The King’s Sister (15 page)

‘
You
have to reply in kind,’ he advised when I remained mute, conscious only of the jolt of pure desire. ‘Have the troubadours taught you nothing?’

I struggled to explain, helplessly. ‘I think that I have … that I have a desire for you too.’

Which made him laugh. ‘Well, that will not move the earth as a declaration. Another kiss perhaps.’ Which he applied with some fervour. And another until all thoughts were driven from my head. Then: ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I didn’t. I haven’t.’ How foolish such a denial when my lips were warm, my blood a drum-beat in my ears. ‘Even at the last moment, as I stood outside your door, I came to say it must stop.’

‘How you compromise the truth, Countess! I don’t believe you. Why not just kept the fairings without any commitment, or send your serving woman to deliver them and leave them outside my door?’

His smile was like a blessing, the return of his seductive tone a joy to me.

‘I always tell the truth.’ I smiled.

‘Then you are unlike any other woman I know.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you. The finches are a nuisance. I had to return them.’

‘You could have given them to Constanza rather than bring them all the way to Sheen.’ He kissed me again, tempting me to kiss him back, which I did. My education in the arts of love was being extended by the minute.

‘What made you change your mind, my wanton love?’ he asked, placing me a little distance away from him.

So in the end I told him as much as I was prepared to say, only a portion of the truth, but all I would admit to him.

‘It was the glove. You returned it, to restore the pair, two halves of a whole.’ It seemed to me a reasonable argument that he might accept.

‘Is that what we are?’ The tilt of his head was encouraging.

‘So I think. I might be certain if you kissed me again.’

I did not tell him the full truth of it, as he was pleased to humour me with a succession of kisses. I would not. As I knew full well, there was the threat of too much pain in this relationship, for both of us, and yet I was drawn into it beyond all the teachings of my young years. All my good intentions had been cast aside.

What was it that I had seen that day at Sheen that had shaken my determination to reject John Holland’s gifts and his professed desire to know me more intimately? Standing in the doorway of Richard’s audience chamber, I had become aware of such bitterness, such strife that would destroy the unity of those I loved. Henry deliberately absent. Constanza lonely, succoured only by prayer and futile ambition at Hertford. Richard and the Duke at lethal odds. Philippa unhappy in her unwedded state. Dame Katherine rejected and isolated in Lincoln. And I in the grip of a loveless and hopeless marriage.

Was happiness to be discovered anywhere, for any of us? What an untrustworthy emotion it was. And how ephemeral in its power. In the face of such a vast well of despair, how could I not decide to seize the chance of happiness with a man I believed had more than an affection for me? A man who might just touch my soul?

And so my father’s warnings were swept aside along with my brother’s disapproval, my new political awareness tucked away in a coffer like an unwanted gift of a bodice that did not become me. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, it would bring
down a maelstrom of horrified accusations upon us if we were anything less than discreet. And yes, there were clear bounds to this relationship beyond which I would not yet go. But the delight when John Holland kissed me erased all sense of duty and honour and loyalty. All I had been raised to believe to be acceptable for a daughter of the Duke of Lancaster was scattered like blossoms in a high gale, and all for the sake of John Holland. As our families strained under increasing acrimony, we would acknowledge our attraction to each other.

And here was the true reason for my present embrace within the confines of John Holland’s arms. The Duke would be appalled if he knew the exact moment when this change of heart had been born. He would condemn me utterly, but there he himself stood at the very centre of my decision, for I had seen the pain on my father’s face as he had walked from that audience chamber. A proud man, a clever man, a man who wielded authority with all the confidence of his royal blood, never had I seen the Duke wear his years with such anguish as when his life’s work to guide Richard seemed to be over with such a brutal exchange of accusation and counter accusation. I had seen how alone and isolated he was in that Great Hall at Sheen, ripped apart from his royal duty on one side, and from the woman he loved on the other.

How important was Dame Katherine to my father?

