The King’s Sister

Chapter Fourteen

Three days after I had said my farewell to John, there was a fist driven against my door and a royal official was admitted.

‘My lord the King requests that you attend him in the audience chamber.’

Since the official avoided my eye, anxiety destroyed my hard won calm. For Henry to make this an official meeting—and I could imagine his advisers flanking him as he delivered the news—I could only imagine what it would be. The official did not appreciate my hesitation.

‘My lord the King is hard pressed and would see you now, my lady.’

I would not be hurried. ‘Tell the King I will attend on him shortly.’

‘But my lord the King is …’

‘Tell the King I will present myself in his audience chamber as soon as I am fit to be received into his presence.’

‘It is momentous news, my lady.’

‘It may be momentous, but five minutes more will make no difference.’

I needed time. To dress carefully, to plait and cover my hair. To compose my features. To order my senses. I would not fall and weep at Henry’s feet, whatever the provocation. Nor would I show him any signs of neglect from my days of prayer and sleepless nights. I would attend this summons with all the pride of a daughter of Lancaster. It was, I decided as I chose a jewelled caul, all I had left. And if John was alive so that I could bargain with Henry for his life, I would do it from a position of well-groomed dignity.

You know what he has to tell you.

I could imagine Henry’s sense of accomplishment as I placed a Lancaster livery collar on my shoulders, even if his victory was at the behest of the tides and an alien coast.

John is dead.

And thus I went about my preparations with an iron-like will, governing every sense, every emotion, my face as smooth and bland as new whey.

John was assuredly dead, his body brought ashore by the wind and tides, and Henry would be in celebratory mood. I was sunk in the blackest of desolation, but no one would read it in my face.

Henry was not smiling. Perhaps it was out of some residue of compassion for me, but I could no longer think along those lines. Acknowledging that we had drawn too far apart for compassion, I curtsied deeply, noting the counsellors that stood with him, those who had made the politic choice and abandoned Richard to his fate. I knew them all, but this was between me and my brother.

‘You wished to see me, my lord.’

My announcement was as bleak as a winter morn, but no bleaker than his.

‘I have news of Huntingdon.’

I waited for the blow to strike.

‘He was driven ashore. Onto the Essex coast.’

‘And he is dead,’ I said, my lips stiff so that forming the words was difficult. ‘Is his body found?’

‘Oh, yes, Elizabeth. He is found. Huntingdon is very much alive and well.’

My heart leapt with such force, the relief so great that I could barely contain it. All I could do was offer a silent thanks to the compassionate Virgin. Until reality struck with the sinister truth contained in the news. I looked up at Henry, where he stood above me on the dais, all my fears coalescing into one solid mass beneath my heart.

‘So he is in your hands.’

‘Yes.’

‘He is your prisoner.’

‘Yes.’

I looked at Henry’s face, trying to recall the rounded smiling, mischievous features of Henry as a boy. Leaner, older, stamped with authority, this man was King of England and I must never forget. I must learn my new role in this relationship. He was King and I was subject and supplicant. More than that, my husband was a foresworn traitor and in his power to dispatch to the executioner.

‘You know what I must do, Elizabeth.’

Oh, I did. I did.

‘You will put him on trial. For treason.’

‘Yes. He risked all in a foolish gamble and lost. The full force of the law will be used against him.’

I simply stood, absorbing what this would mean, obliterating from my mind the horror of it if Henry insisted on the full penalty for a traitor, to hang, draw and quarter. Execution would be a more compassionate alternative.

‘I’m sorry.’ He did not sound sorry. ‘I know how this will affect you.’

Did he? Had he any idea how important this man was to me, in spite of everything I knew about him? I ran my tongue over dry lips. I had said that I would not weep or plead. Yet I begged.

‘Can you find it in you to have mercy?’

‘He would have had me and my sons hacked to death on my tournament field.’

‘He was afraid for the life of his brother.’

‘Or was he afraid for his own safety? I treated him with justice. I punished him with a light hand. And this is how he—and those like him—repay me.’

‘He took the oath of allegiance to Richard.’

‘He took the same oath to me as well. And it meant nothing to him.’ The sardonic savagery was a wound in my side.

‘He would return to your side if you wooed him.’ What an empty gesture that was, and yet I would say the words. ‘I beg of you, my lord.’

‘I will not. Nor can you expect it. Here we have an oath-breaker of magnificent proportions. I will never trust him again. There is no value in this discussion, Elizabeth.’

Still I would not let go, even though I knew in my heart that there was no hope. Never had I seen my brother so recalcitrant, yet I fell back to childhood usage.

‘If you have any affection for me, Hal, show mercy.’

‘It is out of my hands.’

‘Where have you sent him?’ There again, a little leap of hope. If his new guardian was open to persuasion … could I at least beg that he be allowed to escape again, and this time arrive safe at some European strand? Surely that was the best outcome for everyone.

‘I have placed him,’ Henry said as if weighing every word, his eyes on mine so that I could not miss the implication, ‘in the custody of the Countess of Hereford at Pleshey.’

And at that, in spite of all my good intentions, I wept. In the presence of Henry and the counsellors and the royal officials. I wept. Nor did I cover my face, but let the tears roll uselessly down to mark the damask of my bodice and spike the fur.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Why would I not? The Countess of Hereford and the FitzAlans deserve some satisfaction.’

It struck against my heart, crushing every final grain of hope, and I turned on my heel. Without permission I left the royal presence. In that moment I never wished to see my brother again.

The Countess of Hereford had John in her power. If John was in the clutches of Countess Joan of Hereford, then all was surely lost to me, and to John. I returned to my rooms to begin preparations for a journey full of the worst foreboding.

