The King’s Sister

Chapter Ten

September 1397: Windsor Castle. Ten years later.

‘Now what do you suppose he is planning?’

‘Probably something not to our liking.’

John’s sotto voce query was accompanied by an increasingly frequent saturnine expression, his tolerance for his young brother fraying around the edges. Standing in a crowd as we were, I hushed him discreetly. Since the unfriendly affair at Radcot Bridge, ten years ago now, there were changes in our King. It was like waiting for a thunderstorm to break out of a summer sky, without warning.

John bowed as Richard’s eye fell on him. I curtsied as the royal observation passed to me. A wave of obeisance followed the King’s scrutiny. Richard had acquired heightened notions of his royal superiority.

‘He has something in mind,’ John continued, bending his head as if to survey the more restrained toes of his shoes as Richard’s attention moved on.

‘I know he has, but who will be the victim?’

‘The Lords Appellant?’ John had returned to watching his brother, with cat-like narrowing of his eyes.

It would have to be. Richard detested the group of Lords Appellant, a small but powerful group, with a vicious fury. I sought out Henry’s solid figure in the crowd, since he was one of the five, but my brother appeared insouciant, calmly unaware of any undercurrents. Or, as I presumed, giving a good pretence. We were all tiptoeing round our King, and rightly.

It had been a time of some anxiety, marking the years since John and I had returned from Castile, when Richard’s infatuation with the charms of Robert de Vere had reached its dangerous height. I remembered De Vere as little more than a youth, charming Richard, flattering him in the courtyard when my father had given me one of my first lessons in the importance of political allegiance. Richard had been well and truly snared, and de Vere, grown into even more charming and ambitious maturity, had been intent on consolidating his power with weasel words in Richard’s ear. And Richard, listening avidly, against all advice, had showered his favourite courtier with land and wealth, unable or unwilling to see the consequences. For as de Vere’s hold over Richard grew, it stirred resentment amongst the lords and magnates who expected the honours for themselves. Including my brother Henry who joined forces with our uncle of Gloucester, as well as the FitzAlan Earl of Arundel, Mowbray of Nottingham and the Beachamp Earl of Warwick. Five influential men, a puissant alliance against the King, the Lords Appellant made their demands to rid England of the King’s evil counsellors.

Would Richard listen? Would he distance himself from de Vere, now preening as Duke of Ireland, and allow the counsels of his great magnates in the form of a commission instead? He would not.

The result had been a battle, in the year before we had returned from Castile, where the Lords Appellant had defeated de Vere at Radcot Bridge, driving him into exile and forcing Richard into a bared-teeth compliance. So my brother and his associates had emerged triumphant with their curb on the young King’s powers, but Richard had never forgiven them. Richard might smile and ask advice but he was biding his time. I hoped that his new child bride would take his mind from his woes, but my knowledge of Richard warned that our King would not be compliant for ever.

Yet in spite of the ripples on this political pond, this was a time of good humour and unity. Perhaps my suspicions were unfounded after all.

‘It is my wish to award a prize,’ Richard was announcing, ‘as a token of my esteem and appreciation for those who have graced my festivities.’

Richard beamed at the assembled masses in the great dancing chamber at Windsor, all resplendent in silks and satins and feathers as was he. It was a celebratory feast, held by Richard to mark the ending of the session of parliament, and I had danced until my feet were sore. In those festive days and nights I sang to the lute and dulcimer and rode to the hunt, my heart tender, so great was my joy. Utter contentment, such as I had never believed would be mine, swaddled my emotions, as a mother would wrap her newborn child, for John was at my side and his satisfaction rubbed against me so that I acquired its glitter, as a silver bowl acquires a sheen from the polishing cloth.

There was no shortage of partners with whom to hunt or dance, or willing knights to lead me into one of the formal processions. Not that I needed any. Did I not have John whose love remained the brightest star in my heaven, and always would be? And my children. I smiled when I read Philippa’s letters, bemoaning my lack of maternal doting. That was a thing of the past. I loved them dearly, this growing Holland family of ours, for as well as John’s adored heir, born in the heat of Portugal and now an energetic ten-year-old with an energy for the tournament that reminded me of a young Henry, we had three daughters, and a baby son of two years.

‘Who would have known that you would prove to be so fertile?’ John had remarked as he held his newest son, another John.

