The King's Sister

The noble guests continued to arrive with much laughter and comment.

I was not one for being sensitive to tension in the air when I might be considering which dress would become me most, but on this occasion it rippled along my skin like the brush of a goose feather quill. Chiefly because there were far too many eyes turned in my direction for comfort. It seemed to me that I was an object of some interest over and above the usual friendly comment on the rare beauty and precocious talents of the Duke of Lancaster’s younger daughter. What’s more, on that particular morning, I had been dressed by my women with extraordinary care.

Not that I had demurred. My sideless surcoat, of a particularly becoming blue silk damask, hushed expensively as I walked. My hair had been plaited into an intricate coronet, covered with a veil as transparent as one of the high clouds that barely masked the sun.

‘Is it a celebration?’ I mused. ‘Have we made peace with France?’

‘I doubt it. But it’s a celebration for something.’ My sister’s mind was as engaged as mine as the FitzAlan Countess of Hereford and her opulent entourage arrived in the courtyard, soon followed by the Beauchamp contingent of the Earl of Warwick.

‘It’s a marriage alliance. A betrothal. It has to be,’ I announced to Philippa, for surely this was the obvious cause for so great a foregathering, and one of such high-blooded grandeur festooned in sun-bright jewels and rich velvets. ‘The Duke is bringing your new husband to meet with you.’

‘A husband for me? If that’s so, why is it that you are the one to be clad like a Twelfth Night gift?’ Philippa said, eyeing my apparel. ‘I am not clad for a betrothal. This is my second best gown, and the hem is becoming worn. While you are wearing my new undertunic.’

Which was true. And Philippa more waspish than her wont since my borrowed garment was of finest silk with gold stitching at hem and neck and the tiniest of buttons from elbow to wrist, yet despite her animadversions on her second best gown, Philippa looked positively regal in a deep red cote-hardie that would never have suited me. A prospective husband would never look beyond her face to notice the hem. If the honoured guest was invited here as a suitable match, he must be intended for my sister. As the elder by three years, Philippa would wed first. Did not older sisters always marry before younger ones? I stared at her familiar features, so like my own, marvelling at her serenity. There was still no husband for her, not even a betrothal of long standing, at twenty years. No husband had been attracted by her dark hair and darker eyes, inherited from our father. It was high time, as daughter of the royal Duke of Lancaster as well as first cousin to King Richard himself, even if he was only a tiresome boy, that she was sought and won by some powerful bridegroom.

Of course this would be her day.

I sighed that it behoved me to wait, for marriage to a handsome knight or illustrious prince was an elevation to which I aspired. The songs and tales of the troubadours, of fair maidens lost and won through chivalric deeds and noble self-sacrifice, had made a strong impression in my youthful heart. But today was no day for sighing.

‘I have been counting all the unwed heirs of the English aristocracy who will make suitable husbands for you,’ I said, to make Philippa smile. ‘I have a tally of at least a dozen to choose from.’

It was Henry who grunted a laugh. ‘But how many of them are either senile or imbecile?’

I stepped smartly and might have punched his shoulder but Henry was agile, putting distance between us. And because we were finely dressed, he did not retaliate. I turned my back on him.

‘He could be a foreign prince, of course.’ This was Philippa, ever serious.

‘So he could.’ I turned back to the carpet of richly-hued velvet and silk below, imagining such an eventuality. Would I enjoy leaving England, living far away from my family, those I had known and loved all my life? ‘I don’t think I would like that.’

‘I would not mind.’ Philippa lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

‘You will do whatever you are told to do.’

Her arm, in sisterly affection, slid round my waist. ‘As will you.’

It did not need the saying. I might be wrapped in girlhood dreams of romantic notions of knights errant, but I had been raised since birth to know the role I must play in my father’s schemes. Alliances were all important, friendships and connections built on shared interests and the disposition of daughters. Henry might be the heir, and much prized as a promising son, but Philippa and I were valuable commodities in furthering the ambitions of Lancaster. My husband would, assuredly, be a man of high status and proud name. He would be an owner of vast estates and significant wealth, possessing an extensive web of connections of his own to meld with those of the Duke into one over-arching structure of power. He would have significance at the royal court, where I would take my place, glowing from his reflected authority and, I hoped, glamour. There was nothing so attractive as a powerful man, as I well knew. And, of course, this man would be worthy of my Plantagenet blood. I would never be given away to a mere nobody, a man without distinction.

When my woman combed my hair to braid it for the night and I inspected my features in my looking glass I knew that my husband would have an affection for me. Was it possible for a man of perception not to fall in love with a face as perfectly proportioned as mine? There was the elegant Plantagenet nose, the dark hooded eyes that suggested a mine of secrets to be explored. My lips were quick to smile, my brows, surprisingly dark and nicely arched, and my hair, unlike Philippa’s, the same lustrous fairness of my mother whose memory faded from me as the years passed. It was a face that promised romance and passion, I decided. No, my husband would be unable to resist and would continue to indulge my desires in formidable style. I was destined to enjoy my future life.

