All eyes were focused on me. On William Montagu.
A quietness of expectation fell. The Bishop of London beamed at me. Not the Archbishop of Canterbury in spite of my mother’s hopes. He was persona non grata, not welcome in the royal presence as things stood.
Will turned his head, stiff-necked, to give me the glimmer of a nervous twitch that might have been called a smile, before turning to fix the Bishop with an anxious stare.
I was as cold as death. No smile. No anxiety. Nothing beneath my girdle but a grim certainty.
Indeed, my mind was empty after weeks of maternal bombardment, Philippa’s gift of silk and figured damask chill against my skin, heavy in its weight of gold tissue, eminently suitable to a princess on her wedding day. My lungs were icy as I inhaled every incense-filled breath. The only warmth was William’s hand around mine, clammy with nerves. Despite the February damp, I could see perspiration on his brow if I glanced sideways. It had, I surmised, nothing to do with the new liking for sable fur at neck and cuff and hem that gave him a marked resemblance to the monkey, an ill-considered gift from some foreign ambassador to the royal offspring.
I was standing at the altar, hemmed in by the fixed regard of congregation and of the carved saints and martyrs, my hair released into virginal purity, uncovered by veil or coif, rippling magnificently over my shoulders in bright gold, that challenged even the crucifix before which we would take our vows.
The progression of the marriage ceremony wrapped me about, heavy with portent, impossibly different from my first marriage which had been private, personal, secretive. Utterly lacking in any ceremony. Here we were trapped in formal ritual, the Bishop’s robes more bejewelled than mine. If I looked to my left Edward and Philippa were resplendent, lacking only their crowns to enhance their regality, both so young and hopeful, yet to reach their thirtieth year. Ned too was burnished beside Isabella, ostentatiously wearing her reliquary which was no more magnificent than the Salisbury livery collar that was a gift from William to me. It rested on my collarbones, the gems glinting as I breathed with hollow foreboding.
Thomas Holland, I recalled, briefly, had given me no gifts of any kind.
My mother was engorged with her success. Lord Wake merely looked threateningly fierce whenever he caught my eye, which tended to stir a note of hysteria within me. When I had made my vows to Thomas our company had also been of the raptor variety, although they had ignored us.
Countess Catherine was supported by Lady Elizabeth, clad in a vast array of ancient gems. The Earl was still absent, still sojourning as unwilling guest of the French king.
At last the Bishop turned to Will. It was as if the congregation held its breath to absorb the holy vows on our behalf.
‘William Montagu, vis accípere Joan, hic præsentem in tuam legítimam uxorem iuxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclesiæ?’
I heard Will swallow, but he did not hesitate.
‘Volo.’
He would not dare.
The space around me grew, leaving me alone and insignificant. This was it. This was the moment for my own declaration of intent.
‘Joan, vis accípere William, hic præsentern in tuum legítimum marítum iuxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclesiæ?’
I allowed a slide of eye to my mother’s austerity. I saw fear there. I had been declaring my wish to repudiate this marriage since the day she had seized hold of the Montagu proposal.
I lifted my eyes to the Bishop who was nodding encouragingly. My voice was clear and cool. No hesitation. No stammer. Had I not made my decision? I would not go back on it now.
‘Volo.’
Momentarily I closed my eyes, held my breath, anticipating the bolt of lightning that would strike me down, for surely God would judge my vow and find me wanting. Or some busy person in the congregation would decry me false.
Nothing. No flash of light, no voice raised in condemnation.
Behind me, my mother’s sigh was almost audible. Will’s hand closed convulsively around mine so that I winced a little as we exchanged an awkward nuptial kiss.
‘I wasn’t sure you would go through with it,’ he whispered, his cheek pressed to mine.
The ceremony continued. The drama had been played out, brought to its glorious, heart-stirring end by the choral offering of glory to God. I imagined most of our companions were now anticipating a warming cup of spiced wine before the overblown festivity of the wedding feast. I was the wife of William Montagu. One day I would be Countess of Salisbury. William and I would be cornerstones in Edward’s splendid court, our children securing the Salisbury inheritance for all time.
Why had I abandoned all my professed principles of honour and loyalty to the vows I had made to Thomas, rejecting at the eleventh hour all my fine words that I would never join my hand with that of William Montagu because it would be invalid for me to do so? Many would deem me weak, easily influenced, readily submitting to minds and wills stronger than my own; or to a streak of pure worldly ambition as wide as the River Thames. I could imagine the scorn at my sudden inexplicable change of heart.
Was I driven by an ambition to be Countess of Salisbury in the fullness of time? Surely it was a more advantageous future for a royal daughter to be Countess of Salisbury, rather than the wife of a mere household knight, living on a meagre income? Perhaps it was family pressure, too great to withstand, ultimately being dragged to the altar by a determined mother who issued dire threats of my being forced to take the veil if I continued in my disobedience. Or, in the end, did I just give up hope and submit to the easiest path?
It might be that many a daughter, caught out in the sin of worldly disobedience, would do exactly that.
So why did I abandon my oft-repeated intent with such glib readiness? Because in the closing days of the old year my duty had been made as clear to me as the brilliant glitter of my new collar. Thus I had walked of my own volition to place my hand in Will’s. Once more I had taken these new vows without threats.
Let the world judge me, as it doubtless would, the chroniclers dipping their pens in poisonous ink when they discovered what I had done. At best I would be deemed a pawn in the maw of family political intrigue. At worst an ambitious power-seeker, acting with cold and cruel dispassion, abandoning one husband for a better.
I cringed at the worst.
But so be it. I could keep my own counsel. Who would be interested in my reasoning? The deed was done and there was no hand to it but my own.
Let the world judge as it wished. I raised my head to acknowledge Will’s faint smile of relief, and later, as we shared a marital cup of wine, our lips matching on the rim to the murmured appreciation of the glittering aristocratic throng, there was only one thought in my mind.
I would have to face the repercussions when Thomas returned to England.
I must be strong enough to bear it.
It might be that I was now the wife of William Montagu in the eyes of God and Man and the King of England. It might be that King Edward’s cheerful beneficence was marked by his allowing my distant father-in-law to grant property to Will and myself. It might be that we had an allowance which I was able to spend on the fripperies of life. It might be that we were in possession of the manor and lordship of Mold in North Wales and the eventual reversion of the manor of Marshwood in Devon, where we could establish our household if and when we so chose; both of them too far from court for my liking.
All of that might be true, but there were few changes in my life at this time.
We did not live in our new properties; I did not even visit them. My life, and Will’s also, was still fixed at the peripatetic court wherever it decided to travel and put down