The King’s Sister (38 page)

‘You need help, mistress.’

‘I don’t.’

Had I not promised? I had promised and I would do it.

He retreated when I picked up my mattock again, only to lurk behind a bush to keep an eye on the mistress who appeared to have taken leave of her senses.

Taken leave of them? I felt as if every sense I had was hammered into a coffin.

No! Not that!

The denial howled in my head.

Earlier in the day, numbed by shock, I had shut myself away in my chamber, until I realised the futility of that. I could ride out, hunt. I could ride and ride until I was exhausted and my mind blurred with it so that I could sleep and forget. But I would imagine that he was with me, riding beside me as he had done so often. I would hear the hooves of his horse, see the wind lifting his hair, hear his laughter at some comment passed between us. How could I ever ride for pleasure again? I needed an occupation to drain my energies rather than that of my mare. An occupation John would never have undertaken.

When had I ever turned my hand to physical work other than the setting of stitches? Playing the lute. Singing. Dancing. That is what I was made for. But today I needed some back-breaking work that would demand my concentration and my strength.

Yet, the inertia of grief laying its hand on me, I would still have remained shut away in my private chamber, until Alice ran in, a roughly constructed birdcage clutched in her
eight-year-old hand. She danced on the spot, holding the occupants high for me to see.

‘Look what the chapman has brought. He says they are for me, if we give him a silver coin.’

I stared in horror, seeing myself, in different circumstances, holding a gilded cage of singing finches.

‘Take them out!’ I shrieked, before I could stop myself.

‘But Mother …’ Alice’s eyes gleamed with quick tears.

‘I’ll not have them here.’

Taking my daughter by the hand I strode unseeing through the beautiful rooms of the house that John had built, through the kitchens and out into the enclosed courtyard beyond. Once there I knelt beside Alice, taking the cage from her and opening its door, lifting it high to encourage the pair of birds to fly free, which they did. Wiping away my child’s tears with the edge of my sleeve, I gave the only explanation I could.

‘They did not deserve to be shut in a cage. They will be happy to be free.’

Alice sniffed, not understanding, and in a sense neither did I. All I knew was that I would never again have a pair of singing birds. Nothing to remind me of my treacherous husband’s glorious wooing of me. Or my own treachery.

Alice and I continued to kneel in the puddle-ridden courtyard, watching them go.

My household must have thought that I had run mad.

From there, face frozen, I had taken myself into the herbery on this dire January day, simply because I could think of nothing else. My only knowledge of herbs was the use of them to perfume my coffers or produce a healing draught.

What did I know about working in the earth, about cutting and shaping? I had donned garments more suited to physical work, but to what avail? My fingers wept with blisters and my hems were ruined with mud but my anger remained as bitter as the rue I had just eviscerated. My mind lowered as dark as the clouds gathering to presage snow as I recalled John sending me a package of rue.

I rested momentarily on my knees, oblivious to the destruction of my skirts. I thought Henry would pardon him. I thought that in spite of John’s inexcusable treason, Henry would use his royal prerogative to grant John a pardon. For my sake. For the love he had for me. And because of the love I had for John. Could not Henry lure John back into the Lancastrian fold with soft words and generosity? My brother would not rob me of the man who meant more to me than my life. His compassion would be overwhelming and he would forgive.

I had held fast to that when my heart was heaviest. Or had I? Had I not always feared the inevitable? Retrieving the shears, running my thumb along the blades, I scowled at the line of blood that appeared. Had I truly believed that Henry would be magnanimous? Gradually learning that generosity was rarely the answer when political power was in the balance, I had come to know the penalty paid by those who played with fire. I knew full well the price to be paid in the interest of alliances and loyalties and political manoeuvrings. I had been a political bride to a child because the alliance was too valuable to be snatched up by someone else.

And Henry. Henry had been banished for his flirtation with the Lords Appellant. Still very young, only on the edge
of the fatal alliance against the King, Henry had been banished and had had to fight for his inheritance. Richard had had no compassion for him or for my father. And so Henry, now shouldering the authority of Kingship, had cut down those who had dared to rise against him. Many would say he had every right to bring down the power of the law on the heads of those who plotted insurrection.

Even after that final meeting with John, wretched in despair, I had clung to a futile hope, speeding a letter to Henry, a final last minute appeal, when I had fled from Pleshey.

