One betrayal is all it takes to change history

1382. Daughter of John of Gaunt, sister to the future King Henry IV, Elizabeth of Lancaster has learned the shrewd tricks of the court from England’s most powerful men.

In a time of political turmoil, allegiance to family is everything. A Plantagenet princess should never defy her father’s wishes. Yet headstrong Elizabeth refuses to bow to the fate of a strategic marriage. Rejecting her duty, Elizabeth weds the charming and ruthlessly ambitious Sir John Holland: Duke of Exeter, half-brother to King Richard II and the one man she has always wanted.

But defiance can come at a price.

1399. Elizabeth’s brother Henry has seized the throne.

Her husband, confidant to the usurped Richard, masterminds a secret plot against the new king. Trapped in a dangerous web, Elizabeth must make a choice.

Defy the king and betray her family. Or condemn her husband and send him to his death.

Sister. Wife. Traitor. She holds the fate of England in her hands.

Praise for the author ANNE O’BRIEN

‘One of the best writers around … she outdoes even Philippa Gregory’

—The Sun

‘The characters are larger than life … and the author a compulsive storyteller.’

—Sunday Express

‘This book has everything—royalty, scandal, fascinating historical politics and, ultimately, the shaping of the woman who founded the Tudors.’

—Cosmopolitan

‘A fascinating and surprisingly female-focused look at one of the most turbulent periods of English history’

—Publishers Weekly

‘Better than Philippa Gregory’

—The Bookseller

‘Another excellent read from the ever-reliable Anne O’Brien’

—The Bookbag

‘Anne O’Brien is fast becoming one of Britain’s most popular and talented writers of medieval novels.’

—Lancashire Evening Post

‘A must-read for any historical fiction fan’

—The Examiner

‘Her writing is highly evocative of the time period … O’Brien has produced an epic tale.’

—Historical Novel Society

‘Anne O’Brien’s novels give a voice to the “silent” women of history.’

—Yorkshire Post

‘Brings the origins of the most famous royal dynasty to vibrant life’

—Candis

‘I was keen to see if this book … lived up to the hype—which it did.’

—Woman

ISBN: 978-1-474-00748-1

THE KING’S SISTER

© 2014 Anne O’Brien

Published in Great Britain 2014

by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

Version: 2019-04-12

Map

Descendants of Edward III and the Claims to the English Throne

The Holland Family

The House of Lancaster

For George, with love and thanks. Who else could I persuade to travel the length and breadth of the country with me, in search of people who lived six hundred years ago?

And in memory of my father, Jack Garfitt, 1923-2014. His love of history first fired my imagination.

‘… He (John Holland) was struck down passionately, so that day and night he sought her (Elizabeth) out.’

—Ranulph Higden, The Universal Chronicle of Ranulph Higden

‘When (Elizabeth) took a tearful leave of her husband[…]Holland reproached her bitterly for having, despite his own gloom, rejoiced and made merry when Henry had arrested Richard and himself[…]’

—R A Griffiths, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography

‘For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.’

—William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part I

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for the author ANNE O’BRIEN

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fiveteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Other titles by the author

Extract

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INSPIRATION FOR THE KING’S SISTER

AND AFTER THE FINAL WORD IN THE KING’S SISTER …

FOLLOWING IN ELIZABETH’S FOOTSTEPS …

QUESTIONS FOR YOUR READING GROUP

CONTACTS

About the Publisher

Chapter One

1380, Kenilworth Castle

‘What’s afoot?’ Henry asked, loping along the wall walk, sliding to a standstill beside us.

It all began as a family gathering: a meeting of almost everyone I knew in the lush setting of Kenilworth where my father’s building plans had provided room after spacious room in which we could enjoy a summer sojourn. Intriguingly, though, the intimate number of acquaintances was soon extended with a constant arrival of guests. So, I considered. What indeed was afoot? A most prestigious occasion. From elders to children, aristocratic families from the length and breadth of the land rode up to our gates, filing across the causeway that kept their feet dry from the inundations of the mere.

Philippa and I watched them with keen anticipation, now in the company of our younger brother Henry, an energetic, raucous lad, whose shrill voice more often than not filled the courtyards as he engaged in games with other boys of the household—dangerous games in which he pummelled and rolled with the best of them in combat à l’outrance. Even now he bore the testimony of a fading black eye. But today Henry was buffed and polished and on his best behaviour. As the thirteen-year-old heir of Lancaster, he knew his worth.

‘Something momentous,’ Philippa surmised.

‘With music and dancing,’ I suggested hopefully.

My father’s royal brothers, the Dukes of Gloucester and York, together with their wives, made up a suitably ostentatious display of royal power. The vast connection of FitzAlans and the Northumberland Percies were there, heraldic badges making a bright splash of colour. There was Edward, our cousin of York, kicking at the flanks of a tolerant pony. Thin and wiry, Edward was still too much of a child for even Henry to notice. The only one notably absent was the King.

‘We’ll not miss him overmuch,’ croaked Henry, on the cusp of adolescence.

True enough. Of an age with Henry, what would Richard add to the proceedings, other than a spirit of sharp mischief that seemed to have developed of late? There was little love lost between my brother and royal cousin.

The noble guests continued to arrive with much laughter and comment.

I was not one for being sensitive to tension in the air when I might be considering which dress would become me most, but on this occasion it rippled along my skin like the brush of a goose feather quill. Chiefly because there were far too many eyes turned in my direction for comfort. It seemed to me that I was an object of some interest over and above the usual friendly comment on the rare beauty and precocious talents of the Duke of Lancaster’s younger daughter. What’s more, on that particular morning, I had been dressed by my women with extraordinary care.

Not that I had demurred. My sideless surcoat, of a particularly becoming blue silk damask, hushed expensively as I walked. My hair had been plaited into an intricate coronet, covered with a veil as transparent as one of the high clouds that barely masked the sun.

‘Is it a celebration?’ I mused. ‘Have we made peace with France?’

‘I doubt it. But it’s a celebration for something.’ My sister’s mind was as engaged as mine as the FitzAlan Countess of Hereford and her opulent entourage arrived in the courtyard, soon followed by the Beauchamp contingent of the Earl of Warwick.

‘It’s a marriage alliance. A betrothal. It has to be,’ I announced to Philippa, for surely this was the obvious cause for so great a foregathering, and one of such high-blooded grandeur festooned in sun-bright jewels and rich velvets. ‘The Duke is bringing your new husband to meet with you.’

‘A husband for me? If that’s so, why is it that you are the one to be clad like a Twelfth Night gift?’ Philippa said, eyeing my apparel. ‘I am not clad for a betrothal. This is my second best gown, and the hem is becoming worn. While you are wearing my new undertunic.’

Which was true. And Philippa more waspish than her wont since my borrowed garment was of finest silk with gold stitching at hem and neck and the tiniest of buttons from elbow to wrist, yet despite her animadversions on her second best gown, Philippa looked positively regal in a deep red cote-hardie that would never have suited me. A prospective husband would never look beyond her face to notice the hem. If the honoured guest was invited here as a suitable match, he must be intended for my sister. As the elder by three years, Philippa would wed first. Did not older sisters always marry before younger ones? I stared at her familiar features, so like my own, marvelling at her serenity. There was still no husband for her, not even a betrothal of long standing, at twenty years. No husband had been attracted by her dark hair and darker eyes, inherited from our father. It was high time, as daughter of the royal Duke of Lancaster as well as first cousin to King Richard himself, even if he was only a tiresome boy, that she was sought and won by some powerful bridegroom.

Of course this would be her day.

I sighed that it behoved me to wait, for marriage to a handsome knight or illustrious prince was an elevation to which I aspired. The songs and tales of the troubadours, of fair maidens lost and won through chivalric deeds and noble self-sacrifice, had made a strong impression in my youthful heart. But today was no day for sighing.

‘I have been counting all the unwed heirs of the English aristocracy who will make suitable husbands for you,’ I said, to make Philippa smile. ‘I have a tally of at least a dozen to choose from.’

It was Henry who grunted a laugh. ‘But how many of them are either senile or imbecile?’

I stepped smartly and might have punched his shoulder but Henry was agile, putting distance between us. And because we were finely dressed, he did not retaliate. I turned my back on him.

‘He could be a foreign prince, of course.’ This was Philippa, ever serious.

‘So he could.’ I turned back to the carpet of richly-hued velvet and silk below, imagining such an eventuality. Would I enjoy leaving England, living far away from my family, those I had known and loved all my life? ‘I don’t think I would like that.’

‘I would not mind.’ Philippa lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

‘You will do whatever you are told to do.’

Her arm, in sisterly affection, slid round my waist. ‘As will you.’

It did not need the saying. I might be wrapped in girlhood dreams of romantic notions of knights errant, but I had been raised since birth to know the role I must play in my father’s schemes. Alliances were all important, friendships and connections built on shared interests and the disposition of daughters. Henry might be the heir, and much prized as a promising son, but Philippa and I were valuable commodities in furthering the ambitions of Lancaster. My husband would, assuredly, be a man of high status and proud name. He would be an owner of vast estates and significant wealth, possessing an extensive web of connections of his own to meld with those of the Duke into one over-arching structure of power. He would have significance at the royal court, where I would take my place, glowing from his reflected authority and, I hoped, glamour. There was nothing so attractive as a powerful man, as I well knew. And, of course, this man would be worthy of my Plantagenet blood. I would never be given away to a mere nobody, a man without distinction.

When my woman combed my hair to braid it for the night and I inspected my features in my looking glass I knew that my husband would have an affection for me. Was it possible for a man of perception not to fall in love with a face as perfectly proportioned as mine? There was the elegant Plantagenet nose, the dark hooded eyes that suggested a mine of secrets to be explored. My lips were quick to smile, my brows, surprisingly dark and nicely arched, and my hair, unlike Philippa’s, the same lustrous fairness of my mother whose memory faded from me as the years passed. It was a face that promised romance and passion, I decided. No, my husband would be unable to resist and would continue to indulge my desires in formidable style. I was destined to enjoy my future life.

When a shout of laughter went up from one of the groups in the courtyard—enticing Henry to condemn us as dull company and leave us, bounding down the steps to join the throng—I too descended from our high vantage point in search of enlightenment, and discovered Dame Katherine Swynford. Our governess and much more than a mere member of the Lancaster household, she was as close as an oyster, preoccupied with some matter to do with the guests, although why it should fall to her I could not fathom. Did we not employ a steward, a chamberlain, a vast array of servants to oversee every aspect of life at Kenilworth? Indeed I was interested to see a brief shadow flit over her face, a sudden discomfiture that I suspected had no connection with her own illicit and highly scandalous relationship with the Duke.

‘What is it?’ I asked. No point in subtlety as yet another festive group arrived.

When Dame Katherine, intent on speeding away, shook her head so that her veils shivered, suspicions began to flutter in my belly. There was something here that she did not wish to discuss with me.

‘What is it that you know, Dame Katherine, and that I will not like?’

‘Nothing, to my knowledge. What should there be?’ Lightly said but her eye did not quite meet mine.

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘The Duke does not tell me everything, Elizabeth.’