And yet once I would have travelled to Pleshey with such joy, for Countess Joan was a blood relative, a confirmed supporter of Lancaster, even showing herself to be a good friend to Duchess Katherine before she was made respectable, offering her a loving sanctuary for the birth of her daughter Joan, out of the Countess’s deep affection for my father. A devoted mother to Mary de Bohun, Henry’s ill-fated wife, Countess Joan had proved a warm and comfortable presence in my own childhood. Pleshey Castle figured vividly in my memories, a place for exciting New Year gift givings and Twelfth Night revels. Countess Joan could never be accused of giving less than whole-hearted support to the family of Lancaster.

But Countess Joan was a FitzAlan by birth, and there was the thing. Countess Joan was sister to Richard FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel, who had been the first to be called to account as the most outspoken of the Lords Appellant, the most critical of Richard’s mistakes. Countess Joan was aunt to the two FitzAlan sons whom we had housed with so much ill-will on their part. The FitzAlans had been transformed from strongest allies into most bitter enemies.

How could I blame them? Richard had made a bloody example of Richard FitzAlan, his head struck from his body on Tower Hill. Now my blood ran cold as I dredged up the details of those terrible days. When the Lords Appellant had been taken prisoner, it was John who was standing at Richard’s side. When the Arundel estates were forfeit to the crown, it was John who received them at the grateful hand of his royal brother. Who had been given the magnificent fortress of Arundel Castle? It was John.

As John rose in power and prestige at their expense, the FitzAlans fell, the young dispossessed Earl even losing his life while in our keeping.

And would that John’s pre-eminence at their expense was his only crime in the eyes of the FitzAlans. My mind hopped from sin to even worse sin. For a vengeful Countess there would be far more to weigh against John’s life. Countess Joan’s elder daughter Eleanor had been wed to the royal Duke of Gloucester who had his life crushed out of him in Calais. When Gloucester had been arrested at Pleshey, who had ridden at Richard’s side? John might not have been involved in the deed in Calais, but he was complicit in Richard’s planning to rid himself of those who had attacked his royal dignity. Who was more often than not seen in the ascendant in those years of Richard’s power, recipient of Richard’s patronage, and at the expense of all others? It was John.

I rode out from the Tower with violent death and John’s complicity in the FitzAlan downfall as close companions. Would the Countess ever find it in her heart to have mercy? I did not think so. John’s involvement, however slight, in Gloucester’s death would have been made worse in her eyes by the death of his and Eleanor’s little son Humphrey a matter of months ago, followed by Eleanor’s rapid demise from a broken heart.

I could imagine the gleam in Countess Joan’s eye with John Holland under her dominion, hers the choice over him, of life or death. I could imagine her response if I begged for mercy.

‘Do you realise what your damnable mis-begotten husband has done to my family?’

And yet I would go to Pleshey and beg. I would call on her as one woman to another, as one woman torn by grief and despair to another. I would do all in my power, as my father’s daughter. And as the daughter of her great friend John of Lancaster, would she turn me from her door? Surely she would discover some vestige of compassion in her heart.

I would not abandon all hope before I had even tried.

I went to Pleshey.

I walked into Countess Joan’s beautifully appointed parlour, all so familiar, announced by her steward as if I were the welcome guest I had been in the past. I had had the whole journey to decide what I would say, and still I did not know. John’s actions seemed in the light of the Countess’s sufferings indefensible. And yet I trod carefully. I did not yet know how she would receive me. If it was with past affections it might make all the difference. All hung on the spin of a coin so I curtsied as expected towards one of my father’s generation and family, a lady of influence as broad as her hips and brow.

‘I am grateful that you would receive me, my lady.’

‘I was expecting you,’ she said, turning from where she had been, at the window, clearly watching my arrival. Her face was wiped clean of all expression, but at least I was not faced with rampant hatred.

I stood before her impressive bulk, hands folded neatly, gaze level in polite respect when my mind was in furious turmoil. ‘I had to come.’

‘To plead a lost cause.’

‘To ask you to at least listen to me, my lady.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because of past loyalties and deep friendship I believe you would give me a hearing.’

And I did believe it. Surely there was some element of reason in this clever, political woman’s heart. Some tiny seed of reason, of compassion to which I could appeal, to win John his freedom. Surely here was some means to escape if I kept my composure and argued with some line of clear logic.

‘I suppose that you would say,’ the Countess said lightly, ‘that it was my duty, and my own inclination, to give you a hearing, in light of my long-standing friendship with your father.’

‘It is what I had hoped.’

‘We were always close.’

‘As I know.’

The faintest of smiles touched her lips and I had the sensation of a lightness in my heart. Perhaps hope was not quite dead.

‘What do you suppose that John of Lancaster would advise in such a case as this?’

‘To have mercy,’ I replied promptly. ‘He held my husband in high regard.’

‘So you say. Sadly your brother the King holds him in utter contempt.’

So I said what I knew I must. ‘I beg of you, for my sake, out of all the love you bore for me and my family, to show compassion for a man who did nothing but obey the orders of his own King, of Richard. To whom he had taken the oath of allegiance.’

The smile had vanished from the Countess’s lips. Yet she laughed, a light trill of derision, and as the laughter died away I felt a presence at my back. The Steward had not closed the door and someone had entered with silent footsteps. Now he came to stand at the Countess’s side, turning slowly to face me.

And all the hope that had been building, one tiny stone on another, collapsed in absolute ruin as his eyes held mine. There would be no compassion here.

The last time I had seen this young man he had been a youth, a sullen youth, barely grown out of childhood, placed with his brother in John’s care after the execution of his father. A disgruntled youth who had expressed every desire to disrupt our household, and had carried out a childish revenge.

Here was no child.

