by Anne O'Brien
I wondered fleetingly why I had no recall of meeting him before this, since most of the high nobility had come within my orbit at Richard’s coronation three years ago. Perhaps he had been fighting in France. Perhaps he had a high reputation as a knight on the battlefield or in the tournament like my father. I would like that.
And then there was quite a fuss as two ladies were helped to step from the cumbersome travelling litters. The Countess of Norfolk, whom I knew: as thin and acerbic as vinegar, her hair severely contained in the metal and jewelled coils much in fashion when she was a girl. And a lady, younger, whom I did not. But where was he?
‘Where is the Earl?’ I whispered, when I could wait no longer.
Dame Katherine, who had come to watch with us, stepped behind me, her hands closing lightly on my shoulders.
‘There,’ she remarked softly. ‘There he is. John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke.’
I could not see. I looked back at her, to follow the direction of her gaze. I could see no Earl of Pembroke, no man dressed finely, or mounted on a blood horse, who had come to wed me, but I felt no presentiment. Until, behind me I heard my governess sigh and her fingers tightened just a little.
‘There is he. Just dismounting,’ Dame Katherine repeated. ‘With his grandmother, the Countess of Norfolk, and his mother, the Dowager Countess of Pembroke.’
And so I saw him, in the act of leaping down from his horse.
I sucked in a breath of air, every muscle in my body taut. My lips parted. And at that moment I felt Dame Katherine’s palm press down firmly on my shoulder. She knew. She knew me well enough to know what I might do, what I might say in a moment of wilful passion. My head whipped round to read her expression, and the pressure, increasing, was enough to anchor me into all the courtesy and good manners in which I had been raised.
‘Say it later,’ she whispered. ‘Not now. Now it is all about the impression you make. Consider what is due to your birth and your breeding, and to your father’s pride.’
And so I sank into the required obeisance before our well-born guests.
The women of Norfolk and Pembroke returned the greeting. The Earl bowed. Then scuffed the toe of his boot on the stones, rubbing his chin with his fist.
‘He is younger than Henry,’ I whispered back in disbelief, in a mounting horror, when I could.
He was a boy. A child.
‘Yes, he is,’ Dame Katherine murmured back with a weight of compassion in her reply. ‘He is eight years old.’
And I was seventeen. I could not look at Philippa. I could not bear the pity I knew I would read in her face.
As I expected, I was summoned to my father’s private chamber within the hour, allowing me only the opportunity to gulp down a cup of ale and endure a strict lecture from Dame Katherine on the exquisite good manners expected of a Plantagenet lady—whatever the perceived provocation. I promised I would keep her advice well in my mind. So far I seemed to be unable to utter a word.
How could he do this to me? How could my father inflict a boy not out of his first decade on me as my husband? The thoughts revolved and revolved with no resolution. He had done it. At least Philippa did not attempt to console me with bright platitudes. Her kiss on my cheek said it all.
Now I curtsied before Constanza, my father’s Castilian wife, who sat in chilly pre-eminence, her feet on a little footstool. Then to the rest of the party: the Countess of Norfolk, the Countess of Pembroke, the youthful Earl who was watching me bright-eyed. And there was my father coming towards me, a smile of welcome lighting his features. Tall but lightly built, he was every inch a royal prince, and his gaze commanded me.
‘Elizabeth.’ He took my hand to lead me forward and make the introductions. ‘Allow me to present Elizabeth to you. My well beloved daughter.’
The Countess of Norfolk, of matriarchal proportions and inordinate pride—as befitted a granddaughter of the first King Edward and thus Countess in her own right—regarded me, and saw fit to smile on me, the silk of her veils shimmering with emotion. The widowed Countess of Pembroke too smiled, as well she might. Did we not all know that my hand in marriage was a formidable achievement for any household, however noble? Constanza stood and kissed my cheek in as maternal a manner as she could accommodate. Meanwhile the Earl, the boy, stood stiffly to well-drilled attention and watched the proceedings with a fleeting interest. It made me wonder what he had been told of this visit. How much did he understand of its significance?
