The King’s Sister

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Just take care.’

  ‘When did I ever not?’ Squeezing my arm, he smiled. ‘Good to know that you are on my side, sister.’

  ‘But is that of any value to you?’

  I might return his smile, wishing I might ruffle the ordered waves of his hair as I would once have done, if only to disperse his tendency to lecture, enjoying the intricate borders of his houppelande, flamboyant on sleeve and hem, for Henry had also inherited the Duke’s love of ostentation. Yet knew I was right to fear what Richard might do. It was as if once he had tasted the sweetness of revenge with Arundel’s death, he could not live without it, like a drunkard having enjoyed the rich savour of the finest red wine. Thereafter revenge teased Richard’s tongue, ran in his blood. It seemed to permeate his every thought and for those of us on whom he frowned, there was no escape.

  More hurtful, more agonising, the estrangement between John and myself grew, encroaching on our happiness, step by tiny step. I tried to understand. I tried to put myself into his shoes, but how could I watch him bow with awful reverence before his brother when Richard had had my uncle of Gloucester put to death in Calais, crying victory over the death of yet another of the Lords Appellant who had rid him of his blessed de Vere? Arundel executed, Gloucester murdered, Warwick incarcerated. Any man who was not a fool could see the pattern of Richard’s vengeance. How long could Henry and Mowbray survive it?

  And John? John remained silently, solidly as Richard’s trusted counsellor.

  ‘How can you support him in this?’ I demanded on a hiss of breath, anger flickering like a will o’ the wisp, even as I tried to control it.

  ‘It is his right. He is God’s anointed King,’ John murmured.

  ‘He had Gloucester murdered.’ I was still struggling to accept that Richard had been party to the death of our uncle.

  ‘As I am well aware.’ John studied his linked fingers, for we were kneeling at Mass with the royal court. ‘Richard says Gloucester died from natural causes.’

  ‘Smothered in his bed more like. I doubt Richard’s praying for his uncle’s soul!’

  ‘Then you pray instead!’

  So, acknowledging John’s reciprocal ill-temper, and knowing that this was neither the time nor the place to pursue my fears, I prayed, feeling as if I were standing between the two pans on a goldsmith’s scales. While John was in the ascendant, lifted by Richard’s elegant fingers so that he shone like a beacon, my own family seemingly fell, Richard’s heavy palm pressing them down into obscurity. Into oblivion.

  It would be Henry next. I knew it. Richard would discover, or create, the perfect opportunity to express his loathing of my brother. But how far would he go? Richard was still smiling on the Duke and his new Duchess Katherine. Would he dare attack the Lancaster heir?

  ‘Can we do nothing?’ I demanded of John after another interminable day of Richard’s demands that we show him the reverence due to Almighty God.

  ‘No.’ He remained uncompromising. ‘Not until we know what Richard intends.’

  ‘So you admit he is plotting something.’

  ‘Yes. You know him as well as I do, Elizabeth. Look at the gleam of mastery in his face. Richard might keep his own counsel, but having dealt with Gloucester he won’t rest now.’

  ‘I think you could try and deflect him.’

  ‘And ruin my own position to no purpose?’

  ‘Is that all you can say? Is that all you can think of?’

  ‘You were pleased enough to enjoy my position at court. To be Duchess of Exeter.’

  Heat was building between us again, my anger no longer a mere flicker of intent. It seemed I had a temper as strong as John’s when those I loved came under attack. It flared.

  ‘But that was before Richard took a hatchet to his family. That was before I see only blood and …’ I stopped, before I could say words that would not easily be undone. I felt like an apprentice juggler with a handful of eggs. ‘The Duke is unwell,’ I said instead. ‘He could not bear it if Richard had Henry murdered in the same manner as my uncle, smothered in his bed in Calais by some nameless assassin. I think it would be the end of him.’

  The Duke’s recurring ill-health was becoming a concern for us all, a wearing away of the once great strength. He might deny it but the years were taking their toll.