Here was Thomas FitzAlan, now the dispossessed Earl of Arundel on the death of his brother Richard from some malevolent fever in our keeping. Thomas who had escaped from Reigate Castle and fled to Europe where he had sworn his allegiance to my brother.

And here he was, to extract ultimate vengeance for the death of his father and brother. And somewhere in this fortress, kept under lock and key, and the key doubtless in the hand of Thomas FitzAlan, was my husband.

‘I see you are returned in triumph, Thomas FitzAlan.’ I broke the simmering silence.

He was nineteen years old but looked older than his years with his new responsibilities, his high-necked houppelande full-skirted and stitched with bright silks, worthy of Henry himself. In his hand a velvet hat and a pair of jewelled gauntlets. So Thomas FitzAlan had become my brother’s pensioner until his estates were restored to him and was enjoying the King’s open-handedness.

‘And I will take my revenge.’ He did not even need to gloat.

How could I possibly have seen this eventuality? In all the choices I had made, I could never have foreseen this. The weight of repercussion on heart became suffocating.

‘Then I will not beg you for mercy, as I would have begged the Countess.’

‘No. For I will not listen. John Holland is a dead man.’

They allowed me to see him, even when I thought they would refuse. How they enjoyed my impotence; there at Pleshey I had no power to demand entry into whichever noxious room in which they were keeping him, but at last, with a glance at her nephew, to cow him into reluctant submission, the Countess summoned a servant to conduct me.

‘She deserves that much at least,’ she snapped when Thomas demurred. ‘For her brother’s sake.’

If she thought it would intensify my pain, she was wrong. Nothing could do that. The days of familial closeness were long gone, even as I inclined my head in a semblance of gratitude. As a young girl, intent on my own personal happiness in my supremely privileged world, how could I ever have guessed that my marriage to John would destroy all my confidence, forcing me to bestride the great divide between two warring families? Conflicting loyalties wounded my heart at every turn when I was forced to cast myself on the mercy of those who would have no mercy.

‘Enjoy your farewell.’ The Countess was exultant in her triumph. ‘You will not see him again. Or not with the capacity to engage you with honeyed words. It is hard to speak with your head severed from your body.’

My breath caught, my whole body rigid, my hands flat against my waist where my heart thundered. Death. Execution. Taken utterly by surprise, I could not think how to react. The decision had already been made. My journey, all my pleas had been for nothing. I had been right to fear the worst.

Still I harnessed all my willpower. ‘This is wrong. There has been no trial,’ I observed with cold dispassion in contrast to the Countess’s fervour.

‘What need? His guilt is proven by his flight from justice. The men of Essex will gather when I summon them, and they will see justice done.’

Her assurance swept me into utter despair, aghast at what her words implied.

‘How can you even consider letting the mob run wild? Did we not see the dangers of uncontrolled demands for what the men of Essex considered to be fairness?’

Images of London, The Savoy Palace burning to destruction, flickered through my mind as a monstrous backdrop to my present woes. I heard the cries of terror of those snatched up from the Tower and done to death on Tower Hill without trial. Would Henry, who had almost fallen victim to the mindless bloodshed simply because he was his father’s heir, risk such uncontrolled rebellion undermining the law and order of his own kingdom? Countess Joan had no compunction in using the weight of the mob in her own interests.

The Countess remained unmoved. ‘There will be no lack of control. The men of Essex will speak with a fair voice under my guidance, never fear.’

‘And you will persuade them of what is fit and fair, if they stumble in their choice.’

Anger at Henry burned brightly. Henry who had so cleverly shuffled off his responsibility here. He would bear no guilt for John’s death, but would emerge as white as a new untrammelled snowfall, while Countess Joan and Thomas FitzAlan willingly shouldered the responsibility in his stead.

‘And you will receive a suitable reward at my brother’s hands,’ I said to Thomas FitzAlan whose face wore an appallingly self-satisfied smile.

The smile became a grin. ‘Why not? Henry has already knighted me. When this rebellion is put down, I will receive possession of my inheritance. I’ll be Earl of Arundel, as is my right.’

It was all hopeless. And yet: ‘I ask for clemency. The Earl of Huntingdon does not deserve to die at the hands of the mob.’

‘Who was there to grant my father mercy, to vouch for his good name? Or to speak for my brother, too young to die at Huntingdon’s hands?’

‘Huntingdon was not responsible for your brother’s death,’ I returned, knowing the accusation to be groundless, hoping my cold assurance would have an effect. ‘He was not at Reigate, as you well know. Your brother was never ill-treated in our household. What you say is an infamous calumny.’

It had no effect. Viciously casting his hood and gloves at my feet, as if issuing a challenge to combat, FitzAlan seized the thread of vengeance and spun it out to create a masterpiece of bloody intent. ‘Huntingdon treated me as a slave. My brother died of the foul handling he was given. And you talk to me of compassion and clemency. Save your breath. Besides, this is treasonable talk. A traitor deserves no consideration. For you to argue the case, my lady, would only be disloyal to the King, your brother.’ He gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Holland will pay for making me clean his bloody boots!’

Nothing less than a smirk accompanied the final truth and the use of my title with such lack of respect. These FitzAlans had all the power here at Pleshey. Had I fallen to my knees to grovel at their combined FitzAlan feet, there would be no moving them. Holding fast to a hard control that I would need to carry me through the next hours, I would beg no more, since there was no mercy in this room.

I managed to curtsy my thanks, eyes downcast to hide the burden of hatred that filled my chest so that I could scarce breathe. They might rejoice at bringing John low, but they would get no more satisfaction from my misery.

I was led by a silent individual, more guard than servant from the weaponry attached to his person, to one of the towers, not a dungeon as I had feared, but, except that it was not below ground, little better. Thrust into the room without ceremony, the heavy door was locked at my back, leaving me to blink in the shadows.

