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My uncle, who had accompanied us, invited or not, his anger crackling across the room like a summer storm as soon as the door was closed, turned on me as if he and I together could conjure Thomas Holland into being. His face was suffused with a venom that reverberated outward to the walls and back again. I could taste it on my lips.

My uncle’s fingers stretched and fisted, his hair hung dull and lax in disarray on his brow.

‘Where is he? I swear he will face the wrath of the King who will strip him of his knighthood before he can step out of his boots on English soil. This is no act of chivalry worthy of a knight, to take a young woman to his marriage bed without the consent of parent, of guardian or priest. He will answer for this.’ He turned on me, looming over me, all attempts at controlling his speech failing. ‘I presume he did discover a marriage bed for you to honour this travesty.’ His lips twisted. ‘Or was consummation nothing but a quick fumble behind a pillar or a squalid hanging, as if you were a servant and knew no better. Or even an act of rape…’

‘Tom…’ my mother warned.

But he was past warning. ‘Holland will answer for this,’ he repeated. ‘I will hunt him down…’

I stood between mother and uncle, bearing the weight of their joint disgust. There would be no compassion here. But then, I could expect none. My choice that day, my own choice, for Thomas had not inveigled me into anything I had not wished with my whole heart, had tottered on the edge of propriety. On the edge of scandalous impropriety. I had always known what was the expectation for me, and I had thrown it away. Willingly. With heartfelt joy.

There was no joy between these four walls. I could see no joy at any point in the future, near or far. Well, I had done it. No point in retreating now.

I spoke a flat, easy denial, of the one fact in all this complicated weave of which I was quite certain. ‘Thomas Holland did not inveigle me, sir.’

It was not so difficult, I decided, being aware of a surge of courage. My spine was as straight as a Welsh arrow, my chin raised, my hands loose at my sides. I was Plantagenet, the blood of kings in my veins, and I would not be cowed by my uncle. I would not be reduced under his displeasure to a trembling puddle of regret and repentance. Queen Philippa had tried her best to instil in me some of her gentleness but to no avail. It was not in my nature. I called on that spirit of rebellion now, even as I vowed to keep my temper under close rein.

‘He must have.’ My uncle dismissed my calm assertion with a slice of his hand through the air. ‘It must have been against your will, for, before God, such an act was against every moral tenet of your upbringing.’

‘It was not against my will. I wished it. We both did.’

‘You were not raised to be a whore, Joan.’

His lip curled as, disbelieving, I felt the flush of humiliation high on my cheekbones. I was no whore.

‘You married this man of no birth, of no family, without permission. How could you be so maladroit?’

So my good intentions died a rapid death. Anger, stoking the humiliation of being branded a whore, spurred me into unfortunate retaliation. ‘I am not the first member of this family to wed without permission, sir.’

My mother froze. My uncle burned with ire. This was obviously a day for sharp silences. I did not wait for their response, continuing with the righteousness I felt in my bones, first to my mother:

‘You married my father without his brother, the King’s, permission, madam. The King was not pleased, as I have heard. And you sir,’ I held my uncle’s eye, ‘married Blanche of Lancaster without her father’s permission. In the light of such impropriety, it is not appropriate for you to take me to task for doing exactly the same.’

Perhaps not the wisest of moves to brave these two furious lions in their den. But it was true. Neither marriage had been well received, both denigrated because of the Wake family’s lack of sufficient grandeur.

My uncle pounced on the the weakness in my own argument.

‘Not appropriate? Your mother’s husband was a King’s son. My wife was daughter of an Earl. We chose well. We made good marriages. This man that you have tied yourself to is not worthy of our consideration. Your argument is specious, Joan.’

‘But at least I cannot be accused of overweening ambition, sir. I wed Thomas Holland for his own qualities. I have heard it said that you and my mother had nothing but your pre-eminence in mind. I am not guilty of self-aggrandisement.’

For the briefest of moments I thought he would strike me, yet I stood my ground. Then my mother picked up the gauntlet and stepped onto the battleground.

‘Leave us, Tom.’

‘Not until we’ve shaken some sense into your daughter.’

‘If there is any shaking to be done, it will not be done by you. Now go away and leave her to me.’

Ungraciously he went. No sooner was the door slammed behind him than the onslaught began again, each word carefully enunciated in her wrath.

