The King’s Sister

Chapter Twelve

‘Long live the good Duke of Lancaster!’

‘God bless Henry of Lancaster!’

As the shouts became clearer, they jolted me. For me, the Duke of Lancaster was still my father, but time had moved on. What would my father have said about the overthrow of the young King he had fought so hard to shape and foster? Thank God the future was not ours to read.

I dressed as if for a celebration, but a solemn one, the folds of night-blue silk-damask capacious enough to flatter my increasing girth. Knowing Henry as well as I did, I knew what he would do as soon as he entered London. I knew which direction his steps would take for his motivations were as clear to me as my own. Duty. Love of family. Pride in his ancestry. Pride in his blood and what was due to the past. I knew where to wait for him.

Henry had made his entrance into the city through the great Aldgate, as I could tell by the cheering crowds, the direction of the increasing volume of noise. Exiled traitor turned hero, lauded as he and his victorious army marched through the streets, with the Mayor and Aldermen in festive array and fervent agreement. I had arrived at my self-appointed position early. I was so certain that this was where Henry would come.

But where was John? If he was with Richard still, would he be lodged in the Tower with him as a prisoner? If so, even more reason for me to meet Henry. I would kiss him in greeting then go down on my knees to beg for mercy. For John. For Richard.

I hoped Henry would be of a mind to listen and smile on me. It was no wish of mine to meet him on my knees.

I waited, the minutes seemingly endless, but I had not been misguided in my surmising. There he was, striding towards me, his metal-shod feet echoing in the vast space of St Paul’s Cathedral, walking swiftly and alone along the nave towards the high altar. I drew back into the shadows. I would give him this moment alone. Had he not earned it after the months of uncertainty and anguish?

I studied him.

Acknowledging that the extent of parting had been good to him, I found my anxieties smoothing out, the tension in my body relaxing. At thirty-two years, Henry had grown into his strength with an authority to match. It was as if his experiences in exile had tempered his confidence and he wore it like a pair of velvet gloves, superbly formed in expert hands. I could not but admire him. He had staked everything on this return, no less than an invasion. Of course he had returned. What man of courage and of royal blood could accept such a monstrous decision to banish him for life, based on a weak king’s whim?

So here he was, to reclaim his own inheritance—and more.

I knew where he would set his sights. As soon as I saw the proud tilt of his head, the sumptuous suit of chased and gilded armour, I knew he would wear the crown.

Henry knelt, exactly where I knew he would kneel before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped on his sword hilt, while all around him was silence, despite the nave filling up with Mayor and Aldermen, with Henry’s friends. It was such a prescient moment, a moment of awful truth for Richard as well as for Henry.

There was no sign of Richard.

Henry rose, stood, head bowed still, then turned to walk slowly forward to where I waited in the sheltering bulk of a pillar, but his eye was not for me. All his attention was for the tomb where the old Duke, our father, lay at peace at last beside our mother Blanche. I could feel the tension in him beneath the composure, the need to lay his victory before his father. I let him go.

Magnificently carved, the effigies were crisp in their recent completion. A lance and shield hung above and I saw the exact moment that Henry raised his eyes to them, to the coat of arms of my father encompassing the golden leopards of England that hung flatly motionless in the still air. Henry’s face was taut with emotion.

At last, sensing a need in him, I stepped forward.

‘Henry.’

His eyes touched my face fleetingly before returning to the likeness of the Duke. He was not surprised to find me here. ‘I could not be here when he died,’ he said.

‘I know. I was here for you. And Duchess Katherine. We honoured him for you because we knew your absence was not of your choosing.’

Henry wept, tears racing down his cheeks while he made no attempt to hide them. And stepping closer, I wept too—for our loss, and for my brother, my face pressed against the metal of his shoulder, his arm around my waist. So we stood, the wretchedness of our parting swept away in that moment of recognition of the greatness of our father.

‘I should have been at his side. I should have returned.’ Despite the rigid plates of metal I felt his body shiver beneath my hands.

‘He knew you could not. It was too dangerous. Katherine was there with him at Leicester. She arranged it as he desired. It was all done as you could have wished for.’

Henry wiped away the tears with the heel of his hand.

‘Have you come to welcome me home, little sister?’

‘I have. My heart is glad.’ What of John? I wanted to ask. But this was not the time. ‘Where is Richard?’ At least I could ask that.

‘I’ve sent him to the Palace of Westminster. Later he will be lodged in the Tower. And then we will decide.’ He must have read my expression. ‘All I wish to do is remove him from power. Nothing more. There will be no more injustice to harm the people of England.’

‘And will you take the crown of England for yourself?’ It was the question on everyone’s lips.

