The Love Knot

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A powerful and passionate story of forbidden love set in Medieval England... Immersed in the colours and drama of medieval life, Paul Doherty's richly evocative novel, The Love Knot, combines fact and fiction to tell one of history's greatest but most secret love affairs. Perfect for fans of Philippa Gregory and Jean Plaidy. Spring, 1297. Recently widowed Joanna of Acre, loving daughter of Edward I, is pleased at her father's unexpected visit. But Edward has heard a rumour of an inappropriate friendship between Joanna, still officially in widow's weeds, and penniless commoner Ralph Monthermer. Edward, believing he has proof of a clandestine affair, immures Joanna in a nunnery and imprisons Ralph within Bristol Castle. Henry Trokelowe, Edward's clerk, stops him killing Ralph, who is allowed to live while the cold, almost passionless Henry investigates. Ralph and Joanna's only chance of survival now lies in Henry's hands, but how can a confirmed bachelor even begin to understand the all-consuming passion binding them? What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: ' The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of [Paul Doherty's] books' ' Fascinating ' ' Five stars '

Release date: November 27, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

To Ralph Monthermer, prisoner, but captor of my heart, Joanna of England sends her deepest love.

I have written my first line yet now I want to stop. I will surely die if I do not see your face again. I did not know my eyes could cry so many tears or my heart feel so cold without you. I think only of you, I dream only of you, I desire only you. I gave my life to you as soon as I saw you. I was born to be yours. I have spoken my passion to you. My eyes are witness to it. My heart sings of it. My soul treasures it. Now my hand writes it, yet poorly so, for true love and deep passion have no words. I am lost in the valley of the restless mind. My life is clouded by your absence. Oh, I miss you! Only the fierceness of your passion, the sweet kiss of your lips can release me. I would give up everything I am, everything I was, everything I shall be, for just one more day with you.

I am Joanna, Princess of England, daughter of the great Edward, Countess of Gloucester, a seigneur in my own right, but I would surrender it all to be with you. I have taken your love. I have it within me. Your life is now mine. My soul follows yours. Our lives are entangled, never to be separated. Your very shadow is more pleasing to me than the fullness of the air. I wake with you. I live with you. I dream with you. I am no longer myself but a new creation. I am not what I was but what you have made me. To be parted from you, to be kept prisoner from your presence, dulls the most fiery preacher’s description of Hell.

Yesterday, just before midnight, I woke from a sweat-soaked sleep. My heart knew new terrors. Were you alive? Were you suffering? Were you thinking of me or lost in your own dreams? I floundered upon my bed, casting about for you, but there was nothing, only the creak of ancient wood, the distant sounds of the convent, the scurry of mice and the faint call of some night bird echoing from the great oaks which ring the convent. I never dreamt this silent, hallowed place could hold such terror. To be alone is to be dead! To be separated from my beloved is to be in Hell. I could not sleep. I opened the shutters and looked out on the same sky you must stare up at. The moon was full. Below me lay the cloister garth, its grass drenched in a silver light.

I pretended you were there, waiting for me as you have often waited for me. I could bear it no longer. I left my chamber and slipped down the stairs. Old Mother Beatrice, the porter, snored in her wine-sodden sleep. The door to the gardens was unlocked. The air was cold but I was warm, pretending you were with me. I walked across the grass. All around me danced the shadows of the cloisters. I ignored them. In the centre of the garth grows a rose bush, its tangled greenness protected by spikes. At the top bloomed one red rose, its petals open to the full moon. I touched it gently and remembered the rose you dropped in my lap in the love-knot garden at Westminster. One simple touch and I was back there. My mind was filled with colour. The sun’s warmth thawed the chill in my heart and I was looking up into your smiling eyes. Around us the court swirled like a coloured river. On that day I felt a ripple of flame course through my soul, which rages more fiercely every day.

