The King’s Sister

Chapter Six

1385, Windsor Castle

It was not a gentle courtship, for what we were intent on was forbidden and perilous. How to conduct a dangerous intimacy in the public eye, with absolutely no privacy to be had within the royal court in those days when we were swamped with preparations for Richard’s Scottish war? Not a love affair on my part, I argued, but an increasing fascination, an entrancement, a fiery passion that heated my blood and drenched my dreams in longing. But what of John Holland? He was hunting impatiently and in earnest, and left me in no doubt of it.

‘An annulment!’ he breathed sacrilegiously at High Mass under the soaring roof of St George’s Chapel, as the host was raised. ‘Get an annulment and wed me.’

My silence was my refusal. Too far. Too fast. I might yearn to know more than chaste kisses with this man, but annulment was impossible. The Duke would never agree. As for committing the great sin of carnal knowledge in the Holland bed, the imagining was one thing, the doing of it quite another.

‘I’ll be the husband you need, a man who will treasure you, revere you. Not a boy who sees you as sister rather than wife.’

How alike his voice was to that of Princess Joan when intent on persuasion. Smooth and melodious, impossible to withstand. How many times did he urge me to seek an audience with the Duke, a request with which I could not comply? I would not present my father with yet another burden. There must be no further scandals to stir the witches’ broth of court intrigue. For the Duke’s daughter to become embroiled in lascivious marital complications would be selfish indeed.

‘You’re not afraid of my temper, are you?’ he demanded with more than a hint of it.

‘Certainly not!’

‘I’ll never let it harm you. And I won’t give up. I’ll hound you until you give in.’

‘I know you will.’

‘I’ll tumble you into my bed before you can blink.’

‘But not today.’

‘What do you want from me, Elizabeth?’ How many times did he pose that question, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with an edge of impatience. More than once in anger.

‘I don’t know.’

How many times did I reply in kind, my future being a swirl of grey mist where nothing was certain. All I knew was that I wanted what we had at that moment.

‘Let me show you how much I love you.’

I could not take that final step.

‘Then do I let you go?’

‘No.’

I could neither live with him nor without him. So this half-life was all I had.

‘Will I still be sneaking into corners to meet you when I am too old to climb onto my horse?’ he asked, not entirely in jest. I felt his desire in his hands, his mouth, and the quizzical expression as he gripped my shoulders and dragged me close. ‘Why do I love you when you are so intransigent? Could I not find an easier woman to love?’

‘Perhaps you could,’ I challenged, a little disconcerted, turning my face away. ‘I’m certain you would entrap a goodly number of handsome women who would fly to your lure. Perhaps you should go and do it now, before you march north. I will not hinder you, but accept our light liaison as a mere pleasant experience.’

Which made him grin, all irritation vanished in a blink of an eye. ‘You wouldn’t like that at all if I did, Countess. Nor would I, God help me. I am forced to admit that for reasons I cannot comprehend, you are the one woman I love. I might wish it otherwise but you are lodged in my heart.’ He turned my chin with his hand and planted a final kiss on my lips. ‘And you’ll regret spurning me if I meet my death on a Scottish battlefield.’

‘You wouldn’t have the temerity to die in battle!’ I replied smartly.

Yet it was a worry that wriggled under my skin, for unseeing though I was of the future, I was helplessly trapped in the net of his deliberate campaign. And what an adventurous campaign it was, unfolding day after day through the endless banquets hosted by Richard, when my importunate lover and I were seated under the canopy of state on the dais as royal family, and I, forsooth, did nothing to spurn him.

What could not be achieved under the auspices of a formal banquet?

It astonished me, and I participated with relish.

The words we exchanged between this and that interminable course might be innocent, but our gestures were heavy with meaning. My appetite for food fled; for the company of John Holland it burgeoned, as in the days after a Lenten fast when the tongue craves rich sweetness. We might indeed fast from physical touch, but his wooing of my senses wound them tight, like a thread on a distaff, so that all I desired was to be in his company. I was lured to him with every breath, every clever ruse employed by John Holland to weaken my resolve not to cast myself entirely into his power.

‘May I tempt you, my lady?’

A gobbet of delicate roast heron presented to me on the point of a knife. A spoonful of spiced quince dumpling handed to me—who was to know the spoon, the silver prettily chased with an E, was a gift from him to me? It made me laugh, although I would not explain. Would this spoon be long enough for my supping? Oh, I prayed that it was. And then there was the stare that caught mine and would not release me, shielded by the magnificent tail of Richard’s stuffed peacock.

‘You are the most beautiful creature here today. Except for this poor bird before us, stripped and stuffed back into its skin.’

Which made me laugh. And if that were not enough, it was the comfits and hippocras of the voidee, served only to the pre-eminent guests, that heated my limbs with an inappropriate stroke of lust. And the wordless toast in the spiced wine.

I was truly enamoured.

And finally: ‘God keep you safe, Elizabeth, when I cannot.’ A mark of possession, uttered as the chaplain brought the feast to an end with fulsome prayers. The solemn pronouncement stirred my senses as the chaplain’s did not.

‘May the Blessed Virgin keep you in her heart and smile on you,’ I replied in a furtive whisper, when I would rather be kissing him and he kissing me. ‘May she bring you back safe from war, without harm.’

And then innocence was abandoned, along with the bones thrown to the dogs, for Richard’s march to intimidate and harry the Scots was imminent.

‘And if I’m so preserved, perhaps you might consider celebrating with me between my sheets,’ he murmured sotto voce, under a swell of minstrel enthusiasm from the gallery above our heads.

‘I am a respectable wife,’ I mouthed back.

‘Sadly not mine.’

