I left before Henry awarded the rest of the prizes. I could not sit and wallow in self-pity, stirred with fury into a lethal mix as each brave knight knelt to receive his king’s commendations and a purse of gold coin that Henry could ill-afford to give. John should have been there if he had made a pragmatic rather than an emotional choice. John should have been there if Henry had allowed himself to be generous. John should have been there if I had not …

Too close to home. Far too close.

I allowed myself to feel the old hurt that never left me, and that night, in my dreams, my hands were drenched in blood.

The jousting ended on a high note of male pride and knightly boasting but Henry sank into sour despondency with no news, good or bad, from Scotland. Supplies, I was led to understand by the tone and colour of his language, were running low, a disaster if the Scots refused an alliance and Henry was forced to call their bluff with an invasion.

‘The goodwill from the jousting will die a death overnight if we’re left sitting here on our arses for the next month!’ Henry snarled when the couriers arrived yet again from the north with no news.

All we could do was sit tight at York and wait, until Henry could discover sufficient resources, or wring them from the reluctant purses of the richest noble families in his army. Meanwhile he chose to host a banquet to celebrate the victors of the tournament.

‘Pray that if I’m open-handed with roast venison and enough wine to swamp their grousings, they’ll forget their grudges and stay for the next feast I can muster.’

Perhaps it all had the air of desperation. I did not fully comprehend all the difficulties in the stalled negotiations, and Henry remained as silently dour as the Scots except to say: ‘They’re playing us for bloody fools, keeping us kicking our heels here. I’ve a good mind to invade tomorrow and prod King Robert with my sword until he does homage.’

‘Well, that will encourage him,’ I observed. Then took my lute and my needle to one of the spacious rooms in Greyfriars in the city where we were staying and prepared to wait with him. With a banquet in mind, in the absence of a wife, I would be Henry’s hostess, which pleased me well enough, for the accommodations at the Franciscan Friary were suitably sumptuous, and it gave me something to occupy my mind other than my interminably festering woes, as Henry found need to remark.

‘I, too, have lost friends to death or divided loyalties. You are not alone in your grief. Your face would curdle the milk in the churn.’

I balked. ‘You allowed my husband to be done to death. Do I rejoice?’

‘No. And I’m sorry for it. What more can I say?’

And again seeing the lasting sorrow for Mary mould his face into harsher lines, I hugged him as if he were still the brother of my childhood. We were both alone and must support each other. It would never be the same, I would never trust him as I once had, but he was all I had.

‘I will organise your feasts,’ I promised, ‘your wine and your venison, and we will tie your friends to you with shackles of music and food and celebration.’

‘It will get better.’ Henry returned my embrace. ‘Loss will lose its sharp edge.’

‘Of course it will.’

Neither one of us was convinced.

We feasted. Where did Henry find such a wealth of platters? Commandeered from those who sat to eat from them, or from the rich merchants of York who had been invited to join the knightly throng. We sang songs of victory and love and knightly endeavour. Henry’s minstrels were in good heart and well paid for their efforts.

We danced. Or that is to say, Henry’s guests danced. I did not. Had I not vowed never to dance again? My feet felt as heavy as my heart. Meanwhile John Cornewall, lithe and sprightly without the confines of his armour, could dance as well as he could joust, nor was he short of partners.

‘Will you dance?’ Henry offered.

I shook my head. ‘I am too old to keep my breath in this measure,’ I said as the dancers beamed and sweated in the torchlight, instantly regretting that I sounded like Constanza who had disapproved of anything that lacked the stately elegance of Castile. I was not so old.

Reading my mind, Henry grinned. ‘You can still dance better than anyone I know. You always could. Why don’t you?’

‘I am thirty-seven years old, Hal.’

How the years flew past, how the web of lines gathered beside eyes and lips. I turned away from him. I did not like to think of the days when I had won the prize at Richard’s court. I would not talk about Richard, or John, not today when Henry and I were in amiable alliance. Henry, it had to be said, was not short of women who were more than willing to dance with him. A King of England without a wife, a young man with royal blood and attractive countenance, was a desirable entity.

‘Come with me, if your advanced years will allow it,’ Henry said, and seizing my hand he led me from the noisy environs of the dancing into an unoccupied spot where he procured a cup of wine for me from a page who responded to his raised hand.

