The King’s Sister

Chapter Three

Before such fanfare and panoply, the court was called upon to welcome Princess Joan herself, and what an appearance she made as a majestic plumed palanquin, complete with outriders, an army of servants and a half dozen pack animals, all deemed necessary for a lengthy stay, made its ponderous way into the inner courtyard where it lurched to a halt. It was not necessary to draw back the curtains for the occupant to be recognisable, or for her importance to be appreciated. Heraldic achievements aflutter and pinned to every minion’s breast, here was Joan, Fair Maid of Kent, Dowager Princess of Wales, King’s Mother.

The lady was handed out by two of her women, enabling her to stand and survey the hastily assembled welcoming party, irritation written in every line of her body. Positioned as I was behind a little knot of courtiers, I could barely see her short figure, only the wide padded role of the chaplet that concealed every lock of her hair and supported an all-enveloping veil, but I could hear her explosion of anger.

‘God’s Blood! Where is my son?’

Sensibly Richard had made himself available, with as many members of his court as he could muster when the Princess’s proximity was announced. Now he emerged from the royal apartments, walking in stately fashion down the steps, only to be seized in the Princess’s arms and dragged into a close embrace as if he were still a small boy, while I slid my way between shoulders and overlapping skirts until it was easy for me to see the strange pair they made in this reunion. Richard, young and angelically fair, had grown tall in recent months, over-reaching his mother who had become so stout that even climbing the steps at his side made her catch her breath. Once, before my birth in the reign of the old King, Joan had been acknowledged as the most beautiful woman in England, and led a scandal-ridden life that made the most of her undoubted charms. Now her broad features and less than svelte figure proclaimed a woman who was a shadow of that former beauty.

But her eyes, although they might be swathed in little mounds of flesh, were still keen and beautifully sharp, and the timbre of her voice was mellifluous even though it could cut like a knife. As it did.

‘Holy Virgin! That journey was a nightmare from start to finish. The state of the roads between here and Wallingford is a disgrace, Richard. You must do something about it. And the riff-raff that use them. I have come to meet the bride. I should have been here yesterday.’

‘I would have sent my own escort, Madam,’ Richard said, not pleased at being taken to task.

‘That would hardly shorten my journey.’

‘You appear to have travelled in comfort,’ Richard observed with an eye to the equipage being led away.

The Princess waved this irrelevance aside but her complaint ground to a halt as, noticing them in the crowd, she graciously extended her hand for her two sons by her first marriage to Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent, to kiss. Which I noticed they did with alacrity, yet much affection, even if they were now grown men and royal counsellors.

‘Thomas …’ she said. ‘And John …’

‘My wife is within,’ Richard announced, intent on reclaiming his mother’s attention.

‘In a moment …’

The Princess’s eye, still quartering the crowd like a huntsman searching out its prey, fell on me. Since she saw fit to snap her fingers in imperious command, I approached and curtsied again, wishing Philippa was with me. I might be Elizabeth of Lancaster but this lady, my aunt by marriage, was the King’s Mother and of vast consequence. She was also a person of hasty temper and trenchant opinions. Besides, she had more affection for Philippa than she held for me.

‘So you’re here too, Elizabeth. Of course you are. And your father? Where’s Constanza? Not that it matters. She’ll do as she chooses—she always has. You’d better join my ladies. I have need of an intelligent woman about me.’ She looked me over from head to foot with a surprising degree of speculation. ‘Come with me. I need to regain my strength before I make the acquaintance of my new daughter. You can be of use.’

So I followed Princess Joan who walked without hesitation to the chambers usually allotted to her when she stayed at Westminster, her habitual accommodation and my own obedience presumed with royal hauteur. And that was the manner in which, for a short period of time, I became a member of Princess Joan’s demanding household. An unnerving experience, all in all, as the lady, her colour high, dismissed her own women, piled her outer garments into my arms, instructed me to send for wine and food, then handed me a comb as she removed the complication of her hair-covering. And I complied. Princess Joan, not a woman blessed with tolerance, appeared to be in a mood of high volatility.

Eventually she was settled to her liking on a bank of pillows, eating sweetmeats and drinking honeyed wine to recover from her ordeal. Disposed on a low stool at her side, waiting for the moment when she would command me to comb her hair, I sighed at the third telling of the stresses of her travelling. Hearing me, the Princess stared, before directing her attention fully to my appearance.

‘Fine feathers, my girl.’

I was no finer than the Princess, heated and opulent in a high necked robe with fur at neck and cuffs, the complex pattern of leaves and flowers rioting over her bulk so that she resembled a vast spring meadow.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘And why not? Enjoy your youth while you may. It dies fast enough. And then there is nought to look forward to but old age when those around you ignore you.’ Which I could not imagine for one moment had been the Princess’s experience. Continuing to regard me, her chin tilted. ‘Now tell me. Is your marriage to young Pembroke satisfactory?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ I might resent such peremptory questioning, but to answer briefly and politely would be circumspect and invoke no criticism.

‘Not consummated yet, I take it.’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Is Pembroke here?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

The Princess’s stare sharpened. ‘I’ve a word of advice for you. I trust you’ll not use this occasion of merriment to cause gossip. He’s very young and you’re of an age to look for more than a boy can offer.’

I stiffened, hand clenching around the comb, at the unwarranted attack. ‘My demeanour will be beyond criticism, my lady.’

