by Anne O'Brien
I stood, oblivious to the gathering wind, for the first time in my life admitting my loneliness and the need for a confidante. When had I ever needed the consolation of a woman’s advice. But now, when I was estranged from everyone, Princess Joan was dead, Katherine was hostile and retired into widowhood in Lincoln, Philippa in regal splendour in Portugal.
Yet not entirely true. Philippa had written to me, but I had added it, unread, to the little pile of unopened letters from her, unable to tolerate her lectures or her pity even if they were doused with love.
Never had I felt so isolated, so alone, so wretched. I had no practice at being alone.
‘Well, you had better practise hard now,’ I berated myself. ‘For who else is there to listen to you?’
Because the reality of my situation had struck as hard as the winter ground under my feet. I could not talk to Henry. Men driven by ambition rarely listened to their womenfolk and Henry, having usurped the crown, had enemies enough to deal with, without having to listen to the demands of his sister. And what could I now demand?
John was dead.
In my damp misery I howled, refusing the warmth of Constance’s arms about me as she was driven to give comfort to this mad woman who was her mother.
He had banished me. He had died alone.
I could formulate no plan. No plan at all.
I despised Henry and the Countess of Hereford and Thomas FitzAllan, all in equal measure.
A gust of wind brought the sound of distant hooves clattering into the stable courtyard and for one foolish moment my heart leapt. He had come to me. He had been released after all …
The truth caused me to fling down the shears and cover my face with my hands, for suddenly my own misery was cast into nothingness by the acknowledgement of John’s death. He would never come to me again. And what terrible choices he had had to make, standing between his own brother and his wife. How was it possible for a man to determine the direction of his heart when faced with such a dilemma? And I had made it so difficult for him, torn as I was between equally divided loyalties. My choice was no easier than his.
Did I feel guilt?
Yes. Yes. And yes. It seemed to me that I was frozen in a wasteland of unending, unforgiving agony from which there was no escape.
The gardener emerged from his woody seclusion, leading a man I did not know. A herald, as it soon became clear. One of Henry’s superbly appointed couriers, tabard gleaming in the dank gloom. Which was warning enough.
Facing him, still on my knees, I dared him to react in any manner to my appearance. Nor did he. He bowed. ‘My lady.’
‘You have come from the King.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ His solemn face showed no recognition of my strange state, even when Constance plucked at my shoulder. The rest of the children had vanished.
‘And your message? What has the King to say to me?’
‘My lord requests that you return to court.’
‘And why is that?’ Unable to control the bitterness that welled within me. ‘Does the King intend to parade me before his loyal courtiers as the wife of a traitor?’
Which he wisely ignored, handing me instead a document heavy with seals and signatures, the red and gold shining against my mud encrusted hands. Perhaps my face was also smeared, but I did not care. Legal, official, the weight of the document made my heart sink.
‘Tell me, or do I have to read it?’
‘It is to inform you, my lady, of the confiscation of all lands, possessions and properties of John Holland.’
He was not even given the respect of his title. There would be no title, no inheritance for my children. No advantageous marriages, for who would desire a landless child of a proscribed father as mate? John had seen it all. We would be cast as beggars on my brother’s charity.
Why have you done this to us, John?
Suddenly I was so angry with him.
And yet inordinately I felt laughter forming in my chest, dispersing my fury, and would have laughed aloud if it could have bypassed the constriction in my throat. For this ground I had been digging, these plants that I had been destroying, no longer belonged to me. All had been taken away. I was homeless, even more bereft than I could have believed. I would have to throw myself on Henry’s mercy and be dutiful and dependent on him for the rest of my life.
At last I struggled to my feet, holding the document as if it were a poisoned chalice.
‘And to whom does the King gift my lord’s properties?’ All in all I was proud of the calm tenor of my voice.
‘I know not, my lady. The confiscation will first be ratified by parliament when it meets in March. Until then the estates will become royal property.’
‘But free for the King to use, to reward those whose loyalty is beyond question.’ The Countess of Hereford would be high on his list. And Thomas FitzAlan. I caught a slide of pity in the herald’s eye and straightened my spine, snatching at dignity. ‘My thanks for your news.’
‘I will escort you, my lady.’ Yes, there was definitely pity, even as I faced him with disdain. ‘There’s something else you should know, my lady …’
‘Another message from my royal brother?’
‘No, my lady.’ He inclined his head, not meeting my stare. ‘It’s not his doing, but you need to be aware, if you’re going to London. I wouldn’t want it to be a shock for you. As it would …’ And, uneasily, compassionately, he told me, yet in deference to my need as I dug my fingers into his arm, spared me nothing in the telling, of the true span of Thomas FitzAlan’s revenge.
It was like a blow of a mailed fist to my chest. Dropping the shears, I hitched my skirts, abandoned the herbery to the gardener and Henry’s herald, and fled towards the house, every breath difficult, every thought suffused with ultimate horror. Despite the threat of snow, despite my heartsick state that had kept me inert for so long, I packed my coffers and ordered my horse and an escort.
