The King’s Sister

Chapter Seven

Not even waiting until the following day, Richard sat enthroned. The Earl of Stafford stood at his side, the epitome of belligerence, his hands fisted on his belt as if to curb their desire to strike out at the man who had done his son to death.

It had not been difficult to discover when Richard would give audience to, or pass judgement on, his brother. It was the talk of the Castle. It was not difficult to find my father and apprise him of what was afoot. It did not need me to tell the Duke that without his support, John Holland would have no voice raised for him. We did not bother with arguments. We had been over this ground before, without the culprit in our midst to stir the ashes to flame if he was of a mind to.

‘Is he repentant?’ the Duke asked.

‘Not that you would notice. And I will accompany you.’

‘Why?’

‘This is a family matter.’

I would not be swayed. If John Holland would tell Richard the truth, I needed to hear it. I needed to see and hear if there was any mark of grace on the soul of this man who, for reasons I could not determine, held my heart in his hands.

The Duke raised his brows but let it lie.

‘Well, my lord uncle. Back again to plead for the black sheep who wishes to return to the fold?’

‘If need be, sire,’ my father replied. ‘Or to remind you of the value of compassion at the hands of a powerful king.’

Or more like to prevent him from waging war against his own family.

John was escorted in, the armed escort far more obvious now in its close formation around him. Groomed, cleansed of the dust of the journey, superbly composed, John Holland made his entry, his face governed into stern lines that could not be suspected of flippancy. I watched him approach, taking in the elegance of his movements, even though he must feel the ignominy of having his sword removed from his side. I saw him take in Stafford’s scowl.

And then all was drama.

John halted before Richard, where of his own will he knelt, straight-backed, head bowed, hands overlapping on his breast where the royal livery chain with its white hart glittered. A supplicant, but a clever supplicant to promote his allegiance to the King, and one with pride. He had not been beaten to his knees. The choice was his.

‘Well?’ Richard glowered.

‘I am here, sire, to beg your forgiveness for my heinous crime.’ His glance moved over those present then returned to the King. ‘I would ask your compassion to allow me to speak with you in private.’

For a moment, the length of a breath, entirely dead of feeling, John Holland’s regard rested on me, then moved on to return to the King, but not before I had read in it a cold alienation from what was about to come. It struck at my heart, but there was no time for that. Richard was spitting in red-hot ire.

‘You will answer me at my behest, not at yours. What have you to say of this crime of which you are accused by my Lord of Stafford?’

‘Might I rise, sire?’

‘No. Answer on your knees.’

John bent his head. ‘The Princess Joan, your lady mother, sire, is dead.’

‘As I know.’ There was no diverting Richard here. ‘Any man with two thoughts in his head would say it was your behaviour that killed her.’

‘The Princess remembered you kindly in her will, sire. She left you her best bed.’

Which took the breath from Richard, even as he continued to glower.

‘Her death has touched me. I will always remember her with affection.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘How will you justify what is murder?’ Richard flung out his arm to encompass Stafford. ‘How will you answer this man’s desire for your death in payment for his son’s?’

‘I cannot. I am guilty as charged. I cut him down in the dark, thinking we were under attack. I gave the command, knowing it was a Stafford. I reacted. It was a terrible misjudgement, because I was driven by anger at the loss of my squire. I deserve punishment, but I throw myself on your ineffable mercy, sire. I ask pardon.’

‘There, sire. There is his guilt, expressed for all to hear. What more do we need to know …’ Stafford urged.

But Richard lifted his hand to silence Stafford.

‘I have sworn to have your life for this, Holland.’

‘I beg that you will reconsider.’

‘Kings do not reconsider. It’s a weak king who changes his mind.’

Taking all by surprise, Richard thrust himself to his feet, striding across the chamber to a window embrasure where a chess set had been positioned on a low table, the chessmen in process of someone’s game. Seizing one of the figures, Richard hurled it the length of the room so that it clattered on the tiles. But which figure had he selected?

‘What do you think, Holland? Knight or King? Who has the pre-eminence here?’

Oh, Richard!

Inwardly I raged against his uselessly dramatic gesture, at his need to be at the centre of every stage. Of course he was at the centre. Was he not King? But his love of display made him draw all eyes to his person. How would he decide? What would bring him ultimate glory, to summon the axe or wield magnanimity? The odds were, I feared, stacked against John. He could be disposed of as quickly as Richard had rid himself of the little knight that lay in two pieces of carved ivory against the far wall.

