The King’s Sister (28 page)

I stood in the middle of the entrance hall, not knowing what to do.

‘He’ll think that he’s safer in Paris—if that’s where he is—than attempting to return. If he’s any sense.’

I could not accept that. All I could hear was Richard’s condemnation and John’s lack of interest.

‘Richard hates him,’ I argued. ‘Richard has always loathed him. They are so different. Sometimes it is as if he envies Henry. They clashed as boys when Henry was the more confident, clever with bow and sword where Richard was not.’

‘I don’t know that.’ John shrugged again, leaving me adrift with my worries. ‘But he’ll not let him return.’

Which made me decide. Opening one of the doors off this antechamber, I entered the Master Shelley’s neatly-ordered domain where I found in a coffer means to write a letter.

‘I will write,’ I announced.

John had followed me to lean against the door jamb, but now he stepped close and took the quill from me. ‘Don’t. Don’t encourage him to come back.’

‘I want him to.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘To claim back his inheritance. What else?’ I discovered my hands were clenched into fists. ‘Do you forbid me? I wouldn’t, if I were you. I am past good reason after the last few hours of Richard’s vindictiveness.’

‘It would be a declaration of war. You must not do it.’

‘John—’ Suddenly I had to know. ‘Did you know what Richard would do today?’

We stared at each other, despair a winter cloak, deadening all other senses.

‘Did you?’ I repeated.

‘Yes. I knew.’

‘Why did you not tell me, warn me?’

He made no reply, simply casting down the quill, now mangled into pieces, whereas I simply covered my face with my hands.

‘John. What will become of us?’ My plea was muffled but clear enough.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is our love strong enough to stand fast?’ No reply. So I asked what lay like a knife against my heart. ‘If you had foreseen this rift between Richard and Henry, would you have wed me?’

How I dreaded the answer, that John would rather have stepped away from this conflict of loyalties. But he pulled me into his arms, to kiss me, though I could taste more than a hint of desperation in his lips.

‘I would do it again. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he said, voice rough.

‘As I would wed you.’

But tomorrow might become desperate. There was a gulf
growing between us. Once I had constructed a bridge that we had crossed together. I feared that this chasm might prove to be unbridgeable.

I took no heed of John’s advice. Dictate, rather. How could I remain silent and inert, leaving all to chance? Husband or brother? Brother or husband? It was an agonising decision but I wrote and paid a courier to slip out of England to Paris, where it was delivered.

A brief and emotionless missive:

John says—and John is much in the King’s confidence—that it would be unwise for you to return, that Richard will not receive you with anything but ill will and it would not be to your advantage. That to return would end in your imprisonment and perhaps worse. Richard is not beyond wishing the death of our Lancastrian line.

Your eldest son Henry is safe but lodged in the royal household for your good behaviour.

I think you must make your own decision. John and I are at odds over this, but I cannot bear that you should be stripped of what is rightfully yours.

I thought, long and hard.

My advice would be to come home and claim your inheritance.

This was, as John had made plain, to encourage a declaration of war. I knew it, and yet what choice did Henry have if he was not to live a landless pensioner, without status or hope for his family, begging for handouts round the courts of Europe who would be merciful in memory of our father? Selling his skills in the tournament for the entertainment of the foreign aristocracy? That must not be.

And then all I could do was await a reply, thinking that he might, for the sake of his sons, err on the side of caution and remain silent. But in truth I knew my brother well enough to anticipate his next move.

There was a reply, pushed into my palm on a scrap of parchment.

I will return.

I did not tell John what I had done. For the first time there were secrets between us, dangerous secrets, as I grew heavier with my impending child. Consequently the disturbing news from Reigate barely registered on our troubled horizon. Richard FitzAlan was dead, the young disinherited Earl of Arundel wrenched from life by some nameless disease. He would never be reunited with his father’s inheritance.

And Thomas?

With rabid opportunism, Thomas had escaped the somewhat lax surveillance and was, so our steward wrote—and good riddance to him—bound for Europe to join his uncle, the FitzAlan Archbishop of Canterbury, deposed by Richard and now in exile.

‘One more weight off my mind!’ remarked John. ‘Although I regret the lad’s death. I expect it will be laid at my door, but I can’t worry about that now. I’m going to Ireland.’ He grimaced.

‘Now?’

‘Now. Richard wants it. Perhaps not the best of times, but he has visions of ruling a great Empire. I hope he lives to see the day …’

John’s sardonic observation made me think beyond the
death of intimate communication that seemed to have engulfed us. Did he know? Did he know that Henry would return? Of course he did. He would not be the political animal I knew him to be if he did not. But nothing passed between us. John kissed me farewell, bade me take the weight off my feet, and went to Ireland.

