A MARRIAGE OF LIONS extract. The first chapter.
Royal Palace of Woodstock, Oxfordshire, September 1238

Awakening to darkness in the soft feather bed she shared with her nurse, Joanna gasped as she surfaced from the grip of her dream. At her side, Mabel’s familiar, warm weight dipping the mattress anchored her to comforting, blessed reality. Grainy light from the night candle outlined the other beds in the room and the slumbering forms of the Queen’s ladies mounded like foothills before the inner chamber where the King was sleeping with his wife.

The dream was already fading, but it had been about her home at Swanscombe, and her mother – her dreams always were. Rolling on to her back, she gazed at the painted gold stars on the chamber ceiling, gleaming in the dim flicker of the candle light. Six months had passed since she had arrived at court on her eighth-year day to be raised and trained in the young Queen’s household. With scarcely a backward look, her father had left her here and returned home to his new wife and child.

Joanna had a vivid memory of touching her mother’s cold tomb slab, knowing that she lay beneath the stone, wrapped in her shroud, inches away but unreachable. The marriage vow said no man should separate a couple whom God had joined, but God himself had sundered her parents’ bond, and a new wife had taken her mother’s place and borne a son. The past, herself included, had been swept aside as of little consequence – a failed effort. Her father said a place in the royal household was a great honour and a magnificent opportunity for a daughter who possessed better connections than prospects of wealth, but Joanna knew it was because neither her father nor stepmother wanted her at Swanscombe under their feet.

Thirsty, she eased from the bed and tip-toed, agile and barefoot, around the sleepers to the flagon of spring water standing on the sideboard. Dame Willelma’s fluffy white lap dog Sausagez raised his head to watch her, and then curled around again, nose to tail in his cushioned bed.

From behind the closed inner chamber door, Joanna heard Queen Alienor’s light voice, and the King’s rumbled reply, ending on a throaty chuckle. He had visited his young wife almost every night since their arrival at Woodstock and Joanna had lost her initial shyness and grown accustomed to his presence. Her tutor, Dame Cecily, said it was the Queen’s duty to bear children now she was old enough, and King Henry’s to beget them.

Joanna liked the King. His skin smelled of roses and incense. Sometimes he would pat her head and enquire with a kindly smile how her lessons were progressing. He was always giving the Queen thoughtful little gifts and surprises and clearly doted on her. To Joanna it was a magical thing – a man who loved and paid court to his wife.

Drinking her water, Joanna noticed that the outer door was a crack open with a glimmer of light beyond, which meant that Madam Biset was at her prayers again. Perhaps she might like a drink too. Joanna carefully poured a fresh cup and, slipping into the vestibule, approached Madam Biset who was kneeling at a small table counting her rosary beads before a figurine of the Virgin Mary. Joanna’s arrival shadowed the candle flame and Madam Biset looked up, two thin, vertical lines creasing between her eyebrows.

‘Child, what are you doing out of bed in the middle of the night?’

Joanna curtseyed and held out the cup. ‘I woke up, and I was thirsty, madam. I knew you were at prayer and I thought of you.’
The frown relaxed. ‘Bless you for your kindness, child.’ Madam Biset took the drink. ‘The Queen has asked me to pray for her fruitfulness, so that she may conceive an heir for England tonight. Come, you may say a prayer with me.’ She patted the folded cloak at her side.

Joanna obediently knelt upon the cloth. Clasping her hands, she focused her gaze on the exquisite little statue. The Virgin’s robe was blue and she wore a delicate golden crown. The baby Jesus sat in her lap, one arm extended to the world. The Queen was so anxious to bear the King a son. Only this morning she had been consulting a treatise on conception from the medical school at Salerno, and tonight Joanna had helped to prepare the tub containing special herbs and rose water in which the Queen had bathed before retiring to bed with her lord.

Madam Biset implored the Virgin to grant the Queen succour and grace regarding the matter in hand, counting a bead on each plea, but suddenly stopped in mid-flow as angry shouts rang out, followed by several loud crashes that sounded like furniture being smashed.
A drunken voice roared, ‘Where is he? Where is the man who has stolen my crown? Where is the liar who calls himself king! I will cut out his beating heart and feed it to the crows!’

A man shambled out of the darkness towards Joanna and Madam Biset, his clothes in stained disarray, one leg of his hose wrinkling around his calf, exposing a hairy thigh. He swiped the air with a long knife, slashing wildly at an invisible foe.

Joanna screamed and grabbed Madam Biset’s arm.

‘You, woman, where’s the King?’ He bared his teeth and Joanna caught the stench of sour wine and vomit from his open mouth.

Madam Biset, on her feet now, pointed to the small chamber used by the clerks. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘He went in there a moment ago.’