‘Good. Because beautiful young women always cause gossip, even when they are innocent of all charges. And don’t look at me as if I had no knowledge of what goes on when the court is in flamboyant mood. I caused scandal enough in my youth. Although I was not always innocent …’ She paused to sip the wine and dispatch another plum, chewing energetically. ‘But listen to me, madam. I called you here because you are young and lovely and ripe for mischief. Don’t deny it …’ As I opened my mouth to do so. ‘You must curb your passions. It would be dangerous for your father if any further scandal were to be attached to his name at this juncture. His position is too precarious. That monkish weasel Walsingham might be prepared to sing the Duke of Lancaster’s praises again, but he still has more enemies than is healthy. It is essential that you remain alert for those who would wound him. You and your sister must live exemplary lives.’

‘I do. We both do.’

‘No need to be affronted, Elizabeth.’ Her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘So you were not conversing for too long and in too intimate a fashion with my son, under the eye of the whole court? Don’t look so astonished. Court intrigue spreads faster than poison from a snake-bite.’

I sought for a reply, thoughts racing through my mind. It was like holding a master swordsman at bay. And I was indeed astonished. Where had that piece of gossip originated? There was no blame for which I needed to apologise.

‘I was in conversation with Sir John, my lady,’ I admitted lightly. ‘But there was nothing untoward. We did not even dance. He brought me wine, entertained me and addressed me as cousin. I would never indulge in intrigue.’

‘Good.’ She held out her cup for me to refill. ‘Now I must also say …’

‘Why do they hate my father so much, my lady?’ I interrupted, hoping to deflect the Princess from yet another attack on my character, and it was a subject that had impressed itself on me since the terrible events of the previous year.

It certainly caught her attention, but not in the manner I had hoped for. Her eyes almost stripped the flesh from my bones as she regarded me. ‘Are you telling me that you don’t know?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, you should. What have you been doing all your life?’ I thought her eyes flashed with a species of disdain, but perhaps it was merely the candlelight flickering in a draught. ‘Filling your head with nothing but frivolities and your new husband, I wager, when the country’s being torn asunder around us. Shame on you. And you an intelligent young woman. How old are you?’ Then without waiting for a reply. ‘You must learn, my dear Elizabeth, to keep your wits about you. To keep your political sense in tune, like your favourite lute. Would you allow its strings to become flat? Of course you would not! Knowledge is strength, my girl. Knowledge is power. If you know nothing, it will cast you into the hands of your enemies.’

I have no enemies.

Once I would have said that with conviction, but since the previous year I knew it not to be true, and so I must bury my pride. Joan’s warning had fallen on fertile ground, forcing me to realise that there was much I had never contemplated in my world of cushioned luxury. In the days of the Great Rising any man who bore the livery of Lancaster had feared for his life. Henry and I had escaped but my father’s much-loved physician had been executed on Tower Hill. As for the magnificent Savoy Palace, that most beloved of childhood homes, it had been utterly destroyed. Not one stone was left standing and all its contents were laid waste in a rage of revenge. I had shed tears for the blood and the destruction. I could no longer pretend ignorance. Being an intimate member of the King’s family would not protect me from those who despised us

‘So tell me, Madam.’ Still I bridled a little. ‘It seems I have been foolishly ignorant. Tell me why my father is so detested.’

The Princess needed no encouragement.

‘Where do I begin? All is not good for England. Where are the noble victories of the past? The glories of Crécy and Poitiers? We flounder in defeat after defeat, yet the tax is high to pay for it. The Poll Tax is heavy on the peasants while the law holds down their wages. Do they blame my son the King? How can they? He is too young to blame. They need a scapegoat, and who better than Lancaster who stands at the King’s side and orders his affairs? They pile their grievances on his head. He has already proved he is not the war leader his brother was.’ Momentarily her eyes softened at the memory of the military exploits of Prince Edward, her much lamented late husband, but only momentarily. Once again they were fiercely focused on me. ‘The rebels last year would have had your father’s blood. As for Lancaster’s heir—they’d have strung your brother up from the nearest tree as soon as look at him.’

‘I know this. We all lived through the horrors. But surely all is well again. My father made reparation.’

Surprising me, the Princess reached with her free hand, fingers honey-smeared, to touch my arm.

‘He did, and should be honoured for it.’

A terrible reparation it had been. Accepting God’s punishment for his immorality as the cause of England’s troubles, my father had made a public confession, ending with a rejection of Dame Katherine, banishing her from his life. It had filled the household with grief. It had, I suspected, broken my father’s heart. It had certainly destroyed Dame Katherine’s reputation since Walsingham saw fit to damn her as whore and witch. Such an admission to make, such a wrenching apart of their relationship, to restore peace and confidence to Richard’s tottering government, but the Duke had done it because duty to the Crown and his nephew demanded it.

‘But all is not well,’ Princess Joan continued, dusting her fingers before returning to her sweetmeats. ‘On the surface you father is restored to favour, the rebels put down, but there are those who still resent his power as my son’s counsellor. There are too many with their eyes open for any excuse to attack and remove him from Richard’s side. Don’t give anyone a weapon to use against him, Elizabeth.’

This reading of court politics clutched at my belly, for I had seen no dangerous undercurrents. But what possible effect would it have on the direction of my life?

‘I do not see, my lady, that my speaking with your son would give anyone ammunition against my father,’ I said.

‘Perhaps not. But it’s good policy to be discreet and circumspect. Lancaster needs no divisions with the Pembroke faction if you appear less than a loyal wife.’ She squeezed my arm again with sticky emphasis, and some residue of humour. ‘I’ll not say don’t enjoy yourself but it would be advantageous for you to keep my warnings in mind. Richard is growing fast to maturity. How long will he need his ageing uncles at his side, chastising and advising and pushing him in directions he does not wish to go? He’ll want to be rid of them. He’ll listen to any man who sows seeds of defection. Don’t give anyone a reason to awaken old scandals. Your reputation must be whiter than the feathers on a dove’s breast.’

