by Anne O'Brien
He kissed me, and then again, reminding me of how few impromptu kisses there had been between us of late. I would not allow it to happen again. The future might still be clouded, but for me, and I thought for John too, it was a day of restored happiness.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Build me a new Kenilworth,’ I said to my husband in a perverse moment of homesickness.
And that is what he set out to do on the vast estate in the soft fields and wooded inclines of Devon, all glowing stone and seasoned timber, high windows letting in the light much as those in the Duke’s banqueting hall.
‘I will build you a bower of roses too,’ he promised, in romantic mood.
‘I doubt you’ll be there to sit in it with me.’
In unity we might be, a seamless calm of love restored to us, but neither of us was of a mind to sit in a rose bower. Did we expect to live in a mood of everlasting happiness and contentment?
Yet why should we not? John directed his energies to the building of Dartington, into long discussions with the vast array of craftsmen needed to create a house for a great magnate while I gave birth to a large, placid child, a son, whom we named Edward after my grandfather. The child watched the dust motes dance in the sunshine above his cradle, snatching at them with tiny fists. Did he know of the period of rebellion and upheaval that accompanied his growth my womb?
‘He looks as if nothing will disturb him,’ John observed as Edward slept under the eye of one of his nurses. ‘Pray God nothing will.’
His prayers were not to be answered, since Henry had decided to repay John’s difficult loyalties by imprisoning him at Hertford and then bringing him to trial with the rest of the lords whose past leanings—in effect their support for Richard—gave my brother cause for concern. Had John’s ultimate defection from Richard not been enough? No, it had not.
‘Do you have to do this?’ I demanded of my brother, young and malleable no longer, when I abandoned children and domestic life and rode hot foot to abrade him at Westminster.
‘Yes.’
‘John forsook his brother to support you.’
‘I’ll not dispute it, but it’s time to make an example of those who turned a blind eye to Richard’s misuse of power. Which means Exeter’s involvement puts him at the top of my list.’
I knew he meant the death of our uncle of Gloucester.
‘An example?’ As so often in those days my blood trickled icily.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t kill him.’
‘Well that’s a relief to know!’
‘All I mean to do is show my magnates that loyalty to me would be their best policy.’
It all left a bitter, lingering, taste in the mouth and John was quick to spit it out.
‘What more does he want?’ John snarled as, ultimately released without physical harm, he rode fast to Dartington—as far from London as he could get, he growled—where he stood in the middle of our new courtyard and dragged in a breath of free air. ‘I stood there with the rest of the sycophantic minions, through the whole of his damnably long-winded coronation. I took the oath. I perjured myself, after taking the damned self-same oath to Richard. I try not to think about my brother, still locked away in God knows what conditions in Pontefract. I have proved myself the perfect, loyal subject. Does that warrant my imprisonment?’
‘Henry thought it did. Are you going to come in or will you continue to shout your ills to the whole world?’
He had not yet moved past the new door lintel.
‘Ha!’ John’s glance was speculative, his mood still sour. ‘And what about you, my dearest wife? Were you worried for my safety?’
‘Yes. Henry promised he would not kill you.’
‘You went to see him to plead my cause?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. I left you to Henry’s tender mercies! Why would a wife plead her husband’s case?’ Tucking my hand in his arm, taking his gloves and hood to cast on a chest beside the door and setting myself to unpick the edges of John’s understandable disgruntlement, I drew him into one of the new rooms, where he would find warmth and wine and comfort. He looked sharply worn with weariness and irritation. ‘Be thankful he didn’t lock you in a dungeon in the Tower and forget about you.’
‘I’m thankful for nothing,’ he replied, although he had the grace to smile a little, a wash of colour on his cheekbones, as he allowed me to lead him in. ‘Your brother has taken the shears to my titles and estates fast enough. Did he learn that little trick from Richard? Your son will not be Duke of Exeter, lady. I’ll be lucky to hold onto Huntingdon for him. And what income we’ll have … your brother has confiscated the Duchy of Cornwall.’
‘I’ll speak to Henry,’ I offered, without much hope.
‘And beg for me again? You will not!’
‘Then I will not.’
After all we had salvaged, I could see our relationship falling into pieces again in front of me. Yesterday I had been awash with fearful desolation, not knowing when I would see John again. Today I was full to the brim with relief that John was free and returned to my governance, yet attacked with a whole new set of anxieties. He had not even kissed me in greeting. Not even touched me, although he had not resisted when I took the initiative. So although it was in my mind to set off for London, to rage against Henry once more, I pushed John to sit and poured him wine, shooing a curious Elizabeth from the room.
‘I don’t think that Henry will punish you more.’
John refused the wine. ‘How would you know what is in his head?’
‘I hope I do. I always did. He’s afraid that there will be a rising against him unless he shows a firm hand. So those who were close to Richard have to be held up as an example of what happens to a man who makes the wrong choice.’
‘Do you support him in this?’ His regard was not amenable. ‘I should have expected it.’
Looking down at where he slouched in his chair, all I could do was sigh.
‘All I’m saying is that Henry fears that if he does not watch his back …’
‘He has a right to fear it.’
