by Anne O'Brien
And I did believe it. Surely there was some element of reason in this clever, political woman’s heart. Some tiny seed of reason, of compassion to which I could appeal, to win John his freedom. Surely here was some means to escape if I kept my composure and argued with some line of clear logic.
‘I suppose that you would say,’ the Countess said lightly, ‘that it was my duty, and my own inclination, to give you a hearing, in light of my long-standing friendship with your father.’
‘It is what I had hoped.’
‘We were always close.’
‘As I know.’
The faintest of smiles touched her lips and I had the sensation of a lightness in my heart. Perhaps hope was not quite dead.
‘What do you suppose that John of Lancaster would advise in such a case as this?’
‘To have mercy,’ I replied promptly. ‘He held my husband in high regard.’
‘So you say. Sadly your brother the King holds him in utter contempt.’
So I said what I knew I must. ‘I beg of you, for my sake, out of all the love you bore for me and my family, to show compassion for a man who did nothing but obey the orders of his own King, of Richard. To whom he had taken the oath of allegiance.’
The smile had vanished from the Countess’s lips. Yet she laughed, a light trill of derision, and as the laughter died away I felt a presence at my back. The Steward had not closed the door and someone had entered with silent footsteps. Now he came to stand at the Countess’s side, turning slowly to face me.
And all the hope that had been building, one tiny stone on another, collapsed in absolute ruin as his eyes held mine. There would be no compassion here.
The last time I had seen this young man he had been a youth, a sullen youth, barely grown out of childhood, placed with his brother in John’s care after the execution of his father. A disgruntled youth who had expressed every desire to disrupt our household, and had carried out a childish revenge.
Here was no child.
Here was Thomas FitzAlan, now the dispossessed Earl of Arundel on the death of his brother Richard from some malevolent fever in our keeping. Thomas who had escaped from Reigate Castle and fled to Europe where he had sworn his allegiance to my brother.
And here he was, to extract ultimate vengeance for the death of his father and brother. And somewhere in this fortress, kept under lock and key, and the key doubtless in the hand of Thomas FitzAlan, was my husband.
‘I see you are returned in triumph, Thomas FitzAlan.’ I broke the simmering silence.
He was nineteen years old but looked older than his years with his new responsibilities, his high-necked houppelande full-skirted and stitched with bright silks, worthy of Henry himself. In his hand a velvet hat and a pair of jewelled gauntlets. So Thomas FitzAlan had become my brother’s pensioner until his estates were restored to him and was enjoying the King’s open-handedness.
‘And I will take my revenge.’ He did not even need to gloat.
How could I possibly have seen this eventuality? In all the choices I had made, I could never have foreseen this. The weight of repercussion on heart became suffocating.
‘Then I will not beg you for mercy, as I would have begged the Countess.’
‘No. For I will not listen. John Holland is a dead man.’
They allowed me to see him, even when I thought they would refuse. How they enjoyed my impotence; there at Pleshey I had no power to demand entry into whichever noxious room in which they were keeping him, but at last, with a glance at her nephew, to cow him into reluctant submission, the Countess summoned a servant to conduct me.
‘She deserves that much at least,’ she snapped when Thomas demurred. ‘For her brother’s sake.’
If she thought it would intensify my pain, she was wrong. Nothing could do that. The days of familial closeness were long gone, even as I inclined my head in a semblance of gratitude. As a young girl, intent on my own personal happiness in my supremely privileged world, how could I ever have guessed that my marriage to John would destroy all my confidence, forcing me to bestride the great divide between two warring families? Conflicting loyalties wounded my heart at every turn when I was forced to cast myself on the mercy of those who would have no mercy.
‘Enjoy your farewell.’ The Countess was exultant in her triumph. ‘You will not see him again. Or not with the capacity to engage you with honeyed words. It is hard to speak with your head severed from your body.’
