The King’s Sister

by Anne O'Brien

  John hauled Thomas to his feet. ‘Whatever gripe you have with me, this is the Lady Elizabeth’s home and you will treat it and her with the courtesy I presume you were raised to understand.’

  I saw the fire in the boy’s eye. So did John.

  ‘Do I strike you again for unpardonable ill-manners? Your father, a courageous man and a man of chivalry, would be ashamed of you.’

  A blow that got home. Thomas paled and dipped his head.

  ‘I will apologise if I must. I beg pardon, madam.’

  ‘And you will not repeat your crime?’ I asked.

  ‘No, my lady. But I’ll not …’

  ‘That’s enough, before you spoil it,’ John intervened. ‘Now get out, before I regret letting you off so lightly. But first …’

  John sat on the chest and pulled off his bemired boots, holding them out to the boy. ‘You can contemplate your many sins while you restore these boots to a state I would see fit to wear. By then I’ll have thought of something else to take your mind from pissing in my food. And be under no misapprehension. If you are caught doing it again, I’ll thrash you with my own hand.’

  ‘You have no right to treat me in this manner.’

  ‘I treat you no differently from my pages and squires, whose manners are far better than yours. I show them respect when they deserve it, which you do not. Get out of my sight.’

  ‘I’ll use hemlock next time!’ And Thomas FitzAlan stalked out with a clumsy attempt at dignity that was heartbreaking. In spite of his crude manners under severe provocation, it wrung my heart to imagine my own children in a similar position if Richard, in some fit of uncontrolled pique, decided to take issue with John and take our own heir as hostage.

  Richard FitzAlan bowed awkwardly. ‘He cannot forgive. I don’t think he ever will.’

  ‘And what of you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There are many things we cannot forgive but must live with,’ John lectured mildly. ‘It will be best if you teach your brother some sense of diplomacy along with the courtesy. You should instill in him a sense of rightness. Under my jurisdiction I will give you the education and training due to your noble blood. But such crass discourtesy I will not tolerate.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. No, my lord’

  John watched him leave the chamber, then laughed harshly, swinging round to face me, still impressive in spite of his lack of boots. ‘I’m sorry to bring this into our house at a time like this. Perhaps I was too harsh with the boy.’

  I wrinkled my nose at the revenge Thomas had seen fit to employ. ‘You were fair. But they’ll never forgive us.’

  ‘It will be better for all concerned if I send them down to the castle at Reigate and leave them in my Captain’s care. They can loose arrows at the butts as if it were my black heart. I should have done it before. They need physical duress to take their mind of their woes.’

  ‘They’ll not like it,’ I observed dryly. ‘Reigate was one of the Arundel properties.’

  ‘I can’t change that.’ John shrugged. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Looking at the impossibility of treading an equable path between your brother and mine. We can’t reach Richard any more, can we? It is as if there is a web built around him, and he sits within it, a monstrous spider spinning some malicious undertaking.’

  ‘He’ll not attack you. Richard retains an element of chivalry towards women.’

  ‘I don’t fear him.’ I recalled Duchess Katherine’s warning which had lain like a stone on my heart. Should I tell him of my fears? I was weary of keeping them to myself. ‘If I am afraid, it is that our love cannot keep faith under such strains. How often do we seem to be on different sides?’

  His glance was sharp, but he did not hesitate, reaching out to me to draw me close into a firm embrace. ‘It will remain steadfast. Do we not love each other, as we always have? Don’t let Richard stand between us.’ He kissed me and soothed me. ‘Henry will return and all will be well.’

  ‘And you will remain as Richard’s man?’

  ‘Yes. Is it not for the best?’

  Perhaps it was. Was it just ambition, or was it his own fidelity to those of his blood? Duchess Katherine was in no doubt that ambition ruled John’s every move. I was not so sure. I could not think of distancing myself from my brother, so was it wrong of me to hope that John could abandon his? Perhaps it was. Perhaps I had been short-sighted to expect him to step away. All I could do was pray for Henry’s return and Richard’s acceptance of him as the new Duke of Lancaster. Which would heal all our wounds.

  ‘Don’t let this destroy us,’ John murmured against my temple as he kissed me into acceptance. ‘We always knew there might be difficulties.’

  ‘But not like this.’

  ‘You have trusted me in the past. Trust me now. Where is the strong-minded woman I wooed and wed? Where is the woman who made her way through war-torn Castile with enemies on every side?’

