‘So you will deign to speak with me.’

‘Yes.’ His grin, entirely lacking of late, was all I recalled from the days of his pursuit of me. Sharp and bright and seductively attractive. All the earlier melancholy and ill-manners had been cast aside. Did this mercurial man ever apologise? ‘This, madam Elizabeth, might be the final time that we have freedom to talk.’

It made my breath catch but I kept the mood. ‘So you are confessing your sins to the friends you have left. Better that you confess them to your enemies, I think.’

‘And which are you?’ He stretched out his hand to touch mine where it gripped my reins.

I snatched my hand away. ‘You must not.’

‘Why not?’

The reasons tripped over each other. Because it is very particular, and such particularity brought enough trouble to the Duke and Dame Katherine. It draws attention to us, and you must not. Your touch makes me far too aware of you. That is the first time you have touched me since you returned, and it burns like a brand. I don’t want it. I don’t want my emotions to rule my response to a man capable of such uncontrolled violence …

But I did not explain any of it. Rather, coldly impersonal, I forced him to look ahead.

‘What will you do when you get there, to Windsor? You have few friends at court. Ralph Stafford had many.’

His smile remained intact. ‘I note you did not allow me access to your own inclination, but no matter. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll bow the knee before Richard and hope that my honeyed words and our mother’s sad death will wear him down and wash away his need for my blood in recompense for that of his friend.’

‘You are glib, Sir John. It astonishes me that you will risk it.’

‘I can’t live my life on the run from my brother. Nor do I wish to spend it in exile. I want to live here, to take my rightful place at the King’s side as a valued counsellor, and so I will plead my case. Richard will listen. Never doubt it.’

How arrogant he was. How confident. The light was back in his eye, the smile indenting the corners of his mouth. He sat his horse with ease, the wind lifting his hair, and I noted that he had taken care with his appearance even though in sombre hue, dressing to make an impression from the folds of the velvet chaperon to the soft leather of his calf-length boots and all in between, every inch the King’s brother. He had no intention of scuttling into Windsor, attempting not to draw the eye, but would challenge any who felt an urge to manhandle him. No decision had been made about his future. He was innocent still, until Richard pronounced.

Suddenly his eyes snapped to mine, catching my assessment of his figured houppelande in forest green and black falling in heavy folds over his thighs, making me flush, but he made no comment. ‘Will the Duke speak for me?’ he asked.

So perhaps the confidence was a façade after all. Who was ever to know?

‘Do you wish me to ask him?’

His reply was dry, confirming my suspicions. ‘It all depends on the welcome I receive when I ride into Windsor. I might not get the opportunity if I’m hustled off into some place of confinement at Richard’s pleasure. So talk to the Duke for me, Countess, out of the goodness of your wayward heart.’

Undoubtedly a command. ‘I might.’

Before I could react, he had seized my hand, stripped off my glove and kissed my fingers. ‘Do you want persuasion? I would be everlastingly grateful. I would fall on my knees at your feet to urge you. What else can I say to encourage you? I could woo you all over again, of course, since you’ve clearly fallen out of love with me. Get the Duke to speak for me and I will declare my undying love for you.’

‘And would I believe you? I don’t think so.’ Flustered, aware of the presence of my women, I tugged hard to recover possession of my hand, to no avail.

‘Why not? You are very difficult this morning!’

‘You don’t have to ride with me.’ Oh, I would punish him.

‘Of course I don’t. But I wish to. So what shall we talk of, Countess? I think I might woo you again, just to pass the time.’

Woo me? As familiar anger rose to grip my throat, and I turned to stare at him, he kissed my fingers again, his lips warm against my skin, his grasp firm so I could not pull away.

‘Woo me,’ I repeated. ‘You have no shame.’

‘No. I don’t expect I have.’

‘Are you never discomfited?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t know you at all, do I?’

‘What’s to know?’

All my doubts, all the accusations bubbled up to spill out.

‘You killed a man. You cut him down on the road. He was innocent and yet you drove a sword through his heart. What sort of man does that?’

