The King’s Sister (4 page)

‘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.