Thus the tenor of what was for me an illumination, like entering a light-filled room from dark antechamber, into how physical desire could colour every action, every sentiment uttered; and what for John Holland was a determined seduction.

‘You are my Holy Grail.’

‘I am no such thing!’

‘I am embarked on my life’s quest to win you. No castle will be impregnable to my assault.’

My cheeks were on fire. I could find no denial. Silently I wished him every success in storming his castle walls.

Ultimately, lingeringly, forlornly, clinging to what solace I could, I kissed John Holland, safe from prying eyes at the foot of the outer staircase to his room. In public I made a decorous farewell to the King, my father and brother and my would-be lover as they rode out to war. Generations of Lancaster women had been waving their menfolk off to war, as did I, with a bright smile and dread in my belly. I forgave John his preoccupations.

Philippa kept her own council other than to remark at regular intervals: ‘I don’t know what he means to you, but why will you still play with fire? I pray that you will not be singed beyond bearing.’

‘And I pray for you a husband, as soon as the Duke returns,’ I replied, my own temper short in those days when we received no news. ‘Then you will know that sometimes playing with fire is as essential as breathing.’

I was already mightily singed. Jonty, far to the north in Kenilworth, retired into the shadows. John Holland, even further away in Scotland under the royal banner, stood in my mind in the full rays of the noon-day sun.

Our military force finally departing to the north, I prayed daily for their deliverance from our enemy the Scots. Not that I needed to wear out my petitions on my knees, when the proud advance fast deteriorated into a humiliating retreat, Richard being the first to return to London. Relief laid its hand on me. The rest of our men would follow and soon I would see John again.

Perhaps we would do more than mime across the expanse of a fair cloth.

Then the news trickled through, the deadliest of poison.

‘Ralph Stafford is dead.’

At first it was whispered, for was not Ralph Stafford, a young courtier with dash and style and a powerful family behind him, particularly loved by Richard? How long could the news be kept from him that one of his best-beloved friends was dead? And when Richard discovered it, what fit of temper or utter remorse would take hold of him?

‘Struck down in cold blood.’

Pray God that Queen Anne could soothe him with her calm good sense and soft words.

And then the details unfolded, like a stream gathering momentum in a summer flood. And one particular detail. That one inexplicable detail that stirred the whispers to a deluge of gossip and reduced me to a mass of shivering fear.

Ralph Stafford was cut down, in a despicable, unprovoked blow, by John Holland.

The whole court talked of nothing else. Those who had no love for John Holland and his aspirations to power rubbed their hands with glee for surely there was no redemption for him here. And those who saw behind John’s ambitions to the brilliant skill, men such as my father, failed to hide their dismay. How could this cold-blooded murder be excused? The death of the friar under questioning could be overlooked as a necessity in the face of treason, but this victim of John Holland’s outrageous temper was a young man, son and heir of Earl of Stafford, with many friends.

John, it became clear, had few friends to leap to his defence.

As the tale grew in gore and viciousness, I tried to preserve a dispassionate face, even joining in the speculation of how Richard would react to his brother’s crime, while my heart became a thing of ice and my spirits in tatters. If the telling of the deed was true, not even I could vindicate John from the foul deed.

How could I justify this? I knew John’s temper. I knew it could rage on the very borders of control. Far to the north in York, one of John’s squires had been killed in a drunken brawl by an archer in the retinue of Ralph Stafford. An unfortunate killing in the heat of ale, but John, full of ire, went hunting for the perpetrator, and when, riding through the night, he came across a Stafford retinue, John drew his sword and killed the leader, without waiting to discover that it was the Stafford heir. Or perhaps he did know, some muttered, but the violence of his temper drove him on to avenge his dead squire.

No matter the detail, John Holland had run Ralph Stafford through with his sword, leaving his dead body on the road.

The news could not be kept from Richard who was gripped by a silent rage, seated immobile on the throne in his audience chamber, tears fresh on his cheeks, unresponsive to Queen Anne who left him with a lift of her shoulders.

So what now? the court mused. And so did I with a dread that kept me awake through the early hours when fears leapt from every shadow. Stafford was demanding vengeance. John had taken refuge in Beverley Minster, surely evidence of his guilt. But what would Richard do?

As I considered the possible scale of Richard’s revenge, an undercurrent of pure rage rumbled beneath my speculations, aimed at both men. Richard might well dole out the ultimate penalty for murder, so that the royal brother would face the axe. Or be banished from the kingdom to seek his turbulent fortune elsewhere. I had no faith in Richard’s compassion.

As for John Holland, how could he have been so intemperate?

And then the undercurrent became a raging fire that swept through me as I put the blame where it lay. John was everything to me, and I to him. How could he risk all that we were to each other by a blow of a sword on a dark road? I could not justify his lack of humanity, of morality, his lack of foresight in bringing about an innocent death.

Had he not promised never to allow his temper to harm me? But he had. Oh, he had. His life might be forfeit and I left to mourn a love that shook me with its power.

The fault was all John Holland’s, and Richard’s grief erupted into an outpouring of rage against his absent brother. Fraternal affection held far less weight than the loss of Ralph Stafford. John Holland, Richard swore, would answer for his crime, while I was cast into a desperate foreboding. I was helpless.

But was I? Laying my anger aside, I gave my mind to plan, to plot—for was not Richard my cousin who might be open to persuasion? Richard would never condemn his own brother to death or even banish him from his presence. Richard had a brother’s love for John Holland. What if I appealed to him for clemency? Would he listen as he had listened to me—and obeyed me—in our childhood games? But those days were long gone, Richard now eighteen years and a man grown, a man driven by extreme passions when his will was crossed. If he could conspire in the death of a once loved uncle, Richard was not the cousin I remembered. And how could I confess my interest in John Holland, in full public gaze, when as a married woman I was not free to do so?

