‘God bless Henry of Lancaster!’

As the shouts became clearer, they jolted me. For me, the Duke of Lancaster was still my father, but time had moved on. What would my father have said about the overthrow of the young King he had fought so hard to shape and foster? Thank God the future was not ours to read.

I dressed as if for a celebration, but a solemn one, the folds of night-blue silk-damask capacious enough to flatter my increasing girth. Knowing Henry as well as I did, I knew what he would do as soon as he entered London. I knew which direction his steps would take for his motivations were as clear to me as my own. Duty. Love of family. Pride in his ancestry. Pride in his blood and what was due to the past. I knew where to wait for him.

Henry had made his entrance into the city through the great Aldgate, as I could tell by the cheering crowds, the direction of the increasing volume of noise. Exiled traitor turned hero, lauded as he and his victorious army marched through the streets, with the Mayor and Aldermen in festive array and fervent agreement. I had arrived at my self-appointed position early. I was so certain that this was where Henry would come.

But where was John? If he was with Richard still, would he be lodged in the Tower with him as a prisoner? If so, even more reason for me to meet Henry. I would kiss him in greeting then go down on my knees to beg for mercy. For John. For Richard.

I hoped Henry would be of a mind to listen and smile on me. It was no wish of mine to meet him on my knees.

I waited, the minutes seemingly endless, but I had not been misguided in my surmising. There he was, striding towards me, his metal-shod feet echoing in the vast space of St Paul’s Cathedral, walking swiftly and alone along the nave towards the high altar. I drew back into the shadows. I would give him this moment alone. Had he not earned it after the months of uncertainty and anguish?

I studied him.

Acknowledging that the extent of parting had been good to him, I found my anxieties smoothing out, the tension in my body relaxing. At thirty-two years, Henry had grown into his strength with an authority to match. It was as if his experiences in exile had tempered his confidence and he wore it like a pair of velvet gloves, superbly formed in expert hands. I could not but admire him. He had staked everything on this return, no less than an invasion. Of course he had returned. What man of courage and of royal blood could accept such a monstrous decision to banish him for life, based on a weak king’s whim?

So here he was, to reclaim his own inheritance—and more.

I knew where he would set his sights. As soon as I saw the proud tilt of his head, the sumptuous suit of chased and gilded armour, I knew he would wear the crown.

Henry knelt, exactly where I knew he would kneel before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped on his sword hilt, while all around him was silence, despite the nave filling up with Mayor and Aldermen, with Henry’s friends. It was such a prescient moment, a moment of awful truth for Richard as well as for Henry.

There was no sign of Richard.

Henry rose, stood, head bowed still, then turned to walk slowly forward to where I waited in the sheltering bulk of a pillar, but his eye was not for me. All his attention was for the tomb where the old Duke, our father, lay at peace at last beside our mother Blanche. I could feel the tension in him beneath the composure, the need to lay his victory before his father. I let him go.

Magnificently carved, the effigies were crisp in their recent completion. A lance and shield hung above and I saw the exact moment that Henry raised his eyes to them, to the coat of arms of my father encompassing the golden leopards of England that hung flatly motionless in the still air. Henry’s face was taut with emotion.

At last, sensing a need in him, I stepped forward.

‘Henry.’

His eyes touched my face fleetingly before returning to the likeness of the Duke. He was not surprised to find me here. ‘I could not be here when he died,’ he said.

‘I know. I was here for you. And Duchess Katherine. We honoured him for you because we knew your absence was not of your choosing.’

Henry wept, tears racing down his cheeks while he made no attempt to hide them. And stepping closer, I wept too—for our loss, and for my brother, my face pressed against the metal of his shoulder, his arm around my waist. So we stood, the wretchedness of our parting swept away in that moment of recognition of the greatness of our father.

‘I should have been at his side. I should have returned.’ Despite the rigid plates of metal I felt his body shiver beneath my hands.

‘He knew you could not. It was too dangerous. Katherine was there with him at Leicester. She arranged it as he desired. It was all done as you could have wished for.’

Henry wiped away the tears with the heel of his hand.

‘Have you come to welcome me home, little sister?’

‘I have. My heart is glad.’ What of John? I wanted to ask. But this was not the time. ‘Where is Richard?’ At least I could ask that.

