The King’s Sister (20 page)

‘God’s Blood!’

With the linen he scrubbed his face dry, running his fingers through his hair, scattering droplets.

‘That should make me see the future more clearly, although I might regret it.’

Before I could think of a biting reply—that it was a pity he hadn’t seen the future clearly from the beginning of our conversation—he was there, and in what could only be described as a pounce, gripping my shoulders with a little shake.

‘Look at me. I did not intend to say that. See how you have the power to undermine all my good intentions and destroy my self-control. I want you, Elizabeth. I have always wanted you. And now that death has come close to me, I’m in a mood to take what I want.
In vino veritas
indeed, and since you are foolishly here without a chaperone …’

So the cold water had not remedied the wine swimming in his brain. Was this what I wanted? My heart leapt into my throat at the image his few words had painted for me. His kisses I knew. The touch of his hands, the power of his arms around me. The strength of his shoulder where I might rest my head. But here he was in a mood to take more, much more.

‘I thought the water would have brought you to your senses.’

‘It will take more than that! I want you, drunk or sober!’

His mouth on mine, neither gentle nor seductive, tasted of wine and despair.

‘I cannot …’ All my confidence was subverted by the hunger in those expressive eyes.

‘Cannot what? Take a lover? Of course you can. I’m in no mood to be tolerant. We should celebrate my escape from Richard’s revenge. I am in a mood to celebrate.’ Another kiss, his mouth hard against mine. ‘Don’t tell me that you don’t want me as much as I want you.’

‘Not like this …! I won’t be party to a drunken display of self-pity!’ And, a little panic fluttering around the edges of my reason, I was pushing against his shoulders, uncertain that he would comply. But he set me aside, with a sigh that seemed to come from his soul. It was he who stepped back.

‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Self-pity is a despicable thing. I have not drunk so much that I cannot treat a woman with courtesy.’ His voice had softened as he held out his hand for me to take if I wished to. And I did, knowing instinctively that the exhibition of uncontrolled force was over, even when he held them, palm to palm, between his own.

‘My dear love. Here’s my declaration and my apology, if you will hear it …’

I nodded.

‘I am not worthy of you but I cannot let you go. My life is tied up with yours. I love you inordinately. But I should warn you: it is no mild affection. This is nothing selfless, where the knight gives all and expects nothing but the right
to adore at the feet of his mistress. My desire for you is sensual and passionate and possessive. It is love of the heart and mind and body. I want everything from you. And I won’t let you refuse me.’ The chain on his breast glimmered as he took a breath, and his grasp of my hands tightened. ‘Unless you cannot, in your heart, love me in the same way. You must say so now, before it is too late for us both to step back from the brink.’

The power of his words struck hard. A choice for me to make. A denigration of his own powerful feelings. All creating a deliberate clarity of what it would mean if I gave my consent to what he wanted from me.

‘I’ll never be your perfect, gentle knight. But I’ll be more. I’ll protect you. I’ll never desert you. I’ll worship at your feet for ever. Flawed and mired in sin I might be, but I will be your knight, Elizabeth of Lancaster.’ He pressed his mouth to my fingers, as gallant as any chivalrous knightly lover. ‘Will you give yourself to me. Knowing what you do of me?’

It was as if he had written the words in gold, offering me a choice to make of my own free will, with no attempt, finally, to force my steps. And what a simple choice it was. A beat of my heart, deep and sure, carried me forward, over the dangerous boundary from immature attraction and infatuation into a physical longing so strong it shook me. This was love as I had never known it. No it was not selfless. It was potent, all-controlling. Every admission he had made to me I could recognise within my own response to him. How had I ever thought my romantic notions of him were real love? Now I knew the power of my acceptance of him,
with all his charm and all his complexity. In that moment I knew it: this love would never let me go. Any step I took now would, I accepted in the recesses of my heart, be absolute.

‘Will you, Elizabeth?’ he asked. ‘I’ll not plague you if you decide on a fast retreat.’

But I had seen the glitter of provocation in his eyes behind the courteous approach. And of desire. John Holland would not only plague me, he would hound me unmercifully.

I breathed in. And out.

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

And I took the words deep into my own heart as I spoke them.

