by Anne O'Brien
I saw my father consider this. I saw the moment of acceptance in his eyes, as I saw his acknowledgement of what John had done. Two resourceful men, each appreciative of the other.
‘There’s merit in what you say. So we need an annulment.’ He grimaced, the lines on his face harsh, but the white fury had faded. ‘You have a way with words, and much as I resent this debacle you’ve landed at my feet, I must see the sense of what you say. God damn you, John!’ Inhaling sharply he rubbed his fist over his jaw as if he could smooth out the tension. ‘All I have to do is to explain to the Pembroke connections that my daughter is not the sanctified vessel I, or they, had thought her to be. They’ll not like it, but it can be done. There will be a price to pay but if I am prepared to pay it …’
How typical of my father. To cover the most difficult ground as fast and as easily as possible.
‘As soon as the annulment is secure, you will wed,’ he continued. ‘Before we sail.’
There. It was done. Relief flooded through me. But not quite. Not quite yet. The future might still not be at all to my liking.
‘And what of me?’ I asked in parody of tremulous anxiety.
‘Your reputation will be restored, Elizabeth. You will be wed to this man and the child will be Holland’s son, without question. Is that not what you want?’
‘But John will have sailed for Portugal. What of me then?’
‘Return to Kenilworth until the child is born,’ my father said dryly. ‘You will be safe and comfortable with every nursemaid in the place at your beck and call.’
I looked at John, all solemn compliance in the face of my new betrothed. ‘Very well. I will do that of course. I will raise this child alone. I will tell it how brave its father is, fighting in a just war, and unable to return to be with us. And one day, God willing, we will be reunited …’
John’s stare was lucid and knowing, and I forced myself to return it, before he addressed my father.
‘If I might make a suggestion, sir, to the benefit of all. That Elizabeth sails with us, in the household of the Duchess and Lady Philippa. This will remove her from any source of unfortunate gossip. By the time she and I return to England, after a successful campaign, the child will be long born and growing strongly. Any scandals associated with our rapid marriage will be well nigh forgotten and the child’s conception of no interest to anyone.’ He slid a glance in my direction. ‘I presume this will meet with your favour, lady?’ Anticipation, thick and sweet, slid along my spine. ‘I will come with you?’
‘Can you think of a better idea?’
He was superbly solemn. So was I. ‘No,’ I replied, breathing shallowly, hiding my breathlessness. ‘If you will allow it, Father.’
The lines in the Duke’s face had relaxed and there was a glimmer of a smile. ‘I feel I have been manipulated by the pair of you. You have more political cunning in your bones, Holland, than a parcel of Scottish ambassadors. And now I must grease some papal hand with gold and get the annulment. As if I had not better things to do.’
I seized his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. I have been pushed into an uncomfortably tight corner.’
‘I will make an inestimable addition to your family, sir.’ John also clasped hands in formal alliance.
‘Make sure you do.’
Philippa came to wind an arm round my waist.
‘You are a cunning woman, Elizabeth,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
And thus it was done, the idea that had been born in my mind as the towers of Plymouth had come into my line of vision had been carried out to perfection. I had known exactly what I had wanted, neither a hasty bedding with Jonty nor the cage of a convent. This child, so carelessly conceived, drove me to acknowledge what I desired, and I knew I would stop at nothing to achieve it. There was only one escape from shame or enforced seclusion or even from the interminable boredom of life in Kenilworth or Hertford as the respectable Countess of Pembroke, far from events that shaped the kingdom. Perhaps this child, that had become very precious to me, was not so much a disaster as a blessing in disguise.
If I could make it work for me. And I would. I had.
Persuasion. That had been the key to it. But it had needed careful handling, persuading two men who prized their authority as much as a gold crown to agree to my unspoken wishes. Would it be truly possible for me to draw these men into bringing my resolve to fulfilment, without their even knowing it? Why not? If I did not at least try, how could I succeed? It had taken all the patience I rarely lay claim to, and a degree of dissembling and skilful manoeuvring that I did. With solemn contrition, a sprinkling of tears, and reproachful uncertainty, I had used all the tricks of female helplessness, while all the time fighting for a future that would satisfy me. Would not any woman of considerable talent and a determination to influence her own future do the same?
And now I had it, all that I had envisioned, even a sojourn in distant Portugal during which Richard’s court could forget my misdemeanours. Furthermore I had discovered how much John Holland desired me: enough to face my father on the eve of the expedition and fight with smooth words and even smoother arguments to win me.
Thus the Duke put the weight of the Lancaster name and influence into action and I achieved an annulment as fast as it took to send off a courier and hand over a purse of gold. At a time when all I desired seem to be coming to fruition, I found a moment to think of Jonty, who would discover his new unwed status by that same Lancaster courier. It seemed a harsh and cold manner to terminate our marriage. I thought I should have told him, but in the end, the official ending of the contract was all that mattered. His family would find him a more suitable bride of an age to wait for him. He was a matrimonial prize. There would be no difficulty.
Would Jonty miss me? I did not think so. I would remember him with affection. Now my thoughts were all for the future.
