‘What’s wrong?’ asked Philippa, ranging up beside me.

‘Not a thing.’

‘You looked sour.’

‘Your imagination, dear sister …’

Reluctant to parade my fears before her, I arranged my features into a bland appreciation of the countryside through which we travelled and continued to pick apart the close weaving of the tapestry of my life. It seemed to be a mass of entwined stems and smothering leaves, like a hopbine at the end of the autumn harvesting, with no clear pattern at all.

Why did I not simply ask the Duke to arrange an end to my sham marriage? He had rarely refused me anything in all my life, indulged and petted as I had been, but that was in the matter of gifts and comforts, of clothing and jewels. I had been raised to know my fate in the scheme of Lancaster preferment, that I would, at my father’s behest, wed a man who brought a fine name, authority and wealth. It would not be for me to choose, however eminent the man I set my eye on or however unsuitable I considered my father’s choice for me. Had the Duke not refused to listen to my pleas when the Pembroke marriage was first mooted? For certain he would not be enamoured of so close an alliance with John Holland, even though he might be brother to the King. A dangerous man, the Duke had said. John Holland was as unreliable as an unbroken warhorse, a man still with a reputation to repair. No, the Duke would not rejoice at the prospect. And I no longer thought that I had the means to influence him.

There was only one certainty in my mind.

I must tell John. And then …

But there the unknown ran riot through my thoughts. I could imagine full well what my father would say, and I quailed at the prospect. But what about John? Enjoying intimate intervals of intense passion and avowals of love were all very well, but to conceive a child threw a dangerous flame into the nicely smouldering twigs of his ambitions. A conflagration such as this might not be easily extinguished. Would his desire to wed me vanish like the flame of a snuffed candle, or—the thought made my heart bound against my ribs—would he see it as a lever to move the stone of my refusal?

Not that I was in a position to concur with his demands. My heart plummeted again as I prevented a sigh, pinning my smile even tighter when the complications multiplied to swamp my nascent planning. Even if this child, born in full public view, was recognised as the bastard of John Holland, what did I foresee for my future? All I saw was isolation and shame and John far away in Portugal, perhaps not returning before the child could stagger to greet him on its own two feet.

If he had any sense, he might stay there for ever as a soldier of fortune. And what an escape that would be from a trap of scandal and an illegitimate child.

As for the condemnation of the Pembroke family … I could argue that I did not care what Jonty’s family would say, but many would argue that there was no way out of that particular morass of public recrimination.

This was no good!

What use was it in allowing myself to be deluged in qualms and difficulties? What was it that I wanted? As a sudden shower of rain forced us to quicken our pace, I directed my thoughts into a path away from all the damage this pregnancy had created, for I knew exactly what I wanted. This child might unnerve me with its inconvenience, but deep within me was a sense of unexpected elation, a ripple of pure joy as if the child already moved in my womb, and an utter certainty. I wanted this child, and I wanted John Holland for my husband, a husband who was not hundreds of miles away engaged in a war that might keep him absent for months if not years. Once I would have obeyed my father, but no longer. My mind was set on where I saw my future happiness.

Yet still I desired my father’s approval and, as far as was possible with some diplomatic handling, I wanted the approval of the court. There would be no convent for me, no besmirched name, no bastard child, and no condemnation from the likes of Walsingham. I wanted no gossip in corners, no speculative glances when I entered a room. I wanted reinstatement as a Plantagenet daughter and Holland wife with no cause for me to blush. I was no loose court harlot. I would be Elizabeth Holland, and would hold my head high as I had done all my life.

All I had to do was ease events into motion to achieve it.

Nor was I in any manner daunted. Philippa would probably say that I was undertaking a campaign greater than my powers, but Philippa was never one to beard the dragon in its den. I would. I would tempt the dragon into the open and set it to work for me, even if it demanded unconscionable duplicity to persuade it to my way of thinking. How to go about this miraculous reversal of my fortunes kept my mind occupied over many wearing miles.

‘There’s Plymouth,’ Philippa interrupted my intricate thought processes.

‘Good,’ I said, all traces of past nausea vanished, my wits sharp.

