The King’s Sister

Chapter Thirteen

‘Build me a new Kenilworth,’ I said to my husband in a perverse moment of homesickness.

And that is what he set out to do on the vast estate in the soft fields and wooded inclines of Devon, all glowing stone and seasoned timber, high windows letting in the light much as those in the Duke’s banqueting hall.

‘I will build you a bower of roses too,’ he promised, in romantic mood.

‘I doubt you’ll be there to sit in it with me.’

In unity we might be, a seamless calm of love restored to us, but neither of us was of a mind to sit in a rose bower. Did we expect to live in a mood of everlasting happiness and contentment?

Yet why should we not? John directed his energies to the building of Dartington, into long discussions with the vast array of craftsmen needed to create a house for a great magnate while I gave birth to a large, placid child, a son, whom we named Edward after my grandfather. The child watched the dust motes dance in the sunshine above his cradle, snatching at them with tiny fists. Did he know of the period of rebellion and upheaval that accompanied his growth my womb?

‘He looks as if nothing will disturb him,’ John observed as Edward slept under the eye of one of his nurses. ‘Pray God nothing will.’

His prayers were not to be answered, since Henry had decided to repay John’s difficult loyalties by imprisoning him at Hertford and then bringing him to trial with the rest of the lords whose past leanings—in effect their support for Richard—gave my brother cause for concern. Had John’s ultimate defection from Richard not been enough? No, it had not.

‘Do you have to do this?’ I demanded of my brother, young and malleable no longer, when I abandoned children and domestic life and rode hot foot to abrade him at Westminster.

‘Yes.’

‘John forsook his brother to support you.’

‘I’ll not dispute it, but it’s time to make an example of those who turned a blind eye to Richard’s misuse of power. Which means Exeter’s involvement puts him at the top of my list.’

I knew he meant the death of our uncle of Gloucester.

‘An example?’ As so often in those days my blood trickled icily.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t kill him.’

‘Well that’s a relief to know!’

‘All I mean to do is show my magnates that loyalty to me would be their best policy.’

It all left a bitter, lingering, taste in the mouth and John was quick to spit it out.

‘What more does he want?’ John snarled as, ultimately released without physical harm, he rode fast to Dartington—as far from London as he could get, he growled—where he stood in the middle of our new courtyard and dragged in a breath of free air. ‘I stood there with the rest of the sycophantic minions, through the whole of his damnably long-winded coronation. I took the oath. I perjured myself, after taking the damned self-same oath to Richard. I try not to think about my brother, still locked away in God knows what conditions in Pontefract. I have proved myself the perfect, loyal subject. Does that warrant my imprisonment?’

‘Henry thought it did. Are you going to come in or will you continue to shout your ills to the whole world?’

He had not yet moved past the new door lintel.

‘Ha!’ John’s glance was speculative, his mood still sour. ‘And what about you, my dearest wife? Were you worried for my safety?’

‘Yes. Henry promised he would not kill you.’

‘You went to see him to plead my cause?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. I left you to Henry’s tender mercies! Why would a wife plead her husband’s case?’ Tucking my hand in his arm, taking his gloves and hood to cast on a chest beside the door and setting myself to unpick the edges of John’s understandable disgruntlement, I drew him into one of the new rooms, where he would find warmth and wine and comfort. He looked sharply worn with weariness and irritation. ‘Be thankful he didn’t lock you in a dungeon in the Tower and forget about you.’

‘I’m thankful for nothing,’ he replied, although he had the grace to smile a little, a wash of colour on his cheekbones, as he allowed me to lead him in. ‘Your brother has taken the shears to my titles and estates fast enough. Did he learn that little trick from Richard? Your son will not be Duke of Exeter, lady. I’ll be lucky to hold onto Huntingdon for him. And what income we’ll have … your brother has confiscated the Duchy of Cornwall.’

‘I’ll speak to Henry,’ I offered, without much hope.

‘And beg for me again? You will not!’

‘Then I will not.’

After all we had salvaged, I could see our relationship falling into pieces again in front of me. Yesterday I had been awash with fearful desolation, not knowing when I would see John again. Today I was full to the brim with relief that John was free and returned to my governance, yet attacked with a whole new set of anxieties. He had not even kissed me in greeting. Not even touched me, although he had not resisted when I took the initiative. So although it was in my mind to set off for London, to rage against Henry once more, I pushed John to sit and poured him wine, shooing a curious Elizabeth from the room.

‘I don’t think that Henry will punish you more.’

John refused the wine. ‘How would you know what is in his head?’

‘I hope I do. I always did. He’s afraid that there will be a rising against him unless he shows a firm hand. So those who were close to Richard have to be held up as an example of what happens to a man who makes the wrong choice.’

‘Do you support him in this?’ His regard was not amenable. ‘I should have expected it.’

Looking down at where he slouched in his chair, all I could do was sigh.

‘All I’m saying is that Henry fears that if he does not watch his back …’

‘He has a right to fear it.’

Such a small comment, so seemingly inconsequential, spoken without heat. But uttered by a man grey-faced and eyes red-rimmed from long days of travel, it smote at my understanding. I stared at him. He looked back at me, eyes bleak and cold.

‘John! You wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t what?’

‘I don’t know! Take up arms against Henry. Engage in a conspiracy …’

‘Why wouldn’t I? What have I to lose?’

‘Your head, for one.’

‘Would you care?’

Never had I known him so blighting, his words so unsparing of my sympathies. Not even in the days before Henry’s coronation. And as I took in the lines that marked his mouth and brow, I faced a sudden insight of impending disaster. I was once more tossed back into the morass of fear.

‘How can you say that?’ My tone as bleak as his. ‘You know I love you. I have always loved you and always will.’

Still his trenchant gaze held mine. ‘When Richard was arrested, the crown stripped from him, you rejoiced.’

‘I rejoiced that he no longer had the power to cause harm. Because he had hounded my brother and father, robbing Henry of what was rightfully his in the Lancaster inheritance. He had been instrumental in the murder of my uncle Gloucester. Yes, I rejoiced.’

‘When Richard was incarcerated in Pontefract, you were quick enough to sing your brother’s praises.’

‘Henry deserved it.’

‘When Henry was crowned you glowed with satisfaction.’ The accusations came thick and fast, his voice gaining power. So did mine.

‘Why should I not? Henry had every right.’

