The King’s Sister

Chapter Fiveteen

Dry-eyed, driven by a raging fury interlaced with fear, I forced myself to travel on, throughout the whole of the following day and night without respite, stopping only at the roadside for bread and wine that I could barely swallow, while all the time in my head shrieked the voice that despite all my efforts I might be too late. I knew the hour and the day when this abomination would be perpetrated. I must be there.

John’s inevitable execution, the gloating delight of Thomas FitzAlan, the cold implacability of the Countess, then the stripping away of John’s title and lands, all had been a weight that I would bear with all the composure I could summon to my aid. But this—this final, inexorable degradation—drove me to risk my safety on the roads, to honour John at the last, to make this final bid to restore some tiny—some would say worthless—vestige of dignity to my dead love. It would be very little but it would be something.

How could Henry have allowed it?

Nor was I alone in my self-imposed mission.

‘I am coming with you. Whatever you say.’

There was a severity in the dark gaze. Constance, at eleven years, had all the obstinacy that had driven me at that age.

‘You will remain here, Constance.’

‘I will not. This is no longer our home. Richard, as the eldest, will remain and order the young ones about until it is decided where we will live. But for now, I will go with you because you should not have to do this alone.’

There, in my daughter’s insistence, was John’s clear, unadorned logic that almost brought me again to my knees. So she had been listening.

‘And who else is there to go with you?’ she added. ‘I have already packed what I need. I am ready.’

For the briefest of moments we eyed each other across one of the half packed panniers, Richard standing at Constance’s shoulder in silent agreement. Travelling fast with a small escort, I did not need the added burden of my daughter, but her mouth had shut like a wolf trap, her brow furrowing with her determination so that she resembled even more closely her father at his most recalcitrant, and because I did not have the energy to resist, I had given in. There would be a refuge for her in London before I kept the dread appointment. She must not be there.

It was as if she read my mind.

‘I will be at your side. Whatever it is that calls you to London, you will not face this alone.’

I did not argue, but I would not allow her this experience.

Now as we rode through the streets of the city towards the Thames, time was running out for me, and there was nowhere I could leave her in safety, unless in the sanctuary of some church. I could not think or plan ahead, my mind stunned with what awaited us. In the end I had no choice but to keep her with me, praying silently that my daughter’s Plantagenet blood, and the strength of will of Princess Joan, would come to her aid. She was too young for such a cruel lesson as this.

And here we were, beside London Bridge before dawn, before the predictable crowds gathered.

‘Wait here,’ I said, pushing a little ahead of my escort, including Henry’s herald who had refused to allow me to come alone, onto the bridge itself, clenching my reins in freezing fingers.

‘I did not intend that you should be here, my lady,’ he grunted, the herald’s mount keeping step.

‘Would I stay away? You do not know me.’

‘I know you for a brave woman.’

‘Then pray God my courage holds true.’

I knew it would not be long. Exhausted we might be, our mounts foundering beneath us, but we had arrived in time. My escort shuffled restlessly when I waved them back. Not long now.

For a half hour, while the winter sky lightened imperceptibly to a livid grey, we sat our horses and shivered, Constance insisting on keeping this strange vigil at my side. And then the sound I was waiting for, the striking of shod hooves against stone. More than one horse. As if in some strange anticipation, mist rolled over the surface of the river, coating the streets in rime, hiding the opposite bank where, from the north, the horses and their riders drew closer.

They came to a well-disciplined halt, four of them.

Automatically I reached out to take Constance’s hand and held tight, dismay building fast in my chest, berating myself for what I had allowed.

‘You should not be here,’ I said, my voice suddenly loud in the mist, until I forced it into a harsh whisper. ‘I should not have allowed it. It is not fitting …’

‘Nor is it for you. But if you must, so will I.’

‘Do you know?’

‘I do now.’ I could see tears spangling her cheeks and knew they were mirrored on mine. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Perhaps …’

‘But you tried to protect me from seeing my father as the traitor he is.’

‘He is not!’

‘Thus the world sees him.’

‘I know. But I would not have you remember him like this.’

‘I remember him as a father who laughed with us and let my brother claim victory over him with sword and lance. I will be brave.’ Her glance was keen. ‘I’ll not demean you. Or his memory.’

And I managed to smile, a bright, clear smile at my redoubtable daughter who carried her father’s blood so valiantly.