To my relief, my father was too preoccupied to do more than remark: ‘He is a man with few morals but the ability to charm a frog from a pond. I see no happiness for you with him, Elizabeth. He is as dangerous as a sharp blade in the hands of an untrained squire.’
‘But I love him.’
‘And does he love you?’
‘He says that he does. And I believe him.’
As for John, I saw very little of him since the Duke kept his organisational abilities engaged from dawn to dusk, but we met together in the castle’s chapel, early one morning, to exchange vows in the presence of a very small and select congregation come to witness the marriage of Elizabeth of Lancaster to John Holland. No important guests, no ceremonial, no bridal garments, merely the sharing of the holy words, a plain gold ring, because John had nothing else to hand, and a nuptial kiss that was deceptively brief and chaste.
I marvelled at our achievement against all the odds, and I loved John Holland even more as my admiration of what he had done gained hold. The clever intellect, often masked beneath the outer glamour of soldier and courtier. His political vision for England. His courage in demanding me, in the face of my father’s ire, with a cold logic that could not be gainsaid.
There was no happier woman in the kingdom than I.
‘So you got your own way in all things, Madam Elizabeth.’
Plymouth was fading on the horizon as a stiff wind took our vessel on a spritely south-west course on our journey to Portugal. His voice in my ear, his hands locking me against the ship’s rail as I looked up into his face. As my husband he was free to approach me in public without censure.
I smiled. ‘Now why would you think that?’
‘Don’t play the innocent, mistress. You are a revelation in trickery, my love. You are as full of guile as a bag of foxes.’
I could not deny it. And what need, now that we were embarked? ‘Would you rather I stayed behind?’ I asked, sure of my love.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I have never been more content.’
And I
was. This was what I wanted. I could see nothing but success in this venture, where I loved and was loved. There were no doubts in my mind to sully my happiness. If I had ever doubted, those doubts had been swept away by John’s shining certainty that he would have me as his wife, and I wanted to be with him, whatever the difficulties. Had we not managed to scale the most formidable of bulwarks, my existing marriage? He was my life; my present and my future. This was love, a depth of feeling that obliterated everything but the sense of his protection. His devotion.
John Holland was not without faults, but neither was I.
I thought we would never live at peace. We would know the clash of equally determined wills, of hot words and wilful disagreements. But equally I knew, his arms solid and supportive around me as the ship lifted and fell in the swell of the waves, that we would remain constant. Ambition might put its stamp on him, but I was an integral part of that ambition and always would be. Were we not dedicated to the nurture and support of the same family, the same King who was so close to both of us?
‘What would you have done,’ he asked, chin resting on my head, ‘if I had agreed that you return to Kenilworth while I went soldiering?’
‘I would have dressed as a man and followed you,’ I replied promptly.
I felt him smile. ‘I suspect you might have done. Fortunately there’s no need, my wife. Have we not made all things to our liking? And now I think we should investigate the accommodations they have made for us in this creaking bucket. I expect it has a bed of sorts in it …’
With every word, every gesture, he drew me to him, like a moth to a flame, a wasp to a honey pot. Like a woman to a man who defied convention, who took fate by the throat and shook it so that it cowered in obedience, who beat his own path through life. A man who was good to look at, quick-witted and silver-tongued. What a future we would make together at Richard’s court, when we returned home. John left me in no doubt that he would win his redemption and take his place at Richard’s side as a valued counsellor, just as my father had done.
‘You look happy,’ he said. ‘Like a cat who has lured its prey and now has it under its claws.’ And he kissed my fingertips as he drew me into the cabin he had discovered.
I flexed my fingers, interlinking them with his to rub along my cheek, smiling like the satisfied cat he called me, saying simply: ‘My happiness cannot be measured. I have you to thank for that.’
‘It is my pleasure.’
Our pleasure was mutual, and then we turned to look towards Portugal and our new life.
Chapter Nine
February 1387, Oporto, Portugal.
I sat in my chamber in the royal palace—Philippa’s palace now—my thoughts with the Duke and John, my body at ease, happiness sitting as lightly on my shoulders as my loose silk gown, for I was not receiving guests. It had been an eventful month.
My father and John were away at war. Any attempt to enforce Constanza’s claims on the kingdom of Castile through diplomatic means had been rejected by the present King so in retaliation our army, in alliance with that of King João of Portugal, had invaded the Castilian possession of Galicia to increase the pressure on King John of Castile. The campaign had gone well and Galicia had been taken. This much we knew. Would not Castile come to terms, conceding Constanza her inheritance? Thus the campaign would come to perfect fruition and John and I could return to England.
My mind was as much at ease as my body.
Not that I resented my surroundings. All was comfort, a gentle breeze stirring the air around me as one of the royal servants picked out a tune on a lute. I now recognised the songs and could hum the melody. I was not homesick.
I lifted the baby from its cradle to my lap, where it slept on, still exhausted by its rapid entry into the world. I smiled, stroking the tiny hands, the perfect nails.
‘You are the cause of a lot of trouble,’ I informed the child, who yawned. ‘What will your father say when he sees you?’
The baby was unimpressed.