‘Do you not realise what you have done? How outrageously thoughtless you have been? You know the ambitions that drive young men of no particular blood or background. You know what they will venture, to find a niche for themselves, to gain land and power, and you have played so magnificently into this man’s hands. I know who he is. A younger son, with no inheritance of any merit, a knight of no importance from some insignificant estate in the north if I recall the matter. One of the household knights with a life to make for himself, a handsome face and a soldier’s agility, but no prospects other than those he might win on the battlefield. His father was notable for a despicable default in loyalty on the battlefield, leading to his murder by his erstwhile friends. And you have been wilful enough to ally yourself with such a family, wasting your royal blood on a man without name or fortune.’

She stopped, but only to draw breath. Yet before she could continue, in pure self defence:

‘So was my father executed as a traitor,’ I said.

It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong time to say it, even though there was no doubting it. Whereas my uncle had restrained himself, my mother lashed out with her hand, catching me with a flat blow against my cheek that made me stagger. She had never struck me before. Verbally yes, but never with such physicality. I read her anger in the engraved lines of her face, as I refused to raise my hand to register the raw impact of the blow. Instead I simply stood and faced her, eyes wide on hers.

‘Your father was pardoned,’ she said, as if the violence had never occurred. ‘His reputation and his name were wiped clean from the filth of treachery by King Edward himself.’

‘You were involved also, madam.’ The outline of her hand still smarted, so I gave no quarter, whatever the wisdom of it. ‘Were you exonerated too?’

‘Your defiance is unacceptable.’

My whole body tensed, until my mother grasped at her dignity, threading her fingers together, moderating her tone.

‘You know that I was. And you too, or you would not have been given the honour of royal status in the queen’s household.’ Her fury might be under control but she had still not finished with me. ‘Are you so credulous? I did not think a daughter of mine would fall into the hands of a man of no distinction, like a ripe plum into his palm. All he saw was an indiscreet girl with royal connections who could pave his way to some place in the royal court, opening the doors to patronage and wealth and royal preferment. How could you have been so immeasurably foolish?’

‘Thomas did not want me for patronage and preferment.’

‘Do you say?’ Her mouth twisted in an unmistakable sneer. ‘He must be the only man in the realm who would not!’

It had more than crossed my own mind, yet still I believed that Thomas Holland saw more in me than a path to royal approval. Love was a powerful bonding.

‘Joan!’ My mother, abandoning accusation, fell back on a false softness. ‘Tell me that he persuaded you with honeyed words. If that is so, this marriage can be annulled before anyone else is the wiser.’

I could not imagine Thomas using honeyed words. Thomas was a soldier, not a troubadour, his knowledge of songs limited to those a troop of militia might roar round a campfire after victory. Or possibly those employed by harlots in a camp brothel to seduce the coin from a soldier’s purse.

‘I was not persuaded,’ I said, ‘if you mean lured into impropriety against my will. I gave my full and free consent. I wished to be married to him. I love him. And he loves me.’

But she would not let the battle lapse, driving on with all force. ‘You knew it would be unacceptable. So did he. Did he persuade you to such subterfuge? If he was a man of chivalry, a true knight, he would not have wed you in secret.’

‘We knew you would not support it. We had no choice.’

‘You knew well! I wanted this Montagu marriage, as did the King. Our future would be safe, secure, our inheritance inviolable from attack. Your children would be Earls of Salisbury. I could not believe our good fortune when the Montagu connection looked in your direction.’

I frowned a little.

‘But who would attack our inheritance? The King has restored all our father’s lands to us. John’s ownership as Earl of Kent is unquestioned.’

Were we not safe enough now that the Mortimer treachery had been so ruthlessly stamped out? The King had openly forgiven my father’s involvement in the plot to undermine his power. It was all so long ago in the past. I could not truly understand why my mother should still feel so insecure.

‘I was not given authority over all the estates. A permanent punishment, a constant reminder that I must watch my step.’ Oh, she was aggrieved, and not only towards me. ‘Who’s to know what the King might be moved to take from us if displeased? How do we read the future?’ She turned away as if the sight of me was anathema. ‘What do we do now? Accept it? Father Oswald was plain that it was a legal binding if you exchanged vows and with witnesses. How do we circumvent such an appalling outcome? And you confirmed that it was consummated…’

On a thought she whipped round, her whole expression arrested. ‘That’s it! Did he force you, before the marriage? Was that how it was? Are you carrying his misbegotten child, so that you must wed him?’ Her eyes travelled over the flat expanse below my girdle as if she would delight in seeing evidence of my sin. ‘No, of course you could not. When did this travesty take place? May? And as he has not been in England since to my knowledge, it’s a specious argument.’ I could feel my face flame, whereas my mother’s was still full of a bright but false hope. ‘Yet if he did force you, it would provide grounds for an annulment.’

I read uncharitable anticipation there. My mother would willingly discuss my rape if it could sever the terrible bond with Thomas Holland.