I frowned, not believing her for one moment. I would swear that Dame Katherine could read my father’s mind, and what she could not read she could inveigle him into telling her when she seduced him into moments of love. Or he seduced her. I thought there were no secrets between them now that she had been my father’s mistress for eight years. She was quick to take me to task.

‘Go and wait with your sister, Elizabeth, and show patience. All you need to know is that we look for an important guest. He comes with your father.’

‘And who is this important guest?’ I asked, grasping her trailing oversleeve with no care for its embroidered edge, determined to prevent her escape, so that she sighed and at last turned to face me. I thought there was trouble in her face.

‘It is John Hastings. He is the Earl of Pembroke.’ It meant nothing to me. If I had ever met the Earl of Pembroke I could not recall. ‘He is coming here for a betrothal.’

I smiled. ‘So I thought,’ I admitted. ‘For my sister.’

‘Oh no. For you, Elizabeth.’

‘For me? Why me?’ How gauche I sounded in sudden consternation, and felt my cheeks flush.

‘Because it will be a valuable alliance. He is the grandson of the Countess of Norfolk.’

‘Will I like him?’ Was that the only thought in my mind? At that moment all my powers of reasoned thought were hopelessly awry.

‘Your father will never choose anyone you dislike.’ Dame Katherine was brisk, enough to quell any further discussion. ‘When has he ever used the whip or the spur to take you to task?’

And then, an aura of unease still palpable, she was forcing a path through the throng with an urgent, muttered instruction for the poulterer.

A marriage. I was too delighted to be anxious. This unknown Earl would soon be riding across the causeway and then I could see for myself. If he was an Earl how could he not make me a desirable husband? With the Countess of Norfolk as his grandmother, his importance was guaranteed. For a long moment I simply stood and breathed in the excitement of my future until it seemed that my whole body was suffused with it. Soon, very soon, I would see him for myself.

Why was everyone so reluctant to talk about this dynastically vital occurrence?

Joyful expectancy stamped out any concerns as I rejoined my sister, saying nothing more of my discovery. It would only hurt Philippa that I had been chosen over her for this match. And then when it was becoming more and more impossible to keep my lips tight, my blood sparkling with the opening of this new window in my life, there was warning of the arrival.

‘Come with me!’ I seized Philippa’s hand and dragged her with me, running down the steps into the courtyard.

‘Why?’ she asked, laughing and breathless.

‘You’ll see!’

‘Elizabeth …!’ Dame Katherine called after me as we threaded our way through all the chattering ranks of the nobility of England.

‘Later,’ I called back. Whatever it was, it could wait. Everything could wait. Here was the superbly well-connected man with whom I would spend the rest of my life. I shook out my skirts, smoothed the deeply embroidered panels, ensured that my light veil fell in seemly folds about my face, and prepared to meet my future.

The gates were already open to receive the impressive entourage with mounted retainers, a curtained palanquin, and various wagons loaded with the necessities for a lengthy stay. Most prominent on pennon and flag was the flowing red sleeve, accompanied by a cluster of red martlets on silver and blue, which I took to belong to the Earl of Pembroke. Mightily impressive, I decided, although nothing to compare with my father’s royal leopards, his standards snapping in red and gold and blue in the brisk wind.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin. The Earl of Pembroke must be aware of the jewel he was getting with marriage to a daughter of Lancaster, first cousin to King Richard himself. If the solid might and luxury of Kenilworth did not impress him—and how could it not? —then I certainly would.

I wondered fleetingly why I had no recall of meeting him before this, since most of the high nobility had come within my orbit at Richard’s coronation three years ago. Perhaps he had been fighting in France. Perhaps he had a high reputation as a knight on the battlefield or in the tournament like my father. I would like that.

And then there was quite a fuss as two ladies were helped to step from the cumbersome travelling litters. The Countess of Norfolk, whom I knew: as thin and acerbic as vinegar, her hair severely contained in the metal and jewelled coils much in fashion when she was a girl. And a lady, younger, whom I did not. But where was he?

‘Where is the Earl?’ I whispered, when I could wait no longer.

Dame Katherine, who had come to watch with us, stepped behind me, her hands closing lightly on my shoulders.

‘There,’ she remarked softly. ‘There he is. John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke.’

I could not see. I looked back at her, to follow the direction of her gaze. I could see no Earl of Pembroke, no man dressed finely, or mounted on a blood horse, who had come to wed me, but I felt no presentiment. Until, behind me I heard my governess sigh and her fingers tightened just a little.

‘There is he. Just dismounting,’ Dame Katherine repeated. ‘With his grandmother, the Countess of Norfolk, and his mother, the Dowager Countess of Pembroke.’

And so I saw him, in the act of leaping down from his horse.

I sucked in a breath of air, every muscle in my body taut. My lips parted. And at that moment I felt Dame Katherine’s palm press down firmly on my shoulder. She knew. She knew me well enough to know what I might do, what I might say in a moment of wilful passion. My head whipped round to read her expression, and the pressure, increasing, was enough to anchor me into all the courtesy and good manners in which I had been raised.

‘Say it later,’ she whispered. ‘Not now. Now it is all about the impression you make. Consider what is due to your birth and your breeding, and to your father’s pride.’

And so I sank into the required obeisance before our well-born guests.

The women of Norfolk and Pembroke returned the greeting. The Earl bowed. Then scuffed the toe of his boot on the stones, rubbing his chin with his fist.

‘He is younger than Henry,’ I whispered back in disbelief, in a mounting horror, when I could.

He was a boy. A child.

‘Yes, he is,’ Dame Katherine murmured back with a weight of compassion in her reply. ‘He is eight years old.’

And I was seventeen. I could not look at Philippa. I could not bear the pity I knew I would read in her face.

As I expected, I was summoned to my father’s private chamber within the hour, allowing me only the opportunity to gulp down a cup of ale and endure a strict lecture from Dame Katherine on the exquisite good manners expected of a Plantagenet lady—whatever the perceived provocation. I promised I would keep her advice well in my mind. So far I seemed to be unable to utter a word.

How could he do this to me? How could my father inflict a boy not out of his first decade on me as my husband? The thoughts revolved and revolved with no resolution. He had done it. At least Philippa did not attempt to console me with bright platitudes. Her kiss on my cheek said it all.

Now I curtsied before Constanza, my father’s Castilian wife, who sat in chilly pre-eminence, her feet on a little footstool. Then to the rest of the party: the Countess of Norfolk, the Countess of Pembroke, the youthful Earl who was watching me bright-eyed. And there was my father coming towards me, a smile of welcome lighting his features. Tall but lightly built, he was every inch a royal prince, and his gaze commanded me.

‘Elizabeth.’ He took my hand to lead me forward and make the introductions. ‘Allow me to present Elizabeth to you. My well beloved daughter.’

The Countess of Norfolk, of matriarchal proportions and inordinate pride—as befitted a granddaughter of the first King Edward and thus Countess in her own right—regarded me, and saw fit to smile on me, the silk of her veils shimmering with emotion. The widowed Countess of Pembroke too smiled, as well she might. Did we not all know that my hand in marriage was a formidable achievement for any household, however noble? Constanza stood and kissed my cheek in as maternal a manner as she could accommodate. Meanwhile the Earl, the boy, stood stiffly to well-drilled attention and watched the proceedings with a fleeting interest. It made me wonder what he had been told of this visit. How much did he understand of its significance?

And I?

I smiled with every ounce of grace I could summon, even when my face felt like the panel of buckram that stiffened Constanza’s bodice in the old Castilian style that she often resorted to in moments of stress. Dame Katherine would have been proud of me as I acknowledged all the greetings. But below my composure I seethed with impotent anger, laced through with fear at what such a marriage would hold in store for me. Was I not old enough for a true marriage, in flesh as well as in spirit? Wallowing in the troubadours’ songs of love and passion, my blood ran hot as I yearned for my own knowledge of such desire. How could I find it with a child?

‘Allow me to present you to John, my lord of Pembroke.’

This boy would not make my heart flutter like a trapped bird. My blood, cold as winter rain, ran thin as I smiled more brightly still, allowing the boy to take my hand and press his lips to my knuckles with a neat little bow.

Certainly he had been as well instructed in the arts of chivalry.

‘This is your betrothed husband.’

I swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord. It pleases me to meet you,’ to the boy. ‘I am honoured that you would wish to wed me.’

No! I wished to shriek. I am not pleased, I am not honoured. I am in despair. But daughters of Lancaster did not shriek. Plantagenet princesses did not defy their father’s wishes.

‘I will endeavour to make you a good wife.’

He was a child, barely released from the control of his nurses. How could I wed such a one as this? I had always known that I would wed at my father’s dictates but never that he would choose a boy who had not yet learned to wield a sword, who was certainly not of an age to live with me as man and wife. There would be no consummation of this marriage after the ceremony.

‘It is I who am honoured that you would accept my hand in marriage,’ the boy replied, pronouncing each word carefully. So he had been informed and trained to it, much like our parrot.

‘When will we be wed, sir?’ The Earl looked up at my father, who smiled.

‘Tomorrow. It is all arranged. It will be a day of great celebration, followed by a tournament where you will be able to display your new skills.’

Tomorrow!

The boy John of Pembroke beamed.

I took a ragged breath.

So soon. So final. Could my father not see my anxieties? Could he not see into my mind and know that this was not what I wanted? If he could, my wishes were as inconsequential as leaves blasted into the corners of the courtyard by a winter gale. My life as an indulged daughter had come to a breathless halt.

‘Give me your hand, Elizabeth,’ the Duke said softly.

I complied.

Onto my finger, the Duke pushed a ring. A beautiful thing of gold set with a ruby of vast proportions that glowed in the light. An object I would have coveted, but in the circumstances roused no emotion at all beyond the thought that the chains of a marriage I did not want were being fastened around me with this valuable gift. The ring was heavy on my finger.

‘A gift to commemorate this auspicious day. It belonged to your mother, my beloved Duchess Blanche. I thought it was fitting that, as a married woman, you should now wear it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Never had I said so little when in receipt of a valuable gift, when normally I might have been tiresomely effusive. Today I was as wooden as the figure on the quintain on the practice field.

‘I have made arrangements for your new household. You will receive moneys befitting your status …’

But the Earl was fast losing interest in such detail, his eye straying to a minor commotion in the window embrasure, and my father laughed.

‘Such matters can be dealt with tomorrow. There is no hurry. You have all your lives together after today.’ His eye slid to mine as the ice in my belly solidified into a hard ball of dismay. ‘Why not introduce Lord John to what has taken his attention.’

‘Of course, sir.’

I looked away, fearing that he might read the rebellion in my mind, beckoning to the boy to follow me, trying not to hear the laughter and comment behind me as my espousal was celebrated. I was ashamed of the unexpected threat of tears as the chatter reached me.

‘It is good that they get to know each other.’

‘They will make an impressive pair.’

No, we would not. I towered over him by a good three hand spans.

But I dutifully led the Earl as instructed to where a parrot sat morosely on a perch in the window. Much like I felt. It was large and iridescently green with snapping black eyes and a beak to be wary of. It was never cowed by its soft imprisonment, and it came to me that I might learn a thing or two from this ill-tempered, beautiful bird. By the time we stood before it, my weak tears were a thing of the past. This was the platter placed before me and I must sup from it.