It was such an incontrovertible response to make, that answered every question I had ever asked of myself. Would it make me as wilfully lustful as Isabelle? Would I be as shockingly immoral as Dame Katherine? In all honestly there would be those who would so condemn me, but there were no such fears in my mind. My only thought was how I could have held back from him for so long. And that being said, John did not disparage me by asking if I were sure. Time for words was long gone as, my hand in his, we took occupation of his bedchamber in mutual agreement, where he managed the layers of my outer and undergarments with a not unexpected depth of skill and formidable alacrity. Even so, despite his expertise with buttons, he found room to complain.

‘Could you not have dressed more simply?’

‘I could, of course. But I did not expect to be disrobed by a lover.’

‘Always be prepared, Madam Elizabeth.’

‘Do you mean that this will occur with some frequency?’

I risked a glance at his frowning concentration.

‘As often as I can arrange it.’

I did not need to tell him that this was all new to me. Was that not the reason he talked throughout the whole of my disrobing, when I was unable to prevent my nerves from shivering over my skin? Who would have thought that he could be so very kind?

‘What do I do with all these pins?’ he asked as my hair unfurled like a banner in his hands to cover my shoulders.

‘Throw them on the floor,’ I replied, breathless.

Then there was no talk. And no more kindness. How simple an emotion kindness was, whereas there was nothing simple in what passed between John Holland and me. In that hour—or was it longer? —I received the first steps in a thorough education unlike any I had imagined when my dreams had stretched no further than the pages of the books in my father’s library where knights were courteous and never unclothed. Where love was expressed in gifts and words and chaste kisses.

Here was a new and entirely physical world, spread out for my delectation.

I learned the delights of a man’s body beneath my hands, where muscles were tense with smooth power, well harnessed until need took over. And then it was as if I was tossed into the waters of a mill race, all turbulence and mastery which I was in no mood to resist.

I learned about sleek arms that held me tight, and thighs hard with sinew and some abrasions. What a work of art
a man’s body could be, even with evidence of battle. Here there was no conflict, only heat and desire.

I learned about my own response to a well-placed kiss or a trail of fingertips that made me shudder and gasp with astonishment. Just as I learnt about the hiss of pain, and about its transmutation into breathless pleasure. And then I learned about my own skill in initiating the slightest movement to make a man draw in his breath. And groan when I repeated the caress.

I learned about tenderness too. The magic world of words to enhance caresses.

‘You are the brightest jewel I have over owned.’ His hands framed my face.

‘You are the lover I have always desired,’ I replied, for I could see myself reflected in the brightness of his gaze.

And then there was laughter.

‘Don’t hold your breath!’

‘I wasn’t!’ Oh, but I was, for his touch drove me where I could never have imagined.

And in the end I learned about love.

‘I love you.’

I would never be given poetry by John Holland.

‘I love you, too.’

Did it need us to say more, when we had made such a statement of our love? I did not think so, and applied my new knowledge of the seductive power of kisses until his ability to speak was destroyed, and my mind was unfit to learn any more, aware only of the thud of his heartbeat with my own sighs in contrapuntal unity. I had not sought such a depth of love, but it had surely found me.

I gave no thought at all to the enormity of the sin I had so happily committed.

And I was quite sure that John Holland did not.

‘I must leave Windsor. I must leave you’, I said, sharp dismay fast surfacing.

‘And I must return to dancing attendance on my brother.’ John was replacing the garments he had stripped off so rapidly. Hose, tunic, boots, in quick succession. ‘But I have every excuse to travel to Kenilworth between now and our embarking. I’ll need to discuss transportation of troops and equipment with the Duke.’

Doubt suddenly struck home.

‘And will you discuss your inordinate love for his daughter?’

His hands stilled on the buckle of his belt. ‘I will if you give me leave. Get an annulment and I’ll wed you tomorrow.’

But still I stepped back, baffled by my own unwillingness to admit my love for him so openly. Or was it shame in the confession of so blatant a sin? As I watched him, there was not one single regret in my mind. Perhaps it was simply a fear that the Duke would refuse the annulment. If he did, he might force my intimacy with John Holland to come to an end, as it would anyway with his embarkation for the Castilian enterprise. This was all so impermanent, uncertain. As it was, John’s reputation had been discredited. To reveal an inappropriate relationship with me would stand him in no good stead.

I smiled a little. How selfless I had become now that love had touched me. Why ruffle the waters further to create a great storm that might overwhelm us both? Better to enjoy what we had until our future was clearer. Perhaps when John returned from Castile, shining brightly with royal favour …

‘Not yet,’ I said, intent on pushing the problem aside without further discussion as I pulled my shift over my head, fussing over my hair that he had unbound. ‘It’s too difficult.’

