by Anne O'Brien
‘A matter of business. I doubt I’ll be missed.’
‘I think you might be.’ And then: ‘Is it legitimate business?’
His smile was quick and assured, before becoming a grimace of disgust. ‘Of course. Did you not know? Your royal brother, my love, since he has stripped us of the duchy of Cornwall lands, has made a gift of them to his eldest son. I need to see my man of law. There are legal matters to attend to before the transfer to Prince Henry. Not something I appreciate, but a necessity.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I could understand John’s irritation. Yet my suspicions were still lively, my fingers curled like claws into the fullness of the fur edging of his cloak. ‘I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘You are taking no escort.’
‘There’s no need for concern. I’ll be back within two days. Now return to the Mass and pray for me. And our children.’ He all but pushed me through the stable door.
‘And for the King?’ I asked dryly.
John kissed me, firm enough to shut me up, but fleeting. ‘Certainly for the King. What could harm him now that he wears the Crown and we are all loyal subjects?’
‘John …’
He shook his head, mounted with habitual fluid grace, and rode out, leaving me to disbelieve every word he had uttered.
But true to his word, John was back in our midst within the two days. Eyes bright, face flushed with cold, he strode into the chamber where we were gathered to enjoy an afternoon with chess and frivolous gambling, lifted me off my feet and kissed me. There was a rustle of laughter around us.
‘Did you miss me, Countess?’
‘Not at all. Too much going on here to miss someone so unnecessary as a husband.’
Henry strolled across towards us.
‘It must have been important business.’
‘It was. The little matter of my erstwhile Cornish estates.’ John’s reply was brittle but at least brief. ‘And now I must make my apologies to my wife, who is still scowling at me for abandoning her to all this indulgence.’
I laughed, suspicions momentarily allayed by the light mood. ‘It’s good to see you back, my lord.’
He took my hand. ‘Come and tell me what you have been doing.’
He led me from the room, indulgent comments following us. Yes, I had missed him. His return filled me with hot desire, but I was troubled by that air of shimmering excitement about him. A nervous energy. Whatever the legitimate business, it had stirred his blood, which had excellent repercussions, for he restored the intimacy between us with verve and drama, reminding me of the early days when we still had much to discover about the passion that held us. John kissed and caressed me into insensibility, and as all my fears were swept away, I reciprocated in kind.
‘I must leave you more often,’ he groaned when I had destroyed all his self-control with a crow of delight.
‘Don’t you dare!’
I proceeded to relight all the fires anew.
‘What’s Henry doing?’ he asked as, slowly, with some youthful endearments, we put our clothing to rights, John taking it upon himself to pin my hair into passable order beneath a simple veil.
‘Planning his grand tournament. He has in mind something spectacular on the lines of his grandfather’s extravaganzas.’
‘Perhaps I’ll offer my services.’
‘Which will surprise him. But please him as well, I think. Are you truly reconciled to him?’
‘Why not? He could have had my head. Many say I should be thankful it was only my dukedom. I can live with it.’
‘I’m sorry about the Cornish estates. I know you valued them.’
‘I’ll live without them. But not without you.’
It was the sweetest of reunions, touched with all the magic of the seasonal glamour. Yet it did not quite smooth out my days and I found myself watchful, wakeful, alert for any wrong step in the pattern of the festivities.
And then I saw it.
I saw it from the vantage point of the gallery when Elizabeth and Alice had given their nurses the slip. What had all the appearance of a clandestine conversation, four men tucked into a quiet corner, heads close together over a cup of wine. Standing perfectly still I looked down. John was instantly recognisable. With him was his young nephew Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent after the death of John’s brother Thomas two years ago. And there was my cousin Edward, former Duke of Aumale, demoted to Rutland, another of Richard’s friends suffering a stripping of titles and land, as both John and Thomas had. All three close associates of Richard in the past, but seeing them in intimate conversation surprised me. I had not thought there was much in common between Edward and the Hollands. Edward was a mere twenty-six years to John’s forty-seven. They had had little to say to each other when Richard was King, but here they were in some heart to heart. John was doing all the talking.
The fourth of the group was a young man with a fashionable bowl crop, over-long sleeves and chaperon, face shielded from my view, but playing a part in the deep discourse, until a group of courtiers came too close and the contact was ended, the unknown man slipping away as if on an errand. A final murmured comment, then with a laugh as if it was a trivial matter, easily abandoned for more entertaining matters, John and those remaining joined the boisterous throng raising their cups to cheer on the revellers who were reminiscing over their hunting exploits. But not before I saw a screw of paper change hands between John and my cousin Edward, to be tucked smartly into Edward’s sleeve.
All in a matter of moments. It might never have happened. But it did. It was probably entirely innocent, but there was something about their watchfulness, the speed with which they brought their exchange to an end. And, as the anonymous youth departed, my eye was caught by a glitter of silver and enamel. A livery badge, if I were not mistaken.
I made my way from the gallery to join the revellers.
‘What did my slippery cousin Rutland have to say?’ I asked my husband with grand insouciance.
‘Rutland?’
‘I saw you talking with him. And your nephew.’
