The King’s Sister (21 page)

So I thought. All I had thought about was the delight of each reunion with John Holland.

Her final words as she left me to suffer. ‘We are not going to part as fast as we thought we were. You had better come with me to Plymouth. I’ll say a novena for you.’

Her face was set. No sympathy there then. Except that she turned at the door and looked back, the faintest of smiles.

‘I expect you’ll find a way. You have a charmed life.’

At that moment, racked by nausea, I did not feel capable of magically producing any satisfactory outcome. There was
nothing for me to do but order my coffers packed and accompany Philippa to Plymouth. And there I would have to face both John and the Duke.

Plymouth was in a turmoil of troops and horses and all the essentials from ale to weaponry for a protracted and hostile expedition overseas. Our entourage might have found difficulty in forcing its way through the masses but the Lancaster pennons had the desired effect. We were soon in the enclosed courtyard of the castle, no quieter or less turbulent, but with the promise of food and a cup of wine. My spirits and my robust health had returned and the journey, although long, had awoken my resolution.

What were the choices for me, a royal princess, contracted in a strategic but unconsummated marriage, yet carrying the child of her lover? My youthful husband had no power over me, but his family would be falling over their hems to express their horror, and what would the Duke say? More to the point, what would he do? His own marital adventures would have no bearing on his reaction to a daughter of Lancaster falling into foul sin. It was one thing for Dame Katherine de Swynford to bear an illegitimate child to the Duke of Lancaster, it was quite another for a ducal daughter to be caught up into the same trap. I considered my future.

It might be considered desirable to arrange a fast nuptial bed with my Pembroke husband, and then express amazement at my equally fast conception and a child born before its time. I imagined it had been done before in many a high-blooded family. The Duke could arrange it for me under
the scowl of his disgust with a wilful daughter, and Jonty was now of an age to be effectively potent. It might save me from shame, and memories at court were short. Who would count the months of my pregnancy?

What if, instead, I were dispatched to some distant and discreet convent under the auspices of Lancaster, where the child would be delivered and cared for, with no one the wiser? I would return from my sojourn in the country as white as a sacrificial lamb and resume my interrupted marriage. Seven months in isolation, with prayer and contrition my only companions, might be considered a small price to pay.

And my child—John’s child—handed to some foster family with a purse of gold to ensure its welfare and suitable education. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I would not consider it a small price. I would consider it beyond my bearing.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Philippa, ranging up beside me.

‘Not a thing.’

‘You looked sour.’

‘Your imagination, dear sister …’

Reluctant to parade my fears before her, I arranged my features into a bland appreciation of the countryside through which we travelled and continued to pick apart the close weaving of the tapestry of my life. It seemed to be a mass of entwined stems and smothering leaves, like a hopbine at the end of the autumn harvesting, with no clear pattern at all.

Why did I not simply ask the Duke to arrange an end to my sham marriage? He had rarely refused me anything in all my life, indulged and petted as I had been, but that was
in the matter of gifts and comforts, of clothing and jewels. I had been raised to know my fate in the scheme of Lancaster preferment, that I would, at my father’s behest, wed a man who brought a fine name, authority and wealth. It would not be for me to choose, however eminent the man I set my eye on or however unsuitable I considered my father’s choice for me. Had the Duke not refused to listen to my pleas when the Pembroke marriage was first mooted? For certain he would not be enamoured of so close an alliance with John Holland, even though he might be brother to the King. A dangerous man, the Duke had said. John Holland was as unreliable as an unbroken warhorse, a man still with a reputation to repair. No, the Duke would not rejoice at the prospect. And I no longer thought that I had the means to influence him.

There was only one certainty in my mind.

I must tell John. And then …

But there the unknown ran riot through my thoughts. I could imagine full well what my father would say, and I quailed at the prospect. But what about John? Enjoying intimate intervals of intense passion and avowals of love were all very well, but to conceive a child threw a dangerous flame into the nicely smouldering twigs of his ambitions. A conflagration such as this might not be easily extinguished. Would his desire to wed me vanish like the flame of a snuffed candle, or—the thought made my heart bound against my ribs—would he see it as a lever to move the stone of my refusal?

