The Lord of Aquitaine
For the first time in living memory, an English king wintered at Bordeu. With him were all of his living children and Queen Philippa, all quartered in the ducal palace. The army remained in the field, led by the Earl of Kent, Thomas Holland, and laying siege to castle after castle and continuing the process of reducing the lords of France to English vassals, from the south northward. This policy had its critics, chief of which was Prince Edward, whose relationship with his father had grown strained as the prospect of battle had faded into the slogging of siege warfare. Tom Holland's selection to lead the army in winter was at least partially a concession by the elder Edward to the younger; Joan of Kent remained in Bordeu while Tom Holland brought the southern lords to heel.
The concession moved the Prince of Wales but little; at sunset, two weeks before the Nativity, he brooded in the Map Chamber of the ducal palace. The room drew its name from the wonderfully worked great table that lay at its center, a table that had been built in place, for there was no way to move it. The table must have been built in the glory days of the Duchy of Aquitaine, as it was made from ebony imported at fantastic expense from the Indies, and its surface was inlaid with a map of western Europe made of wood either stained, where possible, or painted, where stains could not produce the colors desired, rubies studding towns and cities, jet for castles, sapphires for the greatest monastic holdings, and colored glass strands marking road and river, gold and cobalt spread liberally across the table's surface. There were no labels, but it was a fantastic map nonetheless, and its creation must have cost a fortune - perhaps one of Eleanor's purchases, between troubadours and falcons. The room had been built around the table, it seemed, for leaded-glass windows dominated all four walls, giving a view out over the port and allowing in sun throughout the day.
Edward stood roughly parallel to Bordeu itself, frowning down at the map and trying to trace the armies' progress in the south. Small piles of white and black pebbles dotted the map, estimates of the French and English strengths, including their various allies in Brittany and Burgundy. The piles to the north were significantly smaller than those to the south, and none of the French black piles were even worth mentioning. Two gold coins sat on London - David of Scotland and Jean of France - and one here at Bordeu. The true problem, to Edward, were three piles of ugly gray marbles, apparently selected for their coarseness and irregular shapes. Two of these lay to the north, at Rouen and Evreux; the other lay here in the south, at Pamplona. These were the levies of Navarre and Normandy. Seven thousand men could have tipped the balance in the north, but Charles the Bad lay behind the gates of Evreux and waited for the English to bleed until they
needed his help.
Well, it be no matter. King Edward would like as not be in Paris before another winter came. Certainly he could not waste all his days here in the south, when there was a crown to be won? His eyes automatically slid to the large blue jewel of Rheims, northeast of Paris. They should be there even now, should indeed have been there on the feast of St. Denis, to show Paris her true king! In lieu of such sense, they tarried here in the south, winning towns and castles that would bend the knee as soon as his father were well and truly crowned. It made little sense, but the King was King, not the Prince. Such were the Prince of Wales's thoughts; he was lost in them as another figure entered the room.
She was tall, with blonde hair braided to the small of her back, with deep blue eyes made deeper blue by the gown she wore, almost matching the cobalt of the map-table's rivers. For the English court, it was a shockingly simple gown, adorned only by a chain of linked garters around her neck. She approached silently, though the prince was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not notice even when her shadow fell across the table. It was only when she touched his shoulder that he started, hand dropping to the hilt of a sword as well-worn as it was ornate. "How now, my lord?" she asked quietly as he coughed in apology. She restrained herself from smiling. It was a rare moment when Edward of Woodstock was caught off-guard.
"Joan," he managed at last, turning away from the map to face her, a smile spreading across his face despite his best efforts. "Kent is not known for its shining sun, be you certain it can spare you here?" It was a poor joke, but it was more of a joke than the prince had been inclined to make for months, and so she returned his smile. "Your brother Clarence did tell me that I would find you here." He nodded slowly, his hand rising from sword hilt to her elbow, and took a half-step back to look her over from head to toe. They had been separated barely a year now, and he felt the familiar stab of affection and more for her every time he saw her. He saw her flush at his look, and she continued speaking to bridge the moment of uncomfortable silence.
"I did hear in London that His Holiness was not best pleased by your father. Be it so?" Edward nodded absently. "It is. The thorn in the rose of the peace with His Holiness is that England is under penance. It is a most unusual thing, that a kingdom needs do contrition and not a mere man. It were not so in St. Thomas's day, certes. Then King Henry had but to crawl to the tomb and do penance. Now, the souls of all England are to travel to Purgatory until such day as a king of England can take absolution at the Holy Sepulchre." He smiled, a hard, unpleasant line with no mirth in it. "The glory of it is that this be revealed to none but my lords of Canterbury and York, and the blood royal. His Holiness wishes not to disturb the commons or the nobles with rumors of an interdict, and did go to great pains to show that this be not interdict, but intercession between Christ's Vicar and Christ Himself that the souls of all England be placed in waiting against the day."
Joan was shocked, but quickly regained her voice. "If that be so, cousin, then... have you not heard of the Master of Canterbury, the reverend Doctor Wyclif?" She was surprised by his reaction, a flare of the eyes, a quick bark of laughter. "The grumbler of Oxford? Yes, His Eminence Canterbury did write of him. He says that the matter of Wyclif's sermons is most correct, but that the time of them is not." A fleeting smile crossed her face too, and she proceeded, not knowing how what she was about to say would be received. "How can any time be wrong for God's matter, cousin? What Wyclif does say is that the correct role of His Holiness is as shepherd, not wolf. He urges that the Church take no position as befits a lord temporal, for by doing so a man no matter how pious does sully his hands with the sins of the world. Bethink you, cousin, that your father would embrace such a position, not side with Rome 'gainst his own land!"
