Authors: Anne O’Brien
Her reference was clear enough.
‘I know,’ I said, looking away to hide the sadness that those probing eyes might detect. ‘I miss Dame Katherine.’
‘So do I. Witch she might be, to seduce Lancaster—though I doubt he needed much seducing—but she has always struck me as a woman of uncommonly good sense. And without doubt Lancaster loved her.’ The Princess finished the wine, her homily at an end. ‘And now we’ve covered all the political goings-on at my son’s court, it’s time I met the bride. Braid my hair, Elizabeth.’
Standing, I applied the comb to hair now almost entirely grey but which once must have added to her considerable beauty. Once more in its confining roll, she inspected the effect in her looking glass, grimaced, but nodded.
‘It’s the best that can be done. In my time I had every man at court at my feet, but now …’ She struggled with my help to stand. ‘Take me to her and I’ll see what I make of this Anne of Bohemia. Will I like her?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ I let her rest her hand on my arm as we walked slowly through the audience chambers.
‘Will she prove to be a solid influence on my son?’
‘I think she will.’ I wondered if her suspicions of Richard’s waywardness were as lively as mine, but could not ask. ‘He has great affection for her,’ I said.
‘Then let us give thanks to Our Lady. May be she can achieve where we cannot.’
How I admired this woman who walked haltingly at my side, her fingers digging into my arm. So deeply in touch with events and movements she was, despite living in some seclusion at Wallingford. Princess Joan might appear indolent and pleasure-loving, but she was impressively well informed. Her discourse had appealed to my intellect as well as my pride. I would never allow myself to be ignorant again of matters that might harm the Lancaster household. I was grateful to her.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.
‘There!’ she replied with a malicious little glint in her eye. ‘I knew you would be useful to me. I have a high regard for your father. You can be my eyes and ears. Mine are beginning to suffer from advanced age.’
Taken aback, I slid a glance.
‘When I am gone, who will put their strength behind your father? And when your brother becomes Duke in the fullness of time, who will stand beside him? I see dark clouds looming, storms and tempests the like of which we have never seen before. We women have a role to play. Family loyalty must not be taken for granted. A woman must foster it as she raises her children and stitches her altar cloths.
You
must foster it, Elizabeth, for my days are numbered. Men wield their swords, but women have the gift of careful listening at keyholes. And of persuasion when brute force fails.’ Upon which she halted, clamping a hand in my sleeve, and regarded me even more sternly. ‘I put this burden on you. Are you listening?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
A frisson of interest, or was it disbelief, gripped me. What
was she asking? Never had I been called upon to shoulder so weighty a mission, but of course I would obey. Was not my family the most important part of my life? Without question I would be Princess Joan’s eyes and ears, open to any whisper of danger or attack against Lancaster. I would remain constant and steadfast all my days. And then, on a thought:
‘Why did you not ask my sister?’
‘Your sister will believe the best of everyone. She’s no use to me. Now you, Elizabeth, are cut from quite a different bolt of cloth.’
Which made me laugh. ‘I hope I am able to live up to your expectations, my lady. But I will certainly pray for this new marriage.’
‘I know you will. And I know that you will prove yourself a magnificent supporter of Lancaster.’ We began to move again, the Princess labouring a little but still as incisive as ever. ‘But remember what I say. Don’t smile too overtly or too kindly on my son.’
‘No, my lady. I will not.’
‘I wish I could believe you,’ she remarked with dry appreciation as we at last entered the royal presence. ‘I have my doubts. My son has proved himself a man who makes women forget their promises.’
I smiled. I would never again be ignorant, but indeed I could not promise. Nor was I worried about future storms and tempests for my anticipation of my next meeting with Sir John Holland was too keen. But I would, of course, be careful. My reputation, as the Princess had put it, would suffer no reverses. Could I ever be so well tuned to the
political nuances of Richard’s court as she? I could not, in my frivolous mind, imagine it. But I would never neglect my Lancaster blood. No member of my family would ever suffer because of some lack in me.
But first there was the tournament. My heart was light, my spirits overflowing.