But I could not sit and allow John Holland to come under royal vengeance.

Who could help me?

I considered petitioning the Queen, but her eyes were strained with sadnesses I could only guess at. Not de Vere and the courtiers of Richard’s charmed inner circle. Never them. Would they not rejoice in John’s fall from grace? Princess Joan was not in health, residing with her own household at Wallingford Castle. I could think of only one voice that might, in spite of everything, still have Richard’s ear and the authority of royal blood.

I attended Mass, from which Richard was noticeably absent, even though it would have been good for his inner peace, then went in search of my father in his accommodations.

‘Elizabeth.’ He looked up as I entered. ‘What brings you from your bed betimes? It must be urgent.’

He was, as usual, in the depths of state business, the table before him covered with lists and correspondence. It would fall to him to secure the Scottish border against reprisals after Richard’s abortive campaign. His eyes were tired. I noticed the grey in his hair and felt the weight of his responsibilities. Would it be thoughtless for me to add to his burdens?

‘Are you too busy?’

‘Yes. But since you think it’s important enough to come and see me, you’d better tell me. What is it you want me to do for you this time?’

I felt my face flush, but returned his kiss and allowed him to lead me to a seat in the window. I knew I was taking a risk in broaching this matter, but I could not reconcile myself to letting events take their course.

‘Well?’

‘I want you to put Sir John Holland’s case before the King.’

The Duke’s expression did not change. ‘And why would you wish me to do that?’

I folded my hands neatly in my lap. ‘Because he does not deserve Richard’s wrath. There is talk that Richard will bring the weight of the law down upon his head.’

The Duke inhaled sharply, but at least honoured me with his reasoned thoughts. ‘Holland is his own worst enemy. He killed Ralph Stafford. He has not denied it—his flight to seize sanctuary is proof enough. If he had bothered to think before drawing his sword … I understand his displeasure over the loss of his squire, but his response was reprehensible. If he were a dozen years younger, with adolescent lack of control, I might excuse him, but he is thirty-three years old. There is no excuse.’ He looked at me, brows flat, mouth unsmiling. ‘And why are you so concerned? I thought I had made it plain that it was not wise for you to give any level of thought to John Holland.’

‘I do not think of him,’ I responded gravely as I marshalled the line of reasoning I had constructed during the night hours. ‘But I think he deserves that we take an interest in his preservation. He has not been backward in supporting our interests.’ I would not mention the friar—it would not enhance my argument—but moved on into less troubled waters. ‘He rescued me, if you had forgotten. He saved me, and Henry and Princess Joan, from certain death in the Tower. Can we allow him to fall victim to Richard’s temper? The Princess is your friend. Can you turn your back on her? She pleaded for you when Richard was crying foul over your attack on de Vere. She persuaded Richard to come and meet with you.’

Here was the argument that might do the trick. I waited, wondering if my ploy would work. My father had a debt to pay to the Princess. If he could see the need to pay it on this occasion, he might be willing to stand between her two sons and beg for mercy for one of them.

‘Does Sir John not wear your livery?’ I added, innocent enough, when the Duke’s thoughts engendered nothing but a heavy frown.

‘Very true.’ The driest of comments with no inflection.

‘So will you?’

‘I think Princess Joan will make her own powerful arguments without my intervention. I am barely reconciled with the King.’

‘Princess Joan is not fit to travel. She might hope to rely on you.’

As my father studied my face, I tried to breathe evenly despite the leaping anxieties.

‘You are very importunate.’

I was very afraid. I tried a lift of my chin, a calm smile. ‘I would see justice done.’

‘For John Holland rather than Ralph Stafford.’

‘For both. I don’t ask that Sir John go unpunished. Merely that Richard does not order the executioner to sharpen his axe. If it were not for Sir John my neck would have felt its kiss on Tower Green. And Henry’s.’

I drove the nail home with little subtlety. It was the strongest point I could envisage.

‘I will think of it.’

No promises. I had to cling to hope. I had done what I could.

Why did you have to do it, John? You promised me that your temper would never harm me. It could destroy our love—so young, so new and untried—for ever.

We were announced into the audience chamber at Windsor as if we were a foreign delegation, to be received by Richard seated in state, the royal crown on his brow. Gone were the tears, the pale cheeks of past days. Now his face burned with fury. My pleas to the Duke had held weight, but I had no anticipation that Richard would hear. Beside him sat Queen Anne, straight-backed, watchful, equally resplendent in royal robes and coronet. The Duke and I had clothed ourselves in silk and damask as if for a formal audience rather than a family petition. I was relieved that we were alone, without the keen-eyed, long-eared courtiers primed for further gossip about royal disputes.

The Duke bowed. I curtsied. Richard gave no sign of recognition. The Queen leaned across and touched his arm.

‘Have you a request for me, Uncle?’ Richard blinked, as if suddenly awakening. ‘I did not think we had business to attend to.’

‘No, my lord.’ The Duke wasted no time. ‘I am here on family matters. To ask your royal pardon for your brother, John Holland.’

‘What is it to you how I deal with Holland?’ Richard all but spat the name.

‘He is a useful man for you to have on your side, sire. A gifted man.’

‘At the tournament.’ Richard surged to his feet. ‘I see no other gifts!’

The Duke was patient. ‘He has excellent judgement as a soldier, a leader of men. It would not be politic to alienate him from your side. His loyalty to the Crown—to you—is without question.’

‘Politic?’ Richard snarled. ‘Holland murdered my friend!’