Such a small comment, so seemingly inconsequential, spoken without heat. But uttered by a man grey-faced and eyes red-rimmed from long days of travel, it smote at my understanding. I stared at him. He looked back at me, eyes bleak and cold.
‘John! You wouldn’t.’
‘Wouldn’t what?’
‘I don’t know! Take up arms against Henry. Engage in a conspiracy …’
‘Why wouldn’t I? What have I to lose?’
‘Your head, for one.’
‘Would you care?’
Never had I known him so blighting, his words so unsparing of my sympathies. Not even in the days before Henry’s coronation. And as I took in the lines that marked his mouth and brow, I faced a sudden insight of impending disaster. I was once more tossed back into the morass of fear.
‘How can you say that?’ My tone as bleak as his. ‘You know I love you. I have always loved you and always will.’
Still his trenchant gaze held mine. ‘When Richard was arrested, the crown stripped from him, you rejoiced.’
‘I rejoiced that he no longer had the power to cause harm. Because he had hounded my brother and father, robbing Henry of what was rightfully his in the Lancaster inheritance. He had been instrumental in the murder of my uncle Gloucester. Yes, I rejoiced.’
‘When Richard was incarcerated in Pontefract, you were quick enough to sing your brother’s praises.’
‘Henry deserved it.’
‘When Henry was crowned you glowed with satisfaction.’ The accusations came thick and fast, his voice gaining power. So did mine.
‘Why should I not? Henry had every right.’
I felt as if I were on trial, but I would not retreat. I had done all those things, rejoicing that a mishandling of justice had been put right, even when I knew the hurt that John must feel.
‘When Henry has Richard done to death by some foul means, as I’ve no doubt he will at s
ome opportune moment, will you celebrate then?’
Which effectively silenced me. Not just his words but the vicious emotion that had come to inhabit our new home as accusation followed counter accusation.
‘No. No, John. He would not. Nor would I rejoice.’
But I was not so sure. John was half-right in his charges against me, and it stung.
John sighed, some of the anger dissipating, to be replaced by what I could only think of as despair. ‘I think he might very well. As do you, if you’ll be honest with yourself. If he’s feeling vulnerable, he’ll rid himself of any rival. And that means Richard, with or without the crown.’ And then the despair thickened, his face becoming raw with emotion. ‘He is my brother, Elizabeth. You have faith in yours, God help you. How can I not feel it a mortal sin to betray mine? I betrayed Richard because I could not tolerate his lack of judgement, his poor government. It had become impossible to support a man who showed such cowardice in his flight from battle. I made the choice, but it tears at my heart, Elizabeth. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. But I can’t mediate between the pair of you for ever.’ I had a sudden vision of myself, old and grey, still trying to keep the peace between two recalcitrant men whose grey hair should have brought them wisdom, and hadn’t. ‘Don’t you see? It destroys me too.’ And in a final plea: ‘I cannot bear that we are once again cast into this cauldron of distrust.’
‘Of course I see.’ And at last he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you take no notice of the diatribe of the past ten minutes. I am weary.’
I knelt at his feet.
‘I have been afraid for you.’
‘I know. I don’t doubt you, Elizabeth. I never will.’
But sometimes I doubted myself, my own capacity to love this difficult man, and yet I could not imagine my life without him. A familiar emotion stirred within my breast, heating my blood.
‘You haven’t kissed me yet.’
‘Then I must remedy so great an omission.’
He pulled me forward to kiss me, with all the old possession, yet even in the heat of his kiss, I sensed that his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Are we at one?’ I asked, when I could.
‘I think so.’ A remnant of his grin. ‘As your husband should I not be able to command your fidelity?’
‘You do. Would I betray you?’
‘No. Not willingly. Not knowingly.’
We sat in silence for some time, hands clasped, as the sun moved round and filled the room with a blessing that unlocked all the tensions. Until I looked up and saw the cause of his stillness.
‘You are sleeping,’ I murmured. The carved leaves in the wood behind his head might not be the most comfortable, but his eyes were closed, his breathing even, the lines of strain fading.
‘Forgive me,’ he stirred. ‘Hertford was damned cold. I think Henry hoped to freeze me into submission.’
‘I thought you were intending to be submissive.’
‘So I am.’
But I did not believe him as we stood, his arms banding fast around me.
‘What do we do for the Christmas festivities?’ I asked.
John groaned against my throat where his lips were pressing a row of increasingly urgent kisses.
‘Henry and the children will be at Windsor,’ I continued. ‘Do we join them? It will look too particular if we don’t. I think we should go.’
‘What else?’ It was not quite a sneer. ‘We’ll celebrate and put on a good face between the dancing and the tournament. Perhaps someone will have the good fortune to run our sanctimonious King through his gut with a lance.’
I did not like the image but I kept the moment light. ‘But not you.’
‘No. Not me. Now come and reintroduce me to my newest son.’
‘He has lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows.’
