The King’s Sister

by Anne O'Brien

  Sir John Holland, illustrious half-brother to King Richard, with whom he shared a mother in the dramatic form of Princess Joan, once the Fair Maid of Kent. He had made a reputation for the charm of his smile, for the wit and sparkle of his conversation, for his legendary temper, as well as for his unquestionably handsome face. Some men were wary of him, for he made much of the value of his royal connections, employing a smooth arrogance. He was ambitious for power, but that was no deterrent in my eye. As half-brother to King Richard, why should he not wield authority at the King’s side?

  But that was not all. He was thirty years old, with an impossibly seductive glamour. Even to me, he had a court gloss that intrigued me. When he smiled his face lit with a wild lustre, and I sighed with youthful longing, for this brilliance was irresistible. The last time I spent any length of time in the company of Sir John Holland, he had been wielding a blood-stained sword, while I had been shivering with terror, gripping his arms as if I were a child in the midst of a nightmare and he could shield me from the dark torments. Now the situation was very different. Sir John bowed. I curtsied. How superlatively decorous we were, as I surveyed him and he surveyed me. I could not read the mind behind those remarkable features, but as I acknowledged the intensity of his gaze that took in every detail of my apparel, memory came flooding back.

  It had been in the previous year, when what we had come to call the Great Rising had erupted, drenching us all in fear. Peasants’ mobs from Kent and Essex, vociferous in their complaints, had turned their ire on my father as royal counsellor and the instrument of all their woes, and since he was on a diplomatic mission to Scotland they vented their wrath on all connected with Lancaster. My brother Henry had been dispatched to the Tower of London to take refuge with Richard’s court, newly come from Windsor, and I accompanied him, anticipating safety behind the impregnable walls until my father could return with an army to rescue us.

  But then all unimaginable horrors overtook us when the garrison opened the gates of the Tower to the rebels fuelled with blood-lust. Brutal violence and fire and death descended on us, creating the nightmare that troubled me long after. Hopelessly manhandled, pushed and dragged, Henry fought back but I was beside myself with speechless terror. Were we destined to join the Archbishop and royal Treasurer as well as my father’s physician on Tower Hill for summary execution?

  And then in the hot centre of my fear, a new hand closed on my arm, hard and remorseless. I wrenched away, but it held tight.

  ‘Quietly!’ a voice said in my ear.

  ‘I’ll not die quietly!’ I retorted, speech fast returning, as defiant as my brother, only then realising that Henry and I had been carefully separated from the rest of the prisoners.

  ‘Be silent!’ The same voice. The grip on my arm tightened even further. ‘If you draw attention, we’re lost.’

  I whirled round, fury taking control in my mind, in my heart. ‘Take your filthy hands off me. I’m meat for no lawless rabble.’

  ‘They are filthy. But they are at your service, if you’ve the sense to accept it! Be still, girl!’ my captor snapped back.

  And I saw that I knew him, and that we were surrounded by a small body of soldiers. My furious response died on my lips as he began to issue orders to his men.

  ‘Here, Ferrour! Take him!’ he ordered. ‘Hide him if you must. But keep him safe. At all costs.’ And Henry was snatched up and pushed into the arms of one of the soldiers who nodded and dragged him away.

  ‘Henry!’ I called, not understanding, now beyond fear. ‘In God’s name …!’

  The hand on my arm shook me into obedience. ‘We must get the boy out of here or he’ll surely die. As Lancaster’s heir, this rabble will execute first and ask questions later.’

  But I cried out, unable to take in what was happening. The horror of the past minutes had robbed me of all sense. ‘He is my brother. I can’t let him go.’

  ‘You must. Listen to me, Elizabeth.’ I tensed as his demand cut through my panic. He knew my name … ‘Elizabeth.’ An attempt to soften his voice. ‘Stop shrieking in my ear. And listen …’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but without clear thought. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s me, Elizabeth. John Holland. Look at me. You know me. Henry will be safe. Now we have to get you out of here. This is what you do. You go with these men …’

  To my astonishment, in the midst of all the violence and squalor around us, he grabbed at my hand, lifting it briskly to his lips in a beautifully punctilious salutation as if I were some court lady, not the bedraggled figure I knew myself to be. My gaze snapped to his, and for the moment it took to draw a breath, our eyes held, before his moved slowly over me, from my head to my feet. I could sense him taking in my ruined skirts, my hair tumbled down my back, then as his gaze focused, he seized my hand and lifted my arm.