I felt as if I were on trial, but I would not retreat. I had done all those things, rejoicing that a mishandling of justice had been put right, even when I knew the hurt that John must feel.

‘When Henry has Richard done to death by some foul means, as I’ve no doubt he will at some opportune moment, will you celebrate then?’

Which effectively silenced me. Not just his words but the vicious emotion that had come to inhabit our new home as accusation followed counter accusation.

‘No. No, John. He would not. Nor would I rejoice.’

But I was not so sure. John was half-right in his charges against me, and it stung.

John sighed, some of the anger dissipating, to be replaced by what I could only think of as despair. ‘I think he might very well. As do you, if you’ll be honest with yourself. If he’s feeling vulnerable, he’ll rid himself of any rival. And that means Richard, with or without the crown.’ And then the despair thickened, his face becoming raw with emotion. ‘He is my brother, Elizabeth. You have faith in yours, God help you. How can I not feel it a mortal sin to betray mine? I betrayed Richard because I could not tolerate his lack of judgement, his poor government. It had become impossible to support a man who showed such cowardice in his flight from battle. I made the choice, but it tears at my heart, Elizabeth. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. But I can’t mediate between the pair of you for ever.’ I had a sudden vision of myself, old and grey, still trying to keep the peace between two recalcitrant men whose grey hair should have brought them wisdom, and hadn’t. ‘Don’t you see? It destroys me too.’ And in a final plea: ‘I cannot bear that we are once again cast into this cauldron of distrust.’

‘Of course I see.’ And at last he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you take no notice of the diatribe of the past ten minutes. I am weary.’

I knelt at his feet.

‘I have been afraid for you.’

‘I know. I don’t doubt you, Elizabeth. I never will.’

But sometimes I doubted myself, my own capacity to love this difficult man, and yet I could not imagine my life without him. A familiar emotion stirred within my breast, heating my blood.

‘You haven’t kissed me yet.’

‘Then I must remedy so great an omission.’

He pulled me forward to kiss me, with all the old possession, yet even in the heat of his kiss, I sensed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Are we at one?’ I asked, when I could.

‘I think so.’ A remnant of his grin. ‘As your husband should I not be able to command your fidelity?’

‘You do. Would I betray you?’

‘No. Not willingly. Not knowingly.’

We sat in silence for some time, hands clasped, as the sun moved round and filled the room with a blessing that unlocked all the tensions. Until I looked up and saw the cause of his stillness.

‘You are sleeping,’ I murmured. The carved leaves in the wood behind his head might not be the most comfortable, but his eyes were closed, his breathing even, the lines of strain fading.

‘Forgive me,’ he stirred. ‘Hertford was damned cold. I think Henry hoped to freeze me into submission.’

‘I thought you were intending to be submissive.’

‘So I am.’

But I did not believe him as we stood, his arms banding fast around me.

‘What do we do for the Christmas festivities?’ I asked.

John groaned against my throat where his lips were pressing a row of increasingly urgent kisses.

‘Henry and the children will be at Windsor,’ I continued. ‘Do we join them? It will look too particular if we don’t. I think we should go.’

‘What else?’ It was not quite a sneer. ‘We’ll celebrate and put on a good face between the dancing and the tournament. Perhaps someone will have the good fortune to run our sanctimonious King through his gut with a lance.’

I did not like the image but I kept the moment light. ‘But not you.’

‘No. Not me. Now come and reintroduce me to my newest son.’

‘He has lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows.’

And John laughed. Arm in arm, we were reconciled. The love we shared remained strong, if not untouched. Did I ever regret the life-changing step I took when I rejected the tranquillity of the Pembroke marriage for the upheavals of my life with John Holland? No. He was still the one true love of my life, the solid foundation of all my happiness. And beneath the strains of family rivalries, I knew I was his. He would always be driven, always ambitious, but I had known that from the start, had I not? Perhaps I truly saw it now for the first time. But I was older and wiser and, with good fortune, would keep his ambitions from destroying us. Did love make a woman less selfish? Perhaps it did.

I must be circumspect, treading carefully, to keep the peace. Not impossible as the reign settled and loyalties were no longer questioned at every step. Perhaps the New Year festivities would help to calm the family storms.

‘Well, here we are. About to step into the lion’s den. Let’s hope the lion is asleep.’

John leaned from his saddle to draw back the curtain of the travelling litter that had kept the younger children contained, as it had when we left London before the birth of Edward. We were at Windsor.

‘Will we see lions?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Not here,’ John said, then to me: ‘Is King Edward’s lion still alive?’

Taking a firm grip on Alice, I shook my head and led the long walk from the lower ward to the royal apartments.

‘But a King will need a lion to protect him from his enemies,’ I heard Elizabeth announce.

‘Your Uncle does not need an lion. He has your mother to roar for him,’ my caustic husband replied, but there was laughter in his voice and I smiled. It was an image that pleased me, and John’s mood augured well for the occasion.

We had travelled from Dartington to Windsor, the children excited and John making a good face of it as we settled into our accommodations. For me, in spite of all assurances to the contrary, a strange hovering uncertainty invested the rooms, thick as a miasma over a noxious marsh, however much they might be festooned and tricked out for the masques and merriment that Henry had planned.

Henry, trying hard, was warm and welcoming.

‘Elizabeth. Huntingdon.’ Clasped hands. A fleeting kiss on the cheek. A sup of warm ale and a cushioned settle after days over rutted roads. All was as it should be, and Henry’s greeting was the perfection of a welcoming and generous host. ‘It’s good to have you here. It is a time for family to rejoice and celebrate. We have much to celebrate. It’s time to put the past behind us.’

How benign. I preferred Henry when he was boisterous. It had been many years since I could read his enthusiasms, his expressions. The smiling lines on his face might have been engraved with a knife.

‘Of course we would come,’ I said, returning his embrace.

‘I could not refuse your invitation, sire’ John added, careful of ceremony. ‘An invitation to a royal property is a rare and fine thing.’

He had not been invited to Hertford. That had been a compulsion under guard. I nudged John as Henry turned his head. I could sense that John seethed behind the benign exterior, but he shrugged and, as he had promised me, set himself to play the role of loyal brother to the newly crowned King.

‘I have had a lifetime of experience,’ he had observed dryly. ‘I will do it to perfection.’

Pray God he meant it.

