And yet I would go to Pleshey and beg. I would call on her as one woman to another, as one woman torn by grief and despair to another. I would do all in my power, as my father’s daughter. And as the daughter of her great friend John of Lancaster, would she turn me from her door? Surely she would discover some vestige of compassion in her heart.

I would not abandon all hope before I had even tried.

I went to Pleshey.

I walked into Countess Joan’s beautifully appointed parlour, all so familiar, announced by her steward as if I were the welcome guest I had been in the past. I had had the whole journey to decide what I would say, and still I did not know. John’s actions seemed in the light of the Countess’s sufferings indefensible. And yet I trod carefully. I did not yet know how she would receive me. If it was with past affections it might make all the difference. All hung on the spin of a coin so I curtsied as expected towards one of my father’s generation and family, a lady of influence as broad as her hips and brow.

‘I am grateful that you would receive me, my lady.’

‘I was expecting you,’ she said, turning from where she had been, at the window, clearly watching my arrival. Her face was wiped clean of all expression, but at least I was not faced with rampant hatred.

I stood before her impressive bulk, hands folded neatly, gaze level in polite respect when my mind was in furious turmoil. ‘I had to come.’

‘To plead a lost cause.’

‘To ask you to at least listen to me, my lady.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because of past loyalties and deep friendship I believe you would give me a hearing.’

And I did believe it. Surely there was some element of reason in this clever, political woman’s heart. Some tiny seed of reason, of compassion to which I could appeal, to win John his freedom. Surely here was some means to escape if I kept my composure and argued with some line of clear logic.

‘I suppose that you would say,’ the Countess said lightly, ‘that it was my duty, and my own inclination, to give you a hearing, in light of my long-standing friendship with your father.’

‘It is what I had hoped.’

‘We were always close.’

‘As I know.’

The faintest of smiles touched her lips and I had the sensation of a lightness in my heart. Perhaps hope was not quite dead.

‘What do you suppose that John of Lancaster would advise in such a case as this?’

‘To have mercy,’ I replied promptly. ‘He held my husband in high regard.’

‘So you say. Sadly your brother the King holds him in utter contempt.’

So I said what I knew I must. ‘I beg of you, for my sake, out of all the love you bore for me and my family, to show compassion for a man who did nothing but obey the orders of his own King, of Richard. To whom he had taken the oath of allegiance.’

The smile had vanished from the Countess’s lips. Yet she laughed, a light trill of derision, and as the laughter died away I felt a presence at my back. The Steward had not closed the door and someone had entered with silent footsteps. Now he came to stand at the Countess’s side, turning slowly to face me.

And all the hope that had been building, one tiny stone on another, collapsed in absolute ruin as his eyes held mine. There would be no compassion here.

The last time I had seen this young man he had been a youth, a sullen youth, barely grown out of childhood, placed with his brother in John’s care after the execution of his father. A disgruntled youth who had expressed every desire to disrupt our household, and had carried out a childish revenge.

Here was no child.

Here was Thomas FitzAlan, now the dispossessed Earl of Arundel on the death of his brother Richard from some malevolent fever in our keeping. Thomas who had escaped from Reigate Castle and fled to Europe where he had sworn his allegiance to my brother.

And here he was, to extract ultimate vengeance for the death of his father and brother. And somewhere in this fortress, kept under lock and key, and the key doubtless in the hand of Thomas FitzAlan, was my husband.

‘I see you are returned in triumph, Thomas FitzAlan.’ I broke the simmering silence.

He was nineteen years old but looked older than his years with his new responsibilities, his high-necked houppelande full-skirted and stitched with bright silks, worthy of Henry himself. In his hand a velvet hat and a pair of jewelled gauntlets. So Thomas FitzAlan had become my brother’s pensioner until his estates were restored to him and was enjoying the King’s open-handedness.

‘And I will take my revenge.’ He did not even need to gloat.

How could I possibly have seen this eventuality? In all the choices I had made, I could never have foreseen this. The weight of repercussion on heart became suffocating.

‘Then I will not beg you for mercy, as I would have begged the Countess.’

‘No. For I will not listen. John Holland is a dead man.’

