The King’s Sister (41 page)

And then there he was, this unknown knight, urging his mount into a controlled canter towards our pavilion.

‘Who is he?’ For want of something to say. And because, in truth, I was interested in a man who could exhibit such skill.

‘John Cornewall. A knight from the west country,’ Henry replied.

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s the son and heir of younger son, so out to make a name for himself. He’s a man I would have at my side.’

‘You would have every man at your side,’ I remarked, recalling FitzAlan.

‘What King would not? Besides, I like Cornewall’s style in combat.’

The knight, his armour even more worn than I had anticipated, hauled his mount to an impatient standstill before us and, still helmed, bowed before me.

‘I would carry your guerdon, my lady.’

A clear voice, light of timbre, even from the depths of the unadorned jousting-helm.

I smiled politely, as I must. ‘I do not know you, sir.’

‘Here is my emblem, my lady.’ He gestured to his squire who rode up with the emblazoned shield.

‘But I would not give my guerdon to a faceless knight, sir.’

Upon which he removed his helm and handed it to the squire.

‘I am Sir John Cornewall, my lady. I would be honoured to fight in your name and carry your honour to victory in the lists. If my face is pleasing to you.’

Any lingering thought that this knight bore even the smallest similarity to John Holland was instantly obliterated. Sir John Cornewall was a young man untouched by hard experience, his eyes the palest of blue, like a winter sky touched by frost; his hair, already plastered to his skull with damp heat, had the fairness of flax as it curled around his ears, while his skin was pale with an unlined smoothness. His mouth was well-sculpted but unsmiling, his nose blade-narrow. A handsome face, all in all, if austerity and rigid self-control was pleasing. And there was the soft accent, from the west, that brushed my senses. Deep within me, I acknowledged an attraction to this man with such perfect manners, an interest that any woman might feel towards a handsome knight, even if her heart was dead.

‘My lady?’ I realised I had been staring. ‘I would fight for you,’ he repeated, ‘if you would honour me.’

And I felt Henry’s elbow nudge me where my arm rested against the carved chair he had provided for my use.

‘Of course, Sir John. The honour is mine.’ How very difficult it was to use that name, but I did, and on a whim, struggling to slide it over my knuckle, I held out a ring that Henry had given me at some past New Year’s Gift Giving. ‘God give you victory, sir.’

He bowed again, removed his gauntlet and slid the ring onto his smallest finger. Then, replacing gauntlet and helm, he took his place with the rest of the knights.

I tried hard not to allow my eyes to follow him.

‘That was generous,’ Henry murmured under cover of my women’s chatter. ‘A veil or one of your endless knots of ribbon would have done just as well.’

‘Is he not worth more than a veil?’ I asked languidly augmenting the breeze with my little fan. ‘Besides, I wager that he will win, and I’ll get it back.’

‘Are you so sure? I think he’ll keep it.’ Henry did not look at me but seemed to be inspecting the disposition of officials on the field.

So I watched this man whose allegiance Henry would win as the contest continued in a more restrained show of arms, in which Henry’s two eldest sons could compete. Henry at thirteen and Thomas at twelve would be doughty fighters: my brother’s pride shone like the noon sun as they played their part. They carried themselves well; John Cornewall even better, who allowed the princes to display their skills before the inevitable disarming. He was a man of compassion.
Or, if I were of a cynical turn of mind, a man of few financial resources using a clever ruse to catch the King’s eye. He won, of course, defeating all comers. Throughout the heat of that afternoon, Sir John Cornewall rode with all the glittering mastery of a knight from the magical books of my childhood, snatching victory from the prestigious French and Italian knights who challenged him.

I stayed for Henry’s presentation of prizes.

Did my chosen knight surprise me? Not with the innate dignity with which he accepted the Order of the Garter, bestowed on him by Henry in recognition of his upholding England’s reputation against foreign competition. Not by his splendid courtesy to all who applauded his achievements. But yes, he did baffle me in the end when, the Order of the Garter blazing in the sun, Sir John returned the ring to me with a gallant gesture, kneeling, the ring resting in his palm as he offered it, the sapphire gleaming with blue fire from its depths. Even paler, fair face strained and hair dripping with sweat from his exertions, he bowed his head so that his emotions were hidden from me.