  Where indeed? Sometimes I felt that she was a different woman in a different life, but there was only one answer I could make.

  ‘I will keep faith.’

  ‘My brave love. We will not let the world set us apart.’

  In the privacy of our own chamber he removed my satin chaplet, then my robe. And all that was beneath.

  Duchess Katherine was wrong. I was happy. And when John discovered, as he must, that I was breeding again, we celebrated anew.

  18th March 1399, Windsor Castle

  Another nagging premonition touched my thoughts. A flutter of storm-crow wings, where there should have been none. There Richard was, seated on his throne in the audience chamber, gloriously clad, golden circlet agleam. We, the esteemed members of his court, had been summoned for a pronouncement of importance.

  Richard glowered. Despite the studied glamour of his accoutrements, the banners, the loyal subjects bowing the knee before him, Richard’s mind was not in good frame.

  As I rose from my deep curtsy, the deepest possible for only such was acceptable without a reprimand from our King, I looked across at John who stood a step behind Richard’s right shoulder, and raised my brows. John managed a wry twist of his mouth, the faintest shake of his head. He had no more idea than I what this was about.

  Richard surveyed us, eyes travelling smoothly over every face, observing and noting, until he deigned to speak.

  ‘It is my wish, as your Anointed King, that you, my loyal subjects, will in future address me as Majesty.’ His voice, gentle, light-timbred, stroked over us. ‘I deem it most fitting.’

  Such majestic arrogance. I recalled addressing him as Wily Dickon in our youth when he schemed and cheated to win at games. Even on one occasion as Daft Dickon when he sulked and whined—for which I was duly chastised by Dame Katherine, as she was then. But so it must be, sour taste on my tongue or no.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ we murmured. And once again made the required obeisance.

  ‘It is my wish that my closest friends,’ he smiled as his gaze travelled over our august ranks once more, ‘be addressed as Magnificence.’

  My glance slid to John who preserved a stern expression, giving nothing away. His Grace, the Magnificent Duke of Exeter indeed.

  ‘My very best of all friends,’ Richard was continuing, ‘the most noble Edward, now Duke of Aumale, my own dear cousin, shall henceforth be addressed by all here-present as my brother.’

  I sighed surreptitiously. Had Richard summoned us all here simply to learn the new nomenclature of his royal court? I hoped that Cousin Edward was honoured by his adoption as royal brother. Of course he was. How he preened. How self-satisfied the smile that had more in common with a smirk. He reminded me more of his lady mother, the lascivious Isabella, now departed from our midst to heavenly realms, than he had ever done.

  I returned the smile, for it would be foolish not to do so, but any inclination towards pleasure had vanished as the implications of what was happening here struck home. If Richard was adopting Edward as his brother, what did this presage abou
t the future? Richard had no son, but nor he had a brother. Who might therefore step into the royal shoes if Richard failed to find a fertile wife in Queen Isabella as she grew to maturity? Edward as next King of England?

  If Edward of Aumale was to be raised up, what was in store for Henry? There was no place in the succession for Edward, his father being a younger son of King Edward the Third. While Henry lived, Edward should not even have appeared on Richard’s horizon as his heir. So what was it that Richard had in mind for my brother?

  That, as I realised with a sinking heart, was why we were here.

  ‘It is my wish to reward my friends. Just as I will call down my wrath on those who prove to be my enemies.’ Richard showed his teeth in just the sort of crafty smile I had recalled. ‘It saddens me to say, but in light of the treason committed against my sacred person by the house of Lancaster …’

  My throat tightened,

  ‘… I have deemed that the inheritance of that house be confiscated. I reward my friends well. The Lancaster inheritance is mine to make those rewards of value.’

  By now every sense in my body was frozen in disbelief. This was Henry’s birthright. Made forfeit to the Crown. Richard had no right …

  ‘I had placed a limit on the banishment of our cousin Henry of Derby from this land. Ten years, which I foolishly allowed myself to be persuaded, out of pity for my dear uncle of Lancaster now deceased, to a mere six, for his plotting against my person. Now I revoke that decision. Henry of Derby is banished from England for the rest of his life.’

  Silence fell, heavy as a crack of doom. And with it a shiver that could be tasted.

  This was extreme.

  This was unwarranted.

  I dared not look at John. Had he known of this? But then I did. His expression was guarded, his eyes deliberately not meeting mine.

  Yet was I entirely unaware? There had been rumours. I had wiped them from my mind, refusing to believe that Richard would take so unprincipled an action.

