A Genteel Knight: A Novel of Xvth Century Europe

By Jo Ford

Pedro, one of four brothers called Los Infantes of Portugals royal family, at age eighteen, bloods his jewel-encrusted sword in battle and is dubbed a knight. Chosen by his English mother, Queen Philippa, he gathers a retinue of nobles and begins a journey across fifteenth century Europe as his kingdoms diplomatic ambassador. Unlike his father King Joo, he has gentilesse, the manners and courtesy needed in the royal courts of kings from London to Rome. How does travel change his life? Journey with Pedro, A Genteel Knight, in his adventures eluding assassins, bastards, ladies-in-waiting, even a cuckolded husband. Laugh, weep, and applaud his companionsa horse whisperer in the stables, a big nosed cook in palazzo kitchens, and a loyal fellow knight beside him in battles or fighting enraged bulls in tourneys and festivals.
Historical fiction keeps its promise of what if? as the questing prince experiences piety, treachery, and ambition along with the joy of romance and love of beauty. As the lust for power grows in kingdoms, the great art of the Renaissance begins to blossom amid medieval ruins. What does Pedros Chronicler think of his regency? How does his family fare?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491783511

Jo Ford

author’s bio Jo Ford is a widely traveled author of four previous historical novels, Colophon, The Land Between Two Rivers, Sayyida, and Beloved of the Gods. As a modern traveler she has been to the places Prince Pedro plausibly journeyed five centuries ago. Born and bred in a hemisphere Pedro never knew existed, she has also traveled there extensively. She is retired from teaching English and Humanities at Mission Community College and lives in Silicon Valley.

Book preview

A GENTEEL KNIGHT

A NOVEL OF XVTH CENTURY EUROPE

Copyright © 2016 Jo Ford.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8350-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8351-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:   12/22/2015

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Coimbra, Portugal 1387

The Royal House of Avis-1415

The Battle of Ceuta

João’s Council at Sintra

PART 1

The Duke of Coimbra

Visit to Salamanca

The Philosophy of Gratitude

Three Kings’ Day

The Bastard of Barcelos

Pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela

Jousting in London

The Sophisticated Duke of Burgundy

Oxford Illuminations

Royal Marriages and Knighthood

Philippe’s Conquest Plan

Other Ways to Conquer

Ramirez, Sly and Wary

Paris, A Muddy Island

Relics at Vezelay

The Bombard’s Loyalty Test

Laundry and Letters at Pontigny

The Storyteller of Cologne

Nuremberg Burgraves

Sigismund, the Ginger Fox

A Wintry, Stealthy Battle Plan

Treviso’s Able Merchants

Venice, Married to the Sea

A Procession in Firenze

Cosimo’s Philosophy

Fair Lady and Genteel Knight

Ramirez Plots in Perugia

The One Pope of Rome

Helena’s Pilgrimage

Rome Rendezvous

Barcelona’s Abyssinians

Valencia’s Black Pepper

An Aragonese Princess

PART II

Lisbon, 1432

Tangier Strategy

Tangier Preparations

Battle of Tangier 1437

Portuguese Surrender

The Regency

The End of the Chronicle

PART III

Before the Battle of Alfarrobeira

East, Then South

Castile, then Aragon

Badajoz on the Border

North, then East

The Cartographer’s Advice

The Wisdom of Elders

Maps and Manuscripts

Prester John Quest

The Forged Codicil

Incognito in Palma

A Resurgence of Arrogance

A Donkey Cart to the Valley

Epilogue

Author’s Historical Notes

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Major Characters

King João, King of Portugal, House of Avis, Master of Order of Christ

Queen Philippa, Queen of Portugal, originally from England

Duarte, Pedro, Henrique, John, Fernando, sons of the King and Queen

Isabella Infanta, daughter of King and Queen, Duchess of Burgundy

Los Infantes:

