by Anne O'Brien
‘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.
So far so good. Henry was safe and John was not dead. The royal boys, rejoicing at the news, would live to be reunited with their father. But what I knew beyond any argument was that John would never be reunited with me. How could Henry forgive him for such blatant rebellion that had threatened to bring conflict and bloodletting to England?
It was Henry who brought the news, still in armour but without his shield or its dread burden. I let him tell the boys, allowing him to assuage their fears. I had expected elation from him, but instead there was only a cold and weary determination to stamp out any future repetition.
‘I will have peace in this land,’ he said to me.
‘I pray you will.’ I was as cold as he. ‘What of Huntingdon?’ I asked, deliberately formal.
All I got was a hitch of one shoulder.
‘Did he go to Devon? To Dartington?’ I asked.
‘We have not heard of him in Devon. There were no forces raised there against me.’
‘So he is alive. He is not your prisoner.’
In spite of everything, relief was trickling through me.
‘Not yet. But not for long.’ The weary chill was suddenly submerged in a roil of hot anger, Henry’s face flushed with it. ‘The most noble lords who dared defile my realm are running for their lives, but they’ll not get far. The squire, Richard Maudeley, who they were using to pose as Richard to rally the masses has alread
y been taken and hanged for his sins. A clever ruse, don’t you agree? Same build, same fair skin, same hair colouring. Put him in armour with a gilded helm and who would know the difference? The good citizens of England would see their rightful King once more walking amongst them and flock to his standard against me.’
So I had been right about the squire, who had been there for a purpose and had paid for his part with his life. The revolt was over. Henry was safe. I should be rejoicing with the rest of them.
I could not.
‘Are you not at least relieved?’ Henry demanded bitterly, easily reading the ferment in my mind, in the white tension of my interlocked fingers. ‘The plan, as I now understand it, was to cut me down at Windsor in the heat of the tournament. And my four sons with me, clearing the path for Richard’s return. As bloody a plot as I could have envisaged.’
‘Yes. Of course I am relieved.’
I could manage no more now that the true savagery of John’s conspiracy had been placed before me, merely repeating his words.
‘You are hardly enthusiastic.’ He turned on his heel and marched to the door. ‘Here’s a piece of news for you. I hear that Huntingdon is in London. If he tries to make contact with you, we’ll take him and kill him. There will be no clemency, so don’t waste your breath in begging.’
If he was in London, where was he? He would never try to go to ground at Pultney House. It would be watched, far too obvious a bolt hole for a rebel with a price on his head. Nor would he come here to me at the Tower.
If John was in London, there was only one possible place to my mind where he might seek sanctuary. The Abbot’s lodging at Westminster Abbey. Henry did not know that the Jerusalem Chamber had been the conspirators’ meeting place. That is where he might take refuge. But with no hope of mercy from Henry, what was he thinking? Was he planning some escape route? Perhaps it had already been put in place, for fear the revolt would fail.
Henry being preoccupied with the stamping out of any further pockets of loyalty to Richard gave me some space. A cloak, a hood, a horse at my disposal, my authority as royal sister imposed, and unaccompanied except for a page in royal livery, I set out to cover the short distance from the Tower to the Abbot of Westminster’s lodging.
When I gestured to my page to knock on the door, it was not immediately opened. Nor at his second insistent rapping.
At last: ‘Who is it?’
I motioned to the page to reply, which he did, his voice trembling with nerves.
‘The Countess of Huntingdon. She is here to see the Earl of Huntingdon.’
The door was opened by one of the Abbey servants, anonymous in his robes, allowing me access into the abbot’s parlour, and for a moment I simply stood on the threshold and looked. Magnificent tapestries, superb linenfold panelling, an ornate fireplace welcomed me. Was this where the lords had plotted? Had all this grandeur been witness to the detailed planning that would have brought a bloody end to my brother? A plot as treacherous as it was possible for a plot to be: no well-mannered debate between Henry and his disaffected lords who feared there would be further retribution against them tucked up their King’s capacious sleeve. No frank discussion over the future of Richard, their rightful king, imprisoned in Pontefract. In this, the Jerusalem Chamber under the auspices of Westminster Abbey, they had met in secret to piece together a terrible revenge.
And now, as I had thought, it contained one of the defeated rebels, the Earl of Huntingdon, surrounded by signs of a hasty departure.
My page dispatched beyond the closed door, we stood and looked at each other. How could I ever forgive him for what he had planned? And yet the relief that he was here and unharmed was strong enough to make me light-headed. How could love and despair exist so strongly in the same heart, twisted into an unbreakable cord? He had misled me, lied to me. Yet what point in berating him, or allowing my anger free flow? It would do no good.
John’s face was expressionless, his hands filled with leaves of parchment, as I waited for him to attempt the impossible and explain.
‘Elizabeth.’ There was no welcome. His eyes glinted in the candlelight but not from pleasure at seeing me. ‘I did not expect you.’
‘I don’t suppose you did. Why did you do it?’
‘To save Richard.’
‘At Henry’s expense.’