‘I don’t see why.’ Buckle secured, he swooped to plant a kiss on my brow. ‘But I’ll do as you wish. For now. I’m gone from here.’

And I was alone in his room, all the passion and heat gone with him, but not from my heart. I might not see the future with any clarity, but the present was as precious as the finest jewel in Richard’s treasury. Slowly I dressed. And then as any woman in a new intimacy might, I investigated the items of John’s property, touching, arranging, to get a sense of my new lover from his possessions. All was neat. Everything in its place as I had once noted before. Clothing folded in coffers. No books, as my brother would undoubtedly have had around him. John was no reader. No jewels or valuable hanaps as my father might have to display wealth, the gifts from friends. Nothing to give me an insight into the man who had filled my whole body with light. I lifted the livery chain that he had left on the coffer lid …

And smiled.

It was a fine gesture, strangely honourable in its execution from a man who in a blast of despair had claimed he had no honour. It caused a warmth to spread through me, rivalling the heat of the sun that had moved across the floor
and now touched my hair, my shoulders. What a spectacular choice he had made. My lover might be bowing in contrition before his brother but here in my hand was the chain with the white hart. Today he wore Lancaster livery. Seeing no need to boast of it, or winning my favour by ensuring that I knew of his choice, he had done it without explanation, a silent mark of honour. Today he was mine.

My love for him knew no bounds. I had built a bridge and he had crossed it. Or we had crossed it together. I lived for the days when he would come to Kenilworth.

June 1386, Kenilworth Castle

‘I
cannot take every shift, gown and pair of shoes I possess. What do they wear in Portugal, anyway?’

Philippa stood in the centre of her chamber, rather crossly, surrounded by travelling coffers and drifts of costly material and her busy women.

‘Why worry? Set your own fashion.’ I sat on her bed, not helping. Then on a thought: ‘You could give me that blue damask. I’ve always coveted it.’

‘And you’ve enough gowns of your own to clothe Richard’s spendthrift court from head to foot.’ She smiled but her eyes were wide and I thought I saw trepidation there, even though she had dreamed of marriage for so long. This would be the fulfilment of her dream, the end of all her fears that she would never have a husband and children of her own. But a marriage far from
home and those she held dear would have its own heartbreak.

I would not speak of my own sense of loss.

‘Do I take my lute?’ she fretted, her fingers dragging unmusically over the strings. She hugged it to her breast.

‘Your new husband will give you a dozen. You will be Queen of Portugal, commanding all you desire.’

‘And, oh I shall miss you.’ The sudden gleam of tears in her eyes shocked me, but I forced myself to laugh as if I had not noticed. The last thing we needed was for us both to become lachrymose.

‘When you decide that you are missing me, just recall all the times I annoyed you and you wished me wed to a man in Cathay,’ I said instead.

‘True. I remember now.’ She wiped the tears away with her fingertips, then touching my shoulder in acknowledgement of what I had done before rolling a jewelled bodice in a length of linen.

It was a time of melancholy for both of us with the prospect of much parting and some tears. This was a loss I had experienced before and anticipated the long months with a mix of fear and heartache. Plantagenet men went to war. Had not my grandmother, Queen Philippa, experienced the same when King Edward had led his knights and archers to Crécy, the great victory that was still talked of, even by those who had no memory of it. When Richard’s father, the Prince, had taken the mantle of leadership and raised his standard at Poitiers, Princess Joan had been with him in Aquitaine, but her anguish would not have been any the less. Would our father fight a battle as dangerous as these that
lived on in the memory of our knights? Minor skirmishes were just as lethal. And the ambushes. And dysentery. The cold of winter, the arid heat of summer in these southern climes.

I could not think of it.

For my father was intent on war, leading the expedition to Castile that was now imminent. Travelling with him was Constanza who hoped never to return to England but to win the crown from her cousin who had usurped her rightful claim. And if my father was successful, would he ever return, or would he remain to rule Castile as king?

It was possible. It was entirely possible for an ambitious and able man who saw no future for his ambitions at Richard’s unpredictable side. That I could accept. But with my father, as Constable of the Army, went Sir John Holland.

We had met, in bed and mostly out, when Sir John found it necessary to discuss affairs of soldiery and equipment with the Duke. Far easier for us to achieve heated moments at Kenilworth in the middle of war preparations than in gossip-ridden Windsor.

