The King’s Sister (29 page)

‘And would you encourage treason?’

‘It is not treason. Richard has agreed to give up the throne.’

‘Only under pressure. He would never choose that of his own free will.’

He was looking at me, stern, judgemental, none of the old love in his face, rather a hard-eyed assessment that made me quail.

‘What is it?’ I whispered.

‘I saw you standing next to Henry, before the old Duke’s tomb. You were smiling at him. Your face was alight.’

‘Because he had returned.’

‘Even though you know his return will ruin me? The House of Lancaster cleaves together. I could expect no different.’

I raised my hands to let him go. ‘I cannot talk to you.’

He left me, our life together in tatters, even though he returned with me to the Pultney House.

‘John …!’ I called, in a final attempt to lure him back to me, striving not to let my wretchedness harden the edges of my voice, as he strode past me to vanish round the turn in the stair.

He did not reply. He did not even turn his head.

And so he remained in the following days, a silent and
restless force who shut himself in his own chamber. For the first time in my life I knew real fear. Not the confused terror of the day in the Tower of London so long ago, but a fear that shook me to the essence of my soul. I was afraid, so afraid, that if John refused to accept my brother, Henry would surely destroy him.

John and I were impossibly estranged.

In my loneliness I spent the time in plotting. I needed a stratagem to work a miracle. A gift of power, of good omen, from the Duke and Duchess of Exeter to the newly returned Duke of Lancaster.

That was it, the perfect solution.

I saw my task with clarity: to bring some semblance of unity to these two formidable men, brother and husband, who could not, through the demands of family loyalty, meet eye to eye, hand to hand. To remove the conflict and prove that it was possible for them to co-exist with a degree of amity if not affection. To remind Henry of his debt to John. To show John that my brother would make a worthy king, of greater value to England than Richard could ever be. That it was only justice for Richard to give up his throne. And to show Henry that my husband would be a valuable addition to his body of counsellors.

And to bring back some healing laughter into our lives.

Quite simply I needed some meeting without politics and power, to allow us all to step back from the conflagration of Richard’s overthrow and remember the good times.

A simple matter?

Impossible, but that would not stop me. I could not afford to fail. To do so would be to drop us all into an abyss of suspicion
and growing conflict. Worst of all, I dared not talk of it to John. Therein would lie disaster. It had to be said that we were not speaking other than the habitual trivia of the weather and the state of the roads when the household met for meals. Our dining was a masterpiece of cold brevity.

How to do it? All it needed was a suitable framework within which I might work some form of clever female magic and bring them together.

My mentor was obvious. Not Philippa who would advise soft handling, which had patently failed already. Not Duchess Katherine who, if she were speaking to me at all, would advise prayer. I had no confidence in God’s intervention in this fraught hostility. My mentor was Princess Joan, who had used her talents to negotiate between difficult men in conflict. She had not been slow to extend her capable hands and bring the warring parties together.

I could do the same.

I wished she were here with me to guide my hand but I knew enough of the workings of the two minds to undertake a reconciliation. Henry was as superstitious as most men. I could make use of it. And John had a strong streak of practicality. I prayed that Henry would smile and John would be receptive.

Holy Virgin, protect me from the pride in my family.

I wished Joan were alive to stand beside me. I missed her caustic wit.

A celebration.

I recalled the events of Richard’s life when he was the
young heir, full of promise just before the death of our grandfather, King Edward. A particularly happy outcome was reborn in my memory, hosted by the City of London to show its support for the golden child that Richard was, and the golden King they hoped he would become. An event of colour and festivity and good omen. Could I not do the same?

Pultney House would be perfect for such a gathering, more intimate than one of the royal palaces but suitable for the great and good to gather. With John as host and Henry as guest, all overlaid with a soft ambience of music and good food and a little trickery, how could it fail?

I spent liberally. I was out to make an impression.

‘And what do you hope to achieve?’ John enquired with more cynicism than I liked when he caught me in communication with Master Shelley over the wine we would consume. I could hardly hide the preparations from him.