‘I place my victory at your feet, my lady.’

‘My thanks, Sir John. Your fought superlatively well.’

What it cost me to say that. I had to set my jaw to use the same name and title as John Holland. I expected that my expression was stony when he deserved my praise, but it was beyond my tolerance to comply.

‘It was my desire to uphold your honour, my lady.’

‘Then it is right that you should be rewarded.’

He looked up, eyes glassy with exhaustion, face smeared with dust.

I could not smile at him, nor did he smile at me.

‘Good fortune, Sir John,’ was all I said. ‘The prize is yours to keep.’

I let him keep the ring. It was indeed very valuable and perhaps I should not have done it, but he had fought well and it would have been churlish of me not to reward him. What did this golden-haired knight mean to me? Nothing. He never could mean anything to me.

I left before Henry awarded the rest of the prizes. I could not sit and wallow in self-pity, stirred with fury into a lethal mix as each brave knight knelt to receive his king’s commendations and a purse of gold coin that Henry could ill-afford to give. John should have been there if he had made a pragmatic rather than an emotional choice. John should have been there if Henry had allowed himself to be generous. John should have been there if I had not …

Too close to home. Far too close.

I allowed myself to feel the old hurt that never left me, and that night, in my dreams, my hands were drenched in blood.

The jousting ended on a high note of male pride and knightly boasting but Henry sank into sour despondency with no news, good or bad, from Scotland. Supplies, I was led to understand by the tone and colour of his language, were running low, a disaster if the Scots refused an alliance and Henry was forced to call their bluff with an invasion.

‘The goodwill from the jousting will die a death overnight
if we’re left sitting here on our arses for the next month!’ Henry snarled when the couriers arrived yet again from the north with no news.

All we could do was sit tight at York and wait, until Henry could discover sufficient resources, or wring them from the reluctant purses of the richest noble families in his army. Meanwhile he chose to host a banquet to celebrate the victors of the tournament.

‘Pray that if I’m open-handed with roast venison and enough wine to swamp their grousings, they’ll forget their grudges and stay for the next feast I can muster.’

Perhaps it all had the air of desperation. I did not fully comprehend all the difficulties in the stalled negotiations, and Henry remained as silently dour as the Scots except to say: ‘They’re playing us for bloody fools, keeping us kicking our heels here. I’ve a good mind to invade tomorrow and prod King Robert with my sword until he does homage.’

‘Well, that will encourage him,’ I observed. Then took my lute and my needle to one of the spacious rooms in Greyfriars in the city where we were staying and prepared to wait with him. With a banquet in mind, in the absence of a wife, I would be Henry’s hostess, which pleased me well enough, for the accommodations at the Franciscan Friary were suitably sumptuous, and it gave me something to occupy my mind other than my interminably festering woes, as Henry found need to remark.

‘I, too, have lost friends to death or divided loyalties. You are not alone in your grief. Your face would curdle the milk in the churn.’

I balked. ‘You allowed my husband to be done to death. Do I rejoice?’

‘No. And I’m sorry for it. What more can I say?’

And again seeing the lasting sorrow for Mary mould his face into harsher lines, I hugged him as if he were still the brother of my childhood. We were both alone and must support each other. It would never be the same, I would never trust him as I once had, but he was all I had.

‘I will organise your feasts,’ I promised, ‘your wine and your venison, and we will tie your friends to you with shackles of music and food and celebration.’

‘It will get better.’ Henry returned my embrace. ‘Loss will lose its sharp edge.’

‘Of course it will.’

Neither one of us was convinced.

We feasted. Where did Henry find such a wealth of platters? Commandeered from those who sat to eat from them, or from the rich merchants of York who had been invited to join the knightly throng. We sang songs of victory and love and knightly endeavour. Henry’s minstrels were in good heart and well paid for their efforts.

We danced. Or that is to say, Henry’s guests danced. I did not. Had I not vowed never to dance again? My feet felt as heavy as my heart. Meanwhile John Cornewall, lithe and sprightly without the confines of his armour, could dance as well as he could joust, nor was he short of partners.