‘We must wait. All is not settled yet.’

Since it was as much as he would say, we knelt before the Duke’s tomb and gave thanks for Henry’s safe return, until, equanimity restored, we stood together, smiling, all the weight of family healing the past months of separation.

‘You are well,’ Henry stated, kissing my cheek. ‘And near your time, I would say,’ eyeing the swell of my robes.

‘Yes. You look good on victory.’ I reciprocated his welcome.

‘And Philippa?’

‘A doting mother.’

‘And your children?’

‘Thriving. Have you seen your four boys? They grow like saplings.’

Such closeness, but emotion shivered between us with the one name that had not yet been uttered. It was as if John stood between us, unacknowledged.

‘Will you come with me to Westminster?’ Henry asked, taking my arm to guide me along the nave. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing.’

Slowly we walked together towards the great door where the crowds were dispersing and where Henry’s closest followers were awaiting him.

‘They welcomed you,’ I said, still astonished at the force of the acclamation.

‘They did.’ Henry paused, pulling me to a halt, the timbre of his voice chilling to match the air in the cathedral. ‘But here is one who might not.’

I followed Henry’s line of sight to the dark figure standing just within the door.

‘Did you tell him to come?’ he asked.

‘No. No, I have not seen him.’

There, by the carved arch, in a little space as Henry’s friends drew back, was my husband—not under constraint, and my heart leaped in relief. But then I saw his hand was clenched on the sword at his side, his face set like one of the carved statues set in the niches around me, grim and entirely unforgiving. And I saw the little scene as if from a distance, how Henry and I must appear, united against him. Perhaps that was the cause of his rigid jaw, the heavy lines bracketing his mouth. Did he think I had made a stand with Henry against him? The expression in his eyes as they touched mine stung me by their lack of emotion. Of course he recognised his own isolation in our close stance.

But oh, the relief at seeing him there, returned to me! I smiled, holding out my hand towards him in welcome.

John did not move one muscle.

Neither did Henry.

There would be no clasping of hands here.

I took a step, away from Henry, to stand between the two men, so that I might see them both. Did Henry feel no sense of duty, of past gratitudes for John’s support for our father in those terrible days at Sheen, when Richard had accused the Duke of plotting foul murder? It might even be argued that John’s timely intervention, seizing Richard’s sword arm, had saved our father’s life. John had been retained by the Duke, had fought bravely at his side in the Castilian campaign. But there was no recognition of past debts in Henry’s eyes, as little as in John’s. Both mature and seasoned in the use and abuse of power, both driven by ambition, they assessed each other. I might well not have been there. Their eyes held, John’s dark and stormy, Henry’s clear with conviction. A challenge? A plea? I could not tell. All I knew was that there was no coming together.

In desperation I placed my hand on Henry’s arm.

‘Henry … will you greet my husband? He has come here of his own free will.’

‘I will greet him when I know where his allegiance lies. When we last exchanged words of any length, he was the chosen negotiator for my cousin Richard.’

‘And now you have my brother under lock and key in the Palace of Westminster,’ John replied. ‘Will you tell me your intentions towards him? He is still your Anointed King.’

‘I am under no obligation to tell you anything, Exeter. I hold the whip hand here.’ There was no doubting the threat in Henry’s demeanour.

‘So you will seize the Crown.’

‘Whether I do or not, it is time for you to display your future fealty. Long past time. Are you for me or against me? I could send you to enjoy your brother’s quarters at Westminster. It would be just retribution.’ Henry’s face broke into a smile, although not one to give me any hope. ‘But for my sister’s sake I will wait. I will leave you free to see the birth of your child. But after that, you assure me of your allegiance, Exeter, or I will strip every honour and title from you.’ Suddenly the threat was rebounding from the stonework, frightening in its power. ‘I am victor here. The sooner you come to terms with that reality the better.’

Henry shrugged off my hand, bowed formally and briefly, walking around John to rejoin his friends, leaving us, wordless, to follow in his victorious wake until I stopped John by stepping in front of him. For a moment I thought he would side-step and continue, but I grasped his tunic.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘Well, what?’ His regard was hostile. Here was no meeting of minds.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ The anxieties of the past days bloomed into a conflagration unfitting for our holy surroundings. ‘Did it not cross your mind that I would worry myself to death? I had no idea where you were, whether you were safe. Why could you not send word, if nothing else?’

‘Your concern is encouraging, Elizabeth. It has to be said that it did not seem to be worrying you unduly. Your reunion with your brother was touching. Most commendable.’