‘And you are so sure of my guilt.’

‘You have not denied it. And I suppose you will argue your innocence before the King as well.’

‘How can I? I am as guilty as hell.’

I stared aghast. Had I not hoped against hope that it was all a mistake?

‘Can you love a guilty man, Elizabeth?’

‘Before God, I do not know.’

And he promptly returned my hand to my bridle, so that I was the silent one for the rest of the journey. Could I love a man guilty, by his own admission, of the unwarranted death of a young man whose character was without stain? I could not. I should not. And yet I could not let him go. Nor was it just the binding quality of Joan’s final instructions to me. Deep within me there was a belief that beneath the temper and ambition, beneath the pride that equalled that of my father, there was a man who was worthy of my love. He was honest to a fault. I thought I could trust him, and that he would never wittingly do me harm. He would never be a good man, but he would be a loyal one. And a man whose smile weakened all my resolve to cast him off.

And then we were riding into the castle courtyard, and there was the Constable, indicating that John should dismount and follow him. No force was used, none of my feared manhandling, but the implication was there in the armed soldiers and the Constable’s set face. John turned once to look at me. His gaze was long and grave, his command cut me to the quick.

‘Go home, Countess. Go back to Hertford.’



Chapter Seven

Not even waiting until the following day, Richard sat enthroned. The Earl of Stafford stood at his side, the epitome of belligerence, his hands fisted on his belt as if to curb their desire to strike out at the man who had done his son to death.

It had not been difficult to discover when Richard would give audience to, or pass judgement on, his brother. It was the talk of the Castle. It was not difficult to find my father and apprise him of what was afoot. It did not need me to tell the Duke that without his support, John Holland would have no voice raised for him. We did not bother with arguments. We had been over this ground before, without the culprit in our midst to stir the ashes to flame if he was of a mind to.

‘Is he repentant?’ the Duke asked.

‘Not that you would notice. And I will accompany you.’

‘Why?’

‘This is a family matter.’

I would not be swayed. If John Holland would tell Richard the truth, I needed to hear it. I needed to see and hear if there was any mark of grace on the soul of this man who, for reasons I could not determine, held my heart in his hands.

The Duke raised his brows but let it lie.

‘Well, my lord uncle. Back again to plead for the black sheep who wishes to return to the fold?’

‘If need be, sire,’ my father replied. ‘Or to remind you of the value of compassion at the hands of a powerful king.’

Or more like to prevent him from waging war against his own family.

John was escorted in, the armed escort far more obvious now in its close formation around him. Groomed, cleansed of the dust of the journey, superbly composed, John Holland made his entry, his face governed into stern lines that could not be suspected of flippancy. I watched him approach, taking in the elegance of his movements, even though he must feel the ignominy of having his sword removed from his side. I saw him take in Stafford’s scowl.

And then all was drama.

John halted before Richard, where of his own will he knelt, straight-backed, head bowed, hands overlapping on his breast where the royal livery chain with its white hart glittered. A supplicant, but a clever supplicant to promote his allegiance to the King, and one with pride. He had not been beaten to his knees. The choice was his.

‘Well?’ Richard glowered.

‘I am here, sire, to beg your forgiveness for my heinous crime.’ His glance moved over those present then returned to the King. ‘I would ask your compassion to allow me to speak with you in private.’

For a moment, the length of a breath, entirely dead of feeling, John Holland’s regard rested on me, then moved on to return to the King, but not before I had read in it a cold alienation from what was about to come. It struck at my heart, but there was no time for that. Richard was spitting in red-hot ire.

‘You will answer me at my behest, not at yours. What have you to say of this crime of which you are accused by my Lord of Stafford?’

‘Might I rise, sire?’

‘No. Answer on your knees.’

John bent his head. ‘The Princess Joan, your lady mother, sire, is dead.’

‘As I know.’ There was no diverting Richard here. ‘Any man with two thoughts in his head would say it was your behaviour that killed her.’