I barely thought about the FitzAlans, my own disparate family filling my mind from daybreak to nightfall.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ John’s eyes were fierce with his final instruction.

‘No,’ I said. Layers of lies, building up, while beneath my composed and affectionate farewell, I was aware of the turbulent anger that raged in my belly. Anger against Richard and his fickle intransigence, against John and his damned loyalties. Even against Henry who had failed to persuade Richard to see his own value as cousin and counsellor. When I wed John Holland I had thought my feet settled in a path that would bring me a life befitting my rank and talents. A presence at court in my own right, I and my family would be strong, ruling England well in a formidable alliance as my grandfather King Edward would have wished. As my father worked for.

But all my contentment, all my certainties were destroyed. As John rode out to accompany Richard to Ireland, I smiled bitterly at my youthful innocence when I had thought that all things could be managed by an intelligent woman, when I had manoeuvred to achieve the marriage I desired. How ignorant I had been. In the end female ingenuity and cunning could achieve nothing against the thrust of power and ambition and pragmatism, against fear
of whose hands held the reins of power in the kingdom. I was helpless, forced to bow before a greater authority than my own.

All my happiness had been stripped away. Some days I thought I would never find the means to reclaim it.

There came for me a time of anxiety and waiting. I prayed. In better days Duchess Katherine would have been proud of my persistence, but the silence—she in Lincoln, I in London—continued between us. Her heart would be with Henry. As was Philippa’s, whose letter-writing was prodigious. All I could do was pray.

But for whom did I pray?

For John, whose safety in Ireland was a constant stone in my shoe. For Henry who had done exactly as he had promised. Landing in England in Yorkshire at Ravenspur in the heat of July, he was marching steadily south, collecting men who had no good to say of Richard. Even for Richard, that he would see sense and come to terms, smoothing over the old rifts so that we might be comfortable again.

Impossible, of course. I rejoiced for Henry. I yearned for John. I prayed for this child that grew in my belly, that it would be born into a kingdom that knew peace, not warfare, for I could not see the future with any hope. I despaired for Richard, yet kept him too in my prayers.

And then rumours flew thick and fast, painting such vivid scenes, all through the long months of August and into September while I remained at Pultney. Henry fell to his knees to kiss the ground of England as the Lancaster retainers rallied
in vast numbers to his call. Henry claimed no ill intent against Richard, but only to reclaim what was rightfully his, the inheritance of Lancaster. Richard returned from Ireland to Pembroke in a hurry, only to take refuge at Conway after a show of disgraceful cowardice.

And then the news I had hoped for, news of John, sent by Richard to negotiate with Henry, as skilful intermediary between King and invading traitor. A hopeless case, however persuasive John might be to reunite the two royal cousins, for Henry was intransigent and Richard, reluctant but helpless without strength of arms, forced into surrender. As for John, he was kept under surveillance in Henry’s following as Henry marched to London with Richard as his prisoner.

England had fallen into Henry’s hands, as neat as an egg into a cup. Henry was home and, with the King under his hand, the Lancaster inheritance was his for the taking. I shared a cup of wine with our steward, toasting my brother’s success, and I was glad, but there was no lasting joy in my heart as the uncertain future rolled out before me.

Victory for Henry, and I should rejoice for him. But at what personal cost? Those closest to me in the world, my family, those I loved, had been shattered into separate pieces, like a costly Venetian glass dropped by a careless kitchen maid. Richard would find it impossible to accept Henry’s power over him, nor would Henry be tolerant. Here were two ill-matched cousins who would never come to terms. Whereas John … how could John’s pride survive being chained to Henry’s side? Where were his loyalties now?

There was only one thought of comfort. There had been no bloodshed. They were all alive to work out some compromise. If I had been a naïve woman I would have believed this, but I knew that a Venetian glass, once smashed, could never be reassembled.

I longed for John’s return and yet I feared it, for what would we say to each other? All I could do was wait, my increasingly ponderous body swathed in light silks until the day when Henry entered London in a superb display of triumph. Of course he would. Would my brother, raised from his cradle to know his worth as the Lancaster heir, do any other? And I rejoiced with him, for this was a malicious wrong being put right.

