The King’s Sister (18 page)

‘No, Elizabeth. You will not be there.’ His fingers, still grasping the latch, whitened.

‘No?’

‘You will not. I’ll not have it so.’

Barely a whisper but indisputably threatening, but I would do as I pleased, and was in no mood to take orders. I would see this out to the bitter end.

Taking note of the lift of my chin, his mouth acquired a sardonic twist: ‘Why would you wish to associate yourself with such as me?’

‘I don’t know. I know even less after witnessing your lack of finer feelings towards you mother.’

‘I have no finer feelings. Did you not realise that?’

Which summed it all up for me. Why had I gone to such trouble for him? He was a murderer, his immortal soul in jeopardy, without remorse, without pity for his mother. How could I have wanted a man like that? But I could. And yet I could not see the direction of his mind. He had not touched me. Not once. Any heat that had existed between us in those heady days at court had been obliterated, deliberately, by this man who was as unyielding as a frozen carp pond.

I prepared for my departure in despair, meeting up with the Princess’s steward one final time in the pervading bustle of the entrance hall.

‘We are leaving, Master Worthe.’

‘Certainly, my lady.’ He looked relieved that the organisation
of the Princess’s burial had been removed from his shoulder. ‘I did not think Sir John would wish to travel on today.’

‘Why not?’ I was already walking to the door, arranging my hood, pulling on my gloves. I dare not be late. The man was quite capable of leaving me in a cloud of dust.

‘Sir John did not sleep last night.’

Which made me stop and look back over my shoulder. ‘Tell me.’

‘Sir John spent the night in the chapel, my lady.’

So he has spent the night beside her body, and then sought her will, to arrange, if I believed him, for her final resting place.

‘He mourned the lady well,’ Master Worthe was saying. ‘He left monies with me for payers for her soul.’

So John Holland was not immune to pain after all. He had hidden it well. He had certainly hidden it from me. But I could not think of that. He would suffer far greater agony at Richard’s hands unless we could work a miracle, and I was duty bound to stand at his side, whether he wished it or not.

It was a particularly silent ride, much as the one I had shared with the suffering Joan, but for entirely different reasons. Her son was in no mood for conversation, trivial or otherwise. Brows drawn into an uncompromising line, his eyes remained fixed on the road before him as it unwound towards an uncertain future. These might be his final hours of freedom if Richard proved to be as intransigent as I
feared. Whatever John thought about it he was not saying. I thought he might try to win me round to his way of thinking, with charm and clever use of words. I thought he would justify his actions, practising arguments that might appeal to his brother. Or try to explain to me. He might even try to explain the vast space he had allowed to yawn between us.

He did not.

Curt, introspective, heavy-browed, John Holland rode on to his fate while, unbeknowing to him, I trembled at his side. He might appear sanguine but I could not be. I had experienced Richard’s temper. But surely he had too.

Sympathetic to his mood, I rode in silence beside him, only exchanging a word with my women when I felt a need to speak about something, anything. Perhaps it would even entice my companion from his preoccupations. But when the female gossip, rejoicing over the fall from fashion of the wimple—and the Virgin be praised for that—grew too much for him, he spurred his horse on ahead, leaving me to sigh with a strange depth of disappointment.

Murder and sanctuary seemed to have cured him of his infatuation for me. So much for kisses and silver spoons. I had been abandoned. Perhaps I had been too cold in my refusal, too sure, too wilful. Whatever the reason, the days of our courtship were long gone. But then I should be glad, should I not, for would not murder cure me of my own intemperate longings? Sudden, bloody death was not unknown to me. Which man of my family did not have blood on his sword? But not with deliberate vile intent.

I was no surer of my emotions than on the day I had heard of what he was capable. I did not even know why I was following him to Windsor.

We were within an hour of Windsor when my morose companion ranged alongside me.

‘So you will deign to speak with me.’

‘Yes.’ His grin, entirely lacking of late, was all I recalled from the days of his pursuit of me. Sharp and bright and seductively attractive. All the earlier melancholy and ill-manners had been cast aside. Did this mercurial man ever apologise? ‘This, madam Elizabeth, might be the final time that we have freedom to talk.’

