The King’s Sister

by Anne O'Brien

  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.

  ‘How true. You are the perfect married couple. Your eye will never stray.’

  His sardonic expression disturbed me. How well he read my situation. How well he read my mind. For a moment I was struck by the thought that we were kindred spirits, both moved by impulses, both driven by strong emotions.

  Which was of course nonsense. I was nothing like John Holland.

  ‘Unlike your own eye, Sir John,’ I observed.

  ‘Unlike mine. But I have no wife to keep my eye secure on its prime objective.’

  I moved beneath his arm, lifting my skirts so that the silk damask slid and gleamed, close enough to my partner for me to remark, ‘no, but the lady who took your eye today has a husband.’

  ‘Ha! The Duke of York is nothing but a bag of wind!’ His scorn coated us both. ‘Of course she is bored, looking for entertainment.’

  ‘Which you provide, Sir John? I’m told you have intimate knowledge of her.’

  ‘Passing intimate. Enough to know she has a voracious desire for entertainment.’

  Again we parted, giving me time to replenish my armoury, as I was led on from hand to hand, to return to accuse: ‘So it is the Duchess’s fault that you are lured into an affair of the heart with her?’

  ‘I doubt her heart’s involved. Are we speaking of blame?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Are you jealous, Countess?’

  ‘Not I. I have a care for my reputation.’

  ‘And you would never contemplate endangering the purity of that reputation by embarking on an intimate affair with a man who took your interest.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I repeated, meeting his eye with what I hoped he read as indifference.

  With warmth rising to colour my cheeks, I was not as certain as once I had been.

  Sir John raised his hand to lead me round, stealing a quick kiss against my wrist as our bodies came close.

  ‘I can feel your blood running hot,’ he whispered.

  ‘Because I am dancing, perhaps?’

  ‘I wager it did not do so when your husband danced with you.’

  Our parting in the dance meant that I need not reply.

  And when we were together again. ‘My liaison with the Duchess is at an end.’

  An assertion so bluntly made. Did I believe him? Not for a moment.

  But my blood was running hot.

  I knew I would pay for that exhibition of outrageous courtesy by my partner. I could not hope that it had gone unnoticed, and there was Henry stalking across the chamber with a darkening brow, my cousin Edward of York following in his footsteps. No time for me to take refuge with Philippa, or even the Princess who sat in state with a cup of wine and a dish of honeyed nuts to sustain her through the hours. All I had time to do was take a breath and hope my heightened colour had paled, at the same time as I ordered my response to the inevitable attack. Henry had no reason to call my behaviour into question. The unfortunate flamboyance in that kiss had been John Holland’s. Not mine. Better to challenge Henry now with a good strong denial of any wish of mine to draw attention to myself, before my brother’s ire became too well-lodged to dissipate.

  ‘You’d do well to avoid Holland, Elizabeth, if you can’t behave with more perspicacity.’

  Not a propitious start. Marriage had given Henry a degree of solemnity that was sometimes not short of pompous. I abandoned any thought of a greeting.

  ‘Avoid him?’ I said. ‘How would I avoid the King’s brother without discourtesy? Have you some advice for me, little brother?’ I made it just a little patronising. I was still taller than he and could make use of my height.

  Henry was unmoved. ‘It looked like a flirtation to me.’

  ‘You are wrong. It was not.’

  Edward was hovering. Edward always hovered. Now almost into his tenth year, he was a slight child who promised uncommonly good looks but I disliked his air of smug superiority even more than the sly gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Go away, Edward!’ I said.

  ‘I’m only—’

  ‘You’re only listening to what does not concern you.’ And I waited until he sulked into the crowd.

  ‘He’s a nuisance,’ Henry observed, watching him retreat, ‘with a bad case of hero-worship. I think it’s the gilded armour. Every time I turn round …’ His gaze sharpened, fixed mine again. ‘About Holland. The Duke would not like it.’ He glanced over towards the far end of the chamber where our father conversed with the Earl of Warwick. I doubted that he had even noticed. ‘Nor would the Pembroke connection approve of your lack of discretion in cavorting with the man who is known to spend more time in the bed of the Duchess of York than the Duke does!’

  ‘I care not what the Pembroke connection thinks or does.’ So Henry was well aware of the rumours, too. ‘There’s nothing not to like in my dancing with Sir John. I am not the only woman he has partnered.’

  ‘You are the only woman whose wrist he saluted in the middle of a dance, I warrant.’

  ‘Were you spying on me, Henry?’

  ‘Yes. Every time I set eyes on you, you are in his company. He’s not a suitable companion for you. Apart from anything else, his allegiances are not trustworthy. He might accept a Lancaster annuity today, but who knows where he will look tomorrow.’