I sat by my rose and cried again. I clawed at the earth for what I once had and what I now miss. I prayed, then I laughed because, from the convent stables, a horse whinnied – an eerie sound on the cold night air. I opened my eyes and, believe me, all had changed. Before me stretched the tournament ground at Wallingford with its coloured barrier of taffeta and gorgeous cloths and the silken pavilions of my father and his barons. Pennants and banners, scarlet and gold, kissed the breeze and fluttered bravely. The final joust was about to begin. Father held my hand. I dared not look at you lest my eyes played the Judas to my heart. Oh, I felt your eyes on me. Even from where I sat I could sense you and touch, yet again, the token of love I had secretly given you.

On that day of all days, I kept my eyes down, my lips closed. The trumpets sounded, the heralds shouted and threw their staffs into the air.

‘Joanna!’ my father exclaimed. ‘Look now, Monthermer is ready!’

I glanced the other way, at your opponent Humphrey de Bohun, waiting at the far end of the lists, gorgeous in his armour and brilliant display of banners. A squire was offering him his tilting helm, on its top the carving of a boar’s head. Its tusks gleamed cruelly in the sunlight and I became afraid. You were waiting at the other end, the champion of my heart, preparing for the final run. A trumpet brayed, or was it more? I cannot remember. I closed my eyes. I could hear the drumming hooves as you and de Bohun closed. The beat of hooves grew so loud I wondered if it was my heart. My father exclaimed and shook my hand. I still held his and my nails were digging deep into his calloused skin.

‘Joanna,’ he whispered. ‘What is the matter?’

I opened my eyes and held his gaze even at the clash of arms and the shrill neigh of the horses. My eyes betrayed me. My father knew. Yet at the time he did not look angry but sad; his light-blue eyes filled with tears. Gently he freed my hand.

‘He has won,’ he said. ‘Your Ralph has won.’

I looked up. You were before me, seated on your horse. Your battered shield hung from the saddle horn, the visor of your helmet was up. The victor, the King’s own champion! I knew what was coming. My eyes begged you to be careful but how could you know? The victor’s crown, the laurel wreath, was on the tip of your lance. I prayed to all the saints I knew and even those I did not. But what can stop love except love itself? The lance came down towards me, the chaplet of flowers on its tip. You wished to crown me queen of the tournament.

I could not move. It is not that I lack courage or the passion to love. I just found myself trapped, my arms turned to stone, my fingers heavy as lead. Father moved. He plucked the chaplet from your lance and placed it on my head. Oh, everyone cheered but I saw Father’s eyes and I blushed. I, Joanna, Princess of England, Countess of Gloucester, blushed like a novice nun. My cheeks burned. My heart throbbed.

God knows, that day you captured it completely. I have never told you this before because you may have mistaken me. It was not fear of the King or what he might do. No, from that moment I knew that my love was the only thing that mattered. And so the die was cast.

Last night the cold breeze eventually dispelled my vision. All that was left was a lonely moon-washed cloister and a red rose stretching up to the sky, like I reach out to you. I moved closer to my rose. I ignored the thorns and kissed its soft, sweet petals. I whispered to it, as I would whisper into the ear of your heart, how much I loved you. I kissed that rose and prayed the breeze would carry my message to you.

I have not been able to write before. Let me tell you about my prison. The convent of St Mary at Malmesbury rests among quiet woods and serene fields. It is not really a prison, more a place of refuge; the real pain is being separated from you and deep fears for the future. The convent’s Abbess, the Lady Emma, has eyes of ice and is as formidable as any bishop. She treats me with cold courtesy. She grudgingly acknowledges my status but leaves me in no doubt of my present position. I am in her charge, subject to her rules and discipline. She smiles with her lips but her eyes remain constant in their frostiness. We share wine, nibble on marchpane, discuss the doings of the convent or the gossip from the court, little else. I do not blame her. She is under strict orders from the King. I have decided to play the part and hide my passion. I give her no cause for concern. She does not hear the terrible roaring in my heart. She knows nothing of those dark days after I was plucked from your life by soldiers in armour: the rasp of steel; the glowing pitch torches in shadowy stairwells; the whispered commands and the harsh orders. The chill night air froze my skin as I was bundled onto a horse and hurried along midnight roads. So, I am modest and moderate here. A woman coming to her senses, rather than one who has lost all reason and finds life robbed of meaning. The Lady Abbess patronises me and doles out news like she would bread to the poor. I have learnt how you, too, were taken and brought to Bristol Castle. I pray God my father treats you gently.

