The King’s Sister (39 page)

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

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

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

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

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

‘Elizabeth.’

‘My lord.’

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

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

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

‘John Holland is dead,’ I said.

‘So I am informed.’

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

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

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

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

‘I will receive you,’ Henry replied.

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

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

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

‘My husband’s lands are declared forfeit.’

‘As they must be.’

‘My children are disinherited.’

‘It is a risk that Holland took.’

Nothing that I did not expect.

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, Elizabeth.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, Sire.’

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

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

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

‘Why?’

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

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

‘No. He took it upon himself.’

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

‘No.’

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

I could detect no guilt in him.

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

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

‘Have you nothing to say?’ he demanded.

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

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

He sighed. ‘Sit with me, Elizabeth.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there was the faintest warmth of a smile.

‘How can I refuse?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course you will.’

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

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

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

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

‘He was driven by loyalty to his brother.’

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

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

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

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

What of me?

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

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

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

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

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

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