And I?
I smiled with every ounce of grace I could summon, even when my face felt like the panel of buckram that stiffened Constanza’s bodice in the old Castilian style that she often resorted to in moments of stress. Dame Katherine would have been proud of me as I acknowledged all the greetings. But below my composure I seethed with impotent anger, laced through with fear at what such a marriage would hold in store for me. Was I not old enough for a true marriage, in flesh as well as in spirit? Wallowing in the troubadours’ songs of love and passion, my blood ran hot as I yearned for my own knowledge of such desire. How could I find it with a child?
‘Allow me to present you to John, my lord of Pembroke.’
This boy would not make my heart flutter like a trapped bird. My blood, cold as winter rain, ran thin as I smiled more brightly still, allowing the boy to take my hand and press his lips to my knuckles with a neat little bow.
Certainly he had been as well instructed in the arts of chivalry.
‘This is your betrothed husband.’
I swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord. It pleases me to meet you,’ to the boy. ‘I am honoured that you would wish to wed me.’
No! I wished to shriek. I am not pleased, I am not honoured. I am in despair. But daughters of Lancaster did not shriek. Plantagenet princesses did not defy their father’s wishes.
‘I will endeavour to make you a good wife.’
He was a child, barely released from the control of his nurses. How could I wed such a one as this? I had always known that I would wed at my father’s dictates but never that he would choose a boy who had not yet learned to wield a sword, who was certainly not of an age to live with me as man and wife. There would be no consummation of this marriage after the ceremony.
‘It is I who am honoured that you would accept my hand in marriage,’ the boy replied, pronouncing each word carefully. So he had been informed and trained to it, much like our parrot.
‘When will we be wed, sir?’ The Earl looked up at my father, who smiled.
‘Tomorrow. It is all arranged. It will be a day of great celebration, followed by a tournament where you will be able to display your new skills.’
Tomorrow!
The boy John of Pembroke beamed.
I took a ragged breath.
So soon. So final. Could my father not see my anxieties? Could he not see into my mind and know that this was not what I wanted? If he could, my wishes were as inconsequential as leaves blasted into the corners of the courtyard by a winter gale. My life as an indulged daughter had come to a breathless halt.
‘Give me your hand, Elizabeth,’ the Duke said softly.
I complied.
Onto my finger, the Duke pushed a ring. A beautiful thing of gold set with a ruby of vast proportions that glowed in the light. An object I would have coveted, but in the circumstances roused no emotion at all beyond the thought that the chains of a marriage I did not want were being fastened around me with this valuable gift. The ring was heavy on my finger.
‘A gift to commemorate this auspicious day. It belonged to your mother, my beloved Duchess Blanche. I thought it was fitting that, as a married woman, you should now wear it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Never had I said so little when in receipt of a valuable gift, when normally I might have been tiresomely effusive. Today I was as wooden as the figure on the quintain on the practice field.
‘I have made arrangements for your new household. You will receive moneys befitting your status …’
But th
e Earl was fast losing interest in such detail, his eye straying to a minor commotion in the window embrasure, and my father laughed.
‘Such matters can be dealt with tomorrow. There is no hurry. You have all your lives together after today.’ His eye slid to mine as the ice in my belly solidified into a hard ball of dismay. ‘Why not introduce Lord John to what has taken his attention.’
‘Of course, sir.’
I looked away, fearing that he might read the rebellion in my mind, beckoning to the boy to follow me, trying not to hear the laughter and comment behind me as my espousal was celebrated. I was ashamed of the unexpected threat of tears as the chatter reached me.
‘It is good that they get to know each other.’
‘They will make an impressive pair.’
No, we would not. I towered over him by a good three hand spans.
