The King’s Sister

Chapter Eighteen

I must pick up the reins of my life again. If nothing else, in those tranquil days in Lincoln Katherine had taught me that there was no going back and I must step into the future. First I must go to Dartington, despite all the memories and the simple fact that I had no right to be there. I did not think Henry would mind.

How welcoming were the children, overwhelming me with their chatter and demands, the younger ones as yet unknowing and untouched by John’s absence. Richard, who seemed to have grown a hand span in his new authority, was grave, until the energies of youth returned and so did his laughter. Constance touched my hand in some stalwart level of communion and I hugged her close. Alice and Elizabeth concentrated on the rough-haired puppy that had replaced the singing birds in their affection. John prepared to take himself off to inspect the new horses in the stable until I dissuaded him. Baby Edward watched from the arms of his nurse, exhibiting toothless gums in formless chatter.

And then there was nothing more for me to do but sit in my chamber with the future brooding like a summer storm that was approaching, clouds dark over the trees to the west. Princess Joan had seen the approaching clouds and tempests so many years ago, and I had paid her fears no real heed. I hoped she would forgive me, and acknowledge that I had done all I could to preserve the strength and unity of my family. I had failed, but I had done all I could.

Now my future stretched before me, pitifully empty, and I dreaded it. It was as if John’s death had made me see my life, unrolling like a new and priceless tapestry. But whereas a new tapestry would glow with vital colours, inhabited by busy men and women beautifully clad, enhanced with birds and flowers and creatures of the chase, my life flowed before me, old and grey and formless, without colour, no points of interest, void of happy emotion as it had become apart from my children.

Was this what I wanted? Was this to be my life, in the rural fastness of Dartington, alone, without company or conversation, with nothing to do but oversee my Steward’s running of an estate that was not mine, judging myself anew day after day? Oh, I could take on John’s mantle as lord of this manor, but was that what I wanted? Would I be satisfied with an annual descent on the royal court when my brother summoned me for Twelfth Night festivities, an ageing widowed aunt to Henry’s sons, under constant requests to wed again, a royal bride whose blood was more important than her face?

A bride whose ability to carry another child might be fast vanishing as the years took their toll.

I was thirty-seven years old.

Or would a convent open its doors to me in the end, to allow me spend the rest of my days on my knees in penance? Surely that would be preferable, but I could not think so. I was no more drawn to a cloistered life than I had been when faced with an illicit lover and an inconvenient quickening. That was not the future I would grasp.

A thud of a fist against my door caused me to look up, and there was my steward with a written instruction in his hand.

‘There is a package arrived for you some time ago, my lady. It’s stored with all the documents. Shall I have it sent here to your chamber?

‘No. I’ll come to your room.’

It would give my thoughts some direction.

One box, the bill said. For delivery to the Lady Elizabeth of Lancaster. No mention of its contents. Was it some items I had left at York, sent on by Henry? I could not imagine Henry being concerned enough to restore some trivial possessions to me when the imminent invasion of Scotland would take up all his energies. And why use my unwed style? On discovering it, it was not large but well travelled. My steward set the coffer on the floor at my feet, where, intrigued, I knelt beside it on the tiles.

I opened the lid.

Then did nothing but sit back on my heels with my hands resting on the sides as my curiosity froze into mind-numbing shock.

Had this been done deliberately? Was this nothing but another FitzAlan ploy to twist the knife in the wound against all connected with John Holland? I could think of no other reason for this box of bloodstained and torn garments. From the heraldic device on the breast of the tunic, they had belonged to John. When had he last worn them? Were these the rags he had worn in the room at Pleshey? I did not know, could not recall, but they were a testament to his final days of hardship and cruel handling.

Carefully I lifted them, setting them equally carefully aside for it seemed wrong for me to mishandle them even as I flinched from the stiffness of filth and dried gore beneath my hands. There was nothing of value beneath. There would not be, of course. Anything of value from John’s person would even now be in the coffers of Thomas FitzAlan. So why send me something so worthless in the eyes of the world, but so agonisingly painful for me?

‘What do I do with them, my lady?’

I shook my head, then extracted a thickly folded piece of parchment which, originally slipped down the side, now fell into the bottom. As I recognised the writing on the superscription my hands clenched so the document crackled.

Why was it not destroyed too? And then I knew. It was addressed to me as Elizabeth of Lancaster, royal sister of King Henry, rather than Elizabeth Holland. John left nothing to chance. He had done all in his power to make sure it reached me.

To be left in the keeping of Henry, King of England.

That had ensured its continuity. It had been read, of course, that I could see, but although the original seal had been broken, it had been resealed with Henry’s own. So it was Henry who had the chivalrous intent to get John’s final words to me. For a time I kept the letter held between my two palms, horribly uncertain. But how could I not read it? And since it had not been destroyed, it clearly contained nothing of importance. I opened it and began.