We hunted and hawked, enjoyed the mummers and minstrels, the games of the young people. The name of Richard was not mentioned, and although his absence hovered over us, I relaxed into the family traditions of the past. It was so easy to slide into the court life that I knew, all gossip and ostentation and unthreatening friendship.

We had been there barely a week, celebrating early Mass in the great chapel of St George as the family did, our children in a row, fidgeting under my eye and that of their nursemaids. Until Charlotte, sharp-eyed as ever, leaned across brother John:

‘Where is Father going?’ she whispered during the priestly preparations.

‘Your father isn’t going anywhere. He has promised to take you hawking along the river since the ice is too thin for skating.’

‘He is,’ Richard, on my other side, said. ‘He ordered his horse to be ready. He wouldn’t take me with him.’

I considered. ‘Perhaps it’s an errand for the King.’

And perhaps it was not. I turned my head, but John was nowhere to be seen. Where was he going, at this moment, when a Mass was to be held in commemoration, for the quiet rest of Mary’s soul and that of her ill-fated first born child.

‘Is he still here, Richard? In the Castle?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes.’ This was Elizabeth. Did all my children listen to adult conversations? ‘Father said he had to …’

I hushed her as heads were turned in our direction. ‘Stay here,’ I ordered. And I left with a genuflection. What an excellent time to choose for some purpose I could not define. Had he intended to tell me? I thought not.

I found him in the stables, already shrouded against the winter cold in felt chaperon, a fur-lined cloak, however unfashionable it might be, and heavy gloves, one foot in the stirrup. There was a squire, a page, but no escort.

‘John!’

He abandoned his reins to his page and approached, his hands held out to take mine, quick repentance in his face. ‘Forgive me, Elizabeth.’

‘I’m uncertain what I have to forgive you for as yet. Where are you going?’

‘London.’

‘Why?’

He pulled me out of the path of his squire who was leading a spritely animal from stable to courtyard. At the same time, I could only note, he manoeuvred me to where we could not be overheard.

‘Why are you going to London,’ I repeated. ‘When you should be with me, kneeling with everyone else to give thanks for God’s blessing on our King and his family?’

For a split second he looked away, his brows meeting heavily, but any discomfort was momentary, for within a breath he was planting a kiss on my lips and rubbing my cheek with the back of his glove.

‘A matter of business. I doubt I’ll be missed.’

‘I think you might be.’ And then: ‘Is it legitimate business?’

His smile was quick and assured, before becoming a grimace of disgust. ‘Of course. Did you not know? Your royal brother, my love, since he has stripped us of the duchy of Cornwall lands, has made a gift of them to his eldest son. I need to see my man of law. There are legal matters to attend to before the transfer to Prince Henry. Not something I appreciate, but a necessity.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I could understand John’s irritation. Yet my suspicions were still lively, my fingers curled like claws into the fullness of the fur edging of his cloak. ‘I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘You are taking no escort.’

‘There’s no need for concern. I’ll be back within two days. Now return to the Mass and pray for me. And our children.’ He all but pushed me through the stable door.

‘And for the King?’ I asked dryly.

John kissed me, firm enough to shut me up, but fleeting. ‘Certainly for the King. What could harm him now that he wears the Crown and we are all loyal subjects?’

‘John …’

He shook his head, mounted with habitual fluid grace, and rode out, leaving me to disbelieve every word he had uttered.

But true to his word, John was back in our midst within the two days. Eyes bright, face flushed with cold, he strode into the chamber where we were gathered to enjoy an afternoon with chess and frivolous gambling, lifted me off my feet and kissed me. There was a rustle of laughter around us.

‘Did you miss me, Countess?’

‘Not at all. Too much going on here to miss someone so unnecessary as a husband.’

Henry strolled across towards us.

‘It must have been important business.’

‘It was. The little matter of my erstwhile Cornish estates.’ John’s reply was brittle but at least brief. ‘And now I must make my apologies to my wife, who is still scowling at me for abandoning her to all this indulgence.’

I laughed, suspicions momentarily allayed by the light mood. ‘It’s good to see you back, my lord.’

He took my hand. ‘Come and tell me what you have been doing.’

He led me from the room, indulgent comments following us. Yes, I had missed him. His return filled me with hot desire, but I was troubled by that air of shimmering excitement about him. A nervous energy. Whatever the legitimate business, it had stirred his blood, which had excellent repercussions, for he restored the intimacy between us with verve and drama, reminding me of the early days when we still had much to discover about the passion that held us. John kissed and caressed me into insensibility, and as all my fears were swept away, I reciprocated in kind.

‘I must leave you more often,’ he groaned when I had destroyed all his self-control with a crow of delight.

‘Don’t you dare!’

I proceeded to relight all the fires anew.

‘What’s Henry doing?’ he asked as, slowly, with some youthful endearments, we put our clothing to rights, John taking it upon himself to pin my hair into passable order beneath a simple veil.

‘Planning his grand tournament. He has in mind something spectacular on the lines of his grandfather’s extravaganzas.’

‘Perhaps I’ll offer my services.’

‘Which will surprise him. But please him as well, I think. Are you truly reconciled to him?’

‘Why not? He could have had my head. Many say I should be thankful it was only my dukedom. I can live with it.’

‘I’m sorry about the Cornish estates. I know you valued them.’

‘I’ll live without them. But not without you.’

It was the sweetest of reunions, touched with all the magic of the seasonal glamour. Yet it did not quite smooth out my days and I found myself watchful, wakeful, alert for any wrong step in the pattern of the festivities.

And then I saw it.

I saw it from the vantage point of the gallery when Elizabeth and Alice had given their nurses the slip. What had all the appearance of a clandestine conversation, four men tucked into a quiet corner, heads close together over a cup of wine. Standing perfectly still I looked down. John was instantly recognisable. With him was his young nephew Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent after the death of John’s brother Thomas two years ago. And there was my cousin Edward, former Duke of Aumale, demoted to Rutland, another of Richard’s friends suffering a stripping of titles and land, as both John and Thomas had. All three close associates of Richard in the past, but seeing them in intimate conversation surprised me. I had not thought there was much in common between Edward and the Hollands. Edward was a mere twenty-six years to John’s forty-seven. They had had little to say to each other when Richard was King, but here they were in some heart to heart. John was doing all the talking.

