Anne O'Brien - A Tapestry of Treason

The minutes were passing. ‘Do you need anything? I cannot stay long.’

‘Better you here than the guard who watches my every step.’ The anger had gone, replaced by desolation. ‘Will you give my dear wife Isabelle this from me?’ He made to take a ring from his hand, as if he expected to see the great ruby gleaming in the sunlight, only to find his hands naked of jewels. ‘Where is my ring? They have taken it from me.’ It was almost a sob. ‘I can do nothing. They have taken all my treasure. And Mathes.’

I knew that they had confiscated all of Richard’s wealth, all the forty thousand pounds of it hidden away in Holt Castle so that he was stripped down to a man of absolute poverty. Again there were tears in his eyes, which coated my compassion with irritation, not for the first time. It was important now for me to give counsel.

‘You must listen to me, Richard.’ And when he nodded, seeking any consolation, still holding fast to my hands: ‘You must be strong. Do not give in to Lancaster. Offer to negotiate with him, but do not agree to relinquish your crown without promises for your safety and your future.’

‘Will he listen?’

I thought not, but I must give this man hope. ‘You have friends. Friends who will not desert you. I am your friend.’

‘What can you do? I am deserted. I think he will have my head. Henry was always my rival.’

‘He will not.’ How difficult it was to implant into this man a backbone that would carry him through the next days and weeks. ‘Listen to me, Richard. Be strong. Tell Lancaster that you will discuss terms. He is a fair man. He does not desire your blood.’

‘If I offer to reinstate his land and inheritance, will he allow me to go free?’

‘Yes, that might do it.’

Oh, Richard. Lancaster wanted far more than his inheritance. By taking up arms against the King, Henry had proved that he desired more than the reinstatement of his title of Duke of Lancaster and the Lancaster acres. I could see no glory for Richard, but he should be allowed to keep his dignity.

‘Don’t forget. The family of York will not abandon you. Do not sign any document that robs you of your royal authority. You must not abdicate unless Lancaster listens to your conditions.’

‘But what are my conditions?’

I tried not to sigh.

‘Your freedom is the main one. Demand that you be set free.’ Then I delivered the most vital piece of advice, for all of us. ‘Demand a guarantee of a pardon for all your counsellors, so that Lancaster cannot punish them for any perceived fault in your reign. You must think of the men who supported you, advised you. They must not be threatened by Lancaster. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, yes, I can do that.’

‘Promise me that you won’t forget. Otherwise Henry will have his revenge on all of us.’

‘I promise. You will not suffer for your friendship to your King.’

He was smiling at me, although a watery affair as I saluted him on his cheeks and walked to knock on the door to summon the guard to release me. I had done all I could, for Richard and for my family’s uncertain future, but Richard’s utter weakness appalled me.

‘How can I live, if I am not King?’

His final despairing words as I left him standing at the window, looking out on the realm that was indeed no longer his, remained with me as I returned to the barge, the oarsmen who would need to flex their muscles against the drag of the Thames, aiding their wait with leather jugs of ale. My family and the Hollands owed so much to Richard, our present Dukedoms of Aumale and Surrey and Exeter a precious gift after our support in his campaign to punish the Lords Appellant. We could not abandon the giver of such costly patronage. We had been the jewels in Richard’s crown, but it was clear to me that Henry might prise those jewels out and replace them with new. And then where would we be? I had no confidence in Richard’s promise to win Henry’s compliance, that we would be free from any revenge if Henry decided to take it.

Thomas said we should wait.

It seemed to me too dangerous to wait.

‘You’ve company, mistress.’ The captain broke into my thoughts, nodding towards the gilded prow where a familiar figure sprawled on the cushions, regaling the rowers with some tale that had them laughing.

‘How did you get here?’ I asked as I stepped aboard and the oarsmen took their positions.

Dickon pointed at a wherry that was heading towards the opposite bank. He came to sit beside me.

‘What does the King say?’

I shrugged. ‘He’s concerned about his ruby ring and his hound.’ I caught the slide of my brother’s eye. ‘What is it?’

‘A man might wonder whether you came here for Richard’s sake or for ours.’

How true. I had not been completely altruistic, but I would not deny my loyalty to Richard. Equally I would not reveal to my brother the content of my advice to him. ‘A man should keep his inquisitive nose out of my affairs,’ I said, and turned my face towards Westminster, where all was to play for.

A little time after dawn on the following day I met with my family in my father’s private chamber at Westminster, summoned by him with unaccustomed stringency. Even the timing was unusual. My father, ageing rapidly week by week, rarely broke his fast before the day was well advanced. There were six of us all told. It had, I decided, although I would never have been allowed to attend such a meeting, the semblance of a council of war. The room might be familiar with its solid stonework and hunting tapestries, but the atmosphere was as sharp as that first sip of newly brewed ale.

‘You are late,’ my father observed as I entered.

I curtsied, watching my tongue. I suspected that this would be a long and acrimonious exchange of views.

Here we were, my father lowering himself awkwardly to a cushioned chair. His lips were pressed hard against the pain that these days never left him. The stiffness in his back was now permanent, exacerbated by any attempt to ride or walk far. It made his temper chancy. Joan gave him a cup of ale and took a stool at his side.

And then my brothers. First in importance as my father’s heir, my brother Edward, indolently stretched on a window seat, a hawk on his fist, a smoothly brindled greyhound at his feet. Dickon lounged against the ribbed stonework near the door as if to escape at the first opportunity, fidgeting with a knife he had taken from his belt. Thomas, my husband, seated on the only cushioned stool, glowered with some silent discontent.

And I? Why was I tolerated in this convening of male minds? Because in this household we talked politics and power. We always had, from dawn to dusk, assessing friend and enemy, alliances and allegiances. Such were the subjects of most importance to us. I stood behind my husband, my hand lightly resting on his shoulder, seemly as any wife. Joan was present because everyone had forgotten about her. She had a gift for drawing no one’s eye. My mother, the Castilian princess who had caught everyone’s eye, had been dead for seven years. My father’s second wife, Joan Holland, was young at nineteen years to my father’s fifty-eight. I watched them together as she stood to stuff another goose-feather cushion behind him, remarking not for the first time that the famous beauty of her grandmother, Joan of Kent, had left only the faintest imprint on her. She was a sparrow here, amidst a flock of goldfinches, yet however unmemorable her brown hair and pale, plain features might be, my father smiled his thanks. He treated her like a daughter, with far more affection than he had ever shown to me. Sometimes I found it difficult to tolerate Joan’s presence, much less her meek subservience.

Thus the house of York, the noble family of the fourth son of King Edward the Third. Some would say a family to be reckoned with given our rank and royal blood; others would deem us a family to be wary of, a family driven to snatch at wealth and power. Beneath the unity of our name seethed rank ambition and sour suspicion, in no manner alleviated since the day that our gifts had caught the wayward eye of King Richard, when our present and our future had gleamed with gold. Now that golden gleam hung in abeyance. After my meeting with Richard, I would not wager a silver penny on any golden future.