He turned and stumbled towards the room, knife poised.

Madam Biset dragged Joanna into the bedchamber, slammed the door and rammed the draw bar across. ‘Go to Cecily,’ she commanded. ‘I will rouse the King.’

The ladies were stirring, shocked out of sleep, wide-eyed and alarmed. Mistress Roberga hurried to bring more light. Joanna ran to her bed where her nurse, Mabel, was groping for her clothes. Dame Cecily, her tutor, was already gowned and securing a veil over her long, grey plait. Sausagez dashed around the room, yapping at full volume, indiscriminately attacking ankles.

‘There’s a man with a big knife outside.’ Joanna’s voice quavered. ‘He . . . he said he was going to cut out the King’s heart. I was bringing Madam Biset a drink and he came at us out of the dark . . .’ She shuddered, remembering the gleam of the blade stabbing the air. The open, stinking mouth.

Cecily took Joanna’s cloak from the foot of the bed and swept it around her trembling shoulders. ‘Just one man?’

Joanna nodded. ‘He s-said the King had stolen his crown.’ She shrank in alarm at more violent sounds from outside the door – shouts, swearing and scuffling.

Cecily pressed Joanna’s shoulder in firm reassurance, and moved protectively in front of her. Dame Willelma had managed to grab her dog and tuck him under her arm, where he continued to lunge and yap.

Someone blasphemed outside the barred door. ‘The King will die! The King will d—’ The last word ended on a blow, a wild yell, and then a thud. Eyes wide, Joanna huddled against Cecily.

Behind them, the inner chamber door flung open and the King emerged, white-faced, a sword tightly clenched in his right hand. He had thrown a cloak over his undershirt, and his legs were bare.

Outside, a fist struck the door, and Joanna flinched. ‘Sire, madam, it is Gilbert the Marshal – we have taken the felon.’

The King gestured and the women drew the bar to admit Joanna’s uncle, Gilbert Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, a wide-shouldered man with heavy brows and watchful dark eyes. He and Henry were of a similar height, but the Earl looked taller because of his breadth.

‘Sire,’ he said, bowing, ‘we have caught and disarmed an intruder intent on doing you harm. He awaits your interrogation.’

Henry nodded stiffly. ‘How did he get in?’
‘Climbed in through your chamber window, sire – so I believe.’ The Earl pushed one hand through his thinning hair. ‘I was retiring to bed when I heard the commotion and rallied the guards. If you had not been visiting the Queen . . .’ He let what he did not say speak for itself.

Henry exhaled hard. ‘Have the rest of the palace searched – every room, every chest and cupboard. Check behind the hangings and curtains. Leave nothing to chance. Let me dress and I will speak with him. Thank God, my lord Marshal, that you keep late hours.’

‘Thank God indeed, sire,’ Earl Gilbert said, and bowed from the room.

Henry turned to the women and Joanna noticed he was shaking, just like her, and the night was not cold. Was the King afraid? But he had possessed the courage to face the danger with his sword, as had her uncle. She clenched her fists, determined to be as brave as they were.

‘Ladies, all is well,’ the King said tremulously and gestured with his free hand. ‘Our thanks are due to Madam Biset – her quick thinking has saved us all. Pray settle yourselves and return to bed when you are ready.’ Handing the sword to his squire with a grimace of distaste, he retired to the bedchamber to dress.

The hearth maid poked the embers to life and Lady Giffard set about preparing hot spiced wine to calm everyone’s anxiety.

Dame Cecily kissed Joanna’s cheek. ‘Come, child, it is over and no harm done. Indeed, we may benefit from this because we are warned now to take better precautions. There are remedies for any situation if you ask for God’s help and use the wits He has given you.’

Joanna nodded wordlessly. Fear still churned in her stomach like indigestion, but Cecily’s words comforted her.

The King re-emerged from the bedchamber fully clothed, followed by Queen Alienor, a cloak covering her chemise and her hair a loose brown cascade down her back. ‘Be careful, sire,’ she entreated, touching his arm.

Taking her hands, he raised them to his lips. ‘I promise I shall, have no fear. I will return later, and in the meantime, take succour from your ladies. Your door will be safely guarded for the rest of the night.’ He kissed her forehead and took his leave.

The Queen watched him close the door, and then with a sigh, sat down by the fire.

Cecily gave Joanna a few sips from her cup of spiced wine before sending her back to bed with Mabel. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said gently. ‘In the morning all of this will be behind us.’

Joanna climbed between the sheets, drew her knees towards her chest and faced the fire and candle light to watch the women gathered at the hearth. Listening to their low-voiced conversation as they sat over their wine, she put her thumb in her mouth – something she had not done in many weeks, but tonight she needed that security. When Sausagez leaped up beside her and curled up nose to feathery tail, she did not push him off.