My most beloved Elizabeth.

The letters were crudely formed. I could imagine John struggling with his damaged hands, which was proof enough that this was of great importance for him to send me these final thoughts. John rarely wrote, preferring the might of the sword to the pen. I must read it, read it to the end, even though there was no preamble to soften the blow.

I know what you did.

I forced myself to read on.

I know what you did and why you did it. I know you too well, how much love there is in your heart for me but also for your brother. You were raised to value the bonds of family and I swear you learned your lessons well. How could you not do all in your power to save Henry’s life? My tale of a polite discussion was a poor one, but the best I could do when you discovered the plot and challenged me with it.

I don’t blame you. I should have known when I told you—it was my mistake. I should not have burdened you with a secret you could not keep, but I did because I was afraid that you would set in motion events that would destroy our conspiracy. Not that it would have mattered in the end.

This is what I would say to you, my love. You must never believe that you were in any way to blame for my death. It was not you who told the detail of our intent to Henry. You did not know enough to undermine the whole scheme. There was another who did. It was Edward of Rutland, one of our own number. He played the traitor. I know this because FitzAlan found delight in telling me, that one of our own conspirators was responsible. Henry used him as a spy, while Edward had his eye on the restoration of his title of Aumale. Henry knew about the plot, and the full truth of it, long before you told him.

I know you will say that your betrayal still cannot be excused. I say that it can. You had your reasons. Are we not all bound up with indestructible chains of fealty? Now you must forgive yourself, as I forgive you.

I can hear your voice so clearly, refusing to be absolved. But I say to you: I forgive you. I take the burden from you. My death is after all at my own door, for I made the choice of Richard over Henry. See how magnanimous I can be in death.

Before my hands stiffen beyond repair—not that it will matter after tomorrow—I will say this. You should wed again. You were not made to live alone.

I will remember what we mean to each other until the last breath in my body. You are the light in my life, the most precious jewel of all my achievements. As long as my heart continues to beat in my body, know that it holds fast to you, as I know that you will continue to love me, whatever the future holds for you.

You have so much to live for.

Remember, for my sake, that the capacity to love does not die when the lover dies.

My breath heaved.

Until I became aware of my steward with a cup of wine at my elbow. Gratefully I took it and drank. And then the final scrawl, as if his energy and dexterity had deserted him.

John Holland, Duke of Exeter.

The title that was no longer his but which he had chosen to use at the end, a final act of defiance.

I impressed the page with the tips of my finger, as if I might still sense his presence, the force of his mind behind his written words. And perhaps I could, for how much truth was enfolded in John’s final testament. We had both been challenged with the same dilemma: to choose love or duty. How glorious it would have been to choose love. But neither of us was free to do that, and so in a strange mirroring of each other, we had chosen duty over family, and in so doing we had destroyed what we loved most. Yet here it was, plainly stated. John’s indestructible love for me, and mine for him.

And at last, at last, a comfort settled over me, softening all the edges in my soul. No tears. I had wept enough and more. Here was a strange joy that John had understood my imperfect reasoning and, even when all the horrors of a violent death had been waiting for him, he had had the greatness of spirit to acquit me.

It was Edward. Oh, I was not without blame, but it was my cousin of York who had betrayed the plotters, telling every detail of their intent, for no other motive than to put himself right in Henry’s eyes and receive recompense. Was it true? Of course it was. Edward was the only one of them who had not been punished, but instead was received once more at court, ostentatiously busy in Henry’s confidences. If I needed any evidence, there it was. Henry had used our cousin for his own ends, and Cousin Edward had seen a chance for his own ambitions. My little cousin who had the skill of falling on his feet: adopted as Richard’s brother but turning his allegiance fast enough to Henry. Trusted by John in the Revolt of the Earls, but wooed by Henry to turn evidence against them.

I despised the ground he trod on. But my hatred of Edward could wait for another day, for that was not all. Folded within the page of John’s letter was the briefest of notes in Henry’s hand.

I hope this eases your broken heart and your conscience, Elizabeth. I am in haste to Scotland. You might find it in you to reconsider John Cornewall as your husband if he returns from this debacle intact.

Henry had taken the time to do this for me, beset as he was with his own problems. Understanding why he had done it, my heart melted towards him a little.

Finishing the wine, I made my excuses before retiring again to my chamber, where I opened my jewel coffer to retrieve the broken pieces of John’s worthless silver heart, given so long ago when we had nothing to think about but the attraction between us. How could he have guessed its terrible foreshadowing? Once, fancifully, I had thought of having a silversmith mend it but it had never been done. It would never be restored now. Was not my own heart still broken? But both halves were in my keeping, and one day they might be healed.

I lifted the pieces of silver to my lips, just once, before replacing them in the coffer.