I realised that I was holding my breath.

A movement at my side as my father stepped forward.

‘Sire. A wise king can be persuaded to change his mind. If there is doubt over the crime.’

‘God’s Blood! There is no doubt. He admits it himself …’

‘Or if he confesses his misjudgement.’

‘Misjudgement!’ Stafford exploded.

‘Or if the man is one of great gifts.’

‘Not if he is a man of vicious humour,’ Stafford growled.

‘I ask you to reconsider, sire.’ Still the Duke pressed on. ‘It is my belief that Holland is repentant.’

‘Well?’ Richard returned to loom over his still-kneeling brother. ‘You have my uncle to speak for you. What do you say?’

‘That I am full of regret, sire. I will accept any punishment that allows me to continue to serve you.’

The King pondered. Stafford’s hand tightened on his sword. John was motionless, so still that not a hair of his head moved, the light gilding his hair and shoulders, adding patches of red and blue from the stained glass. The Duke shifted softly from one foot to the other.

And I?

Since I had come here, I must make my case. I stepped to my father’s side. My voice was clear and carried well, so strong it all but overpowered me, but I did not hesitate.

Princess Joan had demanded my oath and I was the only one here who could speak for her. My father frowned at my forwardness. Richard scowled. Stafford turned his back. As for John Holland, he did not want me here. Had he not commanded me to keep away? His motionless posture said it all, his eyes remaining resolutely on the wall behind Richard’s shoulder. And did I wish to be here, forced to acknowledge the ignominy of a man I had thought I might love? No, I did not. But Princess Joan had passed this burden to me and I would not falter, even in the face of such concerted opposition and rank disapproval.

‘Will you hear me, sire?’

Flinging himself back on his great chair, Richard did not even look in my direction. ‘If I must.’

‘In her dying words before her confessor, Princess Joan asked that I plead for her son John Holland. As she lay dying, she still had hopes that you would be satisfied with less than his death.’

‘I will consider.’

‘The Princess expressed her love for you. She prayed that you would show the same greatness of character as your heroic father, the Prince of Wales.’ I took a breath. I would risk all. ‘She believed that her own blood was strong enough in you to melt your stony heart and allow you to heal the wounds in your family. The Princess vowed that she would only rest in peace when you were reconciled with Sir John Holland. She begged that you listen and give good judgement, tempered with affection, for her and for your brother.’

‘A reasoned argument, by God!’ Richard’s eyes widened on me, but he was still surly, turning on his brother, fists clenched. ‘Why did you have to do this? I detest that you gave no thought to my situation. I loved you, and this is how you repay me. I see no way of pardoning you. It is all your fault …’

My heart was thudding loudly in my ears. The only man present who seemed to be unmoved was John Holland, his back as rigid as a pike, but by now I knew well his ability to dissemble. His fate lay balanced on Richard’s chancy judgement.

My father, mightily controlled, bowed. ‘Might I suggest, sire, that with a pardon from the King, Sir John might work for his reinstatement in your eyes by joining my expedition to Castile in the Spring of next year.’

Well now! I slid a glance towards the Duke, whose expression was one of mild interest, his offer so smoothly delivered that it came to me that I was not the only one to have an interest in this outcome. Here the Duke saw an opportunity to bring Sir John into the Lancaster fold, and keep him there through saving his life. Sir John would be a redoubtable asset in the foreign expedition. Was every man in this room driven by intrigues and stratagems? But then, so was I. And I cared not as long as John Holland’s life was saved.

‘I have use of a man of such talents as his with my army,’ the Duke continued. ‘He will be able to prove the worth of his repentance on the field of battle. Would you join me in Castile, Sir John?’

The room hung on the little pause. So John Holland too saw the tightening of shackles around his wrists. Either he bared his neck before Richard’s verdict, or committed himself to a campaign of uncertain length and outcome in Castile. But of course there was really no choice for him to make.

‘I would accept.’ John Holland’s voice was as uninflected as my father’s.

‘Would you consider such a request, sire?’ the Duke was asking. ‘It could only be to England’s advantage.’

