The King’s Sister (33 page)

‘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.

‘Then so be it. If you demand the truth, then here it is. Henry’s death has become imperative. What would you have me do? Give my silent consent to Richard’s ultimate fate at Pontefract? My conscience will not condone such an act. We will release and restore Richard. The true anointed King.’

‘But Henry is my brother!’

‘And Richard is mine.’

What to do? Betrayal of one to save the other? Was blood thicker than water? Or love stronger than family? Who to betray?

If I did neither and let events play themselves out, would that not be the simplest path for me? But it would be the coward’s path and the death of Henry would be on my soul.

John had talked of conscience. Mine refused to let me rest. It was like watching a rock teetering on the edge of a precipice above our heads. When it fell, who would be crushed?

I didn’t know know that Henry’s death would be the price of Richard’s release, but I feared it would. The highest of prices.

I sat and shivered in my chamber, mistrust for everyone and everything swelling into vast proportions, before donning a green damask robe and mask to play one of the dragons to John’s St George in Henry’s mumming play. Henry might revel in it, as did our grandfather, but throughout the drama I felt like a grinning death’s head, the one question beating at my mind as St George made mock sallies against me with a wooden sword: what do I do?

It was on the fourth day of January, two days before the Feast of the Epiphany, that the deluge hit us. Rumours rattling from wall to wall, Henry’s court was thrown into a seething mass of claim and counterclaim, while Henry was launched into a whirlwind of action. To do nothing would be to invite catastrophe. The tournament, which he had planned to mark the Feast day with such meticulous care, was a thing of the past. All festivities were abandoned, Henry collecting his sons and a heavy entourage, bristling with weapons.

I did not even try to pretend that I knew nothing of it. My worst fears were being brought home to roost like a flock of summer swallows.

And were confirmed when Henry hammered on my door.

‘You will come with us,’ Henry commanded, occupying the doorway to my chamber, armed to the teeth with sword and dagger, his upper body protected by a brigandine.

‘Why? Am I in danger?’ I did not think that I wished to accompany him.

‘Not you. It’s my blood that they seek. Do I need to ask where Huntingdon is?’

‘I don’t know.’

Nor did I. What we all knew was that at early Mass there had been a remarkable absence of faces from the ranks of courtiers at Windsor.

‘I want you where I can see you,’ Henry snarled.

‘I would not work against you, Henry.’

‘Your husband’s in the thick of it. I’ll keep you with me. Leave the children here. I’ve no quarrel with them.
I
don’t murder children. Get what you need to ride to London and be ready in a half hour. If you are not, I’ll come and get you.’

I did as I was told, my mind, when it could break free from galloping terror, gripped by the possible repercussions. John had left Windsor with the other recalcitrant lords to undertake whatever it was that they had planned and that John had refused to tell me. John had not said goodbye. He was gone before dawn, his squire and pages and a group of liveried men with him and his horses. So was his armour gone when I searched his room. He had gone without telling me. I did not think I could ever forgive him for that. But what could he have said that I had not already guessed?

Anguish was a cold hand on the nape of my neck. Whichever side came out of this conflict as the victor, I would be in mourning.

Better that I was in London than here at Windsor if there was any chance of my stopping what seemed to be the inevitable. When I mounted my horse as required I spoke not one word of my fears for, clearly, Henry had no thought for me or my worries. If he fell into the hands of the rebellious lords, there would be no mercy for him or his sons.

We rode. We rode through the night on some long, never-endingly circuitous route for it seemed that Henry expected an interception. If the lords hoped to waylay us, they would never track Henry’s path. For hours we rode in silence. There was nothing to say between us, until a late dawn was breaking as we came in sight of London where we were met by the Lord Mayor with the warning that the rebel lords had six thousand men in the field.

‘Led by Huntington, I presume,’ Henry commented.

The Mayor did not know, and I vouchsafed no reply. I thought he was probably right.

And then there was no time to think, for it was simply a barrage of orders, issued by Henry in a tone that no one would disobey. To close the ports. To summon his followers to raise an army. The boys to be dispatched to the Tower. And I with them.

‘She does not leave,’ he ordered the brisk escort sent with us. ‘Nor does she receive visitors. Other than that, ensure that the Countess is housed with all she requires.’ And then, as he turned his horse’s head, Henry swung back to me. ‘I’ll bring his head to you on my shield. That will save you
having to make any future choices over where your loyalty might lie.’

Turning to follow my escort I made no response. What could I possibly say to him? This was Henry, my beloved brother, intent on destroyed the man he knew I loved. This was Henry driven by vicious practicality to demand John’s life. I understood why. Of course I did. Treason could never be condoned, but never had I thought that Henry would threaten me with such savage consequences.

Then you were a fool, I chided, in bitter acknowledgement. There could never be any other outcome. If Henry laid his hands on John, John would surely die and I could have no redress. My heart, my mind, my soul were full to the brim with the agony of truth.

Next morning, after a wretched night in company with the image Henry had painted for me, I was told, when I badgered the Constable of the Tower for news, that Henry had marched out of London with an army at his back to face the rebels. Where John was I had no idea.

All I could imagine was their meeting on the field of battle.

I despaired at the outcome.

Where is he? Where is John now?

The one question that leapt again and again in my mind, and for which there was no answer.

Rumour trickled through to us, none of it good. How could any of it be good for me? The rebel army, faced with Henry in person and a solid force of loyal troops intent
on fighting to the death, disintegrated and fled. London remained solidly behind my brother. The revolt, the uprising, for that is what it clearly had become, was over without the spilling of one drop of blood on a battlefield.