The King’s Sister (9 page)

My smile had the quality of a bizarre death rictus when my chivalric knight betrayed me to bow before Isabella, Lady of the Lists, who stood as she untied the obligatory knot of ribbons from her sleeve. Leaning forward, she presented them to her champion who tucked them beneath
his breastplate. And before she released them, she had the temerity to press them to her painted lips.

It pained me to watch, but watch I did. How could jealousy be so painful? To have the Duchess of York preening as Lady of the Lists was one thing. To have John Holland fight for her was quite another—and her saluting him in this manner, giving credence to all the salacious detail of common gossip about the pair of them.

Was rumour true? It undoubtedly was. No one with any sense could deny it after this little show of intimacy.

‘I will fight as your champion today, Lady.’ Hand on heart Sir John bowed his head.

‘I am honoured, Sir John.’ Isabella’s reply, coloured seductively by Castile and her own intent, slid smoothly on the air. ‘I wait to reward you for your success.’

Her smile had a knowing edge. His was bright with mischief.

Suddenly I could not bear to look. Such treachery stoked my fury. Had he not promised me that he would once again wear my guerdon? And here he publically rode past me to dally with the woman whose name, coupled with his, had been the subject of discussion in every solar from Windsor to Edinburgh and back again. I might have claimed I did not believe all that had been said of his want of morality. I might have given him the benefit of the doubt.

There was no doubt at all!

It was as if he had blasted the scurrilous details of their affair for all to see and hear. And he had ignored me, leaving me to taste the ignominy of having no champion. Henry was encouraging his child wife to tie one of her scarves
around his arm, while the Duke honoured Constanza. I, my Father’s daughter, was ostracised with the less favoured, despite my magnificent furs and my equally magnificently plaited hair.

I gathered together all my pride and firmed my spine. No one—
no one
—would know my sense of rejection.

The Queen, taking in every nuance of the scene, was nudging my arm.

‘There’s your champion,’ she murmured.

And there was Jonty, bursting with pride. Why had I not seen it for myself?

Because you are entirely too selfish, Elizabeth! Jonty would revel in such an honour!
Dame Katherine again taking me to task, and with asperity.

Raising my hand I beckoned to my husband, and seeing, my father took the helm from him so that Jonty could approach with hard-held delight. Oh, it was a perfect remedy. The Earl of Pembroke, although only a page and so consigned to the sidelines, even if he did have a sword in his hand, wore my glove pinned to his slight chest that day with great pride. In a fit of guilt I even willingly tolerated cold fingers. I found no pleasure at all in the proceedings.

When John Holland won, as he did, it was the Duchess of York who crowned him, presenting to him the superb jousting helm, during which little ceremony I brought to mind every scandalous detail I knew about the torrid affair between the Duchess of York and Sir John Holland: the rumours of secret meetings and carnal knowledge between the pair, the acceptance of the Duke of York who could not control his wife. Although lacking inches, Isabella had
a presence and an appetite, and one that John Holland was perfectly content to satisfy. Isabella had a lascivious eye. But then so did Sir John.

Unable to resist, I watched the Duchess as she sparkled and flounced, as was her wont. Isabella of Castile, older than I by almost a decade, with all the glamour of experience and foreign royal blood in her dark hair and dark eyes. A woman who intrigued me, even demanded admiration for her survival through the vicissitudes of her early life, when she was forced to exist with her sister in a hovel in Bayonne, before coming to England to make a diplomatic match with my uncle Edmund of Langley, Duke of York—this second Castilian marriage following rapidly after my father’s to Constanza. Neither marriage was happy to any degree, my father continuing to consort with Dame Katherine, but Isabella casting her net wider.

At that moment my hatred for her knew no bounds. My face felt rigid with my effort to smile.

‘I see your knight errant has turned his attention elsewhere, Elizabeth.’ The voice made no attempt to moderate its tone. ‘How infuriating for you when you had hoped to have him kneeling at your pretty feet!’

Did she have to announce my affairs to the whole pavilion? Princess Joan, with a nod of her head, encouraged the lady on my left to give up her seat, and gave me no choice but to collect my wits and reply with what I hoped was amused directness.

