I knocked on her door, and, thankfully, as all court was present, she was too.
“Yes?” She peered out of the crack of her door.
“May I please come in?”
She looked me up and down and then opened the door unto me. I suspected she had been sought after by other young women before, as she did not seem too surprised.
“How may I help ye?” she asked.
“You may not recall, but some years back after I was … assaulted … you tended to me and took away my bloody linens,” I said.
She nodded. “I do indeed remember ye, mistress. Do ye need to affect a maidenhead, then? I can help ye with tha’.”
I shook my head. “Nay. I was wondering, well … you’d said that I might not be able to bear a child, and that you’d be better able to tell after some time had passed. Might you examine me again and see if that be true or not?”
She nodded and stood there. I finally realized what she wanted and handed a coin to her—much more than was necessary, actually, because she’d charged me naught the last time she’d assisted.
I undressed and lay down on a narrow bed in her chamber. She examined me carefully and afterward, I sat up.
“I’m sorry to tell ye, mistress, ’tis still unlikely you will bear a child. There be too much scarring, there be. I have been wrong before. But I have seen many a maid, a lady, a strumpet, and a mother, and I do na think I am mistaken.”
She quickly moved the coin I’d given her out of reach, fearful, I supposed, that I might demand the fee back after hearing ill tidings.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I left her chambers and mixed in with the mourners; my mourning was multiplied many times over. I found a quiet corner and squeezed shut my eyes for a moment, letting my hopes fall through the grate of the horrible truth. I would never marry. I could never marry. I could not tell a man what happened to me, as Sir John and Tristram had indicated good men did not desire soiled goods, which is what they both considered, and perhaps others might consider, me to be after learning the truth. I would not marry a man in good faith knowing I would likely never bear him a child. My mourning gown for His Majesty had become a shroud, concealing a person who was once full of life and now had no spirit left.
Later that night, back at Chelsea, I cheered a little when I considered that I might marry a widow who had already had children of his own and therefore would be someone I could honestly marry, he having already acquired the heirs he might want and need. I could be a loving wife, and a mother for his offspring, as Lady Fitzgerald Browne had done. There weren’t likely to be many widowers in Marlborough; I would come across more by remaining in my lady’s household.
But marrying a widower was not what I wanted, and my false cheer faded. I wanted to wed an Irish knight who loved me, I knew, for who he thought me to be, but who wanted lads of his own. I prayed that night for the strength to follow through with what I knew I must do during the coronation festivities, for his sake much more than for my own.
Hugh had arrived to stay with me at Chelsea with the news that whilst our mother would still not be coming to London for the coronation, Matthias and his family had already arrived and were staying at a nearby inn.
“Matthias rode with his mother and the other ladies in a litter,” Hugh told me with a smirk. “Instead of riding a horse.”
I grinned with him. Mayhap it was not a terrible fate to let Matthias pass me by.
“How fare you?” I asked.
“Well,” Hugh said. “I have made many good friends and met lads more high-flown than peregrines. But I tire of the womanish intrigue, honestly, of court, and yearn for the manlier world of our father. I suspect that I, like St. George and our father, will someday soon set off for the East and leave the financial matters to Matthias and his father.”
“Afore finding a lady of your own?”
He blushed. “I may have found one already.” He told me of his young lady, of a knight’s family, and connected with Cecil’s household. “You would find her most congenial.”
“Indeed,” I said, smiling. Hugh had shared that our mother grew frailer and that Matthias had all but taken over the finances of the business from his father whilst Hugh would now return home and run the portion that had been our father’s.
“Shall you marry Matthias?” he asked me.
“Not unless you compel me to, which shall be your right now, as a man full grown and head of our household. And then I shall.”
“I should not make you do anything you do not want to do, Juliana,” he said softly. It was an odd moment, our role reversal. “I shall tell Matthias that there will be no negotiations … if you be certain.”
“I am certain,” I said. “I do not think I shall marry for some time.” I paused. “When Lady Neville’s father died he left her either a dowry or a stipend for life in case she should not marry.”
We let the fire die out in companionable silence. “You are always welcome at Brighton,” Hugh said. “And if you prefer a stipend over a dowry I shall ensure that you receive it.”
I tightly embraced him. Nothing more needed to be said.
On February 19, Edward rode from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, where he was crowned king. The week following was full of celebrations, beginning with jousts, at which Lord Thomas excelled. Kate wore her mourning gown but she had cheer about her, and, unwillingly, I did too when I saw Sir James Hart as a challenger.
He found me after his first joust and I decided, on the spot, that armor was most becoming on a man even if he smelt as if he were roasting within.
“I hoped I’d see you here,” he said. “I am a man of few prayers, but if they be answered as quickly and as positively as this one has, I shall become devout.”
I grinned. “I am glad to be of some use in the deepening of your faith, then, Jamie.”
He took his helmet off and walked with me to the side of the tiltyard where tables with small beer and food had been set up.
“Juliana.” He took my hand in his own. “How fare you?”
“I am well,” I said.
“You look well,” he said. “You look beautiful. Come, let’s have a seat and I shall tell you all about my dangerous mishaps at sea. You shall be so relieved that I survived them that you will never want me to leave your sight.”
I smiled. ’Twas the truth, but also a dream, and one I dreamt on my own and not by the Spirit, which left no reassurance that it would come to pass.
We sat among the others and after an hour’s conversation a tall man with a finely dressed woman approached us, two boys accompanying them.
Jamie stood, so I did too. “Mistress Juliana St. John, may I present my brother, Sir Oliver Hart; his wife, Lady Rosemary Hart; and my two nephews, Master Scamp and Master Rascal.”
“I be no rascal!” the youngest called out.
“Then you must be Master Scamp,” I teased. I then held out my hand to Sir Oliver, who took it in his hand. His eyes were kindly. I dipped a small curtsey to his wife.
“Oh, come now,” she said with a lovely, light Irish lilt. She took my hand in her own for a squeeze. “I’m pleased to meet the fair mistress who has anchored young Jamie.”
Jamie blushed at that.
“Are you here alone?” his brother asked with concern.
“Oh, assuredly not. I am with the queen dowager’s household,” I said. “And my brother is nearby.”
“I just stole her away,” Jamie said. “Now, I have heard that each man may tilt twice if he does it for a lady’s favor. May I?”
I unthreaded a ribbon from my gown and handed it to him. There is no harm in that, I convinced myself. ’Tis a ride and not a promise.
He took off and I stayed for a while and made polite conversation with his brother and his wife. Scamp and Rascal, rather Oliver and Stephen, grew restless waiting for their uncle to tilt and so I made a suggestion.