‘Only a family gathering.’

‘All united in amicable friendship, I suppose. Do we invite Richard?’

Richard, as we both knew, was still locked away in the Tower at Henry’s behest.

‘Go away if you cannot be practical.’

‘Are you sure you should be exerting yourself?’ he asked, his eye on my burgeoning belly.

‘This child,’ I remarked waspishly, ‘at this precise moment is less trouble to me than you are.’

John left me to get on with it.

‘You will be there,’ I said, raising my voice so that he must hear before the door closed behind him.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It will be a miracle if it does not end in bloodshed.’

‘As long as it’s not yours …’

‘Or Henry’s. Which would you choose, my dear wife?’

I set my teeth, then got on with it.

I hired a company of vizored mummers to parade through the streets. Knight and squire, an emperor and a pope complete with retinue: cardinals and papal legates. Well over a two score, with their blazing torches they lit our courtyard to mark the victorious return of Lancaster, to smooth a layer of peace and goodwill over the country. Wine and ale and roasted meats were served in abundance. When the minstrels tuned their instruments our guests danced and sang.

John was a gracious host, Henry a courteous guest, I a heavily burdened hostess who spent much of the time in resting on a cushioned stool. But I allowed a sigh of relief, even though I was aware of the one absent face. Richard. A ghost absent from our midst.

It was time to add a little light-hearted frivolity to preserve the tone. Would not Princess Joan agree? I was certain of it.

The minstrels rested, the dancers drew breath, the mummers removed their masks, and I approached Henry with my youngest son of four years bearing a lidded basket, my eldest in well-drilled attendance.

‘A gift for you, my lord, from the Duke and Duchess of Exeter.’ My little son John had been well-trained. I managed not to meet husband John’s caustic eye. He knew nothing of this.

Henry, feigning ignorance of the tensions around him, laughed as the basket rocked in my son’s hold. ‘Does it bite?’

‘Only …’ My son hesitated. ‘Only rats, sir.’

Henry lifted the lid and lifted out a handsome black kitten. A sign of good luck. I knew it would catch Henry’s interest. Did he not wear a brooch bearing the words
sanz mal penser
? His superstition even as a child had been a matter of mirth; a tunic that brought him good fortune in a practice joust had to be stripped from him after three months of constant wear.

‘He is a symbol of prosperity, for you and the kingdom,’ John’s son and heir Richard added with excellent solemnity since this was beyond his brother. ‘He will rid your house of vermin, my lord. His father is a good mouser in our kitchens.’

‘My thanks to the most gracious Duke and Duchess of Exeter.’ There was much laughter as Henry handed the little creature to his eldest son, Hal, who restored it to its basket when it began to squirm and mew. It was a good atmosphere. A little family moment of intimacy and pleasure, as I preened myself on my success, breathing out slowly in relief, my hand stilling the child in my belly. ‘Does he have a name?’

Richard shook his head.

‘He is for you to name, my lord, to mark this occasion.’

‘May I suggest Deceit?’

There was the hiss of an intake of breath from around me, and my heart thudded as heavily as my unborn child’s fist, for at my shoulder was the gracious Duke of Exeter himself, incomparable host, all semblance of graciousness
wiped away. The whole room hung on the next exchange of words.

‘Perhaps you recall the occasion,’ my husband addressed my brother. ‘When Richard received a set of loaded dice from the mummers who entertained him in the days before the Crown of England came to him. It was to allow him to win, which he did. And they cheered his victory, travesty as it was, because they looked forward to the golden age when he would rule. But the dice did not bring Richard good luck, did they? Just as I doubt the cat will rid you of all your vermin.’

I listened with horror, my face paling as it became worse.

‘Do you mean these?’ Henry asked. Like a gifted magician, he removed them from his purse. An eye-catching pair of dice.

‘So you took his dice as well as his crown?’

‘I removed a disease from England.’

‘Which could be cured, with careful handling.’