‘Will you dance?’ Henry offered.

I shook my head. ‘I am too old to keep my breath in this measure,’ I said as the dancers beamed and sweated in the torchlight, instantly regretting that I sounded like Constanza
who had disapproved of anything that lacked the stately elegance of Castile. I was not so old.

Reading my mind, Henry grinned. ‘You can still dance better than anyone I know. You always could. Why don’t you?’

‘I am thirty-seven years old, Hal.’

How the years flew past, how the web of lines gathered beside eyes and lips. I turned away from him. I did not like to think of the days when I had won the prize at Richard’s court. I would not talk about Richard, or John, not today when Henry and I were in amiable alliance. Henry, it had to be said, was not short of women who were more than willing to dance with him. A King of England without a wife, a young man with royal blood and attractive countenance, was a desirable entity.

‘Come with me, if your advanced years will allow it,’ Henry said, and seizing my hand he led me from the noisy environs of the dancing into an unoccupied spot where he procured a cup of wine for me from a page who responded to his raised hand.

‘Elizabeth …?’

‘Hmn?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you …’ He paused, then hesitated longer.

‘Tell me what?’

For a moment I thought my brother looked ill at ease, eyes sliding to mine, before sliding just as swiftly away. Henry was never sly, so it took me aback. Then he tossed off his wine and made a wide gesture with his empty cup as he looked beyond my shoulder.

‘Never mind solemn matters. Here’s a notable fighter wishing to claim your hand since the musicians have retuned and the blowers caught their breath.’

I turned, knowing instinctively whom I would see, and of course it was John Cornewall, making his way through the throng with the same skill and ease as he showed on the tournament field, and the same determination.

‘Why do I get the feeling that you want something from me?’

‘I have no idea. You are too cynical.’

Indeed I was. In these days my brother did nothing without a purpose. ‘It may be he wishes to exchange some news with you, Henry,’ I observed. ‘Something relevant to your Scottish troubles.’ The knight’s face was certainly grave enough.

‘I think his mind is on dancing rather than war.’

‘So am I of a mind to dance with him?’

‘It would please me if you did.’

So I was right. Henry was building alliances. I turned to the knight who, hand on heart in true chivalric mode, newly-won Order of the Garter on his breast, bowed to me.

‘Have you come to talk with my brother, Sir John?’ I goaded gently. ‘If so I will leave you together.’

‘By no means. It is you I seek. Will you dance, my lady?’

I cast an arch look at Henry as I replied. ‘My brother the King should have warned you. I do not dance, Sir John.’

‘I am informed, madam, that you dance superlatively well.’ Now I glanced at Henry with frank irritation. I knew who had supplied that piece of information. ‘I had hoped
to tempt you to add your expertise to this August occasion and dance with me.’

Such a self-assured request, those light eyes holding mine with no shyness. He might be young but he had all the confidence in the world. I felt an urge to ruffle that perfect poise, and so stepped onto dangerous ground with a little thrill of expectation. How would he react? I would be interested to see if this put an end to his need for my company.

‘Once I danced, Sir John, but no longer. Since my husband’s death I do not have the heart for it. The manner of his death has robbed me of all joy.’

In brotherly disgust, Henry grunted and strode off. I waited to see if Sir John would follow.

‘If you will not dance, will you sit with me?’ he invited, his manner lightly courteous. Why would he wish to sit with me? Would nothing deter him? And I felt a desire to repulse him, to see what was behind that cool façade. And to foil Henry’s planning.

‘No, Sir John.’

‘We could converse.’ No, he was not deterred. ‘We have many acquaintances in common.’

‘I expect that we have. But it is my wish to return to my women.’

Sir John laced the fingers of his hands together and studied them, giving me ample opportunity to admire the fine texture of the hair that curled onto his brow.

‘Can you not be persuaded, my lady?’ Quickly, smoothly, he raised his eyes, to catch me watching him, but took no advantage of it. ‘It might be that you enjoy the experience. Why would you wish to be the only lady here present without
a knight to partner her or devote himself to her comfort?’