Chapter Three
The first two days were a bleak enough introduction to Poitiers, but after that Joanna began to explore her new surroundings with her normal curiosity. First the women’s apartments, then the Great Hall with its arcades, and beyond its long windows, the pleasance where the chestnut trees were decked for Lent with white wax lights. She ventured beyond the palace itself to the kitchens, and even one day as far as the mews where the falconer chased her off because a young seeled falcon was being walked about in the darkened interior.
Curiosity, according to Nurse, was another trait best suppressed in girls and women, and Joanna had a healthy enough respect for the birch rods that Nurse kept behind the door to do her exploring in secret. She was still too young to be expected to go daily to Mass and this was the time she chose. It was easy enough to escape the maids set to watch her; she always needed to retrieve her needlework from some other room or to visit the garderobe, and they never questioned her excuses, being happy enough to sit together and discuss their love lives. Eleanor knew of some of her escapades and remonstrated with her in private, but Joanna knew she was too softhearted ever to betray her to Nurse.
Sometimes even, at night, if she could stay awake after Nurse fell asleep, she crept to the gallery of the Great Hall to watch the Easter feasts: the processions of pages with steaming dishes, the minstrels and musicians, the knights and the young squires, but especially she watched the ladies. After the ever-present black robes of Fontevrault, the palace at Poitiers seemed to run wild with color, green and purple and yellow, deep blues and glowing reds, the colors of rowan berries and robins’ breasts, of sea spray and cinnamon, of peacocks and aubergines and saffron, of Malaga wine and violets and poppies, and everything was laced and embroidered and fretted with silver and gold, and flashing with sapphires and rubies and amethysts.
Between Ascension and Pentecost, Joanna’s brothers came to Poitiers. Henry came first, with his French wife, Marguerite. Henry was thirteen and an adult now, so he had no time to spare for a sister he considered still a baby. Marguerite was a different matter. She would sit in the solar working at her embroidery and prattle endlessly. The embroidery itself was a sore point with Joanna who was clumsy, being young, and had anyway no patience for it. Marguerite would hold up her frame for her ladies to admire and they would all exclaim over it.
“Ravishing, my lady.”
“Exquisite!”
“Such talent and such care!”
Joanna despised them. She despised their tittering laughs and the mincing way they walked with their heads thrust forward and their refined Île-de-France accents. Most of all, she resented Marguerite’s endless criticisms. Marguerite never missed an opportunity of pointing out that her father was King Henry’s overlord or of insinuating that the Normans were barbarian newcomers compared with the long-established and civilized Franks.
“Though what she knows of it, I’d like to know,” Nurse muttered to Joanna at bedtime one night, “seeing as she has been living at English courts since she was three. It’s all those Frenchy ladies of hers. I say they should send the lot of them packing back to the French court, where they’d be only too happy to be from the way they talk, and give her some good sensible Norman or Angevin ladies to wait on her.”
Joanna had another reason to dislike Marguerite which she could not tell Nurse for fear of hurting her feelings.
“Why do you permit that old peasant woman in here in the ladies’ apartments?” Marguerite had asked her one day.
“Why, she’s my Nurse, of course,” Joanna answered, taken aback.
“Surely you’re not a sucking babe any longer, though I suppose you’re not long out of leading strings. Her usefulness is over. You should send her away, or at least she should live in the servants’ quarters. And the way you let her talk to you! She even calls you ‘Joanna’ instead of ‘my lady’ and I’ve never once seen her curtsey to you.”
“I don’t want to send her away. Not ever! I love her,” Joanna said vehemently.
“Love her?” Marguerite raised an eyebrow. “A fat peasant woman who doesn’t even speak good French and you, a king’s daughter, speak of loving …”
At this, Joanna flew at her in a fury, her face red and crumpled, her fists flailing. Marguerite’s ladies rose like a flock of birds, their silk skirts hissing, and tried to seize Joanna. She kicked and struggled silently, tense with anger, seeing nothing. Through the chorus of scandalized exclamations, she heard Eleanor’s voice, calm and clear.
“Joanna, let go. Let go!”
She sensed that the restraining hands on her arms were her sister’s and allowed herself to be pulled back. Chest heaving, hair awry, she faced Marguerite and her ladies.
“A scandalous display!”
“She will be whipped, of course.”
“The Queen must hear of this.”