  ‘Is it your blood?’

  I looked with surprise as he pushed back my sleeve, where it had been wrenched apart, to reveal a short but deep scratch above my wrist. I had not been aware, and the blood had now dried. I had not even felt it in the heat of the moment.

  Abruptly he allowed me to go free.

  ‘Get one of my mother’s women to tend it for you. It would be a tragedy if you were scarred. Now go. And fast, or I’ll use the flat of my sword to encourage you.’

  I fled with my escort, to be thrust ignominiously into Princess Joan’s barge, the impression of his kiss still viable against my skin. My first meeting of any tangible quality with John Holland. He had undoubtedly saved me from violent, terrible death.

  He had done more than that.

  This man’s reputation was not merely one of military prowess, for Sir John had a name for attacking the defences of beautiful women, and with great success. His striking features won him the laurels, and not all on the battlefield or at the tournament. There was one particular rumour of a torrid affair that set the court about its ears. He had no reticence in casting his net as high as he liked when persuading a lovely woman to his bed.

  Yet this did not stop him from being the knight whose vivid, volatile features I could summon into my mind as accurately as I could see my own in my looking glass, the dark-haired man who invaded my thoughts and my dreams.

  What would it be like, I pondered, if he would see me as a woman rather than a child? What would it be like to dance with such a man, our bodies moving in unison or counterpoint? What would it be like to flirt, to spar verbally, discovering some understanding that would touch both heart and mind? To converse about something of more consequence than a hunting hound? Even now, it might be my avowed intention to remain a virgin bride until Jonty was ready to put that to rights, rather than a boy rolling in the dust in a wrestling match with his peers, but I thought I would enjoy the company and esteem of a knight who was a man, and talented withal.

  And here he was, bowing with extravagant grace, and with a gallant turn of his wrist inviting me to join him as if he had no recall of me in an extremity of pure terror, of which I was not proud.

  ‘Will you dance, my lady?’

  I loved dancing. Being adept at every complicated step and simple procession it was on my lips to leap at the opportunity, for this was the carole that I particularly enjoyed. Then I decided that I really had no wish to dance, or not yet, knowing full well how impossible it was to hold a conversation when one’s partner was hopping at some distance. Here was a man who stirred my blood. Here was a man I wished to talk with.

  A man I wished to impress?

  But of course, I admitted as into my mind came the image of how he had seen me last. Frightened, blood-smeared and filthy. I wanted him to see me as I was now: finely clad, in command of my senses and my conversation, adept in the fine art of courtly love. I had been woefully ignorant, but five months at court had done much for my education. Recalling his final flamboyant gesture of a courtly kiss, I wanted to see if it had been a mere passing gesture in the enhanced emotions of the moment. Or perhaps John Holland might be persuad
ed to repeat the experience.

  Despite my eagerness, however, I would take utmost care. There would be no scandal attached to my blood and proud name. I knew all about his reputation, more now since I had gossiped during the wedding celebrations. I was not the only woman to have an interest in John Holland—even now eyes were following his every move—but I determined to hide it better than some.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, brows flattening into a black bar when I hesitated far too long for polite refusal. ‘I didn’t think my invitation to dance would call for such deep contemplation. Unless you have no energy for it, you being so advanced in years.’ His face remained grave. ‘Or perhaps you have taken a dislike of me, in the manner of any capricious woman.’

  ‘No, Sir John, not being capricious I have not taken you in dislike,’ I replied promptly now, ‘although I might if you frown at me.’ Knowing full well that he was mocking me, I placed my fingers on his arm, walking with him as if I would allow him to lead me into the newly forming circle. ‘Is it possible for you to dance in those?’ I gestured to his hazardous footwear.

