A Genteel Knight

Free Preview (6, 960 ) 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.