Shatteringly cold, severely under-furnished, almost lightless with windows little more than arrow slits, this was a part of the original stone structure that had undergone no refinement over the years. No fire warmed the dank air that stank of long disuse and blood and rodents. There was a bench, a coarsely constructed stool. There was no comfort here. I could barely see across the room, only conscious of a movement as a figure rose slowly from the roughly-constructed bed against the far wall.

John, once Duke of Exeter, reduced to this. King’s brother, King’s counsellor, locked away in filth and neglect. All he lacked were the chains. It was as if I could see the axe poised above his neck, if that is what the Countess was pleased to grant. That he might be torn apart with animal fury by the promised mob was too much for my mind to encompass. Despair and grief entwined in my belly with the stench, so potent that I could not at first speak. There was the reek of incipient death in this room, and it silenced me.

It was John who broke the silence, John who was never afraid to put into words his worst fears, to face the danger head-on. Was it not always so?

‘Elizabeth.’ It was little more than a sigh. My belly clenched. I had not thought that he might already be injured.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

Because he remained as far from me as he could get, his back flat against the wall, hands splayed there at his sides, his beloved features were impossible to discern, but I could hear the rasp of pent-up anger as he demanded, almost savagely:

‘Why are you here?’

‘To see you.’

‘I don’t want you here. If you bang on the door, my winsome jailer will return and release you.’

It was not what I expected, but then, what had I hoped for? Not that he would welcome me with open arms, but this was rejection after our tentative promises in the Jerusalem Chamber. I took a single step forward.

‘I will not go. I am come to appeal for the life of my husband. I am come to beg the Countess for mercy.’ Until I could sense his mood, I could not speak of my failure, even though in the end I knew I must. There was no room for untruths between us, nor would he believe me. ‘I am here because I could not stay away. Did you think I would hide behind Henry, seeking his goodwill by abandoning you? You are my husband, for good or ill. It is my duty and my care to plead for you.’ I took a breath. ‘I am here to plead for you out of love.’

There was a long pause before he found the innocuous words to reply.

‘Then I should be grateful, should I not? For no one else will.’

How cruel truth could be. After that brutal assessment John did not move. The shadows remained motionless as if even his breathing was stilled.

And then: ‘You will not succeed. But you know that.’

I could not deny it. And how lacking in emotion he was. I knew I must take care not allow my own to overflow and drown us both. Driven by an urge to be practical, to bring some lessening of the pain in that bleak confine, I turned and hammered on the door, which was immediately unlocked. So the guard was waiting outside. Perhaps even listening, although what he might learn that could further damage John’s cause I could not imagine.

‘Didn’t take long, mistress. The goods too damaged to satisfy your needs?’ His grin was as obscene as was the implication. And I feared what I could not see.

‘Long enough to be ashamed at the state in which the Earl of Huntingdon is kept,’ I said. ‘I wish for candles.’

‘It might be better if you don’t …’ I heard John murmur.

‘I’ve got no orders.’ The guard remained unabashed.

‘Fetch them. Fetch wine and bread. The King my brother would not have this man kept in this condition. And he will surely hear of it …’

For a long moment I thought that he would disobey.

‘Would you defy me?’

‘Not I! As you wish, mistress. On your head be it.’

With a guffaw at his own wit, the man departed, returning with two rush lights, a flagon of wine and two cups, but no bread. No matter. I took them without a word of thanks—I was beyond thanks—and he locked the door again.

At first I busied myself, placing the lights in their brackets, but when their flickering illumination showed what had been hidden, all I could do was look at John, horror seeping into my bones. Someone had already applied a punishment to his unprotected flesh and enjoyed the task. Clothes stiff and begrimed from his days at sea and the beaching, that was the least of it. There was blood on hose and tunic, for had he not been severely manhandled? Hair dark and matted with filth, bruising along his jaw and beneath one eye, blood dried and smeared, it was clear to me that he had been given no attention. I thought the fingers of one hand, curled clumsily into a talon against the stonework, were broken. Someone had already taken revenge with a heavy hand, but not enough to rob him of his senses. They wanted him alive and aware. Nothing must be done to strip away the suffering of the final punishment to come.

Sorrow, slippery with regret, welled up in me, and I swallowed hard, but he must have seen what I could not hide, for his smile was twisted, resembling more a grimace as his damaged muscles resisted even the slightest movement.

‘I doubt I’m good to look at. I said it would be better without light, but you never listen, Elizabeth. You never did, so you’ll not start now.’

I would not argue with him. Instead I crossed the room, stopping only to pour a cup of the wine, and pushed him gently to sit on the bed where he subsided with a groan. With difficulty I helped him to bend the fingers of his less damaged hand around the cup and aided him to drink, surprised when he did not demur. He was weaker than I thought.

‘By the Rood, that’s poor stuff,’ he grimaced.

‘Your jailor doesn’t care about the vintage. When did you last eat?’

‘Feeding me is not one of the Countess’s priorities. As long as I am on my feet to greet my executioner …’

‘You need food. I will arrange it.’

‘No.’ Not all his strength was drained. He stopped me by dropping the cup and clasping my wrist, even though the effort made him gasp.

‘This is the end, Elizabeth.’ A flat, hard statement of truth. ‘We’ll not prolong it with fine wines and fair repasts.’

Tears of despair collected on my lashes, guilt stabbed hard at my heart, but I transmuted it into anger. ‘In God’s name, John, why did you not listen to me? I warned you what might happen. Did I not advise you to use more subtle means than an uprising?’ Emotion was not too far away, lodged like a mouthful of dry bread in my throat. ‘Why would you not listen to me?’

