The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien
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was running hot.
I knew I would pay for that exhibition of outrageous courtesy by my partner. I could not hope that it had gone unnoticed, and there was Henry stalking across the chamber with a darkening brow, my cousin Edward of York following in his footsteps. No time for me to take refuge with Philippa, or even the Princess who sat in state with a cup of wine and a dish of honeyed nuts to sustain her through the hours. All I had time to do was take a breath and hope my heightened colour had paled, at the same time as I ordered my response to the inevitable attack. Henry had no reason to call my behaviour into question. The unfortunate flamboyance in that kiss had been John Holland’s. Not mine. Better to challenge Henry now with a good strong denial of any wish of mine to draw attention to myself, before my brother’s ire became too well-lodged to dissipate.
‘You’d do well to avoid Holland, Elizabeth, if you can’t behave with more perspicacity.’
Not a propitious start. Marriage had given Henry a degree of solemnity that was sometimes not short of pompous. I abandoned any thought of a greeting.
‘Avoid him?’ I said. ‘How would I avoid the King’s brother without discourtesy? Have you some advice for me, little brother?’ I made it just a little patronising. I was still taller than he and could make use of my height.
Henry was unmoved. ‘It looked like a flirtation to me.’
‘You are wrong. It was not.’
Edward was hovering. Edward always hovered. Now almost into his tenth year, he was a slight child who promised uncommonly good looks but I disliked his air of smug superiority even more than the sly gleam in his eyes.
‘Go away, Edward!’ I said.
‘I’m only—’
‘You’re only listening to what does not concern you.’ And I waited until he sulked into the crowd.
‘He’s a nuisance,’ Henry observed, watching him retreat, ‘with a bad case of hero-worship. I think it’s the gilded armour. Every time I turn round …’ His gaze sharpened, fixed mine again. ‘About Holland. The Duke would not like it.’ He glanced over towards the far end of the chamber where our father conversed with the Earl of Warwick. I doubted that he had even noticed. ‘Nor would the Pembroke connection approve of your lack of discretion in cavorting with the man who is known to spend more time in the bed of the Duchess of York than the Duke does!’
‘I care not what the Pembroke connection thinks or does.’ So Henry was well aware of the rumours, too. ‘There’s nothing not to like in my dancing with Sir John. I am not the only woman he has partnered.’
‘You are the only woman whose wrist he saluted in the middle of a dance, I warrant.’
‘Were you spying on me, Henry?’
‘Yes. Every time I set eyes on you, you are in his company. He’s not a suitable companion for you. Apart from anything else, his allegiances are not trustworthy. He might accept a Lancaster annuity today, but who knows where he will look tomorrow.’
Anger had begun to bubble under my skin, alongside the dismay. I would not be judged, I would not be watched. What right had my younger brother, however impressive in the lists, to be critical of me? I had done no wrong. As for John Holland’s political inclinations, I could see no relevance.
‘I’ll dance with whomsoever I wish,’ I said. ‘How dare you speak to me of decorum? And how dare you blacken the name of the King’s brother? A kiss on my wrist is hardly a matter to ruffle the sensibilities of the royal court.’ I had worked myself up into a fine show of temper, at the same time as I refused to consider why I felt the need to do so.
‘As long as it goes no further than that.’
‘How dare you!’
‘And keep your voice down. I know exactly the reputation of the King’s brother! I’d make sure he did not dance with Mary.’
‘I doubt he would wish to. She’s little more than a child.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘That John Holland appreciates a woman with some degree of experience.’
‘Like yourself.’
‘If you wish! By the Rood, Henry.’ This was getting out of hand. ‘I only danced with the man. Is that so reprehensible?’
‘You think you are so clever, so beyond criticism. Why will you not listen to good advice?’
No! No more advice!
‘I will take advice. But not from you, little brother …’ And having a weapon I could use against him, I did so, careless in my anger. ‘Who are you to admonish me for my behaviour? You were told to keep your distance from Mary. But you couldn’t, could you? And now she’s carrying your child, and she not yet fourteen years.’
And immediately wished the words unsaid as high colour washed over Henry’s cheekbones and a keen anxiety sparked in his eyes.
‘I did not molest her!’
‘I did not say you did!’
‘Mary is my wife and I love her. There was no indiscretion. You do not know the meaning of the word discretion.’
Which fired my anger again. ‘Discretion? You could not keep your hands off Mary, when everyone knew it would be better if you did! You have no right to take me to task.’
‘I am wasting my breath.’ Henry marched off, collecting his shadow Edward before he had gone more than a dozen strides.
So many warnings. Was I so much at fault? And now I had crossed swords with Henry and instantly regretted it. Mary had desired the union as much as Henry and was perfectly content in her pregnancy. It was ill-done of me to beat my brother about the head with it when they obviously enjoyed the deepest of affection. Unsettled, regretful, I had to watch the departure of Henry’s rigid back and then Sir John leading Isabella into another dance. When I next looked, he had gone, abandoning Isabella too, who had enough court manners that she did not appear disconsolate.
Well, neither would I.
I joined hands in a circle with Philippa and Sir John’s elder brother Thomas Holland, who was enjoying the status of his recent inheritance of the earldom of Kent.
‘And are you going to douse me in reprimand and disfavour?’ I asked Philippa when her lips remained firmly pinned together.
‘No. I don’t need to. You know you shouldn’t encourage him. And you’ve upset Henry.’
‘You don’t like him,’ I accused Philippa.
‘I’m not sure. He’s hard not to like. But I don’t trust him.’
The final day of the tournament dawned as fair and crisp as all the rest. It was to be a day of miracles. I was Queen of the Lists, offering my glove—the partner of the one I had bestowed on Jonty—to John Holland who made me the object of his gallantry.
On that day he fought, demon-possessed. No one could defeat him. He was brave and bold and entirely admirable in his defeat of his opponents.
I crowned him with laurels: presented him with the purse of gold.
After supper I danced with him, conscious only of the clasp of his fingers around mine, the agile strength of his body. Never had I felt so full of life and joy. All sense of duty and discretion was set aside, all the warnings cast adrift. Henry and the Princess meant well, but I saw no dangers in my demeanour, even when Sir John stole another kiss on my wrist.
‘You should not.’
‘Would you rather I did not?’
‘Would you desist if I did?’
‘I would think about it …’
And he would do exactly as he pleased. And since John Holland loved no one but himself, he was no danger to me. And