It made my breath catch but I kept the mood. ‘So you are confessing your sins to the friends you have left. Better that you confess them to your enemies, I think.’

‘And which are you?’ He stretched out his hand to touch mine where it gripped my reins.

I snatched my hand away. ‘You must not.’

‘Why not?’

The reasons tripped over each other. Because it is very particular, and such particularity brought enough trouble to the Duke and Dame Katherine. It draws attention to us, and you must not. Your touch makes me far too aware of you. That is the first time you have touched me since you returned, and it burns like a brand. I don’t want it. I don’t want my emotions to rule my response to a man capable of such uncontrolled violence …

But I did not explain any of it. Rather, coldly impersonal, I forced him to look ahead.

‘What will you do when you get there, to Windsor? You have few friends at court. Ralph Stafford had many.’

His smile remained intact. ‘I note you did not allow me access to your own inclination, but no matter. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll bow the knee before Richard and hope that my honeyed words and our mother’s sad death will wear him down and wash away his need for my blood in recompense for that of his friend.’

‘You are glib, Sir John. It astonishes me that you will risk it.’

‘I can’t live my life on the run from my brother. Nor do I wish to spend it in exile. I want to live here, to take my rightful place at the King’s side as a valued counsellor, and so I will plead my case. Richard will listen. Never doubt it.’

How arrogant he was. How confident. The light was back in his eye, the smile indenting the corners of his mouth. He sat his horse with ease, the wind lifting his hair, and I noted that he had taken care with his appearance even though in sombre hue, dressing to make an impression from the folds of the velvet chaperon to the soft leather of his calf-length boots and all in between, every inch the King’s brother. He had no intention of scuttling into Windsor, attempting not to draw the eye, but would challenge any who felt an urge to manhandle him. No decision had been made about his future. He was innocent still, until Richard pronounced.

Suddenly his eyes snapped to mine, catching my assessment of his figured houppelande in forest green and black
falling in heavy folds over his thighs, making me flush, but he made no comment. ‘Will the Duke speak for me?’ he asked.

So perhaps the confidence was a façade after all. Who was ever to know?

‘Do you wish me to ask him?’

His reply was dry, confirming my suspicions. ‘It all depends on the welcome I receive when I ride into Windsor. I might not get the opportunity if I’m hustled off into some place of confinement at Richard’s pleasure. So talk to the Duke for me, Countess, out of the goodness of your wayward heart.’

Undoubtedly a command. ‘I might.’

Before I could react, he had seized my hand, stripped off my glove and kissed my fingers. ‘Do you want persuasion? I would be everlastingly grateful. I would fall on my knees at your feet to urge you. What else can I say to encourage you? I could woo you all over again, of course, since you’ve clearly fallen out of love with me. Get the Duke to speak for me and I will declare my undying love for you.’

‘And would I believe you? I don’t think so.’ Flustered, aware of the presence of my women, I tugged hard to recover possession of my hand, to no avail.

‘Why not? You are very difficult this morning!’

‘You don’t have to ride with me.’ Oh, I would punish him.

‘Of course I don’t. But I wish to. So what shall we talk of, Countess? I think I might woo you again, just to pass the time.’

Woo me? As familiar anger rose to grip my throat, and
I turned to stare at him, he kissed my fingers again, his lips warm against my skin, his grasp firm so I could not pull away.

‘Woo me,’ I repeated. ‘You have no shame.’

‘No. I don’t expect I have.’

‘Are you never discomfited?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t know you at all, do I?’

‘What’s to know?’

All my doubts, all the accusations bubbled up to spill out.

‘You killed a man. You cut him down on the road. He was innocent and yet you drove a sword through his heart. What sort of man does that?’

‘And you are so sure of my guilt.’

‘You have not denied it. And I suppose you will argue your innocence before the King as well.’

‘How can I? I am as guilty as hell.’

I stared aghast. Had I not hoped against hope that it was all a mistake?

‘Can you love a guilty man, Elizabeth?’

‘Before God, I do not know.’