Utterly oblivious to the underlying currents in the chamber, and certainly to my thoughts, the boy became animated, circling the stand to which the bird was chained.

‘What is it?’

‘A popinjay. Have you not seen one before?’

But then I could not imagine the Countess of Norfolk allowing such a bird in her solar. A popinjay represented erotic love rather than the romantic or sentimental.

‘Does it speak?’ the Earl demanded.

‘Sometimes.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Benedicamus Domine. And then it sneezes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is what Father Thomas, our priest, says. He tries to teach it better ways. And Father Thomas sneezes a lot.’

The boy perused the bird. ‘Is it an ill-mannered creature then?’

‘They say popinjays are excessively lecherous.’

Which meant nothing to the spritely Earl. ‘Can I teach him to speak?’

‘If you wish.’

He reached out a bold hand to run his fingers along the feathers of the bird’s back.

‘It bites,’ I warned.

‘It won’t bite me!’

It did.

‘God’s Blood!’ The boy sucked his afflicted knuckle while I could not help but laugh, wondering where he had picked up the phrase that sat so quaintly with his immaturity.

‘I warned you.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Undeterred, he tried again and managed to stroke the bird without harm. ‘What’s its name?’

‘Pierre.’

‘Why?’

‘All our parrots have been called Pierre.’

‘Is it male? Or female?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can I have one?’

‘If you wish.’

‘I do. And it will wear a gold collar.’

It made me laugh again, perhaps with a touch of hysteria. The bird was more to his taste than I was. He was certainly much taken with it.

‘I will buy you one.’

‘Will you? When you are my wife?’

‘Yes.’ My heart thudded. By this time tomorrow I would be Countess of Pembroke.

‘Can I call you Elizabeth?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I am John.’ His gaze returned to the bird that proceeded to bite at its claws. ‘Perhaps I will call my parrot Elizabeth. If it is female of course.’

What a child he was. Eyes as brown as the chestnut fruit, his bowl of hair rich and curling of a similar hue, he was incongruously charming.

‘Do you wish to wed me?’ I asked, willing to be intrigued by his reply. I had no idea what an eight-year-old child would think of marriage.

The boy thought about it while observing the parrot’s attentions to its toes.

‘I suppose so.’ His smile, directed at me, was thoroughly ingenuous. ‘You are very pretty. And a parrot as a marriage gift would be perfect. Or a falcon. Or even a hound. I would really like a hound. A white one, a hunting dog, if you could. Did you know that if you carry a black dog’s tooth in your palm, then dogs will not bark at you?’

‘No. I did not know that.’ So my affianced husband was an expert in the magical properties of animals.

‘It’s true, so they say. I’ve not tried it for myself.’ He tilted his head, on an afterthought. ‘What should I give you for a wedding gift, Madam Elizabeth?’

I had no idea.

As the welcome audience drew to a rapid close and our guests were shown to their accommodations, my father beckoned me, and in that brief moment when we were alone and out of earshot, I let my frustrations escape even though I knew I should not. Even though I knew in my heart that it would have no effect, my worries poured out in a low-voiced torrent.

‘How can I wed a child? How can I talk to this boy? I would have a husband who shares my love of the old tales, of poetry and song. I would have a husband who can dance with me, who can talk to me about the royal court, about the King and the foreign ambassadors who visit, of the distant countries they come from. You have given me a callow boy. I beg of you, sir. Change your mind and find me a man of talent and skill and learning. You found such a woman in my mother. Would you not allow me the same blessing in my marriage? I beg of you …’

I expected anger in my father’s face as I questioned his judgement, but there was none, rather an understanding, and his implacable reply was gentle enough.

‘It cannot be, Elizabeth. You must accept what cannot be changed.’

I bowed my head. ‘All he can talk about is parrots and hunting dogs!’ I heard the timbre of my voice rise a little and strove to harness my dismay. ‘He has given me a list of things he would like as a wedding gift. They are all furred and feathered.’

‘He will make a good husband. He will grow. It may be that John Hastings will become everything you hope for in a husband.’

The ghost of a smile in my father’s lips dried my complaint, and made me feel unworthy. It was clear that he would not listen.

‘Yes, my lord,’ I said.

Of course the Earl of Pembroke would grow. But not soon enough for me.

When I could, I fled to my bedchamber, where my command over any vitriolic outburst vanished like mist before the morning sun in June.

‘I won’t do it! How can my father ask me to wed a child?’

I wiped away tears of fury and despair with my sleeve, regardless of the superlative quality of the fur, snatching my hands away when Dame Katherine tried to take hold of them. I was not in the mood to be consoled, but equally my governess was in no mood to be thwarted, seizing my wrists and dragging me to sit beside her on my bed. I had fled to my own room so there was no need for me to put on a brave face before my royal aunts and uncles.

‘Make him change his mind,’ I demanded. ‘He will do it, if you ask him.’

‘No, he will not.’ She was adamant. ‘The Duke is decided. It is an important marriage.’

‘If it is so important, why not my sister? Why not Philippa? She is the elder. Why not her?’

‘Your father looks for a marriage with a European power. To bind an alliance against Castile. That was always his planning.’

I heard the sympathy in her voice and resisted it. I had had enough of pity for one day.

‘So I am to be sacrificed to a child.’

‘It is not the first time a daughter of an aristocratic house has been wed to a youth not yet considered a man.’

‘A man? His is barely out of his mother’s jurisdiction.’

‘Nonsense! It is time you accepted the inevitable. Listen to me and I will tell you why this is of such importance.’

I huffed disparagingly. ‘I expect he has land.’

‘Of course. The Earl will be influential. He is extraordinarily well connected, and his estates extensive. His grandmother is the Countess of Norfolk. They are linked with the Earl of Warwick. Their allegiance is vital to challenge the voices raised against the Duke. Before God, there are enough who resent his influence over the King and would do all they could to undermine his position. Your father needs powerful allies. This boy may be a child in your eyes, but he is heir to the whole Pembroke inheritance, with royal blood from Edward the First through his grandmother the Countess. It is indeed an excellent match, and will make you Countess of Pembroke. Do you understand?”

‘Yes. Of course I understand. It may all be as you say.’ I looked at her candidly. ‘But how can he be my husband in more than name? How long before I am a wife?’ Passion beat heavily in my blood, and I frowned. I needed to explain my heightened humours, but how could I with any degree of delicacy?

‘You are of an age to be a wife now.’ Dame Katherine, it seemed, understood perfectly. ‘You must be patient. In the eyes of the church, John Hastings will be your husband, but physically, there will be no intimacy between you. You will live apart to all intents and purposes until John is of an age to be the husband who takes you to his bed.’

‘And when will that be?’

Did I not already know the answer?

‘When he is sixteen years old. Perhaps fifteen if he comes to early maturity.’

‘Another seven years at best. I will be twenty-four by then. It will be like being a widow. Or a nun.’

‘It will not be so very bad. The years will pass.’

‘And my hair will become silver while I wait to know a man’s touch. While I wait for a man who is not one of my family to kiss me with more than affection.’ My dissatisfaction with John Hastings was not based merely on my inability to hold an informed conversation with him.

‘Is it so important to you?’

‘Yes!’ I smacked my hands together, a sharp explosion in the quiet room. ‘How can you ask such a question of me, born of the passion between the Duke and Blanche?’ All notions of delicacy had vanished. ‘When the … the intimacy between a man and a woman has been important enough to drive you back to my father’s bed even when you were labelled whore and witch by the monk Walsingham. You could not live without a man’s touch. Nor, I think, can I!’

Dame Katherine paled, and I, hearing the enormity of what I had said, flushed from the embroidered border of my neckline to the roots of my hair.

‘We will pretend that you did not say that, Elizabeth.’

‘But it is true. Physical intimacy has branded you with sin. Yet my father would condemn me to live without it until I lose my youth.’

Which drove Dame Katherine to stand and put distance and a distinct chill between us. To ward it off, I snatched up my lute and plucked unmusically at the strings.

‘Stop that!’ my governess said, so that I cast the instrument aside. ‘That is not the way for you. You will not consider it, speak of it. You will honour the memory of your mother and your royal forebears. What would your grandmother Queen Philippa say if she were alive to hear you now?’

Contrition was beyond me. ‘I know not. I barely remember her.’

‘Then I will tell you what she would say,’ returning to clasp my wrists, imprisoning me as she belaboured me with everything I knew by heart about duty and compliance, courtesy and the role of Plantagenet daughters. Halfway through, contrition had reared its uncomfortable head. I might not always find it easy to admit fault, but Dame Katherine left me in no doubt of my sins of pride and self-will.

‘Forgive me.’ At the end. ‘I regret what I said.’

‘I will forgive you. I always forgive you, Elizabeth.’ Yet still she was stern. ‘Because as your erstwhile governess it is my role to forgive you. You might consider that your behaviour reflects on me as much as it paints you in colours of intolerance and sin. It is your duty to make your father proud of you. You will have your own household. You should know that an annual sum of one hundred pounds has been granted for its maintenance.’

‘Because I will be Countess of Pembroke.’

My erstwhile governess nodded, releasing my wrists at last.

‘It is your father’s will, Elizabeth. It will be a good marriage. And when you are twenty-five years old, John will be sixteen, far closer to being an excellent knight and husband. Handsome enough too, I warrant.’

Another eight years to wait. I could not contemplate it.

‘He admired the parrot more than he admired me,’ I stated, furious with the bitterness I could not hide.

‘Then you will have to work hard to change that.’

I stalked to the window to look out at the spread of Lancaster acres, for it was as if the walls of my chamber had suddenly closed in on me, curtailing my freedom, as this marriage would imprison me within an unpalatable situation. Would it matter whether the Earl of Pembroke liked me or not? Since our marriage would be in name only for almost a decade, I could not see the purpose in cultivating the affection of a child. Then another thought struck home and I stopped.

‘Why did you not tell me earlier? Why did you not tell me before you actually had to?’

‘Because I knew that you would not like it,’ she replied without pause.

‘You thought I would make a fuss.’

‘Yes.’

I did not like the implied criticism. ‘Would you have told Philippa? If the Earl had come for her?’

‘Yes. Because she would have the charity in her to make things easy for the boy.’

‘And I wouldn’t.’

Dame Katherine’s raised brows said it all. I did not like the implication. Was I selfish, thoughtless, mindless of the feelings of those around me? I had not thought so.

At that moment I was too cross to give my failings even a passing thought.

On the morning of the following day I stood next to John Hastings before the altar in the chapel at Kenilworth. Not for us a wedding at the church door. My father had wed Blanche beneath a gilded canopy held by four lords at Reading Abbey, in the presence of the old King Edward the Third. No such ostentatious splendour for me and the child Earl, but both of us, and the chapel, were dressed for high ceremonial. As were the guests who crowded in to witness our joining in this auspicious union. The robes of my father’s chaplain were spectacular with red silk and gold thread. The banners of Lancaster and Pembroke all but covered the warm hue of the stonework.