Once again I was holding my breath as Richard stood, to walk slowly forward to his brother, walking round him, his robes brushing against John’s boots. A smile touched his lips. Widened to become a gleam of delight, although not one I would trust. I had seen the same smile when Richard had got his own way as a thwarted child.

‘It seems eminently suitable,’ he murmured.

‘But sire …’ Stafford’s fingers visibly gripped his sword belt.

‘Princess Joan would lie at rest, sire,’ I interrupted. ‘She was greatly troubled and this would give her soul peace.’

‘Good, good.’ And there was Richard in our midst, all graciousness, as if there had been nothing to disturb his untrammelled existence. ‘I will order a Mass to be said in her name. As for you, brother … You must make recompense. You must establish three chaplains to pray for Ralph Stafford’s soul in perpetuity.’

‘Gladly, sire.’

‘Will that satisfy you, Stafford?’ I knew it did not but it would be an unwise man to gainsay his King. ‘Stand up,’ Richard commanded his brother.

John stood.

‘I will restore your property to you, of course. I can’t have my brother living on my generosity, can I?’ He enfolded John Holland’s stiff shoulders in an embrace. ‘You should not do this, John. It unsettles me. You should curb your temper. I don’t wish to be at odds with you.’ All his ill-temper blown away, Richard was unnervingly friendly. ‘I need to know that I can rely on you.’

John returned the embrace. ‘I am your man. Now and forever.’

The relief in the room was tangible, except for Stafford whose stare at John held a quality of hatred.

‘I will hold the pardon over your head, you know.’

‘My future behaviour will be without stain, sire.’

‘Then come, John, and drink a cup of wine with me.’

He was swept off by the King, Richard’s arm looped through his as if nothing had ever occurred to undermine their closeness, leaving the Duke and me to watch them go. At the last John turned and his eyes, wide and dispassionate, met mine, reminding me of the venom of his arrival at Wallingford. Then he smiled at the King at his side, and was gone.

‘He looks at me as if he despises me,’ I spoke without thinking.

‘Are you surprised? What did you want?’ The Duke was already following Stafford and the Queen from the room. ‘A herald’s fanfare for coming to his defence? What man of pride wants an audience for his annihilation?’

‘I did not think.’

‘Then perhaps in future you will.’

Of course I remembered, the moment he had registered my presence beside the Duke. He had not liked it. He had not expected this very public audience. He had indeed despised my seeing him on his knees, witnessing the outcome, witnessing his downfall and his humiliation. How much he would detest that I had pleaded for him with Joan’s final words. He did not want me there. Go home to Hertford, he had said. A man of pride, he did not wish to be humbled before me.

‘You don’t understand a man like John Holland.’

Was that it? Did I not understand him? But I thought I did. Pride. That was all it was. But what value pride when a man was fighting for his life?

I exhaled slowly, but the Duke, waiting for me, continued to watch them go.

‘They are both dangerous men, Richard and Holland, in their own way,’ he observed, as well he might.

‘Will you take him to Castile?’

‘Of course. If nothing else he is a brave man and a good one to have at your side. He can mend his reputation with his sword in my service.’ He turned to me. ‘And you, I think, should return to Kenilworth. It’s time you saw that young husband of yours.’

‘Do you think I’ll forget him?’

‘More like he’ll forget you. I’m travelling there in two days. Accompany me. You should see him. He’ll soon be of an age to be a husband to you.’

Or more like Sir John’s charm would tempt me into sin.

But in that charged interlude all intimacy had been swept away.

Forget it. Forget him. The Duke was right. I did not understand him at all.

Oh, but I wanted to. On that day I had watched a man sink his pride and beg for his life. I could not abandon the flame he had lit in my heart because it still lived, faint and flickering under his rejection, but not dead.

I feared that it would never die. I would live with the joy and sorrow of it until my own death when my last breath doused the flame.

Richard kept his brother close, as if to let him out of the royal sight would give him leave to commit some new, monstrous crime. I saw him, as I must, but at a distance, wrapped around by royal favour. No more outrageous communication as the sumptuous dishes of Richard’s cooks passed before us. John Holland sat at his brother’s right hand, his attention demanded wholly by Richard. When we rode to the hunt, John Holland, firmly ensconced in Richard’s intimate coterie, even ousted de Vere from the royal side. It would have been entertaining to watch the favourite’s ire, if it had not been so infuriating.

