‘And will you punish him? For rank disobedience?’

‘No.’

No of course he would not. Did I believe my brother? Here was another brutal lesson for me in the reality of court politics. Henry might have ordered that John be spared and brought under his own jurisdiction, but he would not punish the FitzAlans who had effectively rid him of a man he could not trust. Henry would not mourn the outcome. Even better, John’s blood was not on Henry’s hands. Here, with a level of cunning that must be open to a clever king, my brother was confident enough to return my gaze without difficulty.

I could detect no guilt in him.

I knew all about guilt. I knew too much about it.

Fleetingly, I wondered if Henry would manage the death of Richard in similar fashion, so that others would be blamed, but the outcome would be to Henry’s benefit. Probably he would. Here before me were the workings of the mind of a pragmatic King rather than a loving brother. For the first time in our lives I thought Henry to be less than honest.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ he demanded.

I felt empty, unable to thank him as he clearly expected, but I knew what it was I wanted and what I could achieve.

‘I have this to say. John’s head is displayed on London Bridge at this very moment,’ I accused. ‘Is that by your consent?’

He sighed. ‘Sit with me, Elizabeth.’

‘Not until I have justice. You have refused the titles and land for my children. I want John’s head. I want it taken down from the bridge, to be restored and buried with his body. And I want it done today before further carrion ravages.’

‘Why should I?’ Henry’s face was set. ‘We have had this argument before. A man who turns against his King knows the risks. His head will be exhibited to put fear into the hearts of all men who would rise up against their anointed king. Why should I make an exception?’

‘Because the choices were too difficult for him to make,’ I replied without pause. ‘How impossibly hard it is for a man to abandon his brother. His heart was raw with it. I know it is hard for you,’ I pursued, swallowing against the knot in my throat. ‘But have mercy. I have been there, to the bridge. I have seen what they have done.’

‘No, Elizabeth …’ He looked at me aghast.

‘Yes. I was there.’ And with a little shrug of despair I allowed my emotion full rein at last, so that I did argue from my heart, the words spilling over us. ‘Who could show him that final respect but me? There is no one to bear witness to his passing. But, in the end, I could not, coward that I am. I could not stand there and watch them put his head on a spike for the carrion to destroy. But he could.’ I flung out my arm in the direction of the young man who had wreaked havoc in my life. ‘FitzAlan could, in vicious revenge. Surely you are better than that. In God’s name, Henry …’ I dragged in a breath. ‘Because I am your sister. Because it hurts my heart to see what is become of us. Because I ask it of you. For all that we have lived through and experienced together. Because of that I ask you to give me John’s head.’

Hands fisted on hips, Henry looked over towards the little group of magnates. What was he thinking? That it would be a mistake for such a show of apparent weakness?

‘Henry! Would it matter so much to you? For me it would be of greater value than this.’ And I flourished my hand, where our father’s great ruby flashed on my knuckle. ‘You were not always so intransigent.’

And there was the faintest warmth of a smile.

‘How can I refuse?’

Still I was uncertain. ‘I don’t know. But you might.’

‘I will not.’ He took hold of my hand with its great jewel and kissed my fingers. ‘This is what I will do. I will grant you restoration of Holland’s head. I will have it taken to Pleshey, to be buried in the church there, with his body.’

I drew in a breath at the magnificence of it. ‘FitzAlan will not agree. Or the Countess.’

‘It will not be for either to decide.’ Still he held my hand. ‘It will be sent to the Master of the collegiate church at Pleshey, under my seal, and they will give your husband a seemly burial. Will that suffice?’ His grip tightened. ‘Let this be the end of it, Elizabeth. Let him be buried and rest in as much peace as his soul can find. I doubt it will be much.’

‘I will pray for his soul,’ as some measure of relief was spreading through me at last.

‘Of course you will.’

‘What about me? My children? Will you restore the land that is theirs by right?’

But of course he remained adamant. ‘No. It is confiscated. It is how the game is played out, as you well know. You are free to make your home with me, and I will give you an income to compensate for your loss. I cannot have my sister wearing rags. Just look at you.’ His eyes flickered over my travel-worn garments, but any humour was gone when they returned to my face. ‘You should not have gone to the bridge.’