dom Duarte, eldest and heir to throne

dom Pedro, Prince, Duke and Regent

dom Henrique, Prince Henry the Navigator

dom John, Master of Order of Santiago

Affonzo, bastard son of King João, Count of Barcelos

Alvaro Vaz de Almieda, Knight, Count

Charlotte, Princess of Aragon, wife of Duke Pedro

Jorge Ramirez, translator

Luke of Lubeck, horse handler

Manoel, Portuguese cook

Friar James, Chronicler of Duke Pedro

Minor Characters

Maria Madelena, servant girl

Lady Helena, wife of head of Wool Merchant Guild

Queen Leonor, wife of Duarte

Sir William Arnold, Majordomo, Chamberlain

Nunio Alvarez, Constable

Gil, son of Manoel

Gabriel, cartographer

Arandas Monk, manuscript translator

Historical Personages

King João, King of Portugal

Queen Philippa of Portugal

Los Infantes:Duarte, Pedro, Henrique, John

Isabella Infanta, Duchess of Burgundy

Fernando, prince

Nunio Alvarez

Alvaro Vas de Almeida

Affonso of Braganca

Gloucester, regent for English king

Henry Buford, Papal Legate

Philippe of Burgundy

Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor

Doge Foscari

Cosimo d’Medici

Filipo Brunelleschi

Pope Martin V

Alfonso V of Aragon

Charlotte of Aragon

Leonor of Aragon

John of Antioch

genteel-pertaining to those of noble birth; having qualities commonly regarded as belonging to high breeding; polite, well bred, adapted to refined taste, manners, graceful; suited or conforming to the position of a lady or a gentleman; courteous.

Webster’s International Dictionary, Unabridged

Second Edition

DEDICATION

To my adult children: for Cynthia, who supplies insightful and elegantly calligraphed poetry and for Eric, whose sci-fi curiosity supplies occasional what-ifs. With gratitude for provocative inspiration, Hulga and Braz.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank Jackie Anderson, who is Portuguese and of Cabral family ancestry for research on the House of Avis while in Portugal at the Monastario de Batalha and in Coimbra. The materials she gathered were very helpful, and I appreciate the effort and her pride in her Portuguese origins.

I am grateful as I have been previously with Beloved of the Gods for David Arnold’s mapmaking. He works in the spirit of the congenial cartographers of Majorca with, of course, a present day grasp of geography and digital tools.

Dave Kirk is an intrepid world traveler and prize winning photographer who returned from Tuscany this year with award winning photos of both landscapes and people. Thank you, Dave, for sharing.

PROLOGUE

Coimbra, Portugal 1387

The bridegroom draped in a blue mantle with fur at the sleeves, his collar as golden as his crown, rode slowly on a white charger toward the Cathedral, breathing the pungent smell of herbs strewn on the cobblestones. The horse’s caparison resplendently identified the rider as João, King of Portugal, Grand Master of the Knightly Order of Avis. The King’s square, bearded jaw was clamped, his dark eyes narrowed in thought. He was not thinking of his bride, not consumed with anticipation for the amorous joys of the wedding night. Rather he furiously mapped strategy for deploying lances, bowmen, and foot soldiers against the King of Castile as soon as he could hurry through the wedding tournaments and banquets. His new alliance with the English Duke of Lancaster augmented his army with 7,000 militia, as well as his household with a queen. The English waited to join him on the Castilian border.

From the opposite direction, the Archbishop of Braga led a white palfrey bearing the Lady Philippa of England through the winding Oporto streets to join hands with João I before the High Altar. Her fair skin, blue eyes, and golden hair were dimly seen behind the white veil flowing from a tall blue hennin. Trumpets and pipes followed her retinue, announcing the approach of the noblewoman of Lancaster, about to become the Queen of Portugal. Once inside the cathedral, she stood at the altar, gowned in white brocaded with gold, trimmed in sable, a cascading train held by her ladies, her under robe of gold trimmed in ermine and satin. The bride’s thoughts also strayed from the words of the Nuptial Mass being read by the Bishop standing beneath a pallium also brocaded with gold.

