was over. Fleet was gone. Philippa was stoic as the stewards dug a deep grave. They loaded Fleet into it as gently as though he were a family member, and finally shoveled the dirt atop the grave. There was regret in every spade of earth. Philippa’s bad luck was the worst fear of every man there.
*****
Philippa delved into her pocket, where there was always an apple for Fleet, and pulled one out and placed it atop the mound. It was red and shining atop the moist black earth. “Farewell, my sweet ally, my loyal steed whose strength and gentleness are, alas, uncommon to man,” she said. She saluted.
The stewards saluted too. There was not a dry eye in the group.
*****
She heard the sound of an approaching horse, galloping toward the meadow. It was easy to recognize the thick arms and shoulders of Garrett as he cantered into view. A huge bow befitting the master archer of the land, bounced over his shoulder.
“Not Fleet!” he called.
“A snake. A muddy hole,” she said.
“Jump on,” he said and extended his arm. She grabbed it, swung up behind him. Held on tight. He lifted her hand, kissed it.
“Take me home the back way. I don’t want to see anyone for a while,” she said as she leaned her face against his neck. She smelled the rain on his clean skin. Garrett somehow was always there when she needed him.
*****
Joao, freshly shaven, still wore his brown cassock tied with a rope. But he looked rested and less emaciated as he sat across from the Duke in the great hall. He was broad shouldered and lean with powerful arms bulging under his simple robe. Reports had said that Joao was a scholar who got along well with average folk. The Duke guessed that Joao’s bright dark eyes missed little. He was brave to come all the way north to Lancaster and beg in person. Humility was an essential key to greatness, thought the Duke. And, with luck and assistance, Joao could bring greatness to Portugal and if he did he was certain to become its King.
With his daughter’s limited prospects in mind, the Duke sighed quietly as he thumped a green velvet bag filled with gold on the table. It clinked with promise. Joao looked impressed.
“What do you think of Philippa?” said the Duke.
Joao cleared his throat. The Duke waited quietly. He was not making small talk. “She’s as smart as a man,” said Joao.
“You don’t know the half of it,” the Duke replied. He opened the green bag so Joao could see the gold. “This should tide you over, feed your men.”
“Ah, I don’t know how to thank you,” said Joao. He looked stunned. Then he started to drop toward his knees. The Duke grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “If you succeed, Portugal will remain an independent country?” he said.
“Yes,” said Joao. “Portugal will withstand the damned Castilians.”
“And then you will be proclaimed King?”
“Mayhap.”
“Mayhap?”
“Probably,” agreed Joao. “Likely.”
“If you become king, you must marry Philippa.”
Joao pointed to his cassock and looked confused. “I’m a priest.”
“Then I won’t give you gold. Portugal can rot in hell.”
Joao looked disbelieving. He got up, paced along the table and shook his head. “This is moral extortion,” he said.
The Duke closed the drawstring on the bag. “Yes. Or no.”
“Break my vows?” said Joao.
“A good king’s highest vows are to his kingdom. Not the pope. Do you want the gold? Or not?”
“Philippa’s beaux are lined up across Europe. There’s no need to stoop to blackmail.”
“The gold?” said the Duke. He picked up the bag to show its weight.
“Yes,” said Joao.
“I knew you were a smart man,” said the Duke. “It’s a deal.” He shook Joao’s hand and handed him the gold. Joao clutched it and ducked his head as though he were ashamed.
Joao strode out without a backward glance. The Duke watched his stride and felt satisfied. Multiple options were essential in love, as in war. Joao was strong, decent and resourceful. He was educated, too. He was not a terrible option, but the Duke doubted Philippa would agree. She still expected it all. Would that he could provide it for her.
“Godspeed,” said the Duke as Joao walked out the door as he muttered a silent prayer that Joao might prove to be a great success and a godsend son-in-law. The Good Lord works in mysterious ways.
As he had requested, Philippa met her father at the paddock. Having heard about the tragic demise of her beloved Fleet, the Duke had organized a parade of splendid stallions for her to choose from. She shook her head in disbelief at the extraordinary selection. He must have dispatched stewards in every direction to amass so discriminating a collection of horseflesh on short notice. He provided a range of choices in the categories he knew would interest her, the most expensive, the crème de la crème. He included a few huge warhorses, destriers, powerful enough to carry a man in armor, yet quick and steady. Also, a half dozen palfreys, the horses generally preferred by English gentry for riding and hunting, smooth to ride with a quick smart step.
She surveyed the selection and hugged her father close. She had never loved him more. What would she do when he was not around? Would she ever find a husband who would care for her and indulge her more? She shook her head as though to scatter her panic about her uncertain future.
“Commit to another horse quickly after you lose a favorite,” he advised. “The sooner the better.” Her father didn’t believe in moping. Yet, it seemed somehow unfaithful to Fleet to replace him so quickly. The haste somehow diminished the importance he had held in her life.
“I should wait mayhap,” she said.
Her father understood. “You’ll never have another horse you’ll love more than Fleet,” he said. “It’s like when a man loses the woman he loves, no one else can fill the void.”
Philippa recognized that he spoke of the loss of her mother, sixteen years ago but as vivid as yesterday in his heart. “We’re not here to replace Fleet,” he continued. “We’re here to find another horse which fits your needs and disposition, which will prove stalwart and true.” Philippa hugged him again and wiped a tear away. She thought she saw a tear in his eye too.
After years astride a fine horse like Fleet, Philippa knew exactly what she wanted. She believed in chemistry, that she and her horse would like each other from the first ride.