Meanwhile, throughout the whole, John Holland’s face remained as expressionless as a Twelfth Night mask. If he was playing a role of the regretful penitent, he was doing it with a flourish, while Richard smiled on him. Richard smiled on all of us. It was like the smile of a raptor seeing its prey in the long grass.

John Holland did not come near me, not one step closer than he had to through necessity, and with my new knowledge of him, I understood why. He was too proud. He had been forced to cast himself on his brother’s mercy and bear Richard’s patronising tolerance. John Holland was undoubtedly nursing his wounds.

Preparations went ahead for me to travel north with the Duke whose directive in the months before he embarked for Castile was to personally secure the border against Scottish inundations.

I fidgeted and snapped. I could not leave things like this, even if John Holland could. Had I not risked Richard’s displeasure to plead for him? Following the distant pattern of his thoughts as he bowed with exquisite grace in my direction, accompanied by a fierce smile that had all the charm of a rat, was like trying to follow the path to the centre of a labyrinth. I could not reach him, and in two days I would have retired to the wilds of Kenilworth, to be reunited with Jonty, who was fast growing up. I would no longer be a virgin bride.

I slammed the lid of a coffer in despair.

How could I love a man who holds life so cheap? But I did.

‘I should not even think of him, but there he is, in all the spaces of my mind. It’s a hopeless case, isn’t it? I am caged, just like you,’ I lectured my finches.

They twittered mindlessly.

‘Then I must go to him. If I can find him without the circle of his new friends,’ I remarked sourly. Unless I could fling a bridge across this raging torrent, then we would be apart for ever. Unfortunately that might be exactly what he wanted.

‘Well, if it’s not the little flower of Lancaster!’

This did not bode well.

‘You have been avoiding me.’

Once more I had hammered on the door of John Holland’s chambers and thrust open the door before anyone could prevent me. I did not have one of my women to dance attendance. I had come here as Elizabeth of Lancaster, royalty in every drop of my blood, and I would not be gainsaid by anyone. There might have been an air of desperation in this last resort, but I hid it beautifully behind accusation.

Royally housed though he might be, my quarry did not stir from where he was sitting on the floor—which in itself almost shook my nerve—beneath the oriel window, light flooding down on him as he lounged, one knee drawn up by linked fingers. By his thigh was a cup of wine. There was no temper in his wide-eyed stare today.

‘And very successfully,’ he observed in a chatty tone. ‘I would wish to continue to do so. Perhaps you would close the door as you leave.’

‘I know why you’re doing it.’

He tilted his chin, assessing me lightly from head to toe. ‘Do you? It’s more than I do.’

So he thought he would undermine my confidence. He would not. Should I go and sit with him in the dust? Instead I walked to the single armed chair in the room and sat, my feet on a little stool, as if I would receive an audience. Folding my hands in my lap, I linked my fingers. Sir John watched me with mild interest. Only when I was settled, my skirts falling in elegant folds, did I reply.

‘You know very well why. The Duke asked if I expected a victor’s garland for leaping to your aid.’

‘Did he now?’ All languor, he brushed his hair from his eyes. ‘It always astonishes me, the perspicacity of the Duke. And did you expect it? The victory garland?’

‘I expected nothing.’

‘Then that’s what you’ll get. Will you take a cup of wine with me?’

An insult in the way he cocked his head, he made no effort to pour me one.

‘No. I am not here to celebrate with you. I’m here to apologise.’

‘Then since you have, this interview is at an end. Perhaps you would pour me another cup on your way out.’

This was hopeless. I knew a lost cause when I saw one. All my attempts at constructing bridges were being expertly demolished and thrown into the foaming water below, but I preserved my composure. Was he worth fighting for? At that moment I would have said no. Magnificent his garments might be, embroidered and jewelled, but there was a dishevelled loucheness about him.

‘The wine is on your right,’ he observed.

‘I’ll not pour it for you. If you need more to drown your sins, get it yourself.’

I would find out if he was worthy of my efforts before the end of this exchange, but not in the dregs of a cup of wine.

‘I have come to make my farewell,’ I said.

‘Abandoning our happy family gathering at Windsor, are you, little flower of Lancaster?’ He repeated the phrase as if he enjoyed it. I did not. I gritted my teeth.

‘I am going to Kenilworth.’

