by Anne O'Brien
I bristled. ‘Sir John says that his affair with Isabella is at an end.’
‘So were you perhaps planning to replace that lady in his bed?’
Guilt spread beneath my skin when my father used that particular tone.
‘No! I would not.’
Perhaps denial sprang to my lips more speedily than truth merited. I had thought about what a night in his arms would be like.
‘You deny it, my daughter, but would you have refused him if he had offered? He is a man of enormous charm and eloquence. It would have been the worst move you could have made. You must know how dangerous it can be to put yourself into the hands of men such as Walsingham who would delight in finding ammunition against our family.’ His lips were white with passion, one fist clenched on his knee as he loosed the reins of control a little to make his point. ‘You know I speak from experience. I’d not have you make the mistakes that I made.’
Such an admonition astonished me, that he would acknowledge his affair with Katherine to be a mistake. And that he would use it to enlighten me, his errant daughter.
‘Did you not love her?’ I said without thinking.
‘I loved her. I still love her. But I would not have you follow the path I took. The consequences can be painful beyond acceptance, and I’d not have that for you.’ The timbre of his voice softened at last. ‘You may resent my words, but I have your wellbeing in mind.’
I had the grace to hang my head and study the swirl of wine in my cup. ‘I am sorry.’ The words were stiff, difficult to say. I sighed. It was impossible not to read the pain.
‘I understand his attraction, Elizabeth,’ he said gently, encouraging me to look up into his face again.
‘I like him.’
‘I am sure you do.’
‘He makes me feel like a woman who is beautiful and desired. For herself.’
‘I imagine he does. I imagine he makes any number of women feel the same.’
‘He seeks me out because he enjoys my company.’
‘Do you think so? I think you are unaware of the turbulence in this particular stream.’ He paused, chin raised, listening to an outburst of laughter from beyond the window that overlooked the inner courtyard. ‘Come. Let me show you something.’ He offered his hand, tucking mine through his arm, and led me to the window. ‘I am not angry with you.’ He smiled. ‘I was, but I know this marriage has its difficulties for a high-spirited woman. But you are quite old enough—and intelligent enough if you will put your mind to it—to understand. Look down there. It is a lesson in alliance-making that you will not find in the books of your childhood. Who do you see?’
Obediently, intrigued, pleased to be forgiven, I looked down to the source of the laughter and raised voices. It was Richard surrounded by a group of courtiers. Some were standing, some sitting. A page was handing round drinking cups. A minstrel strummed on the strings of his lute, but no one was listening. All attention was centred on Richard.
‘Who do you see?’ the Duke repeated.
‘My cousin the King. Dressed like a peacock for a feast. I swear he wears cloth of gold and rubies in bed …’
‘Never mind that. And who is with him?’
Presented as I was with a strange foreshortened view, it was difficult to see. ‘A group of courtiers. Richard’s friends, I expect.’
‘True. Then who is not there?’
I glanced up at him, sensing for the first time where this might be leading. My education was coming on in leaps and bounds.
‘The Queen.’
‘Exactly. And?’
‘Apart from the Queen? I don’t see any of his uncles. Not Gloucester, nor York—nor you of course. But then, they are all young men down there. More likely to be Richard’s friends.’
‘Well done. Look again, Elizabeth.’
I did, as well as I was able. ‘His brothers are not there. The Hollands.’
‘That is so.’
And then I realised. ‘Nor Henry.’
‘Excellent. Not Henry. This is a gathering of Richard’s own choosing. And it’s all a matter of political manoeuvrings, Elizabeth, of making alliances, of forming groups and interests at court with those of use to you. Richard, as he grows, is feeling his way to making connections that please him.’ The Duke’s voice acquired a brittle quality that had nothing to do with my sins. ‘Nor is he keen to take advice over who might be the best men to choose to stand at his shoulder.’
I watched the group, the friendly intermingling. Richard was at ease, as he never was with my father. Laughter rang out. More wine was poured, the sun glinting on Richard’s rings as he clipped one of the men on the shoulder in easy camaraderie.
