by Anne O'Brien
‘What will you do?’ she asked. ‘Is he a personable man?’
‘I care not whether he is personable or not. I won’t obey. I have already told Henry.’
‘You were always short on patience too. No …’ As I made to stand and leave. She pulled me back to her side. ‘Do you want my advice or not?’
‘Yes.’ Resentment at Henry’s decision, and the Duchess’s easy acceptance of it, still filled me to the brim.
‘Then think about this. What did you see when we walked through the town?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What did you see?’
‘People going about their daily affairs. The busy marketplace of course. The purveyors of fish.’ I wrinkled my nose.
‘Go on.’
‘It was noisy and busy and provincial. How do you stand it when you could live in London? At court? At Eltham?’
‘It suits me well. Use your wit, Elizabeth.’ All formality was gone and there, despite the lines and the age marks on her hand as it gripped mine, was the familiar sharp intelligence. I felt like the young Elizabeth failing to learn her lessons all over again. ‘It is a picture of peace and prosperity. Provincial if you will, but one of satisfaction and confidence. Yes, there was poverty, there are always beggars, but there were townsfolk with money in their purse and nothing better to do than dress in their best and gossip over the latest scandals that have nothing to do with either of us. Is that not so?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘That is what Henry sees for England. It is what he wants for this realm. Would you have it rent by war? Peace destroyed by rebellion and bloodshed and poor government at the hands of an ailing King or an ill-advised one too young to make good choices? There have been troubles enough in recent years. Don’t you recall the bloody scenes in London when The Savoy was destroyed? Of course you do. You saw and experienced the results of treachery and disharmony for yourself, and so did Henry. But Henry is no longer his own man. He is King of England, and a young untried King, at that. And one with a dangerous inheritance. Don’t you see how difficult his position is?’
‘Yes.’ Of course I did. The seeds sown by Princess Joan so many years ago had fallen on fertile ground. I knew exactly the rumblings of discontent in the country, which might erupt into open rebellion unless Henry played diplomat and statesman.
‘Rebellion. Disaffection. Revenge on every corner if he’s not careful. There are those who will never forgive him for the death of Richard.’ She glanced sharply at me. ‘Can you honestly say that you can forgive him, completely and wholeheartedly, for John’s death?’
Could I? Completely? A question I had shied away from, but my own guilt smote me hard and I sighed. ‘I do not know.’
‘There are many who will plot and scheme to remove Henry from this day until the end of his life.’ She made the sign of a cross. ‘God keep him safe.’
‘Amen, indeed.’
‘And what can he do to strengthen his own position? Very little unless he can widen his power base and win over all those who are willing to be won over. And how will he do that, if even his own sister is reluctant? You know all the answers, Elizabeth. You have seen it in action in the hands of a master of the craft for the whole of your life. Why can you not see it and admire it in his son?’
‘Of course. My father knew how important friends were. He used patronage and friendship.’
‘I never knew any man to equal the Duke in giving gifts to secure the loyalty of those around him.’ Katherine smiled wistfully.
‘And he used marriage,’ I admitted.
‘And marriage. Philippa’s marriage to the King of Portugal was for one purpose only. As was yours to Jonty, God rest his soul. And now Henry needs all the friends he can get.’
‘And I am part of the plan.’
‘Indubitably. But you know all of this, Elizabeth. You always were selfish, and I think you have not changed.’
I flinched but raised my hand in salute, as if she had just struck home with the sword she had accused me of wielding. I could not deny it, could I?
‘For a woman such as you, with all your royal blood, there will rarely be freedom to choose the man you will live beside. You did with John, un-foreseeing of the outcome, which brought you nothing but pain. Why should you expect similar freedom again when Henry has such need of his family? His own children are young and he does not have the advantage of a wife. He needs you and he needs your support. How can you be so closed-minded?’
Silently I sat and considered, not liking to be told what I already knew.
‘Are you considering yourself to be a martyr?’ Katherine asked sternly.
