by Anne O'Brien
‘I will not wed you, Sir John.’
‘Am I so bad a choice, my lady?’ he pursued.
Any choice was bad, however good his features, however smooth his tongue. I could not do it. Well-mannered and chivalrous he might be, I would not wed him. There were many women who would castigate me for a fool, and indeed in other circumstances, in another life, I might just …
A thought struck me with the force of a mace.
‘How old are you, Sir John?’
His brows lifted at so personal a question, but he told me.
And I laughed. I laughed loudly enough to draw the attention of every man and every scavenging dog in the room. And then I stopped, my hand to my mouth. It was ill mannered to laugh when the victim of my laughter had no idea why.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘I will not marry you. I will not marry you at my brother’s behest. There is nothing in this marriage for me and I am no tournament prize for the taking.’
Not waiting to see if he would argue against this, ignoring Henry, I left the ring, which Sir John had not redeemed, on the table and left the hall.
But before I climbed the stair, I looked back. What woman would not? Hands fisted on hips, Sir John Cornewall studied the floor at his feet. Then he retrieved the ring and pushed it onto his own finger, apparently neither embarrassed nor discomfited at my pronouncement. Did he think I would change my mind, or that Henry would bring his will to bear on me? For a young man without powerful sponsors he had an astonishing confidence, but he would find no compliance in me.
I walked with great dignity up the stairs and locked myself in my room.
The next morning I was up betimes, dressed, orders issued almost before daybreak. I considered departing without a word to anyone, but the emotional turmoil that had rumbled throughout the night, keeping my mind alert even though my body craved sleep, refused to let me act the coward. My brother deserved to know what I was doing and why I was doing it. It need not be a protracted meeting, or a particularly private one. We would not air our linen in public. What it would not be was pleasant.
‘Good morning, Elizabeth.’
I caught him, superbly groomed, every inch the King despite the early hour, in the brief hiatus between Mass and his reception of his Scottish couriers. He had been smiling at some comment made by his steward, but his welcome was tempered by the time I was within speaking distance. Oh, he was wary, and it was in my mind to shout and rail at him for his deception. The night had given me much food for thought.
Was I actually invited to York, to take precedence at Henry’s tournament and feasting with this marriage in mind? Had this been his plan all along, to make John Cornewall known to me, so that his undoubted expertise in the tournament field would melt my cold heart and encourage me to leap into his bed after a fast blessing of the church?
I was chillingly aloof. I enjoyed every inch of Henry’s discomfiture.
‘Good morrow, my lord,’ I said, drawing on my gloves. ‘I am here to inform you of my departure.’
A frown coloured his eyes. ‘Where are you going?’
Which I ignored. ‘I am also here betimes to inform you that I have refused the offer made to me by Sir John Cornewall at your prompting. I expect you know by now.’ I could see that he did from the wash of colour over his cheekbones. ‘I might have received his offer of marriage more sympathetically if you had discussed your plan with me. Or even asked my preference.’
‘I knew your preference. I knew you would refuse. What point in discussing it?’
‘And I have refused.’
‘Elizabeth!’ Annoyance was high, but there were too many interested ears in the crowded accommodation of Greyfriars and Henry lowered his voice. ‘Reconsider,’ he urged. ‘It is in my mind that …’
I refused to allow him to take my hands but stepped smartly back, away.
‘I will not. I know that I am part of your overall scheme, but I will not. Nor will I return to your court since I cannot trust you to put my wishes before your own.’
‘You will if I command you! I have promised your hand to Cornewall.’
‘Then let’s hope you do not command me. For you will be disappointed. I trust you will discover some means of breaking your promise. I expect you can promote another willing bride to enhance his status and win his gratitude.’
And I turned on my heel.
‘Elizabeth! We are not done with this conversation …’
‘But we are. We no longer have anything to say to each other.’
‘Have you forgotten? You are penniless without an annuity from me. You are dependent on me for—’
‘How could I forget?’ I returned so that the whole chamber could hear how I was treated, and spelled it out for him with furiously bitter words. ‘I am penniless and homeless. My thanks, Hal. I will not stay here to be assessed and prodded like a carcass set for the spit when you choose my next husband. I have more pride than that, and I deny you the right to determine the future direction of my life. You robbed me of my last husband. I will not take another at your hand.’
‘I do not give my permission! You will remain here.’
‘I am not asking for your permission.’
‘Elizabeth!’
I simply stood and faced him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I deny that it is any of your concern. You have destroyed my goodwill.’ I curtsied deeply. ‘Good day to you, my lord.’ And, with brisk footsteps, I left him to fume and restructure his plans. I would not be part of them. I had been manipulated by the men of my family before. If I wed again it would be my own choice.
I swore I would not.
Chapter Seventeen
Out of that one satisfying blaze of anger towards my brother and his knightly protégé, my need for a confidante had emerged as an overwhelming compulsion. All my life I had been strong, in the confidence imbued in me by my royal blood, by privilege, by unimaginable wealth. The protective arms of my family had banded around me so that I knew I would lack for nothing, and, when there was conflict, I was assured that my father would listen and not condemn me, even if he would not always change his policy in my favour. Many would say that I was too much indulged. Perhaps I was, but my father’s judgement was fair and honest.