I frowned a little at the scene.
‘I see that it’s Richard and the friends of his choosing, but I don’t see what effect it has on me.’
‘In a year,’ my father said, ‘Richard will achieve his majority and will take up the reins of power. He will insist on it, although some would say he is not yet strong enough or sufficiently wise to manage policy. But Richard will assume the mantle of kingship and make his own decisions, shrugging off his advisers who have led him so far. Including myself.’ He turned from the window as if the scene pained him, returning to his seat by the fire. ‘My own influence hangs by a thread, but I’ll work hard to keep it from being completely severed. Richard, I hope, will still give me an ear, even though he resents my advice as interference. Certainly he has little time for his other uncles who would lecture him rather than persuade. My days are numbered but he values my diplomatic skills in making treaties with foreign powers if nothing else. I hope to hold his loyalty.’
Never had I been in receipt of such weighty matters. From the window where I remained, I studied my father’s austere profile, at the lines that had crept there when I had not noticed.
‘Would Richard cast you off?’ I asked, aghast at the thought. Had my father not guided and protected my cousin since his father’s death, the most loyal of uncles? Surely Richard would not be so ungrateful. And yet had not Princess Joan hinted at such an eventuality?
‘One day he will. I see it on the near horizon, and then where will Richard look for his new counsellors? Where will he give promotion? To whom will he hand titles and gifts and royal preferment? To those young men you see around him, out there in the courtyard. It is youth that cleaves to youth. In the future there is no role for me. Nor for Sir John Holland who may not be of my generation, but is not young enough to appeal to our new King.’
I watched the little scene unfolding below, where Richard was laughing, accepting a hawk onto his fist—obviously a gift from one of his companions who leaned to whisper in the royal ear.
‘Who is the dark-haired lad with the velvet tunic and the feathers?’ Perhaps a few years older than I, his hair was iridescently black in the sun, his features, what I could see of them, vividly attractive. ‘There.’ I pointed as the Duke returned to my side.
‘Robert De Vere.’
We watched them for a moment.
‘He’s trying hard to win Richard’s attention.’
‘And not without success,’ the Duke agreed dryly.
‘Henry is not one of them. That’s important, isn’t it?’ I was beginning to see, all too clearly.
‘Richard and Henry do not see eye to eye. They never have.’
‘Will de Vere and the rest make good advisers?’
‘Who’s to say? I trust that the Queen might have enough influence to steer Richard onto a sensible path.’ He shook his head, his shoulder lifting with unease. ‘But as for Holland … Where does he see his future? He cannot stand alone. He would be the first to admit that he is a man of ambition, and without the King’s patronage his hopes could well be destroyed. So if Richard will not help him to power as a royal counsellor, he needs to look for new allies. He looks to Lancaster. Do you understand?’
‘Oh! …’ I was beginning to see very well, but my father left nothing to chance.
‘You have spent your
whole life surrounded by treaties, alliances, affairs of state, Elizabeth. Have you remained ignorant of what goes on between the high-blooded families of the realm?’
‘I am well aware. My own marriage was such an alliance.’
‘But you did not see yourself as a means to an end in Holland’s planning.’
‘He would not be so unscrupulous!’ Oh, but the doubts were already swarming.
‘Why would he not? When are any man’s motives innocent, in the friendships he makes, the connections he weaves together? A man of ambition will use every means he can to strengthen his position with one faction or another. If de Vere seduces Richard’s affection, then Holland’s days are numbered unless he has important friends. Do you see?’
‘Yes I do.’ I pursed my lips. I had always known that my marriage would be one of family alliances. What young woman of my situation did not? But to find myself singled out, wooed in fact, to further a man’s career, because I was a daughter of Lancaster … all my joy of the previous day was suddenly buried under a blanket of dismay.