My hand, resting lightly in the boy’s, where my father had placed it as a sign that he was giving me into the young Earl’s keeping, was ice cold: the boy’s was unpleasantly warm and clammy. I glanced at my betrothed, ridiculously elegant in gleaming silk tunic, knowing that he wished himself anywhere but in the chapel. Yet I could not fault his rigid stance, his solemn concentration.

I tried to concentrate on the sacred words but failed miserably, conscious only of the child at my side, and disturbed that Dame Katherine should find my behaviour a cause for concern. Was I always as selfish, as careless of the feelings of others, as she perceived? Assuredly I would prove her wrong today. My demeanour would be faultless. I looked across and smiled at the boy, receiving a beaming grin in return.

Yes, I would be kind to him.

The chaplain, austere with the weight of the burden on his frail shoulders, was frowning at me, reminding me that I had responses to make. And so I did, accepting this boy as my husband as the consecration was brought to an end, trying not to think how ridiculous we might appear together in spite of the outward magnificence of silk and satin and jewelled borders. John Hasting’s head barely reached my elbow.

So it was done. I would never again, in public, wear my hair loose in virginal purity. The boy, with surprising dexterity, pushed a gold ring onto my finger. We kissed each other formally on one cheek and then the other. Then fleetingly on the lips. We were man and wife. I was Countess of Pembroke.

‘Will I be allowed to go to the stables now?’ my husband whispered as I bent to salute him.

‘Soon,’ I whispered back.

‘How long is soon?’

I sighed a little as we joined hands and walked between our well-wishers, out of God’s holy presence into the trials of real life.

We were kissed and patted, feted and feasted, which I tolerated far better than my lord who squirmed with embarrassment and, in the end, with surly boredom, face flushed and eyes stormy. Conducted to the place of honour at the high table, our steward presented the grace cup first to us. My father’s carver carved the venison for us. The festive dishes were placed before us to taste and select before the throng stripped the table bare.

This should have been one of the happiest, most exhilarating days of my life. Instead I was torn between pleasure at my new status as a married, titled lady with the money to pay for a household of my own, and dismay that I had no knight to share it with me. I would have liked my husband to woo me, to show admiration for my person. To enjoy my company, whether to dance or sing or read the French tales of love. Of course he would go to war, win glory in tournaments, take his rightful place at court, but he would return to me. He would give me gifts and express a desire to spend time in my company. My husband too would be elegant and charming, well versed in the art of seduction with words and music, gracious and sophisticated.

At least he would have admired the dress that had been stitched for my marriage—for how long had my father known of this union with Pembroke? —with the symbols of Lancaster and Pembroke twining together along hem and the edges of my oversleeves. Such a magnificent heraldic achievement could not go unnoticed by the lord for whose new pre-eminence it was created.

John Hastings paid no heed.

‘My lady! What is it that I am expected to do now?’ the sibilants hissed sotto voce, the boy at my side rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger, without grace or elegance, and looking hunted after our steward had bowed before him with yet another platter of aromatic meat for him to taste.

I was sure that he had been taught how to conduct himself, but he had not yet been sent to be a page in some noble household, and the heavy significance of the occasion robbed him of any immature confidence that might have been instilled in him by his lady mother. I tried not to sigh. It was not his fault.

‘We eat first,’ I explained. ‘The feast is for us.’

‘Good.’ His eye brightened a little. ‘I will have some of that …’

And, served by our steward, he tucked in to a dish of spiced peacock, spoon akimbo in his fist, as if he had not been fed for a se’enight. I was left to choose my own repast and converse with my uncle of Gloucester on my left, who subjected me to a rambling description of a run after an impressive stag and my uncle’s ultimate success in bringing it down.

I made suitable noises of appreciation. The minstrels sang of love requited, which was patently ridiculous, but I enjoyed the words and the music. My lord ate through another platter that had caught his eye, of frytourys lumbard stuffed with plums, and then drew patterns in the fair cloth with his knife until his mother caught his eye and frowned at him.

The toasts were made, and our health was drunk once more.

Then came the dancing.

The disparity in our heights made even the simplest steps more complicated as we, the newly wedded couple, led the formal procession that wound around the dancing chamber.

Think of him as your brother. Imagine it is Henry. You’ve suffered his prancing attempts often enough.

So I did, relieved that my lord did not caper and skip as Henry was often tempted to do out of wanton mischief. We made, I decided, as seemly a performance as could be expected when the groom had to count the number of steps he took before he bowed and retraced the movement, counting again.

Holy Virgin!

No one laughed aloud. They would not dare, but I could not fail to see the smiles. It might be a political marriage made in the chambers of power, but I could detect pity and condescension as amused eyes slid from mine. I kept my own smile firmly in place as if it were the most enjoyable experience in the world. I had too much pride to bear loss of dignity well, but I had strength of will to hold it at bay.

Returning to our seats, the processing done, the musicians drawing breath and wiping their foreheads, I became aware of the boy’s fierce regard.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Will you enjoy being wed to me, Elizabeth?’ he asked, surprising me, his eyes as bright as a hunting spaniel on the scent, and not at all shy.

‘I have no idea,’ I replied honestly, immediately regretful as his face fell. ‘I suppose I will. Will you enjoy being wed to me?’

‘Yes.’ He beamed with open-hearted pleasure. ‘I have decided. I will like it above all things.’ My brows must have risen. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

I shook my head, unable to see why a young boy was so vehement in his admiration for our married status when it would mean nothing to him for years to come.

‘I will enjoy living here,’ he announced.

Which surprised me even more.

‘Do you not go home with your mother? Or grandmother?’

‘No. I am to live here. At Kenilworth.’ His eyes glowed with fervour, his cheeks flushed from the cup of wine with which he had been allowed to toast me in good form. ‘I am to learn to be a knight. I am to join Henry in my studies. I will keep my horse here and I can have as many hounds as I wish. I will learn to kill with my sword. And I will go hunting. I would like a raptor of my own, as well as the parrot …’

As I smiled at his enthusiasms—for who could resist? —I had to acknowledge this new fact, that I would see him every day. Rather than live apart until he grew into adulthood to become my husband in more than name, we would have to play husband and wife in all matters of day-to-day living. I had understood that I could dispense with his company until at least he had the presence of a man. Living in the same household, we would rub shoulders daily. I wondered if his enthusiasms for all things with fur or feathers would pall on me.

‘… and then I will have a whole stable full of horses,’ he continued to inform me. ‘As Earl of Pembroke it is my right. Do you know that I have been Earl since before I was three years old? I wish to take part in a tournament. Do you suppose they will let me?’

‘I think you will have to wait a few years.’

‘Well, I quite see that I must. I will be very busy, I expect. You won’t mind if I don’t come and see you every day, will you?’

‘I think I can withstand the disappointment.’

‘I will find time if you wish, of course. And will you call me Jonty, as my nurse does?’

He chattered on. How self-absorbed he was. It could be worse. He could have been loud and boorish, which he was not. But I was not sure that I liked the idea of having him under my feet like a pet dog.

‘If I cannot yet fight in a tournament, will they let me have one of the brache puppies?’

I looked across the table to Dame Katherine for succour, but knew I could do that no longer. I was a married woman and must make my own decisions, even though my husband could not.

The feast and music reaching its apogee, with a flourish and a fanfare the Earl of Pembroke and I were led from the room with minstrels going before in procession, the guests following behind.

‘Now where are we going?’ the boy asked, his hand clutching mine. ‘Can I go and see the brache bitch and puppies now?’

‘No. We must go first to one of the bedchambers.’

His brow furrowed. ‘It’s too early to go to bed.’

‘But today is special. We are to be blessed.’

And I prayed it would be soon over.

The bed was huge, its hangings intimidating in blue and silver, once again festive with Lancaster and Pembroke emblazoning. With no pretence that we would be man and wife in anything but name, the boy and I were helped to sit against the pillows, side by side with a vast expanse of embroidered coverlet between us and no disrobing. Not an inch of extra flesh was revealed as our chaplain approached, bearing his bowl of holy water, and proceeded to sprinkle it over us and the bed.

‘We ask God’s blessing on these two young people who represent the great families of England, Lancaster and Pembroke. We pray that they may grow in grace until they are of an age to be truly united in God’s name.’

There was much more to the same effect until our garments and the bed were all sufficiently doused.

‘Monseigneur …’ The chaplain looked to my father for guidance. ‘It is often considered necessary for the bridegroom to touch the bride’s leg with his foot. Flesh against flesh, my lord. As a mark of what will be fulfilled by my lord the Earl when he reaches maturity.’

I imagined the scene. The boy being divested of his hose, my skirts being lifted to my knees to accommodate the ceremony. My fingers interwove and locked as I prayed that it need not be. And perhaps the Duke read the rigidity in my limbs.

‘I think it will not be necessary. John and Elizabeth are here together. There is no evidence that they seek to escape each other’s company.’

The guests who had crowded in to witness our enjoyment of our married state smiled and murmured. Everyone seemed to do nothing but smile.

‘What do we do now?’ the Earl asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ my father replied. ‘That will all be for the future.’

I did not know whether to laugh or weep.

We stepped down from the bed, on opposite sides. My husband was taken off to his accommodations by his mother, the dowager countess now, who saluted my cheeks and welcomed me as her daughter by law. I returned to my chamber, where Philippa awaited me with my women to help me disrobe.

Instead, Philippa waved the servants away and we stood and looked at each other.

‘Do you know what my husband will be doing as soon as he has removed his wedding finery?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘He will be down in the mews because he wants a hawk of his own, or in the stables because he wants one of the brache’s litter. He tells me that he will enjoy living at Kenilworth—did you know he was to stay here? —because he can wield a sword against Henry and take part in a tournament.’

Philippa smiled.

So did I, the muscles of my face aching.

‘He—Jonty—says that he doesn’t mind if he does not see me every day. He will be quite busy with his own affairs to turn him into the perfect knight.’

I began to laugh. So did Philippa, but without the hysterical edge that coloured mine.

‘He says he will make an effort to come and see me, if I find that I miss him.’

We fell into each other’s arms, some tears mixed in, but a release at last in the shared laughter.

‘If it were you,’ I asked at last, ‘what would you do?’

‘Treat him just like Henry, I suppose’.

Which was all good sense. Pure Philippa. And indeed what I had decided for myself.

‘You mean pretend he isn’t there when he is a nuisance, comfort him when he has fallen from his horse and slap his hands when he steals my sweetmeats.’

But Henry liked books and reading, he liked the poetry and songs of our minstrels, as did I. Jonty seemed to have nothing in his head but warfare and hunting.

‘Something like that.’ Philippa did not see my despair. ‘You can’t treat him like a husband.’

‘No. Obedience and honour.’ I wrinkled my nose.

‘You can’t ignore him, Elizabeth. He’ll be living here under your nose.’

‘How true.’ My laughter had faded at last. ‘Philippa—I wish you a better wedding night.’

She wrapped her arms around me for a moment, then began to remove the layers of silk and miniver until I stood once more in my shift, the jewels removed from my hair, standing as unadorned as might any young woman on any uneventful day of her life.

We did not talk any more of my marriage. What was there to say?