Her reference was clear enough.

‘I know,’ I said, looking away to hide the sadness that those probing eyes might detect. ‘I miss Dame Katherine.’

‘So do I. Witch she might be, to seduce Lancaster—though I doubt he needed much seducing—but she has always struck me as a woman of uncommonly good sense. And without doubt Lancaster loved her.’ The Princess finished the wine, her homily at an end. ‘And now we’ve covered all the political goings-on at my son’s court, it’s time I met the bride. Braid my hair, Elizabeth.’

Standing, I applied the comb to hair now almost entirely grey but which once must have added to her considerable beauty. Once more in its confining roll, she inspected the effect in her looking glass, grimaced, but nodded.

‘It’s the best that can be done. In my time I had every man at court at my feet, but now …’ She struggled with my help to stand. ‘Take me to her and I’ll see what I make of this Anne of Bohemia. Will I like her?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ I let her rest her hand on my arm as we walked slowly through the audience chambers.

‘Will she prove to be a solid influence on my son?’

‘I think she will.’ I wondered if her suspicions of Richard’s waywardness were as lively as mine, but could not ask. ‘He has great affection for her,’ I said.

‘Then let us give thanks to Our Lady. May be she can achieve where we cannot.’

How I admired this woman who walked haltingly at my side, her fingers digging into my arm. So deeply in touch with events and movements she was, despite living in some seclusion at Wallingford. Princess Joan might appear indolent and pleasure-loving, but she was impressively well informed. Her discourse had appealed to my intellect as well as my pride. I would never allow myself to be ignorant again of matters that might harm the Lancaster household. I was grateful to her.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.

‘There!’ she replied with a malicious little glint in her eye. ‘I knew you would be useful to me. I have a high regard for your father. You can be my eyes and ears. Mine are beginning to suffer from advanced age.’

Taken aback, I slid a glance.

‘When I am gone, who will put their strength behind your father? And when your brother becomes Duke in the fullness of time, who will stand beside him? I see dark clouds looming, storms and tempests the like of which we have never seen before. We women have a role to play. Family loyalty must not be taken for granted. A woman must foster it as she raises her children and stitches her altar cloths. You must foster it, Elizabeth, for my days are numbered. Men wield their swords, but women have the gift of careful listening at keyholes. And of persuasion when brute force fails.’ Upon which she halted, clamping a hand in my sleeve, and regarded me even more sternly. ‘I put this burden on you. Are you listening?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

A frisson of interest, or was it disbelief, gripped me. What was she asking? Never had I been called upon to shoulder so weighty a mission, but of course I would obey. Was not my family the most important part of my life? Without question I would be Princess Joan’s eyes and ears, open to any whisper of danger or attack against Lancaster. I would remain constant and steadfast all my days. And then, on a thought:

‘Why did you not ask my sister?’

‘Your sister will believe the best of everyone. She’s no use to me. Now you, Elizabeth, are cut from quite a different bolt of cloth.’

Which made me laugh. ‘I hope I am able to live up to your expectations, my lady. But I will certainly pray for this new marriage.’

‘I know you will. And I know that you will prove yourself a magnificent supporter of Lancaster.’ We began to move again, the Princess labouring a little but still as incisive as ever. ‘But remember what I say. Don’t smile too overtly or too kindly on my son.’

‘No, my lady. I will not.’

‘I wish I could believe you,’ she remarked with dry appreciation as we at last entered the royal presence. ‘I have my doubts. My son has proved himself a man who makes women forget their promises.’

I smiled. I would never again be ignorant, but indeed I could not promise. Nor was I worried about future storms and tempests for my anticipation of my next meeting with Sir John Holland was too keen. But I would, of course, be careful. My reputation, as the Princess had put it, would suffer no reverses. Could I ever be so well tuned to the political nuances of Richard’s court as she? I could not, in my frivolous mind, imagine it. But I would never neglect my Lancaster blood. No member of my family would ever suffer because of some lack in me.

But first there was the tournament. My heart was light, my spirits overflowing.

The weather was a perfect January afternoon for Richard’s festivities: cold and crisp and clear. Muffled in furs from chin to floor, the women of the court took their places in the new pavilion hung with bright tapestry enhanced with swags and gilding, Queen Anne in pride of place as Lady of the Lists, with me at her side, honoured, as was fitting, as her chief lady-in-waiting and cousin by marriage.

It was the simplest of matters for me to push aside Princess Joan’s advice, her warnings that I should be aware of threat and danger at every turn. Of course she would see the dark side of every glance, slide and movement around the King, and, given her history, the insidious menace of scandal. Was it not the role of a lioness to fear for her cub? But I was young and beautiful and need have no fears. With my father once more counsellor at the King’s side, why did I need to worry my mind with court politics? Was I not too young to carry such a burden? And I was wearing a gown so heavy in gold thread that it turned every head.

Above my head, pennons snapped in the breeze to display Anne’s heraldic motifs quartered with Richard’s. It was a fine display. Richard was very keen on display.

Across the field of battle we could make out the two teams of combatants. My father was jousting today. There was Henry. And Sir John Holland in the Lancaster contingent. There was my husband, Earl of Pembroke, astride a lively gelding, proudly bearing a Lancaster banner as page to my father.

The opposition was led, reluctantly, by my uncle of York, but there would be no danger. Lances capped, it would be a tournament à plaisance.

