‘Who is the best dancer amongst us?’ He looked round the expectant faces. ‘Which lady has the grace and elegance of my own white hind? What do you say, Uncle of Lancaster?’ He looked at my father whose expression was a masterpiece of diplomacy.

‘Who can say, sire. It would be cruel to choose from so many fair exponents.’

‘But choose we must. And I know who will tell me the truth.’ He leaned and whispered in Isabella’s ear.

Isabella, all of seven years old, shook her head, eyes wide with apprehension.

Richard whispered again. Isabella whispered back. The crowd laughed indulgently.

‘My wife has chosen, and I will agree.’ He held out his hand, an open-handed gesture of pure friendship. ‘We award our prize to the Countess of Huntingdon.’

I laughed, a little startled, disconcerted. The supreme agility of youth was no longer on my side, so what had my royal cousin in mind? I glanced at John who was still playing the great magnate, his face a superb example of brotherly appreciation. That mask, when he chose to use it, was still difficult to penetrate.

‘Come, Cousin.’ Richard beamed. ‘We await you.’

I stepped forward, as Richard drew a ring from his own finger and pushed it onto my thumb where it gathered the light from the candles and cast it out in flashes of azure light.

I curtsied. ‘I am honoured, sire.’

‘So am I, to have you at my court, my dearest cousin.’

The dancing continued around us.

What could possibly prevent Richard’s reign from being one of the most glorious, with John as brother and counsellor? The Duke had said ours would never be an advantageous marriage, that it would be ill-conceived to ally myself with Holland. How wrong he had been. It had been like opening an oyster and discovering within it a pearl beyond price.

And yet …

‘I think Richard is in a dangerous mood,’ I said bluntly when Richard allowed me to retreat. ‘When Richard smiles like that I always fear for our good fortune.’

‘How can we be threatened?’ John asked, taking my hand to take cognisance of my reward, a blue sapphire set in a heavy gold ring—far too valuable for such a prize. He seemed to have cast off his earlier doubts, and who could blame him in the face of such royal approbation? ‘Am I not the most loyal of subjects?’

But I was not convinced. Perhaps the Duke’s warning had sown seeds.

‘You are, of course. But I swear I am not the best dancer.’

‘Isabella chose you.’

‘No. She didn’t choose me. It was Richard. He has ulterior motives. The problem is, what are they?’

‘He has indeed. Shall I tell you?’ John teased.

I dug him in the ribs. ‘Another marriage to plan for our infant children?’

‘Would you object? A daughter promised to the Earl of Oxford’s heir. Richard is mending fences on all sides.’

‘You don’t trust him either,’ I said.

‘No. But I think he wants to please me. Are we not basking in the gilded light of his regal gaze?’ I heard the cynicism. John was as watchful as I, even though he shrugged. ‘He is my brother and will not harm me. He has promised me an even greater prize. Richard will grant me the office of Chamberlain for life.’

It was a superlative end to the celebration.

‘Will you support Richard against the Lords Appellant, if he asks it of you?’ I asked as we made our weary way to our own accommodations. Richard’s court demanded an unconscionable degree of standing around. What it was that put the thought into my head I had no idea, but I could not let it rest.

‘Yes. Of course.’

I understood his reply. As Richard’s Chamberlain he could do no less, but it would assuredly cause difficulties. It would bring him into immediate conflict with my uncle of Gloucester, and with Henry. And, inevitability, there would be an uncomfortable distancing from my father, creating more infinitesimal fault-lines in the family loyalties.

It threatened to gnaw at my contentment as the consequences of Radcot Bridge hung over us like a bad odour.

I would not think about it. There would be ways out of the conflict. There were always ways out of political dilemmas and we would find them. John would find them.

When there came a knock on the door of my parlour, one of the great chambers in Pultney House that I had designated as my own, I motioned to one of my women to open it to discover Master Shelley, our steward, accompanied by two figures, not yet reaching full adulthood, muffled in cloaks. One of the boys, the eldest by his height, stepped forward. The other boy, square and sturdy, merely scowled.

I rose to my feet, intrigued by these unexpected visitors, relieved to have something to distract me, for pleased though I was to have made my home at Pultney House in London, I was suffering pangs of loneliness. I had become used to John’s comings and goings but sometimes I missed him when Richard’s demands came first, as they must, and as they did increasingly often. Richard could never bear to be anything but first, and John had been gone for some weeks, quite where I did not know.