Chapter Fiveteen
Dry-eyed, driven by a raging fury interlaced with fear, I forced myself to travel on, throughout the whole of the following day and night without respite, stopping only at the roadside for bread and wine that I could barely swallow, while all the time in my head shrieked the voice that despite all my efforts I might be too late. I knew the hour and the day when this abomination would be perpetrated. I must be there.
John’s inevitable execution, the gloating delight of Thomas FitzAlan, the cold implacability of the Countess, then the stripping away of John’s title and lands, all had been a weight that I would bear with all the composure I could summon to my aid. But this—this final, inexorable degradation—drove me to risk my safety on the roads, to honour John at the last, to make this final bid to restore some tiny—some would say worthless—vestige of dignity to my dead love. It would be very little but it would be something.
How could Henry have allowed it?
Nor was I alone in my self-imposed mission.
‘I am coming with you. Whatever you say.’
There was a severity in the dark gaze. Constance, at eleven years, had all the obstinacy that had driven me at that age.
‘You will remain here, Constance.’
‘I will not. This is no longer our home. Richard, as the eldest, will remain and order the young ones about until it is decided where we will live. But for now, I will go with you because you should not have to do this alone.’
There, in my daughter’s insistence, was John’s clear, unadorned logic that almost brought me again to my knees. So she had been listening.
‘And who else is there to go with you?’ she added. ‘I have already packed what I need. I am ready.’
For the briefest of moments we eyed each other across one of the half packed panniers, Richard standing at Constance’s shoulder in silent agreement. Travelling fast with a small escort, I did not need the added burden of my daughter, but her mouth had shut like a wolf trap, her brow furrowing with her determination so that she resembled even more closely her father at his most
recalcitrant, and because I did not have the energy to resist, I had given in. There would be a refuge for her in London before I kept the dread appointment. She must not be there.
It was as if she read my mind.
‘I will be at your side. Whatever it is that calls you to London, you will not face this alone.’
I did not argue, but I would not allow her this experience.
Now as we rode through the streets of the city towards the Thames, time was running out for me, and there was nowhere I could leave her in safety, unless in the sanctuary of some church. I could not think or plan ahead, my mind stunned with what awaited us. In the end I had no choice but to keep her with me, praying silently that my daughter’s Plantagenet blood, and the strength of will of Princess Joan, would come to her aid. She was too young for such a cruel lesson as this.
And here we were, beside London Bridge before dawn, before the predictable crowds gathered.
‘Wait here,’ I said, pushing a little ahead of my escort, including Henry’s herald who had refused to allow me to come alone, onto the bridge itself, clenching my reins in freezing fingers.
‘I did not intend that you should be here, my lady,’ he grunted, the herald’s mount keeping step.
‘Would I stay away? You do not know me.’
‘I know you for a brave woman.’
‘Then pray God my courage holds true.’
I knew it would not be long. Exhausted we might be, our mounts foundering beneath us, but we had arrived in time. My escort shuffled restlessly when I waved them back. Not long now.
For a half hour, while the winter sky lightened imperceptibly to a livid grey, we sat our horses and shivered, Constance insisting on keeping this strange vigil at my side. And then the sound I was waiting for, the striking of shod hooves against stone. More than one horse. As if in some strange anticipation, mist rolled over the surface of the river, coating the streets in rime, hiding the opposite bank where, from the north, the horses and their riders drew closer.
They came to a well-disciplined halt, four of them.
Automatically I reached out to take Constance’s hand and held tight, dismay building fast in my chest, berating myself for what I had allowed.
‘You should not be here,’ I said, my voice suddenly loud in the mist, until I forced it into a harsh whisper. ‘I should not have allowed it. It is not fitting …’
‘Nor is it for you. But if you must, so will I.’
‘Do you know?’
‘I do now.’ I could see tears spangling her cheeks and knew they were mirrored on mine. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Perhaps …’
‘But you tried to protect me from seeing my father as the traitor he is.’
‘He is not!’
‘Thus the world sees him.’
‘I know. But I would not have you remember him like this.’
‘I remember him as a father who laughed with us and let my brother claim victory over him with sword and lance. I will be brave.’ Her glance was keen. ‘I’ll not demean you. Or his memory.’
And I managed to smile, a bright, clear smile at my redoubtable daughter who carried her father’s blood so valiantly.
‘Then we will be brave together, as we try to prevent this travesty. But I think we will fail.’
Three of the men, now obvious in their familiar livery, emerged through the mist into the centre of the bridge. The white swan of the de Bohuns shimmered as if touched by magic. The livery of the Countess of Hereford.
‘It is not right,’ I whispered.
‘No,’ Constance murmured her mind running in tandem with mine. ‘It’s not right at all. It should be our own Holland livery. Could they not even give him this respect?’
Her maturity astounded me. But of course they would not: John had lost all such rights, all claims to dignity and recognition, when he had lifted his sword against the King. For Constance, I must be her shining example, not a whimpering creature, awash with useless emotion.
‘We will be dignified as Plantagenet women and do what we can.’
One of the men dismounted. Two kept watch despite the silence and the shrouding mist, one nodding in our direction but making no move towards us. Who would see resistance from two anonymous cloaked and hooded female figures? As for the royal herald, he would be expected to heartily applaud their actions. Then the man who had dismounted was un-strapping a pannier from his saddle.