‘Because you spoke with your brother’s voice,’ he observed laconically, the same reasoning that we had already tossed, endlessly, between us. ‘And I, in the end, could not betray mine. Leave it. If you need a deathbed confession from me, that will exonerate me of my sins, I can’t do it.’ There was the defiance, still strong, despite the wounds and abrasions, the damaged voice. I could not look at the bruises that already encircled his throat as if fingers of steel had been pressed there, presaging what lay ahead with the kiss of the axe. His voice became a harsh rasp. ‘It is too late for that.’ His eyes slid to mine. ‘Someone talked. Someone leaked the plan to Henry. He was ready for us. He knew the date and the time.’

My breath faltered.

‘How could that be?’ he asked.

All I could do was stare at him.

‘Not that it matters,’ he continued. ‘Here we are, and I must face the consequence of my so-called treachery. If a man lights the conflagration of treason he has to accept that the flames can burn him too.’

‘John …’

‘No. Don’t say anything. There is nothing more to say.’

And stopped me with his broken fingers against my lips.

‘Elizabeth. No. We are past all that. The choices have been made, the decisions taken. An ill wind brought me back to these shores, into the arms of waiting fate, and fate desires my death …’

His voice trailed away into silence. And there was the future after all, crowding in on us with its foul breath.

‘I swear I will do all I can to make fate step aside,’ I promised as my gut churned with nausea.

John’s smile was raw. ‘Just sit with me. Or does my appearance disgust you?’ He tried to retrieve the cup and swore. ‘My hands don’t work too well.’ It looked as if someone had stamped on them. ‘Tell me something I can hold fast to, to the end. Something that is good and indestructible and redolent of past happiness. About the children. About Dartington. About anything but …’

‘I cannot. I cannot talk of any of this.’ Although I remained seated with him, in the face of his courage, my brave words meant nothing. ‘All I can see is …’ My breath hitched, my blood was cold as death.

‘All you can see is my death.’

‘Yes. I can do nothing.’

The sneer was back, well marked beneath the crusted blood and bruising. ‘Will Henry not make a final bid to save me to please his well-beloved sister?’

‘Not so well-beloved. Henry refuses my pleas and has handed the jurisdiction to Countess Joan and Thomas FitzAlan.’

‘Ah! So Thomas is here.’ There was the smile, the old charm that wounded me with its brilliance. That he could still smile was beyond my fathoming.

‘You have not seen him? I thought he might have been responsible for the blows.’ Gently, regaining control, I smoothed his damaged fingers between mine. Two of them were broken.

‘No. Some of his minions though. I expect he has vengeance in mind for the boots. Does he blame me for his brother’s death?’

‘Yes. And yes, the boots remain a black memory. I suppose in his eyes it was a brutal punishment to make him clean them as often as you did.’

‘He needed discipline. Better than beating him.’

‘I think he might not agree. A beating would not wound his dignity. He has an amazing capacity for dignity for a youth not yet reached his twentieth year.’ How could I talk of such trivia, when these might be the final words we exchanged? But I did. ‘Thomas looked down his nose at me as if I were a cockroach.’

‘I have some compassion for him. Who would not? His father did not deserve execution.’

I took a breath, astonished at a depth of magnanimity that was beyond my encompassing. ‘I will never condone what he has done to you,’ I said, and raised his ruined hand to my cheek, pressing a kiss into his palm. ‘There. And I said I would not weep.’

‘Nor will you. Tell me about the others. Those who joined with me to see justice done. No one will tell me …’

I could not lie and so I told him of the outcome that had swept them all away. ‘Thomas Despenser is dead. Your squire is hanged. Your nephew Thomas died at Cirencester, together with the Earl of Salisbury. Their heads were sent to Henry in a basket …’

Why was I telling him this?

‘What about Aumale? Or Rutland as I should call him? Is he dead, too?’

‘No.’ I frowned, remembering. ‘He was with Henry when I last saw him. I’m almost certain …’

And yes, I was sure of it. He was there in the group of counsellors when Henry had informed me of John’s incarceration at Pleshey.

‘Was he now?’ I saw the familiar surge of anger in John’s eyes, but it was short-lived. There was no time for anger now. ‘A strange change of heart on Henry’s part for his ingratiating cousin,’ John admitted. ‘I doubt he’ll use it for me.’

‘Ah, John! I can’t talk of this.’

‘I have brought you nothing but misery.’

‘And such happiness.’ I kissed his cheeks, his closed eyes, his lips, the lightest of caresses. ‘Such amazing happiness.’ I felt the forbidden tears on my cheeks after all and made no attempt to wipe them away.

‘I wish with all my heart this had not come between us. I know you say I was intransigent. Perhaps I was. Forgive me, Elizabeth.’ He laced his fingers of his good hand with mine, as best he could, lifting them both to wipe away the moisture. ‘It has caused so deep a rift between us. But I think that perhaps we are, at last, at one.’

‘Yes.’

‘You must never think that I love you any less than in those halcyon days when I wooed you.’

‘My love for you, even when I hated you for what you were doing,’ I admitted, ‘is indestructible.’ How long ago it was since we had last exchanged such words of devotion, and I regretted it. ‘Forgive me for not understanding. For letting Henry force a path between us.’

A fist hammered at the door. ‘Five minutes to make an end.’

I flinched, driven again to honesty. ‘I can do nothing, John. I have failed you.’

‘But you can do so much.’ With the minimum of movement, he placed one arm around my shoulders, drawing me to rest against him, one hand clumsily pinioning mine against his chest as his voice dropped into an urgency that no amount of anguish could destroy. ‘Listen. Listen to me. You can stand for me beyond death. When I am dead, my land will be forfeit, my titles, my inheritance. You must fight for them, Elizabeth. Fight for what is mine, for our children. They deserve recognition, good marriages, preferment at court. Their blood could not be better, from royalty on both sides. Don’t let their father’s misjudgement drag them down so that they live in penury and shadows for the rest of their lives. Richard should be Duke of Exeter. The girls should make good marriages. Promise me. Rail at Henry until he concedes at least this. The axe that severs my head from my body must not be allowed to hack away at the future of our family. Our children are Henry’s own family through your blood. You must stand for all of us.’

