With casual interest I began to note who had come to show their skills, picking out a helm that I recognised, a heraldic emblem fluttering bravely, a particular jousting horse. The lions and fleur de lys of the Beauforts, the azure lion of the Percy family that Henry was carefully cultivating. The royal red and gold and blue of Henry’s two eldest sons, Henry and Lionel. One day my sons would shine at such a contest. Provocatively, since I no longer had claim on it, I had left my children surrounded by their own household of chaplain, governors and nurses at Dartington …

And my breath caught. There. Another lion, rampant and gilded, gleaming in the bright sunshine.

I should have expected it, but strangely I had not. Now I found my breathing shallow, my heart thudding hard beneath the soft folds of hot velvet as I worked to preserve an expression of disinterest. I had managed, without difficulty, to avoid this creature, but there he was before me, all glamour in his father’s gilded armour, proudly astride a bay stallion, larger than life. Thomas FitzAlan, now Earl of Arundel and restored to the FitzAlan inheritance with all its potential for power as an accepted associate of the King.

‘You cannot avoid him for ever, Elizabeth.’

Henry had seen the direction of my hostility.

‘Not when you show such favour to him.’

No, I could not avoid him, but neither could I prevent a leap of pure joy when, the contest underway, the new Earl was efficiently dislodged from his saddle and, in one to one combat, beaten to his knees by a well-aimed sword in the hand of some nameless knight. I had no compassion for his lack of years at nineteen. I would have had his head hacked from his body. When he was helped limping from the field, I watched him go, hatred masked by a bland face.

‘How can you not despise him?’ I asked.

‘I cannot afford to despise him. I cannot afford to despise anyone. The FitzAlans have lineage and breeding. They are too potentially powerful to have them estranged from my court.’

I looked across to where the knight who had bested FitzAlan was catching his breath before launching again into the fray. I did not know him, nor did I recognise his banner. A lion rampant, ducally crowned, with a border bezantee, dramatic in black and red with a golden star on its shoulder. Silently wishing him well, my eye moved on, then returned as he took his sword from his squire and strode back to pit himself against one of the Percy faction. Unlike FitzAlan, his armour was plain and well-worn, no gilding here, the dents catching the sun to refract into glints of light as he remounted.

And again my breathing was compromised but in quite a different manner.

There it was, the same skill, the same grace that had characterised John Holland; a fluid deportment, a perfect coordination between hand and eye that brought him victory against any knight who opposed him. Agile, fleet-footed, there was no one to compare with this unknown knight. It could be John, restored to all his old inimitable prowess.

I took a deep breath. This was beyond foolishness, to be so moved by an ability to thrust and parry, to disarm, before clasping hands with the beaten foe in recognition of the fallen man’s courage. It was not John. It would never be John again.

My fan had fallen still in my lap.

I berated myself again, my cheeks flushing in the heat as I realised that I had been regarding the knight with the rampant lion for the last handful of minutes, and at last my breathing began to settle and common sense dealt a healthy blow to my demeanour. This faceless man did not attract me. There was no obvious similarity between him and John, neither in stature nor in manner of fighting. This man was taller, slighter, fighting with an elegant composure, far different from John’s magnificent aggression. Even though he wielded the great sword with impressive talent, this knight could not wound my heart as John had done.

And then there he was, this unknown knight, urging his mount into a controlled canter towards our pavilion.

‘Who is he?’ For want of something to say. And because, in truth, I was interested in a man who could exhibit such skill.

‘John Cornewall. A knight from the west country,’ Henry replied.

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s the son and heir of younger son, so out to make a name for himself. He’s a man I would have at my side.’

‘You would have every man at your side,’ I remarked, recalling FitzAlan.

‘What King would not? Besides, I like Cornewall’s style in combat.’

The knight, his armour even more worn than I had anticipated, hauled his mount to an impatient standstill before us and, still helmed, bowed before me.

‘I would carry your guerdon, my lady.’

A clear voice, light of timbre, even from the depths of the unadorned jousting-helm.

I smiled politely, as I must. ‘I do not know you, sir.’

‘Here is my emblem, my lady.’ He gestured to his squire who rode up with the emblazoned shield.

