interest? Well, yes, it was entirely possible. He had gone with the Duke to St Malo, using his military skills to win grace and favour. With no war in the immediate planning, he needed another gambit. And I was it. The way to my father’s side.
How could he be so devious and yet so attractive?
‘You don’t like him.’ As I accused Philippa, so I asked my father.
‘Liking him is an irrelevance. I see his good qualities. I am wary of his bad ones. He has a handsome face, a smooth tongue and an ease of manner. He is hard to withstand. But however hard it is, you have to accept that his interest is not so much in you, as in what you stand for. Being a friend of Elizabeth of Lancaster can do him no harm.’ The Duke surprised me, lifting my chin so that he could peruse my face. ‘To be her husband can only be better.’
It made no sense.
‘But I am wed.’
‘And young lives are cheap. Who knows what the future will bring.’
I saw the strain on his face. We knew the grief of young death. Sometimes I forgot, but the Duke and my mother had mourned the loss of four of their children. Death was no respecter of rank or age.
‘So if Jonty were to die, Sir John would be ready to step into his shoes, and I, neatly, effectively seduced, would not be unwilling.’
‘Yes. And even if there is no such eventuality, it could only be an advantage to have a daughter of Lancaster with more than a friendly ear.’
‘It is heartless.’
‘It is pragmatic. How often is politics lacking in sensitivity? And I doubt that you are the only fair carp in Holland’s pond,’ he warned. ‘I’m certain he’s a master-planner, like a juggler with clever sleight of hand and agile fingers.’
Still I sought to excuse him.
‘Why not seek to engage Philippa’s interest?’
‘He knows my plans for Philippa. I would never allow her to wed Holland.’ The Duke gripped my shoulders, turning me from the window. ‘With or without marriage, you must distance yourself from him.’
How difficult it was to accept such a dictate. ‘He makes me feel alive.’
‘Pembroke will soon be old enough to be the husband you desire.’
‘But he is a boy. And John is … a man.’
‘I know. That is what I fear. And that is why I will send you back with Constanza to Hertford tomorrow.’
‘No …’
‘You will go. It is arranged.’ There was no gainsaying him. ‘I am not unsympathetic. But it’s time you grew into your position. I suggest that you use the royal audience this morning to see which way the wind is blowing for Holland. I think it will persuade you, if I cannot. Women are used to make alliances. What does Sir John want from you? A voice raised in his favour? Whatever it is, beware. Will you promise me?’
How could I do other? Life at Hertford with Constanza stretched before me, week after tedious week. ‘Yes, my lord. I promise.’
‘And make your peace with your brother.’
‘Well …’ It was not a scene I looked forward to.
‘You will do it, Elizabeth, and restore some vestige of serenity to our family.’
I read the implacable determination, the complete lack of tolerance for anything but my compliance. Family was power. Family was everything.
‘Yes, sir. I will do it.’
I saw it for myself at the royal audience, Richard saying farewell to a handful of the Bohemian dignitaries who had come to wish the happy couple well while the most influential were invited to remain in England, and, unfortunately in the eye of my father, at English expense. It was another monumentally grandiose occasion, and once I would have enjoyed it for its own sake but now I was a different animal, my eyes and mind opened to the truth of what was obvious but not being spoken aloud. Whereas of late I had treated the warnings of Princess Joan as the worries of a mother for her children, and had been quick enough to reject them, my father’s explanations, delivered with such cool conviction, had hit home. He had addressed me as a woman, as an equal almost. He deserved that I build on that crucial lesson.
So, while my hurt at John Holland’s behaviour rumbled in the background, I watched the political manoeuvrings at Richard’s royal audience. It was indeed an education in itself, now that I knew how to see the settings of the chess pieces on the board. Why had I never realised it before? I had been too taken up with the individual knights and pawns, the King and Queen. Too interested in their characters, their clothing, the rumours that knit them all together into a family, I supposed.
Be my eyes and ears, Princess Joan had instructed me, and I had agreed with no real understanding of what it would mean. But now I did. Now I separated myself from my family and watched them with a political eye. My father would have been proud of me. I saw their movements, like those same chessmen. I sensed the political cunning.
Some were moved and directed by Richard himself, those set on the fringe of the gathering. The royal uncles. My father. Even Henry. Even the Queen who my father had thought might be a power to be reckoned with but still had to find her feet in this country alien to her. One day, perhaps. But for now Richard saw her as an acquisition who would enhance his own glory. When I caught her eye and smiled, I thought that she was watching and assessing as closely as I, even if for entirely different reasons.
For there also, not quite in the royal eye, were the two Holland brothers. How accurate my father’s reading of their isolation. Although they conversed easily with Richard, there was a quickly veiled irritation on John’s face when he observed, as I did, those who were fast becoming Richard’s new court. The expensive coterie of flamboyant, fashionable courtiers. All young. None of the older generation who had nurtured Richard from child to man.
And at the centre, the vivacious Robert de Vere, well-born, well-blessed with looks and stature, son and heir of the Earl of Oxford. They were the group from the courtyard, well-mannered, courteous and dignified in this formal audience, and yet there was the same flattery in their glances. The same fawning as they hung on Richard’s every word. And Richard loved it. Richard was in thrall. When they covered him with praise, he laughed. To one he handed a ring as if it were of no consequence, even if the stone glinted its value from across the chamber. To another he handed with casual brilliance a gilded Book of Hours worth more than my precious gold-stitched gown.
Whose was the master hand here, moving the King in his solitary steps? Was he his own man? And I knew that he was not. I could see it. It was Robert de Vere who smiled and spoke, soft-voiced, encouraging Richard in his extravagance. It was not John Holland. Richard’s half-brothers received no gift on that day.
How important it was for ambition-ridden John Holland to build himself a new alliance—for he would get no promotion from Richard who had eyes for no one but de Vere. So John would make his fortune with my father. Was I then truly a part of the plan? To gain my sympathy, my compassion, my support? Was John placing stones one on another to build a formidable position of strength, with me as one of those blocks, smoothed and created by his own flattery? My father admired his talents if not his character. Henry owed a heavy debt to him, for the rescue from certain death in the Tower. As did I. Henry might scowl, but there was a powerful connection there that would never be truly severed. So what if Elizabeth was also a useful tool to weld the Hollands and the Lancasters into a formidable block of power? I could forgive him the torrid relationship with Isabella. Mostly. But to use me as a pawn in his political game I could not forgive.
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