John replied easily enough. He would always match me for composure, guilty or innocent, a past master at masking his thoughts. ‘Nothing of moment. Whether they will take part in Henry’s grand tournament. I wagered I would beat Rutland into the ground.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ I awarded him a smile. ‘Who was the young slave to fashion in your midst?’
‘A squire. Rutland’s. By the Rood, Elizabeth. Why is that important?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t like what I saw.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Four men in a suspicious huddle, that broke up as soon as you were no longer alone. And before you ask, I was leaning over the gallery.’
He breathed a laugh. ‘You’re imagining things.’
‘I don’t think I am. I’d say you were plotting something that must be kept secret.’ I paused, to see the mask descend on John’s features.
‘There was no secrecy.’ He was obdurate.
‘No? Then why did I think I saw—and now I am sure that I did—Richard’s livery badge of the white hart pinned to Rutland’s squire’s shoulder? Very unwise in this climate, I’d have thought.’
‘An affectation, I expect. I didn’t notice. It had no meaning, but I agree it was unwise.’
As I detected the slightest hesitation before this response my heart plummeted. The more I was drawn into this accusation and denial, the more fearful I became.
‘Why would Rutland’s squire wear …’
‘Don’t!’ John’s hand was hard around my wrist. ‘Don’t speak of it.’
‘Why not? What are you involved with?’ Our voices had fallen to a whisper. ‘I think it’s a conspiracy. I just don’t know what you’re conspiring to do.’
John surveyed the room, then drew me into the centre of it so that we were surrounded by courtiers and children and he could see if the gallery was empty of interested audience. Safety in numbers, for this was no place to discuss insurre
ction.
‘So I can’t hide it from you.’ Keeping his voice low, his smile was wry. ‘I didn’t think I could. You’re too clever by half, Madam Countess. So this is it.’ He must have seen a flash of fear in my eyes, for he tightened his hold. ‘There’s no cause to look aghast. It’s not as bad as you think.’ He kept a smile in place as if we talked of nothing but the delights of each other’s company. ‘We are of a mind to persuade Henry to come to terms with us.’
‘Who is of a mind?’
‘Those he put on trial for their allegiance to Richard. Those he casually stripped of land and title, even though they had forsworn Richard in the end.’ Despite all his efforts, the smile faded. ‘We hope to encourage Henry to promise restoration of land and titles and promotions. We plan to bring Henry into a …’ He paused on a little laugh. ‘Into a frank and meaningful discussion, when we meet for the tournament. He will be full of festive goodwill.’
It sounded feasible enough. ‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all. What else do we need to do? Aumale, reduced to Rutland, is as keen as I. So is Thomas who wants the dukedom of Surrey restored to him. There are others.’ Now I understood. ‘You discussed it in London.’
‘Yes. A group of us met in the Abbot’s lodging at Westminster Abbey where we could come and go without too much interest shown. We made our plans, and that is what we will do.’
‘When?’
‘The Feast of the Epiphany, when Henry’s in a magnanimous mood after the tournament. There’s nothing to fear, Elizabeth. Henry will listen and see sense. He will reassure us and we will bend the knee in recognition of his generosity. Does that put your anxieties to rest?’
‘And the squire?’
‘A courier. Faceless enough to carry information between us without rousing suspicion. Except in the mind of my wife, it seems. That’s all. It was a mistake, his wearing the white hart. I should have reprimanded him.’
John kissed my hands while I turned the thoughts over in my mind. The beat of his blood in his wrists was regular and steady. If he was disturbed by my accusations, he was hiding it well. And then a thought …
‘Would you wear the white hart still? When you ask for Henry’s goodwill, will you ask for the release of Richard as well?’
‘No,’ he replied gravely. ‘We will only ask what Henry will be prepared to concede. Are we not pragmatic? Richard’s release would be a step too far.’
Eminently reasonable. I studied his face, the well-loved features, the smile that still warmed my blood, the curve of his mouth that could reawaken all my desire.
‘Well? Surely, my love, you don’t suspect me of foul play.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ It allayed my fears, but only a little. ‘I don’t like such secrets. I don’t like the thought that Henry is under some species of threat, that I know about it and he does not,’ I said sharply.
‘He will not be harmed.’
It was enough. It would have to be, and I would keep the secret, because John asked it of me.
But it did not allay my fears to any degree. They built and built inside me until I could barely contain them beneath a façade of festive joy and unbridled merriment, such as was expected of the Countess of Huntingdon.
‘You wouldn’t,’ I challenged John again, unwilling to put into words what I feared, for how would he reply if he could see the dread images in my mind.
‘No, Elizabeth. Whatever it is you suspect I might do, I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s not that I suspect …’
‘I can see it sitting on your shoulder like a bird of ill-omen. We’re here to laugh and make merry. Let us do it.’
I could get no more out of him, and allowed him to pull me into a dance that demanded more vitality than elegance. And I laughed, enjoying the wicked light in John’s eyes as he forced me to keep step.
But the thoughts, the impressions would not release me, creeping back to take control as soon as I caught my breath.