‘He has, my lady.’

I had not known the Princess had honoured us with her presence on this second day of jousting, but here she was,
large and sumptuous in a swathe of velvet and fur, missing nothing of the proceedings.

‘A salutary lesson there, I think. Who would have thought to find such enjoyment from a tournament?’

I allowed my brows to arch. ‘And I have learnt the lesson well. One can never rely on an arrogant man.’

‘A promise given one day is broken the next,’ added the Queen, joining in from my right. ‘Even my lord the King is not immune.’

‘None of my husbands were good on promises,’ the Princess observed, spreading dry humour with superb confidence. ‘My first husband, Holland, even forgot for a time that he had wed me, when the need to wield a sword overseas overcame his lust.’

‘And I don’t even expect promises from the Earl of Pembroke,’ I agreed. ‘He forgets them between Matins and Prime.’

There was a ripple of laughter around us, as the women of the court began to exchange their own experiences.

Beautifully done.

‘There!’ Princess Joan leaned close. ‘Admit I have rescued you from too much unpleasant attention. Some maturity would become you. It is not wise to wear either your heart or your expectations on your sleeve, like that jewelled pin, for all to gawp at.’ And fortunately not waiting for a reply, when a sharp one rose in my throat, added: ‘Will you accept some advice?’

‘Of course, my lady.’ I was frosty, resenting any advice.

‘My youngest son is not for such as you, even if you were not wed to that child.’ The Princess nodded to where Jonty
was helping Henry remove the pieces of spangled armour. ‘My son has a temper and a questionable loyalty. He has an arrogance that is not to be trusted.’ Her glance was quizzical. ‘You look surprised.’

‘I am, my lady. That any woman would hold her son up to such dismantling of his character.’

‘I know rabid scandal when I hear it. It follows Isabella around. There is something about a woman with small, sharp teeth. As if she would strip the flesh from the bones of the man she covets—covets, my dear, not loves. I doubt she has the capacity to love any man. She has the morals of a cat on heat.’

Which seemed an indelicate observation since much the same had been said of the Princess herself in her lifetime.

‘And if that second son of hers was fathered by York, I’ll toss my coral rosary beads to the beggars outside our gates,’ the Princess continued, her fingers clenching on the gold mounted beads that were strung across her formidable bosom. ‘You know what’s said of Isabella and my son?’ She raised her brows ‘Of course you do. Is it hard to see?’ She turned to look along the row, making no pretence about it, to where Isabella sat, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the figure of Sir John. Even when the Duchess returned the gaze, her expression one of hauteur, the Princess did not look away, and I knew full well Princess Joan’s reference. There were many tongues to clap the rumour that the Duchess’s second son Richard was also son of John Holland.

No, it was not hard at all.

‘Do you see?’

‘Yes.’

Now that percipient gaze slid to me. ‘You should consider
thinking,
Elizabeth, before you draw the eyes and tongues of the chattering court in your direction. Do you want Isabella to see you as a rival for my son’s dubious but entirely charming attentions? As for what that delightful boy will think when he discovers his wife to be treating her marriage vows with frivolity …’ She nodded towards the glowing Earl of Pembroke. ‘You should not demean yourself.’

‘I would do no such thing, madam!’

‘Perhaps not. But how pleasant for the court to wager on the consanguinity of smoke and fire!’ she said dryly. And without waiting for a reply, the Princess changed her seat, to take up a position nearer a brazier for her comfort.

It had put me entirely in my place, a dagger thrust to bring an unpleasant day to a painful end. I was not frivolous with my vows. I had no intention of being so. Silently I nursed my vexation through the dying minutes of the tournament, praying for a quick end and escape. Only to be further accosted when the Duchess of York, brushing past me, lured by the pleasures of warmth and food, turned the blade. Unwittingly? I did not think so.

‘What was disturbing the Princess?’ she asked. ‘She seemed very interested in me.’

‘Only in Sir John,’ I said. ‘She was keen for us all to admire her son’s skills.’

‘We all admire him, do we not?’ Isabella smiled at me as she collected her women and followed the Queen.