I gave my husband a magnificently illuminated book telling the magical tales of King Arthur and his knights, as well as a parrot of his own as wedding gifts. To my dismay, the book was pushed aside while Jonty pounced on the parrot with noisy delight. He called it Gilbert rather than Elizabeth, after his governor who had taught him his letters. I was not sorry.

‘Does your husband not keep you company this morning, Elizabeth?’

Some would say it was a perfectly ordinary question to a new wife. If the husband in question were not eight years old. So some would say that perhaps there was amusement in the smooth tones.

I knew better. Isabella, Duchess of York, sister to Constanza, my father’s Castilian wife, owned an abrasive spirit beneath her outward elegance, as well as an unexpectedly lascivious temperament. Constanza’s ambition for restoration of the crown of Castile to her handsome head had been transmuted into a need for self-gratification in her younger sibling, who had come to England with her and promptly married my uncle of York. I was fascinated by the manner in which Isabella pleased herself and no one else, but I did not like her, nor did I think she liked me. Her expression might be blandly interested, but her eye was avid for detail as she made herself comfortable beside me in the solar as if with a cosy chat in mind.

‘Learning to read and write I expect,’ I replied lightly. ‘His governor does not allow him to neglect these skills, even though his mind is in the tilt-yard.’

She nodded equably. ‘How old will you be, dear Elizabeth, when he becomes a man at last?’

‘Twenty-four years, at the last count.’

‘Another seven years?’ Isabella mused. ‘How will you exist without a man between your sheets?’

Her presumption nettled me. Everyone might be aware of the situation, but did not talk about it. ‘We are not all driven to excess, my lady.’

I observed her striking features, wondering how she would reply. Isabella had, by reputation, taken more than one lover since her arrival in England and her marriage to my royal uncle of York, but she remained coolly unperturbed, apart from the sting in reply.

‘Of course not. I will offer up a novena for your patience.’

Because I did not wish to continue this conversation, I stood, curtsied, answering with a studied elegance that Dame Katherine would have praised. ‘I am honoured, my lady, for your interest in my peace of mind.’

‘To live as a nun is not to everyone’s taste,’ she continued, standing to walk with me. ‘Nor is it entirely necessary. I thought you had more spirit, my dear.’

I would not be discomfited. ‘Yes, I have spirit. I also have virtue as befits my rank, my lady.’

Isabella showed her sharp little teeth in a smile of great charm. ‘Tell me if virtue—excellent in itself—becomes too wearisome for you, won’t you, dear Elizabeth.’

I angled my head, wondering how much she would confess of her own life. I had heard the rumours in astonishing detail from the women in our solar.

‘I have so many excellent remedies against terminal boredom,’ she added, touching my hand lightly with beautifully be-ringed fingers. ‘You would enjoy them.’

‘I will consider it, my lady.’

My nails dug into my palms as she walked away, leaving the solar to practice her skills on any man but her husband. How infuriating that her observations held so much truth. Waiting until I was twenty-four years to experience marital bliss gnawed at my sacred vows, for my youthful blood rioted and my desires were aflame. Would I dare what Dame Katherine had done, taking a lover to fill the cold bed of her widowhood? Or Duchess Isabella, so blatant, a scarlet woman beneath her fine gowns?

No, I decided, I would not, as the Duchess’s laughter filled the antechamber where she had found someone to entertain her. I had too much pride for that. I would not put myself into Duchess Isabella’s way of life. I would tolerate the boredom if I must and I would go to my marriage bed a virgin. Solemnised in the sight of God and every aristocratic family in the land, my marriage was sacrosanct. Sprinkled with holy water in our marital bed, even if we had exchanged nothing but a chaste kiss, Jonty and I were indivisible. To step along the thorny path of immorality was too painful, as my family well knew. Neither the life that Dame Katherine had chosen, nor the louche flirtations of Duchess Isabelle outside the marriage bed was a choice for me.

Yet I could dream. What woman would not dream? And so I did, allowing my thoughts to stray pleasurably to another man, one who was the epitome of my chivalric dreams. A courtier, superbly well connected, with a handsome face and aristocratic birth, our paths had crossed on a multitude of occasions at Windsor and Westminster. A man with a smile that could light up a room. A man whose skill with sword and lance and polished wit outshone every other knight. This was the man I could desire in marriage, and my heart throbbed a little at the thought of what might have been.

Until harsh reality sank its teeth into my flesh. For this object of my admiration was also a man of grim reputation and high temper. My father would never have desired an alliance with such an adventurer whose irresponsible behaviour was thoroughly condemned.

‘He is as riddled with ambition as an old cheese with maggots!’ my father had censured, when the object of my admiration had paraded in peacock silks at my cousin Richard’s coronation.

So my knight errant was consigned to moments of wistful imaginings, as he should be, for a Pembroke connection was my father’s wish, and as part of the great plan to consolidate the House of Lancaster, I accepted it. This was my destiny. All I must do was exercise patience, living out the next handful of years until Jonty caught up with me in maturity and experience. He might even, in the spirit of the troubadours, offer a poem to the beauty of my hair.

‘Could I clasp whom I adore

On the forest’s leafy floor,’

Sang Hubert, the lovelorn minstrel who knelt at my feet, seducing me with images of more than courtly love.

‘How I’d kiss her—Oh and more!

Dulcis amor!’

Turning my face away, wishing misty-eyed Hubert would take his songs and his sentiments and shut himself in the stables out of my hearing, I shivered. And not for Jonty’s embrace on a forest floor. My tempestuous virginal dreams did not involve Jonty.

I tried. I really tried in those first days when the festivities continued and the new Earl and Countess of Pembroke were under scrutiny. Taking Dame Katherine’s advice to heart, I tried, like a good wife, to seduce Jonty into liking me more than he liked the parrot. I hunted with him. I rode out with a hawk on my fist, a pastime I enjoyed for its own merit. I played games, trying not to beat him too often at Fox and Geese. But he was just a boy and would rather spend his boisterous time and energy with Henry or the other lads of high blood who came to learn their knightly skills under my father’s aegis.

‘What do you expect?’ Philippa observed as, lingering on the steps leading up to the new range of family apartments, we watched him escape his mother’s clutches and race across the courtyard towards the bellows and clashes of yet another bout of practice warfare.

‘I expect nothing more or less. He is a boy.’ I grimaced a little. ‘It is his mother and grandmother who expect me to dance attendance on him more than I see fit. I can feel their eyes on me. Is it not enough that we sit together at dinner? That we kneel together to hear Mass? If I have to discuss the respective merits of birds of prey one more time, I’ll …’

My words dried as Jonty came to a halt under the archway, spun on his heel and seeing us as the only audience, waved furiously in our direction, both arms above his head.

‘My lady,’ he shouted in a piercing treble.

‘My lord,’ I replied at a lesser volume.

Jonty bowed. I curtsied. He bowed again, and I saw the compact, graceful young man he would one day become. Then:

‘Did you see me, Elizabeth? Did you see?’ His excitement echoed from the stonework.

I descended and walked towards him, reluctant to continue the conversation at shouting pitch, which he was quite likely to do, scowling at Philippa to stop her laughing. What had he been doing today that I had not seen? In the tilt-yard probably. Practising archery or swordplay? I made a guess, based on his sweat-streaked face and scuffed clothing. His hair resembled nothing so much as a rat’s nest.

‘Indeed I did see you.’ Now I was within speaking distance. ‘You rode at the quintain as if you were born in the saddle.’

‘The Master at Arms says I’ll be a knight in about twenty years.’

He did not see the irony of it yet.

‘But that seems a very long time to wait …’

Or perhaps he did.

‘Will you come and watch me, Elizabeth? If I try every day it may not take me twenty years.’

I did and applauded his valiant efforts. Henry, who had come to stand at my side, swiftly vanished in the direction of the mews when Jonty dismounted at last and bore down on us. Even Henry grew weary of Jonty’s exuberance.

‘I’d run for it if I were you. His tongue is like a bell-clapper.’

It was indeed like owning a pet dog, I decided. I could not dislike him. He was lively and cheerful with the ability to chatter endlessly when the mood took him. His manners were impeccable with an inbred courtesy that I could not fault.

But he was no husband.

Being Countess of Pembroke palled when I had no knight to squire me or write verses to my beauty. Jonty was brave and bold but quickly proved to have no interest in poetry and possessed the singing voice of a corncrake. Although he counted his steps less obviously when we danced, it was obvious that he would rather be in the saddle.

So, as it must be, when his family returned to their far-flung castles, I left Jonty to his own devices and returned to the pattern of my old life. A wife but not a wife. Countess of Pembroke, yet no different from Elizabeth of Lancaster, except that my carefree adolescence had been stripped away in that exchange of vows and sprinkling of holy water. I was part of the grand order of alliance and dynastic marriage.

But when I received an invitation to spend time at Richard’s court, I lost no time in ordering my coffers to be packed. While waiting for her husband to become a man, the Countess of Pembroke would shine in her new setting.

Chapter Two

January 1382, Westminster

In these days after the Great Rising had been laid to rest, there was a glitter about the King. Richard: no longer the child who wailed when Henry teased him, or when we, as children, refused to allow him the respect he considered his due. He had been a boy easy to tease. Now there was a bright, hard brilliance that I did not recall, almost febrile. The days when he was no more than a terrified youth before he rode off to face to the rebels and quell the revolt at Mile End were long gone, even though it was a mere matter of months. I curtsied low before him and his new wife.

Anne. A foreign princess, come all the way from Bohemia, with an extreme taste in Bohemian headdresses. This was the most extravagant yet, its wired extremities almost wider than her hips, its veiling reminiscent of bed-curtains.

‘My Lady of Pembroke,’ Richard, seated on a throne draped in gold cloth, purred in greeting.

‘Sire.’ I rose from my obeisance, our eyes fortunately on a level since Richard had had the forethought to have the thrones placed on a low dais. He would not have approved of my superior height, for I had my father’s inches. Richard, to his chagrin, was not quite full-grown at fifteen years in spite of his autocratic air.

‘Allow me to make you known to my new wife, Queen Anne.’ He turned to the lady at his side. ‘This is my cousin Elizabeth of Lancaster, Countess of Pembroke.’ His eyes glinted with heady delight in the candlelight. ‘She and her family are dear to me.’

So formal from a boy I had known since his infancy, a boy I recalled clinging to my skirts, demanding that I allow him to fly my new merlin when it was quite clear that she was still in heavy moult, but I followed the desired ceremony as was his wish. Richard was recently seduced by ceremonial and grandeur. All because he had been given the Crown of England at so young an age, Henry frequently observed, interlarded with colourful epithets. Being the King of England when he was barely breeched had given him a damned superior attitude that he had yet to earn. Henry was more interested in tournaments than ceremony and tended to sneer when Richard wasn’t looking—and sometimes even when he was, but it was no longer wise to do so now. Richard was beginning to flex his regal muscles.

So I curtsied again, head bent as was seemly, to Queen Anne.

‘My lady. I am honoured,’ I murmured.

Queen Anne smiled with a knowing acceptance of this piece of foolery. A year older than Richard, she looked to be little more than a child, a tiny scrap of humanity, but with a sharp eye and a tendency to laugh at the ridiculous. She also had a will of iron beneath her formal robes. There was nothing of a child in Queen Anne despite her lack of presence. Which pleased me.