The fourth of the group was a young man with a fashionable bowl crop, over-long sleeves and chaperon, face shielded from my view, but playing a part in the deep discourse, until a group of courtiers came too close and the contact was ended, the unknown man slipping away as if on an errand. A final murmured comment, then with a laugh as if it was a trivial matter, easily abandoned for more entertaining matters, John and those remaining joined the boisterous throng raising their cups to cheer on the revellers who were reminiscing over their hunting exploits. But not before I saw a screw of paper change hands between John and my cousin Edward, to be tucked smartly into Edward’s sleeve.

All in a matter of moments. It might never have happened. But it did. It was probably entirely innocent, but there was something about their watchfulness, the speed with which they brought their exchange to an end. And, as the anonymous youth departed, my eye was caught by a glitter of silver and enamel. A livery badge, if I were not mistaken.

I made my way from the gallery to join the revellers.

‘What did my slippery cousin Rutland have to say?’ I asked my husband with grand insouciance.

‘Rutland?’

‘I saw you talking with him. And your nephew.’

John replied easily enough. He would always match me for composure, guilty or innocent, a past master at masking his thoughts. ‘Nothing of moment. Whether they will take part in Henry’s grand tournament. I wagered I would beat Rutland into the ground.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ I awarded him a smile. ‘Who was the young slave to fashion in your midst?’

‘A squire. Rutland’s. By the Rood, Elizabeth. Why is that important?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t like what I saw.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Four men in a suspicious huddle, that broke up as soon as you were no longer alone. And before you ask, I was leaning over the gallery.’

He breathed a laugh. ‘You’re imagining things.’

‘I don’t think I am. I’d say you were plotting something that must be kept secret.’ I paused, to see the mask descend on John’s features.

‘There was no secrecy.’ He was obdurate.

‘No? Then why did I think I saw—and now I am sure that I did—Richard’s livery badge of the white hart pinned to Rutland’s squire’s shoulder? Very unwise in this climate, I’d have thought.’

‘An affectation, I expect. I didn’t notice. It had no meaning, but I agree it was unwise.’

As I detected the slightest hesitation before this response my heart plummeted. The more I was drawn into this accusation and denial, the more fearful I became.

‘Why would Rutland’s squire wear …’

‘Don’t!’ John’s hand was hard around my wrist. ‘Don’t speak of it.’

‘Why not? What are you involved with?’ Our voices had fallen to a whisper. ‘I think it’s a conspiracy. I just don’t know what you’re conspiring to do.’

John surveyed the room, then drew me into the centre of it so that we were surrounded by courtiers and children and he could see if the gallery was empty of interested audience. Safety in numbers, for this was no place to discuss insurrection.

‘So I can’t hide it from you.’ Keeping his voice low, his smile was wry. ‘I didn’t think I could. You’re too clever by half, Madam Countess. So this is it.’ He must have seen a flash of fear in my eyes, for he tightened his hold. ‘There’s no cause to look aghast. It’s not as bad as you think.’ He kept a smile in place as if we talked of nothing but the delights of each other’s company. ‘We are of a mind to persuade Henry to come to terms with us.’

‘Who is of a mind?’

‘Those he put on trial for their allegiance to Richard. Those he casually stripped of land and title, even though they had forsworn Richard in the end.’ Despite all his efforts, the smile faded. ‘We hope to encourage Henry to promise restoration of land and titles and promotions. We plan to bring Henry into a …’ He paused on a little laugh. ‘Into a frank and meaningful discussion, when we meet for the tournament. He will be full of festive goodwill.’

It sounded feasible enough. ‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all. What else do we need to do? Aumale, reduced to Rutland, is as keen as I. So is Thomas who wants the dukedom of Surrey restored to him. There are others.’ Now I understood. ‘You discussed it in London.’

‘Yes. A group of us met in the Abbot’s lodging at Westminster Abbey where we could come and go without too much interest shown. We made our plans, and that is what we will do.’

‘When?’

‘The Feast of the Epiphany, when Henry’s in a magnanimous mood after the tournament. There’s nothing to fear, Elizabeth. Henry will listen and see sense. He will reassure us and we will bend the knee in recognition of his generosity. Does that put your anxieties to rest?’

‘And the squire?’

‘A courier. Faceless enough to carry information between us without rousing suspicion. Except in the mind of my wife, it seems. That’s all. It was a mistake, his wearing the white hart. I should have reprimanded him.’

John kissed my hands while I turned the thoughts over in my mind. The beat of his blood in his wrists was regular and steady. If he was disturbed by my accusations, he was hiding it well. And then a thought …

‘Would you wear the white hart still? When you ask for Henry’s goodwill, will you ask for the release of Richard as well?’

‘No,’ he replied gravely. ‘We will only ask what Henry will be prepared to concede. Are we not pragmatic? Richard’s release would be a step too far.’

Eminently reasonable. I studied his face, the well-loved features, the smile that still warmed my blood, the curve of his mouth that could reawaken all my desire.

‘Well? Surely, my love, you don’t suspect me of foul play.’

‘No. No, of course not.’ It allayed my fears, but only a little. ‘I don’t like such secrets. I don’t like the thought that Henry is under some species of threat, that I know about it and he does not,’ I said sharply.

‘He will not be harmed.’

It was enough. It would have to be, and I would keep the secret, because John asked it of me.

But it did not allay my fears to any degree. They built and built inside me until I could barely contain them beneath a façade of festive joy and unbridled merriment, such as was expected of the Countess of Huntingdon.

‘You wouldn’t,’ I challenged John again, unwilling to put into words what I feared, for how would he reply if he could see the dread images in my mind.

‘No, Elizabeth. Whatever it is you suspect I might do, I wouldn’t.’

‘It’s not that I suspect …’

‘I can see it sitting on your shoulder like a bird of ill-omen. We’re here to laugh and make merry. Let us do it.’

I could get no more out of him, and allowed him to pull me into a dance that demanded more vitality than elegance. And I laughed, enjoying the wicked light in John’s eyes as he forced me to keep step.

But the thoughts, the impressions would not release me, creeping back to take control as soon as I caught my breath.

So the plan was to force a discussion with Henry about his future behaviour towards those he had punished. It might hold the weight of logic on first glance, but with deeper reflection, what would be the point of that? Would Henry respond to such a discussion with the subjects many already considered to have been treated with unwarrantable leniency? Not the Henry I knew now. As the newly crowned, untried King of England, Henry had his muscles to flex. He would not bow the knee to his subjects in open discussion, as if they were merely deciding on the best route to take in a hunting expedition. Did John and the other lords who considered themselves to be dangerously exposed to further royal encroachment really expect to put pressure on Henry with any degree of success? I could not envisage what they actually hoped to achieve. If Henry was of a mind, he might smile and agree and promise all they wanted. Whether he would keep such a promise was more than I could guess, and the lords would have no redress if he did not.