To my well-beloved brother Henry,

You can never accuse me of disloyalty. I do not question your right to rule or your power to defend your life and that of your sons. I will always remain your loyal subject.

But if you have any love for me, have mercy on John Holland. Save him from the vengeance of the FitzAlans.

Your loving sister …

My cheeks were wet. Not tears, my denial continued. Merely the icy rain that had begun to fall. In desultory fashion I hacked at a clump of decaying foliage that I did not recognise, but which the rising scents told me was sage.

I stood, oblivious to the gathering wind, for the first time in my life admitting my loneliness and the need for a confidante. When had I ever needed the consolation of a woman’s advice. But now, when I was estranged from everyone, Princess Joan was dead, Katherine was hostile and retired into widowhood in Lincoln, Philippa in regal splendour in Portugal.

Yet not entirely true. Philippa had written to me, but I had added it, unread, to the little pile of unopened letters
from her, unable to tolerate her lectures or her pity even if they were doused with love.

Never had I felt so isolated, so alone, so wretched. I had no practice at being alone.

‘Well, you had better practise hard now,’ I berated myself. ‘For who else is there to listen to you?’

Because the reality of my situation had struck as hard as the winter ground under my feet. I could not talk to Henry. Men driven by ambition rarely listened to their womenfolk and Henry, having usurped the crown, had enemies enough to deal with, without having to listen to the demands of his sister. And what could I now demand?

John was dead.

In my damp misery I howled, refusing the warmth of Constance’s arms about me as she was driven to give comfort to this mad woman who was her mother.

He had banished me. He had died alone.

I could formulate no plan. No plan at all.

I despised Henry and the Countess of Hereford and Thomas FitzAllan, all in equal measure.

A gust of wind brought the sound of distant hooves clattering into the stable courtyard and for one foolish moment my heart leapt. He had come to me. He had been released after all …

The truth caused me to fling down the shears and cover my face with my hands, for suddenly my own misery was cast into nothingness by the acknowledgement of John’s death. He would never come to me again. And what terrible choices he had had to make, standing between his own brother and his wife. How was it possible for a man to
determine the direction of his heart when faced with such a dilemma? And I had made it so difficult for him, torn as I was between equally divided loyalties. My choice was no easier than his.

Did I feel guilt?

Yes. Yes. And yes. It seemed to me that I was frozen in a wasteland of unending, unforgiving agony from which there was no escape.

The gardener emerged from his woody seclusion, leading a man I did not know. A herald, as it soon became clear. One of Henry’s superbly appointed couriers, tabard gleaming in the dank gloom. Which was warning enough.

Facing him, still on my knees, I dared him to react in any manner to my appearance. Nor did he. He bowed. ‘My lady.’

‘You have come from the King.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ His solemn face showed no recognition of my strange state, even when Constance plucked at my shoulder. The rest of the children had vanished.

‘And your message? What has the King to say to me?’

‘My lord requests that you return to court.’

‘And why is that?’ Unable to control the bitterness that welled within me. ‘Does the King intend to parade me before his loyal courtiers as the wife of a traitor?’

Which he wisely ignored, handing me instead a document heavy with seals and signatures, the red and gold shining against my mud encrusted hands. Perhaps my face was also smeared, but I did not care. Legal, official, the weight of the document made my heart sink.

‘Tell me, or do I have to read it?’

‘It is to inform you, my lady, of the confiscation of all lands, possessions and properties of John Holland.’

He was not even given the respect of his title. There would be no title, no inheritance for my children. No advantageous marriages, for who would desire a landless child of a proscribed father as mate? John had seen it all. We would be cast as beggars on my brother’s charity.

Why have you done this to us, John?

Suddenly I was so angry with him.

And yet inordinately I felt laughter forming in my chest, dispersing my fury, and would have laughed aloud if it could have bypassed the constriction in my throat. For this ground I had been digging, these plants that I had been destroying, no longer belonged to me. All had been taken away. I was homeless, even more bereft than I could have believed. I would have to throw myself on Henry’s mercy and be dutiful and dependent on him for the rest of my life.

At last I struggled to my feet, holding the document as if it were a poisoned chalice.

‘And to whom does the King gift my lord’s properties?’ All in all I was proud of the calm tenor of my voice.

