Anne O'Brien - A Tapestry of Treason

‘It is one of the few times when I wish for a squint, to spy upon what parliament might be doing.’ I pressed my cheek against the almost opaque glass, to peer through the window in the direction of the Great Hall, considering the value of the narrow aperture in a church to allow the host in the side chapel to be elevated at the same moment as the miracle occurred at the high altar. I wanted to know what was being said, what challenges were being issued and by whom. Ignorance was a cruel word and most pertinent. Infuriatingly it was my lot, and that of every woman, never to know of pertinent events within parliament until informed at some later date, if at all. ‘I fear this day will prove interminable.’ I paused, considering the worst scenario, in spite of my brave words on the previous night. ‘And of course, they may not return.’

‘Better not to know,’ Joan observed, her head bent over her stitches. She had recovered her composure since hearing that her brother and uncle too would face the Lords’ vengeance, but that probably her husband would not. A treasonous husband could mean any number of difficulties for his wife, however innocent she might be, not least confiscation of all the family estates, including her dower. Joan was unlikely to suffer. I would not be so fortunate. The promise of hours of uncertainty scratched at my temper.

‘Better not to know? Until they are condemned to death?’

Her head snapped up. ‘I cannot believe that of Henry. He owes my lord the Duke a debt of honour.’

‘I am not so hopeful. I would like to know that my family is to be sent to join Richard in the Tower before it actually happens.’

‘But you can do nothing to prevent it. As I can do nothing to safeguard my brother and uncle.’

I could not answer that, for it was true. I paced. Joan continued to sit and stitch at some linen garment, until I could bear the silence no longer. I watched her needle flash in and out of the fine material. I resented her stillness, her acceptance. Did she not care? Finally I stopped in front of her. The linen was particularly fine.

‘Are you breeding?’

‘No.’ She did not even look up. ‘This is an altar cloth. Not that it is any of your affair if I was carrying a child. And what’s more, I despise stitching. I would that I were a man and could wield a sword rather than a needle.’

Which confounded me. She and my father had been married for seven years now but I had made no attempt to become acquainted with her, nor even questioned why my father should choose to marry a girl so much younger than himself. It was nothing more than an alliance between two powerful and interrelated families, the Hollands and Plantagenets. Could he not have done better if he had wanted a wife for companionship in his last years? I had thought her insipid, self-effacing. Whereas I was incapable of remaining aloof from the events that would impinge so keenly on our future, my stepmother was weakly accepting of her lot in life. I studied her still-bent head. Where was all the fire and duplicity of her Holland family, her notorious grandmother? It had dissipated into insignificance in this young woman. Recognising the complete lack of affinity between us, I had no desire to know her better than I did at that moment.

And yet this barbed response with its new insight into Joan’s mind grasped at my attention. Perhaps I had been wrong. Here was a young woman who felt as constrained as I.

‘I was merely enquiring after your health,’ I said curiously. ‘Do you resent my doing so?’

‘No, you were not merely enquiring.’ Now she did look up and her gaze was a forthright stare. ‘Yes, I do resent it, and no, it is not your affair, Constance. You were delving into my relationship with your father.’

Which I suppose I had been, my query born out of impatience rather than compassion, which made me deserving of the rebuke. No, she was not lacking in confidence, and I had been wrong. But then a granddaughter of Joan of Kent would be unlikely to be a wilting flower, choked by the pre-eminence of those around her. The Fair Maid of Kent by both character and reputation had never been intimidated. I was ten years old when she died and recalled a woman with a sharp tongue and little patience for royal children who got under her feet.

Perhaps my stepmother, ridiculous as it might seem to have such who was younger than I, deserved my attention. I studied her profile as once again she turned back to her work. Not the beauty of Princess Joan, nor her flamboyant choice of style and colour, but she had inherited her caustic tongue when she allowed it free rein. It was regretful that Joan still favoured a sideless surcoat in dull autumnal hues rather than a houppelande, and her silk chaplet with a short veil was plain to a fault, but it might be worth my while to make better acquaintance of her, given that we were destined to spend considerable time together in the circumstances.

‘Do you remember your grandmother?’ I asked.

‘Barely. I was little more than six years when she died, and she had lived most of her final years as a recluse at Wallingford.’

‘She was a remarkable woman. I remember her visits to Court at New Year.’ I continued to regard her. ‘Have you been satisfied in your marriage, Joan? Until this upheaval?’ Some conversation was better than none.

‘Life could be worse.’

‘Your grandmother wed where she chose.’

‘And I did not.’ She was quick to pick up my implication. Once again she fixed me with a stare that was a challenge. ‘I would never have chosen a man almost forty years older than I as my husband.’

Here was plain speaking. I could not imagine why I had been used to refer to her, in my thoughts at least, as ‘poor Joan’. I paused in my perambulations. ‘Was your heart given elsewhere?’ I was surprised to find that she had my compassion if it was so. I had no experience of such. My heart was quite untouched, either within marriage or without.

‘No.’

‘Does my father hold an affection for you?’

‘Yes, he does. I am grateful.’

Again there was the warning, in the flash of an eye, that I should not intrude too far. I considered, reluctantly liking her spirit.

‘I imagine he has more thought for you than for Isabella.’

‘He detested Isabella. So it would not be difficult.’

‘Has he told you that?’ Now this did surprise me. They must be closer than I had imagined for my father to bare his soul.

‘Yes. He disliked her face, her character and her morals. He only wed her because he was instructed to do so by your grandfather.’

So they did converse. Which is more than Thomas and I did.

‘Did he tell you that too?’

‘Yes. If he hadn’t wed her, Isabella would have been prey for any man who had an eye to the kingdom of Castile. Better if both daughters of King Pedro, Constanza and Isabella, were safely shackled with English princes. John of Gaunt had little affection for Constanza, but at least she did not act the whore, whereas he was not averse to flaunting his Swynford mistress with appalling immorality before the whole Court. Isabella had no thought at all for her reputation, only for her personal satisfaction.’

She paused, colouring faintly. ‘Forgive me. I should not have said any of that about the lady who was your mother, or about your uncle. There may have been extenuating circumstances, I suppose. I might have done the same as Isabella if I had been trapped in such a marriage.’

‘Whereas you can see widowhood at least hovering on your horizon.’

‘Yes.’ Her gaze was again formidably forthright. ‘I’ll not lie to you. Being Duchess of York is all very well, but I’d exchange it for my freedom. Or the hope of a child.’

Which made me laugh. I had not expected to find a confidante so plain-speaking, or so close to my own heart. I decided to repay honesty with honesty.