More likely they would all end up locked in close quarters in the Tower.

My mind continued to scurry through the increasingly dark corridors. If the lords’ intentions were of so minor a plotting, why the need to go to London to do it? Why not decide and discuss over a cup of ale and a hot pasty, or during a run of the hounds? Why not simply stop Henry on his return from Mass and request a royal audience?

I could not rid myself of doubts. Well, of course I could not. The version John had given me was as full of holes as a moth-ridden tunic.

Then there was the little matter of Epiphany.

This was what was troubling me. When I asked John when this negotiation with Henry was to be, the Feast of the Epiphany, John had said. And for a moment I had thought he regretted telling me, not because I was unable to keep a secret, but because of its significance which he must have known I would espy. Was it a coincidence? I did not think so. This day, the sixth day of January, was the day of Richard’s birth. As I knew. As John knew.

A day of some significance, then.

Despite John’s denial, the lords might intend to use this auspicious day to ask Henry to deal more favourably with Richard, to release him, even if it meant sending him into exile where he would be no danger to Henry’s hold on the crown.

They might.

But Richard would always be a danger to Henry as long as he lived, whether in prison or fixed in France. As even my son had seen, Richard alive was a danger. Richard alive and at large was a danger twofold. I frowned at my abandoned embroidery, re-creating instead the little scene in the hall from my vantage spot in the Gallery. John, Thomas and Edward and the squire. The squire looking round, looking up as if some untoward noise had taken his notice.

The squire gained in significance as I imagined, again and again, the little group I had seen from the gallery, but why he should I was not altogether sure. Except that he did not even look like a squire. His bearing towards his companions had certainly not been that of a squire. I could see no reason why some nameless, faceless squire should be included in a discussion between the three great magnates. Nor was he a mere courier, a carrier of messages, but one who was engaged in the conversation. What had he to do with what they were planning?

My suspicion grew blacker and blacker, urged on by some inner intuition born of a lifetime of political intrigue. Princess Joan, I knew beyond doubt, would be calling into question the whole episode. But what was the purpose behind it all? Not a discussion, not a negotiation. It was simply not logical. So was it to be an uprising, an insurrection plotted and directed from the Abbot’s lodging at Westminster, to do more than engage in polite conversation with Henry. Would they take him prisoner? And if so, was it their plan to release Richard and reinstate him on the day of his birth?

My flesh shivered at the images in my mind, for if they took Henry prisoner, would they be content to keep him alive? And then what of his four sons? As Henry’s heirs, they might suffer the same fate.

You go too far, I abjured myself. Your imagination is too lively. What evidence have you for this?

None. None.

And yet it gnawed at me. There was more heavy truth to it than the tale John had told me, and if it were true, it placed an impossible decision at my feet. Conscience demanded that I tell my brother of my fears, however unformed they were. As sister and subject I had a care for his welfare.

But as a wife, my loyalty was to John. He was my love, my life. I had promised my silence.

Love, oh love. Betrayal was a terrible thing.

To keep my tongue between my teeth might result in Henry’s blood being spilt on the tiled floors at Windsor. To reveal the plot might equally result in death for John and the lords as perpetrators of treason.

Blessed Virgin …

Remonstration with John would have no effect. I danced and sang and flew my hawk as if there were no burden on my soul. I watched as John laughed with Henry, as he engaged in rough sports with the royal lads. As they flew their arrows at the butts or rode in mock tournaments, the younger children shrieking with joy.

How can you do this? How can you plot their deaths?

I didn’t know it. I had no evidence, only the thoughts that prowled and refused to let me be.

But the longer I thought about it, the more sure I became. Every magnate punished by Henry would be at the Epiphany tournament. All present under the guise of festivities. All outwardly well disposed to the royal court but with conspiracy in their every breath. When I could keep silent no longer, conscience all but demanded that I pull John from the next bout of practice swordplay and force him to listen to me. But what would I say to him? In my fevered mind I imagined the conversation.

‘Would you kill my brother? Would you plot his death? And the four boys you have just encouraged to beat you at the archery butts, winging your arrows astray so they can have the joy of victory against a fighter of renown?’

‘In God’s name, Elizabeth. Do you think I would be party to such a monstrous outcome?’

‘I think you would have no alternative. I think Henry would never co-operate, and so to liberate Richard, my brother’s death is exactly what you would engender.’

And in my mind John would slide into deadly revelation.

‘Then so be it. If you demand the truth, then here it is. Henry’s death has become imperative. What would you have me do? Give my silent consent to Richard’s ultimate fate at Pontefract? My conscience will not condone such an act. We will release and restore Richard. The true anointed King.’

‘But Henry is my brother!’

‘And Richard is mine.’

What to do? Betrayal of one to save the other? Was blood thicker than water? Or love stronger than family? Who to betray?

If I did neither and let events play themselves out, would that not be the simplest path for me? But it would be the coward’s path and the death of Henry would be on my soul.

John had talked of conscience. Mine refused to let me rest. It was like watching a rock teetering on the edge of a precipice above our heads. When it fell, who would be crushed?

I didn’t know know that Henry’s death would be the price of Richard’s release, but I feared it would. The highest of prices.

I sat and shivered in my chamber, mistrust for everyone and everything swelling into vast proportions, before donning a green damask robe and mask to play one of the dragons to John’s St George in Henry’s mumming play. Henry might revel in it, as did our grandfather, but throughout the drama I felt like a grinning death’s head, the one question beating at my mind as St George made mock sallies against me with a wooden sword: what do I do?

It was on the fourth day of January, two days before the Feast of the Epiphany, that the deluge hit us. Rumours rattling from wall to wall, Henry’s court was thrown into a seething mass of claim and counterclaim, while Henry was launched into a whirlwind of action. To do nothing would be to invite catastrophe. The tournament, which he had planned to mark the Feast day with such meticulous care, was a thing of the past. All festivities were abandoned, Henry collecting his sons and a heavy entourage, bristling with weapons.

I did not even try to pretend that I knew nothing of it. My worst fears were being brought home to roost like a flock of summer swallows.