  ‘Assuredly, lady. If you can manage the bolt of cloth in that ostentatious garment you’re wearing without tripping over it.’

  I smiled pityingly, for who was he to point the finger? Used as I was to brother Henry’s taste in ostentation—was he not even now enveloped in gold damask and gold lions? —here beside me was lavish resplendence. John Holland’s formal calf-length houppelande, dagged and heavily trimmed with silk at hem and neck, the blood-red of its hue not a colour that flattered many, swirled and fell into heavy folds. As he moved the burden of expensive perfume—something foreign and costly such as the heady note of ambergris, I thought—surprised me, teasing at my senses. It would be no easy task for him to caper with dexterity, but I was in no doubt that he could. Determined to give no sign of any appreciation of this vision who had sought my company, I replied with comparable solemnity.

  ‘Then I fear that you must find another partner, Sir John. I find that I do not wish to dance after all.’

  ‘Well, that’s forthright enough.’ He stopped. So did I, glancing up at him. It pleased me that he was taller. ‘I’ll stop frowning. What do you wish to do instead?’ There was a gleam in his eye.

  ‘I would like a cup of wine and somewhere to sit. I have been on my feet since I rose from my bed at dawn.’

  ‘And were you alone in your bed, before you rose?’ His thumb brushed over my knuckles.

  So! I took a breath. ‘Sir John?’

  ‘Madam Countess?’

  Since this was a level of familiarity even beyond my improved experience, I felt hot blood rise in my cheeks, but I held his stare. ‘Of course, alone.’

  ‘Is your husband not present?’ he asked, all gentle malice.

  ‘He is here. He is in my father’s retinue.’ Jonty had come for the wedding, as was fitting.

  John Holland showed his teeth in a smile. ‘Poor Elizabeth!’

  I knew his sly reference to my half-wed state. Enough of this, I thought. ‘I would not be such a poor thing if you would find a cup of wine for me.’

  ‘Your wish will be my command, my lady.’

  He led me to one of the cushioned stools placed against the wall, far enough from the crowd to allow us a little privacy, where he bowed me to take my seat and disappeared in search of sustenance. I watched him go, without making it too obvious, my heart still beating harder than my sitting at a court reception would engender.

  John Holland, I mused, was all I remembered him to be, and all I had recently discovered. A man of hidden depths, a bold companion, but probably a dangerous enemy. But ambition and ability in the tilting field was not what intrigued me. Apart from the sheer force of his presence whenever he entered a room, what fascinated me was that John Holland had been enveloped in rumour and scandal since the day of his birth. Or more accurately, the scandal that was of Princess Joan’s making.

  As we all knew the salacious details of it—how Philippa and I had enjoyed dissecting these early years of the Fair Maid of Kent’s life! Princess Joan was first married when very young to Sir Thomas Holland, something of a clandestine event but certainly legal. But Sir Thomas went off on Crusade, leaving Joan behind to be forced—in her own words—into a second marriage with the Earl of Salisbury. When Sir Thomas returned, it was to discover his wife wed to the Earl in an undoubtedly bigamous union. And Sir Thomas, from some strange motivation, took up a position as steward in their household.

  Such a delicious ménage à trois!

  But Sir Thomas wanted his wife back, and got her when he appealed to the Pope that Joan had promised herself to him and shared his bed. Did Joan prefer Sir Thomas to the hapless Earl of Salisbury? Who was to know? She and Sir Thomas had five children together before Sir Thomas died, leaving Joan a widow and free to wed again to Prince Edward. It might have been against the wishes of King Edward and Queen Philippa, for Joan was no innocent virgin, but she had achieved her heart’s desire, and here was her royal son Richard, wearing the crown.

  And here, working his path through the crowd was John Holland, her youngest child by that first marriage, now a Knight of the Garter, thirty years old, darkly beautiful to my mind with none of the fairness of Richard. A man who was creating his own glamour, his own scandals. He was unlike any other man I knew.