‘And the fortunate Earl of Pembroke will be there to enjoy your return, Countess. Are you come to wish the black sheep good fortune on his way to redemption under Richard’s brotherly love? I am for Castile where I’ll either make recompense for my sins or die in the attempt. Will you miss me if I shed my blood on foreign soil, Countess?’

So we were back to formality, and a raw cynicism that hurt with every syllable. There was no reply I could make.

‘And where is Henry? And your beautiful sister? Do they leave, too? But of course Henry is keeping his distance—he has no love for cousin Richard, does he?’ He smiled confidentially. ‘It is truly a wonder and marvel that I am reinstated, and how wrong you were. You would have advised me to run for my life.’ He gestured widely with one hand. ‘And here you see me, in favour with every man at court.’

‘Except Stafford.’

‘To the devil with Stafford.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘So you have you come to kiss me farewell, dear girl.’

As he moved his arm, the light hit on the chain hanging negligently around his shoulders, enough to catch my attention. It was Richard’s livery, the white hart gleaming against the dusty damask of his tunic. The livery he had cunningly worn the day of the charged interview with his furious brother. And then my eye moved to a similar gleam on the floor beside the cup. The chain of ‘S’s that marked my father’s livery, the links abandoned in a little heap of silver.

I found it hard not to sneer.

‘And which of those will you wear today, Sir John?’ Was he ever to be trusted? ‘To whom will you give you allegiance this morning?’

‘Which will I wear?’ He picked up the Lancaster collar, squinting at it as it swung in a glittering serpent-like string. ‘To whomever I consider will further my ambitions most,’ he said. ‘And today it is our superlative King. But who’s to say what I might do tomorrow.’

The bright glitter of his eyes, the supremely careful enunciation, the repetitions. My suspicions were becoming confirmed with every moment.

‘You disgust me.’ And my heart is breaking. This is not love …

‘But will you still be disgusted tomorrow, fair lady?’ And then, as I stood to leave: ‘Will you dance with me? If I can struggle to my feet. It may be the last time we will tread these steps.’

He made no effort to stir. His eyes touched on mine, then slid away.

‘We have no music.’

‘Do we need music? You can sing if necessary.’

In one movement, fluid and graceful, that denied all my suspicions, he leapt to his feet, seized my hand and pulled me into a few ragged steps. Which once again confirmed everything.

Forcing him to come to a standstill in the middle of the room, I faced him.

‘How long have you been celebrating?’

‘I have been celebrating—endlessly, my peerless maiden come to rescue her knight whose armour is definitely in want of shining—my return to royal favour. Richard is keen to show his love for me. By God, de Vere can drink!’

‘And you have joined the inner circle.’

‘What else?’ he leered. ‘Don’t tell me you disapprove.’

I released my hands from his now lax hold. ‘I’ll tell you no such thing.’ I could either leave him to wallow in his own self-imposed misery, or try to steer the conversation into more sensible channels. ‘Will you go with my father to Castile?’

‘It will be my joy and my delight. But then, have I a choice? It’s the only reason Richard saved my worthless neck. As he informed me. And he will keep his jaundiced eye on me until I am launched with the fleet. I go to fair Castile to reinstate my reputation. He’ll be pleased to see the back of me and the Duke. How much more comfortable life will be for him.’ He turned on me, a bright flare of anger no longer hidden. ‘You should not have been there, Countess.’

‘I had to speak for you. I had promised your mother. Would you wish me to break my promise to her, on her deathbed?’

‘I care not what she wanted.’

But now I knew enough about this difficult man to deny him. ‘You cared enough to spend the night beside your mother’s bier.’

For a moment he froze, lips tight pressed. Then: ‘So her busy steward found it necessary to gossip to you. I should have known.’

‘And I know why it was important for Joan to be buried next to your father. How old were you when your father died? I’ll tell you. I’ve been doing my own gossiping.’

It was as if a pail of cold water had been emptied over his head.

‘That is all in the past. Why would it concern me? You take too much on yourself …’

‘You were a seven-year-old boy,’ I continued, despite the ice that now coated his every word. ‘I know about the gossip and the scandal that coloured the Princess’s years with your father. It would have mattered to you. It would have mattered to anyone with even a speck of sensitivity on their soul, that she truly loved your father.’