Once again any response was frozen on my tongue. I had not expected such cold acceptance. But why had I not? John would not pretend, not with me.

‘I will fight,’ I promised, at last.

‘Go to Dartington. Hold possession of it as long as you can. Henry will not turn you out. Take the children there. They will be safe.’

‘Yes. I will do it.’

‘It’s a beautiful place. I had hoped that we would be there together. Make it a good home. Plant the gardens.’

‘I hate gardens.’

‘But you will do it because I wish it.’

‘I will do it.’

All the things we wanted to say that we could not say. All hidden beneath this futile exchange about the existence of paths and plants at Dartington. My soul raged within me. ‘Before God, John …’

‘No!’ His hand closed more firmly around mine. ‘Promise me.’

And I was driven to make that promise, my hand flat against his heart.

‘Yes. I promise. I will make Dartington the home you would have wanted and I will ensure that Richard becomes Duke of Exeter.’

‘And you, my love, my light. You should marry again.’

Lifting my head from his shoulder so that I could look at him, every sense was stilled into stiff rebellion. ‘I will not.’

‘It is not in you to remain alone. You must be a sensible woman.’

‘I will never love again.’

‘You do not need love for a good marriage. Besides, who knows what the future will hold for you. You must wed again. You will make some man a good wife.’ The minutes of time were fast flowing away. ‘And now you must go.’ Gently but with such firmness, he pushed me away, and I allowed it.

‘I’ll speak with the Countess again. Even with Thomas FitzAlan.’ I hesitated. ‘And whatever the outcome, I will stay to the end.’

‘No!’ He took my shoulders and shook me, despite the pain to him. ‘Look at me.’ And he shook me until I did, holding the anguish in my eyes with his. ‘You will not stay. If you never obeyed me in anything else, you will obey me in this. Do you hear me? I don’t want you here when I am led to the block.’

I clung to his wrists. ‘I can’t go …’

‘I don’t want you to be here.’

I stared at him, understanding.

‘I don’t want you to see me. I want you to remember me as I was when I rode in the tournaments and won your heart. That is the picture I want you to paint for our children. Elizabeth, the best thing I ever did was woo you. Now go before your presence unmans me.’ He pulled me to my feet and kissed me. Hard and sure. ‘My heart and soul. My dear wife.’

He all but dragged me to the door and brought his fist down hard on wooden panels in one final blow with a groan of agony.

‘Tell my sons that I did what I thought I must. What I thought was right. I would do it again tomorrow. Now go!’

I could not do it. Not yet.

‘There is something I must tell you first …’ The words had flown from my lips before I could stop them. Knowing, accepting at last that we would never meet again on this side of the grave, the need for confession was a heavy hand on my heart.

‘No!’

The power in his denial startled me, but I was not deterred, despite the fear of what I might see in his face. ‘I must. On my soul, I can’t let this remain unspoken between us because …’

‘No, my dear one.’ The force had gone, overlaid with an intense fatigue that I could not combat. ‘There is nothing that you need tell me that I do not already know. All that matters is that we loved and that we still love. Sometimes life puts too great a burden on us. Now go. Go to Dartington, my very dear one.’

A final kiss of mouth against mouth.

‘You were always, and always will be, the best woman I know.’

And as the door opened, he pushed me through, and closed it himself.

I stood outside the door, palms and forehead resting against the unforgiving wood.

I left Pleshey with no farewells. It would need a miracle to save him, and I did not think I had any recourse to any. All I could do was be obedient and do as John asked. To tell his sons of his glorious reasoning for so foul a crime of treason, and keep possession of Dartington.

Determination carried me back to Westminster.

Only when I was back in my rooms did a tidal wave of guilt thrust me to my knees.

1400, Dartington

John is dead.

How does a woman know that the man she loves is dead, that he has taken his last breath? I know it, even though there has been no courier from Henry, no message of vengeful satisfaction from Pleshey. Still I know it in my heart, which continues to beat with the same steady rhythm. How can that be, when the one man it beats for no longer inhabits this earth? I will never see him again. He will never walk across the room to gather me into his arms when he returns from some king’s business. He will never ask me what I have been doing that might have set the cat amongst the pigeons.

How long will I be able to recall his smile? He could barely smile at me in that room so redolent of pain and violence at Pleshey. I know I must hold on to my memory of the deep-set corners of his mouth, the gleam of self-awareness in the dark of his eye. I must remember the fall of his hair, the fluid, almost insolent manner of his stride. I must remember for all the years of my life that are left to me.

I love him. I love him despite his temper, his ambitions, his ill-fated choices. I love him because of them, because that is John Holland who wooed me and won me and would not let me go.

Don’t tell me that he would have brought my brother to his death. I know it. Don’t tell me that he was not worthy of my love. He was, he was! And I know why he made that fatal choice. John’s betrayal of his own brother was an ignoble affair that he must put right. I cannot forgive him for his plot of vicious murder, but I can understand. Does he not hold a mirror up to my own soul? I have discovered that we are all capable of betrayal. Its consequences lie within me, every hour, every day. My love for John remains as strong as the day I placed my future in his hands and told him I carried his child.

Death is in the cold dank ground, in the bare trees, frozen into motionless acceptance in these January days. I cannot envisage spring and new life.

I am in cold despair.