‘Of course it was. Would I not welcome him? He has every right to be here.’ Loosening my grasp, I smoothed my fingers over John’s chest as if I might soften his anger. ‘You have to make your peace with him, can you not see that? It would be political suicide to make yourself his enemy.’

‘I already am his enemy it seems. He has a short memory.’

‘He has not forgotten our family’s debt to you, but he also remembers your sworn allegiance to Richard …’

‘And Richard will be shut up in the Tower before the end of this day.’

‘Henry will treat him honourably.’

‘Are you so sure? I’m not. It would be in his best interests to obliterate Richard entirely. If your brother seeks the crown, a living king is a dangerous entity. Far better to destroy him.’

I paused to draw in a breath, as John voiced my own well-hidden fears. I could ignore them no longer.

‘Is that what you would do?’ I asked. ‘If you were in Henry’s shoes?’

‘That is not what I said.’

‘It is what you implied.’

‘There is no reasoning with you. You are too close to Henry to see reason.’

‘As you are too close to Richard.’

He exhaled forcefully. ‘Am I vermin to escape from a floundering ship, to abandon Richard in his despair?’

‘But if you don’t leap overboard, you will drown with the rest.’

How impossible it was.

‘Do I abandon one lord to whom I have sworn allegiance, to immediately bow to another?’

‘Yes, if it is a matter of survival.’

‘It is treachery.’

‘Can you argue that Richard is a man to bring honour to England? To rule fairly, upholding the law. You cannot. You know he is self-serving. Unpredictable …’

‘Will Henry, if he takes the crown, rule any better?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so certain? And by what right does he claim the crown of England?’

And there was the impossible question, for there were others who stood before Henry and the succession to the throne.

Still I stood, smoothing my palms against his chest, sensing a lessening of his anger.

‘I cannot argue this with you. Before God, John. If you love me, if you value our love and the stability of lives, for our children, accept Henry as your lord. You heard the Mayor and Aldermen, their words of welcome. Richard’s time is past. We must accept that. Will you make a martyr of yourself, for Richard’s sake?’

‘And would you encourage treason?’

‘It is not treason. Richard has agreed to give up the throne.’

‘Only under pressure. He would never choose that of his own free will.’

He was looking at me, stern, judgemental, none of the old love in his face, rather a hard-eyed assessment that made me quail.

‘What is it?’ I whispered.

‘I saw you standing next to Henry, before the old Duke’s tomb. You were smiling at him. Your face was alight.’

‘Because he had returned.’

‘Even though you know his return will ruin me? The House of Lancaster cleaves together. I could expect no different.’

I raised my hands to let him go. ‘I cannot talk to you.’

He left me, our life together in tatters, even though he returned with me to the Pultney House.

‘John …!’ I called, in a final attempt to lure him back to me, striving not to let my wretchedness harden the edges of my voice, as he strode past me to vanish round the turn in the stair.

He did not reply. He did not even turn his head.

And so he remained in the following days, a silent and restless force who shut himself in his own chamber. For the first time in my life I knew real fear. Not the confused terror of the day in the Tower of London so long ago, but a fear that shook me to the essence of my soul. I was afraid, so afraid, that if John refused to accept my brother, Henry would surely destroy him.

John and I were impossibly estranged.

In my loneliness I spent the time in plotting. I needed a stratagem to work a miracle. A gift of power, of good omen, from the Duke and Duchess of Exeter to the newly returned Duke of Lancaster.

That was it, the perfect solution.

I saw my task with clarity: to bring some semblance of unity to these two formidable men, brother and husband, who could not, through the demands of family loyalty, meet eye to eye, hand to hand. To remove the conflict and prove that it was possible for them to co-exist with a degree of amity if not affection. To remind Henry of his debt to John. To show John that my brother would make a worthy king, of greater value to England than Richard could ever be. That it was only justice for Richard to give up his throne. And to show Henry that my husband would be a valuable addition to his body of counsellors.

And to bring back some healing laughter into our lives.

Quite simply I needed some meeting without politics and power, to allow us all to step back from the conflagration of Richard’s overthrow and remember the good times.

A simple matter?

Impossible, but that would not stop me. I could not afford to fail. To do so would be to drop us all into an abyss of suspicion and growing conflict. Worst of all, I dared not talk of it to John. Therein would lie disaster. It had to be said that we were not speaking other than the habitual trivia of the weather and the state of the roads when the household met for meals. Our dining was a masterpiece of cold brevity.

How to do it? All it needed was a suitable framework within which I might work some form of clever female magic and bring them together.

My mentor was obvious. Not Philippa who would advise soft handling, which had patently failed already. Not Duchess Katherine who, if she were speaking to me at all, would advise prayer. I had no confidence in God’s intervention in this fraught hostility. My mentor was Princess Joan, who had used her talents to negotiate between difficult men in conflict. She had not been slow to extend her capable hands and bring the warring parties together.