Would we prove to be invincible?

Richard did not fight. Richard had no interest in fighting. The only time I recalled Richard being part of such a glorious event was in the Great Hall as a child, receiving a mock challenge from a squire tricked out in skirts and false hair as a young virgin. Was he the only Plantagenet not to enjoy bearing arms? Gloriously clad in silk damask and crown, he sat at his wife’s side to enjoy the spectacle.

Excitement built within me like a hunger. I could no more have absented myself from this event than from the wedding ceremony. Anne might be Lady of the Lists but I knew who would be the chosen lady for John Holland. And there he was, his horse on a tight curb yet eating up the distance between us, the three golden Holland lions snarling across his chest. Jousting helm still in possession of his squire, my chivalrous knight bowed to me. Today there was no subtle perfume: the aroma of horse and leather and rank sweat was exhilarating.

‘My lady.’ His expression was as smooth as wax, as if there were nothing untoward in his request. And indeed his words confirmed his clever ploy. ‘As a representative of Lancaster on this auspicious day, and in the absence of your illustrious husband from the field of battle, it would be an honour if you would allow me, and my poor skills, to be your champion.’

How clever. How damnably clever. How could I refuse so innocuous an offer?

‘Why do you hesitate?’ the Queen whispered in my ear. ‘If you do not take him, I will!’

And I laughed at how easy it was to enjoy the attentions of so talented a jouster. My mind was made up, if it had not been already. Sir John would not wear the Queen’s favours this day.

‘Give him something!’ the Queen urged. ‘Let’s get on with it. It’s as cold as charity, sitting here.’

I thought of giving him my glove as a guerdon, but it was too cold for that. I would be no martyr to John Holland. The ring? No, I did not think so. It would draw too much attention. Instead I burrowed under my furs and unpinned a knot of ribbon from my bodice, handing it to one of the Queen’s pages with a gesture for him to give it to my chosen knight.

‘My thanks, sir. I trust you will carry it to victory.’

‘Your beauty is only outshone by that of our Queen. I pledge you my victory.’

Which went down very well, all in all.

It was a true conflict of knight riding against knight, each pitting his skill with lance and horse against his opponent. The Duke was superb. One day Henry would excel. But in the middle of it all I watched John Holland perform with every brilliant feat of arms I knew he would exhibit to unhorse any man who rode against him. It was a tour de force. My father’s knights emerged victorious.

It might have been an anticlimax that it was Queen Anne who awarded the victory garlands, but Sir John’s words were for me.

‘My lady. Your beauty spurred me on to victory.’

Tomorrow, I would be the one to crown him with glory.

After supper, he invited me to dance and I accepted, so that we wound round the great dancing chamber, my hand in his. At the end of which stately performance, he took the opportunity to re-pin the ribbon to my bodice.

‘You are a brave woman, Elizabeth.’

‘Why is that? It was you who exhibited bravery today, sir.’

Sir John kissed my fingers, fleetingly but with heat. My heart fluttered.

‘Not all bravery is in wielding a sword or a lance. If you look round this hall, at this precise moment I think there are at least a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on you.’

‘Because I dance so well.’

‘If that is what you wish to believe. But I know better. And so do you, Countess.’ His parting shot, before he strolled away to engage the Queen in some light conversation.

I knew what he meant. I was not naïve in the ways of the court, or in John Holland’s unpredictable character. I was aware of Philippa’s warning glance, of Henry frowning in my direction. What of it? Turning my back on them I set myself to dance every dance, foiling any attempt my brother might make to put his frowns into words. I had a suspicion of what he would say, but he was only my brother, and younger than I. There was no necessity for me to listen to him, was there? My public demeanour had crossed no line; there was no cause for me to acknowledge any social impropriety.

The second day of the tournament dawned, brother Henry taking the crowd by storm. Truly dazzling, the silver spangles on his armour, fashioned into the form of unfolding roses, elicited a cheer from the spectators.

I spent a moment in admiration. But only a moment for I was not here to admire Henry. Today, in the new Queen’s gift I would be Lady of the Lists with the seat of honour. I would cheer Lancaster on to victory and I would be the one to crown Sir John Holland with laurels.

Much like my brother, I had dressed to take every eye at the tournament, a cloak of magnificent sables and a jewelled coif gleaming in the winter sun as I made my way to the steps where I would climb to the front of the pavilion, smiling at those I knew, exchanging words of welcome. Anticipation of what was to come was a fine thing that made me want to laugh aloud. The sharp sunshine set the armour and weapons glittering so that everything in my sight was hard edges, as if rimmed with a keen frost. I would enjoy this day like no other.

But was there something amiss? A watchfulness perhaps. A standing on tiptoe tension. Yet how could there be? The jousting had yet to begin. As with all tournaments in my experience, the knights were yawningly tardy in making their preparations, the heralds were still deep in conversation, trumpets tucked beneath their arms.

No, the whole event was simply waiting on my appearance. As I lifted my furs to take that first step, I smiled with a comment to my aunt of Gloucester, who replied with a slide of eye towards the principal seats.

And I saw what it was.

The principal seat with its cushions and fringed awning—the one promised to me—was occupied by a diminutive lady that was not the Queen. Beautifully clad, the net that covered her hair thick with gems that caused her dark curls to glitter as if covered with rain drops, the Lady of the Lists held court, laughing with her ladies who had commandeered the seats beside her.

Isabella, Duchess of York, my aunt by marriage. Constanza’s Castilian sister.