‘A sad misjudgement, sire.’

‘A symptom of his vicious temper!’

The Duke inclined his head. ‘If you could find it in your way to be magnanimous.’

‘I could not.’ Richard turned his face away.

All of which I could only absorb with increasing anxiety. If my father could not sway Richard, who could?

The Duke glanced at me, then back to the King. ‘Sire …’

‘You have our answer. Leave us.’ His fair face was dark with an intensity of hatred. ‘I will not receive into my presence those who would support a murderer.’

I looked towards the Queen. So did my father, but she merely shook her head. My father bowed, I curtsied. What a brief, disastrously unsuccessful audience it had proved to be. But as we turned to go, the door was opened, with a disturbance outside.

‘Now who dares to disturb my peace …?’

Richard strode forward, leaping from the dais, as if to slam the doors shut with his own hands, but stumbled to a halt.

‘Madam!’

In the doorway, aided by one of her serving women who held her arm firmly to guide her faltering steps, was Princess Joan. Burdened by rich cloth that did nothing to disguise her swollen flesh, Joan struggled forward with agonising slowness. How she had aged in those few short weeks since she had argued my father’s cause with such skill. I now understood why she lived in seclusion at Wallingford. Every step was for her an agony.

And yet here might be the one voice to persuade Richard to show mercy.

‘What brings you here, madam?’ A belligerence but a wary one, as if Richard might still heed his mother’s words. I prayed that he would. There was only one possible reason for Joan to be here at this crucial hour. ‘Can I guess? You have wasted your time.’ Richard, who usually spoke to his mother with tenderness, was brutally intolerant.

‘You might well guess.’ The flesh of her once beautiful face was drawn with effort and a quality of grief I had never experienced from this redoubtable woman. How she must have suffered on her journey here, in mind and in spirit. ‘I am here to see you, my son.’

‘To see your King.’ Richard’s chiding was remorseless.

‘As you say. You must excuse the frailty of my flesh, that I cannot perform the obeisance you clearly hope for. I must assure you that you have my regard and my loyalty as my lord and King. As you have my love as my son.’

Her flesh might be weak but her voice was as strong and assured as it had ever been. Princess Joan raised her chin with a direct stare.

‘There’s no need to say more. I know why you are here. And I won’t do it.’

‘Then I ask pardon for importuning you.’ The Princess glanced at us, her eyes keen even as her body trembled, betraying her. ‘I see I am not the first, if I read this right.’ Then she fixed Richard once more with the flat regard of a woman who had survived more scandals than anyone I knew. ‘It is not fitting, Richard, that one brother should seek the life of another.’

‘He has committed bloody murder,’ Richard roared.

Joan raised one hand. ‘He has killed. I know not his justification. Or even if he had any. Have mercy, Richard.’

‘I will have no mercy.’

‘Help me!’

The command, addressed to her woman, was harsh, as with greatest difficulty and a groan of anguish, the Princess fell to her knees. And before my father could move, I was at her side, kneeling with her—some would say driven by my own selfish desires, but how could I not be moved by compassion for this courageous, suffering woman?

‘I beg of you, sire,’ I pleaded as I had never pleaded with Richard before. ‘Have pity on this lady whose health cannot withstand the loss of one son at the hand of the other.’

The Princess grasped my arm hard, but there we knelt. What an image we made, two nobly-born but impotent women, like the sea washing up against the impregnable rock of Richard’s intransigence.

‘Go back to Wallingford, madam,’ Richard said in cold judgement. ‘And you, Countess of Pembroke, should return to your husband. What is it to you how I deal with those who commit crimes in my realm and disturb my peace?’ Richard’s eyes were as killingly bleak as those of his favourite raptor. ‘You do no good here. Neither of you. I will not be swayed by the whining of women over matters beyond their comprehension.’

Joan held on to me, pulling her spine erect. ‘I will not go, my son, until I have your answer.’

‘Then here it is, since your understanding seems to be lacking. John Holland, whom I will no longer call brother, will face the demands of the English law. Coward that he is, he lurks in some northern sanctuary. If he dares to show his face before me, he’ll suffer the blow of the axe to his arrogant neck.’ He addressed Joan’s woman. ‘Arrange for this lady’s return to her home. She has made her petition and I have answered it.’

With a silken swish of the folds of his houppelande, Richard swept past us, leaving the Duke and me to raise and shepherd a tearful princess to her waiting litter. The fact that she wept was more shocking than all the rest.

‘I doubt she’s fit to travel,’ my father observed as the Princess insisted, all traces of tears dashed away, but her hands shaking as she drew the covers over her legs. ‘I think today we have seen Richard sign her death warrant. He has broken her heart.’

I thought he might have broken mine too.

‘Did we achieve anything?’ I asked, even as I knew we had not, but all I could do was cling to a last hope. ‘Will he at least consider compassion as his anger fades?’

‘No. Not in his present mood.’ The Duke pressed his lips to my forehead. ‘Go with her, Elizabeth, and do what you can. She has an affection for you and she is a broken woman.’

I went to Wallingford Castle, unable to soothe the distraught lady whose breathing worsened and whose pallor frightened me. She would neither eat nor drink. When we arrived at her refuge the shadows beneath her eyes were as livid as bruises.

‘Speak for him, Elizabeth. Speak for John. I know you have a softness for him.’

I did not deny it. How could I? My heart was as heavy as Joan’s with the certainty of failure.

Richard has broken her heart, my father had observed. But so had John Holland. How could I argue against that? Were they not both to blame, one for vile murder, the other blind intolerance? It was as if all the life had been sucked out of the very stones of the castle at Wallingford, and out of Joan too as she sank into a torpor. The fear of one son being responsible for the death of another was too much for her strained heart to bear. Refusing all food and drink, the once valiant lady seemed to be sliding slowly but inexorably into the arms of death, and I was helpless to prevent it.

