by Anne O'Brien
I sighed, but grasped the nettle of my brother’s displeasure. ‘I have come to apologise.’
‘And so you should.’
‘I was ungracious.’
‘You are always ungracious when you don’t get your own way. I don’t know why I expect any different. Why would you take any notice of me?’
At least Henry waved his squire out of earshot. Henry had not been difficult to find, in the stables where he was personally grooming his favourite horse, the roan stallion that had carried him to victory in the lists. Nor did he stop when I loomed at his shoulder and delivered my apology, for what it was.
‘You might stop doing that, Henry.’
‘I might.’
His back was discouragingly turned towards me as he wielded the brush with long sweeps over the animal’s haunch. I glowered at his shoulders. Unfortunately the fault was mine and I must make amends. I stood my ground.
‘I am trying to say I’m sorry. And I know you love Mary more than anything in this world and would never say or do anything to hurt her.’
A grunt.
I punched him on his shoulder, which had the desired effect. At last he stopped wielding the brush, rubbing his arm with a grimace.
‘Yes, I do. And no I wouldn’t.’
‘And in three months you will have your son and heir.’
A smile transformed his face. ‘Or a daughter … I pray she’s not like you!’
And I smiled back. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Perhaps …’ And then when I opened my mouth to argue: ‘Yes. I forgive you.’
‘Take my love to Mary.’
He cast aside the brush and enveloped me in his arms in an enthusiastic hug, redolent of horse and smoke. I was forgiven. I returned the embrace, briefly, then pushed him away, brushing my hands down my bodice and skirts.
‘Holy Virgin, Hal. You reek of the stables.’
‘Of course I do. Is the Duke sending you home?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll come to court again.’
‘Perhaps. Will you be here?’
He shook his head, and I could see the exhilaration in him. ‘There are tournaments to be visited, where I can joust. One in Hereford …’
All was right with Henry’s world. If not with mine. We left early next day, Constanza keen to set out with a strong escort and Jonty who was returning to Hertford with me. For once it was a relief to leave court with all its undercurrents and challenges. I had already made my farewells to Philippa. So now, mounted on my mare, engaged in arranging my skirts while awaiting the Pembroke escort to assemble and for Jonty to finish tightening his girth, it seemed uncomfortably as if I was running away. Or being dispatched in disgrace, which was even worse. I raised my head, fixed on presenting a picture of self-composed pride.
‘Will you be ready this side of Compline, Jonty?’ I asked.
‘I doubt it.’
The voice, unmistakeable, smooth, honeyed, lethally attractive, pierced my composure. There he was, moving slowly to stand at my horse’s shoulder, his eyes on my face as if absorbing every thought, every emotion.
Oh, I wished he had not come. To my shame, my discomfiture, I could not return the stare. Yesterday I would have. Before my father’s clever lesson I certainly would have. Today I could not. Instead, with a bright smile, I looked over his head towards Jonty.
‘I fear you are right, Sir John. But perhaps he is ready at last …’
Sir John laughed softly. ‘Where has my sprightly Lady of the Lists vanished to?’
Now I had to look at him. ‘I don’t understand, Sir John.’
‘No? Why can you not look at me?’
‘I am looking at you.’ But I looked away.
‘You are very stern. I read unhappiness in your face. I see you have been warned off by a more powerful voice than that of my mother. I wonder what the Duke has said to you.’
How clever he was at reading court wiles and stratagems. I did not pretend to misunderstand. I had too much pride for that, and gathered it tight about me. Under such provocation my eyes flew to his, and stayed there.
‘Yes. I have been warned.’
‘Did my past dalliance with the lovely Isabella matter so much to you?’
‘It was not your past mistress, sir. It was your present politics.’
‘Ah! But I don’t seek a political alliance with you, Elizabeth.’
His implied meaning shivered over me, but I would not be won round. ‘No, but you do seek one with my father.’
‘How should that be? I am in no need of Lancaster. I am the King’s brother.’
He was almost persuasive, but I knew what I had seen. ‘The court is splitting into factions. I have seen it. I know where your interests lie. I know that Richard intends to send you to Ireland, and you would rather not go.’
He allowed his hand to drop from my bridle, his voice suddenly severe and cold, yet no colder than his eyes.
‘I did not dance with you for politics.’
‘But you did to win Lancaster support, perhaps.’
A flash of anger was there, swift as a dragonfly. And then it was gone. ‘It was not to encourage you to speak favourably of me that I fought for you and carried your guerdon.’
‘But it would undoubtedly have been in your interests to do so, if you impressed the Duke.’
‘I impressed him well enough at St Malo without your help. My skill with sword and lance would stand me in better stead than my ability to charm a woman.’ I could see the sharp displeasure as he took a step back, away from me. ‘I see that severe damage has been done and your mind twisted against me. By the Duke? Of course. I misjudged you, Elizabeth. I thought you had a mind to make your own decisions.’
‘I do.’ I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. This was not a conversation to make available to eavesdroppers. ‘I see Richard with Robert de Vere. I see you clasping hands with my father and brother. I too am of use, as a pawn in your own particular game. Farewell, Sir John. It was a most enjoyable experience. You have extended my education in the value of a woman of my bloodline. And the heady delights of flirtation, of course, which I expect to find efficacious in the future. But not with you, Sir John.’
