Well, they were certainly of Richard’s blood and mine, but my recognition of them brought no joy. The eldest was all but a man at sixteen years: Humphrey, son and heir of the late murdered Duke of Gloucester. And the second? My throat dried as I saw what Richard was doing. It was Henry’s son, Henry of Monmouth. Twelve years old.

‘We welcome them …’

Hostages.

As clear as the rubies in the collar around Richard’s neck.

‘It would be unwise for anyone of a discontented nature—not that I envisage such—to consider sending any letters abroad. All letters sent to Europe must first be approved by my Privy Council,’ he was continuing gently.

Shock held me. Here was Richard at his most malicious.

Where did John’s loyalties now lie in all this? How could he possibly condone his brother’s actions in such injustice, such an overt piece of mischief against Henry who had committed no crime other than to be one of the Lords Appellant who protected the good of England and the removal of a royal favourite? How could John possibly see any rightness in this? The House of Lancaster, the royal blood of Henry the Third and Edward the Third, was being dismantled under our very eyes.

I was filled with dread, but refused to let it drain all my spirits. This was Richard, my cousin, albeit King. All I knew was that I must try to encourage his better nature, calling on old fealties, old friendships. If John would not support me then I must do it alone. Richard could not dismiss me out of hand. Was not our blood too close for that? Lancaster pride having no role in this, I must become a petitioner at the King’s feet.

If John would not fight for Henry’s inheritance, then I would. Surely Richard would listen and respond to ties of blood.

When the court emerged from its formality to mingle, sip wine and gossip in corners over the ill-luck, wicked vengeance or justified punishment against the exiled Duke of Lancaster, I, with purposeful steps, presented myself in Richard’s path.

‘Sire …’

Was this truculent man the same one who had awarded me the sapphire ring with unctuous grace? Now his face was set in sour disapproval, and I recalled his dictates. I should have been more careful.

‘Your Majesty.’ I curtsied low, head bent, praying that I was making up lost ground.

‘My lady Exeter.’

The bleak formality was a warning slap. So was the abrupt gesture for me to rise. I had misjudged his earlier smiling mien, but I could not draw back. Not with Henry’s future in England hanging in the balance. Ignoring the lurking presence of Edward of Aumale whose self-satisfaction nauseated me, I began:

‘I have come to make a petition, Your Majesty. On your mercy.’

Richard’s reply was bleakly hopeless under the smooth delivery. ‘I know what you will say to me, and I will spare you the need.’

‘But Majesty …’

‘The Lancaster lands are forfeit. The penalty for plotting against my person.’

‘My brother is not guilty of so foul a deed …’

‘In my eyes the guilt is unquestionable.’

‘Richard, I beg you …’

And he took a step back as if my use of his name had within it a contamination.

‘It would be better if you didn’t, madam. And then I might forget that you are the sister of a traitor and would-be murderer.’

Richard presented his back to me. The ties of blood held no power for Richard.

And as I turned away, stepping round Aumale who murmured some meaningless words in sympathy, it was to see John watching. When I raised my shoulders in a little shrug, his face remained void of expression. For the first time since I had known him I felt a lack of compassion. Rather a disapproval. He kept his distance from me for the rest of the afternoon. Was this to be the pattern of our life?

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

We had returned to the Pultney house in less than amicable mood.

‘So I realise now,’ I said. ‘But I could not stand there and smile and drink Richard’s wine as if nothing were amiss. I didn’t notice you pleading Henry’s cause.’

‘Because I know it would be a waste of my breath.’

‘I will write to Henry,’ I declared.

‘He will know already,’ John observed.

‘And what will he think, isolated in some rented room in Paris? Seeing his inheritance swept away, Richard gloating at the wealth that has fallen into his hands? Wealth to be given away, awarded as Richard sees fit?’

I stood in the middle of the entrance hall, not knowing what to do.

‘He’ll think that he’s safer in Paris—if that’s where he is—than attempting to return. If he’s any sense.’

I could not accept that. All I could hear was Richard’s condemnation and John’s lack of interest.

‘Richard hates him,’ I argued. ‘Richard has always loathed him. They are so different. Sometimes it is as if he envies Henry. They clashed as boys when Henry was the more confident, clever with bow and sword where Richard was not.’