I think of Henry, when he was my brother Hal and dear to me. The images of childhood race through my atrophied mind. Henry with a book in his hand, Henry with his armour covered with gilding, with a hawk on his fist, with a new sword, riding at the tournaments with verve and dash. Henry protecting me at the Tower when the rebels broke in. Henry anxious for my happiness. My brother whose affection had been part of my life, unquestionable.

I am estranged from Henry. I have nothing to say to him.

I cannot weep. My heart is a solid stone in my chest. My blood is sluggish. Every step, every movement is an effort.

I have no feelings, nothing. I have been robbed of all my joy, for my love is dead.

‘You didn’t ought to be doing that, mistress.’

‘I know it.’

Casting aside the mattock with a hiss of frustration at my clumsy handling of it, I resorted instead to a pair of shears.

‘Some would say as you shouldn’t be cutting that rosemary at this time of year, mistress,’ the gardener persisted.

‘And they’d be right about that too. Damn them.’

The edges were blunt, and I was inexpert—when had I ever tackled such physical work in my whole life? —but I continued to wield the shears, to the sad detriment of the shrub, while I was invaded by black despair and even blacker fury. I could barely breathe for the constriction in my throat.

What a fool I was. What an unutterable fool.

‘Maybe I’ll do it for you, mistress.’

I looked up at the man who tended the gardens and saw my presence in the herbery as an intrusion. And a destructive one at that.

‘No you won’t. I am not incapable. Go away. And take the children inside with you. It’s too cold for them out here.’

I saw them watching their mother, wary of this woman they barely recognised in her woollen skirts and furious application of garden tools. They were all there in a little huddle, except for baby Edward. I could not blame them for keeping their distance.

Attacking a plant of rue—by the Virgin! there would be no rue in my garden! —I reduced it to a few hopeless twigs.

‘You need help, mistress.’

‘I don’t.’

Had I not promised? I had promised and I would do it.

He retreated when I picked up my mattock again, only to lurk behind a bush to keep an eye on the mistress who appeared to have taken leave of her senses.

Taken leave of them? I felt as if every sense I had was hammered into a coffin.

No! Not that!

The denial howled in my head.

Earlier in the day, numbed by shock, I had shut myself away in my chamber, until I realised the futility of that. I could ride out, hunt. I could ride and ride until I was exhausted and my mind blurred with it so that I could sleep and forget. But I would imagine that he was with me, riding beside me as he had done so often. I would hear the hooves of his horse, see the wind lifting his hair, hear his laughter at some comment passed between us. How could I ever ride for pleasure again? I needed an occupation to drain my energies rather than that of my mare. An occupation John would never have undertaken.

When had I ever turned my hand to physical work other than the setting of stitches? Playing the lute. Singing. Dancing. That is what I was made for. But today I needed some back-breaking work that would demand my concentration and my strength.

Yet, the inertia of grief laying its hand on me, I would still have remained shut away in my private chamber, until Alice ran in, a roughly constructed birdcage clutched in her eight-year-old hand. She danced on the spot, holding the occupants high for me to see.

‘Look what the chapman has brought. He says they are for me, if we give him a silver coin.’

I stared in horror, seeing myself, in different circumstances, holding a gilded cage of singing finches.

‘Take them out!’ I shrieked, before I could stop myself.

‘But Mother …’ Alice’s eyes gleamed with quick tears.

‘I’ll not have them here.’

Taking my daughter by the hand I strode unseeing through the beautiful rooms of the house that John had built, through the kitchens and out into the enclosed courtyard beyond. Once there I knelt beside Alice, taking the cage from her and opening its door, lifting it high to encourage the pair of birds to fly free, which they did. Wiping away my child’s tears with the edge of my sleeve, I gave the only explanation I could.

‘They did not deserve to be shut in a cage. They will be happy to be free.’

Alice sniffed, not understanding, and in a sense neither did I. All I knew was that I would never again have a pair of singing birds. Nothing to remind me of my treacherous husband’s glorious wooing of me. Or my own treachery.

Alice and I continued to kneel in the puddle-ridden courtyard, watching them go.

My household must have thought that I had run mad.

From there, face frozen, I had taken myself into the herbery on this dire January day, simply because I could think of nothing else. My only knowledge of herbs was the use of them to perfume my coffers or produce a healing draught.

What did I know about working in the earth, about cutting and shaping? I had donned garments more suited to physical work, but to what avail? My fingers wept with blisters and my hems were ruined with mud but my anger remained as bitter as the rue I had just eviscerated. My mind lowered as dark as the clouds gathering to presage snow as I recalled John sending me a package of rue.

I rested momentarily on my knees, oblivious to the destruction of my skirts. I thought Henry would pardon him. I thought that in spite of John’s inexcusable treason, Henry would use his royal prerogative to grant John a pardon. For my sake. For the love he had for me. And because of the love I had for John. Could not Henry lure John back into the Lancastrian fold with soft words and generosity? My brother would not rob me of the man who meant more to me than my life. His compassion would be overwhelming and he would forgive.

I had held fast to that when my heart was heaviest. Or had I? Had I not always feared the inevitable? Retrieving the shears, running my thumb along the blades, I scowled at the line of blood that appeared. Had I truly believed that Henry would be magnanimous? Gradually learning that generosity was rarely the answer when political power was in the balance, I had come to know the penalty paid by those who played with fire. I knew full well the price to be paid in the interest of alliances and loyalties and political manoeuvrings. I had been a political bride to a child because the alliance was too valuable to be snatched up by someone else.

And Henry. Henry had been banished for his flirtation with the Lords Appellant. Still very young, only on the edge of the fatal alliance against the King, Henry had been banished and had had to fight for his inheritance. Richard had had no compassion for him or for my father. And so Henry, now shouldering the authority of Kingship, had cut down those who had dared to rise against him. Many would say he had every right to bring down the power of the law on the heads of those who plotted insurrection.