  There was no sympathy in John’s response. It was as if I faced a solid barbican that prevented me approaching any of his finer feelings. ‘I cannot turn Richard’s mind, Elizabeth. Once it is made up … It took Radcot Bridge to get him to give up de Vere. And he’s never forgiven those who forced his hand. He’ll follow his own desires with or without me. All I can hope to do is temper his response to what he sees as justifiable use of royal power.’

  How coldly realistic he was.

  ‘I know. I know. I know your hands are tied. But how often did my father stand for you? How often did he plead your cause? How often did I? If you had any—’

  He rounded on me.

  ‘Don’t say it. Don’t go down that path, Elizabeth.’

  If you had any love for me, you would at least try …

  Nor would I ask: did you have a hand in my uncle Gloucester’s death?

  But I did, because I was in no mood to placate.

  ‘No.’

  One word in brutal denial. Family loyalties were dividing us, tearing us apart. We parted in a spirit of disharmony. For the first time in all the years that I could recall, when leaving to attend on Richard, John did not kiss me in farewell.

  Chapter Eleven

  A black year. A year of farewells and disagreements. How right I had been in my suspicions that Richard would act against my brother, for on a cold grey December day I stood on the shore at Dover and watched Henry step aboard the ship that would take him into exile.

  All Richard’s doing.

  Fabricating a treasonable plot, magnificent in its complexity, Richard had waved the regal sceptre to banish Henry from England for ten years, Mowbray for life. Thus the final two Lords Appellant paid for their disloyalty to the Crown. In a fit of false generosity Henry’s ten years were transmuted to six but it was little comfort.

  I held Henry close in a storm of anger and grief which we both hid behind rigid shoulders and stern expressions. Here was no time for emotion. Our father might be racked with pain and remorse but his example was superb. The family of Lancaster would hold their heads high and wait for better times.

  John did not accompany me to my bitter leave-taking.

  And then, in March of the following year, I was standing in St Paul’s Cathedral to watch my father’s body laid to rest beside his beloved Blanche, the mother who was a fleeting memory to me. I was too numb to weep, too heart-broken to accept that he was gone from us. How could we continue to exist without the presence of that fine spirit in our midst?

  Covertly I watched Richard as the choir filled the church with a glorious vocal celebration of my father’s life. What was in his mind? I had no idea. Here to mourn his most royal uncle who had raised him and supported him as a child king, Richard’s expression was perfectly governed into doleful lines. John stood beside him.

  No Henry, of course. Henry dare not return, on pain of imprisonment and execution at the hands of his dear cousin. Philippa was far from me in Portugal.

  I was devastated and alone.

  And when it was over, Richard processing out with John at his side, there was Duchess Katherine. Silent and dry-eyed, she had weathered the ceremony well, I thought, until I was close enough to see the grief that flattened all her features. It was as if her former beauty were masked by a grey veil. The depth of sadness in her eyes struck hard at my heart. Here, with this woman who had been as much a mother to me as anyone, was where I would give comfort and receive it. Might we not weep together?

  ‘I am so very sorry. If I find it hard to accept he is no longer here with us, you must find it impossible.’

  The cathedral had emptied. Approaching, my heels clicking on the tiles, sending up the
ir own echo, I took the Duchess’s hand but it lay cold and lax in mine, nor was there any welcome in her face. It came to me as a dash of cold water against warm skin. Whatever closeness had been between us in the past had somehow dissipated, when I had not been aware. Yet her reply was dispassionate.

  ‘He suffered at the end, you know,’ she said. ‘In body and in spirit.’

  ‘But you were there to comfort him.’

  ‘Yes, I was. I did.’ And then: ‘You did not make it easy for him, Elizabeth.’

  Grief, I had anticipated. The bitterness of pain. But not what was undoubtedly an accusation,

  ‘The banishment of Henry destroyed him,’ she continued. ‘But your marriage to Exeter hurt him, too.’

  It thrust me on the defensive. ‘He agreed to my marriage.’

  ‘Because you gave him no choice.’ How judgemental her stare. ‘It was never a marriage he would have conceived for you, but on the eve of the voyage to Castile, and with a shame of a child conceived out of wedlock, what could he do? He never believed that this marriage would bring you happiness. And neither did I.’