‘Perhaps.’ It was exactly what I had thought.
‘Nonsense. There is no martyrdom in you. Your happiness was destroyed by political necessity. Your contentment with John could never be maintained when there was no possible compromise between Henry and Richard. Between the three of them you were destined for heartbreak.’
How bleak it sounded, this clear vision of my marriage, torn apart by political fealty and power struggles that had refused to be healed. I could feel tears gathering, and swallowed against them.
‘Now you have to be generous. You have to see yourself as part of Henry’s plan for England.’
‘You never were,’ I managed, my voice raw. ‘You were never part of my father’s plan to win support or popularity.’
‘Just the opposite in fact.’ The twist of her lips held much remembered pain. ‘I was sacrificed for the greater good when Walsingham drew blood. I had no power to meld men into an alliance. But you have, with all your Plantagenet breeding.’
I studied my linked fingers. ‘Henry should have asked me.’
‘Of course he should, but he has much on his mind. He is the King and he has a will stronger than steel. He is more like his father than you might guess at.’
‘You know much of what is going on.’
‘I keep my ears open and receive many letters. It occupies my mind. You have allowed yours, Elizabeth, to be submerged in grief and selfishness.’
I drew in a breath.
‘So what now?’ Katherine asked, refusing to allow me to wallow in the sins I had just accepted. ‘You know what I would tell you. Is he so unattractive?’
‘No. He is young and handsome and courteous. He fights well. As a jouster he could almost match John. He can dance and sing. He has a chivalrous way with words, and I doubt he would compel me, as John did. I suspect he is everything a woman could ask for in a husband.’
‘Then that is a blessing. I do not know this paragon.’
‘He is too young to have come within your orbit.’ And I told her what I knew of the age of John Cornewall.
‘Age smooths all furrows,’ was all Katherine said. ‘He is not too young for you now. Shall we pray? It will bring you peace, and perhaps the ability to make the decision for your future.’
I resigned myself to it, but instead of the peace that Katherine wished for me, all the old guilt that I had managed to hold at bay washed over me. I covered my face with my hands and breathed hard against the tears.
‘What is it, Elizabeth?’ The gentle sympathy was almost my undoing.
‘I have such a weight on my heart.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Then tell the Virgin.’
‘I have told her,’ impatience robbing me of courtesy. ‘My guilt remains as heavy. I think she will be weary of hearing me.’
‘The Virgin will never be too weary. Her compassion is infinite.’ Now Katherine had turned to face me, eyes stern and unyielding, all her old authority restored as if I were a young child under her governance again. ‘Kneel before her, Elizabeth, and tell her what is in your heart. I command it. It is the only way to restore some measure of peace to your soul. As much peace as we are ever gifted, as sinners in this sinful world. The Blessed Virgin does not expect you—or me—to be perfect and without stain, but if you are truly repentant for what it is
that troubles you, she will not turn her smile from you. I swear it. It is the only way, my dear child.’
Her solemn assurance settled over me despite my doubts. How could I reject her promise of such comfort, and when her hand pressed down hard on my shoulder I found myself kneeling before the statue, hearing the soft clatter of Katherine’s feet as she allowed me this time of solitude. I had told her that I had made my confession, but not of all that I had done, only of my sorrow.
‘And tell the Blessed Virgin everything!’
I heard her final admonition echo through the spaces around me. So, as a child in obedience I would do it, bowing my head as I murmured the familiar words of petition, of a lost faith, for how could she have mercy on what I had done?
‘Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee do we cry, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn, then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us …’
The familiar prayer whispered into silence. Now I must speak for myself. Lifting my gaze to the calm face above me, my lips parted, then closed, for there it was in my mind’s eye, a slide of one vivid scene after another, robbing me of words. John, smiling and persuasive, telling me of the plot hatched in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster to persuade Henry to deal more openhandedly with his troublesome magnates, his words and voice reassuring that no harm would come of it.