But I dutifully led the Earl as instructed to where a parrot sat morosely on a perch in the window. Much like I felt. It was large and iridescently green with snapping black eyes and a beak to be wary of. It was never cowed by its soft imprisonment, and it came to me that I might learn a thing or two from this ill-tempered, beautiful bird. By the time we stood before it, my weak tears were a thing of the past. This was the platter placed before me and I must sup from it.
Utterly oblivious to the underlying currents in the chamber, and certainly to my thoughts, the boy became animated, circling the stand to which the bird was chained.
‘What is it?’
‘A popinjay. Have you not seen one before?’
But then I could not imagine the Countess of Norfolk allowing such a bird in her solar. A popinjay represented erotic love rather than the romantic or sentimental.
‘Does it speak?’ the Earl demanded.
‘Sometimes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Benedicamus Domine. And then it sneezes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is what Father Thomas, our priest, says. He tries to teach it better ways. And Father Thomas sneezes a lot.’
The boy perused the bird. ‘Is it an ill-mannered creature then?’
‘They say popinjays are excessively lecherous.’
Which meant nothing to the spritely Earl. ‘Can I teach him to speak?’
‘If you wish.’
He reached out a bold hand to run his fingers along the feathers of the bird’s back.
‘It bites,’ I warned.
‘It won’t bite me!’
It did.
‘God’s Blood!’ The boy sucked his afflicted knuckle while I could not help but laugh, wondering where he had picked up the phrase that sat so quaintly with his immaturity.
‘I warned you.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Undeterred, he tried again and managed to stroke the bird without harm. ‘What’s its name?’
‘Pierre.’
‘Why?’
‘All our parrots have been called Pierre.’
‘Is it male? Or female?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I have one?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I do. And it will wear a gold collar.’
It made me laugh again, perhaps with a touch of hysteria. The bird was more to his taste than I was. He was certainly much taken with it.
‘I will buy you one.’
‘Will you? When you are my wife?’
‘Yes.’ My heart thudded. By this time tomorrow I would be Countess of Pembroke.
‘Can I call you Elizabeth?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am John.’ His gaze returned to the bird that proceeded to bite at its claws. ‘Perhaps I will call my parrot Elizabeth. If it is female of course.’
What a child he was. Eyes as brown as the chestnut fruit, his bowl of hair rich and curling of a similar hue, he was incongruously charming.
‘Do you wish to wed me?’ I asked, willing to be intrigued by his reply. I had no idea what an eight-year-old child would think of marriage.
The boy thought about it while observing the parrot’s attentions to its toes.
‘I suppose so.’ His smile, directed at me, was thoroughly ingenuous. ‘You are very pretty. And a parrot as a marriage gift would be perfect. Or a falcon. Or even a hound. I would really like a hound. A white one, a hunting dog, if you could. Did you know that if you carry a black dog’s tooth in your palm, then dogs will not bark at you?’
‘No. I did not know that.’ So my affianced husband was an expert in the magical properties of animals.
‘It’s true, so they say. I’ve not tried it for myself.’ He tilted his head, on an afterthought. ‘What should I give you for a wedding gift, Madam Elizabeth?’
I had no idea.
As the welcome audience drew to a rapid close and our guests were shown to their accommodations, my father beckoned me, and in that brief moment when we were alone and out of earshot, I let my frustrations escape even though I knew I should not. Even though I knew in my heart that it would have no effect, my worries poured out in a low-voiced torrent.
‘How can I wed a child? How can I talk to this boy? I would have a husband who shares my love of the old tales, of poetry and song. I would have a husband who can dance with me, who can talk to me about the royal court, about the King and the foreign ambassadors who visit, of the distant countries they come from. You have given me a callow boy. I beg of you, sir. Change your mind and find me a man of talent and skill and learning. You found such a woman in my mother. Would you not allow me the same blessing in my marriage? I beg of you …’
I expected anger in my father’s face as I questioned his judgement, but there was none, rather an understanding, and his implacable reply was gentle enough.
‘It cannot be, Elizabeth. You must accept what cannot be changed.’
