Who next? My knees were weak, my breath shallow. I was hoping against hope.

‘Please God …’ I murmured.

But here was Henry. So John had not proclaimed his allegiance after all.

I gripped Richard’s hand in a death grip, forcing myself to concentrate on the sight of my brother walking slowly forward, the Italianate armour replaced today by dramtic damask in blue and white, Lancaster colours. A calm, an assurance, a determination that his ambition would be thwarted by no man, was imprinted on the old paving by each careful step. How proud Mary would have been. And Philippa should have been here to see this moment when Henry placed the House of Lancaster upon the throne of England.

An intense loneliness struck home. Henry walked alone. So might I.

Henry took his place in the seat reserved for him as Duke of Lancaster. But not in humility. I knew that. And as he sat, he raised his eyes to mine. No smile but an infinitesimal nod. He had taken back his own. He had had his revenge for the campaign against my father. He was returned, and now the whole Plantagenet inheritance was at his feet for his taking. I could imagine my father’s pride that what had been so mindlessly stripped away was now restored. But as I saw Henry’s eye traverse the assembled lords, saw him note the empty seats, my joy crumbled, a vast expanse of fear swelling in my chest until it had taken over the whole space.

John was not here. His absence had been noted. Henry’s enmity would be assured.

Richard nudged me again. There were footsteps. The procession had not quite come to an end. I could no longer look.

‘Look …!’

And to stop him assaulting my ribs again, I did.

I sighed, deep and long, sweat clammy along my spine in spite of the chill in this place, for there in solemn formation, abreast so that they filled the space between the seats, strode three vividly clad nobles wearing ducal coronets. I knew them all.

The Duke of Surrey, John’s nephew. The Duke of Aumale, York’s son and my own cousin. And …

The Duke of Exeter.

He had come. He had come. John was here.

‘It is Father.’

‘I know. I know.’ How I wished to shout it.

But events were continuing as a backdrop to the loud beating of my heart, the relief that was heady enough to compromise my balance. Even tears threatened. All I had hoped for had come to glorious fruition. What had finally persuaded him? I did not know, but John was here, for all to see. For Henry to see.

‘Is it the will of everyone present that Richard’s resignation be accepted?’ the newly returned Arundel Archbishop of Canterbury demanded of the lords.

I did not listen to the arguments, the charges against Richard, knowing that they would be heavy indeed. All my attention was on John, to note his response. Could he feel my stare? Did he know I was there to give him strength, the support he had thought I had withdrawn? He gave no sign. How hard for him to listen to the denunciation of his brother.

‘Is it your will?’

‘Yes.’ The lords assented.

The tension in the great chamber was wound as tight as a bow string. The throne of England was empty. Who would take it?

Henry stood.

Was Henry’s right to be King of England in Richard’s stead acceptable?

‘Yes.’

The acclamation shattered the tension.

I watched John’s lips repeating the short affirmations with the rest of them as Henry was led to the throne where he knelt, prayed and sat amidst the cloth of gold to another roar of acclamation, which was picked up in cheering in the streets and courtyards outside the palace.

I did not listen to the sermon. All I could see was Richard’s ring glinting on Henry’s finger and the rays of sun creating bars across the floor, across his tunic, and John standing at his side with the other nobles of the realm.

Henry spoke. I listened. Henry was always good with words.

I stared at John, willing him to look up. To feel my love and goodwill. I stared until his eyes lifted to mine.

I was too far away to make anything of his expression. His face was a mask, pale and still. Eyes dark with images I could not imagine. Who knew what emotion moved him as his brother was stripped of his anointed kinship. But he was there. He was there. He had made his allegiance public in the most obvious way. That was all that mattered.

I held his gaze until he looked away.

We stayed in the apartments set aside for us at Westminster, John spending time to answer Richard’s endless questions. Except for one.

‘What will happen to the King. The old King?’

‘That is in your uncle’s hands.’

‘I know. I know that, but …’

‘Enough!’ But not harshly. Reluctantly Richard took himself off to bed.