I could do the same.

I wished she were here with me to guide my hand but I knew enough of the workings of the two minds to undertake a reconciliation. Henry was as superstitious as most men. I could make use of it. And John had a strong streak of practicality. I prayed that Henry would smile and John would be receptive.

Holy Virgin, protect me from the pride in my family.

I wished Joan were alive to stand beside me. I missed her caustic wit.

A celebration.

I recalled the events of Richard’s life when he was the young heir, full of promise just before the death of our grandfather, King Edward. A particularly happy outcome was reborn in my memory, hosted by the City of London to show its support for the golden child that Richard was, and the golden King they hoped he would become. An event of colour and festivity and good omen. Could I not do the same?

Pultney House would be perfect for such a gathering, more intimate than one of the royal palaces but suitable for the great and good to gather. With John as host and Henry as guest, all overlaid with a soft ambience of music and good food and a little trickery, how could it fail?

I spent liberally. I was out to make an impression.

‘And what do you hope to achieve?’ John enquired with more cynicism than I liked when he caught me in communication with Master Shelley over the wine we would consume. I could hardly hide the preparations from him.

‘Only a family gathering.’

‘All united in amicable friendship, I suppose. Do we invite Richard?’

Richard, as we both knew, was still locked away in the Tower at Henry’s behest.

‘Go away if you cannot be practical.’

‘Are you sure you should be exerting yourself?’ he asked, his eye on my burgeoning belly.

‘This child,’ I remarked waspishly, ‘at this precise moment is less trouble to me than you are.’

John left me to get on with it.

‘You will be there,’ I said, raising my voice so that he must hear before the door closed behind him.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It will be a miracle if it does not end in bloodshed.’

‘As long as it’s not yours …’

‘Or Henry’s. Which would you choose, my dear wife?’

I set my teeth, then got on with it.

I hired a company of vizored mummers to parade through the streets. Knight and squire, an emperor and a pope complete with retinue: cardinals and papal legates. Well over a two score, with their blazing torches they lit our courtyard to mark the victorious return of Lancaster, to smooth a layer of peace and goodwill over the country. Wine and ale and roasted meats were served in abundance. When the minstrels tuned their instruments our guests danced and sang.

John was a gracious host, Henry a courteous guest, I a heavily burdened hostess who spent much of the time in resting on a cushioned stool. But I allowed a sigh of relief, even though I was aware of the one absent face. Richard. A ghost absent from our midst.

It was time to add a little light-hearted frivolity to preserve the tone. Would not Princess Joan agree? I was certain of it.

The minstrels rested, the dancers drew breath, the mummers removed their masks, and I approached Henry with my youngest son of four years bearing a lidded basket, my eldest in well-drilled attendance.

‘A gift for you, my lord, from the Duke and Duchess of Exeter.’ My little son John had been well-trained. I managed not to meet husband John’s caustic eye. He knew nothing of this.

Henry, feigning ignorance of the tensions around him, laughed as the basket rocked in my son’s hold. ‘Does it bite?’

‘Only …’ My son hesitated. ‘Only rats, sir.’

Henry lifted the lid and lifted out a handsome black kitten. A sign of good luck. I knew it would catch Henry’s interest. Did he not wear a brooch bearing the words sanz mal penser? His superstition even as a child had been a matter of mirth; a tunic that brought him good fortune in a practice joust had to be stripped from him after three months of constant wear.

‘He is a symbol of prosperity, for you and the kingdom,’ John’s son and heir Richard added with excellent solemnity since this was beyond his brother. ‘He will rid your house of vermin, my lord. His father is a good mouser in our kitchens.’

‘My thanks to the most gracious Duke and Duchess of Exeter.’ There was much laughter as Henry handed the little creature to his eldest son, Hal, who restored it to its basket when it began to squirm and mew. It was a good atmosphere. A little family moment of intimacy and pleasure, as I preened myself on my success, breathing out slowly in relief, my hand stilling the child in my belly. ‘Does he have a name?’

Richard shook his head.

‘He is for you to name, my lord, to mark this occasion.’

‘May I suggest Deceit?’

There was the hiss of an intake of breath from around me, and my heart thudded as heavily as my unborn child’s fist, for at my shoulder was the gracious Duke of Exeter himself, incomparable host, all semblance of graciousness wiped away. The whole room hung on the next exchange of words.