She was not a tall woman, especially when standing beside João. Strength and sturdiness emanated from him as much when he was out of armor as when he was buckled into it. Except for his somber, dark eyes, he registered little emotion. He’s very serious, decided Philippa. She saw a momentary lift of his black eyebrows, a brief upturn at the corners of his mouth where his short beard gave only a glimpse of a rueful smile. Courtiers and foreign ambassadors stood deferentially on either side. He was obviously forbidding, this Knight of Avis, who had assassinated his rival for the kingship.

The hand he extended toward her, his skin burnt by the sun, was weighted by a heavy seal ring that bore the crest of the House of Avis. Although he looked tense and preoccupied, his grasp was gentle. In the light of altar candles, the crystalline gleam of a diamond ring on his other hand spangled the polished ceremonial blade. She supposed that the true strength of the warrior was in his right hand, the one that rested on the hilt of a ponderous sword.

Philippa, numbed by the glitter and pomp, couldn’t help brooding on reality: she had become a political pawn, moved to a foreign land where no one spoke English or French. Her own father was too busy encamped with soldiers to come to the wedding, obsessed with making himself the new King of Castile and her brother the next King of England. Proclamations everywhere praising the bridegroom as a man who was chaste, who had no carnal knowledge of a woman, increased her desolation. Such hypocrisy offended her intelligence as well as her piety. I’ve been abandoned by what little family I have, she thought grimly, left to make my own life.

She had talked to her new husband for only an hour shortly before the wedding, in the presence of the Bishop. They had never set eyes on each other before, yet the conversation was kept meticulously to royal duties. She dutifully called him sire. He politely called her Dona Filipa. The Bishop urged upon them the need to look happy in order to inspire devotion in their subjects. Afterward the King went off to supper and sent her a ruby-studded brooch set with a gold cockerel. She reciprocated, sending a pin set with costly gems, as she had been instructed. In spite of schooling herself stoically, she had hoped for more. Afterward a cheerless feast had scrupulously observed the rank and status of all the nobles and merchants attending with their families.

On the wedding evening, the archbishops and prelates carried burning torches to the King’s chamber to bless the bed with benedictions reserved such occasions. The King, newly absolved from the vow of chastity required by friars of the Order of Avis, performed his conjugal duty in a perfunctory manner. Having thrust the virginal sheet, now stained with her blood, into the hands of the priest waiting outside the door, he returned to bed and fell asleep, dreaming, Philippa had no doubt, of mobilizing two thousand lances, two thousand bowmen, and two thousand foot soldiers for incursion into Castile.

The wedding had followed every protocol, a guarantee from the Duke of Lancaster of João’s right to the dowry of lands once Castile had been conquered. Everything happened as bargained for. Philippa felt like an inanimate piece of property, even though, she thought ironically, a highly valued one. So this was the lot of daughters of nobility. As soon as João could leave for battle, Philippa would be dispatched, along with all the archbishops and prelates, back to the capital at Coimbra. She just hadn’t believed it until now. And, she resolved, lying in the dark listening to snores from the muscular chest of João, she had no intention of resigning herself to being discarded.

As she had guessed, after the mandatory celebrations: jousts and tourneys, games and dances, acrobatics and singing, João hurried north to the rendezvous with his army and an apology to the Duke for being a little late. She was left to pack the wedding presents and travel in the opposite direction.

Letters from her warrior husband arrived from time to time, the news worsening with each message. The war was not going well. After the fighting ended, word arrived from João. Convalescing from a fall, he expected to return when he was healthy enough to travel. Philippa was not deaf to the rumors in her own household, rumors that João frequently went to Lisbon to seek consolation from a mistress, relief from the battlefield. She sighed, thinking how best to spend the long days in Coimbra. To her surprise, her father arrived for a visit. Although he apologized for missing her wedding, she knew he came now because he was arranging another alliance. Confessing to Robert, confessor as well as Chaplain, she was frank.