‘Then we will be brave together, as we try to prevent this travesty. But I think we will fail.’

Three of the men, now obvious in their familiar livery, emerged through the mist into the centre of the bridge. The white swan of the de Bohuns shimmered as if touched by magic. The livery of the Countess of Hereford.

‘It is not right,’ I whispered.

‘No,’ Constance murmured her mind running in tandem with mine. ‘It’s not right at all. It should be our own Holland livery. Could they not even give him this respect?’

Her maturity astounded me. But of course they would not: John had lost all such rights, all claims to dignity and recognition, when he had lifted his sword against the King. For Constance, I must be her shining example, not a whimpering creature, awash with useless emotion.

‘We will be dignified as Plantagenet women and do what we can.’

One of the men dismounted. Two kept watch despite the silence and the shrouding mist, one nodding in our direction but making no move towards us. Who would see resistance from two anonymous cloaked and hooded female figures? As for the royal herald, he would be expected to heartily applaud their actions. Then the man who had dismounted was un-strapping a pannier from his saddle.

I dismounted, walked forward. Slowly. I would not retreat from this. This was why I was here. My mind cried out. John, my love. I was with you in spirit even though you forbade me. I am here now.

‘Halt.’ The command rang out and I halted. ‘Go away, lady.’

‘I will not until I have fulfilled my task.’

‘You have no task here.’

I continued until I was within arm’s length, aware of Constance behind me when her heels clacked on the wood. I spun round.

‘Go back.’

‘I will not.’

I could hear a hoarse rasp in her breathing, even as every one of my senses was focused on the pannier in the man’s hands.

‘Give that to me,’ I said.

He grunted, a disbelieving laugh. ‘Who are you?’

I pushed back my hood. ‘I am Elizabeth of Lancaster.’

He exchanged glances with his companions.

‘I am Countess of Huntingdon. One time Duchess of Exeter. Sister to your King.’

The man’s features settled into a harder line, or so it seemed in the growing light, as if he had been warned, but he inclined his head with some respect.

‘Give me that,’ I repeated.

‘I’ve orders to follow.’

‘Whose orders? Who gave the order for this?’

‘The King’s orders.’

‘The King will not punish you. He will not know if you give it to me.’

‘So what do I tell King Henry when it disappears?’ The man’s teeth showed in a fierce grin. ‘That some passing thief purloined it? That it was spirited away by some ghostly apparition, or carried off by a starving gutter cur?’

‘I care not.’ I held out my hand. ‘If you have any mercy in you.’

I would beg.

‘No, lady. On the spikes at London Bridge, he said. On the spikes it goes.’ He grunted. ‘Or the Countess said. Same thing.’

It was indeed. She would take her instructions from Henry, but she was not beyond pursuing her own needs. Perhaps she had listened to her nephew, Thomas. How bitter was her revenge. The words, spoken so callously, forced me to face the truth of what I had come to see, and for a moment I closed my eyes. I did not want this.

‘It’s best if you’re not here, mistress. And the young girl.’

Mistress! He had reduced me. The wife of a traitor had no worth. As I felt Constance’s hand tug on my cloak, I drew in a raw breath, aware of the beginnings of a little crowd of townsfolk, voices carrying with excitement that would enrich the boredom of their day. Would I indeed flee, powerless as I was, leaving my mission incomplete?

‘Let me look,’ I said.

He shook his head.

‘Let me see him. I’ll make no trouble for you. One final time, on your mercy. Then I’ll go and let you complete your work.’

He shrugged. In the end he cared not, as long as he could carry out his orders and leave, or go to a tavern with his companions to drink after their long journey and forget this unpleasant outcome with a woman who pestered them and should know better. Yet he had no heart for an argument with me.

Before I could even prepare myself, he thrust his hand into the covered pannier and lifted out what I had come for. The head of John Holland.

I breathed slowly, in and out, aware of choking down a little cry of grief.

And then I forced myself to stand, to look, refusing to miss one detail, except for the jagged rawness where the axe had done its terrible job. I took in the fall of hair, bloody and matted where it had dried, filthy with dust, sparkling with the salt in which it had been packed. The closed eyes. The wax-like face, all expression drained except for the line dug deep between his brows that even death could not erase. The lips pale and thinned, white as the rime on the bridge supports. John had not died at peace. All the love and life and fervour that had carried him through the years of life had been cruelly obliterated.