She was the reason he lived and breathed, and how ardently he mourned her loss. It was written in the grooves that marked his brow and indented his lips. And now, searching John Holland’s saturnine expression, I let my
thoughts settle, fitting together into a plain pattern. How important was this enchantment that called to my heart? If I was fortunate to discover it I must not let it go. I would never find it with Jonty. But it seemed that I had found it, even in the few hours we had spent together, with John Holland.

Oh, I was not blind. John Holland had a temper that could gallop like a frenzied horse, coupled with an ungovernable restlessness more powerful than mine. He was a law unto none but his own ambitions. He could use words to flatter or destroy. Could I love a man such as this? Could I ever, with a whole heart, trust him?

But there was also, I believed, an unquestionable streak of loyalty in him. In receipt of my father’s annuity, he had stood for him against his own brother. How hard must that have been? Here was a man of some tenacity of mind, a man I could admire.

Then again—did I want a man to woo me who had blood on his hands, by his own admission?

‘One thing …’ I said, closing my fingers around his wrist as he finally led me to the door.

‘Another question?’

There had to be, a final laying to rest of the events of that day, but I hoped I could read John Holland accurately enough to anticipate his reply. If I could not, then all my decision making was in vain ‘Was there any evidence at all that the friar’s tale was true? That my father was involved in a plot against Richard? Was the friar’s death worth the doing?’

‘None.’ His eyes were without shadow, without deceit. ‘There was none at all. It was a plot against the Duke by
his enemies. Your father is without blame.’ A final kiss, still beautifully controlled but with the promise of more. ‘Now go, before we compromise your sparkling reputation further.’

He filled my youthful heart with joy. It was as if a candle had been lit to illuminate every vista as I walked back to my own rooms, my waiting woman carrying the coffer and the finches, to hang them once again in the window, their twittering a symbol of my choice.

‘I see we are still saddled with those creatures,’ Philippa observed. ‘Does that mean that your meeting with Sir John was to your liking rather than mine?’

‘Perhaps.’

I would tell no one. Not yet. Not while it was still so new and bright and yet so dangerous.

‘I will pray that the Blessed Virgin protect you.’

But from what I was entirely uncertain.

I fell into pensive mood. Why this man? Why was John Holland, of all the courtiers I knew, able to demand my attention? Even to lure me into impropriety?

Was it his unquestionably handsome features? I did not think so. There were many pretty creatures at Richard’s court who stirred no emotion within me unless it was envy of the gleam of their hair or the length of their eyelashes.

Perhaps, then, it was his presence, the impact of his will, even when unspoken. But I had been used to that all my life. No one could compare with my father for making an entrance, and Henry bode fair to match him. Why should I be drawn to John Holland’s bold demeanour?

His skills in the jousting were incomparable. The lithe,
muscular strength, the practised agility, the flamboyant display of pure talent all made other women sigh too, but that was no reason for me to abandon all I knew of behaviour suitable for a Plantagenet daughter. Why not just sit and admire? No need to endanger my reputation for kisses with a tournament champion who had a host of women willing to humour him.

A reputation for wild intransigence, was, of course, always attractive in a handsome man, but was that enough?

John Holland was beautiful, intemperate and self-aware. He was clever and headstrong and mercurial and …

And it came to me, so that I laughed a little. He was very like me. Was I not the same wilful creature? Was this, then, a simple matter of like attracting like?

I gave up on my tortuous thoughts. Whatever the cause, when John Holland entered a room I was aware of no one else.

Meanwhile, in the environs of the court, it was like walking on icy pathways, a fatal slide and slip possible at any moment to cast us all into a welter of blood and treason. But, in the usual manner of courtly circumspection, when the alternative was too dangerous to contemplate, relations were patched and mended when we left Sheen to take up residence within the stark walls of Westminster Palace. The chill formality of the rooms might match the general mood, but Princess Joan, descending in a glory of green silk, heaved herself from her litter and took her royal son to task, not mincing her words. Of necessity the Duke swallowed
his pride to meet the King in a sour spirit of reconciliation.

No one believed it would last beyond the length of the Princess’s sojourn with the aggrieved parties, even though hands were briefly clasped between uncle and nephew and smiles forced.