She was so very beautiful even if she lacked inches. It made a man protective of her, I supposed. If that was so, no
man would be protective of me. I had inherited my father’s generous height.

I hated that Isabella thought I was a rival for John Holland’s attention. But after today I was not. He had shown me that I was of no value to him. What had made me think otherwise? As Princess Joan had observed, I would benefit from some maturity.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

His lips curved confidently. His hand, extended, had an element of command about it, as if it would be impossible for me to refuse an invitation from the victor of the joust. I looked at him, at the hand, finely boned, the fingers that had today gripped a lance with intent now heavy with gems. I looked at his face, the saturnine lines that spoke of temper and passion. At the knowing gleam in his eye, dark as a kestrel’s.

Infinitesimally I tilted my head.

The insufferable arrogance of the man. Don’t trust a man who is arrogant. My father was a man of arrogance, but that was an entirely different matter. I would not trust John Holland ever again. Had I not known that he would make this invitation, as if he had not spent the afternoon as the prime object of Duchess Isabella’s lust?

I smiled.

I curtsied to John Holland, more deeply than was entirely necessary from one of my rank.

‘It would be my pleasure to dance, Sir John.’ It was in my mind to turn a chilly shoulder but that would put me too
much into his power. I knew he would make much of the slightest indication that I knew full well that today he had slighted me, after seeking me out yesterday. Ignore a woman and she will come to your hand out of pique, as a lonely lapdog will come to be petted. I recognised the game and I would not play it.

‘The music has begun,’ he remarked, his smile quizzical as I lingered. ‘We will miss it unless you step smartly.’

‘I am honoured. Thank you, sir,’ I said. Then seeing a perfect alternative presented to me. ‘But I will dance with my husband.’

‘Does he know?’ The eloquent brows rose.

‘Of course. Here he is, come to claim my hand.’

‘My lady!’ Jonty, approaching at a fast lope, was deliciously decorous. ‘Will you partner me?’

With a gracious smile I inclined my head and joined my hand with Jonty’s, who led me through the steps with lively skill and some well-practised exactitude, during which I did not once glance in John Holland’s direction.

‘Am I getting better?’ Jonty asked at the end, only a little breathless. His energy was prodigious.

‘Marginally. You only trod once on my foot.’

Jonty grinned. ‘I must leave you now, madam.’

‘And why is that?’

‘My lord the Duke has need of me to take a message.’

‘Then you must go.’ I straightened the fur at the neckline of his expensive tunic. ‘It would not do to keep the Duke waiting.’

‘No, madam.’

I watched him go, darting between the crowds, not so much to take a message, I decided with a wry smile, but to join a group of equally furtive pages up to no good. Wives did not figure highly in the Earl of Pembroke’s plans. I wondered who had sent him to dance with me. I knew enough about Jonty to doubt it was of his own initiative.

For a moment I stood alone, conscious of my aloneness, which was ridiculous since I knew every face at the gathering. And yet in that moment I felt isolated, a little sad, as if I had lost my secure footing on the path to my future. Yet why should I not be secure? I was Countess of Pembroke with an income to fit my status. Soon I would have my own household. Until that time I could enjoy my days at Richard’s court. By what right was I forlorn?

Because, I acknowledged, I needed someone who could stir my blood with passion. A man who could make my heart sing. Jonty would never do that for me, so I was destined to live a half-life, without passion, without knowing the hot desires of love.

And I was forlorn because the man I had painted as my hero had feet of clay and a place in another woman’s bed.

My heart sank even lower.

And there was John Holland with malice in his twisted smile.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

Having no excuse this time, and because that smile made my heart jolt just a little, I curtsied and complied with impressive serenity.

‘It would be my pleasure.’

The glint in his eye told me that he had acknowledged
the repetition of our courtly exchange, but he made no comment as we joined the circle and began the slow movement to right and left. No one had sent John Holland to dance with me. He had done it of his own free will, and probably, if I read him aright, to make mischief.

Yet my spirits lifted and danced with the music.

‘Was the Princess warning you to keep your distance from me?’ he asked.

‘How should she? There is no need to so warn a wedded woman.’ I moved away in the pattern of the dance, to return with neat steps to hear his reply.