I gripped my reins, to urge my mare forward, dropping one of my gloves as she tossed her head, instantly furious with my clumsiness in doing so. Sir John retrieved it, brushing the dust from the embroidered gauntlet while I held out my hand imperiously, for fear he thought I had done it with purpose. Which I had not, although once it might have crossed my mind.
‘I was maladroit.’
‘I think I will keep it.’ He did not seem to have much pleasure in the thought.
‘What is the use of a single glove?’
‘None at all. Give me the other.’ He held out his hand.
‘Not I!’
And then the smile had returned, that disarming gleam that swept away all his anger at the same time as it threatened to undermine my irritation with him.
‘Perhaps one day you will. Or I will return this to you. For now I will keep it, in memory of a pleasant interlude. Brief but unforgettable.’
He tucked it into his belt.
‘What is the point of that?’
‘I don’t know yet. But one day I will.’
‘You will forget me as soon as I am out of sight, Sir John.’
‘I will not forget you. Nor will you forget me.’
‘I will try very hard.’
‘I’ll not allow it.’ The gleam had vanished, the temper returned twofold. It was like conversing with the Roman two-faced Janus, lurching from one emotion to another.
‘And how can you prevent it?’
‘Elizabeth, you know as well as I that our thoughts are destined to run in tandem.’
‘No, they are not!’
Hopelessly I kicked my mare to walk towards where Constanza was seated in her litter, yet could not resist looking back, and asking; ‘Was I only a pleasant interlude?’
A show of pueri
le weakness I instantly regretted. Sir John applauded. I scowled.
‘What is that?’ I demanded, as cross as he, as the slap of palm against palm echoed off the walls.
‘My congratulations. How well schooled you have been by the Duke to see only ill in me.’
‘You misjudge me.’
‘You misjudge me, madam. If you think that I courted you simply to pass the long hours at court, you might as well leave.’
‘How would I know?’
‘How would you not, if your emotions were truly engaged? You were the least compliant woman of my extensive acquaintance. It took me much time and effort to win your regard, and I thought it well spent. I see I wasted my time. Go then!’ He bowed with exaggerated depth, the jaunty feather in his cap sweeping the dust in saturnine mockery. ‘Good day to you, Countess. I wish you well in your chosen life.’
Which made me lift my head in hurt pride, presenting my back to him, furious with his rejection and with my weakness in stepping into the trap. And then behind me I could hear Jonty’s voice raised in some exchange, followed by Sir John’s replying to him, a reply that made Jonty guffaw with laughter. That was my future. Jonty. Not John Holland.
My heart sank along with my spirits.
I would see him again. Of course I would. Of necessity our paths would cross, but I would greet him as an acquaintance. The magic was gone. He would make his way in the world, one way or another, and I would have no part in it other than as a mildly interested member of the court. I had lost him. My floundering heart was sore indeed.
I looked around me at the Westminster scene I was leaving. What was there for me now? My father’s words of disapproval, his sharp lesson in court politics, hammered into me and I knew I must concur. I would do what Philippa would do in my shoes. I would be what she would be. I would go with Constanza and Jonty and transform myself into an exemplary daughter, wife, sister. Until the day when I would fulfil my role and become an exemplary mother to the Pembroke heir.
Meanwhile I would rage against the unfairness of life, that the man who stirred my senses like the ingredients of a stock pot, had his eye set on some far distant goal that did not encompass me. And had reprimanded me for my lack of compliance.
Well, I would not comply.
And then Jonty was there, grinning, at my side.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked, manner disgustingly bright.
‘For the past half hour.’
We rode out together.
‘I like John Holland,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
‘Once I did.’
‘Oh. Have you quarrelled?’
‘No. I don’t quarrel.’ I caught his stare. ‘Well, sometimes.’
‘You’ve lost a glove.’
‘So I have.’
‘I’ll buy you another. It’s the sort of thing a lord gives to his lady.’
‘So it is.’
In the end, against my intentions, I looked back.
He was not there. Of course he was not. He would be gone to plot some other means to place himself at the centre of power. The quick blaze of his anger had surprised me, but did I not have more right to anger than he?
Chapter Five
Was there ever a man who kept his word? I did not think so.
I was settled at Hertford in stifling luxury, far from the glamour of Westminster and the questionable allure of John Holland’s personality, and decidedly unhappy. Men, I decided, were the source of much heartache for women.
At court, John Holland had become a necessity for my happiness. Now that I had rejected him and his campaign for self-aggrandisement, there was no place for him in my existence. This was my life, Countess of Pembroke, waiting for her lord to reach maturity, while Jonty, running wild with the other lads of our household whenever the Master of Arms took his eye off him, showed little sign of arriving there.
I hoped the Duke was satisfied with the sacrifice I had made in the name of family alliances, for I was buried in impossible boredom and exasperation. Moreover I felt that I had been dispatched here in disgrace, although my father had been more circumspect in his wording. Still it rankled.