‘You must live. You must live to petition for your son,’ I urged, trying to help her sip from a cup of wine.

‘I have petitioned,’ the Princess whispered, pushing the wine aside. ‘Richard will not hear me.’

‘He will. He will regret what he has done to you. How he has reduced you to this. Let me send for him.’

‘There was no regret in his eyes.’

She turned her face from me, and death came swiftly then as if she had willed herself out of this world that promised so much pain. The Princess abandoned the struggle without another word being spoken, other than to me and her confessor. The words the Princess whispered to me held the weight of a confession, indeed of a binding oath, and put a burden of conscience on my soul. Meanwhile Wallingford stood stock-still in shock at this long and eventful life coming to so puny an end. Had we not expected a shower of stars in the heavens or the raging torrents of a storm? Princess Joan slipped, unrecorded by any of her own family, into death.

And then the aftermath, which fell to my hand. Servants whispered in corners as Joan’s women packed her garments into coffers, uncertain of their future as the whole household was put into a state of mourning and I ordered the black robes last worn for old King Edward to be brushed and aired. Musty and creased they might be, but we would show appropriate solemnity.

Her chaplain, William de Fulburn, looked to me for direction.

‘You must inform her sons.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The priest looked uncertain. ‘And arrangements for my lady’s burial?’

‘I can’t advise.’ I rubbed my hands over my face. How wearing it was to bring to order a grief-stricken household where the women were wont to dissolve into tearful reminiscences whenever a bright memory struck home. ‘What did she wish?’

‘The Princess did not say. I must inform the King.’

Sorrow gave way to anger. ‘Tell the King that grief killed her! That his cruelty brought her to death’s door and beyond!’ He looked askance, and I sighed. ‘No, of course you cannot.’

He swallowed painfully. ‘I’ll send a courier to the Earl of Kent. Where is Sir John?’

‘In sanctuary in Beverley Minster, when I last heard. He will be a sensible man if he stays there.’ I smiled briefly without humour. ‘Do what you can.’

We washed and clothed the Princess, placing her body on a bier before the altar in the chapel, as befitted the King’s Mother, covered with a cloth bearing the arms of her husband the Prince of Wales, and awaited instructions. I would return to court. I could do no more here. Meanwhile, before I left, I would keep vigil. Princess Joan had shown me kindness and I knew the Duke would want me to take command in a house that had no mistress. We would honour her as the King her son had not honoured her at the end. And if my thoughts were more closely entwined with her son in sanctuary, a foresworn murderer, I did not think that Joan would find me in any way lacking.

‘Where is he? Why is he not here to mourn the woman he helped to drive to her death?’ I prayed aloud, kneeling beside her earthly remains, my voice echoing strangely in this space that contained only me and the dead.

Yet how could he be? Sanctuary or flight was the only hope for him.

‘But I am here.’

Hands loosely at his side, the culprit stepped into my line of sight and bowed, whether to me or to his late mother I was unsure.

‘And what is the Countess of Pembroke doing here?’ The voice was smoothly scathing, the eyes, now that the man stepped full into the candlelight, hard and lightless. ‘You were the last woman I expected to see at Wallingford. And, if I’m honest, the last woman I could have wished to see.’

It was like an open-handed slap, taking me by surprise, so that I had no time to marshal my reaction to him. All I could do was stare, shocked by the overt belligerence, impressed against my will by his appearance. He might have travelled far but the leather and damask of his clothing was immaculate, his hair combed into ordered waves, as if he had prepared for this meeting.

I was not prepared. Outrage made me brusque. ‘Far more to the point, Sir John, what are you doing here? For you, being caught out of sanctuary, could be certain death.’

‘I am aware.’

‘Then why …?’ No longer kneeling, I waved away the chaplain who had appeared in the doorway behind him. ‘Not a word of this to anyone!’

And as the cleric retreated, my displeasure, so close to the surface in those days, flared without control, spilling over into raw anger at John Holland, at what he had done in shedding innocent blood. Very few had a good word to offer on his behalf and here he was, rejecting sanctuary, with death or banishment hanging over him. Was he a fool? How could he be so careless of his safety, of the burden he had placed on Princess Joan? In that moment I could find no sympathy in my heart for him.

He was responsible for the pain in this house. How could I trust him ever again? In that moment I wished I our paths had never crossed.

‘You should not be here,’ I stated flatly.

‘How could I not come? I heard the Princess was … unwell.’ I saw understanding darken his eyes to lakes of basalt. ‘I see that I am too late. What are you doing here at Wallingford?’

‘I escorted your mother from London when she was beyond consolation. Did your sources tell you that? She had travelled to court even though her health was failing. Did they tell you that she fell on her knees before Richard to beg for your sorry life? Without effect, I might add, other than to cast her into utter despair when Richard mocked her and dispatched her without mercy.’

‘Then I must thank you for being with her.’

‘Thank my father. He thought she should not be alone in her extremity.’

But of course, it would be unfair to blame him for that. He had not known. It was the only sin from which I could give him absolution.

‘When?’ The timbre of his voice had lost all its liveliness.

‘The Princess died yesterday morning at the hour of Prime.’

‘So I could not have got here in time.’

‘Did you try?’ I had no patience, not while the wrath raged white-hot within me. ‘Your garments are more suitable for a banquet than a mourning feast.’

His tunic was magnificently crimson, the cuffs and edges dagged in blue and gold.