  Anger had begun to bubble under my skin, alongside the dismay. I would not be judged, I would not be watched. What right had my younger brother, however impressive in the lists, to be critical of me? I had done no wrong. As for John Holland’s political inclinations, I could see no relevance.

  ‘I’ll dance with whomsoever I wish,’ I said. ‘How dare you s
peak to me of decorum? And how dare you blacken the name of the King’s brother? A kiss on my wrist is hardly a matter to ruffle the sensibilities of the royal court.’ I had worked myself up into a fine show of temper, at the same time as I refused to consider why I felt the need to do so.

  ‘As long as it goes no further than that.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘And keep your voice down. I know exactly the reputation of the King’s brother! I’d make sure he did not dance with Mary.’

  ‘I doubt he would wish to. She’s little more than a child.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘That John Holland appreciates a woman with some degree of experience.’

  ‘Like yourself.’

  ‘If you wish! By the Rood, Henry.’ This was getting out of hand. ‘I only danced with the man. Is that so reprehensible?’

  ‘You think you are so clever, so beyond criticism. Why will you not listen to good advice?’

  No! No more advice!

  ‘I will take advice. But not from you, little brother …’ And having a weapon I could use against him, I did so, careless in my anger. ‘Who are you to admonish me for my behaviour? You were told to keep your distance from Mary. But you couldn’t, could you? And now she’s carrying your child, and she not yet fourteen years.’

  And immediately wished the words unsaid as high colour washed over Henry’s cheekbones and a keen anxiety sparked in his eyes.

  ‘I did not molest her!’

  ‘I did not say you did!’

  ‘Mary is my wife and I love her. There was no indiscretion. You do not know the meaning of the word discretion.’

  Which fired my anger again. ‘Discretion? You could not keep your hands off Mary, when everyone knew it would be better if you did! You have no right to take me to task.’

  ‘I am wasting my breath.’ Henry marched off, collecting his shadow Edward before he had gone more than a dozen strides.

  So many warnings. Was I so much at fault? And now I had crossed swords with Henry and instantly regretted it. Mary had desired the union as much as Henry and was perfectly content in her pregnancy. It was ill-done of me to beat my brother about the head with it when they obviously enjoyed the deepest of affection. Unsettled, regretful, I had to watch the departure of Henry’s rigid back and then Sir John leading Isabella into another dance. When I next looked, he had gone, abandoning Isabella too, who had enough court manners that she did not appear disconsolate.

  Well, neither would I.

  I joined hands in a circle with Philippa and Sir John’s elder brother Thomas Holland, who was enjoying the status of his recent inheritance of the earldom of Kent.

  ‘And are you going to douse me in reprimand and disfavour?’ I asked Philippa when her lips remained firmly pinned together.

  ‘No. I don’t need to. You know you shouldn’t encourage him. And you’ve upset Henry.’

  ‘You don’t like him,’ I accused Philippa.

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s hard not to like. But I don’t trust him.’

  The final day of the tournament dawned as fair and crisp as all the rest. It was to be a day of miracles. I was Queen of the Lists, offering my glove—the partner of the one I had bestowed on Jonty—to John Holland who made me the object of his gallantry.

  On that day he fought, demon-possessed. No one could defeat him. He was brave and bold and entirely admirable in his defeat of his opponents.

  I crowned him with laurels: presented him with the purse of gold.

  After supper I danced with him, conscious only of the clasp of his fingers around mine, the agile strength of his body. Never had I felt so full of life and joy. All sense of duty and discretion was set aside, all the warnings cast adrift. Henry and the Princess meant well, but I saw no dangers in my demeanour, even when Sir John stole another kiss on my wrist.

  ‘You should not.’

  ‘Would you rather I did not?’

  ‘Would you desist if I did?’

  ‘I would think about it …’

  And he would do exactly as he pleased. And since John Holland loved no one but himself, he was no danger to me. And since my father did not see fit to reprimand me, then why should I not enjoy my knight’s company?

  Chapter Four

  Well, I suppose I had expected this.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ My father had looked up from the document under his hand as I entered his private chamber, a room set aside for his exclusive use when he stayed at Westminster. The windows on one side looked out over towards the river, if the occupant could drag his eyes from the glory of the tapestries newly purchased by Richard in a bid to make his palaces the perfect setting for his magnificence as King. On this morning, from the expression on his face, the Duke was oblivious to the scenery and the surrounding grandeur.

  I curtsied.

  ‘My lord. You sent for me.’ I waited until he had placed the pen beside the document with infinite care as if his mind were taken up with something entirely different from its contents. I had every premonition that this would not be a pleasant interview. There was a groove between his flat brows.

