by Anne O'Brien
Her chaplain, William de Fulburn, looked to me for direction.
‘You must inform her sons.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ The priest looked uncertain. ‘And arrangements for my lady’s burial?’
‘I can’t advise.’ I rubbed my hands over my face. How wearing it was to bring to order a grief-stricken household where the women were wont to dissolve into tearful reminiscences whenever a bright memory struck home. ‘What did she wish?’
‘The Princess did not say. I must inform the King.’
Sorrow gave way to anger. ‘Tell the King that grief killed her! That his cruelty brought her to death’s door and beyond!’ He looked askance, and I sighed. ‘No, of course you cannot.’
He swallowed painfully. ‘I’ll send a courier to the Earl of Kent. Where is Sir John?’
‘In sanctuary in Beverley Minster, when I last heard. He will be a sensible man if he stays there.’ I smiled briefly without humour. ‘Do what you can.’
We washed and clothed the Princess, placing her body on a bier before the altar in the chapel, as befitted the King’s Mother, covered with a cloth bearing the arms of her husband the Prince of Wales, and awaited instructions. I would return to court. I could do no more here. Meanwhile, before I left, I would keep vigil. Princess Joan had shown me kindness and I knew the Duke would want me to take command in a house that had no mistress. We would honour her as the King her son had not honoured her at the end. And if my thoughts were more closely entwined with her son in sanctuary, a foresworn murderer, I did not think that Joan would find me in any way lacking.
‘Where is he? Why is he not here to mourn the woman he helped to drive to her death?’ I prayed aloud, kneeling beside her earthly remains, my voice echoing strangely in this space that contained only me and the dead.
Yet how could he be? Sanctuary or flight was the only hope for him.
‘But I am here.’
Hands loosely at his side, the culprit stepped into my line of sight and bowed, whether to me or to his late mother I was unsure.
‘And what is the Countess of Pembroke doing here?’ The voice was smoothly scathing, the eyes, now that the man stepped full into the candlelight, hard and lightless. ‘You were the last woman I expected to see at Wallingford. And, if I’m honest, the last woman I could have wished to see.’
It was like an open-handed slap, taking me by surprise, so that I had no time to marshal my reaction to him. All I could do was stare, shocked by the overt belligerence, impressed against my will by his appearance. He might have travelled far but the leather and damask of his clothing was immaculate, his hair combed into ordered waves, as if he had prepared for this meeting.
I was not prepared. Outrage made me brusque. ‘Far more to the point, Sir John, what are you doing here? For you, being caught out of sanctuary, could be certain death.’
‘I am aware.’
‘Then why …?’ No longer kneeling, I waved away the chaplain who had appeared in the doorway behind him. ‘Not a word of this to anyone!’
And as the cleric retreated, my displeasure, so close to the surface in those days, flared without control, spilling over into raw anger at John Holland, at what he had done in shedding innocent blood. Very few had a good word to offer on his behalf and here he was, rejecting sanctuary, with death or banishment hanging over him. Was he a fool? How could he be so careless of his safety, of the burden he had placed on Princess Joan? In that moment I could find no sympathy in my heart for him.
He was responsible for the pain in this house. How could I trust him ever again? In that moment I wished I our paths had never crossed.
‘You should not be here,’ I stated flatly.
‘How could I not come? I heard the Princess was … unwell.’ I saw understanding darken his eyes to lakes of basalt. ‘I see that I am too late. What are you doing here at Wallingford?’
‘I escorted your mother from London when she was beyond consolation. Did your sources tell you that? She had travelled to court even though her health was failing. Did they tell you that she fell on her knees before Richard to beg for your sorry life? Without effect, I might add, other than to cast her into utter despair when Richard mocked her and dispatched her without mercy.’
‘Then I must thank you for being with her.’
‘Thank my father. He thought she should not be alone in her extremity.’
But of course, it would be unfair to blame him for that. He had not known. It was the only sin from which I could give him absolution.