So the plan was to force a discussion with Henry about his future behaviour towards those he had punished. It might hold the weight of logic on first glance, but with deeper reflection, what would be the point of that? Would Henry respond to such a discussion with the subjects many already considered to have been treated with unwarrantable leniency? Not the Henry I knew now. As the newly crowned, untried King of England, Henry had his muscles to flex. He would not bow the knee to his subjects in open discussion, as if they were merely deciding on the best route to take in a hunting expedition. Did John and the other lords who considered themselves to be dangerously exposed to further royal encroachment really expect to put pressure on Henry with any degree of success? I could not envisage what they actually hoped to achieve. If Henry was of a mind, he might smile and agree and promise all they wanted. Whether he would keep such a promise was more than I could guess, and the lords would have no redress if he did not.
More likely they would all end up locked in close quarters in the Tower.
My mind continued to scurry through the increasingly dark corridors. If the lords’ intentions were of so minor a plotting, why the need to go to London to do it? Why not decide and discuss over a cup of ale and a hot pasty, or during a run of the hounds? Why not simply stop Henry on his return from Mass and request a royal audience?
I could not rid myself of doubts. Well, of course I could not. The version John had given me was as full of holes as a moth-ridden tunic.
Then there was the little matter of Epiphany.
This was what was troubling me. When I asked John when this negotiation with Henry was to be, the Feast of the Epiphany, John had said. And for a moment I had thought he regretted telling me, not because I was unable to keep a secret, but because of its significance which he must have known I would espy. Was it a coincidence? I did not think so. This day, the sixth day of January, was the day of Richard’s birth. As I knew. As John knew.
A day of some significance, then.
Despite John’s denial, the lords might intend to use this auspicious day to ask Henry to deal more favourably with Richard, to release him, even if it meant sending him into exile where he would be no danger to Henry’s hold on the crown.
They might.
But Richard would always be a danger to Henry as long as he lived, whether in prison or fixed in France. As even my son had seen, Richard alive was a danger. Richard alive and at large was a danger twofold. I frowned at my abandoned embroidery, re-creating instead the little scene in the hall from my vantage spot in the Gallery. John, Thomas and Edward and the squire. The squire looking round, looking up as if some untoward noise had taken his notice.
The squire gained in significance as I imagined, again and again, the little group I had seen from the gallery, but why he should I was not altogether sure. Except that he did not even look like a squire. His bearing towards his companions had certainly not been that of a squire. I could see no reason why some nameless, faceless squire should be included in a discussion between the three great magnates. Nor was he a mere courier, a carrier of messages, but one who was engaged in the conversation. What had he to do with what they were planning?
My suspicion grew blacker and blacker, urged on by some inner intuition born of a lifetime of political intrigue. Princess Joan, I knew beyond doubt, would be calling into question the whole episode. But what was the purpose behind it all? Not a discussion, not a negotiation. It was simply not logical. So was it to be an uprising, an insurrection plotted and directed from the Abbot’s lodging at Westminster, to do more than engage in polite conversation with Henry. Would they take him prisoner? And if so, was it their plan to release Richard and reinstate him on the day of his birth?
My flesh shivered at the images in my mind, for if they took Henry prisoner, would they be content to keep him alive? And then what of his four sons? As Henry’s heirs, they might suffer the same fate.
You go too far, I abjured myself. Your imagination is too lively. What evidence have you for this?
None. None.
And yet it gnawed at me. There was more heavy truth to it than the tale John had told me, and if it were true, it placed an impossible decision at my feet. Conscience demanded that I tell my brother of my fears, however unformed they were. As sister and subject I had a care for his welfare.
But as a wife, my loyalty was to John. He was my love, my life. I had promised my silence.
Love, oh love. Betrayal was a terrible thing.
To keep my tongue between my teeth might result in Henry’s blood being spilt on the tiled floors at Windsor. To reveal the plot might equally result in death for John and the lords as perpetrators of treason.
Blessed Virgin …
Remonstration with John would have no effect. I danced and sang and flew my hawk as if there were no burden on my soul. I watched as John laughed with Henry, as he engaged in rough sports with the royal lads. As they flew their arrows at the butts or rode in mock tournaments, the younger children shrieking with joy.
How can you do this? How can you plot their deaths?
I didn’t know it. I had no evidence, only the thoughts that prowled and refused to let me be.
But the longer I thought about it, the more sure I became. Every magnate punished by Henry would be at the Epiphany tournament. All present under the guise of festivities. All outwardly well disposed to the royal court but with conspiracy in their every breath. When I could keep silent no longer, conscience all but demanded that I pull John from the next bout of practice swordplay and force him to listen to me. But what would I say to him? In my fevered mind I imagined the conversation.
‘Would you kill my brother? Would you plot his death? And the four boys you have just encouraged to beat you at the archery butts, winging your arrows astray so they can have the joy of victory against a fighter of renown?’
‘In God’s name, Elizabeth. Do you think I would be party to such a monstrous outcome?’
‘I think you would have no alternative. I think Henry would never co-operate, and so to liberate Richard, my brother’s death is exactly what you would engender.’
And in my mind John would slide into deadly revelation.