Eleanor’s voice cut across their sibilant protests.
“I think not. If you tell my mother, then I will tell her what I have heard here, the criticisms of England, of the Normans, of the Poitevins, and even of my mother herself, the way Marguerite complains about my brother Henry, and all the letters to and from the French court. Don’t think I don’t hear and understand, just because I’m young. I know the French are sheltering my mother’s enemies, and some might call your correspondence treason.”
Joanna’s anger had left her as suddenly as it had come. She stood quietly now between Eleanor’s hands and watched Marguerite, pale and tightlipped, and her ladies, sullen and silent. She felt how tense Eleanor, standing close behind her, had become.
“How dare you speak like that to the future Queen of England?” Marguerite burst out.
“You should remember that,” Eleanor answered. “You are a younger daughter of a king, just as Joanna is, and your importance comes from being the future Queen of England. The more you belittle England, the more you belittle your own position.”
Marguerite’s eyes narrowed. She searched for an answer but could find none. No one spoke or moved. In the fireplace, a log suddenly broke and fell, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Eleanor turned Joanna round.
“Come, Joanna.”
With her arm still around her, she led her to their chamber.
“Oh, Joanna, that was terrible,” Eleanor wailed, flopping down on the bed. “I hate scenes. You were very naughty.”
“But,” Joanna protested, amazed at this sudden change, “you were on my side. Besides, I love Nounou and I won’t let anyone say bad things about her.”
“Yes, you’re very loyal and that’s good, but you were wrong to fly at Marguerite like that. Of course she was wrong to be unkind to you. You must learn to control yourself, Joanna. Who knows, you may be a Queen some day and you can’t go flying into these awful rages then.”
“I don’t see why not,” Joanna said stubbornly. “If I were Queen, I could do anything I wanted. Father’s a king and he gets angry.”
“It’s different for a man.”
O O O
To Joanna, her sister Eleanor was all that was virtuous and clever and admirable. Where she gave her devotion, she gave it fiercely. It never occurred to her to be jealous of Eleanor because she was more beautiful or intelligent. It seemed natural rather than unfair that Eleanor, who was the beauty of the family, should also be the good one. It was not because Eleanor was patient and kind and did not fly into rages that Joanna knew she was good. Privately, although she loved Eleanor, she thought this rather poor-spirited behavior. She knew Eleanor was truly good because, peering through her fingers when they were at prayer in the chapel, she would see Eleanor staring rapt at the altar, her lips moving in silent repetition of the chaplain’s droned prayers. Then Joanna would feel guilty that she found it boring and that her knees ached and her nose itched. For a few minutes she would try to stay still, in imitation of Eleanor, but her attention would wander again.
Eleanor, then, had no faults, but there were times when Joanna wished she had a companion who was livelier, who would share her love of adventure and exploring, preferably someone her own age. Eleanor was four years older and would never accompany her on a raid of the kitchen or a visit to the forge.
She was on her way to the forge one morning that summer, a still and hazy morning that promised a hot day. Already her chemise was sticking to her skinny shoulder blades as she crossed the sunny corner of the bailey. Nurse and Eleanor were at Mass. She could hear the rumble of voices chanting in unison, then a pause when presumably the priest spoke, then again the antiphonal response. As if in mockery, a pack of dogs barked, a cock crowed, the dogs barked again.
Intent on her goal, eyes squinted against the sun, she ran across the bailey and was startled to hear suddenly a whinnying quite close to her and a thudding of hoofs. She looked around to see a white palfrey canter by, wheel round and stop facing her. The rider’s back was to the sun. She put up a hand to shield her eyes and then she saw it was not a man, but a boy, his shock of golden hair tousled, grinning down at her.
“Well, well! What are you doing out here so early? I wager your Nurse doesn’t know of it.”
“N-no, she doesn’t,” Joanna admitted. “But don’t think you can make me go back. She won’t miss me yet. I’m just going to watch the smith for a while and then I’ll go in and Nurse will never know.”
“Make you go back?” He raised his brows. “I wouldn’t dream of it. What are Nurses for if not to run away from?”
She stared up, delighted, and her brother stared back, grinning jauntily.
“What do you think of Gracieuse?” He stroked the horse’s neck affectionately. “She’s a lady’s horse really, but a beauty, isn’t she? And you should see her go.”
