by Anne O'Brien
‘Gladly, sire.’
‘Will that satisfy you, Stafford?’ I knew it did not but it would be an unwise man to gainsay his King. ‘Stand up,’ Richard commanded his brother.
John stood.
‘I will restore your property to you, of course. I can’t have my brother living on my generosity, can I?’ He enfolded John Holland’s stiff shoulders in an embrace. ‘You should not do this, John. It unsettles me. You should curb your temper. I don’t wish to be at odds with you.’ All his ill-temper blown away, Richard was unnervingly friendly. ‘I need to know that I can rely on you.’
John returned the embrace. ‘I am your man. Now and forever.’
The relief in the room was tangible, except for Stafford whose stare at John held a quality of hatred.
‘I will hold the pardon over your head, you know.’
‘My future behaviour will be without stain, sire.’
‘Then come, John, and drink a cup of wine with me.’
He was swept off by the King, Richard’s arm looped through his as if nothing had ever occurred to undermine their closeness, leaving the Duke and me to watch them go. At the last John turned and his eyes, wide and dispassionate, met mine, reminding me of the venom of his arrival at Wallingford. Then he smiled at the King at his side, and was gone.
‘He looks at me as if he despises me,’ I spoke without thinking.
‘Are you surprised? What did you want?’ The Duke was already following Stafford and the Queen from the room. ‘A herald’s fanfare for coming to his defence? What man of pride wants an audience for his annihilation?’
‘I did not think.’
‘Then perhaps in future you will.’
Of course I remembered, the moment he had registered my presence beside the Duke. He had not liked it. He had not expected this very public audience. He had indeed despised my seeing him on his knees, witnessing the outcome, witnessing his downfall and his humiliation. How much he would detest that I had pleaded for him with Joan’s final words. He did not want me there. Go home to Hertford, he had said. A man of pride, he did not wish to be humbled before me.
‘You don’t understand a man like John Holland.’
Was that it? Did I not understand him? But I thought I did. Pride. That was all it was. But what value pride when a man was fighting for his life?
I exhaled slowly, but the Duke, waiting for me, continued to watch them go.
‘They are both dangerous men, Richard and Holland, in their own way,’ he observed, as well he might.
‘Will you take him to Castile?’
‘Of course. If nothing else he is a brave man and a good one to have at your side. He can mend his reputation with his sword in my service.’ He turned to me. ‘And you, I think, should return to Kenilworth. It’s time you saw that young husband of yours.’
‘Do you think I’ll forget him?’
‘More like he’ll forget you. I’m travelling there in two days. Accompany me. You should see him. He’ll soon be of an age to be a husband to you.’
Or more like Sir John’s charm would tempt me into sin.
But in that charged interlude all intimacy had been swept away.
Forget it. Forget him. The Duke was right. I did not understand him at all.
Oh, but I wanted to. On that day I had watched a man sink his pride and beg for his life. I could not abandon the flame he had lit in my heart because it still lived, faint and flickering under his rejection, but not dead.
I feared that it would never die. I would live with the joy and sorrow of it until my own death when my last breath doused the flame.
Richard kept his brother close, as if to let him out of the royal sight would give him leave to commit some new, monstrous crime. I saw him, as I must, but at a distance, wrapped around by royal favour. No more outrageous communication as the sumptuous dishes of Richard’s cooks passed before us. John Holland sat at his brother’s right hand, his attention demanded wholly by Richard. When we rode to the hunt, John Holland, firmly ensconced in Richard’s intimate coterie, even ousted de Vere from the royal side. It would have been entertaining to watch the favourite’s ire, if it had not been so infuriating.
Meanwhile, throughout the whole, John Holland’s face remained as expressionless as a Twelfth Night mask. If he was playing a role of the regretful penitent, he was doing it with a flourish, while Richard smiled on him. Richard smiled on all of us. It was like the smile of a raptor seeing its prey in the long grass.