And were confirmed when Henry hammered on my door.

‘You will come with us,’ Henry commanded, occupying the doorway to my chamber, armed to the teeth with sword and dagger, his upper body protected by a brigandine.

‘Why? Am I in danger?’ I did not think that I wished to accompany him.

‘Not you. It’s my blood that they seek. Do I need to ask where Huntingdon is?’

‘I don’t know.’

Nor did I. What we all knew was that at early Mass there had been a remarkable absence of faces from the ranks of courtiers at Windsor.

‘I want you where I can see you,’ Henry snarled.

‘I would not work against you, Henry.’

‘Your husband’s in the thick of it. I’ll keep you with me. Leave the children here. I’ve no quarrel with them. I don’t murder children. Get what you need to ride to London and be ready in a half hour. If you are not, I’ll come and get you.’

I did as I was told, my mind, when it could break free from galloping terror, gripped by the possible repercussions. John had left Windsor with the other recalcitrant lords to undertake whatever it was that they had planned and that John had refused to tell me. John had not said goodbye. He was gone before dawn, his squire and pages and a group of liveried men with him and his horses. So was his armour gone when I searched his room. He had gone without telling me. I did not think I could ever forgive him for that. But what could he have said that I had not already guessed?

Anguish was a cold hand on the nape of my neck. Whichever side came out of this conflict as the victor, I would be in mourning.

Better that I was in London than here at Windsor if there was any chance of my stopping what seemed to be the inevitable. When I mounted my horse as required I spoke not one word of my fears for, clearly, Henry had no thought for me or my worries. If he fell into the hands of the rebellious lords, there would be no mercy for him or his sons.

We rode. We rode through the night on some long, never-endingly circuitous route for it seemed that Henry expected an interception. If the lords hoped to waylay us, they would never track Henry’s path. For hours we rode in silence. There was nothing to say between us, until a late dawn was breaking as we came in sight of London where we were met by the Lord Mayor with the warning that the rebel lords had six thousand men in the field.

‘Led by Huntington, I presume,’ Henry commented.

The Mayor did not know, and I vouchsafed no reply. I thought he was probably right.

And then there was no time to think, for it was simply a barrage of orders, issued by Henry in a tone that no one would disobey. To close the ports. To summon his followers to raise an army. The boys to be dispatched to the Tower. And I with them.

‘She does not leave,’ he ordered the brisk escort sent with us. ‘Nor does she receive visitors. Other than that, ensure that the Countess is housed with all she requires.’ And then, as he turned his horse’s head, Henry swung back to me. ‘I’ll bring his head to you on my shield. That will save you having to make any future choices over where your loyalty might lie.’

Turning to follow my escort I made no response. What could I possibly say to him? This was Henry, my beloved brother, intent on destroyed the man he knew I loved. This was Henry driven by vicious practicality to demand John’s life. I understood why. Of course I did. Treason could never be condoned, but never had I thought that Henry would threaten me with such savage consequences.

Then you were a fool, I chided, in bitter acknowledgement. There could never be any other outcome. If Henry laid his hands on John, John would surely die and I could have no redress. My heart, my mind, my soul were full to the brim with the agony of truth.

Next morning, after a wretched night in company with the image Henry had painted for me, I was told, when I badgered the Constable of the Tower for news, that Henry had marched out of London with an army at his back to face the rebels. Where John was I had no idea.

All I could imagine was their meeting on the field of battle.

I despaired at the outcome.

Where is he? Where is John now?

The one question that leapt again and again in my mind, and for which there was no answer.

Rumour trickled through to us, none of it good. How could any of it be good for me? The rebel army, faced with Henry in person and a solid force of loyal troops intent on fighting to the death, disintegrated and fled. London remained solidly behind my brother. The revolt, the uprising, for that is what it clearly had become, was over without the spilling of one drop of blood on a battlefield.

So far so good. Henry was safe and John was not dead. The royal boys, rejoicing at the news, would live to be reunited with their father. But what I knew beyond any argument was that John would never be reunited with me. How could Henry forgive him for such blatant rebellion that had threatened to bring conflict and bloodletting to England?

It was Henry who brought the news, still in armour but without his shield or its dread burden. I let him tell the boys, allowing him to assuage their fears. I had expected elation from him, but instead there was only a cold and weary determination to stamp out any future repetition.

‘I will have peace in this land,’ he said to me.

‘I pray you will.’ I was as cold as he. ‘What of Huntingdon?’ I asked, deliberately formal.

All I got was a hitch of one shoulder.

‘Did he go to Devon? To Dartington?’ I asked.

‘We have not heard of him in Devon. There were no forces raised there against me.’

‘So he is alive. He is not your prisoner.’

In spite of everything, relief was trickling through me.

‘Not yet. But not for long.’ The weary chill was suddenly submerged in a roil of hot anger, Henry’s face flushed with it. ‘The most noble lords who dared defile my realm are running for their lives, but they’ll not get far. The squire, Richard Maudeley, who they were using to pose as Richard to rally the masses has already been taken and hanged for his sins. A clever ruse, don’t you agree? Same build, same fair skin, same hair colouring. Put him in armour with a gilded helm and who would know the difference? The good citizens of England would see their rightful King once more walking amongst them and flock to his standard against me.’

So I had been right about the squire, who had been there for a purpose and had paid for his part with his life. The revolt was over. Henry was safe. I should be rejoicing with the rest of them.

I could not.

‘Are you not at least relieved?’ Henry demanded bitterly, easily reading the ferment in my mind, in the white tension of my interlocked fingers. ‘The plan, as I now understand it, was to cut me down at Windsor in the heat of the tournament. And my four sons with me, clearing the path for Richard’s return. As bloody a plot as I could have envisaged.’

‘Yes. Of course I am relieved.’

I could manage no more now that the true savagery of John’s conspiracy had been placed before me, merely repeating his words.

‘You are hardly enthusiastic.’ He turned on his heel and marched to the door. ‘Here’s a piece of news for you. I hear that Huntingdon is in London. If he tries to make contact with you, we’ll take him and kill him. There will be no clemency, so don’t waste your breath in begging.’

If he was in London, where was he? He would never try to go to ground at Pultney House. It would be watched, far too obvious a bolt hole for a rebel with a price on his head. Nor would he come here to me at the Tower.

