Anne O'Brien - The King's Sister

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.

‘There!’ she replied with a malicious little glint in her eye. ‘I knew you would be useful to me. I have a high regard for your father. You can be my eyes and ears. Mine are beginning to suffer from advanced age.’

Taken aback, I slid a glance.

‘When I am gone, who will put their strength behind your father? And when your brother becomes Duke in the fullness of time, who will stand beside him? I see dark clouds looming, storms and tempests the like of which we have never seen before. We women have a role to play. Family loyalty must not be taken for granted. A woman must foster it as she raises her children and stitches her altar cloths. You must foster it, Elizabeth, for my days are numbered. Men wield their swords, but women have the gift of careful listening at keyholes. And of persuasion when brute force fails.’ Upon which she halted, clamping a hand in my sleeve, and regarded me even more sternly. ‘I put this burden on you. Are you listening?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

A frisson of interest, or was it disbelief, gripped me. What was she asking? Never had I been called upon to shoulder so weighty a mission, but of course I would obey. Was not my family the most important part of my life? Without question I would be Princess Joan’s eyes and ears, open to any whisper of danger or attack against Lancaster. I would remain constant and steadfast all my days. And then, on a thought:

‘Why did you not ask my sister?’

‘Your sister will believe the best of everyone. She’s no use to me. Now you, Elizabeth, are cut from quite a different bolt of cloth.’

Which made me laugh. ‘I hope I am able to live up to your expectations, my lady. But I will certainly pray for this new marriage.’

‘I know you will. And I know that you will prove yourself a magnificent supporter of Lancaster.’ We began to move again, the Princess labouring a little but still as incisive as ever. ‘But remember what I say. Don’t smile too overtly or too kindly on my son.’

‘No, my lady. I will not.’

‘I wish I could believe you,’ she remarked with dry appreciation as we at last entered the royal presence. ‘I have my doubts. My son has proved himself a man who makes women forget their promises.’

I smiled. I would never again be ignorant, but indeed I could not promise. Nor was I worried about future storms and tempests for my anticipation of my next meeting with Sir John Holland was too keen. But I would, of course, be careful. My reputation, as the Princess had put it, would suffer no reverses. Could I ever be so well tuned to the political nuances of Richard’s court as she? I could not, in my frivolous mind, imagine it. But I would never neglect my Lancaster blood. No member of my family would ever suffer because of some lack in me.

But first there was the tournament. My heart was light, my spirits overflowing.

The weather was a perfect January afternoon for Richard’s festivities: cold and crisp and clear. Muffled in furs from chin to floor, the women of the court took their places in the new pavilion hung with bright tapestry enhanced with swags and gilding, Queen Anne in pride of place as Lady of the Lists, with me at her side, honoured, as was fitting, as her chief lady-in-waiting and cousin by marriage.

It was the simplest of matters for me to push aside Princess Joan’s advice, her warnings that I should be aware of threat and danger at every turn. Of course she would see the dark side of every glance, slide and movement around the King, and, given her history, the insidious menace of scandal. Was it not the role of a lioness to fear for her cub? But I was young and beautiful and need have no fears. With my father once more counsellor at the King’s side, why did I need to worry my mind with court politics? Was I not too young to carry such a burden? And I was wearing a gown so heavy in gold thread that it turned every head.

Above my head, pennons snapped in the breeze to display Anne’s heraldic motifs quartered with Richard’s. It was a fine display. Richard was very keen on display.

Across the field of battle we could make out the two teams of combatants. My father was jousting today. There was Henry. And Sir John Holland in the Lancaster contingent. There was my husband, Earl of Pembroke, astride a lively gelding, proudly bearing a Lancaster banner as page to my father.

The opposition was led, reluctantly, by my uncle of York, but there would be no danger. Lances capped, it would be a tournament à plaisance.

Would we prove to be invincible?

Richard did not fight. Richard had no interest in fighting. The only time I recalled Richard being part of such a glorious event was in the Great Hall as a child, receiving a mock challenge from a squire tricked out in skirts and false hair as a young virgin. Was he the only Plantagenet not to enjoy bearing arms? Gloriously clad in silk damask and crown, he sat at his wife’s side to enjoy the spectacle.

Excitement built within me like a hunger. I could no more have absented myself from this event than from the wedding ceremony. Anne might be Lady of the Lists but I knew who would be the chosen lady for John Holland. And there he was, his horse on a tight curb yet eating up the distance between us, the three golden Holland lions snarling across his chest. Jousting helm still in possession of his squire, my chivalrous knight bowed to me. Today there was no subtle perfume: the aroma of horse and leather and rank sweat was exhilarating.

‘My lady.’ His expression was as smooth as wax, as if there were nothing untoward in his request. And indeed his words confirmed his clever ploy. ‘As a representative of Lancaster on this auspicious day, and in the absence of your illustrious husband from the field of battle, it would be an honour if you would allow me, and my poor skills, to be your champion.’

How clever. How damnably clever. How could I refuse so innocuous an offer?

‘Why do you hesitate?’ the Queen whispered in my ear. ‘If you do not take him, I will!’

And I laughed at how easy it was to enjoy the attentions of so talented a jouster. My mind was made up, if it had not been already. Sir John would not wear the Queen’s favours this day.

‘Give him something!’ the Queen urged. ‘Let’s get on with it. It’s as cold as charity, sitting here.’

I thought of giving him my glove as a guerdon, but it was too cold for that. I would be no martyr to John Holland. The ring? No, I did not think so. It would draw too much attention. Instead I burrowed under my furs and unpinned a knot of ribbon from my bodice, handing it to one of the Queen’s pages with a gesture for him to give it to my chosen knight.

‘My thanks, sir. I trust you will carry it to victory.’

‘Your beauty is only outshone by that of our Queen. I pledge you my victory.’

Which went down very well, all in all.

It was a true conflict of knight riding against knight, each pitting his skill with lance and horse against his opponent. The Duke was superb. One day Henry would excel. But in the middle of it all I watched John Holland perform with every brilliant feat of arms I knew he would exhibit to unhorse any man who rode against him. It was a tour de force. My father’s knights emerged victorious.

It might have been an anticlimax that it was Queen Anne who awarded the victory garlands, but Sir John’s words were for me.

‘My lady. Your beauty spurred me on to victory.’

Tomorrow, I would be the one to crown him with glory.

After supper, he invited me to dance and I accepted, so that we wound round the great dancing chamber, my hand in his. At the end of which stately performance, he took the opportunity to re-pin the ribbon to my bodice.

‘You are a brave woman, Elizabeth.’