‘Thank God the King was with me,’ the Queen said. ‘He might have been killed. Indeed, but for Dame Margaret’s quick wits we could all have been murdered in our beds.’

‘You should not dwell upon it, madam.’ Dame Cecily’s voice was soothing. ‘God has seen fit to preserve us all.’

Alienor gathered her loose hair over one shoulder and ran her fingers through it, rich, dark-brown in the firelight. ‘But we should not make it more difficult for God than it has to be. I will insist that my lord puts bars at all the low windows tomorrow.’

Joanna’s eyelids fluttered down. Bars at the windows. Would they too be like prisoners? In her mind’s eye she saw the man running at them again, ready to do murder, and shivered, but she remembered too Madam Biset’s swift reactions to the crisis and Cecily’s calm protection. She thought of the King holding his sword, ready to fight, although he had been afraid. She was safe in her bed, watching the women share companionship and reassurance by firelight. The lesson here was to rise to the challenge, face it, and never let fear take control no matter how scared you were.

In the morning Queen Alienor spoke to the King about fitting bars to all the low windows in the palace. Joanna’s brother, Iohan, was among the attendants of the courtiers who had gathered to discuss the night’s disturbance, and Joanna brought him a cup of buttermilk. He was eleven years old to her eight, and a page to their uncle Gilbert, Earl of Pembroke, a great and powerful lord, well positioned to advance his nephew. Iohan was heir to Swanscombe with a bright future, and he regarded Joanna with a superior air, for her prospects in comparison to his were modest and of small consequence.

‘The man Uncle Gilbert caught had already come before the King yesterday, claiming he was the true heir to the throne, but the King dismissed him as a madman to be pitied,’ Iohan said, taking the buttermilk. ‘Uncle Gilbert says he should never have been set free. He stole one of the big knives from the kitchen to murder the King and would have done so if we hadn’t arrived.’ He expanded his chest and spoke as if he had played an active part in the arrest.

‘Yes, I saw him.’ Joanna related her own part in last night’s events.

‘Well it’s a good thing we caught him,’ Iohan said, peeved at having his glory stolen. ‘We saved all your lives for certain.’

Joanna said nothing. She was learning from Cecily which battles were worth fighting, especially with males. ‘What will happen to him now?’

Iohan shrugged and drank the buttermilk, leaving a white moustache on his upper lip. ‘He’s confessed to plotting the King’s murder so he’ll be put to death. He’s going to be tied to two horses and torn apart, and then beheaded as a warning to others.’ His voice rang with relish and bravado.

Joanna shuddered at the image.

‘It does not do to be a traitor,’ he added, folding his arms and regarding her sternly. She recognised his attempt to maintain his superiority by intimidating her. She would never be a traitor in thought or deed, but it would be terrible for someone to think such a thing when she was innocent.

‘I am glad you and Uncle Gilbert are here to keep us safe,’ she said to mollify him. Words cost nothing, and she was indeed glad to be protected. Cecily said the instinct should be encouraged and directed in men.

Iohan preened and looked supercilious.

The King and Queen moved into the room from their conversation by the window and Joanna swiftly curtseyed as they crossed her path.
Henry stopped and gently raised her to her feet, tilting her chin on his forefinger. ‘An eventful night, little demoiselle,’ he said ruefully. ‘I hope you are none the worse for your ordeal.’

Joanna shook her head. ‘No, sire.’ The King’s eyes were warm blue, and the morning light made his beard sparkle like gold. He smelled of incense.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘Joanna has a sensible head on her shoulders for one still a child,’ said the Queen, who was not yet sixteen years old herself. ‘She serves me well and often runs errands for Willelma. Cecily is well pleased with her progress.’

‘Well then, continue as you are, and who knows what shall grow from such diligence.’ Henry patted her head and unfastened a delicate round silver brooch from his tunic. ‘There,’ he said, pinning it to her gown. ‘Wear it always in token of that service.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Joanna curtseyed again, overwhelmed with pleasure and embarrassment

The Queen smiled warmly and she and the King went on their way arm in arm, trailing scents of incense and flowers.

Her uncle Gilbert, following them, paused and smiled at her too, his complexion ruddy with tiny thread-veins in his cheeks. ‘I am glad to hear good news of your progress, niece,’ he said. ‘Well done, and long may it continue.’ He beckoned to his youngest squire. ‘Iohan, come with me and wipe that moustache off your lip, there’s a good lad. I’ve work for you.’

Iohan hastily scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, made a face at Joanna, ensuring that their uncle did not see, and followed Gilbert out.

Joanna looked at the shiny silver circlet pinned to her gown and with a full heart vowed to do exactly as the King commanded.