‘I’ve sent him to the Palace of Westminster. Later he will be lodged in the Tower. And then we will decide.’ He must have read my expression. ‘All I wish to do is remove him from power. Nothing more. There will be no more injustice to harm the people of England.’

‘And will you take the crown of England for yourself?’ It was the question on everyone’s lips.

‘We must wait. All is not settled yet.’

Since it was as much as he would say, we knelt before the Duke’s tomb and gave thanks for Henry’s safe return, until, equanimity restored, we stood together, smiling, all the weight of family healing the past months of separation.

‘You are well,’ Henry stated, kissing my cheek. ‘And near your time, I would say,’ eyeing the swell of my robes.

‘Yes. You look good on victory.’ I reciprocated his welcome.

‘And Philippa?’

‘A doting mother.’

‘And your children?’

‘Thriving. Have you seen your four boys? They grow like saplings.’

Such closeness, but emotion shivered between us with the one name that had not yet been uttered. It was as if John stood between us, unacknowledged.

‘Will you come with me to Westminster?’ Henry asked, taking my arm to guide me along the nave. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing.’

Slowly we walked together towards the great door where the crowds were dispersing and where Henry’s closest followers were awaiting him.

‘They welcomed you,’ I said, still astonished at the force of the acclamation.

‘They did.’ Henry paused, pulling me to a halt, the timbre of his voice chilling to match the air in the cathedral. ‘But here is one who might not.’

I followed Henry’s line of sight to the dark figure standing just within the door.

‘Did you tell him to come?’ he asked.

‘No. No, I have not seen him.’

There, by the carved arch, in a little space as Henry’s friends drew back, was my husband—not under constraint, and my heart leaped in relief. But then I saw his hand was clenched on the sword at his side, his face set like one of the carved statues set in the niches around me, grim and entirely unforgiving. And I saw the little scene as if from a distance, how Henry and I must appear, united against him. Perhaps that was the cause of his rigid jaw, the heavy lines bracketing his mouth. Did he think I had made a stand with Henry against him? The expression in his eyes as they touched mine stung me by their lack of emotion. Of course he recognised his own isolation in our close stance.

But oh, the relief at seeing him there, returned to me! I smiled, holding out my hand towards him in welcome.

John did not move one muscle.

Neither did Henry.

There would be no clasping of hands here.

I took a step, away from Henry, to stand between the two men, so that I might see them both. Did Henry feel no sense of duty, of past gratitudes for John’s support for our father in those terrible days at Sheen, when Richard had accused the Duke of plotting foul murder? It might even be argued that John’s timely intervention, seizing Richard’s sword arm, had saved our father’s life. John had been retained by the Duke, had fought bravely at his side in the Castilian campaign. But there was no recognition of past debts in Henry’s eyes, as little as in John’s. Both mature and seasoned in the use and abuse of power, both driven by ambition, they assessed each other. I might well not have been there. Their eyes held, John’s dark and stormy, Henry’s clear with conviction. A challenge? A plea? I could not tell. All I knew was that there was no coming together.

In desperation I placed my hand on Henry’s arm.

‘Henry … will you greet my husband? He has come here of his own free will.’

‘I will greet him when I know where his allegiance lies. When we last exchanged words of any length, he was the chosen negotiator for my cousin Richard.’

‘And now you have my brother under lock and key in the Palace of Westminster,’ John replied. ‘Will you tell me your intentions towards him? He is still your Anointed King.’

‘I am under no obligation to tell you anything, Exeter. I hold the whip hand here.’ There was no doubting the threat in Henry’s demeanour.

‘So you will seize the Crown.’

‘Whether I do or not, it is time for you to display your future fealty. Long past time. Are you for me or against me? I could send you to enjoy your brother’s quarters at Westminster. It would be just retribution.’ Henry’s face broke into a smile, although not one to give me any hope. ‘But for my sister’s sake I will wait. I will leave you free to see the birth of your child. But after that, you assure me of your allegiance, Exeter, or I will strip every honour and title from you.’ Suddenly the threat was rebounding from the stonework, frightening in its power. ‘I am victor here. The sooner you come to terms with that reality the better.’