‘Let me tell you a few things you should know. Were you aware that you are part of a most pre-eminent family? Your aunt Philippa is now Queen of Portugal. You almost put in an ill-advised appearance in the middle of the wedding ceremony.’ I laughed softly at the memory of my hasty departure from the proceedings. ‘She is married to King João to make a strong alliance against Castile. What a Queen she will make. She will have every virtue and the people of Portugal will adore her and sing her praises. She will never be the cause of scandal. Not like your mother.’ I stroked the wisps of hair that escaped the baby’s cap, dark tendrils, not fair like mine. ‘Philippa is intent on loving her husband, even though she had never met him until they were within weeks of the altar, and she has discovered that he has a mistress. I could not be so sanguine, but then your aunt was always more tolerant than I.’
The baby slept, untroubled by the heat, or my essential information for the newest member of our family.
‘And then there is your grandfather. The best man I know. The bravest. The most honourable despite his keeping a mistress. They are estranged, but not as much as they once were. You will meet Dame Katherine when we return to England. She will love you as I love you. But your grandfather—he is proud and ambitious for power, and one day he will be King of Castile. He will lavish gifts and affection on you, as he indulged me. His blood and spirit will be in you too. It is a great inheritance.’
For a moment I let my thoughts wander to the problems facing our forces, but what use in that? Nothing I could do would affect the outcome.
‘Your grandmother you will never know. Blanche the fair. Blanche the beautiful and good. I barely recall her. Your grandmother by law is sharp and impatient and Castilian. She will have no time for you, but we must not be too harsh. She lost the child she was carrying within a month of our landing. She’ll not bear another. All her hopes now rest with her daughter Katalina when she desired a son so badly. We have to be compassionate. She spends much time at prayer.’
‘Your father.’ And I smiled again. The baby’s hair was as dark as John’s. ‘What do I tell you about him? Where is he now? Somewhere in Galicia I expect, but you must understand that as Constable of the Army his time is not his own and he cannot dance attendance on us.’ I leaned to whisper in the baby’s ear. ‘I should warn you. He will care for you and nurture you, but he will always put his own interest first.’ I mused aloud again to the backdrop of the sultry lute. ‘Your father loves me, but he managed to be far away when you were born. Perhaps you look a little like him. If you are half as good a knight as he is, you will carry all the prizes at the tournament and turn women’s heads. He turned mine. As well as rescuing me from certain death. I wish he were here now, so that …’
A hand brushed my shoulder, lightly.
‘So that he could tell you about your mother.’
The voice and touch made me jump, but then all my senses settled into a steady hum of pleasure as battle-hardened knuckles brushed against my throat, yet I looked up, deciding to hide my delight, to punish him a little for neglecting me. Oh, how good it was to see him again. If I needed proof that my decision to risk marriage and this strange exile with John, it was in the sheer joy and relief that squeezed my heart.
‘John! What a surprise to see you here. Was I expecting you?’
He signalled for the lute-player to depart. ‘And a surprise for me too!’
He stooped to press a salute against my cheek, before taking the child from my arms, holding him with easy competence as he proceeded to catalogue my less endearing characteristics.
‘Your mother is headstrong and obstinate, like an unbroken filly. She can be scheming and devious to get her own way. She has the pride of all her family, some would say the vanity too.’
‘John …!’ I remonstrated, at last.
John shook his head. ‘She has more courage than any woman I know,’ he continued. ‘She has wisdom and integrity, and such a keen loyalty, you would not believe it. It shines like a shootin
g star in the heavens. She is the only woman I have ever loved, the other half of my soul.’ Then added, lifting his gaze to mine so that I could read all the love shining there: ‘You will forgive my lapse into poetic verbiage—unlike me, I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.’
‘But you are here now.’ How I loved him. And in the long moment that his smiling eyes held mine, the bond, unbreakable, unequivocal, was refashioned between us. A little weary, still wearing travel-worn clothing—which made my heart leap a little for he must have come straight to me—he brought into the solar the aroma of horse and dust and sweat, yet he looked well. The strains of campaigning had not touched him. Nor had it blunted his wit.
‘What do I call it? Is it a son?’ he asked as the baby whimpered in its sleep.
‘Yes. Can’t you tell?’
‘Not without unclothing him. He is very small.’
‘He is only two weeks old.’
‘How soon before he can hold a sword?’
‘Not for at least another month.’
He placed our son back in the cradle and set it rocking gently with his foot, while his eyes fixed on mine with a raptor’s fierceness.
‘I thank God for your safe delivery. You were much in my mind.’
Which made me fall in love with him all over again.
‘And what do we call our son?’ I asked to divert attention from my flushed cheeks. ‘Will it be John?’
‘Too many Johns in this family. Richard. We will call him Richard. The King will like that. A final step in my reconciliation.’
‘The future Sir Richard Holland.’
‘I’ve set my sights far higher than that. I must impress Richard into ennobling me in gratitude for my services. Would you enjoy being a Duchess?’
Lifting me from my chair, he drew me into his arms, regardless of the unfortunate transfer of detritus from weeks of campaigning from him to me, to seal his homecoming with an embrace that reminded me of all the passion which had led to the arrival of this splendid Holland heir.