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      Silent, they both looked toward the hall. Robert the Fool ran around the Upper Ward, tripped over a block of stone, or pretended to, then fell flat on his back at Lady Joan’s feet. When she leaned over to help and the children clustered around, he bounced to his feet, clapping, and they giggled with glee.

      ‘Does Lady Joan like her new home?’ Nicholas asked, finally.

      ‘It has not been much on her mind. First, the wedding. And then...’

      ‘Then, Aquitaine.’

      ‘Where the bridges must be rebuilt.’

      His brows rose with surprise.

      ‘Yes, I remember.’ Her smile felt soft, at ease, finally, with who they both were.

      Quiet for a moment, they listened to the clerk of the works discuss the increased number of fireplaces for the kitchen. Nicholas pulled out one of his cloth balls and tossed it idly for a few moments, then, without warning, threw it to her.

      Startled, she fumbled the catch, laughing as it rolled off her skirt and onto the damp grass. She leaned over, scooped it up and threw it back at him, smiling with satisfaction when he dropped the ball.

      ‘The boys,’ Nicholas said, a few minutes later. ‘Will they go, too?’

      She followed his gaze. Lady Joan was surrounded by her four children and the Prince seemed to be lecturing the two boys on the finer points of stag hunting.

      ‘Of course. Where else would they go but with their mother?’

      He did not answer and suddenly, she wondered about her assumption. How old were Thomas and John? Eight? Ten? Old enough to be sent to another household for fostering.

      ‘There will be another son, some day,’ Nicholas said, still looking at the boys.

      ‘God willing.’ There was no assurance there would be a child, let alone a King, but at least neither was barren. Of that, they had proof.

      ‘They will be with their mother, at least.’

      And she knew that Nicholas was thinking of Lady Joan’s sons. What would happen when there was another child? How would they fare, being of the King’s household, yet not royal?

      Would they suffer as Nicholas had?

      She reached to touch his sleeve. ‘The boys will be cared for.’ First, the Prince had been their godfather. Now, he would be their stepfather. He would take the responsibility seriously. ‘I am certain of it.’

      But what of the girls? Little Joan was nearly the age her mother had been when she wed Thomas Holland, while Maud was not old enough to be let away from the nurse’s hand. What would happen to them?

      Her lady, Anne had discovered over the years, was drawn to the company of men, no matter what their age. Her daughters were never neglected, her lady was too good for that, but they did not seem to be cherished, as the boys were.

      Perhaps it was because she had lost one of her boys.

      The King moved on and Anne rose to follow. Nicholas fell into step beside her, kicking chunks of stone and leftover pieces of wood out of her way.

      Do not grow comfortable with this, she reminded herself. The Pope’s message will come soon. A wedding will be celebrated.

      And Nicholas will be gone.

      * * *

      Relieved, Nicholas had seen the Archbishop of Canterbury arrive at Windsor just a few days later, carrying the Pope’s message. He had called the Prince and Lady Joan together, closed the door and, Nicholas was certain, extracted the formal and official promises demanded in exchange for permission to wed.

      For the next few nights, candles had lit the night as the royal tailor stitched, while minstrels and the chapel singers clashed as they practised.

      On the fourth day, Lady Joan declared they were ready. And so, Nicholas found himself in St George’s Chapel in Windsor on a bright, October day, as Edward and Joan stood again before the altar. A royal wedding. The only one he was ever likely to see. He had learned from Anne. He would use his eyes to see, to make a memory.

      He was not a man to notice the pomp of royal costume, but the golden sparkle of the bride’s gown made him blink. Edward and Joan were beaming at each other, with smiles that belonged in the bedchamber, not in the chapel. Standing before them, Archbishop Islip looked slightly sour, but his voice was clear. He was flanked by at least four other churchmen, as if everyone wanted a portion of the honour of marrying England’s next King.

      The rest of the royal family was there, of course.

      If he were any judge, King Edward and Queen Philippa were trying to look pleased. And failing.

      Dashed hopes, perhaps on King Edward’s part. Mourning lost chances for alliances with more than one Continental kingdom. Or, perhaps, mourning his failure to achieve them. Hadn’t those chances been lost long ago? He had not been able to successfully conclude a marriage agreement for his eldest son. What options, really, had been left?

      And the Queen—well, he knew little of women, it was true. But her lips seemed tight together, as if it were the only way to keep the semblance of a smile on her face. Joan had been part of her household, raised beside her own children, including Prince Edward. And instead of becoming the model wife and mother that the Queen was, she had disrupted the fabric of church and family not once, but twice, and entangled her son in the second.

      Then there was Isabella, Edward’s oldest and favourite daughter. The next to be wed, surely. She was nearly of an age with Joan, who had been so reviled for her ancient age. But Joan, at least, had been married. Isabella, at nearly thirty, was still unwed and her father had never seemed eager to find a husband for her.

      She had been called wilful, Nicholas had heard.

      There were others, aunts, knights and even Joan’s children, discreetly off to the side, but despite all the glittering members of the royal family, he found himself looking for Anne.

      Anne, the only one who had seen these two married before.

      He found her, finally, next to one of Isabella’s ladies-in-waiting. Cecily, he thought. The one she said she could laugh with.

      Anne managed to stand through the ceremony, as was the custom. He searched her brow and lips for the pinch of pain, but her expression was unusually placid. If she had pain, physical or emotional, she was hiding it well.

      He wondered whether she hid other things, as well.

      * * *

      Anne watched the happy couple saying the vows again and felt as if she lived in a dream. The echo of a chapel at midnight. I, Edward, take thee, Joan...

      And even after all that had happened, after all of Nicholas’s assurances, she thought, somehow, that it would not succeed. That God, or the Pope, would refuse permission. After all, there were such good reasons why they should not wed. Reasons which had nothing to do with Joan’s other marriages or what Anne knew. The Prince was godfather to her children, now standing below the rail, watching. They shared a grandfather, so were too close to marry. Any of those things should have been enough.

      A more inept ambassador, one less skilled than Nicholas, would have failed to convince the Pope to grant an exemption. Or would have failed to persuade the Archbishop to do as the King willed.

      Any of those things could have happened and the burden of guilt would have been lifted from her.

      Instead, here they were, making a mockery of the laws of God.

      And she hadn’t stopped it.

      And none of them would ever know that the vows now spoken meant that once again, according to the laws of the church, Joan was joined to two men at the same time.

      And Anne of Stamford was the only one who knew it.

      

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