And John laughed. Arm in arm, we were reconciled. The love we shared remained strong, if not untouched. Did I ever regret the life-changing step I took when I rejected the tranquillity of the Pembroke marriage for the upheavals of my life with John Holland? No. He was still the one true love of my life, the solid foundation of all my happiness. And beneath the strains of family rivalries, I knew I was his. He would always be driven, always ambitious, but I had known that from the start, had I not? Perhaps I truly saw it now for the first time. But I was older and wiser and, with good fortune, would keep his ambitions from destroying us. Did love make a woman less selfish? Perhaps it did.
I must be circumspect, treading carefully, to keep the peace. Not impossible as the reign settled and loyalties were no longer questioned at every step. Perhaps the New Year festivities would help to calm the family storms.
‘Well, here we are. About to step into the lion’s den. Let’s hope the lion is asleep.’
John leaned from his saddle to draw back the curtain of the travelling litter that had kept the younger children contained, as it had when we left London before the birth of Edward. We were at Windsor.
‘Will we see lions?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Not here,’ John said, then to me: ‘Is King Edward’s lion still alive?’
Taking a firm grip on Alice, I shook my head and led the long walk from the lower ward to the royal apartments.
‘But a King will need a lion to protect him from his enemies,’ I heard Elizabeth announce.
‘Your Uncle does not need an lion. He has your mother to roar for him,’ my caustic husband replied, but there was laughter in his voice and I smiled. It was an image that pleased me, and John’s mood augured well for the occasion.
We had travelled from Dartington to Windsor, the children excited and John making a good face of it as we settled into our accommodations. For me, in spite of all assurances to the contrary, a strange hovering uncertainty invested the rooms, thick as a miasma over a noxious marsh, however much they might be festooned and tricked out for the masques and merriment that Henry had planned.
Henry, trying hard, was warm and welcoming.
‘Elizabeth. Huntingdon.’ Clasped hands. A fleeting kiss on the cheek. A sup of warm ale and a cushioned settle after days over rutted roads. All was as it should be, and Henry’s greeting was the perfection of a welcoming and generous host. ‘It’s good to have you here. It is a time for family to rejoice and celebrate. We have much to celebrate. It’s time to put the past behind us.’
How benign. I preferred Henry when he was boisterous. It had been many years since I could read his enthusiasms, his expressions. The smiling lines on his face might have been engraved with a knife.
‘Of course we would come,’ I said, returning his embrace.
‘I could not refuse your invitation, sire’ John added, careful of ceremony. ‘An invitation to a royal property is a rare and fine thing.’
He had not been invited to Hertford. That had been a compulsion under guard. I nudged John as Henry turned his head. I could sense that John seethed behind the benign exterior, but he shrugged and, as he had promised me, set himself to play the role of loyal brother to the newly crowned King.
‘I have had a lifetime of experience,’ he had observed dryly. ‘I will do it to perfection.’
Pray God he meant it.
We hunted and hawked, enjoyed the mummers and minstrels, the games of the young people. The name of Richard was not mentioned, and although his absence hovered over us, I relaxed into the family traditions of the past. It was so easy to slide into the court life that I knew, all gossip and ostentation and unthreatening friendship.
We had been there barely a week, celebrating early Mass in the great chapel of St George as the family did, our children in a row, fidgeting under my eye and that of their nursemaids. Until Charlotte, sharp-eyed as ever, leaned across brother John:
‘Where is Father going?’ she whispered during the priestly preparations.
‘Your father isn’t going anywhere. He has promised to take you hawking along the river since the ice is too t
hin for skating.’
‘He is,’ Richard, on my other side, said. ‘He ordered his horse to be ready. He wouldn’t take me with him.’
I considered. ‘Perhaps it’s an errand for the King.’
And perhaps it was not. I turned my head, but John was nowhere to be seen. Where was he going, at this moment, when a Mass was to be held in commemoration, for the quiet rest of Mary’s soul and that of her ill-fated first born child.
‘Is he still here, Richard? In the Castle?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes.’ This was Elizabeth. Did all my children listen to adult conversations? ‘Father said he had to …’
I hushed her as heads were turned in our direction. ‘Stay here,’ I ordered. And I left with a genuflection. What an excellent time to choose for some purpose I could not define. Had he intended to tell me? I thought not.
I found him in the stables, already shrouded against the winter cold in felt chaperon, a fur-lined cloak, however unfashionable it might be, and heavy gloves, one foot in the stirrup. There was a squire, a page, but no escort.
‘John!’
He abandoned his reins to his page and approached, his hands held out to take mine, quick repentance in his face. ‘Forgive me, Elizabeth.’
‘I’m uncertain what I have to forgive you for as yet. Where are you going?’
‘London.’
‘Why?’
He pulled me out of the path of his squire who was leading a spritely animal from stable to courtyard. At the same time, I could only note, he manoeuvred me to where we could not be overheard.
‘Why are you going to London,’ I repeated. ‘When you should be with me, kneeling with everyone else to give thanks for God’s blessing on our King and his family?’
For a split second he looked away, his brows meeting heavily, but any discomfort was momentary, for within a breath he was planting a kiss on my lips and rubbing my cheek with the back of his glove.
