Be my eyes and ears, Princess Joan had instructed me, and I had agreed with no real understanding of what it would mean. But now I did. Now I separated myself from my family and watched them with a political eye. My father would have been proud of me. I saw their movements, like those same chessmen. I sensed the political cunning.

Some were moved and directed by Richard himself, those set on the fringe of the gathering. The royal uncles. My father. Even Henry. Even the Queen who my father had thought might be a power to be reckoned with but still had to find her feet in this country alien to her. One day, perhaps. But for now Richard saw her as an acquisition who would enhance his own glory. When I caught her eye and smiled, I thought that she was watching and assessing as closely as I, even if for entirely different reasons.

For there also, not quite in the royal eye, were the two Holland brothers. How accurate my father’s reading of their isolation. Although they conversed easily with Richard, there was a quickly veiled irritation on John’s face when he observed, as I did, those who were fast becoming Richard’s new court. The expensive coterie of flamboyant, fashionable courtiers. All young. None of the older generation who had nurtured Richard from child to man.

And at the centre, the vivacious Robert de Vere, well-born, well-blessed with looks and stature, son and heir of the Earl of Oxford. They were the group from the courtyard, well-mannered, courteous and dignified in this formal audience, and yet there was the same flattery in their glances. The same fawning as they hung on Richard’s every word. And Richard loved it. Richard was in thrall. When they covered him with praise, he laughed. To one he handed a ring as if it were of no consequence, even if the stone glinted its value from across the chamber. To another he handed with casual brilliance a gilded Book of Hours worth more than my precious gold-stitched gown.

Whose was the master hand here, moving the King in his solitary steps? Was he his own man? And I knew that he was not. I could see it. It was Robert de Vere who smiled and spoke, soft-voiced, encouraging Richard in his extravagance. It was not John Holland. Richard’s half-brothers received no gift on that day.

How important it was for ambition-ridden John Holland to build himself a new alliance—for he would get no promotion from Richard who had eyes for no one but de Vere. So John would make his fortune with my father. Was I then truly a part of the plan? To gain my sympathy, my compassion, my support? Was John placing stones one on another to build a formidable position of strength, with me as one of those blocks, smoothed and created by his own flattery? My father admired his talents if not his character. Henry owed a heavy debt to him, for the rescue from certain death in the Tower. As did I. Henry might scowl, but there was a powerful connection there that would never be truly severed. So what if Elizabeth was also a useful tool to weld the Hollands and the Lancasters into a formidable block of power? I could forgive him the torrid relationship with Isabella. Mostly. But to use me as a pawn in his political game I could not forgive.

And oh, I was awash with regrets, for physical desire had struck me down.

Foolish dreams indeed. The dreams of a young girl who was no longer a girl but a woman—who must accept the responsibilities demanded of her by her family, in which John Holland had no place. His seductive words, his smile, his touch—how they had roused in me a bright longing! Yet it had all been to gain my trust so that he might consolidate an alliance with my father, because Richard would give his gifts and titles and land grants elsewhere.

I spent a restless night in which all the foolishness of the tournament came to an end, leaving me to despise the exhibition I had made of my pleasure in his company. Hopefully the court would read it as mere high spirits. John Holland had no part in my future. I would go back to Hertford with Constanza and wait for Jonty to grow up.

Elizabeth of Lancaster did not wilfully satisfy her lust. The scandal of it would bring my world down upon my head, and I could not bear to see bitter condemnation in my father’s face. But first …

I sighed, but grasped the nettle of my brother’s displeasure. ‘I have come to apologise.’

‘And so you should.’

‘I was ungracious.’

‘You are always ungracious when you don’t get your own way. I don’t know why I expect any different. Why would you take any notice of me?’

At least Henry waved his squire out of earshot. Henry had not been difficult to find, in the stables where he was personally grooming his favourite horse, the roan stallion that had carried him to victory in the lists. Nor did he stop when I loomed at his shoulder and delivered my apology, for what it was.

‘You might stop doing that, Henry.’

‘I might.’

His back was discouragingly turned towards me as he wielded the brush with long sweeps over the animal’s haunch. I glowered at his shoulders. Unfortunately the fault was mine and I must make amends. I stood my ground.