My breath caught, my whole body rigid, my hands flat against my waist where my heart thundered. Death. Execution. Taken utterly by surprise, I could not think how to react. The decision had already been made. My journey, all my pleas had been for nothing. I had been right to fear the worst.
Still I harnessed all my willpower. ‘This is wrong. There has been no trial,’ I observed with cold dispassion in contrast to the Countess’s fervour.
‘What need? His guilt is proven by his flight from justice. The men of Essex will gather when I summon them, and they will see justice done.’
Her assurance swept me into utter despair, aghast at what her words implied.
‘How can you even consider letting the mob run wild? Did we not see the dangers of uncontrolled demands for what the men of Essex considered to be fairness?’
Images of London, The Savoy Palace burning to destruction, flickered through my mind as a monstrous backdrop to my present woes. I heard the cries of terror of those snatched up from the Tower and done to death on Tower Hill without trial. Would Henry, who had almost fallen victim to the mindless bloodshed simply because he was his father’s heir, risk such uncontrolled rebellion undermining the law and order of his own kingdom? Countess Joan had no compunction in using the weight of the mob in her own interests.
The Countess remained unmoved. ‘There will be no lack of control. The men of Essex will speak with a fair voice under my guidance, never fear.’
‘And you will persuade them of what is fit and fair, if they stumble in their choice.’
Anger at Henry burned brightly. Henry who had so cleverly shuffled off his responsibility here. He would bear no guilt for John’s death, but would emerge as white as a new untrammelled snowfall, while Countess Joan and Thomas FitzAlan willingly shouldered the responsibility in his stead.
‘And you will receive a suitable reward at my brother’s hands,’ I said to Thomas FitzAlan whose face wore an appallingly self-satisfied smile.
The smile became a grin. ‘Why not? Henry has already knighted me. When this rebellion is put down, I will receive possession of my inheritance. I’ll be Earl of Arundel, as is my right.’
It was all hopeless. And yet: ‘I ask for clemency. The Earl of Huntingdon does not deserve to die at the hands of the mob.’
‘Who was there to grant my father mercy, to vouch for his good name? Or to speak for my brother, too young to die at Huntingdon’s hands?’
‘Huntingdon was not responsible for your brother’s death,’ I returned, knowing the accusation to be groundless, hoping my cold assurance would have an effect. ‘He was not at Reigate, as you well know. Your brother was never ill-treated in our household. What you say is an infamous calumny.’
It had no effect. Viciously casting his hood and gloves at my feet, as if issuing a challenge to combat, FitzAlan seized the thread of vengeance and spun it out to create a masterpiece of bloody intent. ‘Huntingdon treated me as a slave. My brother died of the foul handling he was given. And you talk to me of compassion and clemency. Save your breath. Besides, this is treasonable talk. A traitor deserves no consideration. For you to argue the case, my lady, would only be disloyal to the King, your brother.’ He gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Holland will pay for making me clean his bloody boots!’
Nothing less than a smirk accompanied the final truth and the use of my title with such lack of respect. These FitzAlans had all the power here at Pleshey. Had I fallen to my knees to grovel at their combined FitzAlan feet, there would be no moving them. Holding fast to a hard control
that I would need to carry me through the next hours, I would beg no more, since there was no mercy in this room.
I managed to curtsy my thanks, eyes downcast to hide the burden of hatred that filled my chest so that I could scarce breathe. They might rejoice at bringing John low, but they would get no more satisfaction from my misery.
I was led by a silent individual, more guard than servant from the weaponry attached to his person, to one of the towers, not a dungeon as I had feared, but, except that it was not below ground, little better. Thrust into the room without ceremony, the heavy door was locked at my back, leaving me to blink in the shadows.
Shatteringly cold, severely under-furnished, almost lightless with windows little more than arrow slits, this was a part of the original stone structure that had undergone no refinement over the years. No fire warmed the dank air that stank of long disuse and blood and rodents. There was a bench, a coarsely constructed stool. There was no comfort here. I could barely see across the room, only conscious of a movement as a figure rose slowly from the roughly-constructed bed against the far wall.