Joanna took her eyes off her brother and looked at the palfrey. From this angle, it looked enormous, all gleaming muscled flank and heavy feet and great white teeth. She felt afraid of it and at once determined to conquer her fear.
“Richard!” she said suddenly. “Teach me to ride. Please! Let me ride her, just for a minute”
“Ride? Whatever for? Girls don’t ride.”
“Yes, they do. Mother rides. So do all the ladies when they go falconing.”
“Sidesaddle,” he sniffed. “That doesn’t count.”
“I want to learn to ride properly. When I’m Queen—I mean, if I’m a Queen—I shall ride every day and as well as Mother.”
He cocked his head on one side for a moment, considering her, then said suddenly, “All right. Here, give me your hands. No, that won’t do. Turn around and stick your arms out. I’ll lift you up in front of me.”
Joanna felt him seize her under the arms and hoist her up. Her skirts impeded her and she hitched them up. The saddle was much wider than she expected. Off-balance, she grabbed behind her for Richard’s arm and slithered sideways on the saddle.
“No, don’t hold me. Hold the pommel, so. And straighten up. You can lean against me. Come on, Gracieuse, up, girl.”
He flapped the reins and the mare bowed her head as if assenting and started forward at a walk. Joanna found herself bounced from side to side. She gripped the pommel and stared down at the horse’s mane. Gradually she learnt to anticipate each sideways lurch and compensate for it. She dared to raise her head and look around. From high on her perch, she looked down at a cat slinking across the bailey. A scullion emerged from the kitchen door and threw some slops out on the ground.
Joanna laughed delightedly.
“This is fun, Richard! I love it!”
“Wait till you learn to gallop. That’s really fun. I remember when I learned to ride. My groom walked my pony round and round in a circle on a long rein, while I just hung on for grim death. I was about your age. You should have seen Geoffrey, though. He was determined to keep up with Henry and me, and he kept kicking his pony into a canter and falling off. He’d climb back on and do the same thing again. Always foolhardy. Why, the last time we went hunting, he set his pony at a jump anyone could see was too high for it, just to prove he was as good as the men! Well, the pony wouldn’t take it, of course, stopped short and Geoffrey went sailing over in fine style! Landed in a ditch on the other side. How we laughed!”
“Can I do it by myself? Can I, Richard?”
“I don’t know. Your legs are too short to reach the stirrups. Well, why not? You have spirit. I like that, even in a girl. Just hang on, then.”
The saddle tipped as he swung himself down. Then she was all alone up there. She settled herself in the centre of the saddle and smiled a little nervous sideways smile at Richard.
“Don’t let go of the reins, will you?”
“No, don’t worry. Off you go.”
The horse took a step and Joanna slipped. Another step and she slipped a little more. She clung agonizingly to the pommel.
“Straighten up. Stay on top. You don’t have to crouch like that. Sit with your back straight. You said you were going to be a Queen, remember? Queens don’t ride all hunched up, they sit tall. That’s it. Good girl. Now let go of the pommel. Hold the reins in your left hand. No, not so tight, you’ll hurt her mouth. Yes, like that.”
“Why don’t I hold on with my right hand, Richard?”
“That’s your sword hand, you have to keep it free. Or it would be if you were a boy. I don’t know what girls do. Just put it on your thigh. Now, if you want her to go, kick her with your heels, and to stop, pull back on the reins and say ‘Whoa!’ All right?”
Tentatively, she nudged the horse with her heels and it started to walk. She was amazed; this huge beast, twice her height and who knows how many times her weight, obeyed her!
“Richard, I’m riding; I’m really riding!”
There was a sudden burst of talking from near the chapel. People began to pour out into the bailey and scatter to their various places of work. Faintly, Joanna caught the smell of incense. She pulled back on the reins and cried ‘Whoa!’ The horse stopped so promptly that she fell forward on its neck.
“Lean back when you stop,” Richard advised her.
“I must go. Mass is over. Richard, can I do it again? Properly. I want to learn how to ride properly.”
He lifted her down. “All right. If I have time. You’re a game little thing, Joanna. You’ll need a small pony so you can reach the stirrups.”
“But keep it a secret, will you? It’ll be our secret. I’m sure Nounou would say I’m too young.”
“Nurses are like that.” They smiled conspiratorially at each other. “I’ll get my groom to fix something up for you. He’s a good fellow and won’t breathe a word.”