If John was in London, there was only one possible place to my mind where he might seek sanctuary. The Abbot’s lodging at Westminster Abbey. Henry did not know that the Jerusalem Chamber had been the conspirators’ meeting place. That is where he might take refuge. But with no hope of mercy from Henry, what was he thinking? Was he planning some escape route? Perhaps it had already been put in place, for fear the revolt would fail.

Henry being preoccupied with the stamping out of any further pockets of loyalty to Richard gave me some space. A cloak, a hood, a horse at my disposal, my authority as royal sister imposed, and unaccompanied except for a page in royal livery, I set out to cover the short distance from the Tower to the Abbot of Westminster’s lodging.

When I gestured to my page to knock on the door, it was not immediately opened. Nor at his second insistent rapping.

At last: ‘Who is it?’

I motioned to the page to reply, which he did, his voice trembling with nerves.

‘The Countess of Huntingdon. She is here to see the Earl of Huntingdon.’

The door was opened by one of the Abbey servants, anonymous in his robes, allowing me access into the abbot’s parlour, and for a moment I simply stood on the threshold and looked. Magnificent tapestries, superb linenfold panelling, an ornate fireplace welcomed me. Was this where the lords had plotted? Had all this grandeur been witness to the detailed planning that would have brought a bloody end to my brother? A plot as treacherous as it was possible for a plot to be: no well-mannered debate between Henry and his disaffected lords who feared there would be further retribution against them tucked up their King’s capacious sleeve. No frank discussion over the future of Richard, their rightful king, imprisoned in Pontefract. In this, the Jerusalem Chamber under the auspices of Westminster Abbey, they had met in secret to piece together a terrible revenge.

And now, as I had thought, it contained one of the defeated rebels, the Earl of Huntingdon, surrounded by signs of a hasty departure.

My page dispatched beyond the closed door, we stood and looked at each other. How could I ever forgive him for what he had planned? And yet the relief that he was here and unharmed was strong enough to make me light-headed. How could love and despair exist so strongly in the same heart, twisted into an unbreakable cord? He had misled me, lied to me. Yet what point in berating him, or allowing my anger free flow? It would do no good.

John’s face was expressionless, his hands filled with leaves of parchment, as I waited for him to attempt the impossible and explain.

‘Elizabeth.’ There was no welcome. His eyes glinted in the candlelight but not from pleasure at seeing me. ‘I did not expect you.’

‘I don’t suppose you did. Why did you do it?’

‘To save Richard.’

‘At Henry’s expense.’

‘It was the only way.’

Neither of us moved one step. I was not sure that I could cross the Abbot’s tiled floor towards him, nor he to me, so great was the distance between us, so deep the chasm. I could not be compassionate, and yet I understood. There was no hope for Richard now. There was only one means by which Henry could rid himself of this dangerous man who would always be a focus for rebellion. John knew it too as he stood, the documents still in his hand. I could see it in the tightening of his mouth into a thin line.

‘Our failure has signed Richard’s death warrant.’

‘Yes.’

‘And mine too, I don’t doubt.’

‘Yes, if you are caught.’ What point in deception? We knew it to be so.

‘Are all our forces defeated?’

‘Yes.’

‘We misjudged Henry’s speed in collecting an army. And London’s loyalty.’

‘They don’t want war.’

‘And were promised reparation if they fought for Henry. We had nothing to offer them. It was a risk, and we failed.’

Even now he was well-informed. And how incongruous, the stark observations of our conversation, set against the luxurious furnishings of our surroundings. How could one be so bleak, the other so sumptuous? But the furnishings were of nothing compared with our words, which sounded a death knell to our love.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘I have passage on a ship. To take me to France.’ He began to stuff the pages into a saddlebag.

‘Would you have told me?’

‘No.’ He raised his head to meet my gaze. ‘I imagine you despise me.’

‘You would have killed my brother.’ I slid around the question he had asked. ‘You always meant to.’

‘Yes.’

And I discovered that tears were running down my cheeks.

‘Why are you weeping?’

I could not say. I did not know, except that my life was falling apart and the light in it extinguished.

‘I go within the hour to catch the tide.’

‘The weather is bad with high winds.’ How could I be so practical when he was leaving me, when my reason for living was like a battlefield of devastation?

‘I can’t stay in London.’ The silence drew out. ‘Can you forgive me?’

‘I don’t know.’

He held out his hand but I did not move. When I could not step across the dark pit he had created, John allowed his arm to fall to his side.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ I whispered. But I could not let it go, because I needed to understand. ‘You gave your allegiance to Henry when he took the crown. Would it have been so hard to continue to be his man? What was so very different? I know your loyalties to Richard, but you had accepted that his rule was damaged, that he was no longer fit occupy the throne. That Henry would make a better King. You could have stood at Henry’s side, as his adviser, his well-loved counsellor. What had changed for you?’

‘Different? Changed?’ Eyes opening wide, a glint of light, John considered the sumptuous surroundings with scorn. ‘There was no difference. Yet everything suddenly changed for me. It would have been the simplest of matters to let events take their course. To let Richard go to his incarceration and death—’

‘You have no evidence of that!’ I broke in.

‘—for I see nothing less than death for him,’ John continued as if I had never spoken. ‘I could have worked for a return of my titles and lands from a grateful Henry, and taken a stance on the side of power and military might. How painless it would have been to accept office under the banner of Lancaster, mimicking the affection of a close-knit family.’ The sneer took me aback. ‘I thought I could do it. And then I could not. My little sojourn in Hertford as Henry’s prisoner made me aware of my vulnerability, and of my true allegiance. And if I was vulnerable, how weak is Richard? It was not right, Elizabeth. I could no longer pretend that it was.’

In spite of the anguish that was building—for was this not indeed farewell between us? —I forced my mind into the paths that John’s was taking:

‘But was Richard right in his judgements? Was he a better man than Henry? If you had murdered Henry and released Richard, would your brother have ruled England with fairer justice than my brother? There is no evidence of it. Rather of the contrary, I’d say.’

He sighed. ‘Probably not, but Richard is King by true inheritance. Where will we be if might is allowed to have its day? Do we accept that a king be usurped by a powerful man with an army at his back, simply because he is the stronger?’

‘Not any man,’ I urged. ‘Henry has enough royal blood and more to make him eligible. He is our grandfather’s heir by royal entail and male descent. It is his right to be King.’