‘Like new cloth stitched to an old gambeson, that will rip apart the first time you raise your arm to draw a sword,’ John Holland grimaced. ‘Which Richard is more than capable of doing, by God.’

In blind rage, Richard had drawn cold steel against the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Never again would I close my eyes to what was happening to the disparate strands of our family. Yet, anxious as I was, I snatched at happiness and clung with a bold tenacity. Why would I not? I had learnt the frailty of life, the chancy basis of power, when faced with the King’s intolerance. I had no influence to bear on the rift between King and Duke, all I could do was watch and worry, and I did.

My education in the art of giving and receiving kisses was thorough. And highly enjoyable.

1385, Windsor Castle

I
t was not a gentle courtship, for what we were intent on was forbidden and perilous. How to conduct a dangerous intimacy in the public eye, with absolutely no privacy to be had within the royal court in those days when we were swamped with preparations for Richard’s Scottish war? Not a love affair on my part, I argued, but an increasing fascination, an entrancement, a fiery passion that heated my blood and drenched my dreams in longing. But what of John Holland? He was hunting impatiently and in earnest, and left me in no doubt of it.

‘An annulment!’ he breathed sacrilegiously at High Mass under the soaring roof of St George’s Chapel, as the host was raised. ‘Get an annulment and wed me.’

My silence was my refusal. Too far. Too fast. I might yearn to know more than chaste kisses with this man, but
annulment was impossible. The Duke would never agree. As for committing the great sin of carnal knowledge in the Holland bed, the imagining was one thing, the doing of it quite another.

‘I’ll be the husband you need, a man who will treasure you, revere you. Not a boy who sees you as sister rather than wife.’

How alike his voice was to that of Princess Joan when intent on persuasion. Smooth and melodious, impossible to withstand. How many times did he urge me to seek an audience with the Duke, a request with which I could not comply? I would not present my father with yet another burden. There must be no further scandals to stir the witches’ broth of court intrigue. For the Duke’s daughter to become embroiled in lascivious marital complications would be selfish indeed.

‘You’re not afraid of my temper, are you?’ he demanded with more than a hint of it.

‘Certainly not!’

‘I’ll never let it harm you. And I won’t give up. I’ll hound you until you give in.’

‘I know you will.’

‘I’ll tumble you into my bed before you can blink.’

‘But not today.’

‘What do you want from me, Elizabeth?’ How many times did he pose that question, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with an edge of impatience. More than once in anger.

‘I don’t know.’

How many times did I reply in kind, my future being a
swirl of grey mist where nothing was certain. All I knew was that I wanted what we had at that moment.

‘Let me show you how much I love you.’

I could not take that final step.

‘Then do I let you go?’

‘No.’

I could neither live with him nor without him. So this half-life was all I had.

‘Will I still be sneaking into corners to meet you when I am too old to climb onto my horse?’ he asked, not entirely in jest. I felt his desire in his hands, his mouth, and the quizzical expression as he gripped my shoulders and dragged me close. ‘Why do I love you when you are so intransigent? Could I not find an easier woman to love?’

‘Perhaps you could,’ I challenged, a little disconcerted, turning my face away. ‘I’m certain you would entrap a goodly number of handsome women who would fly to your lure. Perhaps you should go and do it now, before you march north. I will not hinder you, but accept our light liaison as a mere pleasant experience.’

Which made him grin, all irritation vanished in a blink of an eye. ‘You wouldn’t like that at all if I did, Countess. Nor would I, God help me. I am forced to admit that for reasons I cannot comprehend, you are the one woman I love. I might wish it otherwise but you are lodged in my heart.’ He turned my chin with his hand and planted a final kiss on my lips. ‘And you’ll regret spurning me if I meet my death on a Scottish battlefield.’

‘You wouldn’t have the temerity to die in battle!’ I replied smartly.

Yet it was a worry that wriggled under my skin, for unseeing though I was of the future, I was helplessly trapped in the net of his deliberate campaign. And what an adventurous campaign it was, unfolding day after day through the endless banquets hosted by Richard, when my importunate lover and I were seated under the canopy of state on the dais as royal family, and I, forsooth, did nothing to spurn him.