‘Richard is thinking of sending him to Ireland, as Lord Lieutenant’, the Duke explained. ‘It may be that Holland has no wish to go, but would rather enhance his connection with the English court. With me. To be sent to Ireland could be death to a man who seeks power.’
Dismay was fast becoming transposed into horror.
‘I have not been very wise, have I?’
Was that all there was in John Holland’s fine words and finer gestures? Is that what it had all been about? The close attention, the playing fast and loose to lure me on, the flattering compliments, all to get a foothold in the Lancaster camp. Was I simply a means to an end, a step closer to the Lancastrian interest? Well, yes, it was entirely possible. He had gone with the Duke to St Malo, using his military skills to win grace and favour. With no war in the immediate planning, he needed another gambit. And I was it. The way to my father’s side.
How could he be so devious and yet so attractive?
‘You don’t like him.’ As I accused Philippa, so I asked my father.
‘Liking him is an irrelevance. I see his good qualities. I am wary of his bad ones. He has a handsome face, a smooth tongue and an ease of manner. He is hard to withstand. But however hard it is, you have to accept that his interest is not so much in you, as in what you stand for. Being a friend of Elizabeth of Lancaster can do him no harm.’ The Duke surprised me, lifting my chin so that he could peruse my face. ‘To be her husband can only be better.’
It made no sense.
‘But I am wed.’
‘And young lives are cheap. Who knows what the future will bring.’
I saw the strain on his face. We knew the grief of young death. Sometimes I forgot, but the Duke and my mother had mourned the loss of four of their children. Death was no respecter of rank or age.
‘So if Jonty were to die, Sir John would be ready to step into his shoes, and I, neatly, effectively seduced, would not be unwilling.’
‘Yes. And even if there is no such eventuality, it could only be an advantage to have a daughter of Lancaster with more than a friendly ear.’
‘It is heartless.’
‘It is pragmatic. How often is politics lacking in sensitivity? And I doubt that you are the only fair carp in Holland’s pond,’ he warned. ‘I’m certain he’s a master-planner, like a juggler with clever sleight of hand and agile fingers.’
Still I sought to excuse him.
‘Why not seek to engage Philippa’s interest?’
‘He knows my plans for Philippa. I would never allow her to wed Holland.’ The Duke gripped my shoulders, turning me from the window. ‘With or without marriage, you must distance yourself from him.’
How difficult it was to accept such a dictate. ‘He makes me feel alive.’
‘Pembroke will soon be old enough to be the husband you desire.’
‘But he is a boy. And John is … a man.’
‘I know. That is what I fear. And that is why I will send you back with Constanza to Hertford tomorrow.’
‘No …’
‘You will go. It is arranged.’ There was no gainsaying him. ‘I am not unsympathetic. But it’s time you grew into your position. I suggest that you use the royal audience this morning to see which way the wind is blowing for Holland. I think it will persuade you, if I cannot. Women are used to make alliances. What does Sir John want from you? A voice raised in his favour? Whatever it is, beware. Will you promise me?’
How could I do other? Life at Hertford with Constanza stretched before me, week after tedious week. ‘Yes, my lord. I promise.’
‘And make your peace with your brother.’
‘Well …’ It was not a scene I looked forward to.
‘You will do it, Elizabeth, and restore some vestige of serenity to our family.’
I read the implacable determination, the complete lack of tolerance for anything but my compliance. Family was power. Family was everything.
‘Yes, sir. I will do it.’
I saw it for myself at the royal audience, Richard saying farewell to a handful of the Bohemian dignitaries who had come to wish the happy couple well while the most influential were invited to remain in England, and, unfortunately in the eye of my father, at English expense. It was another monumentally grandiose occasion, and once I would have enjoyed it for its own sake but now I was a different animal, my eyes and mind opened to the truth of what was obvious but not being spoken aloud. Whereas of late I had treated the warnings of Princess Joan as the worries of a mother for her children, and had been quick enough to reject them, my father’s explanations, delivered with such cool conviction, had hit home. He had addressed me as a woman, as an equal almost. He deserved that I build on that crucial lesson.