  ‘He was wrong. You were wrong! John has given immeasurable happiness.’ I tried to reassure her, to reassure myself, when all around us was suspicion and enmity. How could she be so blind to the deep love that united John with me, and would hold fast whatever the future held in store?

  ‘And can you say that you are happy now? With all the acrimony between Richard and Henry, and Exeter his brother’s most fervent supporter?’

  She called him Exeter. How damning she was.

  ‘Where do your sympathies lie in the ruinous dissention, Elizabeth?’

  I could not answer, simply standing there, the cold rising through the thin soles of my shoes, but no colder than the hand around my heart.

  ‘Perhaps it was my fault, too,’ the Duchess continued, her tone reflecting the chill around us. ‘I had hoped I had given you a keener sense of morality.’

  I kept my regard level and unambiguous. ‘Keener than your own?’ How cruel I was in my personal hurt.

  ‘Yes. Of course. I don’t make excuses for myself. Or for the Duke. We did not live by the dictates of morality. But you, as a royal daughter, should have known better.’

  Every certainty in my life seemed to have been cut away from beneath my feet, but pride in my Plantagenet blood held me firm. I was answerable to no one. Certainly not to Duchess Katherine.

  ‘So I should have foresworn love and remained wed to Jonty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you have done that?’

  ‘That is an irrelevance. You had a duty to your family, Elizabeth. You had a burden of conscience.’

  I swept the argument aside with an abrupt, angry gesture. ‘I love John. He wanted me and I wanted him. You of all people should understand that.’

  ‘Yes I do. Who better? But where do you stand now, Elizabeth? With Henry banished and Exeter preening in glory of his new pre-eminence, where do you stand now? Beware, Elizabeth. Don’t be blinded by the sun of Exeter’s rising. Don’t you see? Richard may never allow your brother to return.’

  Had I not already considered this? I was not so naïve as to believe in my cousin’s goodwill, but nor was I willing to admit any fault.

  ‘He must allow it,’ I responded, anger reined in until once again I was as cold as she. ‘Richard has promised.’

  ‘And promises are empty air in Richard’s mouth. If he banishes Henry for good, will you still remain ecstatically hand-clasped to Exeter? You should never have wed him. You were always wilful and irresponsible, and I failed to change you.’

  ‘I don’t regret it. What right have you to put this burden of guilt on my shoulders?’

  ‘I have every right. Because it is true. Your father grieved for you in his final days of pain, but you thought of no one but yourself. Was that not always the case?’

  ‘No …’ My grip on the slippery reins was becoming harder to maintain.

  ‘I think it was. Now you will have to live with the consequences.’

  ‘John will not abandon me. He loves me still.’

  ‘I’ll pray that it is so. My faith in Exeter’s constancy is not as strong as yours. I have more faith in his driving ambition. And you can’t argue against that, Elizabeth, however hard you try.’

  On which caustic note she turned and walked away, the rift between us growing with every step across the heraldic animals that pranced across the patterned tiles of the cathedral floor. I would not tell her that I was carrying another child.

  Alone, I was forced to acknowledge the truth in some of her accusations. I had always considered my own needs first. Had I indeed brought pain to my father? Perhaps I had, but the Duke had been the first to acknowledge John’s value as soldier and leader of men. I would not regret those long ago events that I had fought so hard to set in motion. Anger built again. The Duchess had driven a sword between us, making me doubt myself. I could not forgive her, when grief for father and brother commanded every sense. So be it. I no longer needed Duchess Katherine in my life. I was strong enough to beat my own path and I would do it.

  Yet my heart felt the sting of a physical wound as I left the empty church, where John was waiting for me.

  ‘What did the Duchess have to say?’ He took my arm.

  ‘Nothing. We shared our grief.’