What could not be achieved under the auspices of a formal banquet?

It astonished me, and I participated with relish.

The words we exchanged between this and that interminable course might be innocent, but our gestures were heavy with meaning. My appetite for food fled; for the company of John Holland it burgeoned, as in the days after a Lenten fast when the tongue craves rich sweetness. We might indeed fast from physical touch, but his wooing of my senses wound them tight, like a thread on a distaff, so that all I desired was to be in his company. I was lured to him with every breath, every clever ruse employed by John Holland to weaken my resolve not to cast myself entirely into his power.

‘May I tempt you, my lady?’

A gobbet of delicate roast heron presented to me on the point of a knife. A spoonful of spiced quince dumpling handed to me—who was to know the spoon, the silver prettily chased with an E, was a gift from him to me? It made me laugh, although I would not explain. Would this spoon be long enough for my supping? Oh, I prayed that it was. And then there was the stare that caught mine and would
not release me, shielded by the magnificent tail of Richard’s stuffed peacock.

‘You are the most beautiful creature here today. Except for this poor bird before us, stripped and stuffed back into its skin.’

Which made me laugh. And if that were not enough, it was the comfits and hippocras of the
voidee,
served only to the pre-eminent guests, that heated my limbs with an inappropriate stroke of lust. And the wordless toast in the spiced wine.

I was truly enamoured.

And finally: ‘God keep you safe, Elizabeth, when I cannot.’ A mark of possession, uttered as the chaplain brought the feast to an end with fulsome prayers. The solemn pronouncement stirred my senses as the chaplain’s did not.

‘May the Blessed Virgin keep you in her heart and smile on you,’ I replied in a furtive whisper, when I would rather be kissing him and he kissing me. ‘May she bring you back safe from war, without harm.’

And then innocence was abandoned, along with the bones thrown to the dogs, for Richard’s march to intimidate and harry the Scots was imminent.

‘And if I’m so preserved, perhaps you might consider celebrating with me between my sheets,’ he murmured
sotto voce,
under a swell of minstrel enthusiasm from the gallery above our heads.

‘I am a respectable wife,’ I mouthed back.

‘Sadly not mine.’

Thus the tenor of what was for me an illumination, like entering a light-filled room from dark antechamber, into how physical desire could colour every action, every sentiment
uttered; and what for John Holland was a determined seduction.

‘You are my Holy Grail.’

‘I am no such thing!’

‘I am embarked on my life’s quest to win you. No castle will be impregnable to my assault.’

My cheeks were on fire. I could find no denial. Silently I wished him every success in storming his castle walls.

Ultimately, lingeringly, forlornly, clinging to what solace I could, I kissed John Holland, safe from prying eyes at the foot of the outer staircase to his room. In public I made a decorous farewell to the King, my father and brother and my would-be lover as they rode out to war. Generations of Lancaster women had been waving their menfolk off to war, as did I, with a bright smile and dread in my belly. I forgave John his preoccupations.

Philippa kept her own council other than to remark at regular intervals: ‘I don’t know what he means to you, but why will you still play with fire? I pray that you will not be singed beyond bearing.’

‘And I pray for you a husband, as soon as the Duke returns,’ I replied, my own temper short in those days when we received no news. ‘Then you will know that sometimes playing with fire is as essential as breathing.’

I was already mightily singed. Jonty, far to the north in Kenilworth, retired into the shadows. John Holland, even further away in Scotland under the royal banner, stood in my mind in the full rays of the noon-day sun.

Our military force finally departing to the north, I prayed daily for their deliverance from our enemy the Scots. Not that I needed to wear out my petitions on my knees, when the proud advance fast deteriorated into a humiliating retreat, Richard being the first to return to London. Relief laid its hand on me. The rest of our men would follow and soon I would see John again.

Perhaps we would do more than mime across the expanse of a fair cloth.

Then the news trickled through, the deadliest of poison.

‘Ralph Stafford is dead.’