‘I’d rather we didn’t prove it again,’ I said, knowing there was no guarantee. Our love was as tight-knit as the day we had stood before my father and John had bargained for my hand.

What a superb family we were that autumn.

Richard, bedecked and bejewelled, recovered from the death of his beloved Anne three years previously, now had a child bride Isabella de Valois on whom to lavish glittering rings, and with her the glory of a new alliance with France to his name, which he much desired despite the dark mutterings at court.

Catching my breath from my exertions, I looked round the room, noting the scattered members of my family.

My father the Duke, returned from Castile, failing in his bid to snatch the crown for Constanza, who was dead and not greatly missed, for her final years had been sequestered. Free from matrimonial toils, my father had the previous year wed his life-long love at last. The scandal had raged through the court, but they were happy in their newfound respectability. And there she was, Duchess Katherine, utterly serene, until you saw the caustic gleam in her eye. She did not trust Richard either.

And there, proud and eye-catchingly groomed—when was he ever not? —Henry too was with us, still unwed after the death of Mary in the same year that Richard lost his own wife, but with four fine sons and two daughters, they added to the noisy celebrations at Richard’s court.

And there was another face familiar to me as my own. My cousin Edward, heir to the York inheritance, now Earl of Rutland and Duke of Aumale and grown into his Castilian inheritance of good looks from his mother Isabella. How confident he was, and ingratiating, slipping neatly into the place in Richard’s life left by the absent and now dead de Vere. Too neatly, some would say. Seeing me watch him, Edward grinned and raised a hand, before turning back to whisper in Richard’s ear.

It was a golden time. A family united and reconciled. Truly a time for celebration.

And I? What of proud Elizabeth of Lancaster? Although a wife and matron, I felt as young as I had been when I had first succumbed to the persistence of John Holland. My steps were as light and lithe as those of any virgin looking for her first love. The great ruby, given to me by my father on the occasion of my first marriage as a mark of his approval, flashed on my finger. That marriage was long gone and Jonty of Pembroke dead these nine years after a terrible accident at the Christmas junketings at Woodstock. I mourned the loss of his young life, but intermittently. My vision was centred on the present and the future. How could it not be?

John was my love, my future and past. Gone were the days when we were showered with disapproval for his preemptive taking me to his bed before the exchange of marriage vows. Earning his reparation in Castile, he was now frequently to be found at his brother’s side, royal patronage his for the asking. When John led me into the dancing, his steps betrayed a confident swagger, for was he not created Earl of Huntingdon and I his Countess? He had been awarded Richard’s recognition with this fine title, with lands and castles in Cornwall and a great house at Pultney in London where we could entertain in sumptuous luxury.

How foresighted John had proved to be in bringing us home from Portugal. There was nothing there for him, or in the disastrous war against Castile, but here he had been welcomed by Richard and forgiven his past sins. Not without self-interest of course: in the terrible aftermath of Radcot Bridge Richard needed family around him. He had needed support against the Lords Appellant. Wooing John to his side could only be to his advantage.

John smiled and bowed and flattered, making himself indispensible as a good counsellor should. And thus I was once more a Countess. As for the authority to go with it: Richard had created him Chamberlain of England, an office stripped from Robert de Vere. So it seemed that our star was in the ascendant with Richard’s determination to build a level of personal support that could not easily be displaced. John would be central to that support. Who could not admire the chain of sapphires with its white hart livery badge, the King’s personal gift, that shone on John’s breast, a mirror image of the chain worn by the King himself?

‘You look happy, my love,’ John observed as our steps brought us close in the dance.

‘I am happier than you could ever imagine,’ I said. ‘And I will show you later, when we are alone …’

My father, worryingly aged since his return from Castile and his reluctant acceptance that the marriage of his daughter Katalina to the Castilian heir was the nearest he would ever get to his dream of this southern kingdom, was pleased to scowl on my new happiness.

‘He worries me,’ he announced, watching my husband move from group to group, listening, advising, nodding sagely.

‘Have you withdrawn your regard from John?’ I asked, not too concerned. ‘Once you were quick to see his merits.’

‘But I was never blind to his deficiencies. Look at him. All he sees is power. He’ll make enemies.’

‘He’ll make friends as well. Did you not live with friends and enemies both?’ My certainty that John would survive all vicissitudes could not be shaken. ‘Were you not able to hold the balance between them and enjoy the benefits?’