‘I know not, my lady. The confiscation will first be ratified by parliament when it meets in March. Until then the estates will become royal property.’

‘But free for the King to use, to reward those whose loyalty is beyond question.’ The Countess of Hereford would be high on his list. And Thomas FitzAlan. I caught a slide of pity in the herald’s eye and straightened my spine, snatching at dignity. ‘My thanks for your news.’

‘I will escort you, my lady.’ Yes, there was definitely pity,
even as I faced him with disdain. ‘There’s something else you should know, my lady …’

‘Another message from my royal brother?’

‘No, my lady.’ He inclined his head, not meeting my stare. ‘It’s not his doing, but you need to be aware, if you’re going to London. I wouldn’t want it to be a shock for you. As it would …’ And, uneasily, compassionately, he told me, yet in deference to my need as I dug my fingers into his arm, spared me nothing in the telling, of the true span of Thomas FitzAlan’s revenge.

It was like a blow of a mailed fist to my chest. Dropping the shears, I hitched my skirts, abandoned the herbery to the gardener and Henry’s herald, and fled towards the house, every breath difficult, every thought suffused with ultimate horror. Despite the threat of snow, despite my heartsick state that had kept me inert for so long, I packed my coffers and ordered my horse and an escort.

D
ry-eyed, driven by a raging fury interlaced with fear, I forced myself to travel on, throughout the whole of the following day and night without respite, stopping only at the roadside for bread and wine that I could barely swallow, while all the time in my head shrieked the voice that despite all my efforts I might be too late. I knew the hour and the day when this abomination would be perpetrated. I must be there.

John’s inevitable execution, the gloating delight of Thomas FitzAlan, the cold implacability of the Countess, then the stripping away of John’s title and lands, all had been a weight that I would bear with all the composure I could summon to my aid. But this—this final, inexorable degradation—drove me to risk my safety on the roads, to honour John at the last, to make this final bid to restore some tiny—some would say worthless—vestige of dignity to my dead love. It would be very little but it would be something.

How could Henry have allowed it?

Nor was I alone in my self-imposed mission.

‘I am coming with you. Whatever you say.’

There was a severity in the dark gaze. Constance, at eleven years, had all the obstinacy that had driven me at that age.

‘You will remain here, Constance.’

‘I will not. This is no longer our home. Richard, as the eldest, will remain and order the young ones about until it is decided where we will live. But for now, I will go with you because you should not have to do this alone.’

There, in my daughter’s insistence, was John’s clear, unadorned logic that almost brought me again to my knees. So she had been listening.

‘And who else is there to go with you?’ she added. ‘I have already packed what I need. I am ready.’

For the briefest of moments we eyed each other across one of the half packed panniers, Richard standing at Constance’s shoulder in silent agreement. Travelling fast with a small escort, I did not need the added burden of my daughter, but her mouth had shut like a wolf trap, her brow furrowing with her determination so that she resembled even more closely her father at his most recalcitrant, and because I did not have the energy to resist, I had given in. There would be a refuge for her in London before I kept the dread appointment. She must not be there.

It was as if she read my mind.

‘I will be at your side. Whatever it is that calls you to London, you will not face this alone.’

I did not argue, but I would not allow her this experience.

Now as we rode through the streets of the city towards the Thames, time was running out for me, and there was nowhere I could leave her in safety, unless in the sanctuary of some church. I could not think or plan ahead, my mind stunned with what awaited us. In the end I had no choice but to keep her with me, praying silently that my daughter’s Plantagenet blood, and the strength of will of Princess Joan, would come to her aid. She was too young for such a cruel lesson as this.

And here we were, beside London Bridge before dawn, before the predictable crowds gathered.

‘Wait here,’ I said, pushing a little ahead of my escort, including Henry’s herald who had refused to allow me to come alone, onto the bridge itself, clenching my reins in freezing fingers.

‘I did not intend that you should be here, my lady,’ he grunted, the herald’s mount keeping step.

‘Would I stay away? You do not know me.’

‘I know you for a brave woman.’

‘Then pray God my courage holds true.’

I knew it would not be long. Exhausted we might be, our mounts foundering beneath us, but we had arrived in time. My escort shuffled restlessly when I waved them back. Not long now.