He did not reply, but walked around me to the draped figure, the lions of England disguising the bulk of Joan’s figure, and there I remained when, continuing, John walked to the head of the bier, to look down into her face that was uncovered, the silk cloth that would finally hide her features still lying folded on her breast. Her once fine features could be detected beneath the gross flesh, like the familiar outlines of a finely constructed garden beneath a fall of snow.

Sir John bowed, one hand on his breast, then leaned to kiss her cheek.

‘She was a courageous woman. She knew what she wanted in her life and, once she was of age, refused to let any man stand in her way.’ He smiled briefly, the grief he might be feeling, if any, well hidden. ‘I have never met any woman as unwilling to be guided, if the advice did not marry with her wishes. Unless it is yourself, Countess.’ How formal he was, as if I were no more than an acquaintance. ‘She was wilful and headstrong. But she had an enormous capacity for affection,’ he continued. ‘Her family meant much to her and she would fight for any cause that would bring them advantage.’ He paused, touching her cheek with gentle fingers. ‘She did not deserve the cruel scandals of her youth.’

How could he not even give a passing nod to his own part in the lady’s death? Not one word of explanation or justification for the vicious deed. Which drove me to say:

‘Your scandals, of course, have cast hers utterly into the shade.’

His brows rose, his features sharpened as his hand fell away.

‘You are astonishingly vindictive in the face of death, Countess.’

‘You must forgive me if I come too close to the bone. The last days have not been easy ones. Of which you seem entirely insensible.’

He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it like a trap.

‘And don’t tell me it was worse for you.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘You brought it on your own head.’

‘Indubitably.’

‘Your behaviour has been …’ I sought for an appropriate word. ‘Dishonourable!’

‘I have no honour.’

My heart seemed to be nothing more than an insensible rock. I had imagined my reconciliation with John Holland on his return from Scotland in many circumstances, but never over Princess Joan’s corpse, with Sir John as biting as a winter frost and with not one word in his own defence. Presumably there were none to be had.

Treading lightly round the bier, relighting some of the candles that had died, guttering in their wax, he murmured as if speaking to Joan herself. ‘Perhaps you loved Richard the best of all. To be expected, I suppose …’ He touched her hands, still jewelled with priceless rings that all but cut into her flesh, then straightened the fold of her gown, then his stare was holding me. ‘How did she die?’

‘In silence. In despair.’

The flesh on his cheekbones flattened. ‘Don’t spare me.’

‘I won’t. She died in anguish when grief overcame her. Her heart was not strong and she could not bear the burden of what was placed on her.’

‘Who did she blame?’ His tone was viciously cold.

I thought about this, because honesty mattered. ‘She blamed you for the act. But it was Richard’s refusal to be merciful that killed her.’

With which the glance slid from glacial to saturnine. ‘And in your informed opinion, Countess, who is to blame for this sad event? Richard or me?’

‘Does it matter? And do you have to address me as if I were one of my Father’s men of law?’

‘Yes. Today, I do.’

‘And tomorrow?’ I took a breath, refusing to be lured into any personal quagmire that might pull us both under. I was wallowing in uncertainty as it was. ‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing, killing Stafford? Or perhaps you did not think at all.’

‘I will not justify myself to you.’

‘No. Save your breath, for when you’re hauled in front of Richard to answer for your sins. And you won’t have your breath for long. Unless we pray for a divine intervention, he will call for your death.’

Turning on my heel, I left him there. I could not bear to stay with him, to hear any empty excuses, a man standing beside his mother’s body with blood on his hands and in his heart. To be addressed as Countess as if I were nothing to him. I could not understand what made him rebuff me in such a fashion. There was suddenly a chasm between us as wide as the sea between England and France.

I looked back.

He still stood, immobile. Did he not care? Could he not even kneel in contrition and respect?

Next morning, rising early, donning the black of mourning and intending to take him to task, I could not find him. Had he left at dawn to find some new sanctuary where he could live out his days, secure from Richard’s judgement? After our exchange of the previous night, I thought he would be in no hurry to remain in my company. For the briefest of moments I gave heartfelt thanks, then was sorry. I realised I needed to see him, if only to heap my fury on his head once more.

Or discover the reason for his antagonism.

Or plead with him …

My emotions were all awry.

‘Where is he?’ I demanded from Master Worthe, the Prince’s steward.

‘In the muniment room, my lady. He’s been there since dawn.’ The steward sniffed his approbation. ‘He shut the door on me.’

I made soothing noises. So what would he want there? If it were privacy, he would not get it. I opened the door without compunction. The errant son had taken a jug of ale, a pottery cup and a platter of bread and meat from the kitchen, and there he was, sitting at the table where the steward usually dealt with the demands of the day. The cup was empty beside him, the wood covered with crumbs, the movement of his hands over the documents before him purposeful. There was still no grief evident either in his demeanour or in the brightly hued tunic.

‘What are you doing?’ I said without introduction.

For a moment his hands stilled, but he did not look up.

‘I am looking for the Princess’s will.’

‘Are you so greatly in need of her wealth?’

Now he looked at me, eying me beneath lowered brows.

‘Of course. What else would I be looking for?’

‘And the Princess not yet buried.’

‘But she has no need for her wealth, and I have.’

Was he ever so callous? I had learned much of this man within the hours of the last day.

‘Are you planning to leave the country before Richard can set his teeth into you? Were you planning to tell me before you left? And a will is no use to you. You need hard coin.’ Still he turned one sealed page after another. ‘Perhaps you have not been told that the King has confiscated all your property. You are no better than a penniless beggar.’

‘Am I now?’ At last his hands paused in their search, arrested at the news. ‘No matter—or not yet. Ah! Well this is interesting.’

‘What?’