Is forgiveness possible, John?

Here was for me the truth in the mirror that John’s letter had held up so that I might see my soul. I could face the most painful question of all: would I make the same choice again, if presented with the same dilemma?

Yes, I would. Because to put my love for my husband before my integrity and duty towards my brother would have been to condone the death of Henry and his sons. How could I have lived with that burden on my conscience? Yes, I would make the same decision again, even though I now knew that Henry’s political ambition took precedence over his brotherly affection for me. I was betrayed on all sides, but yes, I too was capable of betrayal.

How tainted was royal blood.

‘Is forgiveness possible, John?’ I asked again, aloud.

He thought so. It was his last and most gracious, most precious gift to me. I touched the veiled head of the little statue of the Virgin on my prie-dieu. I felt her forgiveness at last.

In the following days I read John’s letter until I could repeat it word for word, waiting. And then, with the arrival of the news I had been anticipating, I prepared to travel north again. The Scottish campaign was over; Henry and his army were returned to England.

I forgive you, John had written.

Could I forgive myself?

Perhaps, at last, these days blessed by the gift of John’s absolution had proved to me that I could.

For the briefest of moments other figures were there to accompany me as I made my arrangements for the journey, ghosts from the past keeping pace.

Jonty, as I had known him in his youthful enthusiasms, would have raced around, into everything, his enjoyment a noisy entity in this quiet place. He was always a boy in my memories. He always would be.

Richard, even before he wore the crown, would have had no interest at all, abandoning such mundane tasks to those in his employ, while he sought out someone to impress and admire. As King of England he would have demanded an entourage worthy of his greatness.

Whereas John, my beloved John, would have prowled like some caged beast in the royal menagerie, ever-restless, exchanging ribald comments with his men, laughing at shared memories, giving me no rest until I abandoned whatever took my time, to join him in some expedition or engagement. He would have lured me, flattered me, employing all the charm he possessed until I remembered why I had missed him so desperately during his absence.

For a moment, just a shadow caught by a blink of an eye, John was there at my side. It was always John who was with me as I rose at the beginning of each day. The one true centre of my life, the bane of my life, who had shattered the bond between us because of loyalty to his brother, as I became estranged from him through loyalty to mine. How complex were constancy and fidelity when they would seem to be the most unambiguous truths in the world, how full of pain and regrets. John and I would have loved and argued and lived until old age, and I would not have been standing here, adrift, at Dartington, if conflicting honour had not dragged us down.

But that was in the past. Here in my mind were new possibilities, new ventures. Deliberately, heart-wrenchingly, I drove John’s ghost away.

The capacity to love does not die when the lover dies.

I would never love John less, but maybe it was possible to find affection again. My passion for John would not be diminished if I allowed myself to take this step into the future.

So many ends to be taken up and mended, if my Plantagenet pride would allow it. Like my ageing tapestry fraying from careless use, it would need careful stitching over a lifetime. Or, I decided, it was more like a palimpsest, where the manuscript was scraped clean, the old words removed, new ones rewritten. Here was the future for my re-writing, forming in my head with bold strokes, and I knew it was what Princess Joan would have done, with utmost conviction.

Go to Henry. Make your peace with him. Petition again in moderate words for lands and titles for your sons. Allow Henry to arrange good marriages for your daughters. He will listen to you, he must listen. And then go to Pleshey to acknowledge the burial of John Holland and let him rest in peace, so that you, too, can find peace.

And there was more, crowding into my thoughts, emerging from my own intuition.

I would be icily tolerant of Thomas FitzAlan, as a political necessity. I would try to be decorous in the company of the Countess of Hereford. I would grit my teeth and speak with my cousin Edward as if the hatred in my belly did not exist. I would do that, all of that. The grief and guilt that had wearied me, numbed me, had lost their hold and I felt strong and sure at last. Henry needed to hold on to this kingdom and I would not hinder him.

Yes, I would do all of those things, through duty and sisterly affection, but what of me and my life? And at last I smiled a little for there would be a man at Henry’s side. John Cornewall, a bold knight with perfect manners, a knight with only twenty-five years to his name, younger even than Jonty, whom I had rejected as a child when I was full grown at seventeen. How strange the circles of life. But the years had moved on and the difference in life span between us was not so great. Here was no untried boy: here was a man metalled in battle, a man with strong views and ambitions to match.

I might be a path to power and wealth for this man of my brother’s choosing, but I thought it would not be an unsatisfactory bargain between us. Burdens were to be borne as lightly as possible. Love? I did not think so, but respect and graciousness were not to be disparaged in a coming together of man and wife.

Would he forgive me the ill-manners of our parting? I thought that he would. He might even ask me to dance again. And, with an unexpected surge of life within me, of new hope, I thought that I might accept.