The King’s Sister

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘My thanks, sir. I trust you will carry it to victory.’

  ‘Your beauty is only outshone by that of our Queen. I pledge you my victory.’

  Which went down very well, all in all.

  It was a true conflict of knight riding against knight, each pitting his skill with lance and horse against his opponent. The Duke was superb. One day Henry would excel. But in the middle of it all I watched John Holland perform with every brilliant feat of arms I knew he would exhibit to unhorse any man who rode against him. It was a tour de force. My father’s knights emerged victorious.

  It might have been an anticlimax that it was Queen Anne who awarded the victory garlands, but Sir John’s words were for me.

  ‘My lady. Your beauty spurred me on to victory.’

  Tomorrow, I would be the one to crown him with glory.

  After supper, he invited me to dance and I accepted, so that we wound round the great dancing chamber, my hand in his. At the end of which stately performance, he took the opportunity to re-pin the ribbon to my bodice.

  ‘You are a brave woman, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Why is that? It was you who exhibited bravery today, sir.’

  Sir John kissed my fingers, fleetingly but with heat. My heart fluttered.

  ‘Not all bravery is in wielding a sword or a lance. If you look round this hall, at this precise moment I think there are at least a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on you.’

  ‘Because I dance so well.’

  ‘If that is what you wish to believe. But I know better. And so do you, Countess.’ His parting shot, before he strolled away to engage the Queen in some light conversation.

  I knew what he meant. I was not naïve in the ways of the court, or in John Holland’s unpredictable character. I was aware of Philippa’s warning glance, of Henry frowning in my direction. What of it? Turning my back on them I set myself to dance every dance, foiling any attempt my brother might make to put his frowns into words. I had a suspicion of what he would say, but he was only my brother, and younger than I. There was no necessity for me to listen to him, was there? My public demeanour had crossed no line; there was no cause for me to acknowledge any social impropriety.

  The second day of the tournament dawned, brother Henry taking the crowd by storm. Truly dazzling, the silver spangles on his armour, fashioned into the form of unfolding roses, elicited a cheer from the spectators.

  I spent a moment in admiration. But only a moment for I was not here to admire Henry. Today, in the new Queen’s gift I would be Lady of the Lists with the seat of honour. I would cheer Lancaster on to victory and I would be the one to crown Sir John Holland with laurels.

  Much like my brother, I had dressed to take every eye at the tournament, a cloak of magnificent sables and a jewelled coif gleaming in the winter sun as I made my way to the steps where I would climb to the front of the pavilion, smiling at those I knew, exchanging words of welcome. Anticipation of what was to come was a fine thing that made me want to laugh aloud. The sharp sunshine set the armour and weapons glittering so that everything in my sight was hard edges, as if rimmed with a keen frost. I would enjoy this day like no other.

  But was there something amiss? A watchfulness perhaps. A standing on tiptoe tension. Yet how could there be? The jousting had yet to begin. As with all tournaments in my experience, the knights were yawningly tardy in making their preparations, the heralds were still deep in conversation, trumpets tucked beneath their arms.

  No, the whole event was simply waiting on my appearance. As I lifted my furs to take that first step, I smiled with a comment to my aunt of Gloucester, who replied with a slide of eye towards the principal seats.

  And I saw what it was.

  The principal seat with its cushions and fringed awning—the one promised to me—was occupied by a diminutive lady that was not the Queen. Beautifully clad, the net that covered her hair thick with gems that caused her dark curls to glitter as if covered with rain drops, the Lady of the Lists held court, laughing with her ladies who had commandeered the seats beside her.

  Isabella, Duchess of York, my aunt by marriage. Constanza’s Castilian sister.

  I hesitated, knowing that in this moment of my discomfiture I was on display, and would look callow and foolish if I hesitated here much longer. I was not the only one to know that the Queen had promised me this honour. Perhaps I had been unwise to broadcast my delight so freely. Now I could sense the faces turning in my direction, in amusement, or gentle mockery, or perhaps even malice from those who would gladly deflate the pride of Lancaster.

  Where to sit? How to practice nonchalance with my aunt Gloucester smirking at my rigid shoulder blade.

  Rescue was to hand; Queen Anne, taking a handful of my sables and pulling me to the seat next to her, where I subsided with much relief, well camouflaged as I twitched my furs into order. All smoothly accomplished as if this had been my intent all along.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked quietly beneath the increased bustle as the combatants rallied.

  ‘Oh, no.’ My smile was brilliant. I would never admit to so shallow an emotion.

  ‘Richard changed his mind. He wished to honour the Duchess of York.’

  And probably put me in my place, I thought. ‘Richard often changes his mind,’ I said. ‘It is of no importance.’

  I was too well mannered to make a scene, too conscious of my own dignity to draw attention to the dismay that hung heavy as a stone in my chest. It would make no difference, of course. Sir John would still be my champion. Or even the Queen’s, which I could accept.

  The knights approached, the Duke of York even more lugubrious than on the previous day. Here was glorious Henry. And Jonty, bearing my father’s helm with great care, grinned at me, managing not to wave in recognition. And here, at last, magnificently mounted, all dark glamour from his ordered hair to the light glancing off his armour, was John Holland, who rode past me as if I did not exist.

  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 o
f 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 gl
eam 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.’