When a shout of laughter went up from one of the groups in the courtyard—enticing Henry to condemn us as dull company and leave us, bounding down the steps to join the throng—I too descended from our high vantage point in search of enlightenment, and discovered Dame Katherine Swynford. Our governess and much more than a mere member of the Lancaster household, she was as close as an oyster, preoccupied with some matter to do with the guests, although why it should fall to her I could not fathom. Did we not employ a steward, a chamberlain, a vast array of servants to oversee every aspect of life at Kenilworth? Indeed I was interested to see a brief shadow flit over her face, a sudden discomfiture that I suspected had no connection with her own illicit and highly scandalous relationship with the Duke.

‘What is it?’ I asked. No point in subtlety as yet another festive group arrived.

When Dame Katherine, intent on speeding away, shook her head so that her veils shivered, suspicions began to flutter in my belly. There was something here that she did not wish to discuss with me.

‘What is it that you know, Dame Katherine, and that I will not like?’

‘Nothing, to my knowledge. What should there be?’ Lightly said but her eye did not quite meet mine.

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘The Duke does not tell me everything, Elizabeth.’

I frowned, not believing her for one moment. I would swear that Dame Katherine could read my father’s mind, and what she could not read she could inveigle him into telling her when she seduced him into moments of love. Or he seduced her. I thought there were no secrets between them now that she had been my father’s mistress for eight years. She was quick to take me to task.

‘Go and wait with your sister, Elizabeth, and show patience. All you need to know is that we look for an important guest. He comes with your father.’

‘And who is this important guest?’ I asked, grasping her trailing oversleeve with no care for its embroidered edge, determined to prevent her escape, so that she sighed and at last turned to face me. I thought there was trouble in her face.

‘It is John Hastings. He is the Earl of Pembroke.’ It meant nothing to me. If I had ever met the Earl of Pembroke I could not recall. ‘He is coming here for a betrothal.’

I smiled. ‘So I thought,’ I admitted. ‘For my sister.’

‘Oh no. For you, Elizabeth.’

‘For me? Why me?’ How gauche I sounded in sudden consternation, and felt my cheeks flush.

‘Because it will be a valuable alliance. He is the grandson of the Countess of Norfolk.’

‘Will I like him?’ Was that the only thought in my mind? At that moment all my powers of reasoned thought were hopelessly awry.

‘Your father will never choose anyone you dislike.’ Dame Katherine was brisk, enough to quell any further discussion. ‘When has he ever used the whip or the spur to take you to task?’

And then, an aura of unease still palpable, she was forcing a path through the throng with an urgent, muttered instruction for the poulterer.

A marriage. I was too delighted to be anxious. This unknown Earl would soon be riding across the causeway and then I could see for myself. If he was an Earl how could he not make me a desirable husband? With the Countess of Norfolk as his grandmother, his importance was guaranteed. For a long moment I simply stood and breathed in the excitement of my future until it seemed that my whole body was suffused with it. Soon, very soon, I would see him for myself.

Why was everyone so reluctant to talk about this dynastically vital occurrence?

Joyful expectancy stamped out any concerns as I rejoined my sister, saying nothing more of my discovery. It would only hurt Philippa that I had been chosen over her for this match. And then when it was becoming more and more impossible to keep my lips tight, my blood sparkling with the opening of this new window in my life, there was warning of the arrival.

‘Come with me!’ I seized Philippa’s hand and dragged her with me, running down the steps into the courtyard.

‘Why?’ she asked, laughing and breathless.

‘You’ll see!’

‘Elizabeth …!’ Dame Katherine called after me as we threaded our way through all the chattering ranks of the nobility of England.

‘Later,’ I called back. Whatever it was, it could wait. Everything could wait. Here was the superbly well-connected man with whom I would spend the rest of my life. I shook out my skirts, smoothed the deeply embroidered panels, ensured that my light veil fell in seemly folds about my face, and prepared to meet my future.

The gates were already open to receive the impressive entourage with mounted retainers, a curtained palanquin, and various wagons loaded with the necessities for a lengthy stay. Most prominent on pennon and flag was the flowing red sleeve, accompanied by a cluster of red martlets on silver and blue, which I took to belong to the Earl of Pembroke. Mightily impressive, I decided, although nothing to compare with my father’s royal leopards, his standards snapping in red and gold and blue in the brisk wind.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin. The Earl of Pembroke must be aware of the jewel he was getting with marriage to a daughter of Lancaster, first cousin to King Richard himself. If the solid might and luxury of Kenilworth did not impress him—and how could it not? —then I certainly would.

I wondered fleetingly why I had no recall of meeting him before this, since most of the high nobility had come within my orbit at Richard’s coronation three years ago. Perhaps he had been fighting in France. Perhaps he had a high reputation as a knight on the battlefield or in the tournament like my father. I would like that.

And then there was quite a fuss as two ladies were helped to step from the cumbersome travelling litters. The Countess of Norfolk, whom I knew: as thin and acerbic as vinegar, her hair severely contained in the metal and jewelled coils much in fashion when she was a girl. And a lady, younger, whom I did not. But where was he?