At first it was whispered, for was not Ralph Stafford, a young courtier with dash and style and a powerful family behind him, particularly loved by Richard? How long could the news be kept from him that one of his best-beloved friends was dead? And when Richard discovered it, what fit of temper or utter remorse would take hold of him?

‘Struck down in cold blood.’

Pray God that Queen Anne could soothe him with her calm good sense and soft words.

And then the details unfolded, like a stream gathering momentum in a summer flood. And one particular detail. That one inexplicable detail that stirred the whispers to a deluge of gossip and reduced me to a mass of shivering fear.

Ralph Stafford was cut down, in a despicable, unprovoked blow, by John Holland.

The whole court talked of nothing else. Those who had no love for John Holland and his aspirations to power rubbed their hands with glee for surely there was no redemption for him here. And those who saw behind John’s
ambitions to the brilliant skill, men such as my father, failed to hide their dismay. How could this cold-blooded murder be excused? The death of the friar under questioning could be overlooked as a necessity in the face of treason, but this victim of John Holland’s outrageous temper was a young man, son and heir of Earl of Stafford, with many friends.

John, it became clear, had few friends to leap to his defence.

As the tale grew in gore and viciousness, I tried to preserve a dispassionate face, even joining in the speculation of how Richard would react to his brother’s crime, while my heart became a thing of ice and my spirits in tatters. If the telling of the deed was true, not even I could vindicate John from the foul deed.

How could I justify this? I knew John’s temper. I knew it could rage on the very borders of control. Far to the north in York, one of John’s squires had been killed in a drunken brawl by an archer in the retinue of Ralph Stafford. An unfortunate killing in the heat of ale, but John, full of ire, went hunting for the perpetrator, and when, riding through the night, he came across a Stafford retinue, John drew his sword and killed the leader, without waiting to discover that it was the Stafford heir. Or perhaps he did know, some muttered, but the violence of his temper drove him on to avenge his dead squire.

No matter the detail, John Holland had run Ralph Stafford through with his sword, leaving his dead body on the road.

The news could not be kept from Richard who was
gripped by a silent rage, seated immobile on the throne in his audience chamber, tears fresh on his cheeks, unresponsive to Queen Anne who left him with a lift of her shoulders.

So what now? the court mused. And so did I with a dread that kept me awake through the early hours when fears leapt from every shadow. Stafford was demanding vengeance. John had taken refuge in Beverley Minster, surely evidence of his guilt. But what would Richard do?

As I considered the possible scale of Richard’s revenge, an undercurrent of pure rage rumbled beneath my speculations, aimed at both men. Richard might well dole out the ultimate penalty for murder, so that the royal brother would face the axe. Or be banished from the kingdom to seek his turbulent fortune elsewhere. I had no faith in Richard’s compassion.

As for John Holland, how could he have been so intemperate?

And then the undercurrent became a raging fire that swept through me as I put the blame where it lay. John was everything to me, and I to him. How could he risk all that we were to each other by a blow of a sword on a dark road? I could not justify his lack of humanity, of morality, his lack of foresight in bringing about an innocent death.

Had he not promised never to allow his temper to harm me? But he had. Oh, he had. His life might be forfeit and I left to mourn a love that shook me with its power.

The fault was all John Holland’s, and Richard’s grief erupted into an outpouring of rage against his absent brother. Fraternal affection held far less weight than the
loss of Ralph Stafford. John Holland, Richard swore, would answer for his crime, while I was cast into a desperate foreboding. I was helpless.

But was I? Laying my anger aside, I gave my mind to plan, to plot—for was not Richard my cousin who might be open to persuasion? Richard would never condemn his own brother to death or even banish him from his presence. Richard had a brother’s love for John Holland. What if I appealed to him for clemency? Would he listen as he had listened to me—and obeyed me—in our childhood games? But those days were long gone, Richard now eighteen years and a man grown, a man driven by extreme passions when his will was crossed. If he could conspire in the death of a once loved uncle, Richard was not the cousin I remembered. And how could I confess my interest in John Holland, in full public gaze, when as a married woman I was not free to do so?