Not that I was in a position to concur with his demands. My heart plummeted again as I prevented a sigh, pinning
my smile even tighter when the complications multiplied to swamp my nascent planning. Even if this child, born in full public view, was recognised as the bastard of John Holland, what did I foresee for my future? All I saw was isolation and shame and John far away in Portugal, perhaps not returning before the child could stagger to greet him on its own two feet.

If he had any sense, he might stay there for ever as a soldier of fortune. And what an escape that would be from a trap of scandal and an illegitimate child.

As for the condemnation of the Pembroke family … I could argue that I did not care what Jonty’s family would say, but many would argue that there was no way out of that particular morass of public recrimination.

This was no good!

What use was it in allowing myself to be deluged in qualms and difficulties? What was it that
I
wanted? As a sudden shower of rain forced us to quicken our pace, I directed my thoughts into a path away from all the damage this pregnancy had created, for I knew exactly what I wanted. This child might unnerve me with its inconvenience, but deep within me was a sense of unexpected elation, a ripple of pure joy as if the child already moved in my womb, and an utter certainty. I wanted this child, and I wanted John Holland for my husband, a husband who was not hundreds of miles away engaged in a war that might keep him absent for months if not years. Once I would have obeyed my father, but no longer. My mind was set on where I saw my future happiness.

Yet still I desired my father’s approval and, as far as
was possible with some diplomatic handling, I wanted the approval of the court. There would be no convent for me, no besmirched name, no bastard child, and no condemnation from the likes of Walsingham. I wanted no gossip in corners, no speculative glances when I entered a room. I wanted reinstatement as a Plantagenet daughter and Holland wife with no cause for me to blush. I was no loose court harlot. I would be Elizabeth Holland, and would hold my head high as I had done all my life.

All I had to do was ease events into motion to achieve it.

Nor was I in any manner daunted. Philippa would probably say that I was undertaking a campaign greater than my powers, but Philippa was never one to beard the dragon in its den. I would. I would tempt the dragon into the open and set it to work for me, even if it demanded unconscionable duplicity to persuade it to my way of thinking. How to go about this miraculous reversal of my fortunes kept my mind occupied over many wearing miles.

‘There’s Plymouth,’ Philippa interrupted my intricate thought processes.

‘Good,’ I said, all traces of past nausea vanished, my wits sharp.

If I failed, it would not be said of me that I had not done my best.

Plymouth at last. A small town, much destroyed in the past through raids and fire, but the castle was intact and the port was thought to be most appropriate for the convergence of all needed for a major campaign. Dismounted, we
were shown into a chamber barely larger than the buttery at Kenilworth, put aside for Philippa, but since I was not expected I could not complain.

Although I did. ‘I suppose I’ll have to share your bed.’

‘Yes. And you should be thankful. The Duke might, of course, send you straight back to Kenilworth in disgrace which will solve your problem.’

In disgrace? I had already rejected that. ‘I will not go.’

‘It may not be your decision for the making.’

I chose not to reply.

We made our way into the living quarters, preventing our skirts from snarling on the edge of coffers and bundles of weapons and armour wrapped in linen, to a room overlooking the port where the Duke greeted us with harassed affection. Sir John was nowhere to be seen, even when I leaned to squint through the window to look down into the activity below.

‘I did not expect you, Elizabeth,’ my father observed with a lift of his brows. ‘Should I have done?’

‘I could not bear to be parted from my sister,’ I replied, moving back into the cluttered room to sit on a stool. It was a relief that it had a cushion and did not move.

‘I doubt we can house you.’

‘Philippa has offered half her bed.’ I smiled ingratiatingly when she frowned at me.

‘You are astonishingly cheerful, all things considered!’ she murmured as the Duke walked to the open door to summon a page with food and refreshment.

‘What choice do I have?’ I regarded her, eyes wide. I had
certainly not informed Philippa of my planning. It behoved me to appear troubled and helpless.