‘And there are many who would question that right!’ Frustration gave fuel to John’s arm as he flung the packed saddlebag to the floor. ‘The whole Mortimer faction will be crying foul on Henry’s claim.’

Which I knew. Descended from my dead uncle Lionel, second son to my grandfather, the Mortimers had a sound claim, except that it ran through a female line which old King Edward had overstepped in his entail.

‘And you know full well,’ John was continuing, ‘that Richard chose the line of your uncle of York to succeed him.’

‘Of course I know. With Cousin Edward smirking with regal pretension.’ Still I would argue Henry’s cause. This was no time to be distracted by Edward of Aumale’s posturing. ‘Henry’s claim has the force of law behind him. He has the right to rule through our mother’s blood too, from Henry the Third. It is a claim that is hard to resist.’

‘It’s hard to resist because Henry has men who’ll fight for him in their own interests! But does that make it legal?’

‘Yes. To me it is entirely legal.’

As John, furiously, marched to the end of the Jerusalem Chamber to collect his outer garments, animadverting bitterly on the cunning words of lawyers, I scooped up the saddlebag and waited for him to return to me. Which he did in the end, to stand foursquare before me.

‘I know there is no bending you,’ he said. ‘But let me speak to you.’ And at last, anger draining away, I saw grief and regret in the flat planes of his beloved face. ‘This is the last time we might see each other. If the fates smile on me, and bring me safe to a foreign shore, will you come to me? Or will spending the rest of your life with me be more than you can bear? If I have indeed destroyed your love for me, then I must accept that we will never meet again.’

Against my will, the beat of my heart quickened. Still at this eleventh hour, he was offering me a choice.

‘You never make life easy for me, do you?’ I said

‘No. We never thought it would be.’

‘Would you want me with you?’

‘Yes. You are the heart of my heart. That will never change.’

I loved him so much. In spite of everything, I loved him. I suspected I always would. But would I willingly go with him into exile? Would I leave my children and follow John into an uncertain existence in France? An exile that might never be rescinded? The alternative, the terrible alternative, was never to see him again.

Could I refuse him—and myself—that final vestige of hope of living together?

Reality rushed through my mind to cool my heated thoughts and show me what it would mean. He would never again be there at my awakening, or in the final hour of my day. Never would we ride together through pasture and woods, a hawk on his fist, the hawk no fiercer than he. Never would I see the golden lions of his banner in a tournament heralding his incomparable dexterity of hand and eye. Never again would I know the brush of his fingers against my wrist to set my blood pounding into desire. Never would he shower me with opinion, inviting my response as if I were an equal, not a woman to be kept in the background.

John smiled a little at my silent presence as if he could read my thoughts. And I was stabbed with love and desire that heated me all over again. Remaining apart from him was no alternative at all. My decision was made, chasm or no chasm.

‘If you can get word to me, I will come to you,’ I said.

‘It will mean being an exile.’

‘Then I will live in exile with you.’

In spite of everything, I could not let him go.

‘You don’t have to decide now. Wait until I can send for you.’ His lips twisted into a smile that was barely a smile. ‘Will you allow me to kiss you in farewell?’

I stepped across the abyss and there I was, enfolded in his arms as I had been so often in the past.

‘It was wrong and the outcome is dire, but I would do it again tomorrow,’ he said.

Honesty was what I expected from him. That appalling honesty.

‘I know. I can’t condone it or excuse it, but I do understand. Keep safe, my dearest love.’ I would not weep again. He did not need my tears. ‘You must go.’

I offered my lips and he took them, his hands cradling my face with so much love and understanding that for a moment I could believe that the hot breath of treachery was a fantasy, but when he released me, it was to confront a cruel parting, the need to be gone stark in John’s face.

‘I will love you for ever,’ he promised, brushing a wayward curl of hair from my temple in a final gesture.

‘As I will love you.’

‘I will never forget you as you are at this moment.’ His fingers rested against my cheek, my lips, my brows, as if he must retain the image of them for a time of drought.

‘Nor I you.’

‘God keep you, my dear love.’

‘And you. I will keep you in my thoughts.’

Such a simple confirmation of what we had been to each other, before he left me there, striding off through the environs of Westminster towards the Thames. I could have gone with him to the waterside, but better that I leave him without any further chains around his neck. What would I have done, stood on the riverside and waved to him in farewell?

Before he left, I give him a purse of coin. All I had.

‘Go! Be safe!’ Guilt colouring my words so that he must surely understand, but with a courtly little bow he left me.

Holy Virgin, keep him safe. Holy Virgin, give me the strength to withstand our parting.

‘Who?’ the guard barked, holding up a lantern.

‘Elizabeth of Lancaster,’ my page replied soft-voiced but still arrogant on my behalf. ‘Allow her to enter.’

There was no hesitation.

So I returned to the Tower, no longer surprised how a few coins and being sister to the King could open doors. My face, my status, were well-known. In present circumstances, uncertain of its reception, I took care not to breathe the name of Huntingdon.

Once more within, my page dismissed, I leaned back against my door and allowed the full horror to wash over me, my love for John battered by my knowledge of what he had done. What he could envisage as just revenge for what many saw as remarkable leniency. What was the loss of a title weighed against the death of the male house of Lancaster?

But could I condone Henry’s killing of Richard? Any childhood affection for Richard had long faded but he was still of my blood, and Henry’s too.

But he will not.

I thought he would. I kept out of Henry’s path, not difficult since he was still occupied with the final bloody consequences of the Revolt of the Earls.

Keeping close in my rooms I prayed that the Blessed Virgin would bring John to sanctuary. That he would make landfall somewhere in France, and that one day I might be united with him. For in spite of all, my love for him had bonds of steel. Yet even as I offered up prayer after prayer, outside my windows storms raged, dashing my hopes that he would reach safety. More like his ship would founder and he would be dashed to death on the rocks or dragged down beneath the indifferent waves.

I would never hear from him again and I would never know his fate.

My knees were sore as my fingers clicked over the beads of my rosary, repeating petition after petition, not least for peace within my own soul that I knew I did not deserve, until at last, in hopeless despair, I sank back to my heels.

‘I can pray no more.’

All I could do was wait. Knowing my children to be safe at Windsor, I determined to stay in London until I knew, for better or worse. I kept to my chambers, the only thought in my heart being that to hear no news was not all bad. The storm winds had abated, bringing a strange calm. John might even now be secure and at liberty in some French port.