‘We are most pleased to welcome you, Madam Elizabeth,’ she said graciously, indicating with a curl of her fingers that I should rise.

Richard stepped down at last, to salute me formally on each cheek. ‘I know that you will be a good friend to my wife, Cousin.’

‘I will be honoured, Sire.’ I tried successfully not to laugh. How remarkably pompous he sounded for a lad whom I had rescued from the carp pond at Kenilworth where Henry had pushed him.

‘And be pleased to give her advice until she becomes familiar with English ways,’ he added.

And as I caught Queen Anne’s eye, we laughed. The whole introduction had been unnecessary. Richard, with a flash of eye between us, froze.

‘We already know each other very well, Richard,’ the Queen explained gently, as she came to stand with him, a hand on his arm.

‘We have already discussed fashion, horseflesh and men and what to wear for the tournament tomorrow,’ I added, and took a risk, but a small one. ‘And when did you last address me as my lady or even cousin?’

Richard thought about this, I could see the workings of his mind behind his stare, tension hard in his spare shoulders. Encased in cloth of gold and enough ermine to coat fourscore of the little creatures, he looked like one of our grandfather’s knights got up in frivolous costume for a Twelfth Night mummers’ performance. Pride held him rigid, until he took a step back onto the dais, so I must look up into his face.

‘Elizabeth will be my friend,’ Queen Anne murmured. ‘As she is yours.’

‘Of course she will. Do we not order it?’

‘Richard! You cannot treat her like a diplomat from Cathay. You have known her all your life! She will be my friend and to me she will be Elizabeth, even if you continue to address her as Countess. And how foolish that will sound. Now greet her properly, my dear husband.’

And when Anne stepped up to kiss Richard’s cheek, and laughed openly at him, so did he smile and all the tension was broken.

‘Welcome, Elizabeth,’ he said gruffly.

‘I am so happy for you, Richard.’

And we were restored to a close-knit family group.

The days after the fright of the attack on the Tower had not been easy for any of us, but now all was smoothed over. A new year and new beginnings with this foreign bride. Leaving my husband to continue his growing up at Kenilworth, I had come with Henry to Richard’s marriage celebrations. How it pleased me, this new delight in outward appearances, in feasts and dancing and ceremonial. And as close family to the King, Henry and I had been given the honour to receive the new Queen into London in the cold of days of January. My father, too, was restored to grace, escorting her from Dover to London. The dire lash of Walsingham’s tongue against the Duke who had brought all the evils of defeat and rebellion tumbling down onto England’s head had been obliterated by Richard’s acceptance of the family closest to him.

Not that I was without complaint. It was not in my nature to be content. How could I be so, for here we were, celebrating a potentially happy marriage, which I did not have, a marriage in more than name and promises for the next decade. Despite the remarkable headdress she was wearing, surely hot and cumbersome, Richard was beaming at the new Queen as if he were already in love with her, while Anne, undoubtedly pretty, knew how to manage Richard’s strange humours.

Jonty continued to be more enamoured of his horse, his tiercel, his new hauberk since he was growing like a spring shoot, and even a pair of shoes with riskily extreme toes that caused him some loss of dignity, than he was of me.

‘We will talk after supper,’ the Queen said, a gleam in her eye. ‘Come to my room, Elizabeth, and see what I will wear tomorrow, when I am Queen of the Lists.’ She tugged on Richard’s arm. ‘I think it would be an excellent idea if you choose Elizabeth to step into my shoes for the second day. She is my cousin now, is she not?’

‘I think I will do whatever pleases you on our marriage day.’

‘Then it is decided.’

Richard took his wife’s hand, regarding her as if she were some precious object that he had acquired and must keep safe from harm or disappointment. ‘We must speak with my uncles who are waiting to greet you.’ Then to me, as the musicians tuned their instruments, looking over my shoulder to whomever it was who had approached: ‘I’ll leave you in the care of my brother. John, come and entertain Elizabeth. And if you don’t wish to talk to her, you can always dance. I’ll guarantee she’ll not tread on your toes.’ And to me, with a strange slide from ceremony to rude familiar: ‘My brother has a reputation for entertaining beautiful women. But don’t believe all he says …’

With a particularly un-regal smirk, Richard led Queen Anne to the little knot of Plantagenet uncles of Lancaster, York and Gloucester, who stood in an enclave, deep in discussion. This marriage was not popular with everyone. Anne had proved to be an expensive bride, with no personal dower worth mentioning and few diplomatic benefits for England.

Meanwhile a soft laugh reached me, stilled me. Slowly, I turned, knowing who I would find. Here, filling my vision, was my father’s old cheese, riddled with maggots. A less appropriate comment I could not envisage for this courtier, resplendent in court silks heavy with gold stitching, impeccably presented from his well-shaped hair to his extravagantly long-toed shoes. Every sense in my body leapt into softly humming life, like clever fingers strumming lightly across the strings of a lute.

Sir John Holland, illustrious half-brother to King Richard, with whom he shared a mother in the dramatic form of Princess Joan, once the Fair Maid of Kent. He had made a reputation for the charm of his smile, for the wit and sparkle of his conversation, for his legendary temper, as well as for his unquestionably handsome face. Some men were wary of him, for he made much of the value of his royal connections, employing a smooth arrogance. He was ambitious for power, but that was no deterrent in my eye. As half-brother to King Richard, why should he not wield authority at the King’s side?

But that was not all. He was thirty years old, with an impossibly seductive glamour. Even to me, he had a court gloss that intrigued me. When he smiled his face lit with a wild lustre, and I sighed with youthful longing, for this brilliance was irresistible. The last time I spent any length of time in the company of Sir John Holland, he had been wielding a blood-stained sword, while I had been shivering with terror, gripping his arms as if I were a child in the midst of a nightmare and he could shield me from the dark torments. Now the situation was very different. Sir John bowed. I curtsied. How superlatively decorous we were, as I surveyed him and he surveyed me. I could not read the mind behind those remarkable features, but as I acknowledged the intensity of his gaze that took in every detail of my apparel, memory came flooding back.

It had been in the previous year, when what we had come to call the Great Rising had erupted, drenching us all in fear. Peasants’ mobs from Kent and Essex, vociferous in their complaints, had turned their ire on my father as royal counsellor and the instrument of all their woes, and since he was on a diplomatic mission to Scotland they vented their wrath on all connected with Lancaster. My brother Henry had been dispatched to the Tower of London to take refuge with Richard’s court, newly come from Windsor, and I accompanied him, anticipating safety behind the impregnable walls until my father could return with an army to rescue us.

But then all unimaginable horrors overtook us when the garrison opened the gates of the Tower to the rebels fuelled with blood-lust. Brutal violence and fire and death descended on us, creating the nightmare that troubled me long after. Hopelessly manhandled, pushed and dragged, Henry fought back but I was beside myself with speechless terror. Were we destined to join the Archbishop and royal Treasurer as well as my father’s physician on Tower Hill for summary execution?

And then in the hot centre of my fear, a new hand closed on my arm, hard and remorseless. I wrenched away, but it held tight.

‘Quietly!’ a voice said in my ear.

‘I’ll not die quietly!’ I retorted, speech fast returning, as defiant as my brother, only then realising that Henry and I had been carefully separated from the rest of the prisoners.

‘Be silent!’ The same voice. The grip on my arm tightened even further. ‘If you draw attention, we’re lost.’

I whirled round, fury taking control in my mind, in my heart. ‘Take your filthy hands off me. I’m meat for no lawless rabble.’

‘They are filthy. But they are at your service, if you’ve the sense to accept it! Be still, girl!’ my captor snapped back.

And I saw that I knew him, and that we were surrounded by a small body of soldiers. My furious response died on my lips as he began to issue orders to his men.

‘Here, Ferrour! Take him!’ he ordered. ‘Hide him if you must. But keep him safe. At all costs.’ And Henry was snatched up and pushed into the arms of one of the soldiers who nodded and dragged him away.

‘Henry!’ I called, not understanding, now beyond fear. ‘In God’s name …!’

The hand on my arm shook me into obedience. ‘We must get the boy out of here or he’ll surely die. As Lancaster’s heir, this rabble will execute first and ask questions later.’

But I cried out, unable to take in what was happening. The horror of the past minutes had robbed me of all sense. ‘He is my brother. I can’t let him go.’

‘You must. Listen to me, Elizabeth.’ I tensed as his demand cut through my panic. He knew my name … ‘Elizabeth.’ An attempt to soften his voice. ‘Stop shrieking in my ear. And listen …’

‘Yes,’ I said, but without clear thought. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘It’s me, Elizabeth. John Holland. Look at me. You know me. Henry will be safe. Now we have to get you out of here. This is what you do. You go with these men …’

To my astonishment, in the midst of all the violence and squalor around us, he grabbed at my hand, lifting it briskly to his lips in a beautifully punctilious salutation as if I were some court lady, not the bedraggled figure I knew myself to be. My gaze snapped to his, and for the moment it took to draw a breath, our eyes held, before his moved slowly over me, from my head to my feet. I could sense him taking in my ruined skirts, my hair tumbled down my back, then as his gaze focused, he seized my hand and lifted my arm.

‘Is it your blood?’

I looked with surprise as he pushed back my sleeve, where it had been wrenched apart, to reveal a short but deep scratch above my wrist. I had not been aware, and the blood had now dried. I had not even felt it in the heat of the moment.

Abruptly he allowed me to go free.

‘Get one of my mother’s women to tend it for you. It would be a tragedy if you were scarred. Now go. And fast, or I’ll use the flat of my sword to encourage you.’

I fled with my escort, to be thrust ignominiously into Princess Joan’s barge, the impression of his kiss still viable against my skin. My first meeting of any tangible quality with John Holland. He had undoubtedly saved me from violent, terrible death.

He had done more than that.

This man’s reputation was not merely one of military prowess, for Sir John had a name for attacking the defences of beautiful women, and with great success. His striking features won him the laurels, and not all on the battlefield or at the tournament. There was one particular rumour of a torrid affair that set the court about its ears. He had no reticence in casting his net as high as he liked when persuading a lovely woman to his bed.

Yet this did not stop him from being the knight whose vivid, volatile features I could summon into my mind as accurately as I could see my own in my looking glass, the dark-haired man who invaded my thoughts and my dreams.

What would it be like, I pondered, if he would see me as a woman rather than a child? What would it be like to dance with such a man, our bodies moving in unison or counterpoint? What would it be like to flirt, to spar verbally, discovering some understanding that would touch both heart and mind? To converse about something of more consequence than a hunting hound? Even now, it might be my avowed intention to remain a virgin bride until Jonty was ready to put that to rights, rather than a boy rolling in the dust in a wrestling match with his peers, but I thought I would enjoy the company and esteem of a knight who was a man, and talented withal.

And here he was, bowing with extravagant grace, and with a gallant turn of his wrist inviting me to join him as if he had no recall of me in an extremity of pure terror, of which I was not proud.

‘Will you dance, my lady?’