The Duke’s frown deepened. ‘Beware, Elizabeth. He’s casting all his eggs into Richard’s basket. If you have any influence, make him see that sometimes moderation is the better policy.’

There was no moderation. I knew what Richard was doing, and why should we not be part of my cousin’s empire-building? Strengthening his own support against those who would oppose him, as my father had done, as any family that valued its future supremacy would do. Our own children played their own role at Richard’s behest, one of our young daughters already betrothed to the Mowbray heir of Nottingham. I saw no harm in it. We were the premier family in the land below the King. Why not make strong alliances with our daughters?

I kissed my father’s cheek.

‘You should be proud of your daughter and son-in-law.’

‘I suppose I should,’ he acknowledged but without much enthusiasm.

And when John rode in the lists with such éclat that showed no hint of fading, my father could do nothing but applaud and acknowledge the astonishing spectrum of his skills. As I did. Was he not at the height of his prodigious powers?

‘Just let him keep his temper and his ambitions in check,’ the Duke warned, ‘and then we might all survive.’

‘Don’t you trust Richard?’

Diplomatic to the last, the Duke chose not to answer that, but his opinion was clear enough. ‘If you smile on him and Huntingdon provides a steady hand at the helm …’

For my father’s years of power as royal counsellor were long gone. And so I smiled as rewards and royal patronage were heaped upon us, and John began to build Dartington Hall in Devon as a home fit for his new elevation.

Thus we basked in the sunshine of Richard’s regard.

The music died away and Richard, leading the little Queen forward, called us to attention.

‘It is my wish to reward those who love me and mine.’

I watched him as he handed Isabella forward, his face clear and unlined, eyes soft and full of gentle affection. There was no cat-like malice in Richard today. This marriage could be the making of him, with this young life to protect and nurture. We curtsied, bowed, a silence falling over us.

‘Who is the best dancer amongst us?’ He looked round the expectant faces. ‘Which lady has the grace and elegance of my own white hind? What do you say, Uncle of Lancaster?’ He looked at my father whose expression was a masterpiece of diplomacy.

‘Who can say, sire. It would be cruel to choose from so many fair exponents.’

‘But choose we must. And I know who will tell me the truth.’ He leaned and whispered in Isabella’s ear.

Isabella, all of seven years old, shook her head, eyes wide with apprehension.

Richard whispered again. Isabella whispered back. The crowd laughed indulgently.

‘My wife has chosen, and I will agree.’ He held out his hand, an open-handed gesture of pure friendship. ‘We award our prize to the Countess of Huntingdon.’

I laughed, a little startled, disconcerted. The supreme agility of youth was no longer on my side, so what had my royal cousin in mind? I glanced at John who was still playing the great magnate, his face a superb example of brotherly appreciation. That mask, when he chose to use it, was still difficult to penetrate.

‘Come, Cousin.’ Richard beamed. ‘We await you.’

I stepped forward, as Richard drew a ring from his own finger and pushed it onto my thumb where it gathered the light from the candles and cast it out in flashes of azure light.

I curtsied. ‘I am honoured, sire.’

‘So am I, to have you at my court, my dearest cousin.’

The dancing continued around us.

What could possibly prevent Richard’s reign from being one of the most glorious, with John as brother and counsellor? The Duke had said ours would never be an advantageous marriage, that it would be ill-conceived to ally myself with Holland. How wrong he had been. It had been like opening an oyster and discovering within it a pearl beyond price.

And yet …

‘I think Richard is in a dangerous mood,’ I said bluntly when Richard allowed me to retreat. ‘When Richard smiles like that I always fear for our good fortune.’

‘How can we be threatened?’ John asked, taking my hand to take cognisance of my reward, a blue sapphire set in a heavy gold ring—far too valuable for such a prize. He seemed to have cast off his earlier doubts, and who could blame him in the face of such royal approbation? ‘Am I not the most loyal of subjects?’

But I was not convinced. Perhaps the Duke’s warning had sown seeds.

‘You are, of course. But I swear I am not the best dancer.’

‘Isabella chose you.’

‘No. She didn’t choose me. It was Richard. He has ulterior motives. The problem is, what are they?’

‘He has indeed. Shall I tell you?’ John teased.

I dug him in the ribs. ‘Another marriage to plan for our infant children?’