How could my mind be so appreciative of Henry’s success, at the same time as utter desolation constructed a wall around my heart? I woke, my first thoughts to rejoice that all the vile events of the past were over and justice would be done. Richard would repent, Henry would take back his title and estates, and John would clasp the hands of both in friendship. And then I trembled, for I was alone in my bed and John’s future lay hidden like a foul toad in the murk at the bottom of a pool. Justice for Henry could be destruction for both Richard and John. Would triumph for my brother destroy John’s love for me? I could see no way through the tangle of my conflicting emotions.

‘Come with me,’ I would have said to John if he had been beside me, after I had kissed him into wakefulness. Would those days ever return? ‘Come and throw yourself on my brother’s mercy. He will understand. He knows the demand of family and will be magnanimous. Did he not welcome
you with courtesy when you negotiated on Richard’s behalf? Did he not listen with grave consideration, as if your opinions mattered to him? Richard’s days as King are numbered and my brother in the ascendant. Come and greet Henry, at my side, for he will assuredly receive me with love. And you too. Am I not his well-beloved sister?’

That is what I would have said, but I did not know where John was.

Racked with helplessness, all I knew, all that I could cling to when I imagined the very worst of outcomes, was that John was no political fool. There was no unworldliness in his planning, rather a streak of pragmatism as wide as the seas between us and France, and he would be quick as the next man to detect when his chosen stance had no sure footing. If I could detect a lost cause, then so could John. To remain with Richard was certain disaster. How could John expect my brother to accept soft words from Richard when it was patently clear that those words meant nothing, merely sliding from his tongue as necessity demanded? No promise was binding to Richard, and my brother, with an army bellowing ‘God bless Henry of Lancaster’ at every opportunity, was under no necessity to negotiate.

Pray God John made the right decision. In the gloom of disillusion I considered John’s future if he were to remain adamantly in alliance with Richard. Loss of land, loss of titles. Loss of power. Would it mean exile, as Henry had been exiled? And his heir? What of our son, Richard? Another boy to live out his life as a hostage for his father’s behaviour.

A desperate existence for a man of pride and passion.

That would be my future too, as wife to an attainted traitor.

And what if the end was death by the axe, the ultimate penalty for those on the losing side? I could not think of that. And yet I must.

For me, now, all was to play for. It was for me to tread a difficult path, perhaps an impossible one, to do all in my power to reunite the two sides of my family, for which outcome I would fight with every breath in my body. Richard’s days as King were undeniably numbered, but perhaps it was still possible to bring John and Henry together in some form of mutual agreement that would salve the pride of both.

If not, how could I live, torn between them?

If I had to make a choice …

No. It would not come to that. Never to that. I could not even contemplate such an agonising decision.

Meanwhile I had an appointment to keep.

‘L
ong live the good Duke of Lancaster!’

‘God bless Henry of Lancaster!’

As the shouts became clearer, they jolted me. For me, the Duke of Lancaster was still my father, but time had moved on. What would my father have said about the overthrow of the young King he had fought so hard to shape and foster? Thank God the future was not ours to read.

I dressed as if for a celebration, but a solemn one, the folds of night-blue silk-damask capacious enough to flatter my increasing girth. Knowing Henry as well as I did, I knew what he would do as soon as he entered London. I knew which direction his steps would take for his motivations were as clear to me as my own. Duty. Love of family. Pride in his ancestry. Pride in his blood and what was due to the past. I knew where to wait for him.

Henry had made his entrance into the city through the great Aldgate, as I could tell by the cheering crowds, the
direction of the increasing volume of noise. Exiled traitor turned hero, lauded as he and his victorious army marched through the streets, with the Mayor and Aldermen in festive array and fervent agreement. I had arrived at my self-appointed position early. I was so certain that this was where Henry would come.

But where was John? If he was with Richard still, would he be lodged in the Tower with him as a prisoner? If so, even more reason for me to meet Henry. I would kiss him in greeting then go down on my knees to beg for mercy. For John. For Richard.

I hoped Henry would be of a mind to listen and smile on me. It was no wish of mine to meet him on my knees.

I waited, the minutes seemingly endless, but I had not been misguided in my surmising. There he was, striding towards me, his metal-shod feet echoing in the vast space of St Paul’s Cathedral, walking swiftly and alone along the nave towards the high altar. I drew back into the shadows. I would give him this moment alone. Had he not earned it after the months of uncertainty and anguish?

I studied him.

Acknowledging that the extent of parting had been good to him, I found my anxieties smoothing out, the tension in my body relaxing. At thirty-two years, Henry had grown into his strength with an authority to match. It was as if his experiences in exile had tempered his confidence and he wore it like a pair of velvet gloves, superbly formed in expert hands. I could not but admire him. He had staked everything on this return, no less than an invasion. Of course he had returned. What man of courage and of royal blood
could accept such a monstrous decision to banish him for life, based on a weak king’s whim?