For a half hour, while the winter sky lightened imperceptibly to a livid grey, we sat our horses and shivered, Constance insisting on keeping this strange vigil at my side. And then the sound I was waiting for, the striking of shod hooves against stone. More than one horse. As if in some strange anticipation, mist rolled over the surface of the river, coating
the streets in rime, hiding the opposite bank where, from the north, the horses and their riders drew closer.

They came to a well-disciplined halt, four of them.

Automatically I reached out to take Constance’s hand and held tight, dismay building fast in my chest, berating myself for what I had allowed.

‘You should not be here,’ I said, my voice suddenly loud in the mist, until I forced it into a harsh whisper. ‘I should not have allowed it. It is not fitting …’

‘Nor is it for you. But if you must, so will I.’

‘Do you know?’

‘I do now.’ I could see tears spangling her cheeks and knew they were mirrored on mine. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Perhaps …’

‘But you tried to protect me from seeing my father as the traitor he is.’

‘He is not!’

‘Thus the world sees him.’

‘I know. But I would not have you remember him like this.’

‘I remember him as a father who laughed with us and let my brother claim victory over him with sword and lance. I will be brave.’ Her glance was keen. ‘I’ll not demean you. Or his memory.’

And I managed to smile, a bright, clear smile at my redoubtable daughter who carried her father’s blood so valiantly.

‘Then we will be brave together, as we try to prevent this travesty. But I think we will fail.’

Three of the men, now obvious in their familiar livery, emerged through the mist into the centre of the bridge. The white swan of the de Bohuns shimmered as if touched by magic. The livery of the Countess of Hereford.

‘It is not right,’ I whispered.

‘No,’ Constance murmured her mind running in tandem with mine. ‘It’s not right at all. It should be our own Holland livery. Could they not even give him this respect?’

Her maturity astounded me. But of course they would not: John had lost all such rights, all claims to dignity and recognition, when he had lifted his sword against the King. For Constance, I must be her shining example, not a whimpering creature, awash with useless emotion.

‘We will be dignified as Plantagenet women and do what we can.’

One of the men dismounted. Two kept watch despite the silence and the shrouding mist, one nodding in our direction but making no move towards us. Who would see resistance from two anonymous cloaked and hooded female figures? As for the royal herald, he would be expected to heartily applaud their actions. Then the man who had dismounted was un-strapping a pannier from his saddle.

I dismounted, walked forward. Slowly. I would not retreat from this. This was why I was here. My mind cried out.
John, my love. I was with you in spirit even though you forbade me. I am here now.

‘Halt.’ The command rang out and I halted. ‘Go away, lady.’

‘I will not until I have fulfilled my task.’

‘You have no task here.’

I continued until I was within arm’s length, aware of Constance behind me when her heels clacked on the wood. I spun round.

‘Go back.’

‘I will not.’

I could hear a hoarse rasp in her breathing, even as every one of my senses was focused on the pannier in the man’s hands.

‘Give that to me,’ I said.

He grunted, a disbelieving laugh. ‘Who are you?’

I pushed back my hood. ‘I am Elizabeth of Lancaster.’

He exchanged glances with his companions.

‘I am Countess of Huntingdon. One time Duchess of Exeter. Sister to your King.’

The man’s features settled into a harder line, or so it seemed in the growing light, as if he had been warned, but he inclined his head with some respect.

‘Give me that,’ I repeated.

‘I’ve orders to follow.’

‘Whose orders? Who gave the order for this?’

‘The King’s orders.’

‘The King will not punish you. He will not know if you give it to me.’

‘So what do I tell King Henry when it disappears?’ The man’s teeth showed in a fierce grin. ‘That some passing thief purloined it? That it was spirited away by some ghostly apparition, or carried off by a starving gutter cur?’

‘I care not.’ I held out my hand. ‘If you have any mercy in you.’

I would beg.

‘No, lady. On the spikes at London Bridge, he said. On the spikes it goes.’ He grunted. ‘Or the Countess said. Same thing.’

It was indeed. She would take her instructions from Henry, but she was not beyond pursuing her own needs. Perhaps she had listened to her nephew, Thomas. How bitter was her revenge. The words, spoken so callously, forced me to face the truth of what I had come to see, and for a moment I closed my eyes. I did not want this.

‘It’s best if you’re not here, mistress. And the young girl.’