John Holland did not come near me, not one step closer than he had to through necessity, and with my new knowledge of him, I understood why. He was too proud. He had been forced to cast himself on his brother’s mercy and bear Richard’s patronising tolerance. John Holland was undoubtedly nursing his wounds.
Preparations went ahead for me to travel north with the Duke whose directive in the months before he embarked for Castile was to personally secure the border against Scottish inundations.
I fidgeted and snapped. I could not leave things like this, even if John Holland could. Had I not risked Richard’s displeasure to plead for him? Following the distant pattern of his thoughts as he bowed with exquisite grace in my direction, accompanied by a fierce smile that had all the charm of a rat, was like trying to follow the path to the centre of a labyrinth. I could not reach him, and in two days I would have retired to the wilds of Kenilworth, to be reunited with Jonty, who was fast growing up. I would no longer be a virgin bride.
I slammed the lid of a coffer in despair.
How could I love a man who holds life so cheap? But I did.
‘I should not even think of him, but there he is, in all the spaces of my mind. It’s a hopeless case, isn’t it? I am caged, just like you,’ I lectured my finches.
They twittered mindlessly.
‘Then I must go to him. If I can find him without the circle of his new friends,’ I remarked sourly. Unless I could fling a bridge across this raging torrent, then we would be apart for ever. Unfortunately that might be exactly what he wanted.
‘Well, if it’s not the little flower of Lancaster!’
This did not bode well.
‘You have been avoiding me.’
Once more I had hammered on the door of John Holland’s chambers and thrust open the door before anyone could prevent me. I did not have one of my women to dance attendance. I had come here as Elizabeth of Lancaster, royalty in every drop of my blood, and I would not be gainsaid by anyone. There might have been an air of desperation in this last resort, but I hid it beautifully behind accusation.
Royally housed though he might be, my quarry did not stir from where he was sitting on the floor—which in itself almost shook my nerve—beneath the oriel window, light flooding down on him as he lounged, one knee drawn up by linked fingers. By his thigh was a cup of wine. There was no temper in his wide-eyed stare today.
‘And very successfully,’ he observed in a chatty tone. ‘I would wish to continue to do so. Perhaps you would close the door as you leave.’
‘I know why you’re doing it.’
He tilted his chin, assessing me lightly from head to toe. ‘Do you? It’s more than I do.’
So he thought he would undermine my confidence. He would not. Should I go and sit with him in the dust? Instead I walked to the single armed chair in the room and sat, my feet on a little stool, as if I would receive an audience. Folding my hands in my lap, I linked my fingers. Sir John watched me with mild interest. Only when I was settled, my skirts falling in elegant folds, did I reply.
‘You know very well why. The Duke asked if I expected a victor’s garland for leaping to your aid.’
‘Did he now?’ All languor, he brushed his hair from his eyes. ‘It always astonishes me, the perspicacity of the Duke. And did you expect it? The victory garland?’
‘I expected nothing.’
‘Then that’s what you’ll get. Will you take a cup of wine with me?’
An insult in the way he cocked his head, he made no effort
to pour me one.
‘No. I am not here to celebrate with you. I’m here to apologise.’
‘Then since you have, this interview is at an end. Perhaps you would pour me another cup on your way out.’
This was hopeless. I knew a lost cause when I saw one. All my attempts at constructing bridges were being expertly demolished and thrown into the foaming water below, but I preserved my composure. Was he worth fighting for? At that moment I would have said no. Magnificent his garments might be, embroidered and jewelled, but there was a dishevelled loucheness about him.
‘The wine is on your right,’ he observed.
‘I’ll not pour it for you. If you need more to drown your sins, get it yourself.’
I would find out if he was worthy of my efforts before the end of this exchange, but not in the dregs of a cup of wine.
‘I have come to make my farewell,’ I said.
‘Abandoning our happy family gathering at Windsor, are you, little flower of Lancaster?’ He repeated the phrase as if he enjoyed it. I did not. I gritted my teeth.
‘I am going to Kenilworth.’