That I had expected—the imprint of suffering and of a violent and brutal death—but not the ravages of crows and other birds intent on carrion. How his beauty had been disfigured, marred by beak and claw, and I gasped, nausea rising swiftly, making me step back, only stopping when Constance’s grip moved from my cloak to my arm where it tightened. I felt her turn her head away but I couldn’t, even as I took her in my arms and pressed her face against my shoulder.

‘Don’t look if it hurts you. Don’t remember him like this. It is enough that you are here with me,’ I murmured and pushed her behind me.

‘Holy Virgin, intercede for him,’ I heard her whisper.

And with my daughter’s show of grace, my courage returned, and turning back, I touched him, smoothing the dust from his damaged cheek, pushing aside the wayward hair, so limp and lifeless. With the edge of my cloak I tried ineffectually to wipe the dried blood from his cheek.

‘How can this be?’ I asked.

‘The Countess ordered the exposure on a pike at Pleshey, my lady.’

I had been reinstated. Perhaps he was impressed that I had not fallen to the floor in a faint or screamed my agony.

‘John …’ I whispered.

‘Go home, lady. Go home to your children. Remember him when he was alive. If you choose to remember a traitor at all.’

‘He was no traitor to me.’

My love. My dear love. How could I not stop you before it came to this?

Stony faced, I looked up at the spikes where the heads of criminals and miscreants were exposed. I would not weep, even though birds were already hovering in anticipation, coming to land on the parapet.

‘I will fight for your title, your inheritance,’ I repeated my previous oath even more fervently. ‘I will fight for your lands. I swear that I will. I will give Henry no peace until he restores what is the rightful inheritance of our children.’

Drawing up my hood, I wrapped the cloak tightly around me as if to curb my shivering that was nothing to do with the cold, then I turned away. I could not watch this final horror. Yet how could I leave when there, at the end of the bridge, was a face I knew, a man who had come to watch the final disposition of the traitor’s head. And to gloat.

Constance’s hand remained hard on my arm.

‘Where now?’ Constance asked.

And I was brought back to my senses.

‘To the King, of course.’

To Henry, because he was my only hope.

I had not seen Henry since the day the air had snapped and sparked with our temper and I had marched from his presence, vowing never to see him, never to speak with him again. I would never humble myself before him, arrogant King that he had become, and beg for anything ever again.

How futile some vows, how empty. After what I had just seen on the bridge in the misty half-light, and knowing what I had left behind there, I strode into Henry’s presence as if I had seen him only yesterday. He might refuse me. As King he had that power. But I would not make it easy for him. I was his sister and he had a duty to hear me. All I had left in the world was my Plantagenet pride, but that was all I needed in my demand for justice. I could not save John’s life but I could argue the case for fairness and rightness, and because every feeling in my body seemed to be dead, every argument would be from my head, not from my heart. I did not think that I would ever weep or laugh again. There would be no emotion in this meeting.

And that would be a good thing. There had been far too much emotion between us.

As I stalked through the rooms and anterooms towards one of his audience chambers at Westminster, pre-empting any announcement by his chamberlain who fussed at my side, my path crossed that of Edward of Rutland, coming in the opposite direction.

‘What are you doing here?’ I snapped. The last time I had seen him was in close company with John, heads together in a conspiracy. Or perhaps he had been with Henry when I had been told of John’s capture. Had not John asked about him? It did not matter. Here he was, silk-clad and beautiful.

‘I could ask you the same thing, Cousin,’ he replied, but did not stop to hear my answer. ‘The King is in a particularly good mood today.’ His voice died away with a light chuckle. ‘He’s received good news of your late husband …’

I had no time for Edward and his opinions, for there was Henry, turning his head in expectation as I entered. His whole body stilled. It was not me he was waiting for, as was made clear when he turned fully to face me, away from his magnates and bishops, with an expression that might have been carved from stone.

‘Elizabeth.’

‘My lord.’

I might be excruciatingly formal but did not curtsy. Nor, even though we were within the space of a hand-clasp, did we make the sign of greeting. There was no familial welcome in Henry’s eye. But then, neither was there in mine.

‘You have been absent from my court,’ he said, almost an accusation. ‘What brings you here now?’

Did I want this conversation in such a public arena? It did not matter. Nothing mattered but the one terrible image that filled my mind.

‘John Holland is dead,’ I said.