I won’t diminish his pride in buying a new ally, but I do intend to tell my father how it feels to be a mere tool of diplomacy. Robert’s grimace was judgment enough.

Though I can’t exactly put a name to your sin, I urge you to remember the pitfalls of pride and wrath.

She fortified herself with prayer and a half-hearted confession before going to the council room to meet her father. The Chaplain urged her to be cautious.

John of Gaunt listened with the bored patience he might have shown a complaining ambassador. Although he wasn’t gaunt at all, the English pronounced Ghent as gaunt, he was imposingly tall, even when seated. His hair, once the same color as her own, had grown gray and thin over the years; his beard, sparse. His voice was raspy. Philippa thought of a sword being sharpened against a grindstone. She suppressed her resentment at first, mentioning small grievances.

I’m pleased, Philippa, that you’re teaching good manners to the Portuguese. They’re uncouth for the most part. The Duke settled back into his wide, leather-slung chair avoiding the French tapestry that hung above. His silk-stockinged leg was crossed ankle over knee, ringed hands flattened on the wide arms of the chair. She bridled at his paternal condescension.

It’s easy to arrange the furniture and teach the servants some French, but I want more out of your bargain than this kind of life. Because Philippa spoke softly, the Duke was slow to detect her anger.

And, what kind of life is that?

Life as a sugar-glazed pastry, a gold brocaded figurine. The Duke sat up straight gripping the chair arms, both boots on the floor. In a voice he used with chamberlains, he spoke with slow formality.

I’ve made you Queen of Portugal, given you a household of lords and ladies from your own country. You’re ensconced in a palace with a generous allowance from your honorable husband. And you’re already discontent? He raised his voice at the end, confounded by her ingratitude.

I’m grateful for these things, although I haven’t seen much of the honorable husband yet. His honor is best seen on your battlefield, I fear. But I do resent being traded for a dozen galleys of lancers and crossbowmen, with some castles and fortresses thrown in. Is that how you value a daughter? Philippa demanded.

Mother of God! he exploded. This is what you were brought up to do. You’re a noblewoman with obligations, not a peasant who herds pigs or makes butter. And you’re damned lucky to be born to a Duke who’s a cousin of the King of England. He sprang out of the chair and stalked to the window that looked out between castle battlements to the high cliff above the river. The ancient Convent of Santa Clara was barely visible against the hillside. Before she could say more, he spun to face her, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

What happened to your Christian piety, your religious devotion? The gracious lady who was presiding at tournaments a few months ago? The young mistress who used to go to the palace kitchen herself to supervise banquets for my courtiers?

Oh, I’m that same person, Father. I fully intend to do all those things as Queen of Portugal. And more… He interrupted.

Oh yes, more. But you didn’t say you were going to do more, you said you wanted more! His sarcasm turned the word more over in his mouth as if he were tasting unripe fruit.

When she looked up at him he noticed distractedly that a few freckles had appeared on her cheeks from being out in the Portuguese sun. She should take care not to look like a peasant. She took her time answering, looking down at the gathers of her billowed yellow skirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles with her thin hands.

You said yourself this is what I was brought up to do. I say I was brought up to do more than be a court ornament for my husband. And I have you to thank for it!

Philippa, what’re you talking about?

My education, Father, she said flatly.

He shook his head, irritated at her shifts. Philippa had always been the most enigmatic of the women who surrounded him. She was confusing him now; he thought of her as virtuous and obedient. Too religious for him, really. Traveling around England to visit his castles, he might not have had time for Philippa at all, except for his attraction to her seductive governess. Most of his time spent with his children went to his sons, as it should.

It was your good friend Master Chaucer who tutored me.