‘About what?’ the Duke asked, but Philippa deflected him, giving him her attention as she lifted a pile of documents from a coffer lid so that she could sit.

‘You appear to be up to your ears in lists,’ she said.

‘Bills of lading. Always a nightmare at this stage in an embarkation.’

‘So where is your efficient Constable, to take the burden from you?’ I asked, refusing to respond to my sister’s glance in my direction.

‘I expect he’s down on the wharf …’

‘Your efficient Constable is here.’

John Holland walked through the door, carrying a flagon and cups he had waylaid. And I allowed my eyes to rest on him. What mood would he be in today? Would it be the mask, which I had seen often of late, of controlled indifference? A mask I now knew to disguise an uncomfortably acute brain and a raging ambition, a degree of self-preservation and a demonic temper. A turbulent character who would drive his own direction through life regardless of those around him.

But there was no mask today. Today he was the practical soldier from head to toe, garments plain and serviceable, the only decoration in his inlaid sword-belt. He smiled at the company, his expression one of courteous pleasure, pouring the wine expertly with his fine hands. My future rested in those hands.

How uncomfortable! But how impeccable I had become at hiding my thoughts, that initial leap of sheer delight at his
presence in the same space. And he too, as if we had never shared the same breath, the same intimate four walls, flesh on flesh. He bowed with brief courtesy, all grace and deprecation, but barely glanced at me. I rose and curtsied with suitable decorum as to a court acquaintance. Philippa did the same but her eye on him was frosty.

‘We are pleased to see you here, Sir John. I have heard much talk of you of late.’

I held my breath. If our Constable was surprised, he hid it well.

‘I trust it was to my good name. Sadly, it rarely is.’ His expression became sardonic. ‘But, reputation aside, I will deem it an honour to escort you to your marriage, my lady.’

Philippa looked as if she might have said more but instead tucked her hand in the Duke’s arm and drew him aside.

‘Is Constanza already here? I would like to speak with her. I need some direction if I am to win King João’s admiration when I make my first appearance.’

‘He’ll admire you whatever you wear,’ he said, ‘but Constanza will be pleased to see you. The coming child makes her lethargic …’

And then the chamber was empty but for how long? Servants were passing back and forth outside the door. A page sent with a message scurried past. I could hear voices echoing in the stairwell. John observed me from a careful distance. Suddenly there was no smile of welcome, rather a speculative gleam, and the stage was set for my performance, whereupon I must outplay the most skilful of mummers.

‘Have you come specifically to see me, Countess?’

‘Yes. Are you sorry?’

‘Not sorry at all. Merely surprised. I had resigned myself to leaving without seeing you again. But now that you are here …’ He broke off as one of the heralds strode between us, face imprinted with urgency as he tossed a muttered apology.

‘Is there anywhere we can talk without interruption?’ I ventured.

‘I doubt it. I share a bedchamber with three others. I know a better place, if windswept.’

And with a little gesture he led me through narrow corridors, up a staircase that brushed my skirts on both sides and out onto the wall walk that allowed us to look down onto the little port. The wind tugged at my veil, threatening to tear it loose until I tucked the flighty ends into the high neck of my houppelande.

‘I’ll be relieved when we set sail. It’s too crowded and the natives are getting restive at all the upheaval.’ He pointed to where, below us in the street, the remains of a fracas was being sorted out with fists and the flat of swords by two heavy-handed soldiers.

I slid a glance, picking up his words. ‘You are pleased to be leaving me?’

Leaning an arm on the parapet, John faced me, expression relaxed in bland lines. ‘Did I say that?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I studied my clasped hands. ‘It may be that you see it as an escape from an affair that has become a burden on you.’

‘It may be, of course,’ he agreed. ‘How long does a court affair last, on average?’

‘It’s true they are fleeting,’ I concurred. ‘How many
weeks is it since we have exchanged even a word? What woman would not begin to feel bereft?’

‘Or what man consider himself to be hunted by an importunate woman, when she arrives on his doorstep on the day before a campaign? He might of course find a longing for his former freedom …’