‘We have guests?’ I asked, brows rising. They were marked by signs of long and arduous travel, but there was about them an air of hauteur rather than of weariness. ‘Is Lord John here?’

‘My lord is here,’ the steward replied. ‘He says that we have additions to our household.’

So who were they? I walked forward. There was no sign of deference from the two youths as I beckoned them into the room, looking them over. They came reluctantly. What had we here? The cold light of fury in the eyes of the younger boy was unmistakeable, for all his youth. I found it faintly amusing that he should glare at me in so hostile a manner.

‘Who are you?’ I asked since they offered no explanation. The two boys were close to adulthood, unknown to me, yet the cast of their features and their light colouring suggested a family that I knew. Clearly gently born, their garments of good quality, they should have been raised to know when courtesy was due.

‘You are old enough to show deference,’ I remarked, when none was forthcoming.

It was the elder boy who spoke. ‘I am FitzAlan. This is my brother.’

‘Then welcome.’ The FitzAlans were family of course, through blood and marriage, and these youths must be the sons of the Earl of Arundel. But why was their presence so acrimonious?

‘I am Richard FitzAlan,’ the youth stated again, voice icily clipped, at odds with his eyes ablaze with some fervour. ‘I am Earl of Arundel—except that on my father’s despicable death I have been disinherited. I have no wish to be here in the home of a murderer. I will show no deference. And you cannot make me,’ he ended, youth and emotion overcoming dignity.

Everything within me stilled, as if at some presentiment of danger.

Arundel? Dead? Here was information new to me. I knew the Earl of Arundel of course, head of one of the most powerful and well-connected families in the land. I knew Joan FitzAlan, his sister, even better. She was Countess of Hereford through her marriage with a Bohun husband, and mother of Henry’s dear lamented Mary. Through her descent from King Henry the Third which gave her Plantagenet blood, she had always been close to my father. The FitzAlans were a family to be reckoned with, if not of my own quality, yet here was this boy with such bitter accusations that made no sense.

‘You should beware of loose talk, Richard FitzAlan,’ I replied. And there was John, entering on their heels, his cool hauteur matching the boy’s.

‘I know what I saw,’ Richard FitzAlan glowered at John, ‘and our father is dead.’

‘Dead as befitted a traitor,’ he remarked.

‘Murdered at your hand and that of the King.’

I saw how John tried to temper his reply. ‘Shown mercy at the hand of the King.’

‘Is execution mercy?’

‘It’s far preferable to the punishment doled out to most traitors,’ John said with ineffable patience, eyes full of understanding. ‘If it were not for the King’s mercy, you would have watched your father hanged, drawn and quartered in public display.’

The youth paled. ‘He was no traitor.’

‘He took up arms against the King at Radcot Bridge.

That is treason enough. Now go with Master Shelley who will show you to your rooms. He will give you food and a place to sleep. We will speak tomorrow.’

‘God damn you for your part in our father’s death.’ A vicious parting shot from the younger of the two as our steward ushered them out.

When they had gone, John and I stood and looked at each other, the curse hanging heavily between us.

‘You could have warned me,’ I said. ‘Do I ask what all that was about?’ Although I could guess some of it for myself.

‘I couldn’t warn you because I didn’t know Richard’s intentions to foist the brats on me. Richard has become a master of disguise.’ John’s features relaxed from recrimination into a wry smile. ‘How long is it since I last saw you?’

‘Too long.’

Stepping together in one mind, his arms were firm, his kiss a promise for later, before he stretched his long limbs into a chair by the fire with a sigh of utter weariness.

‘What is all that about?’ The FitzAlan news had stirred a dormant fear in me.

‘Later …’

I sent for wine and food, rid the room of the women, and waited with impatience until he had slaked hunger and thirst.

‘You have travelled far.’

‘Yes. I don’t want to see a horse or a saddle for the next se’enight.’ I smiled as I went to sit at his feet and link my fingers with his when he beckoned. It was good to have him home. ‘There’s nothing to concern you.’ He leaned to press his lips against a furrow that must still have been evident on my brow. Then said, as if he could not keep silent: ‘Richard has begun his campaign against the Lords Appellant. We always knew he would.’