‘Perhaps you recall the occasion,’ my husband addressed my brother. ‘When Richard received a set of loaded dice from the mummers who entertained him in the days before the Crown of England came to him. It was to allow him to win, which he did. And they cheered his victory, travesty as it was, because they looked forward to the golden age when he would rule. But the dice did not bring Richard good luck, did they? Just as I doubt the cat will rid you of all your vermin.’

I listened with horror, my face paling as it became worse.

‘Do you mean these?’ Henry asked. Like a gifted magician, he removed them from his purse. An eye-catching pair of dice.

‘So you took his dice as well as his crown?’

‘I removed a disease from England.’

‘Which could be cured, with careful handling.’

‘Which needed to be wiped out.’

‘And will you wipe it out?’

‘I am attempting to find a painless remedy.’

‘Painless for whom?’

Upon which Henry made his departure in high dignity and a black mood. He did not take the cat.

‘Could you not try?’ I faced John as we were left to survey the debris of the ruined evening.

‘To do what? Ingratiate myself with the man who would place the crown of England on his own head? You are so busy welcoming your brother that you do not even see my dilemma.’

‘But I do …’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘There is no compromise in you.’

John left me, in a mood as black as Henry’s.

The cat remained with me, in my kitchens, presumably named by my cook. What would I have named it? Despair?

I did not expect John to come to my chamber that night—why break the habit of all the previous nights? —nor did he. I waited and then could wait no more so wrapped my cumbersome state in a robe and went to his rooms.

He was asleep, head burrowed in the pillows.

It was in my mind to slide in beside him, as effectively as I could slide anywhere, and hug him back into a warm consciousness that might heal his wounds, but what use? Nothing I did could lessen his pain. It was his choice to be apart from me, and so I did not wake him, nor did I touch the shock of hair even though the urge to do so was strong. I did not know what to say to him that I had not already said.

By next morning he was gone, leaving only the hard words we had shared to reverberate in my mind, refusing to be laid to rest. They shattered the quiet rooms of Pultney House, made even quieter from John’s absence. Where was the love that had brought us together, that had given us the strength to defy convention and demand that we be man and wife? An uncomfortable worm of guilt curled in my belly. John had accused me of selfish disregard. That Henry’s achievements overwhelmed any thought I should have for John’s intolerable position. Was it true? Was I so selfish?

I did not think so.

But still the worm churned and destroyed as the day of Henry’s coronation drew closer.

Why could John not come home so that we might talk?

Had I driven him away?

So relieved had I been at Henry’s acceptance by those who could have stopped him, I had presumed that John would follow the same course. But Richard was John’s brother, for good or ill. Now all I could do was wait.

My bed remained cold and empty.

‘Is my father here?’ Richard, my son, John’s heir. To witness this most momentous of occasions.

‘I don’t know.’

I strained to look over the heads of the lords of the realm. There were some seats vacant. That was my first thought, and my fear. One of them would most certainly be that of the Duke of Exeter.

In the Great Hall in the Palace at Westminster, the lords were gathering, all wishing to be part of the proceedings, and I would be there, with John’s heir, to bear witness, wherever John might be. No one would be able to accuse my son or me of disloyalty to the new King. As a woman I was not invited. As the new King’s sister, no one would deny me the right to be there. Nor in the seat I had commandeered at the front. Probably the state of my pregnancy made the stewards unwilling to dispute the fact with me. No one, least of all me, wished this child to be born in the middle of the ceremony.

‘I can see one empty chair,’ Richard said.

‘That is the one occupied by the Duke of Lancaster. It is your uncle’s now. It has never been occupied since the death of your grandfather.’

‘The throne is empty too.’

The throne, draped in cloth of gold. Vacant. For we had no king. Not yet. King Richard, stripped of the right, incarcerated, had willingly resigned his powers, if anyone believed in such an unlikely eventuality. And because there was no king, the writs for a parliament had been withdrawn. This was no parliament but an assembly to ratify Richard’s deposition and confirm the inheritance of his successor.

But where was John? If John absented himself on this most important of days, his estrangement with Henry would be complete and beyond my healing.

‘What will happen if Father does not join Henry?’ Richard whispered. A percipient boy, now twelve years old. He had heard much of what was talked of at home.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will my uncle Henry execute him?’

‘No. They will talk about it and come to an acceptable conclusion.’

Lies, all lies—but I could not put fear in my son’s eyes, the fear that kept me from sleep.

‘What will happen to my uncle Richard?’

‘I expect Henry will allow him to live comfortably in some castle away from London.’

‘It would be dangerous to let Richard live. It would be better if he were dead. Better for Henry.’

It was as if a hand tightened around my throat and my belly lurched at these words that I had heard before, yet never expressed with such innocence.

‘Is that what you would do?’