I am sorry if you think I betrayed you. I did not. I write to tell you of my love but also to confirm that our great secret is safe. It is locked fast in my heart. No lawyer, clerk, priest or knight will ever prise it loose. So, I beg you, whatever happens, sharpen your wits. Do not tell anyone what we both treasure. Do not betray me or my father’s rage will know no bounds. It will mean exile, even death for you, and if you die, I will live no longer. I write now urgently, my quill skims across the parchment. I use the cipher known only to us, the secret way I taught you, not only to send my love but to warn and advise you what has happened.

Since my arrival at Malmesbury I have reflected on how it all began. Spring is now well gone but it was winter, the snow was falling, when my father, the King, arrived at Tonbridge. He arrived unexpectedly, the way he always does, banners flying, horsemen around him. The great Edward of England sitting high in the saddle, staring down at me as he used to when I was a child and Mother told me to offer him the posset cup before a day’s hunting. His murrey tunic was coated with mud and the trackway dirt caked his boots and clogged his spurs. I met him in the castle bailey. Oh, thanks be to God, you were not there! Father came just before dawn, his heralds thundering across the drawbridge, shouting, ‘The King, make way for the King!’ I was in my chamber, Alicia behind me dressing my hair. I grabbed a fur and wrapped it about my shoulders. Alicia looked terrified, face pale, eyes dark and round. I pressed my finger against her lips.

‘Hush!’ I said. ‘The only traitor here is fear.’

Poor Alicia! God knows what has happened to her. When they took me I screamed her name. I have written to my father to punish me, if he thinks fit, but not my servants. On that mist-filled morning Alicia thought the same as I, that the King had come to trap me, but Father is not like that. He would not tiptoe up the stairs and stand like a pimp outside my chamber door. By the time I reached the bailey I felt guilty at such a thought. Edward of England stared down at me, and my guilt only deepened. He looked older, his face more lined and marked. The golden moustache and beard which, when I was a child, he used to brush against my face to make me squeal, were faded and streaked with silver. His great hand came down and cupped my chin.

‘Joanna,’ he smiled. ‘I am here and I am freezing in the saddle.’

I remembered myself. I knelt and kissed his hand. He urged me up and then dismounted, quick and agile as any young squire.

Does he know? I wondered. Had his spies been busy? Since Wallingford he had never looked askance at me but, at that moment, my heart skipped a beat, my belly quivered. I froze from a frost which came from within rather than the cutting dawn breeze. Does he suspect? His eyes held mine then drifted away. I glanced around. My dead husband’s two black crows, Tibault the seneschal and Ricaud the priest, were standing like harbingers of doom on the steps of the keep.

‘Father, you are most welcome,’ I said and kissed him on the cheek.

The King changed in the twinkling of an eye. He gathered me up in a gust of sweat, perfume and leather.

‘In widow’s weeds,’ he whispered. ‘The Lord be my witness, Joanna, you remind me of Eleanor.’

‘You still grieve, Father?’

‘Not a second passes,’ he murmured before releasing me, ‘not a beat of the heart but I remember her.’ He stood back and looked at me from head to toe. Then he clapped his hands. ‘But we are here among the living,’ he roared, grinning at his retinue. ‘I have come to enjoy myself with my daughter.’