‘I had to be there. You should know that. I loved him. As you loved Mary.’

A shadow passed over Henry’s face. ‘How can you compare the two? Mary was all goodness. Holland had a soul forged in hell.’

‘He was driven by loyalty to his brother.’

‘He was driven by loyalty to his own interests.’

‘We will never agree, will we? My heart is broken.’

His smile was wry. ‘It will mend soon enough.’ He kissed my cheek, and then the other. ‘Let that be an end to it. You are my dearly loved sister and I will care for you.’

I did not wish to be cared for. Had I not all the resources to order my own life? But I would go back to court. I would fight for the rights of my children and I would try to live in equanimity with Henry because he was my own blood. I would raise my children to honour their father, for whom blood mattered more than life, who was ambitious and hot-tempered but who was also a man of surprising integrity. I would raise them to honour him and respect the King their uncle. I could do no more.

What of me?

All I had left was my pride and a deep raging guilt that would stay with me until death. I discovered there were traces of John’s blood on my fingers. It seemed horribly fitting.

As I was halfway across the chamber, Henry’s voice stopped me.

‘It is my intention to base my household and the children in Eltham. The palace pleases me. Come to Eltham. Come and live with me there, and we will try to rebuild what we have destroyed.’

Obviously an olive branch, if to my mind little more than a twig. Because I could think of no better plan, and I lacked the energy to refuse the gesture, that is what I did.

Richard was dead, at Pontefract. My first cousin, the man I had known from boyhood, had tolerated, sometimes despised, sometimes pitied, was dead. The boy who had been crowned with gold and anointed with holy oil was no more.

It came as no shock to me. No one spoke of it but every soul at Henry’s court had anticipated Richard’s demise. Nor did it touch me much, beyond a brush of regret, a sadness that his youthful promise had ended in imprisonment and an end that might or might not have been self-inflicted. Grief and tears were no longer within the scope of my emotions. I had expended far too much sorrow, and now felt as dry as a husk at autumn’s end.

We heard that he had deliberately starved himself, refusing all food and water and taking to his bed, willing himself to death since, having lost his crown, he had nothing to live for. I did not know if I believed this. It did not sound like the Richard I recalled, even at his most wayward, and said as much to Henry.

‘Why not?’ Henry was unimpressed. ‘He was refusing to eat when I took him prisoner at Flint Castle. He said he feared he would be poisoned. Whatever the cause, he’s dead and, if I’m honest, his absence is a weight off my mind.’ He returned my stare. ‘There was never any love lost between us. Don’t worry.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I will see that he is buried with honour. If I could ensure Holland’s burial with some dignity, I can do the same for Richard.’

I was not convinced.

‘Do you feel no remorse?’ I persisted as I stood beside Henry in St Paul’s Cathedral where Richard’s body, brought from Pontefract, at last lay in state. My royal cousin’s face was white and thin in death, at odds with the thickly embroidered pall that Henry had caused to be placed on the coffin. The white harts with their gilded collars brought back memories of happier times but now merely appeared doleful.

‘Remorse? For a self-inflicted death?’

And that was the end of it, apart from paying chantry priests to say a thousand masses for the repose of Richard’s soul and the removal of his body to King’s Langley. I knew it was not a subject for discussion. If Richard had died from foul means, my brother was distancing himself from all responsibility. It was not a new idea to me, nor the fact that Henry had grown beyond me, the weight of his new authority constructing a bulwark between us.

I did what I could. I offered prayers for Richard’s soul, and in the end I wept a little, but whether for Richard or for Henry I could not say.

‘You were right, John,’ I murmured against my clasped hands as I knelt alone in Henry’s chapel at Eltham. ‘I can’t condone the death you plotted for Henry and his sons, but you saw the future well enough. Richard’s death was inevitable. You could not have saved him.’

Silence walled me in. There was no sense of John to comfort me.

‘Forgive me, John. Forgive me for everything.’

If I hoped to feel a sense of peace, it did not come to me.



Chapter Sixteen

June 1400, York