So here he was, to reclaim his own inheritance—and more.

I knew where he would set his sights. As soon as I saw the proud tilt of his head, the sumptuous suit of chased and gilded armour, I knew he would wear the crown.

Henry knelt, exactly where I knew he would kneel before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped on his sword hilt, while all around him was silence, despite the nave filling up with Mayor and Aldermen, with Henry’s friends. It was such a prescient moment, a moment of awful truth for Richard as well as for Henry.

There was no sign of Richard.

Henry rose, stood, head bowed still, then turned to walk slowly forward to where I waited in the sheltering bulk of a pillar, but his eye was not for me. All his attention was for the tomb where the old Duke, our father, lay at peace at last beside our mother Blanche. I could feel the tension in him beneath the composure, the need to lay his victory before his father. I let him go.

Magnificently carved, the effigies were crisp in their recent completion. A lance and shield hung above and I saw the exact moment that Henry raised his eyes to them, to the coat of arms of my father encompassing the golden leopards of England that hung flatly motionless in the still air. Henry’s face was taut with emotion.

At last, sensing a need in him, I stepped forward.

‘Henry.’

His eyes touched my face fleetingly before returning to
the likeness of the Duke. He was not surprised to find me here. ‘I could not be here when he died,’ he said.

‘I know. I was here for you. And Duchess Katherine. We honoured him for you because we knew your absence was not of your choosing.’

Henry wept, tears racing down his cheeks while he made no attempt to hide them. And stepping closer, I wept too—for our loss, and for my brother, my face pressed against the metal of his shoulder, his arm around my waist. So we stood, the wretchedness of our parting swept away in that moment of recognition of the greatness of our father.

‘I should have been at his side. I should have returned.’ Despite the rigid plates of metal I felt his body shiver beneath my hands.

‘He knew you could not. It was too dangerous. Katherine was there with him at Leicester. She arranged it as he desired. It was all done as you could have wished for.’

Henry wiped away the tears with the heel of his hand.

‘Have you come to welcome me home, little sister?’

‘I have. My heart is glad.’ What of John? I wanted to ask. But this was not the time. ‘Where is Richard?’ At least I could ask that.

‘I’ve sent him to the Palace of Westminster. Later he will be lodged in the Tower. And then we will decide.’ He must have read my expression. ‘All I wish to do is remove him from power. Nothing more. There will be no more injustice to harm the people of England.’

‘And will you take the crown of England for yourself?’ It was the question on everyone’s lips.

‘We must wait. All is not settled yet.’

Since it was as much as he would say, we knelt before the Duke’s tomb and gave thanks for Henry’s safe return, until, equanimity restored, we stood together, smiling, all the weight of family healing the past months of separation.

‘You are well,’ Henry stated, kissing my cheek. ‘And near your time, I would say,’ eyeing the swell of my robes.

‘Yes. You look good on victory.’ I reciprocated his welcome.

‘And Philippa?’

‘A doting mother.’

‘And your children?’

‘Thriving. Have you seen your four boys? They grow like saplings.’

Such closeness, but emotion shivered between us with the one name that had not yet been uttered. It was as if John stood between us, unacknowledged.

‘Will you come with me to Westminster?’ Henry asked, taking my arm to guide me along the nave. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing.’

Slowly we walked together towards the great door where the crowds were dispersing and where Henry’s closest followers were awaiting him.

‘They welcomed you,’ I said, still astonished at the force of the acclamation.

‘They did.’ Henry paused, pulling me to a halt, the timbre of his voice chilling to match the air in the cathedral. ‘But here is one who might not.’

I followed Henry’s line of sight to the dark figure standing just within the door.

‘Did you tell him to come?’ he asked.

‘No. No, I have not seen him.’

There, by the carved arch, in a little space as Henry’s friends drew back, was my husband—not under constraint, and my heart leaped in relief. But then I saw his hand was clenched on the sword at his side, his face set like one of the carved statues set in the niches around me, grim and entirely unforgiving. And I saw the little scene as if from a distance, how Henry and I must appear, united against him. Perhaps that was the cause of his rigid jaw, the heavy lines bracketing his mouth. Did he think I had made a stand with Henry against him? The expression in his eyes as they touched mine stung me by their lack of emotion. Of course he recognised his own isolation in our close stance.

But oh, the relief at seeing him there, returned to me! I smiled, holding out my hand towards him in welcome.

John did not move one muscle.

Neither did Henry.

There would be no clasping of hands here.