If I failed, it would not be said of me that I had not done my best.

Plymouth at last. A small town, much destroyed in the past through raids and fire, but the castle was intact and the port was thought to be most appropriate for the convergence of all needed for a major campaign. Dismounted, we were shown into a chamber barely larger than the buttery at Kenilworth, put aside for Philippa, but since I was not expected I could not complain.

Although I did. ‘I suppose I’ll have to share your bed.’

‘Yes. And you should be thankful. The Duke might, of course, send you straight back to Kenilworth in disgrace which will solve your problem.’

In disgrace? I had already rejected that. ‘I will not go.’

‘It may not be your decision for the making.’

I chose not to reply.

We made our way into the living quarters, preventing our skirts from snarling on the edge of coffers and bundles of weapons and armour wrapped in linen, to a room overlooking the port where the Duke greeted us with harassed affection. Sir John was nowhere to be seen, even when I leaned to squint through the window to look down into the activity below.

‘I did not expect you, Elizabeth,’ my father observed with a lift of his brows. ‘Should I have done?’

‘I could not bear to be parted from my sister,’ I replied, moving back into the cluttered room to sit on a stool. It was a relief that it had a cushion and did not move.

‘I doubt we can house you.’

‘Philippa has offered half her bed.’ I smiled ingratiatingly when she frowned at me.

‘You are astonishingly cheerful, all things considered!’ she murmured as the Duke walked to the open door to summon a page with food and refreshment.

‘What choice do I have?’ I regarded her, eyes wide. I had certainly not informed Philippa of my planning. It behoved me to appear troubled and helpless.

‘About what?’ the Duke asked, but Philippa deflected him, giving him her attention as she lifted a pile of documents from a coffer lid so that she could sit.

‘You appear to be up to your ears in lists,’ she said.

‘Bills of lading. Always a nightmare at this stage in an embarkation.’

‘So where is your efficient Constable, to take the burden from you?’ I asked, refusing to respond to my sister’s glance in my direction.

‘I expect he’s down on the wharf …’

‘Your efficient Constable is here.’

John Holland walked through the door, carrying a flagon and cups he had waylaid. And I allowed my eyes to rest on him. What mood would he be in today? Would it be the mask, which I had seen often of late, of controlled indifference? A mask I now knew to disguise an uncomfortably acute brain and a raging ambition, a degree of self-preservation and a demonic temper. A turbulent character who would drive his own direction through life regardless of those around him.

But there was no mask today. Today he was the practical soldier from head to toe, garments plain and serviceable, the only decoration in his inlaid sword-belt. He smiled at the company, his expression one of courteous pleasure, pouring the wine expertly with his fine hands. My future rested in those hands.

How uncomfortable! But how impeccable I had become at hiding my thoughts, that initial leap of sheer delight at his presence in the same space. And he too, as if we had never shared the same breath, the same intimate four walls, flesh on flesh. He bowed with brief courtesy, all grace and deprecation, but barely glanced at me. I rose and curtsied with suitable decorum as to a court acquaintance. Philippa did the same but her eye on him was frosty.

‘We are pleased to see you here, Sir John. I have heard much talk of you of late.’

I held my breath. If our Constable was surprised, he hid it well.

‘I trust it was to my good name. Sadly, it rarely is.’ His expression became sardonic. ‘But, reputation aside, I will deem it an honour to escort you to your marriage, my lady.’

Philippa looked as if she might have said more but instead tucked her hand in the Duke’s arm and drew him aside.

‘Is Constanza already here? I would like to speak with her. I need some direction if I am to win King João’s admiration when I make my first appearance.’

‘He’ll admire you whatever you wear,’ he said, ‘but Constanza will be pleased to see you. The coming child makes her lethargic …’

And then the chamber was empty but for how long? Servants were passing back and forth outside the door. A page sent with a message scurried past. I could hear voices echoing in the stairwell. John observed me from a careful distance. Suddenly there was no smile of welcome, rather a speculative gleam, and the stage was set for my performance, whereupon I must outplay the most skilful of mummers.

‘Have you come specifically to see me, Countess?’