And he promptly returned my hand to my bridle, so that I was the silent one for the rest of the journey. Could I love a man guilty, by his own admission, of the unwarranted death of a young man whose character was without stain? I could not. I should not. And yet I could not let him go. Nor was it just the binding quality of Joan’s final instructions to me. Deep within me there was a belief that beneath the temper and ambition, beneath the pride that equalled that of my father, there was a man who was worthy of my love. He was
honest to a fault. I thought I could trust him, and that he would never wittingly do me harm. He would never be a good man, but he would be a loyal one. And a man whose smile weakened all my resolve to cast him off.

And then we were riding into the castle courtyard, and there was the Constable, indicating that John should dismount and follow him. No force was used, none of my feared manhandling, but the implication was there in the armed soldiers and the Constable’s set face. John turned once to look at me. His gaze was long and grave, his command cut me to the quick.

‘Go home, Countess. Go back to Hertford.’

N
ot even waiting until the following day, Richard sat enthroned. The Earl of Stafford stood at his side, the epitome of belligerence, his hands fisted on his belt as if to curb their desire to strike out at the man who had done his son to death.

It had not been difficult to discover when Richard would give audience to, or pass judgement on, his brother. It was the talk of the Castle. It was not difficult to find my father and apprise him of what was afoot. It did not need me to tell the Duke that without his support, John Holland would have no voice raised for him. We did not bother with arguments. We had been over this ground before, without the culprit in our midst to stir the ashes to flame if he was of a mind to.

‘Is he repentant?’ the Duke asked.

‘Not that you would notice. And I will accompany you.’

‘Why?’

‘This is a family matter.’

I would not be swayed. If John Holland would tell Richard the truth, I needed to hear it. I needed to see and hear if there was any mark of grace on the soul of this man who, for reasons I could not determine, held my heart in his hands.

The Duke raised his brows but let it lie.

‘Well, my lord uncle. Back again to plead for the black sheep who wishes to return to the fold?’

‘If need be, sire,’ my father replied. ‘Or to remind you of the value of compassion at the hands of a powerful king.’

Or more like to prevent him from waging war against his own family.

John was escorted in, the armed escort far more obvious now in its close formation around him. Groomed, cleansed of the dust of the journey, superbly composed, John Holland made his entry, his face governed into stern lines that could not be suspected of flippancy. I watched him approach, taking in the elegance of his movements, even though he must feel the ignominy of having his sword removed from his side. I saw him take in Stafford’s scowl.

And then all was drama.

John halted before Richard, where of his own will he knelt, straight-backed, head bowed, hands overlapping on his breast where the royal livery chain with its white hart glittered. A supplicant, but a clever supplicant to promote
his allegiance to the King, and one with pride. He had not been beaten to his knees. The choice was his.

‘Well?’ Richard glowered.

‘I am here, sire, to beg your forgiveness for my heinous crime.’ His glance moved over those present then returned to the King. ‘I would ask your compassion to allow me to speak with you in private.’

For a moment, the length of a breath, entirely dead of feeling, John Holland’s regard rested on me, then moved on to return to the King, but not before I had read in it a cold alienation from what was about to come. It struck at my heart, but there was no time for that. Richard was spitting in red-hot ire.

‘You will answer me at my behest, not at yours. What have you to say of this crime of which you are accused by my Lord of Stafford?’

‘Might I rise, sire?’

‘No. Answer on your knees.’

John bent his head. ‘The Princess Joan, your lady mother, sire, is dead.’

‘As I know.’ There was no diverting Richard here. ‘Any man with two thoughts in his head would say it was your behaviour that killed her.’

‘The Princess remembered you kindly in her will, sire. She left you her best bed.’

Which took the breath from Richard, even as he continued to glower.

‘Her death has touched me. I will always remember her with affection.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘How will you justify what is murder?’ Richard flung out his arm to encompass
Stafford. ‘How will you answer this man’s desire for your death in payment for his son’s?’

‘I cannot. I am guilty as charged. I cut him down in the dark, thinking we were under attack. I gave the command, knowing it was a Stafford. I reacted. It was a terrible misjudgement, because I was driven by anger at the loss of my squire. I deserve punishment, but I throw myself on your ineffable mercy, sire. I ask pardon.’