I hesitated, knowing that in this moment of my discomfiture I was on display, and would look callow and foolish if I hesitated here much longer. I was not the only one to know that the Queen had promised me this honour. Perhaps I had been unwise to broadcast my delight so freely. Now I could sense the faces turning in my direction, in amusement, or gentle mockery, or perhaps even malice from those who would gladly deflate the pride of Lancaster.

Where to sit? How to practice nonchalance with my aunt Gloucester smirking at my rigid shoulder blade.

Rescue was to hand; Queen Anne, taking a handful of my sables and pulling me to the seat next to her, where I subsided with much relief, well camouflaged as I twitched my furs into order. All smoothly accomplished as if this had been my intent all along.

‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked quietly beneath the increased bustle as the combatants rallied.

‘Oh, no.’ My smile was brilliant. I would never admit to so shallow an emotion.

‘Richard changed his mind. He wished to honour the Duchess of York.’

And probably put me in my place, I thought. ‘Richard often changes his mind,’ I said. ‘It is of no importance.’

I was too well mannered to make a scene, too conscious of my own dignity to draw attention to the dismay that hung heavy as a stone in my chest. It would make no difference, of course. Sir John would still be my champion. Or even the Queen’s, which I could accept.

The knights approached, the Duke of York even more lugubrious than on the previous day. Here was glorious Henry. And Jonty, bearing my father’s helm with great care, grinned at me, managing not to wave in recognition. And here, at last, magnificently mounted, all dark glamour from his ordered hair to the light glancing off his armour, was John Holland, who rode past me as if I did not exist.

My smile had the quality of a bizarre death rictus when my chivalric knight betrayed me to bow before Isabella, Lady of the Lists, who stood as she untied the obligatory knot of ribbons from her sleeve. Leaning forward, she presented them to her champion who tucked them beneath his breastplate. And before she released them, she had the temerity to press them to her painted lips.

It pained me to watch, but watch I did. How could jealousy be so painful? To have the Duchess of York preening as Lady of the Lists was one thing. To have John Holland fight for her was quite another—and her saluting him in this manner, giving credence to all the salacious detail of common gossip about the pair of them.

Was rumour true? It undoubtedly was. No one with any sense could deny it after this little show of intimacy.

‘I will fight as your champion today, Lady.’ Hand on heart Sir John bowed his head.

‘I am honoured, Sir John.’ Isabella’s reply, coloured seductively by Castile and her own intent, slid smoothly on the air. ‘I wait to reward you for your success.’

Her smile had a knowing edge. His was bright with mischief.

Suddenly I could not bear to look. Such treachery stoked my fury. Had he not promised me that he would once again wear my guerdon? And here he publically rode past me to dally with the woman whose name, coupled with his, had been the subject of discussion in every solar from Windsor to Edinburgh and back again. I might have claimed I did not believe all that had been said of his want of morality. I might have given him the benefit of the doubt.

There was no doubt at all!

It was as if he had blasted the scurrilous details of their affair for all to see and hear. And he had ignored me, leaving me to taste the ignominy of having no champion. Henry was encouraging his child wife to tie one of her scarves around his arm, while the Duke honoured Constanza. I, my Father’s daughter, was ostracised with the less favoured, despite my magnificent furs and my equally magnificently plaited hair.

I gathered together all my pride and firmed my spine. No one—no one—would know my sense of rejection.

The Queen, taking in every nuance of the scene, was nudging my arm.

‘There’s your champion,’ she murmured.

And there was Jonty, bursting with pride. Why had I not seen it for myself?

Because you are entirely too selfish, Elizabeth! Jonty would revel in such an honour! Dame Katherine again taking me to task, and with asperity.

Raising my hand I beckoned to my husband, and seeing, my father took the helm from him so that Jonty could approach with hard-held delight. Oh, it was a perfect remedy. The Earl of Pembroke, although only a page and so consigned to the sidelines, even if he did have a sword in his hand, wore my glove pinned to his slight chest that day with great pride. In a fit of guilt I even willingly tolerated cold fingers. I found no pleasure at all in the proceedings.

When John Holland won, as he did, it was the Duchess of York who crowned him, presenting to him the superb jousting helm, during which little ceremony I brought to mind every scandalous detail I knew about the torrid affair between the Duchess of York and Sir John Holland: the rumours of secret meetings and carnal knowledge between the pair, the acceptance of the Duke of York who could not control his wife. Although lacking inches, Isabella had a presence and an appetite, and one that John Holland was perfectly content to satisfy. Isabella had a lascivious eye. But then so did Sir John.

Unable to resist, I watched the Duchess as she sparkled and flounced, as was her wont. Isabella of Castile, older than I by almost a decade, with all the glamour of experience and foreign royal blood in her dark hair and dark eyes. A woman who intrigued me, even demanded admiration for her survival through the vicissitudes of her early life, when she was forced to exist with her sister in a hovel in Bayonne, before coming to England to make a diplomatic match with my uncle Edmund of Langley, Duke of York—this second Castilian marriage following rapidly after my father’s to Constanza. Neither marriage was happy to any degree, my father continuing to consort with Dame Katherine, but Isabella casting her net wider.

At that moment my hatred for her knew no bounds. My face felt rigid with my effort to smile.

‘I see your knight errant has turned his attention elsewhere, Elizabeth.’ The voice made no attempt to moderate its tone. ‘How infuriating for you when you had hoped to have him kneeling at your pretty feet!’

Did she have to announce my affairs to the whole pavilion? Princess Joan, with a nod of her head, encouraged the lady on my left to give up her seat, and gave me no choice but to collect my wits and reply with what I hoped was amused directness.