‘It was the only way.’
Neither of us moved one step. I was not sure that I could cross the Abbot’s tiled floor towards him, nor he to me, so great was the distance between us, so deep the chasm. I could not be compassionate, and yet I understood. There was no hope for Richard now. There was only one means by which Henry could rid himself of this dangerous man who would always be a focus for rebellion. John knew it too as he stood, the documents still in his hand. I could see it in the tightening of his mouth into a thin line.
‘Our failure has signed Richard’s death warrant.’
‘Yes.’
‘And mine too, I don’t doubt.’
‘Yes, if you are caught.’ What point in deception? We knew it to be so.
‘Are all our forces defeated?’
‘Yes.’
‘We misjudged Henry’s speed in collecting an army. And London’s loyalty.’
‘They don’t want war.’
‘And were promised reparation if they fought for Henry. We had nothing to offer them. It was a risk, and we failed.’
Even now he was well-informed. And how incongruous, the stark observations of our conversation, set against the luxurious furnishings of our surroundings. How could one be so bleak, the other so sumptuous? But the furnishings were of nothing compared with our words, which sounded a death knell to our love.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I have passage on a ship. To take me to France.’ He began to stuff the pages into a saddlebag.
‘Would you have told me?’
‘No.’ He raised his head to meet my gaze. ‘I imagine you despise me.’
‘You would have killed my brother.’ I slid around the question he had asked. ‘You always meant to.’
‘Yes.’
And I discovered that tears were running down my cheeks.
‘Why are you weeping?’
I could not say. I did not know, except that my life was falling apart and the light in it extinguished.
‘I go within the hour to catch the tide.’
‘The weather is bad with high winds.’ How could I be so practical when he was leaving me, when my reason for living was like a battlefield of devastation?
‘I can’t stay in London.’ The silence drew out. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘I don’t know.’
He held out his hand but I did not move. When I could not step across the dark pit he had created, John allowed his arm to fall to his side.
‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ I whispered. But I could not let it go, because I needed to understand. ‘You gave your allegiance to Henry when he took the crown. Would it have been so hard to continue to be his man? What was so very different? I know your loyalties to Richard, but you had accepted that his rule was damaged, that he was no longer fit occupy the throne. That Henry would make a better King. You could have stood at Henry’s side, as his adviser, his well-loved counsellor. What had changed for you?’
‘Different? Changed?’ Eyes opening wide, a glint of light, John considered the sumptuous surroundings with scorn. ‘There was no difference. Yet everything suddenly changed for me. It would have been the simplest of matters to let events take their course. To let Richard go to his incarceration and death—’
‘You have no evidence of that!’ I broke in.
‘—for I see nothing less than death for him,’ John continued as if I had never spoken. ‘I could have worked for a return of my titles and lands from a grateful Henry, and taken a stance on the side of power and military might. How painless it would have been to accept office under the banner of Lancaster, mimicking the affection of a close-knit family.’
The sneer took me aback. ‘I thought I could do it. And then I could not. My little sojourn in Hertford as Henry’s prisoner made me aware of my vulnerability, and of my true allegiance. And if I was vulnerable, how weak is Richard? It was not right, Elizabeth. I could no longer pretend that it was.’
In spite of the anguish that was building—for was this not indeed farewell between us? —I forced my mind into the paths that John’s was taking:
‘But was Richard right in his judgements? Was he a better man than Henry? If you had murdered Henry and released Richard, would your brother have ruled England with fairer justice than my brother? There is no evidence of it. Rather of the contrary, I’d say.’
He sighed. ‘Probably not, but Richard is King by true inheritance. Where will we be if might is allowed to have its day? Do we accept that a king be usurped by a powerful man with an army at his back, simply because he is the stronger?’
‘Not any man,’ I urged. ‘Henry has enough royal blood and more to make him eligible. He is our grandfather’s heir by royal entail and male descent. It is his right to be King.’
‘And there are many who would question that right!’ Frustration gave fuel to John’s arm as he flung the packed saddlebag to the floor. ‘The whole Mortimer faction will be crying foul on Henry’s claim.’
Which I knew. Descended from my dead uncle Lionel, second son to my grandfather, the Mortimers had a sound claim, except that it ran through a female line which old King Edward had overstepped in his entail.
‘And you know full well,’ John was continuing, ‘that Richard chose the line of your uncle of York to succeed him.’
‘Of course I know. With Cousin Edward smirking with regal pretension.’ Still I would argue Henry’s cause. This was no time to be distracted by Edward of Aumale’s posturing. ‘Henry’s claim has the force of law behind him. He has the right to rule through our mother’s blood too, from Henry the Third. It is a claim that is hard to resist.’
‘It’s hard to resist because Henry has men who’ll fight for him in their own interests! But does that make it legal?’
‘Yes. To me it is entirely legal.’
As John, furiously, marched to the end of the Jerusalem Chamber to collect his outer garments, animadverting bitterly on the cunning words of lawyers, I scooped up the saddlebag and waited for him to return to me. Which he did in the end, to stand foursquare before me.