I took a step, away from Henry, to stand between the two men, so that I might see them both. Did Henry feel no sense of duty, of past gratitudes for John’s support for our father in those terrible days at Sheen, when Richard had accused the Duke of plotting foul murder? It might even be argued that John’s timely intervention, seizing Richard’s sword arm, had saved our father’s life. John had been retained by the Duke, had fought bravely at his side in the Castilian campaign. But there was no recognition of past debts in Henry’s eyes, as little as in John’s. Both mature and seasoned in the use and abuse of power, both driven by ambition, they assessed each other. I might well not have been there. Their eyes held,
John’s dark and stormy, Henry’s clear with conviction. A challenge? A plea? I could not tell. All I knew was that there was no coming together.

In desperation I placed my hand on Henry’s arm.

‘Henry … will you greet my husband? He has come here of his own free will.’

‘I will greet him when I know where his allegiance lies. When we last exchanged words of any length, he was the chosen negotiator for my cousin Richard.’

‘And now you have my brother under lock and key in the Palace of Westminster,’ John replied. ‘Will you tell me your intentions towards him? He is still your Anointed King.’

‘I am under no obligation to tell you anything, Exeter. I hold the whip hand here.’ There was no doubting the threat in Henry’s demeanour.

‘So you will seize the Crown.’

‘Whether I do or not, it is time for you to display your future fealty. Long past time. Are you for me or against me? I could send you to enjoy your brother’s quarters at Westminster. It would be just retribution.’ Henry’s face broke into a smile, although not one to give me any hope. ‘But for my sister’s sake I will wait. I will leave you free to see the birth of your child. But after that, you assure me of your allegiance, Exeter, or I will strip every honour and title from you.’ Suddenly the threat was rebounding from the stonework, frightening in its power. ‘I am victor here. The sooner you come to terms with that reality the better.’

Henry shrugged off my hand, bowed formally and briefly, walking around John to rejoin his friends, leaving us, wordless, to follow in his victorious wake until I stopped John by
stepping in front of him. For a moment I thought he would side-step and continue, but I grasped his tunic.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘Well, what?’ His regard was hostile. Here was no meeting of minds.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ The anxieties of the past days bloomed into a conflagration unfitting for our holy surroundings. ‘Did it not cross your mind that I would worry myself to death? I had no idea where you were, whether you were safe. Why could you not send word, if nothing else?’

‘Your concern is encouraging, Elizabeth. It has to be said that it did not seem to be worrying you unduly. Your reunion with your brother was touching. Most commendable.’

‘Of course it was. Would I not welcome him? He has every right to be here.’ Loosening my grasp, I smoothed my fingers over John’s chest as if I might soften his anger. ‘You have to make your peace with him, can you not see that? It would be political suicide to make yourself his enemy.’

‘I already am his enemy it seems. He has a short memory.’

‘He has not forgotten our family’s debt to you, but he also remembers your sworn allegiance to Richard …’

‘And Richard will be shut up in the Tower before the end of this day.’

‘Henry will treat him honourably.’

‘Are you so sure? I’m not. It would be in his best interests to obliterate Richard entirely. If your brother seeks the crown, a living king is a dangerous entity. Far better to destroy him.’

I paused to draw in a breath, as John voiced my own well-hidden fears. I could ignore them no longer.

‘Is that what you would do?’ I asked. ‘If you were in Henry’s shoes?’

‘That is not what I said.’

‘It is what you implied.’

‘There is no reasoning with you. You are too close to Henry to see reason.’

‘As you are too close to Richard.’

He exhaled forcefully. ‘Am I vermin to escape from a floundering ship, to abandon Richard in his despair?’

‘But if you don’t leap overboard, you will drown with the rest.’

How impossible it was.

‘Do I abandon one lord to whom I have sworn allegiance, to immediately bow to another?’

‘Yes, if it is a matter of survival.’

‘It is treachery.’

‘Can you argue that Richard is a man to bring honour to England? To rule fairly, upholding the law. You cannot. You know he is self-serving. Unpredictable …’

‘Will Henry, if he takes the crown, rule any better?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so certain? And by what right does he claim the crown of England?’

And there was the impossible question, for there were others who stood before Henry and the succession to the throne.

Still I stood, smoothing my palms against his chest, sensing a lessening of his anger.

‘I cannot argue this with you. Before God, John. If you love me, if you value our love and the stability of lives, for our children, accept Henry as your lord. You heard the Mayor and Aldermen, their words of welcome. Richard’s time is past. We must accept that. Will you make a martyr of yourself, for Richard’s sake?’