‘I am trying to say I’m sorry. And I know you love Mary more than anything in this world and would never say or do anything to hurt her.’

A grunt.

I punched him on his shoulder, which had the desired effect. At last he stopped wielding the brush, rubbing his arm with a grimace.

‘Yes, I do. And no I wouldn’t.’

‘And in three months you will have your son and heir.’

A smile transformed his face. ‘Or a daughter … I pray she’s not like you!’

And I smiled back. ‘Am I forgiven?’

‘Perhaps …’ And then when I opened my mouth to argue: ‘Yes. I forgive you.’

‘Take my love to Mary.’

He cast aside the brush and enveloped me in his arms in an enthusiastic hug, redolent of horse and smoke. I was forgiven. I returned the embrace, briefly, then pushed him away, brushing my hands down my bodice and skirts.

‘Holy Virgin, Hal. You reek of the stables.’

‘Of course I do. Is the Duke sending you home?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll come to court again.’

‘Perhaps. Will you be here?’

He shook his head, and I could see the exhilaration in him. ‘There are tournaments to be visited, where I can joust. One in Hereford …’

All was right with Henry’s world. If not with mine. We left early next day, Constanza keen to set out with a strong escort and Jonty who was returning to Hertford with me. For once it was a relief to leave court with all its undercurrents and challenges. I had already made my farewells to Philippa. So now, mounted on my mare, engaged in arranging my skirts while awaiting the Pembroke escort to assemble and for Jonty to finish tightening his girth, it seemed uncomfortably as if I was running away. Or being dispatched in disgrace, which was even worse. I raised my head, fixed on presenting a picture of self-composed pride.

‘Will you be ready this side of Compline, Jonty?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it.’

The voice, unmistakeable, smooth, honeyed, lethally attractive, pierced my composure. There he was, moving slowly to stand at my horse’s shoulder, his eyes on my face as if absorbing every thought, every emotion.

Oh, I wished he had not come. To my shame, my discomfiture, I could not return the stare. Yesterday I would have. Before my father’s clever lesson I certainly would have. Today I could not. Instead, with a bright smile, I looked over his head towards Jonty.

‘I fear you are right, Sir John. But perhaps he is ready at last …’

Sir John laughed softly. ‘Where has my sprightly Lady of the Lists vanished to?’

Now I had to look at him. ‘I don’t understand, Sir John.’

‘No? Why can you not look at me?’

‘I am looking at you.’ But I looked away.

‘You are very stern. I read unhappiness in your face. I see you have been warned off by a more powerful voice than that of my mother. I wonder what the Duke has said to you.’

How clever he was at reading court wiles and stratagems. I did not pretend to misunderstand. I had too much pride for that, and gathered it tight about me. Under such provocation my eyes flew to his, and stayed there.

‘Yes. I have been warned.’

‘Did my past dalliance with the lovely Isabella matter so much to you?’

‘It was not your past mistress, sir. It was your present politics.’

‘Ah! But I don’t seek a political alliance with you, Elizabeth.’

His implied meaning shivered over me, but I would not be won round. ‘No, but you do seek one with my father.’

‘How should that be? I am in no need of Lancaster. I am the King’s brother.’

He was almost persuasive, but I knew what I had seen. ‘The court is splitting into factions. I have seen it. I know where your interests lie. I know that Richard intends to send you to Ireland, and you would rather not go.’

He allowed his hand to drop from my bridle, his voice suddenly severe and cold, yet no colder than his eyes.

‘I did not dance with you for politics.’

‘But you did to win Lancaster support, perhaps.’

A flash of anger was there, swift as a dragonfly. And then it was gone. ‘It was not to encourage you to speak favourably of me that I fought for you and carried your guerdon.’

‘But it would undoubtedly have been in your interests to do so, if you impressed the Duke.’

‘I impressed him well enough at St Malo without your help. My skill with sword and lance would stand me in better stead than my ability to charm a woman.’ I could see the sharp displeasure as he took a step back, away from me. ‘I see that severe damage has been done and your mind twisted against me. By the Duke? Of course. I misjudged you, Elizabeth. I thought you had a mind to make your own decisions.’