‘When?’ The timbre of his voice had lost all its liveliness.
‘The Princess died yesterday morning at the hour of Prime.’
‘So I could not have got here in time.’
‘Did you try?’ I had no patience, not while the wrath raged white-hot within me. ‘Your garments are more suitable for a banquet than a mourning feast.’
His tunic was magnificently crimson, the cuffs and edges dagged in blue and gold.
He did not reply, but walked around me to the draped figure, the lions of England disguising the bulk of Joan’s figure, and there I remained when, continuing, John walked to the head of the bier, to look down into her face that was uncovered, the silk cloth that would finally hide her features still lying folded on her breast. Her once fine features could be detected beneath the gross flesh, like the familiar outlines of a finely constructed garden beneath a fall of snow.
Sir John bowed, one hand on his breast, then leaned to kiss her cheek.
‘She was a courageous woman. She knew what she wanted in her life and, once she was of age, refused to let any man stand in her way.’ He smiled briefly, the grief he might be feeling, if any, well hidden. ‘I have never met any woman as unwilling to be guided, if the advice did not marry with her wishes. Unless it is yourself, Countess.’ How formal he was, as if I were no more than an acquaintance. ‘She was wilful and headstrong. But she had an enormous capacity for affection,’ he continued. ‘Her family meant much to her and she would fight for any cause that would bring them advantage.’ He paused, touching her cheek with gentle fingers. ‘She did not deserve the cruel scandals of her youth.’
How could he not even give a passing nod to his own part in the lady’s death? Not one word of explanation or justification for the vicious deed. Which drove me to say:
‘Your scandals, of course, have cast hers utterly into the shade.’
His brows rose, his features sharpened as his hand fell away.
‘You are astonishingly vindictive in the face of death, Countess.’
‘You must forgive me if I come too close to the bone. The last days have not been easy ones. Of which you seem entirely insensible.’
He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it like a trap.
‘And don’t tell me it was worse for you.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘You brought it on your own head.’
‘Indubitably.’
‘Your behaviour has been …’ I sought for an appropriate word. ‘Dishonourable!’
‘I have no honour.’
My heart seemed to be nothing more than an insensible rock. I had imagined my reconciliation with John Holland on his return from Scotland in many circumstances, but never over Princess Joan’s corpse, with Sir John as biting as a winter frost and with not one word in his own defence. Presumably there were none to be had.
Treading lightly round the bier, relighting some of the candles that had died, guttering in their wax, he murmured as if speaking to Joan herself. ‘Perhaps you loved Richard the best of all. To be expected, I suppose …’ He touched her hands, still jewelled with priceless rings that all but cut into her flesh, then straightened the fold of her gown, then his stare was holding me. ‘How did she die?’
‘In silence. In despair.’
The flesh on his cheekbones flattened. ‘Don’t spare me.’
‘I won’t. She died in anguish when grief overcame her. Her heart was not strong and she could not bear the burden
of what was placed on her.’
‘Who did she blame?’ His tone was viciously cold.
I thought about this, because honesty mattered. ‘She blamed you for the act. But it was Richard’s refusal to be merciful that killed her.’
With which the glance slid from glacial to saturnine. ‘And in your informed opinion, Countess, who is to blame for this sad event? Richard or me?’
‘Does it matter? And do you have to address me as if I were one of my Father’s men of law?’
‘Yes. Today, I do.’
‘And tomorrow?’ I took a breath, refusing to be lured into any personal quagmire that might pull us both under. I was wallowing in uncertainty as it was. ‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing, killing Stafford? Or perhaps you did not think at all.’
‘I will not justify myself to you.’
‘No. Save your breath, for when you’re hauled in front of Richard to answer for your sins. And you won’t have your breath for long. Unless we pray for a divine intervention, he will call for your death.’