‘I might if I were King. My uncle Henry might.’

‘Then we must talk him out of it, mustn’t we.’

‘But he will be King. He will have the power.’

So I knew. I made a clumsy turn in my seat to look at my son’s solemn face. He grew more like John every day but had a sweetness of temper that was increasingly fleeting in John. Even my son saw the political demands this situation could make.

The doors of the Hall were flung back. Here they were.

‘What if …?’

‘Hush, now.’

I leaned forward to see between the ranks.

Two mitred heads as two archbishops came in solemn procession. So Henry had the blessing of the church. He would be relieved.

‘Look …’ Richard nudged me with a sharp elbow. ‘He’s brought them.’

Slight figures, pacing solemnly with formal dignity. Henry had brought his four sons to make their own claim for the future. Henry and Lionel, John and Humphrey, ranging from fourteen to ten years. Henry had an eye to the impression his family would make on a country starved of heirs in the last years.

‘I wish I could be with my father. I wish I could walk at his side as his heir.’

Richard’s eyes were glowing. He really believed that John would take his place in the procession. Such youthful hope that I had not the heart to destroy.

I only pray your father is here at all.

I could not say it, but held Richard’s hand tightly. His father might be a foresworn traitor before the end of the day if he did not see fit to fill his vacant seat.

A man walking alone. At first I could not see but then because of his burden I knew. It was Sir Thomas Erpingham carrying a great jewelled sword. The Lancaster Sword, Henry’s new sword of state. The one Henry had carried at Ravenspur in the campaign that brought him to victory. A sign of power.

Who next? My knees were weak, my breath shallow. I was hoping against hope.

‘Please God …’ I murmured.

But here was Henry. So John had not proclaimed his allegiance after all.

I gripped Richard’s hand in a death grip, forcing myself to concentrate on the sight of my brother walking slowly forward, the Italianate armour replaced today by dramtic damask in blue and white, Lancaster colours. A calm, an assurance, a determination that his ambition would be thwarted by no man, was imprinted on the old paving by each careful step. How proud Mary would have been. And Philippa should have been here to see this moment when Henry placed the House of Lancaster upon the throne of England.

An intense loneliness struck home. Henry walked alone. So might I.

Henry took his place in the seat reserved for him as Duke of Lancaster. But not in humility. I knew that. And as he sat, he raised his eyes to mine. No smile but an infinitesimal nod. He had taken back his own. He had had his revenge for the campaign against my father. He was returned, and now the whole Plantagenet inheritance was at his feet for his taking. I could imagine my father’s pride that what had been so mindlessly stripped away was now restored. But as I saw Henry’s eye traverse the assembled lords, saw him note the empty seats, my joy crumbled, a vast expanse of fear swelling in my chest until it had taken over the whole space.

John was not here. His absence had been noted. Henry’s enmity would be assured.

Richard nudged me again. There were footsteps. The procession had not quite come to an end. I could no longer look.

‘Look …!’

And to stop him assaulting my ribs again, I did.

I sighed, deep and long, sweat clammy along my spine in spite of the chill in this place, for there in solemn formation, abreast so that they filled the space between the seats, strode three vividly clad nobles wearing ducal coronets. I knew them all.

The Duke of Surrey, John’s nephew. The Duke of Aumale, York’s son and my own cousin. And …

The Duke of Exeter.

He had come. He had come. John was here.

‘It is Father.’

‘I know. I know.’ How I wished to shout it.

But events were continuing as a backdrop to the loud beating of my heart, the relief that was heady enough to compromise my balance. Even tears threatened. All I had hoped for had come to glorious fruition. What had finally persuaded him? I did not know, but John was here, for all to see. For Henry to see.

‘Is it the will of everyone present that Richard’s resignation be accepted?’ the newly returned Arundel Archbishop of Canterbury demanded of the lords.

I did not listen to the arguments, the charges against Richard, knowing that they would be heavy indeed. All my attention was on John, to note his response. Could he feel my stare? Did he know I was there to give him strength, the support he had thought I had withdrawn? He gave no sign. How hard for him to listen to the denunciation of his brother.

‘Is it your will?’

‘Yes.’ The lords assented.

The tension in the great chamber was wound as tight as a bow string. The throne of England was empty. Who would take it?

Henry stood.

Was Henry’s right to be King of England in Richard’s stead acceptable?

‘Yes.’

The acclamation shattered the tension.

I watched John’s lips repeating the short affirmations with the rest of them as Henry was led to the throne where he knelt, prayed and sat amidst the cloth of gold to another roar of acclamation, which was picked up in cheering in the streets and courtyards outside the palace.