  I watched him make his way in leisurely fashion, a smile here, a comment there, a pause as some acquaintance exchanged an opinion or a jibe, an appropriate inclination of his head towards one of the dowagers. He had all the poise, all the courtly aplomb in the world, and, as the King’s brother, no one would be unwise enough to rebuff him. When he finally approached me again, he smiled, and, unable to prevent myself, I discovered that I was smiling back.

  You are playing with fire, a voice of common sense warned, disconcertingly in the tones of Dame Katherine who was no longer one of our number. After the debacle of the Great Rising, my father had dedicated himself to a life of sinless morality to achieve God’s blessing on England.

  But how pleasant to be a little singed, I replied, wishing that she were here. What right have you to advise me on such matters? As my father’s mistress, dubbed a whore by Walsingham for leading my father into sin, I thought she had no right to be critical.

  But she would not be put in her place. Take care he does not burn you to cinders. Some men, as I know to my cost, are impossible to withstand.

  All I intended was to practice the arts of courtly love. And with so personable a man. I had no intention of being a burnt offering on the altar of John Holland’s male pride.

  So have many women said. Particularly, of late, the Duchess of …

  I cut off the voice before it could say more, and then he was returned with loose-limbed grace, the perfect protagonist upon whom to polish my female skills. Was I love-struck? Certainly not. Merely enjoying my first experiences under the power of a flattering tongue, spreading my wings in the company of a man of many talents.

  I smiled at my sister who was watching me from across the chamber, brows arched. I knew that expression, and looked away.

  ‘You look pleased to see me return,’ John Holland observed. ‘Did you think I would abandon you?’

  ‘I am pleased. I am thirsty, and I knew you would not leave me desolate, Sir John. Did not our King command you to entertain me? Not even you would dare disobey him on this most auspicious of days.’

  ‘Do you say?’

  ‘Yes. Are you going to give me that cup of wine? You may as well be of use to me.’ I managed a perfect air of abstraction.

  ‘Which puts me in my place. Since you need to sit, I will sit with you.’ He hooked a foot round a stool, pulled it close and sat.

  Which suited me very well. I had the energy to dance through the night but with our previous meeting in mind I sipped, smiled my thanks, smoothing the folds of my oversleeves so they draped in elegant contours to the floor, wondering if he would remind me. There were some elements of it, such as my own appea
rance and demeanour, I would rather remain buried in the past. And so I would select a different direction for our conversation, and, if possible, puncture his self-possession a little.

  ‘Have you been absent from court, sir?’ I knew very well that he had.

  ‘Yes. I have a new lordship in Gascony to oversee, as well as recent grants of estates in England. Did you not miss me?’

  I was prepared for this. ‘No, sir.’ Inspecting the contents of my cup. ‘I have been much occupied.’

  ‘I see that you have put your time here at Westminster to excellent use.’ I looked up. Of course he remembered. How would it be possible for him to forget such a cataclysmic event that brought us all close to disaster? ‘A marked improvement on the last time we met. I must commend you.’ He raised his cup in a toast, which I returned, with insouciance.

  ‘In what respect, sir?’ I risked.

  ‘In respect of the radiant Countess of Pembroke.’ There was a challenge that glimmered in his eye. ‘Dishevelled, terrified and tearful, as I recall, and undoubtedly sharp-tongued. Today you are become one of the most beautiful women in this tedious gathering.’ I felt his appraisal, which, to my chagrin, brought colour to my cheeks, as did his fulsome compliment. ‘You were less than presentable when I saw you last.’

  ‘Can you blame me, Sir John? But I deny that I was tearful.’ Did he need to remind me? I raised my chin a little, even as the beat of my heart lurched and I sought for a mature response to an event that still had the power to distress me. I had no intention of being seduced by clever accolades, but I would enjoy them.

  ‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’ He inclined his head graciously. ‘You had been tossed into an impossible situation.’

  ‘From which you rescued me,’ I said, eyes cast once more demurely down to my wine cup, anticipation rife, sensing that this man was at his most dangerous when smoothly compliant.

  ‘Despite your reluctance to be rescued.’ An innocuous reply.