‘This, my singularly sharp Elizabeth, is where the Princess wished to be buried.’

Well, at least he had not addressed me as Countess.

‘Her chaplain did not know.’

‘Her chaplain did not search diligently enough.’ He smoothed the parchment beneath his palm, before turning it for me to read in the clerkly hand that had written to her dictation. ‘Now, that does astonish me. She requests that she be buried beside my father.’

‘In Stamford?’ An unexpected choice. I took the time to study his face as he folded the document and tucked it in the breast of his tunic. He was calmer, rested, with an air of resolution, but still a need to keep me at bay. So I would allow it. ‘I suppose it is important to you,’ I said. Then with a little brush of intuition, light as a butterfly’s wing. ‘You thought she would choose the Prince, in Canterbury, didn’t you.’

‘Perhaps.’ He was brisk again, giving nothing away, all emotions if he had any, subsumed in practicality as he shuffled the rest of Joan’s documents into a neat pile. ‘I was wrong. I will arrange it in Stamford, next to my father’s monument, as she asks.’

‘Then arrange it fast before you are taken into custody. Richard would as soon drop you down a well as share a cup of water with you.’

Even teeth bared in a grin. ‘Are you thinking of informing against me, dearest Elizabeth?’

‘Not at the moment, but who’s to say tomorrow?’ I sat down opposite, on a clerk’s stool, on a whim. ‘What next, Sir?’ I could be annoyingly formal too, and also provocative. ‘Do you make a run for France?’

‘No. And it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’m going to Windsor.’

‘Are you a fool?’

‘I cannot run for the rest of my life. My lady mother has left me her third best bed. I intend to live to use it.’

‘Then I’ll go with you.’

‘I’ve no wish to ride for London with an ill-tempered witch as companion.’

‘I am neither ill-tempered nor a witch.’

‘But you’re not good company.’

‘You are a forsworn murderer. If I can tolerate that, you can put up with me.’

The previous amusement slowly faded, for his mind was already far away, considering his future. ‘I can’t deny it. Then we will deal well together. We will go to Windsor.’ On his feet, he strode to the door, opening it and standing back for me to pass before him. ‘Get ready or I’ll leave you behind.’

‘Oh, no. I’ll be there at your side when you are on your knees before the King.’ He became very still. When I too stopped, surveying his face, it was to see every feature engraved in stone. ‘What is it?’

‘No, Elizabeth. You will not be there.’ His fingers, still grasping the latch, whitened.

‘No?’

‘You will not. I’ll not have it so.’

Barely a whisper but indisputably threatening, but I would do as I pleased, and was in no mood to take orders. I would see this out to the bitter end.

Taking note of the lift of my chin, his mouth acquired a sardonic twist: ‘Why would you wish to associate yourself with such as me?’

‘I don’t know. I know even less after witnessing your lack of finer feelings towards you mother.’

‘I have no finer feelings. Did you not realise that?’

Which summed it all up for me. Why had I gone to such trouble for him? He was a murderer, his immortal soul in jeopardy, without remorse, without pity for his mother. How could I have wanted a man like that? But I could. And yet I could not see the direction of his mind. He had not touched me. Not once. Any heat that had existed between us in those heady days at court had been obliterated, deliberately, by this man who was as unyielding as a frozen carp pond.

I prepared for my departure in despair, meeting up with the Princess’s steward one final time in the pervading bustle of the entrance hall.

‘We are leaving, Master Worthe.’

‘Certainly, my lady.’ He looked relieved that the organisation of the Princess’s burial had been removed from his shoulder. ‘I did not think Sir John would wish to travel on today.’

‘Why not?’ I was already walking to the door, arranging my hood, pulling on my gloves. I dare not be late. The man was quite capable of leaving me in a cloud of dust.

‘Sir John did not sleep last night.’

Which made me stop and look back over my shoulder. ‘Tell me.’

‘Sir John spent the night in the chapel, my lady.’

So he has spent the night beside her body, and then sought her will, to arrange, if I believed him, for her final resting place.

‘He mourned the lady well,’ Master Worthe was saying. ‘He left monies with me for payers for her soul.’

So John Holland was not immune to pain after all. He had hidden it well. He had certainly hidden it from me. But I could not think of that. He would suffer far greater agony at Richard’s hands unless we could work a miracle, and I was duty bound to stand at his side, whether he wished it or not.

It was a particularly silent ride, much as the one I had shared with the suffering Joan, but for entirely different reasons. Her son was in no mood for conversation, trivial or otherwise. Brows drawn into an uncompromising line, his eyes remained fixed on the road before him as it unwound towards an uncertain future. These might be his final hours of freedom if Richard proved to be as intransigent as I feared. Whatever John thought about it he was not saying. I thought he might try to win me round to his way of thinking, with charm and clever use of words. I thought he would justify his actions, practising arguments that might appeal to his brother. Or try to explain to me. He might even try to explain the vast space he had allowed to yawn between us.

He did not.

Curt, introspective, heavy-browed, John Holland rode on to his fate while, unbeknowing to him, I trembled at his side. He might appear sanguine but I could not be. I had experienced Richard’s temper. But surely he had too.

Sympathetic to his mood, I rode in silence beside him, only exchanging a word with my women when I felt a need to speak about something, anything. Perhaps it would even entice my companion from his preoccupations. But when the female gossip, rejoicing over the fall from fashion of the wimple—and the Virgin be praised for that—grew too much for him, he spurred his horse on ahead, leaving me to sigh with a strange depth of disappointment.