Turning on my heel, I left him there. I could not bear to stay with him, to hear any empty excuses, a man standing beside his mother’s body with blood on his hands and in his heart. To be addressed as Countess as if I were nothing to him. I could not understand what made him rebuff me in such a fashion. There was suddenly a chasm between us as wide as the sea between England and France.
I looked back.
He still stood, immobile. Did he not care? Could he not even kneel in contrition and respect?
Next morning, rising early, donning the black of mourning and intending to take him to task, I could not find him. Had he left at dawn to find some new sanctuary where he could live out his days, secure from Richard’s judgement? After our exchange of the previous night, I thought he would be in no hurry to remain in my company. For the briefest of moments I gave heartfelt thanks, then was sorry. I realised I needed to see him, if only to heap my fury on his head once more.
Or discover the reason for his antagonism.
Or plead with him …
My emotions were all awry.
‘Where is he?’ I demanded from Master Worthe, the Prince’s steward.
‘In the muniment room, my lady. He’s been there since dawn.’ The steward sniffed his approbation. ‘He shut the door on me.’
I made soothing noises. So what would he want there? If it were privacy, he would not get it. I opened the door without compunction. The errant son had taken a jug of ale, a pottery cup and a platter of bread and meat from the kitchen, and there he was, sitting at the table where the steward usually dealt with the demands of the day. The cup was empty beside him, the wood covered with crumbs, the movement of his hands over the documents before him purposeful. There was still no grief evident either in his demeanour or in the brightly hued tunic.
‘What are you doing?’ I said without introduction.
For a moment his hands stilled, but he did not look up.
‘I am looking for the Princess’s will.’
‘Are you so greatly in need of her wealth?’
Now he looked at me, eying me beneath lowered brows.
‘Of course. What else would I be looking for?’
‘And the Princess not yet buried.’
‘But she has no need for her wealth, and I have.’
Was he ever so callous? I had learned much of this man within the hours of the last day.
‘Are you planning to leave the country before Richard can set his teeth into you? Were you planning to tell me before you left? And a will is no use to you. You need hard coin.’ Still he turned one sealed page after another. ‘Perhaps you have not been told that the King has confiscated all your property. You are no better than a penniless beggar.’
‘Am I now?’ At last his hands paused in their search, arrested at the news. ‘No matter—or not yet. Ah! Well this is interesting.’
‘What?’
‘This, my singularly sharp Elizabeth, is where the Princess wished to be buried.’
Well, at least he had not addressed me as Countess.
‘Her chaplain did not know.’
‘Her chaplain did not search diligently enough.’ He smoothed the parchment beneath his palm, before turning it for me to read in the clerkly hand that had written to her dictation. ‘Now, that does astonish me. She requests that she be buried beside my father.’
‘In Stamford?’ An unexpected choice. I took the time to study his face as he folded the document and tucked it in the breast of his tunic. He was calmer, rested, with an air of resolution, but still a need to keep me at bay. So I would allow it. ‘I suppose it is important to you,’ I said. Then with a little brush of intuition, light as a butterfly’s wing. ‘You thought she would choose the Prince, in Canterbury, didn’t you.’
‘Perhaps.’ He was brisk again, giving nothing away, all emotions if he had any, subsumed in practicality as he shuffled the rest of Joan’s documents into a neat pile. ‘I was wrong. I will arrange it in Stamford, next to my father’s monument, as she asks.’
‘Then arrange it fast before you are taken into custody. Richard would as soon drop you down a well as share a cup of water with you.’
Even teeth bared in a grin. ‘Are you thinking of informing against me, dearest Elizabeth?’
‘Not at the moment, but who’s to say tomorrow?’ I sat down opposite, on a clerk’s stool, on a whim. ‘What next, Sir?’ I could be annoyingly formal too, and also provocative. ‘Do you make a run for France?’
‘No. And it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’m going to Windsor.’
‘Are you a fool?’
‘I cannot run for the rest of my life. My lady mother has left me her third best bed. I intend to live to use it.’
