‘May I tempt you, my lady?’

A gobbet of delicate roast heron presented to me on the point of a knife. A spoonful of spiced quince dumpling handed to me—who was to know the spoon, the silver prettily chased with an E, was a gift from him to me? It made me laugh, although I would not explain. Would this spoon be long enough for my supping? Oh, I prayed that it was. And then there was the stare that caught mine and would not release me, shielded by the magnificent tail of Richard’s stuffed peacock.

‘You are the most beautiful creature here today. Except for this poor bird before us, stripped and stuffed back into its skin.’

Which made me laugh. And if that were not enough, it was the comfits and hippocras of the voidee, served only to the pre-eminent guests, that heated my limbs with an inappropriate stroke of lust. And the wordless toast in the spiced wine.

I was truly enamoured.

And finally: ‘God keep you safe, Elizabeth, when I cannot.’ A mark of possession, uttered as the chaplain brought the feast to an end with fulsome prayers. The solemn pronouncement stirred my senses as the chaplain’s did not.

‘May the Blessed Virgin keep you in her heart and smile on you,’ I replied in a furtive whisper, when I would rather be kissing him and he kissing me. ‘May she bring you back safe from war, without harm.’

And then innocence was abandoned, along with the bones thrown to the dogs, for Richard’s march to intimidate and harry the Scots was imminent.

‘And if I’m so preserved, perhaps you might consider celebrating with me between my sheets,’ he murmured sotto voce, under a swell of minstrel enthusiasm from the gallery above our heads.

‘I am a respectable wife,’ I mouthed back.

‘Sadly not mine.’

Thus the tenor of what was for me an illumination, like entering a light-filled room from dark antechamber, into how physical desire could colour every action, every sentiment uttered; and what for John Holland was a determined seduction.

‘You are my Holy Grail.’

‘I am no such thing!’

‘I am embarked on my life’s quest to win you. No castle will be impregnable to my assault.’

My cheeks were on fire. I could find no denial. Silently I wished him every success in storming his castle walls.

Ultimately, lingeringly, forlornly, clinging to what solace I could, I kissed John Holland, safe from prying eyes at the foot of the outer staircase to his room. In public I made a decorous farewell to the King, my father and brother and my would-be lover as they rode out to war. Generations of Lancaster women had been waving their menfolk off to war, as did I, with a bright smile and dread in my belly. I forgave John his preoccupations.

Philippa kept her own council other than to remark at regular intervals: ‘I don’t know what he means to you, but why will you still play with fire? I pray that you will not be singed beyond bearing.’

‘And I pray for you a husband, as soon as the Duke returns,’ I replied, my own temper short in those days when we received no news. ‘Then you will know that sometimes playing with fire is as essential as breathing.’

I was already mightily singed. Jonty, far to the north in Kenilworth, retired into the shadows. John Holland, even further away in Scotland under the royal banner, stood in my mind in the full rays of the noon-day sun.

Our military force finally departing to the north, I prayed daily for their deliverance from our enemy the Scots. Not that I needed to wear out my petitions on my knees, when the proud advance fast deteriorated into a humiliating retreat, Richard being the first to return to London. Relief laid its hand on me. The rest of our men would follow and soon I would see John again.

Perhaps we would do more than mime across the expanse of a fair cloth.

Then the news trickled through, the deadliest of poison.

‘Ralph Stafford is dead.’

At first it was whispered, for was not Ralph Stafford, a young courtier with dash and style and a powerful family behind him, particularly loved by Richard? How long could the news be kept from him that one of his best-beloved friends was dead? And when Richard discovered it, what fit of temper or utter remorse would take hold of him?

‘Struck down in cold blood.’

Pray God that Queen Anne could soothe him with her calm good sense and soft words.

And then the details unfolded, like a stream gathering momentum in a summer flood. And one particular detail. That one inexplicable detail that stirred the whispers to a deluge of gossip and reduced me to a mass of shivering fear.

Ralph Stafford was cut down, in a despicable, unprovoked blow, by John Holland.