‘There, sire. There is his guilt, expressed for all to hear. What more do we need to know …’ Stafford urged.

But Richard lifted his hand to silence Stafford.

‘I have sworn to have your life for this, Holland.’

‘I beg that you will reconsider.’

‘Kings do not reconsider. It’s a weak king who changes his mind.’

Taking all by surprise, Richard thrust himself to his feet, striding across the chamber to a window embrasure where a chess set had been positioned on a low table, the chessmen in process of someone’s game. Seizing one of the figures, Richard hurled it the length of the room so that it clattered on the tiles. But which figure had he selected?

‘What do you think, Holland? Knight or King? Who has the pre-eminence here?’

Oh, Richard!

Inwardly I raged against his uselessly dramatic gesture, at his need to be at the centre of every stage. Of course he was at the centre. Was he not King? But his love of display made him draw all eyes to his person. How would he decide? What would bring him ultimate glory, to summon the axe or wield magnanimity? The odds were, I feared, stacked
against John. He could be disposed of as quickly as Richard had rid himself of the little knight that lay in two pieces of carved ivory against the far wall.

I realised that I was holding my breath.

A movement at my side as my father stepped forward.

‘Sire. A wise king can be persuaded to change his mind. If there is doubt over the crime.’

‘God’s Blood! There is no doubt. He admits it himself …’

‘Or if he confesses his misjudgement.’

‘Misjudgement!’ Stafford exploded.

‘Or if the man is one of great gifts.’

‘Not if he is a man of vicious humour,’ Stafford growled.

‘I ask you to reconsider, sire.’ Still the Duke pressed on. ‘It is my belief that Holland is repentant.’

‘Well?’ Richard returned to loom over his still-kneeling brother. ‘You have my uncle to speak for you. What do you say?’

‘That I am full of regret, sire. I will accept any punishment that allows me to continue to serve you.’

The King pondered. Stafford’s hand tightened on his sword. John was motionless, so still that not a hair of his head moved, the light gilding his hair and shoulders, adding patches of red and blue from the stained glass. The Duke shifted softly from one foot to the other.

And I?

Since I had come here, I must make my case. I stepped to my father’s side. My voice was clear and carried well, so strong it all but overpowered me, but I did not hesitate.

Princess Joan had demanded my oath and I was the only one here who could speak for her. My father frowned at my forwardness. Richard scowled. Stafford turned his back. As for John Holland, he did not want me here. Had he not commanded me to keep away? His motionless posture said it all, his eyes remaining resolutely on the wall behind Richard’s shoulder. And did I wish to be here, forced to acknowledge the ignominy of a man I had thought I might love? No, I did not. But Princess Joan had passed this burden to me and I would not falter, even in the face of such concerted opposition and rank disapproval.

‘Will you hear me, sire?’

Flinging himself back on his great chair, Richard did not even look in my direction. ‘If I must.’

‘In her dying words before her confessor, Princess Joan asked that I plead for her son John Holland. As she lay dying, she still had hopes that you would be satisfied with less than his death.’

‘I will consider.’

‘The Princess expressed her love for you. She prayed that you would show the same greatness of character as your heroic father, the Prince of Wales.’ I took a breath. I would risk all. ‘She believed that her own blood was strong enough in you to melt your stony heart and allow you to heal the wounds in your family. The Princess vowed that she would only rest in peace when you were reconciled with Sir John Holland. She begged that you listen and give good judgement, tempered with affection, for her and for your brother.’

‘A reasoned argument, by God!’ Richard’s eyes widened
on me, but he was still surly, turning on his brother, fists clenched. ‘Why did you have to do this? I detest that you gave no thought to my situation. I loved you, and this is how you repay me. I see no way of pardoning you. It is all your fault …’

My heart was thudding loudly in my ears. The only man present who seemed to be unmoved was John Holland, his back as rigid as a pike, but by now I knew well his ability to dissemble. His fate lay balanced on Richard’s chancy judgement.