Now my father was dead and my brother bent on his own singular path to securing the throne. Who to turn to for advice, for honest opinion? For comfort?
No, not comfort. I rejected comfort. There was no consolation for me. My choices had been made, disastrously, irrevocably, and now I must bear the cost because only I could. There could be no excuses, no redemption. There never could be. The burden on my soul was great, but did I not deserve it?
Yet still I felt the desire to sit and talk, with a cup of wine and no pressures of time, to a woman who would listen and respond as she saw fit rather than offering the platitudes she thought I would wish to hear. I grimaced at the truth of that. Who would be honest with me, sister to the King? There was no one in York. To whom would I open my heart? Not for the first time I wished that my sister were not so far away.
No point in wishing.
There was only one woman. Initially, my mind rejected her, unsure as I was of my welcome, but her calm beauty even in old age and her measured accents returned to haunt me, so much so that I made my decision, just to rid myself of an uncomfortable presence that lectured me in my dreams.
Perhaps it was time I made my peace with her.
Never one to give confidences to my women, not wishing to be burdened with their chatter, I travelled with one young girl in attendance and kept my own counsel as I rode east from York, with a small entourage of two grooms and a quartet of men at arms. Oblivious to the flat expanses of the vale and then the uplift of the ridge of low hills, I spent my time in mentally listing what I would talk about when I reached my destination. How my spirits wallowed as my mind lurched from one thought to the next, casting each aside as an impossibility.
My loss of John, that absolute l
oss for which there was no remedy, waged war against my inner peace.
My fear of loneliness as my children grew and age touched me. Though that would not be an issue if I remarried as Henry wanted me to.
Which led to another intimate fear that I would reveal to no one: that I might love again and so betray John. How could I risk that?
My resentment towards Henry that he should deal with my future so fast and so ruthlessly without either my consent or even knowledge. Being preoccupied with the recalcitrant Scots was no excuse, after all our lives together, all we had shared, rejoiced in, and suffered. Henry could no longer be a confidant of mine.
Yes, there was only one destination in my mind, and how simple a journey it was once I had set my mind to it.
‘If you are here to see me, Elizabeth, the world must indeed be standing on its head.’
‘I think it is,’ I said.
‘Are we at war? Or is it a crisis of the heart?’
‘Both,’ I replied, more sharply than I had intended. No, this was not going to be easy.
‘Then you are welcome.’
The woman, standing in the doorway of the scrupulously arranged parlour actually curtsied to me. Her tone was even, if a little caustic, as I recalled that it could be when she was faced with insurrection in her charges, but her eyes were not unkind and the smile that lit her face was genuine in its warmth.
‘Should not I show respect to you?’ I asked. Still there was an edge to my voice, product of this unusual meeting, unusual circumstances. ‘I have been stripped of my titles, whereas my father saw fit to clothe you in utmost respectability.’
‘You should, of course.’ She laughed softly. ‘But your blood is of far greater value than mine.’
This was better. Acknowledging the gleam in her eye, I copied her neat gesture, then stood and observed the woman who had had more influence on my life than she would ever know.
‘Come in and be at ease, and sheathe your sword,’ she invited with all the old grace.
I stepped across the threshold, followed her into her private parlour, thinking how like her it was. The highly polished wood, the expensive hangings, the signs of female occupation with books and embroidery and a lute, all overlaid with a fine elegance and an essence of style that was very much her own. She was of course a wealthy widow, and free to indulge her tastes and interests as she pleased.
‘Please to be seated.’
Nodding to dismiss her servant, she moved to pour me a cup of wine while I divested myself of hood and gloves, disposing of the items on a coffer beneath the window, beating the dust from my skirts. She was assured enough of her own status that she did not come to my aid. Nor did I need it.
So we sat and regarded each other, not yet at ease. She had not kissed me in welcome as once she would have done. Nor did I kiss her.
I thought that she had aged since I saw her last but her comeliness was not disfigured in any way by the fine lines of grief and experience. As for grey hair I could not tell. She wore a plain linen coif that drew the eye to her broad brow and to her eyes, full, as I now saw, with compassion. Her hands lay in her lap, loosely linked, abjuring the cup of wine and her feet rested on a little cushioned stool.
How composed she was in her widowhood. Unlike me.
‘Well, Elizabeth? You have not come all this way to Lincoln for the pleasure of looking at me, now have you?’
Dame Katherine de Swynford as I first knew her. Now Dowager Duchess of Lancaster. My father’s sometime scandalous mistress and finally his wife, the woman my father the Duke had loved enough to keep by him for almost thirty years. The woman who was once my governess and who I believed had loved me. In spite of our sharp exchange over my loyalties to John, I knew—I hoped—that still she held me close in her heart.
Was that not why I was here?
But still I hesitated, inexplicably uncertain. Had I not come here for truth?