The weather was a perfect January afternoon for Richard’s festivities: cold and crisp and clear. Muffled in furs from chin to floor, the women of the court took their places in the new pavilion hung with bright tapestry enhanced with swags and gilding, Queen Anne in pride of place as Lady of the Lists, with me at her side, honoured, as was fitting, as her chief lady-in-waiting and cousin by marriage.
It was the simplest of matters for me to push aside Princess Joan’s advice, her warnings that I should be aware of threat and danger at every turn. Of course she would see the dark side of every glance, slide and movement around the King, and, given her history, the insidious menace of scandal. Was it not the role of a lioness to fear for her cub? But I was young and beautiful and need have no fears. With my father once more counsellor at the King’s side, why did I need to worry my mind with court politics? Was I not too young to carry such a burden? And I was wearing a gown so heavy in gold thread that it turned every head.
Above my head, pennons snapped in the breeze to display Anne’s heraldic motifs quartered with Richard’s. It was a fine display. Richard was very keen on display.
Across the field of battle we could make out the two
teams of combatants. My father was jousting today. There was Henry. And Sir John Holland in the Lancaster contingent. There was my husband, Earl of Pembroke, astride a lively gelding, proudly bearing a Lancaster banner as page to my father.
The opposition was led, reluctantly, by my uncle of York, but there would be no danger. Lances capped, it would be a tournament
à plaisance.
Would we prove to be invincible?
Richard did not fight. Richard had no interest in fighting. The only time I recalled Richard being part of such a glorious event was in the Great Hall as a child, receiving a mock challenge from a squire tricked out in skirts and false hair as a young virgin. Was he the only Plantagenet not to enjoy bearing arms? Gloriously clad in silk damask and crown, he sat at his wife’s side to enjoy the spectacle.
Excitement built within me like a hunger. I could no more have absented myself from this event than from the wedding ceremony. Anne might be Lady of the Lists but I knew who would be the chosen lady for John Holland. And there he was, his horse on a tight curb yet eating up the distance between us, the three golden Holland lions snarling across his chest. Jousting helm still in possession of his squire, my chivalrous knight bowed to me. Today there was no subtle perfume: the aroma of horse and leather and rank sweat was exhilarating.
‘My lady.’ His expression was as smooth as wax, as if there were nothing untoward in his request. And indeed his words confirmed his clever ploy. ‘As a representative of Lancaster
on this auspicious day, and in the absence of your illustrious husband from the field of battle, it would be an honour if you would allow me, and my poor skills, to be your champion.’
How clever. How damnably clever. How could I refuse so innocuous an offer?
‘Why do you hesitate?’ the Queen whispered in my ear. ‘If you do not take him, I will!’
And I laughed at how easy it was to enjoy the attentions of so talented a jouster. My mind was made up, if it had not been already. Sir John would not wear the Queen’s favours this day.
‘Give him something!’ the Queen urged. ‘Let’s get on with it. It’s as cold as charity, sitting here.’
I thought of giving him my glove as a guerdon, but it was too cold for that. I would be no martyr to John Holland. The ring? No, I did not think so. It would draw too much attention. Instead I burrowed under my furs and unpinned a knot of ribbon from my bodice, handing it to one of the Queen’s pages with a gesture for him to give it to my chosen knight.
‘My thanks, sir. I trust you will carry it to victory.’
‘Your beauty is only outshone by that of our Queen. I pledge you my victory.’
Which went down very well, all in all.
It was a true conflict of knight riding against knight, each pitting his skill with lance and horse against his opponent. The Duke was superb. One day Henry would excel. But in
the middle of it all I watched John Holland perform with every brilliant feat of arms I knew he would exhibit to unhorse any man who rode against him. It was a
tour de force.
My father’s knights emerged victorious.
It might have been an anticlimax that it was Queen Anne who awarded the victory garlands, but Sir John’s words were for me.
‘My lady. Your beauty spurred me on to victory.’
Tomorrow, I would be the one to crown him with glory.
After supper, he invited me to dance and I accepted, so that we wound round the great dancing chamber, my hand in his. At the end of which stately performance, he took the opportunity to re-pin the ribbon to my bodice.
‘You are a brave woman, Elizabeth.’
‘Why is that? It was you who exhibited bravery today, sir.’