Murder and sanctuary seemed to have cured him of his infatuation for me. So much for kisses and silver spoons. I had been abandoned. Perhaps I had been too cold in my refusal, too sure, too wilful. Whatever the reason, the days of our courtship were long gone. But then I should be glad, should I not, for would not murder cure me of my own intemperate longings? Sudden, bloody death was not unknown to me. Which man of my family did not have blood on his sword? But not with deliberate vile intent.

I was no surer of my emotions than on the day I had heard of what he was capable. I did not even know why I was following him to Windsor.

We were within an hour of Windsor when my morose companion ranged alongside me.

‘So you will deign to speak with me.’

‘Yes.’ His grin, entirely lacking of late, was all I recalled from the days of his pursuit of me. Sharp and bright and seductively attractive. All the earlier melancholy and ill-manners had been cast aside. Did this mercurial man ever apologise? ‘This, madam Elizabeth, might be the final time that we have freedom to talk.’

It made my breath catch but I kept the mood. ‘So you are confessing your sins to the friends you have left. Better that you confess them to your enemies, I think.’

‘And which are you?’ He stretched out his hand to touch mine where it gripped my reins.

I snatched my hand away. ‘You must not.’

‘Why not?’

The reasons tripped over each other. Because it is very particular, and such particularity brought enough trouble to the Duke and Dame Katherine. It draws attention to us, and you must not. Your touch makes me far too aware of you. That is the first time you have touched me since you returned, and it burns like a brand. I don’t want it. I don’t want my emotions to rule my response to a man capable of such uncontrolled violence …

But I did not explain any of it. Rather, coldly impersonal, I forced him to look ahead.

‘What will you do when you get there, to Windsor? You have few friends at court. Ralph Stafford had many.’

His smile remained intact. ‘I note you did not allow me access to your own inclination, but no matter. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll bow the knee before Richard and hope that my honeyed words and our mother’s sad death will wear him down and wash away his need for my blood in recompense for that of his friend.’

‘You are glib, Sir John. It astonishes me that you will risk it.’

‘I can’t live my life on the run from my brother. Nor do I wish to spend it in exile. I want to live here, to take my rightful place at the King’s side as a valued counsellor, and so I will plead my case. Richard will listen. Never doubt it.’

How arrogant he was. How confident. The light was back in his eye, the smile indenting the corners of his mouth. He sat his horse with ease, the wind lifting his hair, and I noted that he had taken care with his appearance even though in sombre hue, dressing to make an impression from the folds of the velvet chaperon to the soft leather of his calf-length boots and all in between, every inch the King’s brother. He had no intention of scuttling into Windsor, attempting not to draw the eye, but would challenge any who felt an urge to manhandle him. No decision had been made about his future. He was innocent still, until Richard pronounced.

Suddenly his eyes snapped to mine, catching my assessment of his figured houppelande in forest green and black falling in heavy folds over his thighs, making me flush, but he made no comment. ‘Will the Duke speak for me?’ he asked.

So perhaps the confidence was a façade after all. Who was ever to know?

‘Do you wish me to ask him?’

His reply was dry, confirming my suspicions. ‘It all depends on the welcome I receive when I ride into Windsor. I might not get the opportunity if I’m hustled off into some place of confinement at Richard’s pleasure. So talk to the Duke for me, Countess, out of the goodness of your wayward heart.’

Undoubtedly a command. ‘I might.’

Before I could react, he had seized my hand, stripped off my glove and kissed my fingers. ‘Do you want persuasion? I would be everlastingly grateful. I would fall on my knees at your feet to urge you. What else can I say to encourage you? I could woo you all over again, of course, since you’ve clearly fallen out of love with me. Get the Duke to speak for me and I will declare my undying love for you.’

‘And would I believe you? I don’t think so.’ Flustered, aware of the presence of my women, I tugged hard to recover possession of my hand, to no avail.

‘Why not? You are very difficult this morning!’

‘You don’t have to ride with me.’ Oh, I would punish him.

‘Of course I don’t. But I wish to. So what shall we talk of, Countess? I think I might woo you again, just to pass the time.’

Woo me? As familiar anger rose to grip my throat, and I turned to stare at him, he kissed my fingers again, his lips warm against my skin, his grasp firm so I could not pull away.

‘Woo me,’ I repeated. ‘You have no shame.’

‘No. I don’t expect I have.’

‘Are you never discomfited?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t know you at all, do I?’

‘What’s to know?’

All my doubts, all the accusations bubbled up to spill out.

‘You killed a man. You cut him down on the road. He was innocent and yet you drove a sword through his heart. What sort of man does that?’

‘And you are so sure of my guilt.’

‘You have not denied it. And I suppose you will argue your innocence before the King as well.’

‘How can I? I am as guilty as hell.’

I stared aghast. Had I not hoped against hope that it was all a mistake?

‘Can you love a guilty man, Elizabeth?’

‘Before God, I do not know.’

And he promptly returned my hand to my bridle, so that I was the silent one for the rest of the journey. Could I love a man guilty, by his own admission, of the unwarranted death of a young man whose character was without stain? I could not. I should not. And yet I could not let him go. Nor was it just the binding quality of Joan’s final instructions to me. Deep within me there was a belief that beneath the temper and ambition, beneath the pride that equalled that of my father, there was a man who was worthy of my love. He was honest to a fault. I thought I could trust him, and that he would never wittingly do me harm. He would never be a good man, but he would be a loyal one. And a man whose smile weakened all my resolve to cast him off.

And then we were riding into the castle courtyard, and there was the Constable, indicating that John should dismount and follow him. No force was used, none of my feared manhandling, but the implication was there in the armed soldiers and the Constable’s set face. John turned once to look at me. His gaze was long and grave, his command cut me to the quick.

‘Go home, Countess. Go back to Hertford.’