I bowed my head. ‘All he can talk about is parrots and hunting dogs!’ I heard the timbre of my voice rise a little and strove to harness my dismay. ‘He has given me a list of things he would like as a wedding gift. They are all furred and feathered.’
‘He will make a good husband. He will grow. It may be that John Hastings will become everything you hope for in a husband.’
The ghost of a smile in my father’s lips dried my complaint, and made me feel unworthy. It was clear that he would not listen.
‘Yes, my lord,’ I said.
Of course the Earl of Pembroke would grow. But not soon enough for me.
When I could, I fled to my bedchamber, where my command over any vitriolic outburst vanished like mist before the morning sun in June.
‘I won’t do it! How can my father ask me to wed a child?’
I wiped away tears of fury and despair with my sleeve, regardless of the superlative quality of the fur, snatching my hands away when Dame Katherine tried to take hold of them. I was not in the mood to be consoled, but equally my governess was in no mood to be thwarted, seizing my wrists and dragging me to sit beside her on my bed. I had fled to my own room so there was no need for me to put on a brave face before my royal aunts and uncles.
‘Make him change his mind,’ I demanded. ‘He will do it, if you ask him.’
‘No, he will not.’ She was adamant. ‘The Duke is decided. It is an important marriage.’
‘If it is so important, why not my sister? Why not Philippa? She is the elder. Why not her?’
‘Your father looks for a marriage with a European power. To bind an alliance against Castile. That was always his planning.’
I heard the sympathy in her voice and resisted it. I had had enough of pity for one day.
‘So I am to be sacrificed to a child.’
‘It is not the first time a daughter of an aristocratic house has been wed to a youth not yet considered a man.’
‘A man? His is barely out of his mother’s jurisdiction.’
‘Nonsense! It is time you accepted the inevitable. Listen to me and I will tell you why this is of such importance.’
I huffed disparagingly. ‘I expect he
has land.’
‘Of course. The Earl will be influential. He is extraordinarily well connected, and his estates extensive. His grandmother is the Countess of Norfolk. They are linked with the Earl of Warwick. Their allegiance is vital to challenge the voices raised against the Duke. Before God, there are enough who resent his influence over the King and would do all they could to undermine his position. Your father needs powerful allies. This boy may be a child in your eyes, but he is heir to the whole Pembroke inheritance, with royal blood from Edward the First through his grandmother the Countess. It is indeed an excellent match, and will make you Countess of Pembroke. Do you understand?”
‘Yes. Of course I understand. It may all be as you say.’ I looked at her candidly. ‘But how can he be my husband in more than name? How long before I am a wife?’ Passion beat heavily in my blood, and I frowned. I needed to explain my heightened humours, but how could I with any degree of delicacy?
‘You are of an age to be a wife now.’ Dame Katherine, it seemed, understood perfectly. ‘You must be patient. In the eyes of the church, John Hastings will be your husband, but physically, there will be no intimacy between you. You will live apart to all intents and purposes until John is of an age to be the husband who takes you to his bed.’
‘And when will that be?’
Did I not already know the answer?
‘When he is sixteen years old. Perhaps fifteen if he comes to early maturity.’
‘Another seven years at best. I will be twenty-four by then. It will be like being a widow. Or a nun.’
‘It will not be so very bad. The years will pass.’
‘And my hair will become silver while I wait to know a man’s touch. While I wait for a man who is not one of my family to kiss me with more than affection.’ My dissatisfaction with John Hastings was not based merely on my inability to hold an informed conversation with him.
‘Is it so important to you?’
‘Yes!’ I smacked my hands together, a sharp explosion in the quiet room. ‘How can you ask such a question of me, born of the passion between the Duke and Blanche?’ All notions of delicacy had vanished. ‘When the … the intimacy between a man and a woman has been important enough to drive you back to my father’s bed even when you were labelled whore and witch by the monk Walsingham. You could not live without a man’s touch. Nor, I think, can I!’