‘And the fortunate Earl of Pembroke will be there to enjoy your return, Countess. Are you come to wish the black sheep good fortune on his way to redemption under Richard’s brotherly love? I am for Castile where I’ll either make recompense for my sins or die in the attempt. Will you miss me if I shed my blood on foreign soil, Countess?’
So we were back to formality, and a raw cynicism that hurt with every syllable. There was no reply I could make.
‘And where is Henry? And your beautiful sister? Do they leave, too? But of course Henry is keeping his distance—he has no love for cousin Richard, does he?’ He smiled confidentially. ‘It is truly a wonder and marvel that I am reinstated, and how wrong you were. You would have advised me to run for my life.’ He gestured widely with one hand. ‘And here you see me, in favour with every man at court.’
‘Except Stafford.’
‘To the devil with Stafford.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘So you have you come to kiss me farewell, dear girl.’
As he moved his arm, the light hit on the chain hanging negligently around his shoulders, enough to catch my attention. It was Richard’s livery, the white hart gleaming against the dusty damask of his tunic. The livery he had cunningly worn the day of the charged interview with his furious brother. And then my eye moved to a similar gleam on the floor beside the cup. The chain of ‘S’s that marked my father’s livery, the links abandoned in a little heap of silver.
I found it hard not to sneer.
‘And which of those will you wear today, Sir John?’ Was he ever to be trusted? ‘To whom will you give you allegiance this morning?’
‘Which will I wear?’ He picked up the Lancaster collar, squinting at it as it swung in a glittering serpent-like string. ‘To whomever I consider will further my ambitions most,’ he said. ‘And today it is our superlative King. But who’s to say what I might do tomorrow.’
The bright glitter of his eyes, the supremely careful enunciation, the repetitions. My suspicions were becoming confirmed with every moment.
‘You disgust me.’ And my heart is breaking. This is not love …
‘But will you still be disgusted tomorrow, fair lady?’ And then, as I stood to leave: ‘Will you dance with me? If I can struggle to my feet. It may be the last time we will tread these steps.’
He made no effort to stir. His eyes touched on mine, then slid away.
‘We have no music.’
‘Do we need music? You can sing if necessary.’
In one movement, fluid and graceful, that denied all my suspicions, he leapt to his feet, seized my hand and pulled me into a few ragged steps. Which once again confirmed everything.
Forcing him to come to a standstill in the middle of the room, I faced him.
‘How long have you been celebrating?’
‘I have been celebrating—endlessly, my peerless maiden come to rescue her knight whose armour is definitely in want of shining—my return to royal favour. Richard is keen to show his love for me. By God, de Vere can drink!’
‘And you have joined the inner circle.’
‘What else?’ he leered. ‘Don’t tell me you disapprove.’
I released my hands from his now lax hold. ‘I’ll tell you no such thing.’ I could either leave him to wallow in his own self-imposed misery, or try to steer the conversation into more sensible channels. ‘Will you go with my father to Castile?’
‘It will be my joy and my delight. But then, have I a choice? It’s the only reason Richard saved my worthless neck. As he informed me. And he will keep his jaundiced eye on me until I am launched with the fleet. I go to fair Castile to reinstate my reputation. He’ll be pleased to see the back of me and the Duke. How much more comfortable life will be for him.’ He turned on me, a bright flare of anger no longer hidden. ‘You should not have been there, Countess.’
‘I had to speak for you. I had promised your mother. Would you wish me to break my promise to her, on her deathbed?’
‘I care not what she wanted.’
But now I knew enough about this difficult man to deny him. ‘You cared enough to spend the night beside your mother’s bier.’
For a moment he froze, lips tight pressed. Then: ‘So her busy steward found it necessary to gossip to you. I should have known.’
‘And I know why it was important for Joan to be buried next to your father. How old were you when your father died? I’ll tell you. I’ve been doing my own gossiping.’
It was as if a pail of cold water had been emptied over his head.
