A Tapestry of Treason. Anne O'Brien
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Joan came to stand beside me at the window.
‘Nor should we forget that Richard is still under constraint. And his future so uncertain.’
No. We must not forget. It was easy to do so in this maelstrom of personal attack. While we awaited Dickon’s return I had visions of flight to one of our distant estates if Henry showed any leaning towards the ultimate punishment. Joan and I could make our escape, perhaps to the staunch walls of Conisbrough, before the royal guards reached us. Or, as Dickon had so flippantly suggested, to my estates in Glamorgan. How extreme this all sounded, fleeing for our lives. Meanwhile Joan returned to her sewing. Her wrists were thin and fragile, but she wielded her needle with energy, despite her professed hatred of it. The greyhound settled down at her feet since, for once, Joan was not accompanied by one of her grey cats. I remained at the window, watching the busy ravens, waiting for some sort of sign of good or ill fortune. Until Joan looked up at me, addressing me with an unsettling question.
‘Does your brother of Aumale ever consider his own closeness to the throne? Richard recognised the Duke of York as his heir, which would make Aumale next in line after his father. An excellent reason for Henry to rid himself of your brother.’
‘My thanks, Joan. You have just stoked my anxieties threefold. So it will matter not whether John Hall gives evidence against Edward. Henry will sign his death warrant.’ I bared my teeth against the awful prospect. ‘As long as he does not sign mine. You know that I’ll fight to the death to save us all from ignominy.’
When Joan at last abandoned her altar cloth, folding it, then placing her hands neatly on top, she tilted her chin and smiled at me, a sharp-toothed little smile.
‘I think I would not like you as my friend, Constance. But I would like you even less as my enemy.’
I bristled, on the defensive. ‘It is fortunate then that you are unlikely to have me as either.’
‘Who’s to say, in the future, you might even need me as a confidante?’
‘Why would I?’
‘You have no female friends, I think.’
No, I had not. A little silence fell between us, broken only by the hound twitching in its dreams and a soft fall of ash in the fireplace. I had never had female friends, nor had I felt the lack of them. Why would I need to bare my breast to another woman who would gossip and prove less than trustworthy? Better to keep my own counsel.
‘I have no need of them.’ I eyed her, resenting what could only be criticism. ‘Nor do I see you surrounded by a flock of admiring Court women.’
‘Ah, but I have sisters.’
Her smile was infuriatingly complacent, and I would have responded with even more astringency. But I did not.
‘Listen,’ she said.
I realised that every one of my senses had been held in tension. Throughout all our conversational meanderings I had been straining for the first intimation of Dickon’s return.
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