‘I don’t know that.’ John shrugged again, leaving me adrift with my worries. ‘But he’ll not let him return.’

Which made me decide. Opening one of the doors off this antechamber, I entered the Master Shelley’s neatly-ordered domain where I found in a coffer means to write a letter.

‘I will write,’ I announced.

John had followed me to lean against the door jamb, but now he stepped close and took the quill from me. ‘Don’t. Don’t encourage him to come back.’

‘I want him to.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘To claim back his inheritance. What else?’ I discovered my hands were clenched into fists. ‘Do you forbid me? I wouldn’t, if I were you. I am past good reason after the last few hours of Richard’s vindictiveness.’

‘It would be a declaration of war. You must not do it.’

‘John—’ Suddenly I had to know. ‘Did you know what Richard would do today?’

We stared at each other, despair a winter cloak, deadening all other senses.

‘Did you?’ I repeated.

‘Yes. I knew.’

‘Why did you not tell me, warn me?’

He made no reply, simply casting down the quill, now mangled into pieces, whereas I simply covered my face with my hands.

‘John. What will become of us?’ My plea was muffled but clear enough.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is our love strong enough to stand fast?’ No reply. So I asked what lay like a knife against my heart. ‘If you had foreseen this rift between Richard and Henry, would you have wed me?’

How I dreaded the answer, that John would rather have stepped away from this conflict of loyalties. But he pulled me into his arms, to kiss me, though I could taste more than a hint of desperation in his lips.

‘I would do it again. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he said, voice rough.

‘As I would wed you.’

But tomorrow might become desperate. There was a gulf growing between us. Once I had constructed a bridge that we had crossed together. I feared that this chasm might prove to be unbridgeable.

I took no heed of John’s advice. Dictate, rather. How could I remain silent and inert, leaving all to chance? Husband or brother? Brother or husband? It was an agonising decision but I wrote and paid a courier to slip out of England to Paris, where it was delivered.

A brief and emotionless missive:

John says—and John is much in the King’s confidence—that it would be unwise for you to return, that Richard will not receive you with anything but ill will and it would not be to your advantage. That to return would end in your imprisonment and perhaps worse. Richard is not beyond wishing the death of our Lancastrian line.

Your eldest son Henry is safe but lodged in the royal household for your good behaviour.

I think you must make your own decision. John and I are at odds over this, but I cannot bear that you should be stripped of what is rightfully yours.

I thought, long and hard.

My advice would be to come home and claim your inheritance.

This was, as John had made plain, to encourage a declaration of war. I knew it, and yet what choice did Henry have if he was not to live a landless pensioner, without status or hope for his family, begging for handouts round the courts of Europe who would be merciful in memory of our father? Selling his skills in the tournament for the entertainment of the foreign aristocracy? That must not be.

And then all I could do was await a reply, thinking that he might, for the sake of his sons, err on the side of caution and remain silent. But in truth I knew my brother well enough to anticipate his next move.

There was a reply, pushed into my palm on a scrap of parchment.

I will return.

I did not tell John what I had done. For the first time there were secrets between us, dangerous secrets, as I grew heavier with my impending child. Consequently the disturbing news from Reigate barely registered on our troubled horizon. Richard FitzAlan was dead, the young disinherited Earl of Arundel wrenched from life by some nameless disease. He would never be reunited with his father’s inheritance.

And Thomas?

With rabid opportunism, Thomas had escaped the somewhat lax surveillance and was, so our steward wrote—and good riddance to him—bound for Europe to join his uncle, the FitzAlan Archbishop of Canterbury, deposed by Richard and now in exile.

‘One more weight off my mind!’ remarked John. ‘Although I regret the lad’s death. I expect it will be laid at my door, but I can’t worry about that now. I’m going to Ireland.’ He grimaced.

‘Now?’

‘Now. Richard wants it. Perhaps not the best of times, but he has visions of ruling a great Empire. I hope he lives to see the day …’

John’s sardonic observation made me think beyond the death of intimate communication that seemed to have engulfed us. Did he know? Did he know that Henry would return? Of course he did. He would not be the political animal I knew him to be if he did not. But nothing passed between us. John kissed me farewell, bade me take the weight off my feet, and went to Ireland.