John, once Duke of Exeter, reduced to this. King’s brother, King’s counsellor, locked away in filth and neglect. All he lacked were the chains. It was as if I could see the axe poised above his neck, if that is what the Countess was pleased to grant. That he might be torn apart with animal fury by the promised mob was too much for my mind to encompass. Despair and grief entwined in my belly with the stench, so potent that I could not at first speak. There was the reek of incipient death in this room, and it silenced me.
It was John who broke the silence, John who was never afraid to put into words his worst fears, to face the danger head-on. Was it not always so?
‘Elizabeth.’ It was little more than a sigh. My belly clenched. I had not thought that he might already be injured.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
Because he remained as far from me as he could get, his back flat against the wall, hands splayed there at his sides, his beloved features were impossible to discern, but I could hear the rasp of pent-up anger as he demanded, almost savagely:
‘Why are you here?’
‘To see you.’
‘I don’t want you here. If you bang on the door, my winsome jailer will return and release you.’
It was not what I expected, but then, what had I hoped for? Not that he would welcome me with open arms, but this was rejection after our tentative promises in the Jerusalem Chamber. I took a single step forward.
‘I will not go. I am come to appeal for the life of my husband. I am come to beg the Countess for mercy.’ Until I could sense his mood, I could not speak of my failure, even though in the end I knew I must. There was no room for untruths between us, nor would he believe me. ‘I am here because I could not stay away. Did you think I would hide behind Henry, seeking his goodwill by abandoning you? You are my husband, for good or ill. It is my duty and my care to plead for you.’ I took a breath. ‘I am here to plead for you out of love.’
There was a long pause before he found the innocuous words to reply.
‘Then I should be grateful, should I not? For no one else will.’
How cruel truth could be. After that brutal assessment John did not move. The shadows remained motionless as if even his breathing was stilled.
And then: ‘You will not succeed. But you know that.’
I could not deny it. And how lacking in emotion he was. I knew I must take care not allow my own to overflow and drown us both. Driven by an urge to be practical, to bring some lessening of the pain in that bleak confine, I turned and hammered on the door, which was immediately unlocked. So the guard was waiting outside. Perhaps even listening, although what he might learn that could further damage John’s cause I could not imagine.
‘Didn’t take long, mistress. The goods too damaged to satisfy your needs?’ His grin was as obscene as was the implication. And I feared what I could not see.
‘Long enough to be ashamed at the state in which the Earl of Huntingdon is kept,’ I said. ‘I wish for candles.’
‘It might be better if you don’t …’ I heard John murmur.
‘I’ve got no orders.’ The guard remained unabashed.
‘Fetch them. Fetch wine and bread. The King my brother would not have this man kept in this condition. And he will surely hear of it …’
For a long moment I thought that he would disobey.
‘Would you defy me?’
‘Not I! As you wish, mistress. On your head be it.’
With a guffaw at his own wit, the man departed, returning with two rush lights, a flagon of wine and two cups, but no bread. No matter. I took them without a word of thanks—I was beyond thanks—and he locked the door again.
At first I busied myself, placing the lights in their brackets, but when their flickering illumination showed what had been hidden, all I could do was look at John, horror seeping into my bones. Someone had already applied a punishment to his unprotected flesh and enjoyed the task. Clothes stiff and begrimed from his days at sea and the beaching, that was the least of it. There was blood on hose and tunic, for had he not been severely manhandled? Hair dark and matted with filth, bruising along his jaw and beneath one eye, blood dried and smeared, it was clear to me that he had been given no attention. I thought the fingers of one hand, curled clumsily into a talon against the stonework, were broken. Someone had already taken revenge with a heavy hand, but not enough to rob him of his senses. They wanted him alive and aware. Nothing must be done to strip away the suffering of the final punishment to come.