‘Would you object? A daughter promised to the Earl of Oxford’s heir. Richard is mending fences on all sides.’

‘You don’t trust him either,’ I said.

‘No. But I think he wants to please me. Are we not basking in the gilded light of his regal gaze?’ I heard the cynicism. John was as watchful as I, even though he shrugged. ‘He is my brother and will not harm me. He has promised me an even greater prize. Richard will grant me the office of Chamberlain for life.’

It was a superlative end to the celebration.

‘Will you support Richard against the Lords Appellant, if he asks it of you?’ I asked as we made our weary way to our own accommodations. Richard’s court demanded an unconscionable degree of standing around. What it was that put the thought into my head I had no idea, but I could not let it rest.

‘Yes. Of course.’

I understood his reply. As Richard’s Chamberlain he could do no less, but it would assuredly cause difficulties. It would bring him into immediate conflict with my uncle of Gloucester, and with Henry. And, inevitability, there would be an uncomfortable distancing from my father, creating more infinitesimal fault-lines in the family loyalties.

It threatened to gnaw at my contentment as the consequences of Radcot Bridge hung over us like a bad odour.

I would not think about it. There would be ways out of the conflict. There were always ways out of political dilemmas and we would find them. John would find them.

When there came a knock on the door of my parlour, one of the great chambers in Pultney House that I had designated as my own, I motioned to one of my women to open it to discover Master Shelley, our steward, accompanied by two figures, not yet reaching full adulthood, muffled in cloaks. One of the boys, the eldest by his height, stepped forward. The other boy, square and sturdy, merely scowled.

I rose to my feet, intrigued by these unexpected visitors, relieved to have something to distract me, for pleased though I was to have made my home at Pultney House in London, I was suffering pangs of loneliness. I had become used to John’s comings and goings but sometimes I missed him when Richard’s demands came first, as they must, and as they did increasingly often. Richard could never bear to be anything but first, and John had been gone for some weeks, quite where I did not know.

‘We have guests?’ I asked, brows rising. They were marked by signs of long and arduous travel, but there was about them an air of hauteur rather than of weariness. ‘Is Lord John here?’

‘My lord is here,’ the steward replied. ‘He says that we have additions to our household.’

So who were they? I walked forward. There was no sign of deference from the two youths as I beckoned them into the room, looking them over. They came reluctantly. What had we here? The cold light of fury in the eyes of the younger boy was unmistakeable, for all his youth. I found it faintly amusing that he should glare at me in so hostile a manner.

‘Who are you?’ I asked since they offered no explanation. The two boys were close to adulthood, unknown to me, yet the cast of their features and their light colouring suggested a family that I knew. Clearly gently born, their garments of good quality, they should have been raised to know when courtesy was due.

‘You are old enough to show deference,’ I remarked, when none was forthcoming.

It was the elder boy who spoke. ‘I am FitzAlan. This is my brother.’

‘Then welcome.’ The FitzAlans were family of course, through blood and marriage, and these youths must be the sons of the Earl of Arundel. But why was their presence so acrimonious?

‘I am Richard FitzAlan,’ the youth stated again, voice icily clipped, at odds with his eyes ablaze with some fervour. ‘I am Earl of Arundel—except that on my father’s despicable death I have been disinherited. I have no wish to be here in the home of a murderer. I will show no deference. And you cannot make me,’ he ended, youth and emotion overcoming dignity.

Everything within me stilled, as if at some presentiment of danger.

Arundel? Dead? Here was information new to me. I knew the Earl of Arundel of course, head of one of the most powerful and well-connected families in the land. I knew Joan FitzAlan, his sister, even better. She was Countess of Hereford through her marriage with a Bohun husband, and mother of Henry’s dear lamented Mary. Through her descent from King Henry the Third which gave her Plantagenet blood, she had always been close to my father. The FitzAlans were a family to be reckoned with, if not of my own quality, yet here was this boy with such bitter accusations that made no sense.

‘You should beware of loose talk, Richard FitzAlan,’ I replied. And there was John, entering on their heels, his cool hauteur matching the boy’s.

‘I know what I saw,’ Richard FitzAlan glowered at John, ‘and our father is dead.’

‘Dead as befitted a traitor,’ he remarked.

‘Murdered at your hand and that of the King.’

I saw how John tried to temper his reply. ‘Shown mercy at the hand of the King.’