‘So I am informed.’

Henry showed no satisfaction, no pleasure in it. But it was done and by his orders.

‘Will you receive me, the widow of a traitor?’

I was in no mood to be conciliatory. The sight I had left on London Bridge had destroyed any finer sisterly feelings, for there, at the end, out of the mist, had been a face I detested, a man I would have hounded to his death for what he had done, seated arrogantly on his magnificent horse, glorying in the culmination of his deliberate campaign. For a long moment we had stared at each other, before, rejecting me as a woman of no importance, he directed his attention to the matter in hand.

It had taken Constance’s hand on my arm to drag me away.

‘I will receive you,’ Henry replied.

His tone was light but I thought he had aged. I supposed that plots against a man’s life could do that. Perhaps I, too, showed signs of the passing of the years. Grief and anger could leave their mark.

‘What is it that you want of me?’ Cool, watchful, there was no anger in him today. I supposed that he could afford to be even-tempered for the rebellion was over. ‘If I can heal the rift between us, I will. I have no wish to be estranged from you, Elizabeth.’

And so, needing no further invitation to air my grievances, I began, like a man of law.

‘My husband’s lands are declared forfeit.’

‘As they must be.’

‘My children are disinherited.’

‘It is a risk that Holland took.’

Nothing that I did not expect.

‘So you would have my children landless as well as fatherless. I am here to ask, as your sister, for restitution.’

‘I have not changed my mind, Elizabeth. Treason has its penalties.’

‘And I ask you to reconsider, Henry. I ask for royal clemency.’

How many times had I been forced to put aside my pride and petition for John? My throat was raw with it, my belly sore. But this would be the final time and I had vowed that I would.

‘I want you to recognise the man who was once the most loyal of friends to you and our father. I want you to recognise the man who once saved you from certain death, and restore his titles and inheritance. I beg that you, for all that you have been to each other in the past, will restore his titles and inheritance.’

‘No, Elizabeth.’

‘You forgave John Ferrour, the soldier who rescued you, even though he was part of the Earls’ Revolt. You released him and pardoned him because he shut you in a cupboard in the Tower of London and saved your life.’ I saw Henry blink, that I should know of it. ‘Why can you not restore the inheritance of the man who gave Ferrour the order?’

But Henry had his wits about him. ‘Because Ferrour was a soldier who followed orders. Holland was the instigator of the plot to cut me down. There’s a vast difference, Elizabeth.’

I read the implacable will, the pride in his own inheritance, the sheer strength of which I had always been aware, so that it was as if I faced my father again, with all the arrogance of a royal prince on his shoulders, braced against me. Even his eyes were hard, like agates, as the Duke’s had been when his will was crossed. Today Henry was very much Duke of Lancaster, and I saw that my plea fell on stony ground. Perhaps he was even more King of England in his cold enforcement of justice.

And then the door of the audience chamber opened, the chamberlain approaching, and with him the man I had last seen on the bridge, who now walked to bow to Henry with the sleek smile of a snake in anticipation of a reward for a job well done. It was he who had brought John’s head to London. It was this man for whom Henry was waiting. Here was my enemy at Henry’s side with all the confidence of a chosen counsellor, as I knew he would be. Thomas FitzAlan, friend to Henry, who would soon be restored as Earl of Arundel.

‘It is done, sire,’ he said. ‘The traitor Holland is dead.’

Henry’s reply was brusque. ‘I am aware. You did not receive my orders?’

‘Sire?’ FitzAlan’s smile faded, his expression becoming a perfection of misunderstanding.

‘That Holland was to be escorted here to London, to the Tower.’

All my attention was grasped by this one statement. FitzAlan was unperturbed.

‘No, sire. The Countess and I received no such direction.’

Henry’s lips thinned. ‘Then I must thank you for the speed with which you dispatched an enemy of the peace of my kingdom.’

‘Indeed, Sire. The mob was most insistent that death was the only penalty.’

‘And I don’t suppose you worked over-hard to change their mind.’

‘No, Sire.’

Henry managed a regal smile. ‘I will speak with you later. You will receive your reward.’ And then to me, with no smile. ‘We will talk privately.’

‘We certainly will!’ I managed as he gripped my arm and drew me away from FitzAlan and the curious magnates and clerics. I wrenched away from him, yet thumped my fist against his shoulder. So much for lack of emotion. ‘You changed your mind.’