John Holland had promised that he would never allow me to forget him. The silence from that quarter was shrieking in my head.
The Duke, as a placatory gesture, had offered to take me with him to Calais. I was not invited.
Jonty had promised me a pair of new gloves. I was still waiting, and would wait for ever. When he went north to Kenilworth, my husband sent a scribbled apology for his omission and information that he had a new hound. Not that I lacked such items or the wherewithal to purchase a pair with the finest leatherwork around the gauntlet, exactly like the one in John Holland’s possession.
Why would he not return it?
How repetitious my life became in those months after my return. Early rising for Mass. Some reading, stitching, conversation with Constanza. Perhaps a little hunting or hawking, or walking in the gardens as the weather grew milder. The day-to-day affairs of Hertford ran as smooth as the length of silk of the altar cloth I was stitching. Our steward would have politely deflected any interest I might show. And rightly. I would have been dabbling for dabbling’s sake. I had no interest in domestic affairs.
‘Are you quite well?’ Constanza asked, when I must have sighed inordinately over the gold thread that tangled itself into knots in my careless fingers. I cared not whether the panel was ever complete.
‘I am in perfect health.’
I resisted casting it onto the floor. I must not sigh or draw attention to my restlessness.
‘You are very self-absorbed. Which is unlike you.’
‘I find the days heavy,’ I said, as much as I was prepared to admit. ‘The time hangs as if it were still.’
‘Prayer would help.’
Prayer would not help. ‘The fine weather will improve my mood.’
‘Perhaps you feel for your brother’s grief,’ Constanza suggested, her own eyes moist.
‘Yes.’ And I bowed my head so that she could not see how deeply I grieved for him. And for Mary. The much desired child, a son, born at Rochford Hall, had lived no longer than four days. I had not seen Henry, and could only imagine his distress, but I mourned for him, recalling our quarrel at Westminster, which might be healed but still hovered over me. The sad loss and Mary’s devastation, even though I had no experience of such grief, merely added to the weight of those days.
‘I would still recommend prayer. We will pray together after supper.’
I sighed.
How lacking in excitement, in flavour, my life had become, like a winter repast, stripped of spice and herbs. Like a constant diet of salt fish and pottage. Even our visitors were dull, with nothing to say for themselves.
And still John Holland haunted me.
And what was he doing? John Holland was far too busy to have any thought of me, honing his diplomatic skills in embassies with the Duke in Calais. He was in good favour with my father. Obviously my support for his cause was an irrelevance.
As his presence was to me.
I set another row of stitches with consummate concentration before abandoning it, informing Constanza that she would find me in my own chamber. I did not know what to do with my thoughts or my restless feet and fingers, but at least I could pace there without drawing attention.
‘Don’t forget to meet for prayers, Elizabeth.’
‘Nothing would please me more, madam.’
And then it began, with a Lancaster courier bringing letters and news to Constanza, as they frequently did, passing over a little package with what could only be described as a sly grimace and well-practised guile, as if he often delivered packages which should not be delivered. I received it with equal sleight of hand, hiding it in my oversleeve. And when I unwrapped it, it was to find a silver pin in the shape of a heart, quite plain without gems, but snapped in two. Wrapped around the damaged silver was a twist of parchment and a note in a hand I did not know.
A trifle,
broken asunder, as my heart is damaged.
It gave me much food for thought, wagering an emerald pin on the author of that sentiment. It was not Jonty, for whom poetic chivalry was still buried deep beneath the urgent training of hawks and hounds.
Who would single me out for a gift worthy of a chivalric troubadour?
Ha!
And with the passage of days and weeks the gifts continued, all under cover, all small enough to be hidden away from prying eyes in my elm coffer. In some weeks not one courier set foot in Hertford without some item accompanying him, cleverly wrapped in leather or a screw of paper, and the note that accompanied each was brief, enigmatic and unsigned. There was no clue here to the author of the gifts. But for me, there was no riddle to solve.
A pilgrim’s token from the shrine at Walsingham, the cheap pewter dull with the damp of travel.
May the face of the Blessed Virgin smile on you, when you do not allow me the privilege.
A mirror case carved in ivory showing a lady crowning her chosen knight with a garland.
I cannot see my true love, but you can see the face that stops my heart.
A pair of candle trimmers. Very practical!
As you douse your candle, imagine my arms enfolding you in the dark of your bed.
A feathered mask, its edges frayed with age, reminiscent of some past Twelfth Night masque.
Would you hide your true emotions from me?
A ribboned lover’s knot, nothing more than a fairing.
What value my love for you, Lady of Lancaster?
A pair of finches in a wicker cage, which arrived in the full light of day, singing cheerfully.
They will sing my petition for your true regard, whereas I cannot sing at all.
Which was true enough. John Holland might have no voice but he was not without low cunning. Had he also lost his wits to send me so winsome an offering, but something so obvious and impossible to accept discreetly?
‘Who are the birds from?’ Philippa asked when I had hung them in my chamber and they began to trill in the sunshine. Philippa had returned to Hertford for which I was inexpressibly grateful.
‘Jonty,’ I replied. ‘In recompense for forgetting the gloves.’