I did not listen to the sermon. All I could see was Richard’s ring glinting on Henry’s finger and the rays of sun creating bars across the floor, across his tunic, and John standing at his side with the other nobles of the realm.

Henry spoke. I listened. Henry was always good with words.

I stared at John, willing him to look up. To feel my love and goodwill. I stared until his eyes lifted to mine.

I was too far away to make anything of his expression. His face was a mask, pale and still. Eyes dark with images I could not imagine. Who knew what emotion moved him as his brother was stripped of his anointed kinship. But he was there. He was there. He had made his allegiance public in the most obvious way. That was all that mattered.

I held his gaze until he looked away.

We stayed in the apartments set aside for us at Westminster, John spending time to answer Richard’s endless questions. Except for one.

‘What will happen to the King. The old King?’

‘That is in your uncle’s hands.’

‘I know. I know that, but …’

‘Enough!’ But not harshly. Reluctantly Richard took himself off to bed.

‘Are you satisfied?’ It was a question flung at me with just a hint of venom, enough to make me careful. All was still not right between us as John dropped into the high-backed chair, stretching out his legs to cross his ankles, for there was no relaxation in his posture, rather an intense weariness covering an emotion I could not read, as if he had done what he knew he must but had no pleasure in its completion. And indeed there was none, as his bitter statement made clear. ‘I condemned Richard’s actions with the rest of them. I stood with Henry at the legal acceptance of his filching of the crown. I agreed to it. God damn me for it! As he undoubtedly will.’

‘John! No …!’ So it remained as bad as that for him.

‘He had no right.’

I moved to stand before him, and for the first time since we had entered the quiet room, far away from the festivities, his gaze lifted to mine and held, because now we must face the gaping chasm between us. My heart trembled for him, for us.

‘Yes, to answer your question. I am more than satisfied,’ I said. ‘I could not ask for more. Nor can Henry. He could expect nothing more of you than you stand witness at his coronation, whatever past dregs of allegiance might remain. You have done all you can. And I thank you for it. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

All John’s energy that had carried him through the long day seemed to have drained away.

‘Thank God for that. At least something has been achieved today. The King and the King’s sister are satisfied at last.’

Again it hurt. A sharp blade against my breast. Nor could I blame him, for I had given him little peace, but this was no time for retaliation, rather a time for healing old and new wounds. And so, clumsily, it had to be said, I sank at his feet, enclosing one of his hands in mine. How cold it was. How chillingly, unnervingly unresponsive, and I knew it was a withdrawal I had to break, but was not at all certain how to go about it. Nor was I certain of any success.

‘I think that was the most courageous thing you have ever done,’ I said, and meant every word of it. ‘I could not imagine …’

‘Ha! The hardest, certainly. I listened to you.’ He smiled sharply as my brows rose. ‘I always listen, even if I don’t always act on your advice. But I saw that I must. For you, for my sons. There is no looking back, is there? Richard will never regain his throne. The future is with Henry and it is my duty to make a place for me—for us—in the new reign.’

He lifted my hand to his lips, a small gesture of reconciliation. Small but worth a golden crown to me. The shard of ice in my heart began to melt a little, and the fear began to dissipate. ‘The question is, what will Henry do with Richard?’

‘Is he still at Pontefract?’

‘Yes. Out of sight, out of mind.’

I did not tell him of his heir Richard’s considered opinion, which matched his own exactly. Instead: ‘It will work itself out. Henry says he will allow Richard to retire to a castle of his choice. It is what Richard wants. I do not think Henry is planning bloody revenge.’

‘Then he would be a fool. And Henry is not a fool. You know as well as I that to leave Richard alive would be to leave a constant danger in the realm.’

‘But he would not …’

‘And then, the next question, which I defy you to discover a trite answer for, is what will he do with me?’

Another twist of the knife. ‘Why should he do anything? You have taken the oath.’

‘Because there are those of us who still have to answer for our past loyalties to Richard. To our role in the death of Gloucester. Arundel too. I think Henry will not be the man to let this go unpunished. I doubt he will let me go scot free.’

‘You were not in Calais when Gloucester was killed.’

‘But I was with Richard at Pleshey when Gloucester was arrested. I was with him when Arundel was taken. Will Henry turn a blind eye?’

I thought as I sat. ‘Perhaps not, but you are too valuable to be cast aside. Henry sees that. He must see that.’

‘Pray God you are right.’ At last there was a lessening of tension in the line between his dark brows. ‘And I think we have talked enough.’

I smoothed his hand. ‘Thank you.’ I kissed it.

‘For what?’

‘For not destroying what we have.’

His reply was a jolt to my senses. ‘What do we have, Elizabeth?’