  I did not think that he believed me as he led me to where our horses waited. His hand was warm and firm on my arm and his smile understanding as he helped me to mount. Whatever the clash of family and temper I would not let our love falter. I knew it was worth fighting for. One day all would be smoothed over and this new child, created in our reunion in the aftermath of Arundel’s bloody end, would be born into a period of golden tranquillity.

  In my heart I did not think I truly believed that either.

  Somewhere in the distant reaches of the Pultney house, growing closer by the second, was a blistering rant of raised voices, the loudest that of Master Shelley, our steward. Unable to ignore it, John flung himself across the antechamber where we were removing our outer garments into the hands of our servants, to open the door.

  ‘Now what? Do we have insurrection in our house?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ There was Master Shelley on the threshold, one hand gripping the arm of one of the FitzAlan boys, hard. Behind them walked his brother. ‘Of a particularly invidious nature too, my lord. I’ve brought the culprit here for justice.’

  Hat and gloves still in hand, John frowned at the boy. We had absorbed them into our household with our own children, the pages and squires, but indeed the young men were old enough, and resentful enough, to be put under the training of a Sergeant at Arms. It was John’s intention to do so but had had little time to consider their future. Perhaps we had been tardy.

  ‘Which one are you?’

  The lad scowled back, his habitual expression. ‘As if you care.’

  While Master Shelley dealt him a cuff to his shoulder, I saw John take a breath, placing his hat and gloves gently on the chest, and knew he would strive to be patient with a boy whose temper had undergone no mellowing. Understandably, perhaps. John had been granted much of the Arundel inheritance, while these two young men were landless and penniless, dependent on our charity until Richard said otherwise.

  ‘Mind your manners, FitzAlan. You know better than that,’ John advised evenly.

  ‘As if you care, my lord.’ The curl of his lip was striking and crude.

  ‘I might care if I knew what this is about.’

  It was the younger of the two boys, as I knew. The more surly, the less amenable to what they undoubtedly saw as imprisonment.

  ‘It is Thomas,’ I said.

  ‘So what has Thomas done?’ John asked.

  ‘This misbegotten creature. Caught pissing in the soup pot. I just prevented your cook from cleaving his head with the axe he happened to have in his hand.’ Master Shelley, seething with righteous anger, dragged the lad forward. ‘Not cowed by the l
ash of the cook’s tongue, he swore he’d do it every day until you died of poison. And if that didn’t work, he’d piss over the hog on the spit. And over your cook as well if he tried to stop him.’

  I caught a reluctant gleam in the steward’s eye. But there was none in John’s as he addressed himself to Richard, the older boy who had taken a step forward.

  ‘Well?’

  The boy’s eyes were as defiant as his brother’s. ‘I am to blame, not my brother, my lord.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I swear that I am.’

  ‘As heir to your father, would you swear on his innocence, which you claim so often and with such vehemence, that you were the one to defile my kitchens?’

  Face flushed, the disinherited Earl’s eyes fell.

  ‘As I thought. You cannot take an oath on your father’s good name, can you?’

  Richard FitzAlan shook his head.

  ‘Then let your brother take his punishment. At seventeen years he is of an age to do so.’

  ‘I’ll not be punished by you,’ Thomas muttered. ‘You have no right …’

  On which note of defiance John raised his hand and dealt Thomas a flat handed blow that dropped him to his knees, while I, unwilling to interfere, moved swiftly to grip John’s arm. Not that it was necessary. John’s temper might be explosive on occasion but his blow had held more flamboyance than weight, and I knew that he had some compassion for the disinherited and orphaned FitzAlans. Their mother had been dead for more than a decade. I walked across to lift the boy to his feet, but he pushed me away.

  ‘I’ll be beholden to no one in this house,’ he hurled his challenge from his knees. ‘Not until the day of my death.’

  ‘You are not beholden,’ I tried. Surely reason would have more effect than a beating. ‘You are only here until the King sees fit to restore your father’s lands and titles to you.’

  But John’s patience was at an end. ‘Would you dare to dishonour my wife? With behaviour more suited to a beggar in a gutter? Even he would know better than to contaminate good food. Get up. You are not hurt. You will make your apologies.’

  ‘I will not.’