‘Is execution mercy?’

‘It’s far preferable to the punishment doled out to most traitors,’ John said with ineffable patience, eyes full of understanding. ‘If it were not for the King’s mercy, you would have watched your father hanged, drawn and quartered in public display.’

The youth paled. ‘He was no traitor.’

‘He took up arms against the King at Radcot Bridge.

That is treason enough. Now go with Master Shelley who will show you to your rooms. He will give you food and a place to sleep. We will speak tomorrow.’

‘God damn you for your part in our father’s death.’ A vicious parting shot from the younger of the two as our steward ushered them out.

When they had gone, John and I stood and looked at each other, the curse hanging heavily between us.

‘You could have warned me,’ I said. ‘Do I ask what all that was about?’ Although I could guess some of it for myself.

‘I couldn’t warn you because I didn’t know Richard’s intentions to foist the brats on me. Richard has become a master of disguise.’ John’s features relaxed from recrimination into a wry smile. ‘How long is it since I last saw you?’

‘Too long.’

Stepping together in one mind, his arms were firm, his kiss a promise for later, before he stretched his long limbs into a chair by the fire with a sigh of utter weariness.

‘What is all that about?’ The FitzAlan news had stirred a dormant fear in me.

‘Later …’

I sent for wine and food, rid the room of the women, and waited with impatience until he had slaked hunger and thirst.

‘You have travelled far.’

‘Yes. I don’t want to see a horse or a saddle for the next se’enight.’ I smiled as I went to sit at his feet and link my fingers with his when he beckoned. It was good to have him home. ‘There’s nothing to concern you.’ He leaned to press his lips against a furrow that must still have been evident on my brow. Then said, as if he could not keep silent: ‘Richard has begun his campaign against the Lords Appellant. We always knew he would.’

Of course it concerned me. For here was the retribution, that we had feared and that had come at last to assuage Richard’s desire for revenge. Was Richard strong enough to emerge from this with his authority and his crown intact? He might well, but I feared for my father and brother. As one of the Lords Appellant, Henry would be fortunate indeed to escape, and here was news of the death of Arundel. My belly quivered with nerves. Meanwhile John was intent on ridding me of my fears, which did nothing but stoke them.

‘You should be ecstatic, my dear love. You are now a Duchess and may wear a ducal coronet.’

‘You are standing so high with your puissant brother.’

‘I am indeed. I am now made Duke of Exeter for my services.’ But the worry was there, underpinning the sense of fulfilled ambition. The line between his brows, probably matching mine, was thin and deep. Would he tell me the truth, the whole of it?

‘Then tell me about the FitzAlan offspring who it seems are to live with us. And who despise the very air we breathe.’

‘We have custody of them until Richard is satisfied with their loyalty to him. Which could be longer than he thinks. At the moment they’re ripe for murder.’ John sighed, absent-mindedly chafing my hands between his, frowning at some distant scene that still filled his mind.

‘I gather that the Earl is dead.’

‘Executed. Because Richard decided to strike at those who humiliated him.’

So I was right to be concerned. ‘Did you know?’

‘Yes.’

‘And didn’t tell me.’

‘I thought it better not. You are too close for comfort to some of them.’

I took a breath. Henry must be safe, or he would have told me. And yet fear leapt into life. ‘My brother?’

‘No. Henry is spared so far. But it has been a bloody affair.’

And so he told me. I sat, a cup of wine forgotten in my hand.

‘We always knew it would only be a matter of time, didn’t we? Richard has had his revenge against three of the Lords Appellant at least. I was with him at Windsor when he made his plan, then went with him to Pleshey where he arrested your uncle of Gloucester. He also took Arundel and Warwick. Gloucester is sent to Calais to await trial. Warwick is under lock and key in the Tower. But he made an example of Arundel. Richard has had him executed on Tower Hill for treason.’

It was a bleak recital of retaliation. Richard FitzAlan, who had carried the royal crown at Richard’s coronation, dead as a traitor.

‘What about Henry? And Mowbray?’

‘Still at large and unthreatened. For now.’

Blessed Virgin! Henry was safe, but not, I feared, for long. ‘Is this good policy?’ I asked. ‘To execute a man so close in blood ties?’

‘It will make any man who thinks of opposing Richard think twice.’

‘And you are rewarded for your part in it.’