And then my own slow heartbreak, not believing for one moment that it would be so simple a matter as arguing the outcome to a fair compromise, ending with a hand-clasp and goodwill on all sides. My despair that I could not persuade John to step back from what could be a disaster, for Henry and for him. The arguments I had used grew once again with intensity in my mind, and I saw myself kneeling at my prie-dieu in another place, another time, asking for the Virgin’s guidance, doubting every attempt I made to reassure myself that John meant no harm. How right I had been to suspect the true substance of the plotting.
I pressed my hands flat against my heart, as the scenes came faster and faster.
For there I was, standing at the door to Henry’s private chamber, my hand raised to lift the latch, but unable to do so as I reconsidered my choices once more. To speak or remain silent. To stand by brother or husband. Did I knock and enter? Or did I retreat and pray that all would end well, my family reconciled?
And then at the last, my decision made because I could not walk away and pretend that all was well, I entered. I could not have Henry’s death on my soul, and so, swallowing all my doubts, there I was, knocking and entering to stand before brother.
‘I know of a plot, of sorts. I think it is to destroy you.’
Thus I told Henry, in hard, cold words what I knew and what I feared. I betrayed John Holland and told Henry all I knew, to stop the plot coming to its terrible fruition. And after the telling I had pleaded that my brother would forgive John’s treachery. That he would safeguard Richard’s life, for was he not of our own blood? That he would diffuse the plot without bloodshed. Even now I could see, in my mind, Henry taking my hand and, as he held it tight and kissed it, he had promised that all would be well.
But all was not well. All would never be well again. John and Richard were dead.
Then, as the scenes faded, my confession to the Virgin began, haltingly at first, but not once did I look away from her painted eyes, so beautifully azure like the cloak that fell in folds from shoulder to feet, eyes that would or would not judge me.
‘I was to blame for John Holland’s death. I betrayed him. I took vows as his wife, I loved him more than life, but I betrayed him to Henry. I knew enough of the planned rebellion and in the end I could not allow my brother to be killed. John said it would not be death, but I knew how these things worked and …’
For a moment I lost the words I wished to say in a morass of renewed despair, but then continued.
‘I blame myself for John’s death. I knew there would be retribution against John, but I thought I could persuade Henry to be pragmatic. He promised me. But it was impossible in the end. The FitzAlans would claim their revenge and Henry did not care enough to stop them. He said he did try, but I’m not sure … I think when power is in the balance, no man can be trusted.’ I gave a little hopeless shrug. ‘Perhaps I made the wrong judgement. I could not let Henry be done to death, but it was John and all the rest who paid with their lives. And Richard, too.’
There it was. The weight of my guilt must be carried with grim fortitude to the day of my death, in endless punishment. No priest could give me absolution. I would never rid myself of my betrayal of him. Almost, almost I had confessed at the end, in that dreadful room at Pleshey, but he had not let me, and I had been too afraid of the horror I would read in his eyes.
‘I knew how much hatred was directed against John by those who would destroy King Richard and all he stood for.’ I could not stop. Having started, it had to be said. ‘I was beyond foolish to believe that he could escape the bloody revenge taken against him.’ I took a breath, my tongue passing over my dry lips as I confessed the worst. ‘I think that John knew I was the one to betray him, but he never said. He was hurt and angry, reduced by physical pain, but he never accused me. I cannot forgive myself. I don’t deserve forgiveness.’
There. It was said, despite the knot of tears in my throat, and I bowed my head in true contrition. I had wept so little, and now it seemed I could not stop.
Silence stretched out around me, a daunting stillness when I had hoped for a sense of release, nothing but the air moving as a distant door opened and closed. When I raised my head there was no change in the serene features turned to her baby son. One hand, opened in welcome, made me speak again.
‘I ask forgiveness. I can ask no more. And that John will know what I did and why, and he will find it in his heart to forgive me too.’