So, while my hurt at John Holland’s behaviour rumbled in the background, I watched the political manoeuvrings at Richard’s royal audience. It was indeed an education in itself, now that I knew how to see the settings of the chess pieces on the board. Why had I never realised it before? I had been too taken up with the individual knights and pawns, the King and Queen. Too interested in their characters, their clothing, the rumours that knit them all together into a family, I supposed.
Be my eyes and ears, Princess Joan had instructed me, and I had agreed with no real understanding of what it would mean. But now I did. Now I separated myself from my family and watched them with a political eye. My father would have been proud of me. I saw their movements, like those same chessmen. I sensed the political cunning.
Some were moved and directed by Richard himself, those set on the fringe of the gathering. The royal uncles. My father. Even Henry. Even the Queen who my father had thought might be a power to be reckoned with but still had to find her feet in this country alien to her. One day, perhaps. But for now Richard saw her as an acquisition who would enhance his own glory. When I caught her eye and smiled, I thought that she was watching and assessing as closely as I, even if for entirely different reasons.
For there also, not quite in the royal eye, were the two Holland brothers. How accurate my father’s reading of their isolation. Although they conversed easily with Richard, there was a quickly veiled irritation on John’s face when he observed, as I did, those who were fast becoming Richard’s new court. The expensive coterie of flamboyant, fashionable courtiers. All young. None of the older generation who had nurtured Richard from child to man.
And at the centre, the vivacious Robert de Vere, well-born, well-blessed with looks and stature, son and heir of the Earl of Oxford. They were the group from the courtyard, well-mannered, courteous and dignified in this formal audience, and yet there was the same flattery in their glances. The same fawning as they hung on Richard’s every word. And Richard loved it. Richard was in thrall. When they covered him with praise, he laughed. To one he handed a ring as if it were of no consequence, even if the stone glinted its value from across the chamber. To another he handed with casual brilliance a gilded Book of Hours worth m
ore than my precious gold-stitched gown.
Whose was the master hand here, moving the King in his solitary steps? Was he his own man? And I knew that he was not. I could see it. It was Robert de Vere who smiled and spoke, soft-voiced, encouraging Richard in his extravagance. It was not John Holland. Richard’s half-brothers received no gift on that day.
How important it was for ambition-ridden John Holland to build himself a new alliance—for he would get no promotion from Richard who had eyes for no one but de Vere. So John would make his fortune with my father. Was I then truly a part of the plan? To gain my sympathy, my compassion, my support? Was John placing stones one on another to build a formidable position of strength, with me as one of those blocks, smoothed and created by his own flattery? My father admired his talents if not his character. Henry owed a heavy debt to him, for the rescue from certain death in the Tower. As did I. Henry might scowl, but there was a powerful connection there that would never be truly severed. So what if Elizabeth was also a useful tool to weld the Hollands and the Lancasters into a formidable block of power? I could forgive him the torrid relationship with Isabella. Mostly. But to use me as a pawn in his political game I could not forgive.
And oh, I was awash with regrets, for physical desire had struck me down.
Foolish dreams indeed. The dreams of a young girl who was no longer a girl but a woman—who must accept the responsibilities demanded of her by her family, in which John Holland had no place. His seductive words, his smile, his touch—how they had roused in me a bright longing! Yet it had all been to gain my trust so that he might consolidate an alliance with my father, because Richard would give his gifts and titles and land grants elsewhere.
I spent a restless night in which all the foolishness of the tournament came to an end, leaving me to despise the exhibition I had made of my pleasure in his company. Hopefully the court would read it as mere high spirits. John Holland had no part in my future. I would go back to Hertford with Constanza and wait for Jonty to grow up.
Elizabeth of Lancaster did not wilfully satisfy her lust. The scandal of it would bring my world down upon my head, and I could not bear to see bitter condemnation in my father’s face. But first …