He flung away from me. ‘This is some myth that you are concocting …’

‘Then why,’ I addressed his damask-clad back, ‘did you let me think that you were rustling through her papers because all you cared about was her money?’

I saw rather than heard the sigh. ‘Leave it, Elizabeth.’

‘I will, but this I will say.’ I followed him, took hold of his sleeve, gripping it tight. ‘Go to Castile with my father. You can rebuild your ruined reputation …’

‘Or die in the attempt. Oh, I will go. Never fear.’ He wrenched his sleeve out of my hand, strode back to the oriel where he picked up the cup and drained it dry. Only then did he turn his head to look at me over his shoulder, all the pent-up emotion clear in his measured tones. What must it have cost him?

‘Do you think I enjoyed it? To beg from a King who sways like a reed in storm at the whim of de Vere and Mowbray and every other toadying sycophant? Do you think I felt no disgust, confessing my sins in full public eye, with you and the Duke as an interested audience? Yes, I killed Ralph Stafford, but it was not murder, I swear. It was a careless blow, full of passion, on a dark road.’ He drew in a breath, but his attack was not mellowed. ‘Should I thank you for your clever words of wisdom on my behalf, your heartfelt plea for clemency? I haven’t thanked you, have it? So if it matters to you, you have my undying gratitude. And I am committed to a foreign campaign, whether I wish it or not.’

It hurt, how it hurt, but I would not show it. ‘It is only pride that makes you seek to wound me,’ I observed as dispassionately as I was able. ‘Why should the opinion of de Vere matter to you? Why would you not wish to go to Castile and win military glory?’

‘Yes. Pride is all I have,’ he retaliated smartly. ‘Before God, Elizabeth, it’s not the sneers of de Vere and Mowbray that get under my skin. What man wishes to be seen on his knees, begging for his life, by the woman he adores and wants more than life itself? How is it possible for him to put himself right in her eyes, when she has been privy to his degradation? I love you, Elizabeth Plantagenet. Don’t you realise that yet?’

It was as if the words slammed me back against the stone wall, robbing me of the power to reply. Not lust, not desire. He had said he loved me. How he must have felt the shame of it.

‘I did not know,’ I said.

‘Well you do now! I think, God help me, I loved you from the moment you turned on me, all filth and fury and ravaged clothes and ordered me to take my hands off you for you would bow to no lawless rabble.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘And by God, my head throbs like a blacksmith’s anvil!’

In a fast, controlled movement he flung over to embrasure set in the wall, where stood a silver pitcher and basin, a soft length of linen at the side. He poured water, then hands cupped, splashed it liberally over his face, his hair.

‘God’s Blood!’

With the linen he scrubbed his face dry, running his fingers through his hair, scattering droplets.

‘That should make me see the future more clearly, although I might regret it.’

Before I could think of a biting reply—that it was a pity he hadn’t seen the future clearly from the beginning of our conversation—he was there, and in what could only be described as a pounce, gripping my shoulders with a little shake.

‘Look at me. I did not intend to say that. See how you have the power to undermine all my good intentions and destroy my self-control. I want you, Elizabeth. I have always wanted you. And now that death has come close to me, I’m in a mood to take what I want. In vino veritas indeed, and since you are foolishly here without a chaperone …’

So the cold water had not remedied the wine swimming in his brain. Was this what I wanted? My heart leapt into my throat at the image his few words had painted for me. His kisses I knew. The touch of his hands, the power of his arms around me. The strength of his shoulder where I might rest my head. But here he was in a mood to take more, much more.

‘I thought the water would have brought you to your senses.’

‘It will take more than that! I want you, drunk or sober!’

His mouth on mine, neither gentle nor seductive, tasted of wine and despair.

‘I cannot …’ All my confidence was subverted by the hunger in those expressive eyes.

‘Cannot what? Take a lover? Of course you can. I’m in no mood to be tolerant. We should celebrate my escape from Richard’s revenge. I am in a mood to celebrate.’ Another kiss, his mouth hard against mine. ‘Don’t tell me that you don’t want me as much as I want you.’

‘Not like this …! I won’t be party to a drunken display of self-pity!’ And, a little panic fluttering around the edges of my reason, I was pushing against his shoulders, uncertain that he would comply. But he set me aside, with a sigh that seemed to come from his soul. It was he who stepped back.

‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Self-pity is a despicable thing. I have not drunk so much that I cannot treat a woman with courtesy.’ His voice had softened as he held out his hand for me to take if I wished to. And I did, knowing instinctively that the exhibition of uncontrolled force was over, even when he held them, palm to palm, between his own.

‘My dear love. Here’s my declaration and my apology, if you will hear it …’

I nodded.

‘I am not worthy of you but I cannot let you go. My life is tied up with yours. I love you inordinately. But I should warn you: it is no mild affection. This is nothing selfless, where the knight gives all and expects nothing but the right to adore at the feet of his mistress. My desire for you is sensual and passionate and possessive. It is love of the heart and mind and body. I want everything from you. And I won’t let you refuse me.’ The chain on his breast glimmered as he took a breath, and his grasp of my hands tightened. ‘Unless you cannot, in your heart, love me in the same way. You must say so now, before it is too late for us both to step back from the brink.’

The power of his words struck hard. A choice for me to make. A denigration of his own powerful feelings. All creating a deliberate clarity of what it would mean if I gave my consent to what he wanted from me.

‘I’ll never be your perfect, gentle knight. But I’ll be more. I’ll protect you. I’ll never desert you. I’ll worship at your feet for ever. Flawed and mired in sin I might be, but I will be your knight, Elizabeth of Lancaster.’ He pressed his mouth to my fingers, as gallant as any chivalrous knightly lover. ‘Will you give yourself to me. Knowing what you do of me?’

It was as if he had written the words in gold, offering me a choice to make of my own free will, with no attempt, finally, to force my steps. And what a simple choice it was. A beat of my heart, deep and sure, carried me forward, over the dangerous boundary from immature attraction and infatuation into a physical longing so strong it shook me. This was love as I had never known it. No it was not selfless. It was potent, all-controlling. Every admission he had made to me I could recognise within my own response to him. How had I ever thought my romantic notions of him were real love? Now I knew the power of my acceptance of him, with all his charm and all his complexity. In that moment I knew it: this love would never let me go. Any step I took now would, I accepted in the recesses of my heart, be absolute.

‘Will you, Elizabeth?’ he asked. ‘I’ll not plague you if you decide on a fast retreat.’

But I had seen the glitter of provocation in his eyes behind the courteous approach. And of desire. John Holland would not only plague me, he would hound me unmercifully.

I breathed in. And out.

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

And I took the words deep into my own heart as I spoke them.

It was such an incontrovertible response to make, that answered every question I had ever asked of myself. Would it make me as wilfully lustful as Isabelle? Would I be as shockingly immoral as Dame Katherine? In all honestly there would be those who would so condemn me, but there were no such fears in my mind. My only thought was how I could have held back from him for so long. And that being said, John did not disparage me by asking if I were sure. Time for words was long gone as, my hand in his, we took occupation of his bedchamber in mutual agreement, where he managed the layers of my outer and undergarments with a not unexpected depth of skill and formidable alacrity. Even so, despite his expertise with buttons, he found room to complain.

‘Could you not have dressed more simply?’

‘I could, of course. But I did not expect to be disrobed by a lover.’

‘Always be prepared, Madam Elizabeth.’

‘Do you mean that this will occur with some frequency?’

I risked a glance at his frowning concentration.

‘As often as I can arrange it.’

I did not need to tell him that this was all new to me. Was that not the reason he talked throughout the whole of my disrobing, when I was unable to prevent my nerves from shivering over my skin? Who would have thought that he could be so very kind?

‘What do I do with all these pins?’ he asked as my hair unfurled like a banner in his hands to cover my shoulders.

‘Throw them on the floor,’ I replied, breathless.

Then there was no talk. And no more kindness. How simple an emotion kindness was, whereas there was nothing simple in what passed between John Holland and me. In that hour—or was it longer? —I received the first steps in a thorough education unlike any I had imagined when my dreams had stretched no further than the pages of the books in my father’s library where knights were courteous and never unclothed. Where love was expressed in gifts and words and chaste kisses.

Here was a new and entirely physical world, spread out for my delectation.

I learned the delights of a man’s body beneath my hands, where muscles were tense with smooth power, well harnessed until need took over. And then it was as if I was tossed into the waters of a mill race, all turbulence and mastery which I was in no mood to resist.