Mistress! He had reduced me. The wife of a traitor had no worth. As I felt Constance’s hand tug on my cloak, I drew in a raw breath, aware of the beginnings of a little crowd of townsfolk, voices carrying with excitement that would enrich the boredom of their day. Would I indeed flee, powerless as I was, leaving my mission incomplete?

‘Let me look,’ I said.

He shook his head.

‘Let me see him. I’ll make no trouble for you. One final time, on your mercy. Then I’ll go and let you complete your work.’

He shrugged. In the end he cared not, as long as he could carry out his orders and leave, or go to a tavern with his companions to drink after their long journey and forget this unpleasant outcome with a woman who pestered them and should know better. Yet he had no heart for an argument with me.

Before I could even prepare myself, he thrust his hand
into the covered pannier and lifted out what I had come for. The head of John Holland.

I breathed slowly, in and out, aware of choking down a little cry of grief.

And then I forced myself to stand, to look, refusing to miss one detail, except for the jagged rawness where the axe had done its terrible job. I took in the fall of hair, bloody and matted where it had dried, filthy with dust, sparkling with the salt in which it had been packed. The closed eyes. The wax-like face, all expression drained except for the line dug deep between his brows that even death could not erase. The lips pale and thinned, white as the rime on the bridge supports. John had not died at peace. All the love and life and fervour that had carried him through the years of life had been cruelly obliterated.

That I had expected—the imprint of suffering and of a violent and brutal death—but not the ravages of crows and other birds intent on carrion. How his beauty had been disfigured, marred by beak and claw, and I gasped, nausea rising swiftly, making me step back, only stopping when Constance’s grip moved from my cloak to my arm where it tightened. I felt her turn her head away but I couldn’t, even as I took her in my arms and pressed her face against my shoulder.

‘Don’t look if it hurts you. Don’t remember him like this. It is enough that you are here with me,’ I murmured and pushed her behind me.

‘Holy Virgin, intercede for him,’ I heard her whisper.

And with my daughter’s show of grace, my courage returned, and turning back, I touched him, smoothing the
dust from his damaged cheek, pushing aside the wayward hair, so limp and lifeless. With the edge of my cloak I tried ineffectually to wipe the dried blood from his cheek.

‘How can this be?’ I asked.

‘The Countess ordered the exposure on a pike at Pleshey, my lady.’

I had been reinstated. Perhaps he was impressed that I had not fallen to the floor in a faint or screamed my agony.

‘John …’ I whispered.

‘Go home, lady. Go home to your children. Remember him when he was alive. If you choose to remember a traitor at all.’

‘He was no traitor to me.’

My love. My dear love. How could I not stop you before it came to this?

Stony faced, I looked up at the spikes where the heads of criminals and miscreants were exposed. I would not weep, even though birds were already hovering in anticipation, coming to land on the parapet.

‘I will fight for your title, your inheritance,’ I repeated my previous oath even more fervently. ‘I will fight for your lands. I swear that I will. I will give Henry no peace until he restores what is the rightful inheritance of our children.’

Drawing up my hood, I wrapped the cloak tightly around me as if to curb my shivering that was nothing to do with the cold, then I turned away. I could not watch this final horror. Yet how could I leave when there, at the end of the bridge, was a face I knew, a man who had come to watch the final disposition of the traitor’s head. And to gloat.

Constance’s hand remained hard on my arm.

‘Where now?’ Constance asked.

And I was brought back to my senses.

‘To the King, of course.’

To Henry, because he was my only hope.

I had not seen Henry since the day the air had snapped and sparked with our temper and I had marched from his presence, vowing never to see him, never to speak with him again. I would never humble myself before him, arrogant King that he had become, and beg for anything ever again.

How futile some vows, how empty. After what I had just seen on the bridge in the misty half-light, and knowing what I had left behind there, I strode into Henry’s presence as if I had seen him only yesterday. He might refuse me. As King he had that power. But I would not make it easy for him. I was his sister and he had a duty to hear me. All I had left in the world was my Plantagenet pride, but that was all I needed in my demand for justice. I could not save John’s life but I could argue the case for fairness and rightness, and because every feeling in my body seemed to be dead, every argument would be from my head, not from my heart. I did not think that I would ever weep or laugh again. There would be no emotion in this meeting.