‘He has, my lady.’

I had not known the Princess had honoured us with her presence on this second day of jousting, but here she was, large and sumptuous in a swathe of velvet and fur, missing nothing of the proceedings.

‘A salutary lesson there, I think. Who would have thought to find such enjoyment from a tournament?’

I allowed my brows to arch. ‘And I have learnt the lesson well. One can never rely on an arrogant man.’

‘A promise given one day is broken the next,’ added the Queen, joining in from my right. ‘Even my lord the King is not immune.’

‘None of my husbands were good on promises,’ the Princess observed, spreading dry humour with superb confidence. ‘My first husband, Holland, even forgot for a time that he had wed me, when the need to wield a sword overseas overcame his lust.’

‘And I don’t even expect promises from the Earl of Pembroke,’ I agreed. ‘He forgets them between Matins and Prime.’

There was a ripple of laughter around us, as the women of the court began to exchange their own experiences.

Beautifully done.

‘There!’ Princess Joan leaned close. ‘Admit I have rescued you from too much unpleasant attention. Some maturity would become you. It is not wise to wear either your heart or your expectations on your sleeve, like that jewelled pin, for all to gawp at.’ And fortunately not waiting for a reply, when a sharp one rose in my throat, added: ‘Will you accept some advice?’

‘Of course, my lady.’ I was frosty, resenting any advice.

‘My youngest son is not for such as you, even if you were not wed to that child.’ The Princess nodded to where Jonty was helping Henry remove the pieces of spangled armour. ‘My son has a temper and a questionable loyalty. He has an arrogance that is not to be trusted.’ Her glance was quizzical. ‘You look surprised.’

‘I am, my lady. That any woman would hold her son up to such dismantling of his character.’

‘I know rabid scandal when I hear it. It follows Isabella around. There is something about a woman with small, sharp teeth. As if she would strip the flesh from the bones of the man she covets—covets, my dear, not loves. I doubt she has the capacity to love any man. She has the morals of a cat on heat.’

Which seemed an indelicate observation since much the same had been said of the Princess herself in her lifetime.

‘And if that second son of hers was fathered by York, I’ll toss my coral rosary beads to the beggars outside our gates,’ the Princess continued, her fingers clenching on the gold mounted beads that were strung across her formidable bosom. ‘You know what’s said of Isabella and my son?’ She raised her brows ‘Of course you do. Is it hard to see?’ She turned to look along the row, making no pretence about it, to where Isabella sat, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the figure of Sir John. Even when the Duchess returned the gaze, her expression one of hauteur, the Princess did not look away, and I knew full well Princess Joan’s reference. There were many tongues to clap the rumour that the Duchess’s second son Richard was also son of John Holland.

No, it was not hard at all.

‘Do you see?’

‘Yes.’

Now that percipient gaze slid to me. ‘You should consider thinking, Elizabeth, before you draw the eyes and tongues of the chattering court in your direction. Do you want Isabella to see you as a rival for my son’s dubious but entirely charming attentions? As for what that delightful boy will think when he discovers his wife to be treating her marriage vows with frivolity …’ She nodded towards the glowing Earl of Pembroke. ‘You should not demean yourself.’

‘I would do no such thing, madam!’

‘Perhaps not. But how pleasant for the court to wager on the consanguinity of smoke and fire!’ she said dryly. And without waiting for a reply, the Princess changed her seat, to take up a position nearer a brazier for her comfort.

It had put me entirely in my place, a dagger thrust to bring an unpleasant day to a painful end. I was not frivolous with my vows. I had no intention of being so. Silently I nursed my vexation through the dying minutes of the tournament, praying for a quick end and escape. Only to be further accosted when the Duchess of York, brushing past me, lured by the pleasures of warmth and food, turned the blade. Unwittingly? I did not think so.

‘What was disturbing the Princess?’ she asked. ‘She seemed very interested in me.’

‘Only in Sir John,’ I said. ‘She was keen for us all to admire her son’s skills.’

‘We all admire him, do we not?’ Isabella smiled at me as she collected her women and followed the Queen.

She was so very beautiful even if she lacked inches. It made a man protective of her, I supposed. If that was so, no man would be protective of me. I had inherited my father’s generous height.

I hated that Isabella thought I was a rival for John Holland’s attention. But after today I was not. He had shown me that I was of no value to him. What had made me think otherwise? As Princess Joan had observed, I would benefit from some maturity.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

His lips curved confidently. His hand, extended, had an element of command about it, as if it would be impossible for me to refuse an invitation from the victor of the joust. I looked at him, at the hand, finely boned, the fingers that had today gripped a lance with intent now heavy with gems. I looked at his face, the saturnine lines that spoke of temper and passion. At the knowing gleam in his eye, dark as a kestrel’s.

Infinitesimally I tilted my head.

The insufferable arrogance of the man. Don’t trust a man who is arrogant. My father was a man of arrogance, but that was an entirely different matter. I would not trust John Holland ever again. Had I not known that he would make this invitation, as if he had not spent the afternoon as the prime object of Duchess Isabella’s lust?

I smiled.

I curtsied to John Holland, more deeply than was entirely necessary from one of my rank.

‘It would be my pleasure to dance, Sir John.’ It was in my mind to turn a chilly shoulder but that would put me too much into his power. I knew he would make much of the slightest indication that I knew full well that today he had slighted me, after seeking me out yesterday. Ignore a woman and she will come to your hand out of pique, as a lonely lapdog will come to be petted. I recognised the game and I would not play it.