I learned about sleek arms that held me tight, and thighs hard with sinew and some abrasions. What a work of art a man’s body could be, even with evidence of battle. Here there was no conflict, only heat and desire.

I learned about my own response to a well-placed kiss or a trail of fingertips that made me shudder and gasp with astonishment. Just as I learnt about the hiss of pain, and about its transmutation into breathless pleasure. And then I learned about my own skill in initiating the slightest movement to make a man draw in his breath. And groan when I repeated the caress.

I learned about tenderness too. The magic world of words to enhance caresses.

‘You are the brightest jewel I have over owned.’ His hands framed my face.

‘You are the lover I have always desired,’ I replied, for I could see myself reflected in the brightness of his gaze.

And then there was laughter.

‘Don’t hold your breath!’

‘I wasn’t!’ Oh, but I was, for his touch drove me where I could never have imagined.

And in the end I learned about love.

‘I love you.’

I would never be given poetry by John Holland.

‘I love you, too.’

Did it need us to say more, when we had made such a statement of our love? I did not think so, and applied my new knowledge of the seductive power of kisses until his ability to speak was destroyed, and my mind was unfit to learn any more, aware only of the thud of his heartbeat with my own sighs in contrapuntal unity. I had not sought such a depth of love, but it had surely found me.

I gave no thought at all to the enormity of the sin I had so happily committed.

And I was quite sure that John Holland did not.

‘I must leave Windsor. I must leave you’, I said, sharp dismay fast surfacing.

‘And I must return to dancing attendance on my brother.’ John was replacing the garments he had stripped off so rapidly. Hose, tunic, boots, in quick succession. ‘But I have every excuse to travel to Kenilworth between now and our embarking. I’ll need to discuss transportation of troops and equipment with the Duke.’

Doubt suddenly struck home.

‘And will you discuss your inordinate love for his daughter?’

His hands stilled on the buckle of his belt. ‘I will if you give me leave. Get an annulment and I’ll wed you tomorrow.’

But still I stepped back, baffled by my own unwillingness to admit my love for him so openly. Or was it shame in the confession of so blatant a sin? As I watched him, there was not one single regret in my mind. Perhaps it was simply a fear that the Duke would refuse the annulment. If he did, he might force my intimacy with John Holland to come to an end, as it would anyway with his embarkation for the Castilian enterprise. This was all so impermanent, uncertain. As it was, John’s reputation had been discredited. To reveal an inappropriate relationship with me would stand him in no good stead.

I smiled a little. How selfless I had become now that love had touched me. Why ruffle the waters further to create a great storm that might overwhelm us both? Better to enjoy what we had until our future was clearer. Perhaps when John returned from Castile, shining brightly with royal favour …

‘Not yet,’ I said, intent on pushing the problem aside without further discussion as I pulled my shift over my head, fussing over my hair that he had unbound. ‘It’s too difficult.’

‘I don’t see why.’ Buckle secured, he swooped to plant a kiss on my brow. ‘But I’ll do as you wish. For now. I’m gone from here.’

And I was alone in his room, all the passion and heat gone with him, but not from my heart. I might not see the future with any clarity, but the present was as precious as the finest jewel in Richard’s treasury. Slowly I dressed. And then as any woman in a new intimacy might, I investigated the items of John’s property, touching, arranging, to get a sense of my new lover from his possessions. All was neat. Everything in its place as I had once noted before. Clothing folded in coffers. No books, as my brother would undoubtedly have had around him. John was no reader. No jewels or valuable hanaps as my father might have to display wealth, the gifts from friends. Nothing to give me an insight into the man who had filled my whole body with light. I lifted the livery chain that he had left on the coffer lid …

And smiled.

It was a fine gesture, strangely honourable in its execution from a man who in a blast of despair had claimed he had no honour. It caused a warmth to spread through me, rivalling the heat of the sun that had moved across the floor and now touched my hair, my shoulders. What a spectacular choice he had made. My lover might be bowing in contrition before his brother but here in my hand was the chain with the white hart. Today he wore Lancaster livery. Seeing no need to boast of it, or winning my favour by ensuring that I knew of his choice, he had done it without explanation, a silent mark of honour. Today he was mine.

My love for him knew no bounds. I had built a bridge and he had crossed it. Or we had crossed it together. I lived for the days when he would come to Kenilworth.