Sir John kissed my fingers, fleetingly but with heat. My heart fluttered.
‘Not all bravery is in wielding a sword or a lance. If you look round this hall, at this precise moment I think there are at least a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on you.’
‘Because I dance so well.’
‘If that is what you wish to believe. But I know better. And so do you, Countess.’ His parting shot, before he strolled away to engage the Queen in some light conversation.
I knew what he meant. I was not naïve in the ways of the court, or in John Holland’s unpredictable character. I was aware of Philippa’s warning glance, of Henry frowning in
my direction. What of it? Turning my back on them I set myself to dance every dance, foiling any attempt my brother might make to put his frowns into words. I had a suspicion of what he would say, but he was only my brother, and younger than I. There was no necessity for me to listen to him, was there? My public demeanour had crossed no line; there was no cause for me to acknowledge any social impropriety.
The second day of the tournament dawned, brother Henry taking the crowd by storm. Truly dazzling, the silver spangles on his armour, fashioned into the form of unfolding roses, elicited a cheer from the spectators.
I spent a moment in admiration. But only a moment for I was not here to admire Henry. Today, in the new Queen’s gift I would be Lady of the Lists with the seat of honour. I would cheer Lancaster on to victory and I would be the one to crown Sir John Holland with laurels.
Much like my brother, I had dressed to take every eye at the tournament, a cloak of magnificent sables and a jewelled coif gleaming in the winter sun as I made my way to the steps where I would climb to the front of the pavilion, smiling at those I knew, exchanging words of welcome. Anticipation of what was to come was a fine thing that made me want to laugh aloud. The sharp sunshine set the armour and weapons glittering so that everything in my sight was hard edges, as if rimmed with a keen frost. I would enjoy this day like no other.
But was there something amiss? A watchfulness perhaps.
A standing on tiptoe tension. Yet how could there be? The jousting had yet to begin. As with all tournaments in my experience, the knights were yawningly tardy in making their preparations, the heralds were still deep in conversation, trumpets tucked beneath their arms.
No, the whole event was simply waiting on my appearance. As I lifted my furs to take that first step, I smiled with a comment to my aunt of Gloucester, who replied with a slide of eye towards the principal seats.
And I saw what it was.
The principal seat with its cushions and fringed awning—the one promised to me—was occupied by a diminutive lady that was not the Queen. Beautifully clad, the net that covered her hair thick with gems that caused her dark curls to glitter as if covered with rain drops, the Lady of the Lists held court, laughing with her ladies who had commandeered the seats beside her.
Isabella, Duchess of York, my aunt by marriage. Constanza’s Castilian sister.
I hesitated, knowing that in this moment of my discomfiture I was on display, and would look callow and foolish if I hesitated here much longer. I was not the only one to know that the Queen had promised me this honour. Perhaps I had been unwise to broadcast my delight so freely. Now I could sense the faces turning in my direction, in amusement, or gentle mockery, or perhaps even malice from those who would gladly deflate the pride of Lancaster.
Where to sit? How to practice nonchalance with my aunt Gloucester smirking at my rigid shoulder blade.
Rescue was to hand; Queen Anne, taking a handful of my sables and pulling me to the seat next to her, where I subsided with much relief, well camouflaged as I twitched my furs into order. All smoothly accomplished as if this had been my intent all along.
‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked quietly beneath the increased bustle as the combatants rallied.
‘Oh, no.’ My smile was brilliant. I would never admit to so shallow an emotion.
‘Richard changed his mind. He wished to honour the Duchess of York.’
And probably put me in my place, I thought. ‘Richard often changes his mind,’ I said. ‘It is of no importance.’
I was too well mannered to make a scene, too conscious of my own dignity to draw attention to the dismay that hung heavy as a stone in my chest. It would make no difference, of course. Sir John would still be my champion. Or even the Queen’s, which I could accept.
The knights approached, the Duke of York even more lugubrious than on the previous day. Here was glorious Henry. And Jonty, bearing my father’s helm with great care, grinned at me, managing not to wave in recognition. And here, at last, magnificently mounted, all dark glamour from his ordered hair to the light glancing off his armour, was John Holland, who rode past me as if I did not exist.