‘It is many months since I last saw you,’ Katherine said, to soften the silence. ‘Are your children in good health? They will be well grown …’
We had never been as close, Duchess Katherine and I, as she was with Philippa. I felt her disapproval of John and my choice of him even now hovering between us, and resented it, for neither of us was without sin. And when I had demanded by what right she could criticise my choice, when she had lived in an adulterous relationship for all the years I had known her, all she could say was that at least her sin was with a man of honour. That John could never have a claim to that.
The hard words of the past raced through my mind, resentment building anew.
Ultimately Katherine sighed. ‘Why have you come to see me, Elizabeth? Is there so much lingering bitterness between us over your choice of Holland that we cannot now find common ground?’
And I knew. She might have been a scandalous whore in Walsingham’s eyes but Katherine was the most devout, most clear-sighted woman I knew. In the corner of the room was her own prie-dieu, with a rosary and Book of Hours and I would swear they were well used. Katherine would give me her guidance.
‘You look weary,’ she said.
‘So do you.’
She smiled faintly and I knew she felt her years. ‘Two widows, sharing a cup of wine.’
I grimaced. ‘I feel old!’ Yet I felt the tensions in my neck and shoulders begin to lessen.
‘Not as old as I, I assure you.’ Her light laughter was a blessing. ‘You are a young woman with all your life before you. Now tell me why you have come, and if I can I will help you. Then you can go away again and we can both be comfortable.’
Direct as usual, but she smiled, and I found that I was returning it.
‘I am not sure,’ I said at last. My mental list-making had been for nought. ‘I’m not even sure that I should have come.’
‘I think I might guess,’ she said, and stood with a smooth serenity that denied her years. ‘Come with me. I’ll make it easier for you.’ And taking my arm she ushered me through the door and out into the cathedral close. ‘You’ll not need outerwear. It’s warm enough for a little walk. Leave your woman here. We don’t need protection in Lincoln.’
‘Where?’ I asked, suspiciously, ready to resist. Was she going to pray over me in the cathedral? I had had enough of prayers that left me empty with despair.
‘You’ll see. Just enjoy the scene.’
And then we were in the streets, making our way downhill through the shops towards the market stalls. All was bustle and prosperity, the daily task of buying and selling coupled with the exchange of news. All around us was the clink of coin, the exchange of goods.
‘Perhaps I will buy some fish.’ Katherine lingered by a stall where she was obviously well known.
I looked askance. ‘If you do, I’ll not walk with you!’
‘What’s wrong with a fine carp? You’ve suddenly become over nice. Your father once offered to buy me oysters in the market at Leicester.’
Again, the laughter in her voice soothed all the raw edges in my heart. ‘And what a scandal that caused.’
‘It was not the oysters. It was the horse.’
‘I remember.’ It was my father’s indiscreet hand on Katherine’s bridle, openly in the streets of Leicester, that had drawn too much unwelcome attention and dragged Katherine’s name in the mud as witch and seductress.
There was no need to say more, for those days were long gone. Any number of people greeted Katherine, asking after her health. We walked slowly side by side, light comment passing between us, nothing to do with my purpose here. I could not define her intention but allowed her to take the lead. And then we climbed the hill again, back to the looming bulk of the cathedral.
‘We will go in.’
‘I have no wish to pray. I have prayed enough in recent weeks.’
‘Then we will sit and talk.’ Unperturbed, she led me towards the Lady Chapel where we sat in the cool tranquillity. ‘We will not be disturbed. I am well known here.’ Katherine disposed her skirts into seemly folds. ‘
One day I will be buried here.’ I glanced sharply at her, wondering if I had been misled by her smiling composure. ‘But not yet. I still have my health.’
For the first time, sitting close to her now, I saw the weaving of lines beside eyes and mouth. She would always be a comely woman, but there was evidence of suffering. Did I not recognise it?
‘You miss him,’ I said.
‘Every hour. Every day.’ No drama, merely a statement.
‘I miss John,’ I stated.
‘I know. I did not know if you would wish me to speak of it. Our words were harsh, as I recall.’
‘I loved him so much.’
‘I never judged you. The Duke and I simply thought that he would never bring you happiness. And I was right, wasn’t I? His defection from Henry put you in an impossible position.’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But oh, he brought me such happiness as well. And I thought you did judge me, in allowing him the intimacies of marriage. And in bringing grief to my father. That is why …’
‘That is why you cut me off. You always were intolerant, Elizabeth.’ She stretched out her hand to touch mine. ‘How could I be judgemental, when I had committed the exact same sin? But enough of that.’ She squeezed my hand then released it. ‘Perhaps, two femmes soles as we are, we can now heal a few wounds. This is a place of contemplation and sacred thoughts. Of honest confession. Tell me why you are here.’
So I did.
‘Henry has given my hand in marriage.’
‘So soon. But I am not surprised. I thought that might bring you to my door.’
‘Did you know?’ I reacted with a sudden burst of barely suppressed frustration, despite the sacred place. ‘Had he told everyone but me?’
This time she closed her hand around mine to still me.
‘No. How should that be? I live retired from the world. But common sense tells me that that is what Henry would do.’
‘I did not see it!’ Or had I? ‘Perhaps not so soon, at least.’