‘Are you satisfied?’ It was a question flung at me with just a hint of venom, enough to make me careful. All was still not right between us as John dropped into the high-backed chair, stretching out his legs to cross his ankles, for there was no relaxation in his posture, rather an intense weariness covering an emotion I could not read, as if he had done what he knew he must but had no pleasure in its completion. And indeed there was none, as his bitter statement made clear. ‘I condemned Richard’s actions with the rest of them. I stood with Henry at the legal acceptance of his filching of the crown. I agreed to it. God damn me for it! As he undoubtedly will.’

‘John! No …!’ So it remained as bad as that for him.

‘He had no right.’

I moved to stand before him, and for the first time since we had entered the quiet room, far away from the festivities, his gaze lifted to mine and held, because now we must face the gaping chasm between us. My heart trembled for him, for us.

‘Yes, to answer your question. I am more than satisfied,’ I said. ‘I could not ask for more. Nor can Henry. He could expect nothing more of you than you stand witness at his coronation, whatever past dregs of allegiance might remain. You have done all you can. And I thank you for it. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

All John’s energy that had carried him through the long day seemed to have drained away.

‘Thank God for that. At least something has been achieved today. The King and the King’s sister are satisfied at last.’

Again it hurt. A sharp blade against my breast. Nor could I blame him, for I had given him little peace, but this was no time for retaliation, rather a time for healing old and new wounds. And so, clumsily, it had to be said, I sank at his feet, enclosing one of his hands in mine. How cold it was. How chillingly, unnervingly unresponsive, and I knew it was a withdrawal I had to break, but was not at all certain how to go about it. Nor was I certain of any success.

‘I think that was the most courageous thing you have ever done,’ I said, and meant every word of it. ‘I could not imagine …’

‘Ha! The hardest, certainly. I listened to you.’ He smiled sharply as my brows rose. ‘I always listen, even if I don’t always act on your advice. But I saw that I must. For you, for my sons. There is no looking back, is there? Richard will never regain his throne. The future is with Henry and it is my duty to make a place for me—for us—in the new reign.’

He lifted my hand to his lips, a small gesture of reconciliation. Small but worth a golden crown to me. The shard of ice in my heart began to melt a little, and the fear began to dissipate. ‘The question is, what will Henry do with Richard?’

‘Is he still at Pontefract?’

‘Yes. Out of sight, out of mind.’

I did not tell him of his heir Richard’s considered opinion, which matched his own exactly. Instead: ‘It will work itself out. Henry says he will allow Richard to retire to a castle of his choice. It is what Richard wants. I do not think Henry is planning bloody revenge.’

‘Then he would be a fool. And Henry is not a fool. You know as well as I that to leave Richard alive would be to leave a constant danger in the realm.’

‘But he would not …’

‘And then, the next question, which I defy you to discover a trite answer for, is what will he do with me?’

Another twist of the knife. ‘Why should he do anything? You have taken the oath.’

‘Because there are those of us who still have to answer for our past loyalties to Richard. To our role in the death of Gloucester. Arundel too. I think Henry will not be the man to let this go unpunished. I doubt he will let me go scot free.’

‘You were not in Calais when Gloucester was killed.’

‘But I was with Richard at Pleshey when Gloucester was arrested. I was with him when Arundel was taken. Will Henry turn a blind eye?’

I thought as I sat. ‘Perhaps not, but you are too valuable to be cast aside. Henry sees that. He must see that.’

‘Pray God you are right.’ At last there was a lessening of tension in the line between his dark brows. ‘And I think we have talked enough.’

I smoothed his hand. ‘Thank you.’ I kissed it.

‘For what?’

‘For not destroying what we have.’

His reply was a jolt to my senses. ‘What do we have, Elizabeth?’

Struggling to overcome this rank cynicism, I knew that I had to build anew. ‘A love that will overcome all things,’ I urged. ‘A new life to celebrate.’ I placed his palm on my belly. ‘Soon.’

For a long moment he studied me. ‘Do you believe that?’

‘Of course. Do you doubt me? My love for you?’

‘I have thought that the present conflicts have drawn our love thin, like morning mist. With a hole in it that an army could be driven through.’

‘Forgive me if I have been thoughtless, careless.’

‘You have.’

‘I would never put Henry before you in my heart.’ A long moment. So long that I felt my limbs begin to tremble. ‘Do you not trust me?’