Struggling to overcome this rank cynicism, I knew that I had to build anew. ‘A love that will overcome all things,’ I urged. ‘A new life to celebrate.’ I placed his palm on my belly. ‘Soon.’

For a long moment he studied me. ‘Do you believe that?’

‘Of course. Do you doubt me? My love for you?’

‘I have thought that the present conflicts have drawn our love thin, like morning mist. With a hole in it that an army could be driven through.’

‘Forgive me if I have been thoughtless, careless.’

‘You have.’

‘I would never put Henry before you in my heart.’ A long moment. So long that I felt my limbs begin to tremble. ‘Do you not trust me?’

And at last John leaned forward, cradling my cheeks in his hands, and kissed me gently, so gently on my mouth.

‘Of course I trust you. Pray God Henry allows us to live in peace to enjoy it.’

We went to his bed where his lips were soft, his hands so fine on my body that my tears flowed when he folded back the linens with such careful precision, when he turned his attention to clasps and laces, then to his own clothing. Here at last were compassion and understanding. Whereas in those lonely weeks I thought that my heart and body had been carved from marble, he kissed me and held me until I became flesh again.

‘It has been a long trial for you and a longer waiting. Rest with me until your strength returns. Let me comfort you,’ he said against my loosened hair. ‘Let me give you solace and hope.’

I rested. And when I could command my breathing once more, and his kisses became a demand rather than a gentling, I allowed myself to be seduced from the hard reality of brutal loyalties to the softness of pure physical pleasure, discovering a return of the old depth of feeling in him, and an answering response in me that I had dreaded might be damaged for ever. No endearments, no poetry, no promises for the future—how could there be? —only a lightness of touch that allowed me to forget for a little while. And so, I believed, did he. My sheets were no longer cold. We enjoyed our reunion, even if John had to stretch his arms to enfold me, before we lay quietly together, not speaking, merely glad that the rifts in our life together appeared to be healed,

All would be well. All would be well. I would strive every minute of every day to make it so. The old tapestry had changed, had been reworked. The stitches were still new, but they would settle into the old weaving until the patching could not be detected. But it was not the old tapestry. It would never be the same.

We were resolved it seemed. A line drawn beneath the terrible events of the past.

But I knew in my heart that I would never see my cousin Richard again.

The next morning John was up betimes. He had, I knew, been awake for some hours, thinking thoughts that I had done nothing to disturb. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, I decided. There was nothing more that we could say to each other, and weariness had overcome me at last.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked drowsily as he donned garments suitable for a day’s travel.

‘Never mind. Get dressed and come down to the courtyard. And don’t dally. Put on sensible shoes and a travelling cloak.’

I did as I was bid, too low in energy and spirits to argue. I heard the noise first. The clamour of children’s voices. And there they all were, the whole Holland brood awaiting me. I surveyed my family, the weariness draining away. Richard was already mounted, as was Constance, now eleven and inheriting all my restlessness as she vied with her elder brother at every opportunity. Elizabeth at ten and Alice at seven were ensconced with their nurses in one of the travelling litters. John was in the act of scooping up his namesake and placing him there too.

I smiled.

For there was a separate palanquin, sumptuously curtained, heaped high with cushions, all for me.

‘I thought you might appreciate some privacy,’ John remarked, coming to take my arm.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Dartington.’

‘Dartington …!’ Did I need so long a journey into the west?

‘You look tired.’

‘And I won’t be tired travelling?’

Without comment he led me to my transport, before taking hold of my shoulders and speaking severely as if he thought I might still resist.

‘You have had enough. Too much, in fact, of your family pulling you apart. It has to end. Henry can fend for himself, and we need time away from court. You have this new child to consider. We are together, and we are going home.’

It all but reduced me to a bout of weak tears.

‘Do you agree?’

‘Yes.’ And then: ‘What about Richard?’

‘We can do nothing for Richard, so what point worrying endlessly? We will go to Dartington and live there in peace for a little time and make it a home for the future.’

I managed a watery smile and sniffed a little. ‘Until you grow weary of rural solitude and want to dabble in the political pot again.’

‘Yes. Until that happens. We will not argue about it today.’

‘But you probably will tomorrow.’

‘Probably. And if I don’t, you will.’ Wiping my tears away, his smile was tender, lingering, with all the love I remembered from the past, until the girls’ chatter broke in. ‘Get in the litter, woman. My intention is to be at Dartington before this child is born.’

He kissed me, and then again, reminding me of how few impromptu kisses there had been between us of late. I would not allow it to happen again. The future might still be clouded, but for me, and I thought for John too, it was a day of restored happiness.