‘Which needed to be wiped out.’

‘And will you wipe it out?’

‘I am attempting to find a painless remedy.’

‘Painless for whom?’

Upon which Henry made his departure in high dignity and a black mood. He did not take the cat.

‘Could you not try?’ I faced John as we were left to survey the debris of the ruined evening.

‘To do what? Ingratiate myself with the man who would place the crown of England on his own head? You are so busy welcoming your brother that you do not even see my dilemma.’

‘But I do …’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘There is no compromise in you.’

John left me, in a mood as black as Henry’s.

The cat remained with me, in my kitchens, presumably named by my cook. What would I have named it? Despair?

I did not expect John to come to my chamber that night—why break the habit of all the previous nights? —nor did he. I waited and then could wait no more so wrapped my cumbersome state in a robe and went to his rooms.

He was asleep, head burrowed in the pillows.

It was in my mind to slide in beside him, as effectively as I could slide anywhere, and hug him back into a warm consciousness that might heal his wounds, but what use? Nothing I did could lessen his pain. It was his choice to be apart from me, and so I did not wake him, nor did I touch the shock of hair even though the urge to do so was strong. I did not know what to say to him that I had not already said.

By next morning he was gone, leaving only the hard words we had shared to reverberate in my mind, refusing to be laid to rest. They shattered the quiet rooms of Pultney House, made even quieter from John’s absence. Where was the love that had brought us together, that had given us the strength to defy convention and demand that we be man and wife? An uncomfortable worm of guilt curled in my belly. John had accused me of selfish disregard. That Henry’s achievements overwhelmed any thought I should have for John’s intolerable position. Was it true? Was I so selfish?

I did not think so.

But still the worm churned and destroyed as the day of Henry’s coronation drew closer.

Why could John not come home so that we might talk?

Had I driven him away?

So relieved had I been at Henry’s acceptance by those who could have stopped him, I had presumed that John would follow the same course. But Richard was John’s brother, for good or ill. Now all I could do was wait.

My bed remained cold and empty.

‘Is my father here?’ Richard, my son, John’s heir. To witness this most momentous of occasions.

‘I don’t know.’

I strained to look over the heads of the lords of the realm. There were some seats vacant. That was my first thought, and my fear. One of them would most certainly be that of the Duke of Exeter.

In the Great Hall in the Palace at Westminster, the lords were gathering, all wishing to be part of the proceedings, and I would be there, with John’s heir, to bear witness, wherever John might be. No one would be able to accuse my son or me of disloyalty to the new King. As a woman I was not invited. As the new King’s sister, no one would deny me the right to be there. Nor in the seat I had commandeered at the front. Probably the state of my pregnancy made the stewards unwilling to dispute the fact with me. No one, least of all me, wished this child to be born in the middle of the ceremony.

‘I can see one empty chair,’ Richard said.

‘That is the one occupied by the Duke of Lancaster. It is your uncle’s now. It has never been occupied since the death of your grandfather.’

‘The throne is empty too.’

The throne, draped in cloth of gold. Vacant. For we had no king. Not yet. King Richard, stripped of the right, incarcerated, had willingly resigned his powers, if anyone believed in such an unlikely eventuality. And because there was no king, the writs for a parliament had been withdrawn. This was no parliament but an assembly to ratify Richard’s deposition and confirm the inheritance of his successor.

But where was John? If John absented himself on this most important of days, his estrangement with Henry would be complete and beyond my healing.

‘What will happen if Father does not join Henry?’ Richard whispered. A percipient boy, now twelve years old. He had heard much of what was talked of at home.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will my uncle Henry execute him?’

‘No. They will talk about it and come to an acceptable conclusion.’

Lies, all lies—but I could not put fear in my son’s eyes, the fear that kept me from sleep.

‘What will happen to my uncle Richard?’

‘I expect Henry will allow him to live comfortably in some castle away from London.’

‘It would be dangerous to let Richard live. It would be better if he were dead. Better for Henry.’