‘That is all in the past. Why would it concern me? You take too much on yourself …’
‘You were a seven-year-old boy,’ I continued, despite the ice that now coated his every word. ‘I know about the gossip and the scandal that coloured the Princess’s years with your father. It would have mattered to you. It would have mattered to anyone with even a speck of sensitivity on their soul, that she truly loved your father.’
He flung away from me. ‘This is some myth that you are concocting …’
‘Then why,’ I addressed his damask-clad back, ‘did you let me think that you were rustling through her papers because all you cared about was her money?’
I saw rather than heard the sigh. ‘Leave it, Elizabeth.’
‘I will, but this I will say.’ I followed him, took hold of his sleeve, gripping it tight. ‘Go to Castile with my father. You can rebuild your ruined reputation …’
‘Or die in the attempt. Oh, I will go. Never fear.’ He wrenched his sleeve out of my hand, strode back to the oriel where he picked up the cup and drained it dry. Only then did he turn his head to look at me over his shoulder, all the pent-up emotion clear in his measured tones. What must it have cost him?
‘Do you think I enjoyed it? To beg from a King who sways like a reed in storm at the whim of de Vere and Mowbray and every other toadying sycophant? Do you think I felt no disgust, confessing my sins in full public eye, with you and the Duke as an interested audience? Yes, I killed Ralph Stafford, but it was not murder, I swear. It was a careless blow, full of passion, on a dark road.’ He drew in a breath, but his attack was not mellowed. ‘Should I thank you for your clever words of wisdom on my behalf, your heartfelt plea for clemency? I haven’t thanked you, have it? So if it matters to you, you have my undying gratitude. And I am committed to a foreign campaign, whether I wish it or not.’
It hurt, how it hurt, but I would not show it. ‘It is only pride that makes you seek to wound me,’ I observed as dispassionately as I was able. ‘Why should the opinion of de Vere matter to you? Why would you not wish to go to Castile and win military glory?’
‘Yes. Pride is all I have,’ he retaliated smartly. ‘Before God, Elizabeth, it’s not the sneers of de Vere and Mowbray that get under my skin. What man wishes to be seen on his knees, begging for his life, by the woman he adores and wants more than life itself? How is it possibl
e for him to put himself right in her eyes, when she has been privy to his degradation? I love you, Elizabeth Plantagenet. Don’t you realise that yet?’
It was as if the words slammed me back against the stone wall, robbing me of the power to reply. Not lust, not desire. He had said he loved me. How he must have felt the shame of it.
‘I did not know,’ I said.
‘Well you do now! I think, God help me, I loved you from the moment you turned on me, all filth and fury and ravaged clothes and ordered me to take my hands off you for you would bow to no lawless rabble.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘And by God, my head throbs like a blacksmith’s anvil!’
In a fast, controlled movement he flung over to embrasure set in the wall, where stood a silver pitcher and basin, a soft length of linen at the side. He poured water, then hands cupped, splashed it liberally over his face, his hair.
‘God’s Blood!’
With the linen he scrubbed his face dry, running his fingers through his hair, scattering droplets.
‘That should make me see the future more clearly, although I might regret it.’
Before I could think of a biting reply—that it was a pity he hadn’t seen the future clearly from the beginning of our conversation—he was there, and in what could only be described as a pounce, gripping my shoulders with a little shake.
‘Look at me. I did not intend to say that. See how you have the power to undermine all my good intentions and destroy my self-control. I want you, Elizabeth. I have always wanted you. And now that death has come close to me, I’m in a mood to take what I want. In vino veritas indeed, and since you are foolishly here without a chaperone …’
So the cold water had not remedied the wine swimming in his brain. Was this what I wanted? My heart leapt into my throat at the image his few words had painted for me. His kisses I knew. The touch of his hands, the power of his arms around me. The strength of his shoulder where I might rest my head. But here he was in a mood to take more, much more.
‘I thought the water would have brought you to your senses.’
‘It will take more than that! I want you, drunk or sober!’
His mouth on mine, neither gentle nor seductive, tasted of wine and despair.