Even after that final meeting with John, wretched in despair, I had clung to a futile hope, speeding a letter to Henry, a final last minute appeal, when I had fled from Pleshey.

To my well-beloved brother Henry,

You can never accuse me of disloyalty. I do not question your right to rule or your power to defend your life and that of your sons. I will always remain your loyal subject.

But if you have any love for me, have mercy on John Holland. Save him from the vengeance of the FitzAlans.

Your loving sister …

My cheeks were wet. Not tears, my denial continued. Merely the icy rain that had begun to fall. In desultory fashion I hacked at a clump of decaying foliage that I did not recognise, but which the rising scents told me was sage.

I stood, oblivious to the gathering wind, for the first time in my life admitting my loneliness and the need for a confidante. When had I ever needed the consolation of a woman’s advice. But now, when I was estranged from everyone, Princess Joan was dead, Katherine was hostile and retired into widowhood in Lincoln, Philippa in regal splendour in Portugal.

Yet not entirely true. Philippa had written to me, but I had added it, unread, to the little pile of unopened letters from her, unable to tolerate her lectures or her pity even if they were doused with love.

Never had I felt so isolated, so alone, so wretched. I had no practice at being alone.

‘Well, you had better practise hard now,’ I berated myself. ‘For who else is there to listen to you?’

Because the reality of my situation had struck as hard as the winter ground under my feet. I could not talk to Henry. Men driven by ambition rarely listened to their womenfolk and Henry, having usurped the crown, had enemies enough to deal with, without having to listen to the demands of his sister. And what could I now demand?

John was dead.

In my damp misery I howled, refusing the warmth of Constance’s arms about me as she was driven to give comfort to this mad woman who was her mother.

He had banished me. He had died alone.

I could formulate no plan. No plan at all.

I despised Henry and the Countess of Hereford and Thomas FitzAllan, all in equal measure.

A gust of wind brought the sound of distant hooves clattering into the stable courtyard and for one foolish moment my heart leapt. He had come to me. He had been released after all …

The truth caused me to fling down the shears and cover my face with my hands, for suddenly my own misery was cast into nothingness by the acknowledgement of John’s death. He would never come to me again. And what terrible choices he had had to make, standing between his own brother and his wife. How was it possible for a man to determine the direction of his heart when faced with such a dilemma? And I had made it so difficult for him, torn as I was between equally divided loyalties. My choice was no easier than his.

Did I feel guilt?

Yes. Yes. And yes. It seemed to me that I was frozen in a wasteland of unending, unforgiving agony from which there was no escape.

The gardener emerged from his woody seclusion, leading a man I did not know. A herald, as it soon became clear. One of Henry’s superbly appointed couriers, tabard gleaming in the dank gloom. Which was warning enough.

Facing him, still on my knees, I dared him to react in any manner to my appearance. Nor did he. He bowed. ‘My lady.’

‘You have come from the King.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ His solemn face showed no recognition of my strange state, even when Constance plucked at my shoulder. The rest of the children had vanished.

‘And your message? What has the King to say to me?’

‘My lord requests that you return to court.’

‘And why is that?’ Unable to control the bitterness that welled within me. ‘Does the King intend to parade me before his loyal courtiers as the wife of a traitor?’

Which he wisely ignored, handing me instead a document heavy with seals and signatures, the red and gold shining against my mud encrusted hands. Perhaps my face was also smeared, but I did not care. Legal, official, the weight of the document made my heart sink.

‘Tell me, or do I have to read it?’

‘It is to inform you, my lady, of the confiscation of all lands, possessions and properties of John Holland.’

He was not even given the respect of his title. There would be no title, no inheritance for my children. No advantageous marriages, for who would desire a landless child of a proscribed father as mate? John had seen it all. We would be cast as beggars on my brother’s charity.

Why have you done this to us, John?

Suddenly I was so angry with him.

And yet inordinately I felt laughter forming in my chest, dispersing my fury, and would have laughed aloud if it could have bypassed the constriction in my throat. For this ground I had been digging, these plants that I had been destroying, no longer belonged to me. All had been taken away. I was homeless, even more bereft than I could have believed. I would have to throw myself on Henry’s mercy and be dutiful and dependent on him for the rest of my life.

At last I struggled to my feet, holding the document as if it were a poisoned chalice.

‘And to whom does the King gift my lord’s properties?’ All in all I was proud of the calm tenor of my voice.

‘I know not, my lady. The confiscation will first be ratified by parliament when it meets in March. Until then the estates will become royal property.’

‘But free for the King to use, to reward those whose loyalty is beyond question.’ The Countess of Hereford would be high on his list. And Thomas FitzAlan. I caught a slide of pity in the herald’s eye and straightened my spine, snatching at dignity. ‘My thanks for your news.’

‘I will escort you, my lady.’ Yes, there was definitely pity, even as I faced him with disdain. ‘There’s something else you should know, my lady …’

‘Another message from my royal brother?’

‘No, my lady.’ He inclined his head, not meeting my stare. ‘It’s not his doing, but you need to be aware, if you’re going to London. I wouldn’t want it to be a shock for you. As it would …’ And, uneasily, compassionately, he told me, yet in deference to my need as I dug my fingers into his arm, spared me nothing in the telling, of the true span of Thomas FitzAlan’s revenge.

It was like a blow of a mailed fist to my chest. Dropping the shears, I hitched my skirts, abandoned the herbery to the gardener and Henry’s herald, and fled towards the house, every breath difficult, every thought suffused with ultimate horror. Despite the threat of snow, despite my heartsick state that had kept me inert for so long, I packed my coffers and ordered my horse and an escort.