I barely thought about the FitzAlans, my own disparate family filling my mind from daybreak to nightfall.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ John’s eyes were fierce with his final instruction.

‘No,’ I said. Layers of lies, building up, while beneath my composed and affectionate farewell, I was aware of the turbulent anger that raged in my belly. Anger against Richard and his fickle intransigence, against John and his damned loyalties. Even against Henry who had failed to persuade Richard to see his own value as cousin and counsellor. When I wed John Holland I had thought my feet settled in a path that would bring me a life befitting my rank and talents. A presence at court in my own right, I and my family would be strong, ruling England well in a formidable alliance as my grandfather King Edward would have wished. As my father worked for.

But all my contentment, all my certainties were destroyed. As John rode out to accompany Richard to Ireland, I smiled bitterly at my youthful innocence when I had thought that all things could be managed by an intelligent woman, when I had manoeuvred to achieve the marriage I desired. How ignorant I had been. In the end female ingenuity and cunning could achieve nothing against the thrust of power and ambition and pragmatism, against fear of whose hands held the reins of power in the kingdom. I was helpless, forced to bow before a greater authority than my own.

All my happiness had been stripped away. Some days I thought I would never find the means to reclaim it.

There came for me a time of anxiety and waiting. I prayed. In better days Duchess Katherine would have been proud of my persistence, but the silence—she in Lincoln, I in London—continued between us. Her heart would be with Henry. As was Philippa’s, whose letter-writing was prodigious. All I could do was pray.

But for whom did I pray?

For John, whose safety in Ireland was a constant stone in my shoe. For Henry who had done exactly as he had promised. Landing in England in Yorkshire at Ravenspur in the heat of July, he was marching steadily south, collecting men who had no good to say of Richard. Even for Richard, that he would see sense and come to terms, smoothing over the old rifts so that we might be comfortable again.

Impossible, of course. I rejoiced for Henry. I yearned for John. I prayed for this child that grew in my belly, that it would be born into a kingdom that knew peace, not warfare, for I could not see the future with any hope. I despaired for Richard, yet kept him too in my prayers.

And then rumours flew thick and fast, painting such vivid scenes, all through the long months of August and into September while I remained at Pultney. Henry fell to his knees to kiss the ground of England as the Lancaster retainers rallied in vast numbers to his call. Henry claimed no ill intent against Richard, but only to reclaim what was rightfully his, the inheritance of Lancaster. Richard returned from Ireland to Pembroke in a hurry, only to take refuge at Conway after a show of disgraceful cowardice.

And then the news I had hoped for, news of John, sent by Richard to negotiate with Henry, as skilful intermediary between King and invading traitor. A hopeless case, however persuasive John might be to reunite the two royal cousins, for Henry was intransigent and Richard, reluctant but helpless without strength of arms, forced into surrender. As for John, he was kept under surveillance in Henry’s following as Henry marched to London with Richard as his prisoner.

England had fallen into Henry’s hands, as neat as an egg into a cup. Henry was home and, with the King under his hand, the Lancaster inheritance was his for the taking. I shared a cup of wine with our steward, toasting my brother’s success, and I was glad, but there was no lasting joy in my heart as the uncertain future rolled out before me.

Victory for Henry, and I should rejoice for him. But at what personal cost? Those closest to me in the world, my family, those I loved, had been shattered into separate pieces, like a costly Venetian glass dropped by a careless kitchen maid. Richard would find it impossible to accept Henry’s power over him, nor would Henry be tolerant. Here were two ill-matched cousins who would never come to terms. Whereas John … how could John’s pride survive being chained to Henry’s side? Where were his loyalties now?

There was only one thought of comfort. There had been no bloodshed. They were all alive to work out some compromise. If I had been a naïve woman I would have believed this, but I knew that a Venetian glass, once smashed, could never be reassembled.

I longed for John’s return and yet I feared it, for what would we say to each other? All I could do was wait, my increasingly ponderous body swathed in light silks until the day when Henry entered London in a superb display of triumph. Of course he would. Would my brother, raised from his cradle to know his worth as the Lancaster heir, do any other? And I rejoiced with him, for this was a malicious wrong being put right.

How could my mind be so appreciative of Henry’s success, at the same time as utter desolation constructed a wall around my heart? I woke, my first thoughts to rejoice that all the vile events of the past were over and justice would be done. Richard would repent, Henry would take back his title and estates, and John would clasp the hands of both in friendship. And then I trembled, for I was alone in my bed and John’s future lay hidden like a foul toad in the murk at the bottom of a pool. Justice for Henry could be destruction for both Richard and John. Would triumph for my brother destroy John’s love for me? I could see no way through the tangle of my conflicting emotions.

‘Come with me,’ I would have said to John if he had been beside me, after I had kissed him into wakefulness. Would those days ever return? ‘Come and throw yourself on my brother’s mercy. He will understand. He knows the demand of family and will be magnanimous. Did he not welcome you with courtesy when you negotiated on Richard’s behalf? Did he not listen with grave consideration, as if your opinions mattered to him? Richard’s days as King are numbered and my brother in the ascendant. Come and greet Henry, at my side, for he will assuredly receive me with love. And you too. Am I not his well-beloved sister?’

That is what I would have said, but I did not know where John was.

Racked with helplessness, all I knew, all that I could cling to when I imagined the very worst of outcomes, was that John was no political fool. There was no unworldliness in his planning, rather a streak of pragmatism as wide as the seas between us and France, and he would be quick as the next man to detect when his chosen stance had no sure footing. If I could detect a lost cause, then so could John. To remain with Richard was certain disaster. How could John expect my brother to accept soft words from Richard when it was patently clear that those words meant nothing, merely sliding from his tongue as necessity demanded? No promise was binding to Richard, and my brother, with an army bellowing ‘God bless Henry of Lancaster’ at every opportunity, was under no necessity to negotiate.

Pray God John made the right decision. In the gloom of disillusion I considered John’s future if he were to remain adamantly in alliance with Richard. Loss of land, loss of titles. Loss of power. Would it mean exile, as Henry had been exiled? And his heir? What of our son, Richard? Another boy to live out his life as a hostage for his father’s behaviour.

A desperate existence for a man of pride and passion.

That would be my future too, as wife to an attainted traitor.

And what if the end was death by the axe, the ultimate penalty for those on the losing side? I could not think of that. And yet I must.

For me, now, all was to play for. It was for me to tread a difficult path, perhaps an impossible one, to do all in my power to reunite the two sides of my family, for which outcome I would fight with every breath in my body. Richard’s days as King were undeniably numbered, but perhaps it was still possible to bring John and Henry together in some form of mutual agreement that would salve the pride of both.

If not, how could I live, torn between them?

If I had to make a choice …

No. It would not come to that. Never to that. I could not even contemplate such an agonising decision.

Meanwhile I had an appointment to keep.



Chapter Twelve

‘Long live the good Duke of Lancaster!’