Exactly! You were a very lucky girl. In truth, John had paid little attention to the quality of her tutors. They were friends of his and handy. It was a way to please both her governess and her mother.

You probably think I only loved the tales of knights in the Holy Land. Saints. Pilgrimages. You’re wrong to assume that all I learned was romance and court etiquette. A long silence clouded the hesitant exchange as each waited for the other to speak. With a question she caught him off balance again.

How many girls learn how an astrolabe works?

The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. Maybe I don’t want to know, after all, what you mean by more, he said, trying to guess what she would say next. She punished him by holding back.

Yes, I want to be a good queen. I want the court to have refinement. I want a grand Palace decorated with artistic furnishings. I want the liturgy to follow our own Salisbury rite. Her father pursed his lips in tentative approval.

You were born devout, he said with asperity, although he sensed she wasn’t finished. He had unwittingly touched a nerve.

You think I would’ve been devout if I’d been born a Moor? Been happy as one of many wives?

No, I don’t. But you’d have been more likely to keep your thoughts to yourself, he snapped. As your mother did, by God, he almost added.

At least the Mohametans aren’t hypocrites! Her voice dwindled after this retort. The Duke snorted. He was known to favor mistresses over wives. Pausing to regain composure, she resumed, keeping her voice level.

I want to have many children. I want to visit the poor and give alms. I want to work with the Master of the Kitchen and plan banquets that will make the King’s feasts ones to remember. When Philippa could see she had disarmed the Duke with her propriety, she spoke more daringly.

I want my sons to inherit a wealthy, seafaring realm like England. I want Portugal to quit fighting Castile and free our knights to fight the pagans. I want my daughters to rule as full partners with the kings they marry, not just be paraded like trophies in a tournament. I want…

Wait, wait, interrupted the Duke, this time more in alarm than anger. You’re only a woman. Knowing a lot of stories doesn’t give you power over your husband! You want too much! You agreed to this marriage, you mustn’t destroy it. Before Philippa could protest, he advanced toward her, one outraged hand clamped to his hip and the other pointing at her.

I’m going to give you one last piece of advice. Unfortunately, your mother died while you were too young to need it. But I’m your father, and I won’t let you jeopardize my alliance with João.

This time, Philippa showed neither rancor nor fear. Although her father’s concern was clearly with himself and his political alliance, he was giving her more attention than he had since she was a child. It was exhilarating to her in spite of his agitation.

John of Gaunt took a deep breath then exhaled his exasperation. You must be a loving wife, not a shrew who wants this and that. Remember you’re married to a warm blooded Iberian where desire flows strongly. Try to please him in an amorous way, Philippa. Don’t let your piety make you cold and distant. That’s the only way you can ever get more. Abandoning the sentence, the Duke turned and fled the room feeling thwarted and embarrassed. There was much Philippa could have learned from her mother, a docile and virtuous woman, he thought grimly as he descended the stairs.

As he strode off to the stables to find a good hunting horse, he shrugged off Philippa’s foolish tirade. At least he had tried to tell her how she could influence João. If she wasn’t too stubborn to heed him! She had been rejected by a king of France and a duke of Bavaria before he struck an agreement with João. Too plain, they said. And they didn’t particularly need his bowmen at the time. Had she forgotten that?

After he left, Philippa stood at the window and looked down the hill where a bristling stork’s nest sat atop a high chimney. She had been told that storks mated for life. As she watched, the white, female bird flapped gawkily about the chimney as the male rose up and glided away in search of food. The female hovered, then settled herself in turn. Philippa imagined a comfortable, shared contentment between them, and wondered if she had been seduced by the world of stories and fables. She reproached herself for not having seen the truth earlier. Realization blossomed slowly.

* * *

It was in the library on the hill that Philippa first saw a written account of the Christian Kingdom of Prester John somewhere in Africa. What a treasure. With two translations, one in Latin, one in French! Like everyone else, she had heard tales that fabulous riches lay in this emperor’s Kingdom, beyond Timbuktu. She read avidly the amazing accounts from travelers.