‘The music has begun,’ he remarked, his smile quizzical as I lingered. ‘We will miss it unless you step smartly.’

‘I am honoured. Thank you, sir,’ I said. Then seeing a perfect alternative presented to me. ‘But I will dance with my husband.’

‘Does he know?’ The eloquent brows rose.

‘Of course. Here he is, come to claim my hand.’

‘My lady!’ Jonty, approaching at a fast lope, was deliciously decorous. ‘Will you partner me?’

With a gracious smile I inclined my head and joined my hand with Jonty’s, who led me through the steps with lively skill and some well-practised exactitude, during which I did not once glance in John Holland’s direction.

‘Am I getting better?’ Jonty asked at the end, only a little breathless. His energy was prodigious.

‘Marginally. You only trod once on my foot.’

Jonty grinned. ‘I must leave you now, madam.’

‘And why is that?’

‘My lord the Duke has need of me to take a message.’

‘Then you must go.’ I straightened the fur at the neckline of his expensive tunic. ‘It would not do to keep the Duke waiting.’

‘No, madam.’

I watched him go, darting between the crowds, not so much to take a message, I decided with a wry smile, but to join a group of equally furtive pages up to no good. Wives did not figure highly in the Earl of Pembroke’s plans. I wondered who had sent him to dance with me. I knew enough about Jonty to doubt it was of his own initiative.

For a moment I stood alone, conscious of my aloneness, which was ridiculous since I knew every face at the gathering. And yet in that moment I felt isolated, a little sad, as if I had lost my secure footing on the path to my future. Yet why should I not be secure? I was Countess of Pembroke with an income to fit my status. Soon I would have my own household. Until that time I could enjoy my days at Richard’s court. By what right was I forlorn?

Because, I acknowledged, I needed someone who could stir my blood with passion. A man who could make my heart sing. Jonty would never do that for me, so I was destined to live a half-life, without passion, without knowing the hot desires of love.

And I was forlorn because the man I had painted as my hero had feet of clay and a place in another woman’s bed.

My heart sank even lower.

And there was John Holland with malice in his twisted smile.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

Having no excuse this time, and because that smile made my heart jolt just a little, I curtsied and complied with impressive serenity.

‘It would be my pleasure.’

The glint in his eye told me that he had acknowledged the repetition of our courtly exchange, but he made no comment as we joined the circle and began the slow movement to right and left. No one had sent John Holland to dance with me. He had done it of his own free will, and probably, if I read him aright, to make mischief.

Yet my spirits lifted and danced with the music.

‘Was the Princess warning you to keep your distance from me?’ he asked.

‘How should she? There is no need to so warn a wedded woman.’ I moved away in the pattern of the dance, to return with neat steps to hear his reply.

‘How true. You are the perfect married couple. Your eye will never stray.’

His sardonic expression disturbed me. How well he read my situation. How well he read my mind. For a moment I was struck by the thought that we were kindred spirits, both moved by impulses, both driven by strong emotions.

Which was of course nonsense. I was nothing like John Holland.

‘Unlike your own eye, Sir John,’ I observed.

‘Unlike mine. But I have no wife to keep my eye secure on its prime objective.’

I moved beneath his arm, lifting my skirts so that the silk damask slid and gleamed, close enough to my partner for me to remark, ‘no, but the lady who took your eye today has a husband.’

‘Ha! The Duke of York is nothing but a bag of wind!’ His scorn coated us both. ‘Of course she is bored, looking for entertainment.’

‘Which you provide, Sir John? I’m told you have intimate knowledge of her.’

‘Passing intimate. Enough to know she has a voracious desire for entertainment.’

Again we parted, giving me time to replenish my armoury, as I was led on from hand to hand, to return to accuse: ‘So it is the Duchess’s fault that you are lured into an affair of the heart with her?’

‘I doubt her heart’s involved. Are we speaking of blame?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Are you jealous, Countess?’

‘Not I. I have a care for my reputation.’

‘And you would never contemplate endangering the purity of that reputation by embarking on an intimate affair with a man who took your interest.’

‘Certainly not,’ I repeated, meeting his eye with what I hoped he read as indifference.

With warmth rising to colour my cheeks, I was not as certain as once I had been.

Sir John raised his hand to lead me round, stealing a quick kiss against my wrist as our bodies came close.

‘I can feel your blood running hot,’ he whispered.

‘Because I am dancing, perhaps?’

‘I wager it did not do so when your husband danced with you.’

Our parting in the dance meant that I need not reply.

And when we were together again. ‘My liaison with the Duchess is at an end.’

An assertion so bluntly made. Did I believe him? Not for a moment.

But my blood was running hot.

I knew I would pay for that exhibition of outrageous courtesy by my partner. I could not hope that it had gone unnoticed, and there was Henry stalking across the chamber with a darkening brow, my cousin Edward of York following in his footsteps. No time for me to take refuge with Philippa, or even the Princess who sat in state with a cup of wine and a dish of honeyed nuts to sustain her through the hours. All I had time to do was take a breath and hope my heightened colour had paled, at the same time as I ordered my response to the inevitable attack. Henry had no reason to call my behaviour into question. The unfortunate flamboyance in that kiss had been John Holland’s. Not mine. Better to challenge Henry now with a good strong denial of any wish of mine to draw attention to myself, before my brother’s ire became too well-lodged to dissipate.

‘You’d do well to avoid Holland, Elizabeth, if you can’t behave with more perspicacity.’

Not a propitious start. Marriage had given Henry a degree of solemnity that was sometimes not short of pompous. I abandoned any thought of a greeting.

