The King’s Sister (7 page)

‘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.

B
efore 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.’