The whole court talked of nothing else. Those who had no love for John Holland and his aspirations to power rubbed their hands with glee for surely there was no redemption for him here. And those who saw behind John’s ambitions to the brilliant skill, men such as my father, failed to hide their dismay. How could this cold-blooded murder be excused? The death of the friar under questioning could be overlooked as a necessity in the face of treason, but this victim of John Holland’s outrageous temper was a young man, son and heir of Earl of Stafford, with many friends.

John, it became clear, had few friends to leap to his defence.

As the tale grew in gore and viciousness, I tried to preserve a dispassionate face, even joining in the speculation of how Richard would react to his brother’s crime, while my heart became a thing of ice and my spirits in tatters. If the telling of the deed was true, not even I could vindicate John from the foul deed.

How could I justify this? I knew John’s temper. I knew it could rage on the very borders of control. Far to the north in York, one of John’s squires had been killed in a drunken brawl by an archer in the retinue of Ralph Stafford. An unfortunate killing in the heat of ale, but John, full of ire, went hunting for the perpetrator, and when, riding through the night, he came across a Stafford retinue, John drew his sword and killed the leader, without waiting to discover that it was the Stafford heir. Or perhaps he did know, some muttered, but the violence of his temper drove him on to avenge his dead squire.

No matter the detail, John Holland had run Ralph Stafford through with his sword, leaving his dead body on the road.

The news could not be kept from Richard who was gripped by a silent rage, seated immobile on the throne in his audience chamber, tears fresh on his cheeks, unresponsive to Queen Anne who left him with a lift of her shoulders.

So what now? the court mused. And so did I with a dread that kept me awake through the early hours when fears leapt from every shadow. Stafford was demanding vengeance. John had taken refuge in Beverley Minster, surely evidence of his guilt. But what would Richard do?

As I considered the possible scale of Richard’s revenge, an undercurrent of pure rage rumbled beneath my speculations, aimed at both men. Richard might well dole out the ultimate penalty for murder, so that the royal brother would face the axe. Or be banished from the kingdom to seek his turbulent fortune elsewhere. I had no faith in Richard’s compassion.

As for John Holland, how could he have been so intemperate?

And then the undercurrent became a raging fire that swept through me as I put the blame where it lay. John was everything to me, and I to him. How could he risk all that we were to each other by a blow of a sword on a dark road? I could not justify his lack of humanity, of morality, his lack of foresight in bringing about an innocent death.

Had he not promised never to allow his temper to harm me? But he had. Oh, he had. His life might be forfeit and I left to mourn a love that shook me with its power.

The fault was all John Holland’s, and Richard’s grief erupted into an outpouring of rage against his absent brother. Fraternal affection held far less weight than the loss of Ralph Stafford. John Holland, Richard swore, would answer for his crime, while I was cast into a desperate foreboding. I was helpless.

But was I? Laying my anger aside, I gave my mind to plan, to plot—for was not Richard my cousin who might be open to persuasion? Richard would never condemn his own brother to death or even banish him from his presence. Richard had a brother’s love for John Holland. What if I appealed to him for clemency? Would he listen as he had listened to me—and obeyed me—in our childhood games? But those days were long gone, Richard now eighteen years and a man grown, a man driven by extreme passions when his will was crossed. If he could conspire in the death of a once loved uncle, Richard was not the cousin I remembered. And how could I confess my interest in John Holland, in full public gaze, when as a married woman I was not free to do so?

But I could not sit and allow John Holland to come under royal vengeance.

Who could help me?

I considered petitioning the Queen, but her eyes were strained with sadnesses I could only guess at. Not de Vere and the courtiers of Richard’s charmed inner circle. Never them. Would they not rejoice in John’s fall from grace? Princess Joan was not in health, residing with her own household at Wallingford Castle. I could think of only one voice that might, in spite of everything, still have Richard’s ear and the authority of royal blood.

I attended Mass, from which Richard was noticeably absent, even though it would have been good for his inner peace, then went in search of my father in his accommodations.

‘Elizabeth.’ He looked up as I entered. ‘What brings you from your bed betimes? It must be urgent.’

He was, as usual, in the depths of state business, the table before him covered with lists and correspondence. It would fall to him to secure the Scottish border against reprisals after Richard’s abortive campaign. His eyes were tired. I noticed the grey in his hair and felt the weight of his responsibilities. Would it be thoughtless for me to add to his burdens?