And now, even though it had always been hovering on my horizon, my heart lurched, that he too would be leaving me. I could imagine his swagger as he landed in Corunna, the search for wealth and reputation and fame that would drive him to brave deeds and perhaps foolish ones. Sometimes a dark mood settled on me. Would he discover some black-haired Castilian lady who would not refuse him every time he offered marriage, as I did? I could not imagine John following a life of noble chastity. He might think of me between breaking his fast and leading a sortie against
the enemy, or between kissing some pretty girl’s lips and disrobing her.

I realised I was scowling, and stopped. Would he miss me at all? He said he would, but with the distance of time and vast swatches of land and sea between us, how could I know? How ephemeral our love with no anchor, no firm footing—mere snatched moments because that is all we could allow.

‘Wed me.’ His final exhortation, his mouth powerfully possessive against mine in a snatched embrace within the old keep, before he had left Kenilworth at the Duke’s behest with a troop of soldiery, bound for Plymouth.

‘You know I cannot.’

‘I know you can. Will you allow yourself to be tied to this boy when it is a man who has your heart? Repudiate this false marriage to Pembroke.’

‘It is not false, merely a marriage in waiting.’

‘You are a grown woman. You can wait no longer. I would make you as prestigious a husband as young Pembroke. When Richard decides to forgive me utterly, he will reward me and restore my lands to me.’ All his old confidence, and more, had been restored with the prospect of action. ‘I am a man on the cusp of power and influence. Lancaster will not cavil at me as son-in-law.’

‘He would at having to break an alliance made in good faith. My father has strong principles.’

‘Not so strong that he has been able to live with a mistress in the eye of his wife for the past fifteen years! It is no marriage for you, Elizabeth. You cannot wait. Desire burns in you.’

‘I may not have to wait,’ I admitted, allowing a little fear to shimmer to the surface.

It had come to me that my father might give Jonty permission to claim his marital rights before he sailed. It had crossed Jonty’s mind too. I saw him watching me. He was no longer the young lad I had wed but a squire who sneaked kisses from the serving girls in the buttery.

‘I won’t have you in any man’s bed but mine. Certainly not that of a barely-grown boy with no knowledge but of clumsy fumbling.’

I could do nothing to assuage John’s irritation.

‘And you won’t take a Castilian paramour on your travels, I suppose.’

‘I might have to if you don’t put me out of my misery. There must be some girl of birth and fortune, waiting for me in Portugal. What would you say if I brought a Portuguese princess home with me?’

‘I would put poison in her soup.’

‘Why, Elizabeth!’ His brows had risen. ‘Do you love me after all?’

My elbow found a tender spot against his naked ribs. We laughed and loved, holding the brief moment to ourselves, despite the discomfort of his squire’s room that we had commandeered. And then he had left me, our future as hazy as ever it was, with not even a memento for me to hold.

‘I thought you would give me a farewell gift,’ I demurred in an attempt to hide my anxieties.

‘What need of you for gifts? You have more rings than any woman I know.’

‘Will you send word?’

‘When I can.’ A final warm but brief kiss, for he was already searching for his boots—the whereabouts of various items of clothing, tossed aside in urgency, more important to him than I.

But I knew he would not. What man ever did?

So he had left me.

But this was not the moment for such concerns and I thrust the memory aside. Philippa would go with the expedition to her marriage with King João of Portugal, to make an alliance between him and the Duke against Castile. I might never see her again.

‘You can have this.’ Philippa held out a gold-edged veil and matching ornamented chaplet which she knew had taken my eye. Had I not borrowed it on more than one occasion?

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. And I agree about the lute. Keep it, and play it for me sometimes.’

Emotion welled in my throat so strongly: to hide it I rose swiftly, crossing the room to take the instrument from her. But I didn’t take it. I had barely reached her when my vision broke into facets of light and, fingers suddenly clumsy, I dropped the instrument, the strings complaining with a discordant twanging.

Oh …

A pain struck at my temple and it was as if all the blood drained from my head to my toes, leaving me cold and unsure of my balance. I staggered as little, pressing my fingers against my brow, eyes squeezed shut.

‘Oh …!’

Nausea gripped me hard, before Philippa was there at my side.

‘You are as white as my new ermine collar.’ Her hands reached out to me.

I held on tightly to her arm, one hand now pressed against my mouth.