And so he did, as of old – except these days he cares little about his appearance. He rarely changed his clothes and never washed but rose before dawn in whatever he was dressed in, and went down to the castle chapel where Ricaud said the Mass as usual. Father would click his tongue if the priest preached too long, or even dictated letters and memoranda for the Chancery in London in a loud whisper to the clerk sitting next to him. He would take Christ’s body and drink his blood, then clap his hands and hasten down the courtyard to where the hunt was waiting. Dogs yapped, horses neighed, their breath rising like clouds of incense to the sky. Falconers talked softly to their hooded birds. Scullions from the kitchen served slabs of roasted meat from a platter and cups of claret heated with a red-hot poker. Father would eat as if he’d fasted for days and then he’d saddle up. Even then he would be doing three things at once, checking the falcons were fine and the huntsmen had their instructions, while hurriedly dictating some letter to a red-nosed clerk. One morning he caught my eye.

‘The Scots are in rebellion!’ he roared. ‘Wallace is burning my towns! I need good men on the northern march, like young Ralph, eh?’

I stared coolly back. Father turned away and, with the hunt galloping behind him, charged across the drawbridge, down to the mist-shrouded marshes to fly his falcons against the heron and stork. Late in the afternoon he would return: another Mass, more business then boisterous feasting and drinking. I watched him, all bluster and false gaiety.

The royal baggage train arrived three days after him; with it came a gaggle of young choristers whom he was training to sing the divine chant and the psalter. Earls and barons also came to discuss the war in Scotland. They spent noisy, raucous afternoons in the solar poring over maps, drinking wine, shouting and roaring at each other. The clerks set up a chancery office high in the keep and the castle reeked with the smell of incense, burning wax, ink and the dust from scrubbed parchments.

I am so glad you were not there. Oh, I missed you! Every soul has its hymn and you are mine but I sensed danger. Edward my father may be King but he is also an actor without equal. He wandered the castle like a child at Yuletide looking for presents hidden away. He talked to this person and that, especially to those two sharp-eyed crows Tibault and Ricaud, but never to Alicia. I was fooled, like I always am. I love my father and the longer he stayed, the more his charm lulled me. We feasted and made merry every evening. My father himself went down to the kitchens, lecturing the cooks on damson quinces and almond omelettes, how to roll meat and berries in pastries, the best way to prepare fruit fritters or lace pears with carob cream. One night he pushed the cooks aside and cooked salmon in white wine sauce and poached calves with mustard slices for me and his guests. His jesters and tumblers entertained us. Tom the fool and Mathilda Make-Merry cavorted and danced for us in the great hall. The wine flowed and Father would grow nostalgic. At the end of the meal he would sit back in his chair and take my hand, like he did at the tournament at Wallingford. ‘Joanna of Acre,’ he declared one evening. ‘That’s what we called you. Look at you with your brown eyes and your blonde hair. Who’d think you were born Outre-Mer?’ He slurped his wine. I knew what was coming.

‘I nearly died there, little one. If I have told you the story before, I apologise. Your mother and I were on crusade. Eleanor was the fairest woman the Holy Land had seen, apart from God’s own Mother, and I was her warrior prince. The Old Man of the Mountains sent an assassin after me; he got through my guards and stabbed me deep with a poisoned knife. You were a child wrapped in swaddling. Your mother, Joanna, picked up a dagger, cut the wound and sucked the poison from me.’ He would drum his fingers on the table. ‘And look at you now, Joanna. The widow of a great earl.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘You had a happy life, did you not, with Gilbert the Red Earl? A good man, a stern warrior.’

Father had never loved my former husband in life so why in death? I wondered. Down memory lane he led me, and round and round like a dancer in the garden he spun me, sometimes mourning the death of young Alfonso his eldest son, sometimes reliving joyful moments with his Queen, my mother.

One night we left the hall and went up to the Chamber of Shadows in the east tower. I had never been there since that freezing December night when my late husband’s corpse was found, blue-faced and staring-eyed, at the bottom of the steps. Father talked about his death. What was Earl Gilbert doing? How was his mood? Did he slip? Who found the body? That was the only time I menti. . .