I dismounted, walked forward. Slowly. I would not retreat from this. This was why I was here. My mind cried out. John, my love. I was with you in spirit even though you forbade me. I am here now.
‘Halt.’ The command rang out and I halted. ‘Go away, lady.’
‘I will not until I have fulfilled my task.’
‘You have no task here.’
I continued until I was within arm’s length, aware of Constance behind me when her heels clacked on the wood. I spun round.
‘Go back.’
‘I will not.’
I could hear a hoarse rasp in her breathing, even as every one of my senses was focused on the pannier in the man’s hands.
‘Give that to me,’ I said.
He grunted, a disbelieving laugh. ‘Who are you?’
I pushed back my hood. ‘I am Elizabeth of Lancaster.’
He exchanged glances with his companions.
‘I am Countess of Huntingdon. One time Duchess of Exeter. Sister to your King.’
The man’s features settled into a harder line, or so it seemed in the growing light, as if he had been warned, but he inclined his head with some respect.
‘Give me that,’ I repeated.
‘I’ve orders to follow.’
‘Whose orders? Who gave the order for this?’
‘The King’s orders.’
‘The King will not punish you. He will not know if you give it to me.’
‘So what do I tell King Henry when it disappears?’ The man’s teeth showed in a fierce grin. ‘That some passing thief purloined it? That it was spirited away by some ghostly apparition, or carried off by a starving gutter cur?’
‘I care not.’ I held out my hand. ‘If you have any mercy in you.’
I would beg.
‘No, lady. On the spikes at London Bridge, he said. On the spikes it goes.’ He grunted. ‘Or the Countess said. Same thing.’
It was indeed. She would take her instructions from Henry, but she was not beyond pursuing her own needs. Perhaps she had listened to her nephew, Thomas. How bitter was her revenge. The words, spoken so callously, forced me to face the truth of what I had come to see, and for a moment I closed my eyes. I did not want this.
‘It’s best if you’re not here, mistress. And the young girl.’
Mistress! He had reduced me. The wife of a traitor had no worth. As I felt Constance’s hand tug on my cloak, I drew in a raw breath, aware of the beginnings of a little crowd of townsfolk, voices carrying with excitement that would enrich the boredom of their day. Would I indeed flee, powerless as I was, leaving my mission incomplete?
‘Let me look,’ I said.
He shook his head.
‘Let me see him. I’ll make no trouble for you. One final time, on your mercy. Then I’ll go and let you complete your work.’
He shrugged. In the end he cared not, as long as he could carry out his orders and leave, or go to a tavern with his companions to drink after their long journey and forget this unpleasant outcome with a woman who pestered them and should know better. Yet he had no heart for an argument with me.
Before I could even prepare myself, he thrust his hand into the covered pannier and lifted out what I had come for. The head of John Holland.
I breathed slowly, in and out, aware of choking down a little cry of grief.
And then I forced myself to stand, to look, refusing to miss one detail, except for the jagged rawness where the axe had done its terrible job. I took in the fall of hair, bloody and matted where it had dried, filthy with dust, sparkling with
the salt in which it had been packed. The closed eyes. The wax-like face, all expression drained except for the line dug deep between his brows that even death could not erase. The lips pale and thinned, white as the rime on the bridge supports. John had not died at peace. All the love and life and fervour that had carried him through the years of life had been cruelly obliterated.
That I had expected—the imprint of suffering and of a violent and brutal death—but not the ravages of crows and other birds intent on carrion. How his beauty had been disfigured, marred by beak and claw, and I gasped, nausea rising swiftly, making me step back, only stopping when Constance’s grip moved from my cloak to my arm where it tightened. I felt her turn her head away but I couldn’t, even as I took her in my arms and pressed her face against my shoulder.
‘Don’t look if it hurts you. Don’t remember him like this. It is enough that you are here with me,’ I murmured and pushed her behind me.
‘Holy Virgin, intercede for him,’ I heard her whisper.
And with my daughter’s show of grace, my courage returned, and turning back, I touched him, smoothing the dust from his damaged cheek, pushing aside the wayward hair, so limp and lifeless. With the edge of my cloak I tried ineffectually to wipe the dried blood from his cheek.
‘How can this be?’ I asked.
‘The Countess ordered the exposure on a pike at Pleshey, my lady.’
I had been reinstated. Perhaps he was impressed that I had not fallen to the floor in a faint or screamed my agony.
‘John …’ I whispered.
‘Go home, lady. Go home to your children. Remember him when he was alive. If you choose to remember a traitor at all.’
‘He was no traitor to me.’
My love. My dear love. How could I not stop you before it came to this?
Stony faced, I looked up at the spikes where the heads of criminals and miscreants were exposed. I would not weep, even though birds were already hovering in anticipation, coming to land on the parapet.
‘I will fight for your title, your inheritance,’ I repeated my previous oath even more fervently. ‘I will fight for your lands. I swear that I will. I will give Henry no peace until he restores what is the rightful inheritance of our children.’