I loved dancing. Being adept at every complicated step and simple procession it was on my lips to leap at the opportunity, for this was the carole that I particularly enjoyed. Then I decided that I really had no wish to dance, or not yet, knowing full well how impossible it was to hold a conversation when one’s partner was hopping at some distance. Here was a man who stirred my blood. Here was a man I wished to talk with.

A man I wished to impress?

But of course, I admitted as into my mind came the image of how he had seen me last. Frightened, blood-smeared and filthy. I wanted him to see me as I was now: finely clad, in command of my senses and my conversation, adept in the fine art of courtly love. I had been woefully ignorant, but five months at court had done much for my education. Recalling his final flamboyant gesture of a courtly kiss, I wanted to see if it had been a mere passing gesture in the enhanced emotions of the moment. Or perhaps John Holland might be persuaded to repeat the experience.

Despite my eagerness, however, I would take utmost care. There would be no scandal attached to my blood and proud name. I knew all about his reputation, more now since I had gossiped during the wedding celebrations. I was not the only woman to have an interest in John Holland—even now eyes were following his every move—but I determined to hide it better than some.

‘Well?’ he asked, brows flattening into a black bar when I hesitated far too long for polite refusal. ‘I didn’t think my invitation to dance would call for such deep contemplation. Unless you have no energy for it, you being so advanced in years.’ His face remained grave. ‘Or perhaps you have taken a dislike of me, in the manner of any capricious woman.’

‘No, Sir John, not being capricious I have not taken you in dislike,’ I replied promptly now, ‘although I might if you frown at me.’ Knowing full well that he was mocking me, I placed my fingers on his arm, walking with him as if I would allow him to lead me into the newly forming circle. ‘Is it possible for you to dance in those?’ I gestured to his hazardous footwear.

‘Assuredly, lady. If you can manage the bolt of cloth in that ostentatious garment you’re wearing without tripping over it.’

I smiled pityingly, for who was he to point the finger? Used as I was to brother Henry’s taste in ostentation—was he not even now enveloped in gold damask and gold lions? —here beside me was lavish resplendence. John Holland’s formal calf-length houppelande, dagged and heavily trimmed with silk at hem and neck, the blood-red of its hue not a colour that flattered many, swirled and fell into heavy folds. As he moved the burden of expensive perfume—something foreign and costly such as the heady note of ambergris, I thought—surprised me, teasing at my senses. It would be no easy task for him to caper with dexterity, but I was in no doubt that he could. Determined to give no sign of any appreciation of this vision who had sought my company, I replied with comparable solemnity.

‘Then I fear that you must find another partner, Sir John. I find that I do not wish to dance after all.’

‘Well, that’s forthright enough.’ He stopped. So did I, glancing up at him. It pleased me that he was taller. ‘I’ll stop frowning. What do you wish to do instead?’ There was a gleam in his eye.

‘I would like a cup of wine and somewhere to sit. I have been on my feet since I rose from my bed at dawn.’

‘And were you alone in your bed, before you rose?’ His thumb brushed over my knuckles.

So! I took a breath. ‘Sir John?’

‘Madam Countess?’

Since this was a level of familiarity even beyond my improved experience, I felt hot blood rise in my cheeks, but I held his stare. ‘Of course, alone.’

‘Is your husband not present?’ he asked, all gentle malice.

‘He is here. He is in my father’s retinue.’ Jonty had come for the wedding, as was fitting.

John Holland showed his teeth in a smile. ‘Poor Elizabeth!’

I knew his sly reference to my half-wed state. Enough of this, I thought. ‘I would not be such a poor thing if you would find a cup of wine for me.’

‘Your wish will be my command, my lady.’

He led me to one of the cushioned stools placed against the wall, far enough from the crowd to allow us a little privacy, where he bowed me to take my seat and disappeared in search of sustenance. I watched him go, without making it too obvious, my heart still beating harder than my sitting at a court reception would engender.

John Holland, I mused, was all I remembered him to be, and all I had recently discovered. A man of hidden depths, a bold companion, but probably a dangerous enemy. But ambition and ability in the tilting field was not what intrigued me. Apart from the sheer force of his presence whenever he entered a room, what fascinated me was that John Holland had been enveloped in rumour and scandal since the day of his birth. Or more accurately, the scandal that was of Princess Joan’s making.

As we all knew the salacious details of it—how Philippa and I had enjoyed dissecting these early years of the Fair Maid of Kent’s life! Princess Joan was first married when very young to Sir Thomas Holland, something of a clandestine event but certainly legal. But Sir Thomas went off on Crusade, leaving Joan behind to be forced—in her own words—into a second marriage with the Earl of Salisbury. When Sir Thomas returned, it was to discover his wife wed to the Earl in an undoubtedly bigamous union. And Sir Thomas, from some strange motivation, took up a position as steward in their household.

Such a delicious ménage à trois!

But Sir Thomas wanted his wife back, and got her when he appealed to the Pope that Joan had promised herself to him and shared his bed. Did Joan prefer Sir Thomas to the hapless Earl of Salisbury? Who was to know? She and Sir Thomas had five children together before Sir Thomas died, leaving Joan a widow and free to wed again to Prince Edward. It might have been against the wishes of King Edward and Queen Philippa, for Joan was no innocent virgin, but she had achieved her heart’s desire, and here was her royal son Richard, wearing the crown.

And here, working his path through the crowd was John Holland, her youngest child by that first marriage, now a Knight of the Garter, thirty years old, darkly beautiful to my mind with none of the fairness of Richard. A man who was creating his own glamour, his own scandals. He was unlike any other man I knew.

I watched him make his way in leisurely fashion, a smile here, a comment there, a pause as some acquaintance exchanged an opinion or a jibe, an appropriate inclination of his head towards one of the dowagers. He had all the poise, all the courtly aplomb in the world, and, as the King’s brother, no one would be unwise enough to rebuff him. When he finally approached me again, he smiled, and, unable to prevent myself, I discovered that I was smiling back.

You are playing with fire, a voice of common sense warned, disconcertingly in the tones of Dame Katherine who was no longer one of our number. After the debacle of the Great Rising, my father had dedicated himself to a life of sinless morality to achieve God’s blessing on England.

But how pleasant to be a little singed, I replied, wishing that she were here. What right have you to advise me on such matters? As my father’s mistress, dubbed a whore by Walsingham for leading my father into sin, I thought she had no right to be critical.

But she would not be put in her place. Take care he does not burn you to cinders. Some men, as I know to my cost, are impossible to withstand.

All I intended was to practice the arts of courtly love. And with so personable a man. I had no intention of being a burnt offering on the altar of John Holland’s male pride.

So have many women said. Particularly, of late, the Duchess of …

I cut off the voice before it could say more, and then he was returned with loose-limbed grace, the perfect protagonist upon whom to polish my female skills. Was I love-struck? Certainly not. Merely enjoying my first experiences under the power of a flattering tongue, spreading my wings in the company of a man of many talents.

I smiled at my sister who was watching me from across the chamber, brows arched. I knew that expression, and looked away.

‘You look pleased to see me return,’ John Holland observed. ‘Did you think I would abandon you?’

‘I am pleased. I am thirsty, and I knew you would not leave me desolate, Sir John. Did not our King command you to entertain me? Not even you would dare disobey him on this most auspicious of days.’

‘Do you say?’

‘Yes. Are you going to give me that cup of wine? You may as well be of use to me.’ I managed a perfect air of abstraction.

‘Which puts me in my place. Since you need to sit, I will sit with you.’ He hooked a foot round a stool, pulled it close and sat.

Which suited me very well. I had the energy to dance through the night but with our previous meeting in mind I sipped, smiled my thanks, smoothing the folds of my oversleeves so they draped in elegant contours to the floor, wondering if he would remind me. There were some elements of it, such as my own appearance and demeanour, I would rather remain buried in the past. And so I would select a different direction for our conversation, and, if possible, puncture his self-possession a little.

‘Have you been absent from court, sir?’ I knew very well that he had.

‘Yes. I have a new lordship in Gascony to oversee, as well as recent grants of estates in England. Did you not miss me?’

I was prepared for this. ‘No, sir.’ Inspecting the contents of my cup. ‘I have been much occupied.’

‘I see that you have put your time here at Westminster to excellent use.’ I looked up. Of course he remembered. How would it be possible for him to forget such a cataclysmic event that brought us all close to disaster? ‘A marked improvement on the last time we met. I must commend you.’ He raised his cup in a toast, which I returned, with insouciance.

‘In what respect, sir?’ I risked.

‘In respect of the radiant Countess of Pembroke.’ There was a challenge that glimmered in his eye. ‘Dishevelled, terrified and tearful, as I recall, and undoubtedly sharp-tongued. Today you are become one of the most beautiful women in this tedious gathering.’ I felt his appraisal, which, to my chagrin, brought colour to my cheeks, as did his fulsome compliment. ‘You were less than presentable when I saw you last.’

‘Can you blame me, Sir John? But I deny that I was tearful.’ Did he need to remind me? I raised my chin a little, even as the beat of my heart lurched and I sought for a mature response to an event that still had the power to distress me. I had no intention of being seduced by clever accolades, but I would enjoy them.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’ He inclined his head graciously. ‘You had been tossed into an impossible situation.’

‘From which you rescued me,’ I said, eyes cast once more demurely down to my wine cup, anticipation rife, sensing that this man was at his most dangerous when smoothly compliant.

‘Despite your reluctance to be rescued.’ An innocuous reply.

‘I must thank you for your forbearance if I seemed less than amenable.’

‘I have to say, Madam Elizabeth,’ he responded promptly, ‘that it is not only your appearance that has undergone a transformation. Today your tongue is touched with honey.’

I knew my eyes sparkled. I would not rise to that bait, like a salmon snatching at a mayfly, only to be dragged to land by an enterprising fisherman. Instead I cast my own bait on the choppy waters.

What an enjoyable conversation this was becoming.

‘I am astonished,’ I observed, ‘that Richard agreed to receive you at court, Sir John, if what I hear is true.’

With alacrity the bait was snapped up. Would nothing disconcert him? ‘Admirable! You have reverted to your acerbic mood, I note. And at my expense. Take care, Madam Elizabeth. Would you do battle with me?’

‘Yes, when you avoid my question.’

‘You did not ask a question. You made an observation. Which is patently untrue. My brother is always pleased to have me close.’

‘Even with the recent scandal? Causing waves to unsettle the whole family?’

‘I see no waves.’ Straightening, he swept a wide gesture to encompass the chattering throng. Indeed there were none, everyone present intent on nothing but enjoyment, but I pursued my quarry, since he was proving to be a willing combatant.

‘My father the Duke was most displeased.’

‘Are you sure, Countess? The Duke has been nothing but grateful for my recent services in his expedition to besiege St Malo. Even if it was destined to failure.’

A fast lunge and parry. A rapid cut and thrust. How exhilarating it was to talk with a man in this fashion. Would I ever have such conversation with Jonty? I knew that I never would.

‘As for waves …’ I mused. ‘Perhaps they are only invisible because the lady in question is not here to stir them into life.’ I too looked around the vast chamber, feigning astonished interest at the absence of the woman in question. ‘But I expect she will announce herself very soon, and then we will see …’

‘Do you spend all your days listening to gossip?’ he interrupted, those dark eyes wide with innocence, unless one looked too closely and was tempted to fall into their depths. Quickly I looked away, taking another sip of wine.