The towers of Prester John’s palace are of gold, the gates of sardonyx and ivory. Served by bishops who are themselves kings, he eats at a table of gold set with orient pearls, emeralds and amethyst. When Prester John goes into battle he carries before him three mighty crosses made of gold and set with precious stones. In this remote Christian country, the patriarch is both emperor and pope. The descriptions set her thoughts spinning not only that day, but each time she returned to the library.

The prospect of moving to Lisbon filled Philippa with trepidation on one account only. She wondered if the Chaplain knew about João’s mistress in Lisbon, her children fathered by him. If he knew, did he care? In any case, she couldn’t expect men to solve her problems for her. She must do it herself.

* * *

Although she hadn’t been consulted, Philippa thought moving the palace was timely. Besides, in Lisbon lived Dona Ines Pires, the woman she must do something about. She began preparations with an alacrity that masked her worry, but reassured the household.

Three galleys set sail stopping only once, in a small fishing village where Philippa insisted she be taken. From a high promontory, an invincible, rugged bluff of red rock, she marveled at the coastline of Portugal. Allowing the wind to whip her long hair, she shaded her eyes and looked out toward the horizon. Puffy ropes of clouds, like white, twisting rollers arriving from offshore islands, spread themselves above the green water adding depth to the flat slate-blue sky. Nothing on the surface hinted at the unfathomable depths beneath or monstrous sea creatures that lurked beyond land’s end. Both the rocky shore out there and the welcoming harbor inside were inviting. If the occasional storms could be weathered.

She must first survive another kind of storm. Stepping ashore, she tugged at the Chaplain’s sleeve and said, Let’s go first to the chapel to thank the Queen of Heaven for a safe voyage and pray for a royal homecoming. She needed the strength of Our Lady, the Holy Trinity and all the saints, for her first task was the most dangerous. Badly received, it might be her last task as queen.

Within a fortnight, the new Lisbon quarters for the combined households of the King and Queen were arranged. The Queen closely directed the unpacking. Her attention to the needs of even the lowliest servants won their approval. They had expected lofty English courtiers and a vain, unconcerned queen. Settling into the Lisbon Palace had been orderly, for Philippa trained her household well. Her Portuguese overseer was devoted to her. The stewards, squires, and household managers had traveled overland with trunks and cartloads of fine dishes, laces and palatial appointments that had been wedding gifts. A half dozen galleys came soon after, laden with more furnishings.

Then, in a matter of days the Queen flung down a gantlet, deeply shocking the Chaplain. She summoned clerics to draw up legal papers which would confine Dona Ines Peres, the King’s mistress, to the old convent of Santos. There, she would forever remain sequestered; João would never be able to see her again. At the same time, she rendered all the legal church documents necessary to adopt his two illegitimate children. The horrified Chaplain guessed that the comfort and luxury provided for the mistress would matter little to João. As for the bastard sons, it was hard to predict how the King would feel about such an unorthodox action. Likely, if Philippa carried out this plan, she would be tainted forever. He prayed she wouldn’t be so foolhardy.

* * *

The rider, hunched over his lathered horse, clattered through the arched stone gate under a full moon, with hooves striking sparks off cobblestones. Only four days ahead of João I and his retinue, he presumed to ask that the Queen be told the news, even if she had already retired. And would the servant who awoke her also convey that the King expected the new palace be prepared to receive him? Philippa, roused from a dream in which Prester John himself was receiving her into his golden court, listened to the news with drowsy equanimity and congratulated herself that she had prepared for this. Murmuring a prayer for the Virgin’s intercession, she fell asleep again, confident she would have Heaven’s strength on her side.