Sorrow, slippery with regret, welled up in me, and I swallowed hard, but he must have seen what I could not hide, for his smile was twisted, resembling more a grimace as his damaged muscles resisted even the slightest movement.
‘I doubt I’m good to look at. I said it would be better without light, but you never listen, Elizabeth. You never did, so you’ll not start now.’
I would not argue with him. Instead I crossed the room, stopping only to pour a cup of the wine, and pushed him gently to sit on the bed where he subsided with a groan. With difficulty I helped him to bend the fingers of his less damaged hand around the cup and aided him to drink, surprised when he did not demur. He was weaker than I thought.
‘By the Rood, that’s poor stuff,’ he grimaced.
‘Your jailor doesn’t care about the vintage. When did you last eat?’
‘Feeding me is not one of the Countess’s priorities. As long as I am on my feet to greet my executioner …’
‘You need food. I will arrange it.’
‘No.’ Not all his strength was drained. He stopped me by dropping the cup and clasping my wrist, even though the effort made him gasp.
‘This is the end, Elizabeth.’ A flat, hard statement of truth. ‘We’ll not prolong it with fine wines and fair repasts.’
Tears of despair collected on my lashes, guilt stabbed hard at my heart, but I transmuted it into anger. ‘In God’s name, John, why did you not listen to me? I warned you what might happen. Did I not advise you to use more subtle means than an uprising?’ Emotion was not too far away, lodged like a mouthful of dry bread in my throat. ‘Why would you not listen to me?’
‘Because you spoke with your brother’s voice,’ he observed laconically, the same reasoning that we had already tossed, endlessly, between us. ‘And I, in the end, could not betray mine. Leave it. If you need a deathbed confession from me, that will exonerate me of my sins, I can’t do it.’ There was the defiance, still strong, despite the wounds and abrasions, the damaged voice. I could not look at the bruises that already encircled his throat as if fingers of steel had been pressed there, presaging what lay ahead with the kiss of the axe. His voice became a harsh rasp. ‘It is too late for that.’ His eyes slid to mine. ‘Someone talked. Someone leaked the plan to Henry. He was ready for us. He knew the date and the time.’
My breath faltered.
‘How could that be?’ he asked.
All I cou
ld do was stare at him.
‘Not that it matters,’ he continued. ‘Here we are, and I must face the consequence of my so-called treachery. If a man lights the conflagration of treason he has to accept that the flames can burn him too.’
‘John …’
‘No. Don’t say anything. There is nothing more to say.’
And stopped me with his broken fingers against my lips.
‘Elizabeth. No. We are past all that. The choices have been made, the decisions taken. An ill wind brought me back to these shores, into the arms of waiting fate, and fate desires my death …’
His voice trailed away into silence. And there was the future after all, crowding in on us with its foul breath.
‘I swear I will do all I can to make fate step aside,’ I promised as my gut churned with nausea.
John’s smile was raw. ‘Just sit with me. Or does my appearance disgust you?’ He tried to retrieve the cup and swore. ‘My hands don’t work too well.’ It looked as if someone had stamped on them. ‘Tell me something I can hold fast to, to the end. Something that is good and indestructible and redolent of past happiness. About the children. About Dartington. About anything but …’
‘I cannot. I cannot talk of any of this.’ Although I remained seated with him, in the face of his courage, my brave words meant nothing. ‘All I can see is …’ My breath hitched, my blood was cold as death.
‘All you can see is my death.’
‘Yes. I can do nothing.’
The sneer was back, well marked beneath the crusted blood and bruising. ‘Will Henry not make a final bid to save me to please his well-beloved sister?’
‘Not so well-beloved. Henry refuses my pleas and has handed the jurisdiction to Countess Joan and Thomas FitzAlan.’
‘Ah! So Thomas is here.’ There was the smile, the old charm that wounded me with its brilliance. That he could still smile was beyond my fathoming.
‘You have not seen him? I thought he might have been responsible for the blows.’ Gently, regaining control, I smoothed his damaged fingers between mine. Two of them were broken.