The serenity did not change, nor did the texture of cool air on my skin, but I continued to kneel, watching the light cast coloured mosaics over the Virgin’s robes, until soft footsteps grew closer, and there was Katherine sinking to kneel beside me with a catch of her breath at the rude advance of age.
‘Well?’
‘I told her everything.’
‘And do you feel her peace and compassion in your heart?’
I shook my head. Relief, yes, that I had at last spoken of it, but no peace.
‘It’s John, isn’t it?’ Katherine said.
I turned my head to look at her, absorbing the implicit knowledge in those keen, intelligent eyes, and I instinctively stiffened, but there was no condemnation there.
‘Oh Elizabeth, I know you better than you know yourself,’ she murmured. ‘There are many who would praise you for what you did.’
‘I betrayed John,’ I said simply. ‘I betrayed the man I loved to his death.’
‘Yours was not the hand that slew him. Did you not fight for him? Did you not beg for his release? I can’t imagine that you didn’t.’
I closed my eyes tight to shut out all the memories. ‘I sent him to his death. I was party to it, however cunning your arguments.’
‘He put himself there. He knew the risks and took them. You can’t blame yourself.’
‘He would not expect his wife to destroy him.’
‘Look at me,’ she admonished, taking my hands in hers, holding them palm to palm within her own. ‘He would not blame you.’
‘How do I know that?’ Grief built again within me.
‘You have to trust, Elizabeth. In the love you had for Holland and that he had for you. And in the Virgin’s incomparable mercy.’ She tightened her grip a little when I would have pulled away. ‘There is nothing I can say to alleviate your hurt, is there?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘This I will say. If you had not spoken out to Henry, you would have been mourning your brother here today. And his four sons. Is that what you would prefer? Would that have been any easier for you to tolerate?’
Nothing here that I h
ad not already considered. ‘No.’
‘There is no easy way out of this for you. But the Virgin will give you her peace. And then you must forgive yourself. You cannot live with this for the rest of your life. It would not be good for you, Elizabeth.’
For a little while we simply sat until I was calm again.
‘Come and stay with me.’ Katherine smiled, and at last she leaned and softly kissed my cheek, the gentlest of caresses. ‘Is this young man of Henry’s choice a man of strong will?’
‘I think he might be,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Just that he would have to be a man of strong will to take you!’
Which made me return the smile, if wanly. ‘John had. John stood up to everyone to wed me.’ And the tears flowed again, for all the hurts and travails of the past months. ‘He would not let me stay with him when he died.’
‘And quite right, too. Remember him in life, not in ignominious death. He would not want that.’
No, of course he would not. Katherine drew me into her arms, keeping her clasp light in case I resisted, but I did not.
‘I will espouse my widowhood,’ I announced at last when I was worn out with weeping.
‘But not for too long. Don’t let the past overshadow the future. I know how easy it is to do that. Who would know better?’
I returned with her, with some degree of peace, and for those days in Lincoln I let my mind rest. Had I been touched by the Virgin’s forgiveness? I did not think so, but neither was I torn by such vicious guilt. I had no more decisions to make other than where I would go when I left. We were simply two women from different generations recalling the past. Healing in its way.
Chapter Eighteen
I must pick up the reins of my life again. If nothing else, in those tranquil days in Lincoln Katherine had taught me that there was no going back and I must step into the future. First I must go to Dartington, despite all the memories and the simple fact that I had no right to be there. I did not think Henry would mind.
How welcoming were the children, overwhelming me with their chatter and demands, the younger ones as yet unknowing and untouched by John’s absence. Richard, who seemed to have grown a hand span in his new authority, was grave, until the energies of youth returned and so did his laughter. Constance touched my hand in some stalwart level of communion and I hugged her close. Alice and Elizabeth concentrated on the rough-haired puppy that had replaced the singing birds in their affection. John prepared to take himself off to inspect the new horses in the stable until I dissuaded him. Baby Edward watched from the arms of his nurse, exhibiting toothless gums in formless chatter.