‘Avoid him?’ I said. ‘How would I avoid the King’s brother without discourtesy? Have you some advice for me, little brother?’ I made it just a little patronising. I was still taller than he and could make use of my height.

Henry was unmoved. ‘It looked like a flirtation to me.’

‘You are wrong. It was not.’

Edward was hovering. Edward always hovered. Now almost into his tenth year, he was a slight child who promised uncommonly good looks but I disliked his air of smug superiority even more than the sly gleam in his eyes.

‘Go away, Edward!’ I said.

‘I’m only—’

‘You’re only listening to what does not concern you.’ And I waited until he sulked into the crowd.

‘He’s a nuisance,’ Henry observed, watching him retreat, ‘with a bad case of hero-worship. I think it’s the gilded armour. Every time I turn round …’ His gaze sharpened, fixed mine again. ‘About Holland. The Duke would not like it.’ He glanced over towards the far end of the chamber where our father conversed with the Earl of Warwick. I doubted that he had even noticed. ‘Nor would the Pembroke connection approve of your lack of discretion in cavorting with the man who is known to spend more time in the bed of the Duchess of York than the Duke does!’

‘I care not what the Pembroke connection thinks or does.’ So Henry was well aware of the rumours, too. ‘There’s nothing not to like in my dancing with Sir John. I am not the only woman he has partnered.’

‘You are the only woman whose wrist he saluted in the middle of a dance, I warrant.’

‘Were you spying on me, Henry?’

‘Yes. Every time I set eyes on you, you are in his company. He’s not a suitable companion for you. Apart from anything else, his allegiances are not trustworthy. He might accept a Lancaster annuity today, but who knows where he will look tomorrow.’

Anger had begun to bubble under my skin, alongside the dismay. I would not be judged, I would not be watched. What right had my younger brother, however impressive in the lists, to be critical of me? I had done no wrong. As for John Holland’s political inclinations, I could see no relevance.

‘I’ll dance with whomsoever I wish,’ I said. ‘How dare you speak to me of decorum? And how dare you blacken the name of the King’s brother? A kiss on my wrist is hardly a matter to ruffle the sensibilities of the royal court.’ I had worked myself up into a fine show of temper, at the same time as I refused to consider why I felt the need to do so.

‘As long as it goes no further than that.’

‘How dare you!’

‘And keep your voice down. I know exactly the reputation of the King’s brother! I’d make sure he did not dance with Mary.’

‘I doubt he would wish to. She’s little more than a child.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘That John Holland appreciates a woman with some degree of experience.’

‘Like yourself.’

‘If you wish! By the Rood, Henry.’ This was getting out of hand. ‘I only danced with the man. Is that so reprehensible?’

‘You think you are so clever, so beyond criticism. Why will you not listen to good advice?’

No! No more advice!

‘I will take advice. But not from you, little brother …’ And having a weapon I could use against him, I did so, careless in my anger. ‘Who are you to admonish me for my behaviour? You were told to keep your distance from Mary. But you couldn’t, could you? And now she’s carrying your child, and she not yet fourteen years.’

And immediately wished the words unsaid as high colour washed over Henry’s cheekbones and a keen anxiety sparked in his eyes.

‘I did not molest her!’

‘I did not say you did!’

‘Mary is my wife and I love her. There was no indiscretion. You do not know the meaning of the word discretion.’

Which fired my anger again. ‘Discretion? You could not keep your hands off Mary, when everyone knew it would be better if you did! You have no right to take me to task.’

‘I am wasting my breath.’ Henry marched off, collecting his shadow Edward before he had gone more than a dozen strides.

So many warnings. Was I so much at fault? And now I had crossed swords with Henry and instantly regretted it. Mary had desired the union as much as Henry and was perfectly content in her pregnancy. It was ill-done of me to beat my brother about the head with it when they obviously enjoyed the deepest of affection. Unsettled, regretful, I had to watch the departure of Henry’s rigid back and then Sir John leading Isabella into another dance. When I next looked, he had gone, abandoning Isabella too, who had enough court manners that she did not appear disconsolate.

Well, neither would I.

I joined hands in a circle with Philippa and Sir John’s elder brother Thomas Holland, who was enjoying the status of his recent inheritance of the earldom of Kent.

‘And are you going to douse me in reprimand and disfavour?’ I asked Philippa when her lips remained firmly pinned together.

‘No. I don’t need to. You know you shouldn’t encourage him. And you’ve upset Henry.’

‘You don’t like him,’ I accused Philippa.

‘I’m not sure. He’s hard not to like. But I don’t trust him.’

The final day of the tournament dawned as fair and crisp as all the rest. It was to be a day of miracles. I was Queen of the Lists, offering my glove—the partner of the one I had bestowed on Jonty—to John Holland who made me the object of his gallantry.

On that day he fought, demon-possessed. No one could defeat him. He was brave and bold and entirely admirable in his defeat of his opponents.

I crowned him with laurels: presented him with the purse of gold.

After supper I danced with him, conscious only of the clasp of his fingers around mine, the agile strength of his body. Never had I felt so full of life and joy. All sense of duty and discretion was set aside, all the warnings cast adrift. Henry and the Princess meant well, but I saw no dangers in my demeanour, even when Sir John stole another kiss on my wrist.

‘You should not.’

‘Would you rather I did not?’

‘Would you desist if I did?’

‘I would think about it …’

And he would do exactly as he pleased. And since John Holland loved no one but himself, he was no danger to me. And since my father did not see fit to reprimand me, then why should I not enjoy my knight’s company?