‘Yes.’ An infinitesimal pause. ‘And no.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my damned sister looked at me as if I were vermin beneath her feet.’ And here was emotion too. Henry’s eyes were alight with it, a strange mix of irritation and compassion. ‘I would have imprisoned him for you. I might have regretted it, to leave him alive to plot again, but I sent the order. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Oh, Hal!’ He had cared after all, but doubts still swam in my mind and I could not order my thoughts into line. ‘Do you believe FitzAlan? That your orders did not reach Pleshey in time?’

‘No. He took it upon himself.’

‘And will you punish him? For rank disobedience?’

‘No.’

No of course he would not. Did I believe my brother? Here was another brutal lesson for me in the reality of court politics. Henry might have ordered that John be spared and brought under his own jurisdiction, but he would not punish the FitzAlans who had effectively rid him of a man he could not trust. Henry would not mourn the outcome. Even better, John’s blood was not on Henry’s hands. Here, with a level of cunning that must be open to a clever king, my brother was confident enough to return my gaze without difficulty.

I could detect no guilt in him.

I knew all about guilt. I knew too much about it.

Fleetingly, I wondered if Henry would manage the death of Richard in similar fashion, so that others would be blamed, but the outcome would be to Henry’s benefit. Probably he would. Here before me were the workings of the mind of a pragmatic King rather than a loving brother. For the first time in our lives I thought Henry to be less than honest.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ he demanded.

I felt empty, unable to thank him as he clearly expected, but I knew what it was I wanted and what I could achieve.

‘I have this to say. John’s head is displayed on London Bridge at this very moment,’ I accused. ‘Is that by your consent?’

He sighed. ‘Sit with me, Elizabeth.’

‘Not until I have justice. You have refused the titles and land for my children. I want John’s head. I want it taken down from the bridge, to be restored and buried with his body. And I want it done today before further carrion ravages.’

‘Why should I?’ Henry’s face was set. ‘We have had this argument before. A man who turns against his King knows the risks. His head will be exhibited to put fear into the hearts of all men who would rise up against their anointed king. Why should I make an exception?’

‘Because the choices were too difficult for him to make,’ I replied without pause. ‘How impossibly hard it is for a man to abandon his brother. His heart was raw with it. I know it is hard for you,’ I pursued, swallowing against the knot in my throat. ‘But have mercy. I have been there, to the bridge. I have seen what they have done.’

‘No, Elizabeth …’ He looked at me aghast.

‘Yes. I was there.’ And with a little shrug of despair I allowed my emotion full rein at last, so that I did argue from my heart, the words spilling over us. ‘Who could show him that final respect but me? There is no one to bear witness to his passing. But, in the end, I could not, coward that I am. I could not stand there and watch them put his head on a spike for the carrion to destroy. But he could.’ I flung out my arm in the direction of the young man who had wreaked havoc in my life. ‘FitzAlan could, in vicious revenge. Surely you are better than that. In God’s name, Henry …’ I dragged in a breath. ‘Because I am your sister. Because it hurts my heart to see what is become of us. Because I ask it of you. For all that we have lived through and experienced together. Because of that I ask you to give me John’s head.’

Hands fisted on hips, Henry looked over towards the little group of magnates. What was he thinking? That it would be a mistake for such a show of apparent weakness?

‘Henry! Would it matter so much to you? For me it would be of greater value than this.’ And I flourished my hand, where our father’s great ruby flashed on my knuckle. ‘You were not always so intransigent.’

And there was the faintest warmth of a smile.

‘How can I refuse?’

Still I was uncertain. ‘I don’t know. But you might.’

‘I will not.’ He took hold of my hand with its great jewel and kissed my fingers. ‘This is what I will do. I will grant you restoration of Holland’s head. I will have it taken to Pleshey, to be buried in the church there, with his body.’

I drew in a breath at the magnificence of it. ‘FitzAlan will not agree. Or the Countess.’

‘It will not be for either to decide.’ Still he held my hand. ‘It will be sent to the Master of the collegiate church at Pleshey, under my seal, and they will give your husband a seemly burial. Will that suffice?’ His grip tightened. ‘Let this be the end of it, Elizabeth. Let him be buried and rest in as much peace as his soul can find. I doubt it will be much.’

‘I will pray for his soul,’ as some measure of relief was spreading through me at last.

‘Of course you will.’