‘Then I’ll go with you.’
‘I’ve no wish to ride for London with an ill-tempered witch as companion.’
‘I am neither ill-tempered nor a witch.’
‘But you’re not good company.’
‘You are a forsworn murderer. If I can tolerate that, you can put up with me.’
The previous amusement slowly faded, for his mind was already far away, considering his future. ‘I can’t deny it. Then we will deal well together. We will go to Windsor.’ On his feet, he strode to the door, opening it and standing back for me to pass before him. ‘Get ready or I’ll leave you behind.’
‘Oh, no. I’ll be there at your side when you are on your knees before the King.’ He became very still. When I too stopped, surveying his face, it was to see every feature engraved in stone. ‘What is it?’
‘No, Elizabeth. You will not be there.’ His fingers, still grasping the latch, whitened.
‘No?’
‘You will not. I’ll not have it so.’
Barely a whisper but indisputably threatening, but I would do as I pleased, and was in no mood to take orders. I would see this out to the bitter end.
Taking note of the lift of my chin, his mouth acquired a sardonic twist: ‘Why would you wish to associate yourself with such as me?’
‘I don’t know. I know even less after witnessing your lack of finer feelings towards you mother.’
‘I have no finer feelings. Did you not realise that?’
Which summed it all up for me. Why had I gone to such trouble for him? He was a murderer, his immortal soul in jeopardy, without remorse, without pity for his mother. How could I have wanted a man like that? But I could. And yet I could not see the direction of his mind. He had not touched me. Not once. Any heat that had existed between us in those heady days at court had been obliterated, deliberately, by this man who was as unyielding as a frozen carp pond.
I prepared for my departure in despair, meeting up with the Princess’s steward one final time in the pervading bustle of the entrance hall.
‘We are leaving, Master Worthe.’
‘Certainly, my lady.’ He looked relieved that the organisation of the Princess’s burial had been removed from his sho
ulder. ‘I did not think Sir John would wish to travel on today.’
‘Why not?’ I was already walking to the door, arranging my hood, pulling on my gloves. I dare not be late. The man was quite capable of leaving me in a cloud of dust.
‘Sir John did not sleep last night.’
Which made me stop and look back over my shoulder. ‘Tell me.’
‘Sir John spent the night in the chapel, my lady.’
So he has spent the night beside her body, and then sought her will, to arrange, if I believed him, for her final resting place.
‘He mourned the lady well,’ Master Worthe was saying. ‘He left monies with me for payers for her soul.’
So John Holland was not immune to pain after all. He had hidden it well. He had certainly hidden it from me. But I could not think of that. He would suffer far greater agony at Richard’s hands unless we could work a miracle, and I was duty bound to stand at his side, whether he wished it or not.
It was a particularly silent ride, much as the one I had shared with the suffering Joan, but for entirely different reasons. Her son was in no mood for conversation, trivial or otherwise. Brows drawn into an uncompromising line, his eyes remained fixed on the road before him as it unwound towards an uncertain future. These might be his final hours of freedom if Richard proved to be as intransigent as I feared. Whatever John thought about it he was not saying. I thought he might try to win me round to his way of thinking, with charm and clever use of words. I thought he would justify his actions, practising arguments that might appeal to his brother. Or try to explain to me. He might even try to explain the vast space he had allowed to yawn between us.
He did not.
Curt, introspective, heavy-browed, John Holland rode on to his fate while, unbeknowing to him, I trembled at his side. He might appear sanguine but I could not be. I had experienced Richard’s temper. But surely he had too.
Sympathetic to his mood, I rode in silence beside him, only exchanging a word with my women when I felt a need to speak about something, anything. Perhaps it would even entice my companion from his preoccupations. But when the female gossip, rejoicing over the fall from fashion of the wimple—and the Virgin be praised for that—grew too much for him, he spurred his horse on ahead, leaving me to sigh with a strange depth of disappointment.