Surprise was her intention, so she needed only a few days. She rode, herself, with the Constable, five knights, and a cleric to Dona Ines’ villa to deliver the papers. While two of the knights prepared to escort Dona Ines to the old convent at Santos, three others bundled up her offspring. Whether out of weakness or strength, the mother asked for no farewells as her children were taken away. Only the taller child looked over his shoulder, his face twisted in bewilderment and anger. The separation was as quick as a sword slash, executed with a merciful speed. Although the Queen thought the mother calloused, the boy who followed Dona Ines’ departure with a shout of her name that became a wrenching shriek as it faded, must learn. A son who was a bastard had no rights, not even to a mother. Eldest sons had all the rights. But this boy was not her son; he was only João ’s bastard.

Philippa’s confrontation with her husband would happen any day now, when he returned. She said her devotionals as she did thrice daily, then sought serenity at the water’s edge. Her brown, hooded cloak swept a trail through the damp sand of the Lisbon beach, her thin-soled boots crunching fiercely as she lengthened her stride.

The maidservant who trudged behind her sighed. In the tensed shoulders of the petite figure walking ahead, she recognized the tenacity everyone had come to admire in Dona Filipa. She knew what the Queen was rehearsing as she stalked across the sands. All the household knew what she had done, had seen the arrival of the frightened children.

Philippa muttered into the wind, I have little to lose. Such a daring move might be unwomanly but not beyond the power of a queen. João had been forced, politically, at least, to marry her and had treated her with sullen resentment ever since. She would not suffer the same outrages as her mother! Not only did she want children, but she wanted her husband’s respect. She would demand them.

To the exhausted maidservant’s relief, she slowed her pace at last, and turned back toward the palace. The seabirds dived for fish. Ragged children ran across the rocks gleefully flinging seaweed pods at each other. An intrepid turtle, washed too close to shore, struggled against the tide to get back out to sea. Philippa had found a lesson of strength in the persistence of the waves; she made ready for the encounter.

She desperately wished the mood of the meeting with her warrior husband could be like the calm inlet stretched before her, encircled by the protective arms of the beach. They could talk, peacefully exploring the edges of each other’s expectations, reconciling as the water and sand did where they converged. But she knew better.

A barefoot stable boy met them on the upward path permitting the breathless maidservant a moment’s rest while he brought news of King John’s arrival. His hands twisted nervously and his adolescent voice plummeted from a screech to a baritone as he relayed the message. Now, said the lad, the King awaited her, not in the official reception room but in the private royal chambers. Philippa tugged off her hood, ran her thin fingers through her hair. She smiled at the ragamuffin herald, knowing word of her confidence would spread through the Palace. She wanted them to know she was unafraid. Her strength came from prayer, and she would have gone first to kneel in the small chapel walled in blue tiles. Yet, she dare not keep him waiting. She had already made her petition to Mary many times.

I see you’re as bold as your father, said the King in an ominously even voice. To signal his disdain, he remained seated behind the carved oak table where she often sat, his back to the window and its pacific view. Except for his face, he loomed black against the light. His gaze was defiant. His fleshy jaw, which would merge into jowls as he became older, was set now with the rigidity of a thirty year old king’s anger. However, Philippa had no intention of being either subservient or seductive; she knew neither response would advance her hopes. She began, not with an apology, but an acknowledgment.

I admit that our marriage has been only a political alliance, the wedding merely a glittering ceremony. She searched for what to say next, deciding quickly not to mention that he had run away to the countryside for two months with his mistress and taken a vow of celibacy which her father had to persuade the Pope to dissolve.

João exploded,By God and Santa Maria, your father’s marriage proposal was delivered by a small English army that marched right up to the castle! Do you think I had any choice in the matter? And now you’ve taken away the mother of my children. He leaned across the table, one hand clutching its edge, pressing his gold signet ring between whitened knuckles.

Illegitimate children, she interjected. As for the English army, it was the 500 English crossbows that saved you. And my father who fought beside you. João’s hands clenched into fists as he raised his eyes to the ceiling and