Edward turned once more to the map. "It be not so simple, Joan." He drew his sword - a quick rasp that startled her, but he paid her no mind - and used it as a pointer. "Were we to speak openly 'gainst Rome, or even Avignon," and here his mouth quirked, for in that at least, Plantagenet and Wyclif would never disagree, "the price be excommunication. Excommunication would gird all the world against us, and we would find not merely Jean of Valoys, but all the cities and thrones and powers of the world raising their hands in anger." The tip of his sword traced the Pyrenees. "Charles of Navarre would make a good cause for bad men, to make himself Duke of Guienne and Gascony." The sword leapt northward. "The trimmed branch of Burgundy would grace Calais." Again, the sword continued its arc. "And think you that England would be at peace itself were my lord father to take up Wyclif's doctrine? Nay, and in such time we would see Scots so far south as York or even London once more." The sword dipped to the west. "You think me passing fair, dearest cousin." It was the first admission he had made of their relationship in her presence, but she had little time to register it. "Would you think me so fair if Wales did rise? A prince with no land, beggared from court to court by the foolishness of an Oxford preacher? No," he concluded, the sword disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. "I would not embrace Wyclif were I my father, though I bless him in my own chamber."
He turned back to the map, and she bowed her head for a moment. "Then be there hope for the Kingdom of England in the Kingdom of God?" she asked quietly. He turned his head toward her, smiling fully. "Be of good heart, Joan." The prince reached to take her hand, drawing it to his at the map's edge. "If the entire kingdom rest in Purgatory, there be no sins, no matter how great nor how small, not redeemed by an English king at our Lord Saviour's tomb. Thus shall we ever seek Jerusalem."
They stood thus, hand in hand, in silence, for long enough for the sun's rays to catch the gold on the map table far more brilliantly than the jewels. The roads of France sparkled and glittered in the evening light, until a voice interrupted them from behind, mild and female. "I would speak to my son, if it pleases you, my lady Kent." Joan gasped and drew her hand back, and Edward turned and took his mother's hands, raising them to his lips. Philippa of Hainault wore a wimple and an ermine-lined bodice in red and gold with a blue skirt, the King's colors, and a careful look showed the pattern of lion and fleur-de-lis imprinted into the silk. She did so not as a concession to fashion, because Philippa had always been handsome, rather than dazzling, and after thirteen children, she had become rather stout, but because she was Edward's Queen, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and just as she was the final court of appeal to bring clemency from Edward, so too, was she his strongest supporter, and she made every effort to look the part.
"Your Grace," Joan curtsied, blushing, and Philippa smiled, shaking her head. "Joan, I have known you since you were in swaddling-clothes. Please be not formal, unless you have done wrong?" Joan's blush deepened, and Edward smiled, shaking his head. "No wrong, mother. Joan did wish to talk of this man Wyclif, that is all."
"Wyclif? Heaven preserve us, that a man should think to write in English, not French of Latin!" Edward smiled despite himself at his mother's indignation, then gave Joan a minute nod and a reassuring smile. Their hands brushed once more, and she retreated as she had entered. Philippa's eyes followed her. "You are betrothed now, Edward, and she wed to one of your father's many right hands. The game which you two do play is not a children's nursery game any longer. Choose carefully." He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued as if unaware that he had anything to say on the subject of Joan of Kent. "Now, my son, mislike you your father's policy of the south first?" She stepped forward to the map table, looking over it and glancing at the ruby-studded Flemish and Dutch coast.
"Aye. The crown is not in the south."
"The crown needs a head upon which to rest, and if that head is but poorly fixed, the crown shall not stay in place long. Why, think you, have the Valoys so much trouble for their crown?" Edward considered before replying. "Because their right to it is weak, and there are many with equal or stronger right." She smiled, fingers brushing the ebony surface. "Just so. Why did their lords of France go to such measures to obtain the lands of King Richard upon his death?"
"Because Richard was a strong king and his rights to them unquestioned by any but France, though his brother John Softsword did lose them." It was obvious to him, and his irritation began to show. "Has this a point, mother?"
She looked up at him, eyes sharp all of a sudden, thoroughly out of context on the features of a woman like Philippa of Hainault. "Yes. Your father wishes to make a kingdom for you, though there be no crown, of the lands of Richard in France... a kingdom which shall ever place our strength above that of the crown of France should there be another house of Valoys. Thus, shall you marry Blanche of Navarre, that Navarre and Evreux shall be drawn to us as to a lodestone. The lady Kent has no place in this plan, my Prince. This is a matter for kings and princes, not for childhood playmates." Her voice was soft, but the message was clear. "I love Joan as my own flesh," she continued, "but I beg you, do not tempt God's wrath with her. Think of the work that your lord father has done, that you have done, here in France, and do not tempt God more than we must."
He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. "As you wish, mother. I will not tempt God or Tom Holland's wrath. Nor yours," he finally added with a smile. She returned the smile, her hand taking his, squeezing. "Bien, my lord of Aquitaine."