‘I have been granted the honour of Arundel and Arundel Castle. And custody of the young FitzAlans, whom you will charm so that they will come to your hand like chicks to a bowl of grain.’

I could try. But I suddenly felt it was as if all the critical links that held our family together were unravelling under my eye, like an ill-stitched girdle. Where would it end? And where would I stand in the approaching upheavals?

‘It worries me,’ I said. ‘It sets you at odds with my father and Henry.’

I am afraid it will set you at odds with me …

The thought stepped softly into my awareness, chilling me to the bone.

‘I’m too busy carrying out Richard’s orders to be at odds with anyone.’ He leaned forwards, hands gripping my wrists as if he would force me to see the future as he did. ‘All will be well if your father and brother allow Richard to wield authority as he sees it. I doubt he will attack Henry. He was not one of the main protagonists. He was very young at Radcot Bridge.’

‘But if Richard continues to be driven by revenge, until every one of those who forced him to give up de Vere is punished …’

‘It’s all ifs, Elizabeth. Who’s to know? We’ll try and keep his thoughts and actions in moderation.’

‘I wish Anne had not died. Isabella is too young to exert any influence on Richard. And,’ I looked up into his face, ‘I don’t like this outcome. I don’t like it at all. The FitzAlan boys are so angry.’

‘As I would be in their shoes,’ John admitted ruefully. ‘We will do what we can to keep my brother on an even keel, and meanwhile try to prevent the FitzAlan youngsters from murdering us in our beds.’

Which brought another thought leaping into my mind.

‘If we had been in England, would you have joined the Lords Appellant against Richard?’

John’s reply was immediate, with no hesitation at all. ‘I would have had more sense.’

I said nothing more, for what was there to say in the face of such distancing from the stance that the Lords Appellant—and my own brother—had taken? Little ripples of anxiety doubled and tripled to rob me of my delight in his return until:

‘I’ve had enough of the FitzAlans, and of Richard.’ His fingers around my wrists softened into a caress as he kissed his way along my fingertips. ‘Come and welcome me back in true wifely style. I’ve been thinking patiently of our reunion for the past hour, and my patience has just expired.’

As an invitation it could not be refused, and so our reunion leapt from heat to heat as John lit the flames. Absence had its advantages.

‘How long since we were together?’ he demanded.

He found a need to reacquaint himself with every inch of my skin until I glowed like a storm-lantern on a dark night.

But as I lay sleepless beside him I was forced to acknowledge that all the ease of the days when I won the prize for dancing was gone. How trivial it had all been. Now this undercurrent of danger lived with us, when it was impossible to predict Richard’s next move, his hand hopping this way and that on the chessboard. Had John always been aware?

I asked him.

‘Yes. Richard is unstable. But he is my brother and for that, he deserves my loyalty.’

And that was what worried me.

‘I am furious with him. At this moment I despise him! How did Richard turn out to be so viciously mean-spirited?’

At this moment, sweet as dripping honey, Richard was dancing with Queen Isabella.

How often did I say those words, or similar, as we continued to meet at court with all the pretence of an affectionate, united family? On this occasion it was my brother who bore the brunt of my low-voiced accusations. John had heard enough of them.

‘You’re safe enough,’ Henry advised lightly, bowing as Richard’s gaze touched on us, I spreading my skirts in graceful deference. ‘I’m the one who has to watch his back.’

‘Before God, Hal. Don’t provoke him.’

Richard’s interest had passed on.

‘I? I’ll not provoke. And what need?’ As ever Henry faced the world with a stark realism, inherited from our father. Nearing his third decade, honourable and clear-headed, he had emerged from Mary’s death with an inner strength, a pride in his children. A pride in Lancaster, his future inheritance, only second to the Duke’s. ‘If Richard decides to strike, he’ll do it and answer to no one. Our uncle of Gloucester discovered that to his cost.’

‘Just take care.’

‘When did I ever not?’ Squeezing my arm, he smiled. ‘Good to know that you are on my side, sister.’

‘But is that of any value to you?’

I might return his smile, wishing I might ruffle the ordered waves of his hair as I would once have done, if only to disperse his tendency to lecture, enjoying the intricate borders of his houppelande, flamboyant on sleeve and hem, for Henry had also inherited the Duke’s love of ostentation. Yet knew I was right to fear what Richard might do. It was as if once he had tasted the sweetness of revenge with Arundel’s death, he could not live without it, like a drunkard having enjoyed the rich savour of the finest red wine. Thereafter revenge teased Richard’s tongue, ran in his blood. It seemed to permeate his every thought and for those of us on whom he frowned, there was no escape.

