May 1294. Whitehall Palace, England.
The Queen walked through the palace with her belly leading her forward, visible under the fabric of her skirts. She carried it like a crown, her two hands resting at its curve and stroking it absentmindedly. There was a soft smile upon her face as she moved, the confident tilt in her head of a beast well-roosted in its lair. It was as if she feared nothing.
The belly was not just a belly, it was a symbol. A symbol of the King’s hopes for a spare to his throat and for his favour that was bestowed upon her. If the baby growing amidst her organs was a boy, then Yolande of Aragon would be crowned as Queen of England and Joan would be ruined.
She stopped before her stepmother, however annoyingly it was to think of someone a whole year younger than her as her father’s wife, and curtsied shallowly. The Queen smiled gently at her and opened her arms, sleeves decorated in gold thread falling to the ground. Joan could see that nearly every finger in Yolande’s hands were covered in rich rings, which made her wonder how she managed to lift up her arms at all.
“Sister!” Yolande exclaimed, wrapping Joan in a tight embrace. She smelled like rosewater and French perfume, her white wimple bordered by cloth-of-gold. Joan embraced her with much reluctance and stepped back, though the Queen was quick to take her hands in hers. “I’m so happy to see you. It’s been so very long.”
Joan had left court for a few months so she could avoid seeing her father parade his new daughter around, calling her the future Queen of France. She was a silly little child, born from his silly little wife and Joan couldn’t abide to see her rise higher than her sisters did. She had married her father’s vassal, Eleanor was trapped with a weak king and the rest of her sisters were saddled with counts or dukes. But this child, this Constance who was not a daughter of her mother’s blood, would wed into the greatest kingdom of them all. Joan hated it all and she only recently returned, drawn to the centre of government.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Joan. “It has been too long.”
The Queen arched a carefully sculpted eyebrow, but her smile remained, dark blue eyes looking right at Joan. Her fingers felt like a spider’s legs on her hand and she swallowed the want to pull it back.
“We should be friends,” Yolande said. “We have so much in common.”
Joan arched an eyebrow. “Really?” she said. “Such as?”
“Well, we’re both young women,” said Yolande, not letting the acidic tone in Joan’s tone reach her. “Married to men who are, unfortunately, older than us. Beloved mothers and kin to our King.”
“Kin?” Joan asked.
Yolande smiled. “I’m his wife,” she said simply. “And my mother’s mother was Beatrice of Savoy, a niece to your great-grandmother, another Beatrice.” Her smile was poisonous, though and sometimes Joan felt like she was the only one aware of it. “Come to my rooms, my maids have made some cakes so we may talk. I’d love to have one of your daughters as a companion for young Margaret.”
Joan brought her hands back. “Perhaps that is not the best choice,” she said. Her daughters were barely out of their leading strings. “Where is the King? I wish to speak with him.”
“The King is out riding with the Earl of Lancaster,” Yolande answered and Joan nodded. Her uncle had returned from France with the new year. “Did he not tell you?”
“Oh, of course,” Joan said. “The King does love riding his mares.”
For a moment, no one said anything as the Aragonese ladies gasped behind Yolande. Then the Queen of England smiled and, stroking her belly, said, “He does.” Her face was soft, as if she was too stupid to notice the insult in Joan’s words. “Have a good day, step-daughter.”
Yolande accosted him as soon as he entered the castle. Edward had been handing his hat to a groom when she entered his field of vision, moving fast and angrily. Her ladies came after her like a flock of hens, silent and obedient and he looked at her with tired eyes.
“Sweetheart,” he called. “Have you missed me already?”
“Your daughter was rude to me today,” Yolande said instead of a greeting. Edward sighed. “Joan. She called me a mare.” She looked behind her, at the grooms surrounding them and her own ladies, like silent statues. “You may ask my ladies about it, if you don’t believe me. They were witnesses to the insult.” She waved at them. “Tell the King what you saw.”
They all fell into themselves, repeating back her words like a pretty little song. “Yes, Your Grace!” they all said, in some way or another. “The Queen’s honour was greatly offended.”
Edward sighed and made them stop with a movement of his hand. “I believe all of you,” he said. “Joan has always been difficult. I will speak with her.”
“You can’t simply speak to her,” Yolande insisted, tears coming to her eyes. “She has insulted me, and our son who grows inside me.” She took his hand and brought it to the curve of her stomach, as the eyes of their servants looked on. “I don’t want to suffer her presence anymore. Send her away, I beg of you.”
He touched her face gently, her soft cheeks. She had a pinched chin, and high cheekbones, with angular dark eyebrows that made her face seem even more mysterious. But he had grown to love that face in the nearly two years they had been married.
“You won’t have to see her again,” he said. “I’ll send her back to her husband, I promise you.” He stroked her belly with his other hand. “You won’t have to suffer her again.”