‘Yes. What else is there for me to do? I fear your reputation has sunk you in the mire, Sir John.’

‘You shouldn’t believe all you hear, Madam Elizabeth.’

‘Is it not true, then? The court has been awash with it.’

‘I’ll not tell you.’

‘I see.’ I looked at him through my lashes as once more I took a sip of wine. ‘Are you already suffering remorse, perhaps? Intending to confess your sins and mend your ways?’ I leaned a little towards him. ‘You can tell me, you know. I can be most discreet.’

‘When is a young woman ever discreet? And I don’t believe I’ve ever suffered a moment’s remorse in all my life.’ He laughed again, a rich attractive sound that drew eyes. ‘I’ll not tell you my thoughts, because you’re too young for such salacious gossip.’

‘What would I not know? I am nineteen years old. And wed.’

‘To a husband who does not share your bed. Thus making you a charmingly innocent virgin wife. And,’ he added, with no warning at all, ‘I would like nothing better than to rob you of that innocence.’

Which effectively silenced me. Even more when, before I could prevent it, he had snatched up my free hand in his and raised it to press his lips to my fingers. This was far more outspoken, more particular, than I had expected, but had I not goaded him? I had asked for this riposte. Casting a hasty glance over our courtly companions, it was a relief to see that his attentions were unobserved, but a ripple of awareness, and not a little fear, ran over my nape as my hand was not released.

‘You must not, sir. Do you wish to make me the subject of similar gossip?’

Upon which John Holland’s smile vanished like the sun behind a particularly virulent storm cloud, and he became broodingly brisk and businesslike, defying me to follow his moods.

‘Don’t worry, Countess. I’ve not impugned your honour. It’s only a kiss between family. Your father would have my skin nailed to the flag-pole at Kenilworth if he thought I had shown you any disrespect, and I can’t afford to antagonise Lancaster, can I? I’m in receipt of his livery. It was my mistake to single you out in such a manner. As for you, Cousin, if you are going to wield a weapon, you must do so against someone of your own weight. Otherwise you will be wounded.’

Although my face was afire, I could not prevent an arch response. ‘I am no cousin of yours. There is no blood connection.’

‘So you are not, Lady of Pembroke, but near enough. Accept this as a cousinly salute.’

And there was pressure of his mouth on my knuckles again, trivial enough but startling by the implied intimacy so that I stiffened, and he must have caught a sense of it.

‘What is it? Have I seriously unsettled you? I had thought you to be more worldly wise, mistress. I was wrong. You must forgive me.’

The timbre of his voice was suddenly dry enough to warn me that he had abandoned his previous trifling, and lurking at the edge of his disclaimer was the undoubted provocation. You can trust me or not, as you wish. I don’t care. Nor did he, but I would not allow him to discomfit me. I recovered fast to display condescension when he half rose to leave. I did not want him to go. Not yet, and assuredly not on his terms where he had presumed me to be naïve.

‘I am not wounded. Did you think you drew blood?’ I asked, tugging my hand free but replying with a show of serenity as I spread my arms wide. ‘See. I am unharmed. The Earl of Pembroke does not share my bed until he is of age. It is no secret. And it is not in your power to rob me of my innocence.’

Settling back on the stool, he perused me, much like a well-fed hawk would watch a mouse in the long grass, undecided whether to make the effort to pounce or abandon it for more worthy prey. Something in my expression, or perhaps in my picking up on his outrageous threat, made him observe: ‘I doubt the situation satisfies you, whatever you say. How old is he?’

‘Jonty has reached his tenth year.’

He lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. ‘So you have decided to wait to enjoy the pleasures of the bedchamber under the auspices of holy matrimony …’

This unnerved me all over again but I was improving in smart retaliation. ‘Of course I will wait. I make no complaint. Now you it seems do not need a wife at all. Unless it’s someone else’s.’

‘I see you have not been imbued with politesse, Madam Elizabeth.’

‘My social graces are excellent, Sir John.’

‘You have wit and charm, certainly.’

To my satisfaction, he had begun to smile again. ‘Is that all, Sir John?’

‘Are you perhaps fishing for compliments, Madam Elizabeth?’

‘No, indeed. I have no need to do so. I receive many compliments.’

‘I expect you do. How could you not with your illustrious parentage? Some of us are not so fortunate, and must work harder for it …’ His mouth acquired a derisive twist, even a hint of temper, that caught my interest. Then, with smooth transition, so that I might have thought I imagined the whole: ‘Do you stay at court long, madam?’

A superlatively rapid volte face. So he had no wish to stir the mud in that particular pond of his troubled parentage, but he had given me an insight I had not expected. I let it go for now, and followed his direction into calmer waters.

‘Yes. That is, I hope so. And what of you?’

‘My plans are fluid.’

‘Perhaps our paths will cross again.’

‘Would you wish them to?’

‘I might.’

‘It may be that I go to Ireland in August as the newly appointed Lord Lieutenant.’

‘Oh’. It was not what I had hoped to hear, certainly.

‘Would you miss me now, if I were absent from court?’

Oh, I had his measure. ‘How would I? Do you fight tomorrow in the tournament?’

‘I will if you will be there to watch me win against all comers.’

‘Such self-deprecation, Sir John. I will be there to wager on your losing.’

‘You would lose, so don’t risk wagering that exceptional ring you are wearing. How could I resist displaying my skills before so critical an audience? If you lost that jewel I might feel compelled to buy you another.’

‘I doubt you could afford one of this value. It was a gift from my father.’ And I spread the fingers of my right hand so that the ruby glowed blood-red in its heart, as red as the tunic that flattered John Holland’s colouring so perfectly.

‘I would willingly spend all I have to make you smile at me. As I will fight to win your praises.’

I was flattered, of course, as he intended. Except that I knew he had no intention of spending all he had, and would participate in the tournament whether I was there or not. And would probably win.

‘Perhaps you will ask me to dance again afterwards?’ I suggested.

‘I might.’

‘And I might accept.’

‘I doubt if you could refuse me.’

‘I will have many offers.’

He stood and offered his hand to bring me to my feet.

‘You will not refuse, Elizabeth, because you see the danger in accepting my offer. How could you resist the desire that sparkles through your blood even now? I can see it as clearly as if written on velum with a monkish pen.’

This time I was the one who frowned. Did I wish to acknowledge this uncannily accurate reading of my response to him? Again he had pushed ahead far too quickly and into unknown territory.

‘I could resist,’ I said. ‘I have amazing willpower.’

‘Then perhaps we will put it to the test.’

He bowed, took my empty cup, only to abandon it on the floor. Seizing my wrist, he turned back the edging of my oversleeve, and stopped, fingers stilled, assessing the immediate problem.

‘I can get no further with this,’ he remarked.

‘And why would you wish to?’

The sleeve of my undergown was tightly buttoned almost to my knuckles.

‘To see if your wrist was scarred by the rebel’s knife.’ The words were curt, the consonants bitten off. ‘I regretted that.’

Uncertain of this brief emergence of irritation when it seemed unnecessary, I misunderstood. ‘But it was not your fault, sir.’

He was not smiling, and his clasp was firmer than the occasion warranted. ‘It should not have happened. I should have been there sooner to ensure your safety. Your brother was unharmed, but you suffered. You are too beautiful to carry any blemish. I would not have it so.’

And my heart tripped a little, because I thought, of all the words we had exchanged that day, his contrition was genuine, and he had phrased it so neatly with the artistry of any troubadour. But my flattering knight bowed abruptly, released me and turned to walk away as if he had received a royal summons that demanded urgent action.

‘Sir John …’ I called, disconcerted. ‘There is no scar.’

He halted, and returned abruptly so that we were face to face.

‘How could I forget you?’ he asked, as if I had only just that minute asked him the question, as if it were the one thought uppermost in his mind that angered him beyond measure. ‘I swear you are the most compelling woman I have ever met. I wish it were not so, but you have inveigled your way into my thoughts from that first day I noticed you.’ Clearly he was not pleased with the prospect. ‘Since then I have found it impossible to remove you. You’re like a burr caught in a saddlecloth, lethal to horse and rider.’

‘You bundled me into a barge with your mother,’ I retaliated, recalling the occasion all too vividly. ‘And that was after you told me to stop shrieking in your ear because it would draw attention to us. I don’t think you realised how terrified I was …’

‘Of course I did.’

I became haughty. ‘You were lacking in compassion, sir.’

‘My compassion, as you put it, was directed at getting you and your brother out of a situation that could have been certain death for all of us. What would you have had me do? Stay to bandy words of admiration and dalliance?’ He made an economic gesture of acceptance. And then there was the slow smile as his breathing eased. ‘Before God, I did admire you, Elizabeth. You were bold and brave and deliciously unforgettable. Never doubt it, you are a jewel of incomparable value. Am I not a connoisseur of women?’ The smile became imbued with warm malice. ‘Married or otherwise.’

Then he was striding off through the gathering, leaving me feeling alive and vibrant and vividly aware of my surroundings. I was as breathless as if I had been riding hard after the hunt. What a play of emotions in this mercurial royal brother, and how my own had responded to his. It seemed that I had won his regard and his admiration, as he surely had mine.

Did I enjoy flirting with danger?

There was no danger here, I asserted. Merely an exchange of opinion with an uncommonly quick-witted man. Not one of which my late lamented mother would have approved, but why not? He had taken my eye, appealing to my curiosity, and that exchange had been harmlessly teasing rather than dangerous. He had called me cousin. There was nothing here but the closeness of family.

Did I believe my simplistic dissection of our lively exchange, when every one of my senses had leaped and danced? If I did not, if I knew we had enjoyed far more than a courtly conversation over a cup of wine, I was not prepared to confess it, even to myself.

I made my way towards the group containing Philippa and Henry, turning over the content of the past minutes, discovering one thing to ponder. John Holland’s sharp retreat from any discussion of his own parentage. The instability of his background was well known, even the sly accusations of illegitimacy, product of Princess Joan’s disgracefully bigamous ownership of two husbands before her royal marriage. Was he sensitive to that? I did not think so, for it was generally agreed that there was no truth in it, and I suspected that Sir John was not sensitive to anything but his own desires. What was as clear as glass to me was that he had ambitions to make his own name, not simply as the King’s brother. It was impossible not to recognise in him an appetite, a ruthlessness to savour every dish in the banquet and drink life dry. He might be aware of the shadows, perhaps resenting them, but would be inexorable in sweeping them aside if they stood in his path. Already he was acquiring land to match his enhanced status as a prestigious Knight of the Garter, at Richard’s creation.

For the past ten minutes he had made me the object of his potent, exhilarating, undivided attention, and I had gloried in it.

‘Flexing your talons?’ Philippa observed, a critical observer who made no attempt to hide her dismay. ‘As long as you don’t get hurt.’

‘I will not. Nor will I hurt others. And, before you level the accusation, dearest sister, I will certainly not harm Jonty.’

I could barely wait for the tournament to begin.

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?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.