They allowed me to see him, even when I thought they would refuse. How they enjoyed my impotence; there at Pleshey I had no power to demand entry into whichever noxious room in which they were keeping him, but at last, with a glance at her nephew, to cow him into reluctant submission, the Countess summoned a servant to conduct me.

‘She deserves that much at least,’ she snapped when Thomas demurred. ‘For her brother’s sake.’

If she thought it would intensify my pain, she was wrong. Nothing could do that. The days of familial closeness were long gone, even as I inclined my head in a semblance of gratitude. As a young girl, intent on my own personal happiness in my supremely privileged world, how could I ever have guessed that my marriage to John would destroy all my confidence, forcing me to bestride the great divide between two warring families? Conflicting loyalties wounded my heart at every turn when I was forced to cast myself on the mercy of those who would have no mercy.

‘Enjoy your farewell.’ The Countess was exultant in her triumph. ‘You will not see him again. Or not with the capacity to engage you with honeyed words. It is hard to speak with your head severed from your body.’

My breath caught, my whole body rigid, my hands flat against my waist where my heart thundered. Death. Execution. Taken utterly by surprise, I could not think how to react. The decision had already been made. My journey, all my pleas had been for nothing. I had been right to fear the worst.

Still I harnessed all my willpower. ‘This is wrong. There has been no trial,’ I observed with cold dispassion in contrast to the Countess’s fervour.

‘What need? His guilt is proven by his flight from justice. The men of Essex will gather when I summon them, and they will see justice done.’

Her assurance swept me into utter despair, aghast at what her words implied.

‘How can you even consider letting the mob run wild? Did we not see the dangers of uncontrolled demands for what the men of Essex considered to be fairness?’

Images of London, The Savoy Palace burning to destruction, flickered through my mind as a monstrous backdrop to my present woes. I heard the cries of terror of those snatched up from the Tower and done to death on Tower Hill without trial. Would Henry, who had almost fallen victim to the mindless bloodshed simply because he was his father’s heir, risk such uncontrolled rebellion undermining the law and order of his own kingdom? Countess Joan had no compunction in using the weight of the mob in her own interests.

The Countess remained unmoved. ‘There will be no lack of control. The men of Essex will speak with a fair voice under my guidance, never fear.’

‘And you will persuade them of what is fit and fair, if they stumble in their choice.’

Anger at Henry burned brightly. Henry who had so cleverly shuffled off his responsibility here. He would bear no guilt for John’s death, but would emerge as white as a new untrammelled snowfall, while Countess Joan and Thomas FitzAlan willingly shouldered the responsibility in his stead.

‘And you will receive a suitable reward at my brother’s hands,’ I said to Thomas FitzAlan whose face wore an appallingly self-satisfied smile.

The smile became a grin. ‘Why not? Henry has already knighted me. When this rebellion is put down, I will receive possession of my inheritance. I’ll be Earl of Arundel, as is my right.’

It was all hopeless. And yet: ‘I ask for clemency. The Earl of Huntingdon does not deserve to die at the hands of the mob.’

‘Who was there to grant my father mercy, to vouch for his good name? Or to speak for my brother, too young to die at Huntingdon’s hands?’

‘Huntingdon was not responsible for your brother’s death,’ I returned, knowing the accusation to be groundless, hoping my cold assurance would have an effect. ‘He was not at Reigate, as you well know. Your brother was never ill-treated in our household. What you say is an infamous calumny.’

It had no effect. Viciously casting his hood and gloves at my feet, as if issuing a challenge to combat, FitzAlan seized the thread of vengeance and spun it out to create a masterpiece of bloody intent. ‘Huntingdon treated me as a slave. My brother died of the foul handling he was given. And you talk to me of compassion and clemency. Save your breath. Besides, this is treasonable talk. A traitor deserves no consideration. For you to argue the case, my lady, would only be disloyal to the King, your brother.’ He gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Holland will pay for making me clean his bloody boots!’

Nothing less than a smirk accompanied the final truth and the use of my title with such lack of respect. These FitzAlans had all the power here at Pleshey. Had I fallen to my knees to grovel at their combined FitzAlan feet, there would be no moving them. Holding fast to a hard control that I would need to carry me through the next hours, I would beg no more, since there was no mercy in this room.