  Richard’s smile grew to encompass us all, as if not one of us would sense the implied threat to any man who fell from the King’s high regard. ‘It is my wish to bring glory to England. I am about to embark on an invasion of Ireland to bring the rebellious Irish Lords to book. What glory it will bring us as we grind them under England’s heel.’

  He raised his hands as if to welcome our acclamation.

  ‘I have invited two young men to become part of my household, as if they were my own children, during these auspicious days,’ and he beckoned to one of his attendants, who promptly ushered in those chosen for the honour.

  Well, they were certainly of Richard’s blood and mine, but my recognition of them brought no joy. The eldest was all but a man at sixteen years: Humphrey, son and heir of the late murdered Duke of Gloucester. And the second? My throat dried as I saw what Richard was doing. It was Henry’s son, Henry of Monmouth. Twelve years old.

  ‘We welcome them …’

  Hostages.

  As clear as the rubies in the collar around Richard’s neck.

  ‘It would be unwise for anyone of a discontented nature—not that I envisage such—to consider sending any letters abroad. All letters sent to Europe must first be approved by my Privy Council,’ he was continuing gently.

  Shock held me. Here was Richard at his most malicious.

  Where did John’s loyalties now lie in all this? How could he possibly condone his brother’s actions in such injustice, such an overt piece of mischief against Henry who had committed no crime other than to be one of the Lords Appellant who protected the good of England and the removal of a royal favourite? How could John possibly see any rightness in this? The House of Lancaster, the royal blood of Henry the Third and Edward the Third, was being dismantled under our very eyes.

  I was filled with dread, but refused to let it drain all my spirits. This was Richard, my cousin, albeit King. All I knew was that I must try to encourage his better nature, calling on old fealties, old friendships. If John would not support me then I must do it alone. Richard could not dismiss me out of hand. Was not our blood too close for that? Lancaster pride having no role in this, I must become a petitioner at the King’s feet.

  If John would not fight for Henry’s inheritance, then I would. Surely Richard would listen and respond to ties of blood.

  When the court emerged from its formality to mingle, sip wine and gossip in corners over the ill-luck, wicked vengeance or justified punishment against the exiled Duke of Lancaster, I, with purposeful steps, presented myself in Richard’s path.

  ‘Sire …’

  Was this truculent man the same one who had awarded me the sapphire ring with unctuous grace? Now his face was set in sour disapproval, and I recalled his dictates. I should have been more careful.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ I curtsied low, head bent, praying that I was making up lost ground.

  ‘My lady Exeter.’

  The bleak formality was a warning slap. So was the abrupt gesture for me to rise. I had misjudged his earlier smiling mien, but I could not draw back. Not with Henry’s future in England hanging in the balance. Ignoring the lurking presence of Edward of Aumale whose self-satisfaction nauseated me, I began:

  ‘I have come to make a petition, Your Majesty. On your mercy.’

  Richard’s reply was bleakly hopeless under the smooth delivery. ‘I know what you will say to me, and I will spare you the need.’

  ‘But Majesty …’

  ‘The Lancaster lands are forfeit. The penalty for plotting against my person.’

  ‘My brother is not guilty of so foul a deed …’

  ‘In my eyes the guilt is unquestionable.’

  ‘Richard, I beg you …’

  And he took a step back as if my use of his name had within it a contamination.

  ‘It would be better if you didn’t, madam. And then I might forget that you are the sister of a traitor and would-be murderer.’

  Richard presented his back to me. The ties of blood held no power for Richard.

  And as I turned away, stepping round Aumale who murmured some meaningless words in sympathy, it was to see John watching. When I raised my shoulders in a little shrug, his face remained void of expression. For the first time since I had known him I felt a lack of compassion. Rather a disapproval. He kept his distance from me for the rest of the afternoon. Was this to be the pattern of our life?

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  We had returned to the Pultney house in less than amicable mood.

  ‘So I realise now,’ I said. ‘But I could not stand there and smile and drink Richard’s wine as if nothing were amiss. I didn’t notice you pleading Henry’s cause.’

  ‘Because I know it would be a waste of my breath.’

  ‘I will write to Henry,’ I declared.

  ‘He will know already,’ John observed.

  ‘And what will he think, isolated in some rented room in Paris? Seeing his inheritance swept away, Richard gloating at the wealth that has fallen into his hands? Wealth to be given away, awarded as Richard sees fit?’

  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.