‘But I would not give my guerdon to a faceless knight, sir.’

Upon which he removed his helm and handed it to the squire.

‘I am Sir John Cornewall, my lady. I would be honoured to fight in your name and carry your honour to victory in the lists. If my face is pleasing to you.’

Any lingering thought that this knight bore even the smallest similarity to John Holland was instantly obliterated. Sir John Cornewall was a young man untouched by hard experience, his eyes the palest of blue, like a winter sky touched by frost; his hair, already plastered to his skull with damp heat, had the fairness of flax as it curled around his ears, while his skin was pale with an unlined smoothness. His mouth was well-sculpted but unsmiling, his nose blade-narrow. A handsome face, all in all, if austerity and rigid self-control was pleasing. And there was the soft accent, from the west, that brushed my senses. Deep within me, I acknowledged an attraction to this man with such perfect manners, an interest that any woman might feel towards a handsome knight, even if her heart was dead.

‘My lady?’ I realised I had been staring. ‘I would fight for you,’ he repeated, ‘if you would honour me.’

And I felt Henry’s elbow nudge me where my arm rested against the carved chair he had provided for my use.

‘Of course, Sir John. The honour is mine.’ How very difficult it was to use that name, but I did, and on a whim, struggling to slide it over my knuckle, I held out a ring that Henry had given me at some past New Year’s Gift Giving. ‘God give you victory, sir.’

He bowed again, removed his gauntlet and slid the ring onto his smallest finger. Then, replacing gauntlet and helm, he took his place with the rest of the knights.

I tried hard not to allow my eyes to follow him.

‘That was generous,’ Henry murmured under cover of my women’s chatter. ‘A veil or one of your endless knots of ribbon would have done just as well.’

‘Is he not worth more than a veil?’ I asked languidly augmenting the breeze with my little fan. ‘Besides, I wager that he will win, and I’ll get it back.’

‘Are you so sure? I think he’ll keep it.’ Henry did not look at me but seemed to be inspecting the disposition of officials on the field.

So I watched this man whose allegiance Henry would win as the contest continued in a more restrained show of arms, in which Henry’s two eldest sons could compete. Henry at thirteen and Thomas at twelve would be doughty fighters: my brother’s pride shone like the noon sun as they played their part. They carried themselves well; John Cornewall even better, who allowed the princes to display their skills before the inevitable disarming. He was a man of compassion. Or, if I were of a cynical turn of mind, a man of few financial resources using a clever ruse to catch the King’s eye. He won, of course, defeating all comers. Throughout the heat of that afternoon, Sir John Cornewall rode with all the glittering mastery of a knight from the magical books of my childhood, snatching victory from the prestigious French and Italian knights who challenged him.

I stayed for Henry’s presentation of prizes.

Did my chosen knight surprise me? Not with the innate dignity with which he accepted the Order of the Garter, bestowed on him by Henry in recognition of his upholding England’s reputation against foreign competition. Not by his splendid courtesy to all who applauded his achievements. But yes, he did baffle me in the end when, the Order of the Garter blazing in the sun, Sir John returned the ring to me with a gallant gesture, kneeling, the ring resting in his palm as he offered it, the sapphire gleaming with blue fire from its depths. Even paler, fair face strained and hair dripping with sweat from his exertions, he bowed his head so that his emotions were hidden from me.

‘I place my victory at your feet, my lady.’

‘My thanks, Sir John. Your fought superlatively well.’

What it cost me to say that. I had to set my jaw to use the same name and title as John Holland. I expected that my expression was stony when he deserved my praise, but it was beyond my tolerance to comply.

‘It was my desire to uphold your honour, my lady.’

‘Then it is right that you should be rewarded.’

He looked up, eyes glassy with exhaustion, face smeared with dust.

I could not smile at him, nor did he smile at me.

‘Good fortune, Sir John,’ was all I said. ‘The prize is yours to keep.’

I let him keep the ring. It was indeed very valuable and perhaps I should not have done it, but he had fought well and it would have been churlish of me not to reward him. What did this golden-haired knight mean to me? Nothing. He never could mean anything to me.