‘What about me? My children? Will you restore the land that is theirs by right?’

But of course he remained adamant. ‘No. It is confiscated. It is how the game is played out, as you well know. You are free to make your home with me, and I will give you an income to compensate for your loss. I cannot have my sister wearing rags. Just look at you.’ His eyes flickered over my travel-worn garments, but any humour was gone when they returned to my face. ‘You should not have gone to the bridge.’

‘I had to be there. You should know that. I loved him. As you loved Mary.’

A shadow passed over Henry’s face. ‘How can you compare the two? Mary was all goodness. Holland had a soul forged in hell.’

‘He was driven by loyalty to his brother.’

‘He was driven by loyalty to his own interests.’

‘We will never agree, will we? My heart is broken.’

His smile was wry. ‘It will mend soon enough.’ He kissed my cheek, and then the other. ‘Let that be an end to it. You are my dearly loved sister and I will care for you.’

I did not wish to be cared for. Had I not all the resources to order my own life? But I would go back to court. I would fight for the rights of my children and I would try to live in equanimity with Henry because he was my own blood. I would raise my children to honour their father, for whom blood mattered more than life, who was ambitious and hot-tempered but who was also a man of surprising integrity. I would raise them to honour him and respect the King their uncle. I could do no more.

What of me?

All I had left was my pride and a deep raging guilt that would stay with me until death. I discovered there were traces of John’s blood on my fingers. It seemed horribly fitting.

As I was halfway across the chamber, Henry’s voice stopped me.

‘It is my intention to base my household and the children in Eltham. The palace pleases me. Come to Eltham. Come and live with me there, and we will try to rebuild what we have destroyed.’

Obviously an olive branch, if to my mind little more than a twig. Because I could think of no better plan, and I lacked the energy to refuse the gesture, that is what I did.

Richard was dead, at Pontefract. My first cousin, the man I had known from boyhood, had tolerated, sometimes despised, sometimes pitied, was dead. The boy who had been crowned with gold and anointed with holy oil was no more.

It came as no shock to me. No one spoke of it but every soul at Henry’s court had anticipated Richard’s demise. Nor did it touch me much, beyond a brush of regret, a sadness that his youthful promise had ended in imprisonment and an end that might or might not have been self-inflicted. Grief and tears were no longer within the scope of my emotions. I had expended far too much sorrow, and now felt as dry as a husk at autumn’s end.

We heard that he had deliberately starved himself, refusing all food and water and taking to his bed, willing himself to death since, having lost his crown, he had nothing to live for. I did not know if I believed this. It did not sound like the Richard I recalled, even at his most wayward, and said as much to Henry.

‘Why not?’ Henry was unimpressed. ‘He was refusing to eat when I took him prisoner at Flint Castle. He said he feared he would be poisoned. Whatever the cause, he’s dead and, if I’m honest, his absence is a weight off my mind.’ He returned my stare. ‘There was never any love lost between us. Don’t worry.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I will see that he is buried with honour. If I could ensure Holland’s burial with some dignity, I can do the same for Richard.’

I was not convinced.

‘Do you feel no remorse?’ I persisted as I stood beside Henry in St Paul’s Cathedral where Richard’s body, brought from Pontefract, at last lay in state. My royal cousin’s face was white and thin in death, at odds with the thickly embroidered pall that Henry had caused to be placed on the coffin. The white harts with their gilded collars brought back memories of happier times but now merely appeared doleful.

‘Remorse? For a self-inflicted death?’

And that was the end of it, apart from paying chantry priests to say a thousand masses for the repose of Richard’s soul and the removal of his body to King’s Langley. I knew it was not a subject for discussion. If Richard had died from foul means, my brother was distancing himself from all responsibility. It was not a new idea to me, nor the fact that Henry had grown beyond me, the weight of his new authority constructing a bulwark between us.

I did what I could. I offered prayers for Richard’s soul, and in the end I wept a little, but whether for Richard or for Henry I could not say.

‘You were right, John,’ I murmured against my clasped hands as I knelt alone in Henry’s chapel at Eltham. ‘I can’t condone the death you plotted for Henry and his sons, but you saw the future well enough. Richard’s death was inevitable. You could not have saved him.’

Silence walled me in. There was no sense of John to comfort me.

‘Forgive me, John. Forgive me for everything.’

If I hoped to feel a sense of peace, it did not come to me.