‘Elizabeth …?’

‘Hmn?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you …’ He paused, then hesitated longer.

‘Tell me what?’

For a moment I thought my brother looked ill at ease, eyes sliding to mine, before sliding just as swiftly away. Henry was never sly, so it took me aback. Then he tossed off his wine and made a wide gesture with his empty cup as he looked beyond my shoulder.

‘Never mind solemn matters. Here’s a notable fighter wishing to claim your hand since the musicians have retuned and the blowers caught their breath.’

I turned, knowing instinctively whom I would see, and of course it was John Cornewall, making his way through the throng with the same skill and ease as he showed on the tournament field, and the same determination.

‘Why do I get the feeling that you want something from me?’

‘I have no idea. You are too cynical.’

Indeed I was. In these days my brother did nothing without a purpose. ‘It may be he wishes to exchange some news with you, Henry,’ I observed. ‘Something relevant to your Scottish troubles.’ The knight’s face was certainly grave enough.

‘I think his mind is on dancing rather than war.’

‘So am I of a mind to dance with him?’

‘It would please me if you did.’

So I was right. Henry was building alliances. I turned to the knight who, hand on heart in true chivalric mode, newly-won Order of the Garter on his breast, bowed to me.

‘Have you come to talk with my brother, Sir John?’ I goaded gently. ‘If so I will leave you together.’

‘By no means. It is you I seek. Will you dance, my lady?’

I cast an arch look at Henry as I replied. ‘My brother the King should have warned you. I do not dance, Sir John.’

‘I am informed, madam, that you dance superlatively well.’ Now I glanced at Henry with frank irritation. I knew who had supplied that piece of information. ‘I had hoped to tempt you to add your expertise to this August occasion and dance with me.’

Such a self-assured request, those light eyes holding mine with no shyness. He might be young but he had all the confidence in the world. I felt an urge to ruffle that perfect poise, and so stepped onto dangerous ground with a little thrill of expectation. How would he react? I would be interested to see if this put an end to his need for my company.

‘Once I danced, Sir John, but no longer. Since my husband’s death I do not have the heart for it. The manner of his death has robbed me of all joy.’

In brotherly disgust, Henry grunted and strode off. I waited to see if Sir John would follow.

‘If you will not dance, will you sit with me?’ he invited, his manner lightly courteous. Why would he wish to sit with me? Would nothing deter him? And I felt a desire to repulse him, to see what was behind that cool façade. And to foil Henry’s planning.

‘No, Sir John.’

‘We could converse.’ No, he was not deterred. ‘We have many acquaintances in common.’

‘I expect that we have. But it is my wish to return to my women.’

Sir John laced the fingers of his hands together and studied them, giving me ample opportunity to admire the fine texture of the hair that curled onto his brow.

‘Can you not be persuaded, my lady?’ Quickly, smoothly, he raised his eyes, to catch me watching him, but took no advantage of it. ‘It might be that you enjoy the experience. Why would you wish to be the only lady here present without a knight to partner her or devote himself to her comfort?’

His persistence ruffled me. ‘No, Sir. I will not. Forgive me if you think me discourteous …’

Upon which he offered me a suave, if perfunctory, bow. ‘Lady Elizabeth of Lancaster could never be ill-mannered. I will not inflict my presence on you further.’

No courtier talk here. John Cornewall left me to stand alone.

I felt myself flushing under the sardonic response as he retraced his steps, leaving me to walk slowly back towards the dais where my women sat and gossiped, admitting my discourtesy. What had driven me to be so rudely uncivil? And I felt the heat in my cheeks deepen for did I not know the answer. I had admired him at the tournament. I had found his solemn pronouncements, his careful gravity, even his cool self-assurance appealing, and immediately felt tainted by disloyalty. What right had I to be intrigued by any casual acquaintance when my heart was still consumed by old loves, old emotions, old bitterness? Was I not betraying my beloved John all over again? I could not. I must not. This anger at my own shallow appreciation of this talented knight had been rapidly transmuted into sharp-tongued boorishness, and I was now angry all over again, for did I not know better than to inflict my own guilt on an innocent man?