More hurtful, more agonising, the estrangement between John and myself grew, encroaching on our happiness, step by tiny step. I tried to understand. I tried to put myself into his shoes, but how could I watch him bow with awful reverence before his brother when Richard had had my uncle of Gloucester put to death in Calais, crying victory over the death of yet another of the Lords Appellant who had rid him of his blessed de Vere? Arundel executed, Gloucester murdered, Warwick incarcerated. Any man who was not a fool could see the pattern of Richard’s vengeance. How long could Henry and Mowbray survive it?

And John? John remained silently, solidly as Richard’s trusted counsellor.

‘How can you support him in this?’ I demanded on a hiss of breath, anger flickering like a will o’ the wisp, even as I tried to control it.

‘It is his right. He is God’s anointed King,’ John murmured.

‘He had Gloucester murdered.’ I was still struggling to accept that Richard had been party to the death of our uncle.

‘As I am well aware.’ John studied his linked fingers, for we were kneeling at Mass with the royal court. ‘Richard says Gloucester died from natural causes.’

‘Smothered in his bed more like. I doubt Richard’s praying for his uncle’s soul!’

‘Then you pray instead!’

So, acknowledging John’s reciprocal ill-temper, and knowing that this was neither the time nor the place to pursue my fears, I prayed, feeling as if I were standing between the two pans on a goldsmith’s scales. While John was in the ascendant, lifted by Richard’s elegant fingers so that he shone like a beacon, my own family seemingly fell, Richard’s heavy palm pressing them down into obscurity. Into oblivion.

It would be Henry next. I knew it. Richard would discover, or create, the perfect opportunity to express his loathing of my brother. But how far would he go? Richard was still smiling on the Duke and his new Duchess Katherine. Would he dare attack the Lancaster heir?

‘Can we do nothing?’ I demanded of John after another interminable day of Richard’s demands that we show him the reverence due to Almighty God.

‘No.’ He remained uncompromising. ‘Not until we know what Richard intends.’

‘So you admit he is plotting something.’

‘Yes. You know him as well as I do, Elizabeth. Look at the gleam of mastery in his face. Richard might keep his own counsel, but having dealt with Gloucester he won’t rest now.’

‘I think you could try and deflect him.’

‘And ruin my own position to no purpose?’

‘Is that all you can say? Is that all you can think of?’

‘You were pleased enough to enjoy my position at court. To be Duchess of Exeter.’

Heat was building between us again, my anger no longer a mere flicker of intent. It seemed I had a temper as strong as John’s when those I loved came under attack. It flared.

‘But that was before Richard took a hatchet to his family. That was before I see only blood and …’ I stopped, before I could say words that would not easily be undone. I felt like an apprentice juggler with a handful of eggs. ‘The Duke is unwell,’ I said instead. ‘He could not bear it if Richard had Henry murdered in the same manner as my uncle, smothered in his bed in Calais by some nameless assassin. I think it would be the end of him.’

The Duke’s recurring ill-health was becoming a concern for us all, a wearing away of the once great strength. He might deny it but the years were taking their toll.

There was no sympathy in John’s response. It was as if I faced a solid barbican that prevented me approaching any of his finer feelings. ‘I cannot turn Richard’s mind, Elizabeth. Once it is made up … It took Radcot Bridge to get him to give up de Vere. And he’s never forgiven those who forced his hand. He’ll follow his own desires with or without me. All I can hope to do is temper his response to what he sees as justifiable use of royal power.’

How coldly realistic he was.

‘I know. I know. I know your hands are tied. But how often did my father stand for you? How often did he plead your cause? How often did I? If you had any—’

He rounded on me.

‘Don’t say it. Don’t go down that path, Elizabeth.’

If you had any love for me, you would at least try …

Nor would I ask: did you have a hand in my uncle Gloucester’s death?

But I did, because I was in no mood to placate.

‘No.’

One word in brutal denial. Family loyalties were dividing us, tearing us apart. We parted in a spirit of disharmony. For the first time in all the years that I could recall, when leaving to attend on Richard, John did not kiss me in farewell.