  ‘I am gratified that you have enough energy after yesterday’s exertions to present yourself at this early hour,’ he said. ‘I trust you are rested. Or do your feet ache?’

  It might have suggested humour, but obviously not. I had been summoned by the Duke. It would not have crossed my mind to be tardy.

  ‘No, sir,’ I replied warily. His expression was particularly severe, but he rose from his chair where the window allowed what light there was to flood the room, bowed courteously, and came to lead me to a seat by the fireplace. Flames leapt to warm the room but I suddenly found myself shivering with tension and my belly was cold. The Duke’s concern for my comfort was soothing, but my father was well-mannered even when furiously angry, and that is what I saw in the stark lines of his face. Here was to be no easy discussion of the state of the Pembroke inheritance.

  ‘A cup of wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Taking the cup, I remained wary. ‘You wished to see me.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Unfailingly urbane, yet he looked weary to my critical eye. He was missing Katherine, I thought. It had been a difficult year, with an unmendable rift between them of my father’s making. Yet what choice had he, when Walsingham heaped England’s ills on his shoulders? I regretted Dame Katherine’s absence, and so did he. His temper was short.

  ‘It is my opinion,’ he pronounced, having poured wine for himself and taken the seat opposite me, ‘that you have entertained the court sufficiently with your conduct in the company of John Holland. I think I have rarely seen you so lacking in dignity since you grew out of your childhood. I wish such behaviour to stop.’

  Abruptly I stood, the wine splashing in the cup, unable to sit under such an unexpected attack in so harsh a tone.

  ‘Sit down, Elizabeth.’

  I sank back, my fists clenched around the stem of the cup. Had I expected this? Perhaps I had when the summons had been delivered. But had my behaviour been so very bad? I had laughed and danced, encouraged by John’s charm. Had I abandoned dignity? I did not think so. I had merely thrown myself into the joyous celebration of the day.

  Without doubt, I could find all manner of excuse.

  But had I flirted? Undoubtedly I had. An honest assessment of my behaviour brought a flush to my cheeks as if I had already drunk the wine that had splattered the front panels of my gown. And now my father, witness to it all, would take me to task.

  ‘I do not wish your name to be coupled with that of Holland,’ he said, still pronouncing every word carefully as if I would wilfully misunderstand. ‘You will not allow it. You will remember what you owe to your name. Your behaviour will never be less than unimpeachable.’

  ‘Nor will it, sir.’ I was not a little hurt.

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’ There was no sympathy in my father’s face. ‘After Holland’s close attention to you yesterday, and your willingness to be encou
raged in all sorts of extravagance, I doubt there is anyone in this place who is not commenting on it this morning.’

  I felt the flush in my cheeks deepen.

  ‘Which I regret, sir.’ For I did, in the cold light of day. And in all honesty: ‘You are not the first to point out the error or my ways, sir.’

  My father’s straight brows rose in query. ‘Do I understand you have already been taken to task?’

  ‘Henry has expressed his disapproval. He was very forthright.’

  The Duke was lured into a dry smile, which did not fool me for an instant. I was still not forgiven. ‘And do I imagine that you accepted his criticisms?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ I admitted. ‘Henry informed me of Sir John’s affair with Isabella. Which I already knew. I did not need reminding.’

  ‘Did he? I am impressed.’

  ‘Princess Joan also discovered a need to warn me.’

  My father gave a harsh laugh. ‘Did she now? The Princess is always full of surprises and has this family’s welfare securely fixed in her heart. What a shame she was not born a man. Her nose for politics is superb.’ He sobered, bending a forbidding eye on me again so that I shuffled in my chair, sipping the wine to moisten a suddenly dry throat. What penalty would he demand of me? Whatever it was, I would have to accept it.

  ‘You should have listened to Henry,’ the Duke observed. ‘He has a mature head on his shoulders. But I don’t suppose you did. Indeed I’m certain you didn’t since you spent most of yesterday in Holland’s company. And don’t tell me that you were unaware of it, Elizabeth. It could hardly be missed when the Queen of the Lists lavished all her attention on the Champion at the banquet and the subsequent dancing. What were you thinking? I thought you had been raised to know how to conduct yourself, whether at court or in your own home. Your mother would be ashamed of you. And so would Dame Katherine. You do not bestow your favours on one man to the exclusion of all others unless you wish to be an item of salacious gossip. And certainly not if that man is John Holland. He has a reputation that would scorch the hide of a wild boar. You need a longer spoon than you possess, my daughter, to sup with the likes of John Holland.’