The King's Sister

‘My youngest son is not for such as you, even if you were not wed to that child.’ The Princess nodded to where Jonty was helping Henry remove the pieces of spangled armour. ‘My son has a temper and a questionable loyalty. He has an arrogance that is not to be trusted.’ Her glance was quizzical. ‘You look surprised.’

‘I am, my lady. That any woman would hold her son up to such dismantling of his character.’

‘I know rabid scandal when I hear it. It follows Isabella around. There is something about a woman with small, sharp teeth. As if she would strip the flesh from the bones of the man she covets—covets, my dear, not loves. I doubt she has the capacity to love any man. She has the morals of a cat on heat.’

Which seemed an indelicate observation since much the same had been said of the Princess herself in her lifetime.

‘And if that second son of hers was fathered by York, I’ll toss my coral rosary beads to the beggars outside our gates,’ the Princess continued, her fingers clenching on the gold mounted beads that were strung across her formidable bosom. ‘You know what’s said of Isabella and my son?’ She raised her brows ‘Of course you do. Is it hard to see?’ She turned to look along the row, making no pretence about it, to where Isabella sat, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the figure of Sir John. Even when the Duchess returned the gaze, her expression one of hauteur, the Princess did not look away, and I knew full well Princess Joan’s reference. There were many tongues to clap the rumour that the Duchess’s second son Richard was also son of John Holland.

No, it was not hard at all.

‘Do you see?’

‘Yes.’

Now that percipient gaze slid to me. ‘You should consider thinking, Elizabeth, before you draw the eyes and tongues of the chattering court in your direction. Do you want Isabella to see you as a rival for my son’s dubious but entirely charming attentions? As for what that delightful boy will think when he discovers his wife to be treating her marriage vows with frivolity …’ She nodded towards the glowing Earl of Pembroke. ‘You should not demean yourself.’

‘I would do no such thing, madam!’

‘Perhaps not. But how pleasant for the court to wager on the consanguinity of smoke and fire!’ she said dryly. And without waiting for a reply, the Princess changed her seat, to take up a position nearer a brazier for her comfort.

It had put me entirely in my place, a dagger thrust to bring an unpleasant day to a painful end. I was not frivolous with my vows. I had no intention of being so. Silently I nursed my vexation through the dying minutes of the tournament, praying for a quick end and escape. Only to be further accosted when the Duchess of York, brushing past me, lured by the pleasures of warmth and food, turned the blade. Unwittingly? I did not think so.

‘What was disturbing the Princess?’ she asked. ‘She seemed very interested in me.’

‘Only in Sir John,’ I said. ‘She was keen for us all to admire her son’s skills.’

‘We all admire him, do we not?’ Isabella smiled at me as she collected her women and followed the Queen.

She was so very beautiful even if she lacked inches. It made a man protective of her, I supposed. If that was so, no man would be protective of me. I had inherited my father’s generous height.

I hated that Isabella thought I was a rival for John Holland’s attention. But after today I was not. He had shown me that I was of no value to him. What had made me think otherwise? As Princess Joan had observed, I would benefit from some maturity.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

His lips curved confidently. His hand, extended, had an element of command about it, as if it would be impossible for me to refuse an invitation from the victor of the joust. I looked at him, at the hand, finely boned, the fingers that had today gripped a lance with intent now heavy with gems. I looked at his face, the saturnine lines that spoke of temper and passion. At the knowing gleam in his eye, dark as a kestrel’s.

Infinitesimally I tilted my head.

The insufferable arrogance of the man. Don’t trust a man who is arrogant. My father was a man of arrogance, but that was an entirely different matter. I would not trust John Holland ever again. Had I not known that he would make this invitation, as if he had not spent the afternoon as the prime object of Duchess Isabella’s lust?

I smiled.

I curtsied to John Holland, more deeply than was entirely necessary from one of my rank.

‘It would be my pleasure to dance, Sir John.’ It was in my mind to turn a chilly shoulder but that would put me too much into his power. I knew he would make much of the slightest indication that I knew full well that today he had slighted me, after seeking me out yesterday. Ignore a woman and she will come to your hand out of pique, as a lonely lapdog will come to be petted. I recognised the game and I would not play it.

‘The music has begun,’ he remarked, his smile quizzical as I lingered. ‘We will miss it unless you step smartly.’

‘I am honoured. Thank you, sir,’ I said. Then seeing a perfect alternative presented to me. ‘But I will dance with my husband.’

‘Does he know?’ The eloquent brows rose.

‘Of course. Here he is, come to claim my hand.’

‘My lady!’ Jonty, approaching at a fast lope, was deliciously decorous. ‘Will you partner me?’

With a gracious smile I inclined my head and joined my hand with Jonty’s, who led me through the steps with lively skill and some well-practised exactitude, during which I did not once glance in John Holland’s direction.

‘Am I getting better?’ Jonty asked at the end, only a little breathless. His energy was prodigious.

‘Marginally. You only trod once on my foot.’

Jonty grinned. ‘I must leave you now, madam.’

‘And why is that?’

‘My lord the Duke has need of me to take a message.’

‘Then you must go.’ I straightened the fur at the neckline of his expensive tunic. ‘It would not do to keep the Duke waiting.’

‘No, madam.’

I watched him go, darting between the crowds, not so much to take a message, I decided with a wry smile, but to join a group of equally furtive pages up to no good. Wives did not figure highly in the Earl of Pembroke’s plans. I wondered who had sent him to dance with me. I knew enough about Jonty to doubt it was of his own initiative.

For a moment I stood alone, conscious of my aloneness, which was ridiculous since I knew every face at the gathering. And yet in that moment I felt isolated, a little sad, as if I had lost my secure footing on the path to my future. Yet why should I not be secure? I was Countess of Pembroke with an income to fit my status. Soon I would have my own household. Until that time I could enjoy my days at Richard’s court. By what right was I forlorn?

Because, I acknowledged, I needed someone who could stir my blood with passion. A man who could make my heart sing. Jonty would never do that for me, so I was destined to live a half-life, without passion, without knowing the hot desires of love.

And I was forlorn because the man I had painted as my hero had feet of clay and a place in another woman’s bed.

My heart sank even lower.

And there was John Holland with malice in his twisted smile.

‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

Having no excuse this time, and because that smile made my heart jolt just a little, I curtsied and complied with impressive serenity.

‘It would be my pleasure.’

The glint in his eye told me that he had acknowledged the repetition of our courtly exchange, but he made no comment as we joined the circle and began the slow movement to right and left. No one had sent John Holland to dance with me. He had done it of his own free will, and probably, if I read him aright, to make mischief.

Yet my spirits lifted and danced with the music.

‘Was the Princess warning you to keep your distance from me?’ he asked.

‘How should she? There is no need to so warn a wedded woman.’ I moved away in the pattern of the dance, to return with neat steps to hear his reply.