‘I think you had better move your new ermine out of harm’s way,’ I gasped, ‘or I’ll vomit over it.’

Which she did, taking my warning seriously before she pushed me to lie on the bed, thrusting aside the satins and velvets, beckoning to one of her women to bring me a cup of ale.

‘What is it? Are you ill?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘She was dizzy yesterday morning, my lady,’ Josselyn, Philippa’s waiting woman remarked with unfortunate familiarity.

‘I don’t recall,’ I said, pushing away the solicitous hands.

I tried to sit up, but since my head was spinning I sank back, grateful when Philippa produced a bowl for me to vomit into—which I did, then fell back on the bed again with a groan of final acceptance. I had denied this. It was not the first time I had been so discomfited, but I had rejected the fear that was growing in my mind as the truth was growing in my belly.

‘Has this happened before?’ Philippa was looking at me, on the alert.

‘No.’

‘Lady Elizabeth did not go to Mass yesterday morning,’ Josselyn said with saintly disapproval.

‘No, you didn’t.’ Philippa, frowning faintly, brushed my hair back from my brow. ‘I recall.’ Then waved her women away to the far side of the room. Too late for that, I thought.

‘Lady Elizabeth has not broken her fast for four days,’ Agnes added a parting shot, carrying the incriminating bowl from the room.

‘Elizabeth …’

I sipped the ale cautiously, not meeting Philippa’s eye, until she seized the cup, took my chin in one hand and forced me to face her, and I knew my secret was out.

‘You might show some sympathy!’ I tried.

‘Sympathy? Tell me this is not what I think it is.’

‘Then I won’t.’

‘But it is, isn’t it?’

And I thought of the limited experience I had of pregnancies, wanted or unwanted, in a household that had not been blessed with such occurrences. There was no doubt. Constanza had only borne one daughter, but there was no doubt at all.

‘Yes.’ Retrieving the cup from my sister’s grasp, I sipped again. My stomach seemed to be under my control so I pushed her supporting arm away. ‘I must get up.’

‘You can’t
not
tell me.’ Philippa’s voice had dropped to a whisper, as if it were possible to keep my ignominious sin from the gossiping tongues of the solar. ‘Not Jonty, of course.’

‘Ha. Our brother might have pre-empted the arrival of Mary’s new womanhood, but they were in love. Jonty still has no time for anything but his horse and his new armour and a flighty kitchen maid.’

‘Then who? By the Virgin, Elizabeth …’ I thought that if I had not been so ashen she would have shaken me.

I sighed, finding it impossible to imagine what she would reply. But say it I did.

‘Then I’ll tell you. You would guess anyway. This child that I carry is John Holland’s.’

‘What?’ Little more than a squeak. ‘No, you must be mistaken.’

‘Do you think so?’ Irritably I thrust her aside. ‘How many men do you think I’ve taken to my virginal bed? For shame.’

‘I didn’t mean …’ Philippa sighed. ‘And of course you’re not mistaken. How naïve of me.’ A frown came quickly. ‘Did he seduce you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ And I found my irritation draining away and that I was smiling, although there was nothing for me to smile at in my wretchedness. ‘John is a master of seduction. But not in the way you mean.’

‘You make no sense. Was it rape? Did he force you?’

‘Certainly not. I desired it as much as he did.’

‘Elizabeth!’

‘I love him. I have loved him since he rescued me from the Tower. And perhaps even a little before that, but I was very young. And then when I went to return the gifts, the finches, I couldn’t do it, and I knew that I was destined to be with him.’

‘Holy Virgin! I warned you about getting singed. I didn’t expect you to leap into the fire! What will you do?’

‘At this moment I don’t know, other than lie here and suffer.’ I had fallen back on the bed again amidst Philippa’s gowns.

‘Does he know?’

‘No.’

‘You must tell him.’

‘To what purpose? He’ll be with you in Portugal within a matter of weeks.’

We stared at each other, the difficulties of my position looming large.

‘Think of the scandal!’ Philippa whispered.

‘I can think of nothing else!’ I closed my eyes as if it were possible to obliterate it.

‘Elizabeth!’ Philippa nudged me into awareness. ‘You cannot allow Holland to go to Portugal without knowing that you are carrying his child.’

‘And what do we expect him to do about it?’

‘I have no idea. He was fairly efficient in getting you into the situation.’

Nor had I any idea. I could not imagine how we could escape from this scandal.

‘A pity you had not thought of this earlier.’