My father, mightily controlled, bowed. ‘Might I suggest, sire, that with a pardon from the King, Sir John might work for his reinstatement in your eyes by joining my expedition to Castile in the Spring of next year.’

Well now! I slid a glance towards the Duke, whose expression was one of mild interest, his offer so smoothly delivered that it came to me that I was not the only one to have an interest in this outcome. Here the Duke saw an opportunity to bring Sir John into the Lancaster fold, and keep him there through saving his life. Sir John would be a redoubtable asset in the foreign expedition. Was every man in this room driven by intrigues and stratagems? But then, so was I. And I cared not as long as John Holland’s life was saved.

‘I have use of a man of such talents as his with my army,’ the Duke continued. ‘He will be able to prove the worth of his repentance on the field of battle. Would you join me in Castile, Sir John?’

The room hung on the little pause. So John Holland too saw the tightening of shackles around his wrists. Either he
bared his neck before Richard’s verdict, or committed himself to a campaign of uncertain length and outcome in Castile. But of course there was really no choice for him to make.

‘I would accept.’ John Holland’s voice was as uninflected as my father’s.

‘Would you consider such a request, sire?’ the Duke was asking. ‘It could only be to England’s advantage.’

Once again I was holding my breath as Richard stood, to walk slowly forward to his brother, walking round him, his robes brushing against John’s boots. A smile touched his lips. Widened to become a gleam of delight, although not one I would trust. I had seen the same smile when Richard had got his own way as a thwarted child.

‘It seems eminently suitable,’ he murmured.

‘But sire …’ Stafford’s fingers visibly gripped his sword belt.

‘Princess Joan would lie at rest, sire,’ I interrupted. ‘She was greatly troubled and this would give her soul peace.’

‘Good, good.’ And there was Richard in our midst, all graciousness, as if there had been nothing to disturb his untrammelled existence. ‘I will order a Mass to be said in her name. As for you, brother … You must make recompense. You must establish three chaplains to pray for Ralph Stafford’s soul in perpetuity.’

‘Gladly, sire.’

‘Will that satisfy you, Stafford?’ I knew it did not but it would be an unwise man to gainsay his King. ‘Stand up,’ Richard commanded his brother.

John stood.

‘I will restore your property to you, of course. I can’t have my brother living on my generosity, can I?’ He enfolded John Holland’s stiff shoulders in an embrace. ‘You should not do this, John. It unsettles me. You should curb your temper. I don’t wish to be at odds with you.’ All his ill-temper blown away, Richard was unnervingly friendly. ‘I need to know that I can rely on you.’

John returned the embrace. ‘I am your man. Now and forever.’

The relief in the room was tangible, except for Stafford whose stare at John held a quality of hatred.

‘I will hold the pardon over your head, you know.’

‘My future behaviour will be without stain, sire.’

‘Then come, John, and drink a cup of wine with me.’

He was swept off by the King, Richard’s arm looped through his as if nothing had ever occurred to undermine their closeness, leaving the Duke and me to watch them go. At the last John turned and his eyes, wide and dispassionate, met mine, reminding me of the venom of his arrival at Wallingford. Then he smiled at the King at his side, and was gone.

‘He looks at me as if he despises me,’ I spoke without thinking.

‘Are you surprised? What did you want?’ The Duke was already following Stafford and the Queen from the room. ‘A herald’s fanfare for coming to his defence? What man of pride wants an audience for his annihilation?’

‘I did not think.’

‘Then perhaps in future you will.’

Of course I remembered, the moment he had registered my presence beside the Duke. He had not liked it. He had
not expected this very public audience. He had indeed despised my seeing him on his knees, witnessing the outcome, witnessing his downfall and his humiliation. How much he would detest that I had pleaded for him with Joan’s final words. He did not want me there. Go home to Hertford, he had said. A man of pride, he did not wish to be humbled before me.

‘You don’t understand a man like John Holland.’

Was that it? Did I not understand him? But I thought I did. Pride. That was all it was. But what value pride when a man was fighting for his life?

I exhaled slowly, but the Duke, waiting for me, continued to watch them go.