‘The Princess remembered you kindly in her will, sire. She left you her best bed.’

Which took the breath from Richard, even as he continued to glower.

‘Her death has touched me. I will always remember her with affection.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘How will you justify what is murder?’ Richard flung out his arm to encompass Stafford. ‘How will you answer this man’s desire for your death in payment for his son’s?’

‘I cannot. I am guilty as charged. I cut him down in the dark, thinking we were under attack. I gave the command, knowing it was a Stafford. I reacted. It was a terrible misjudgement, because I was driven by anger at the loss of my squire. I deserve punishment, but I throw myself on your ineffable mercy, sire. I ask pardon.’

‘There, sire. There is his guilt, expressed for all to hear. What more do we need to know …’ Stafford urged.

But Richard lifted his hand to silence Stafford.

‘I have sworn to have your life for this, Holland.’

‘I beg that you will reconsider.’

‘Kings do not reconsider. It’s a weak king who changes his mind.’

Taking all by surprise, Richard thrust himself to his feet, striding across the chamber to a window embrasure where a chess set had been positioned on a low table, the chessmen in process of someone’s game. Seizing one of the figures, Richard hurled it the length of the room so that it clattered on the tiles. But which figure had he selected?

‘What do you think, Holland? Knight or King? Who has the pre-eminence here?’

Oh, Richard!

Inwardly I raged against his uselessly dramatic gesture, at his need to be at the centre of every stage. Of course he was at the centre. Was he not King? But his love of display made him draw all eyes to his person. How would he decide? What would bring him ultimate glory, to summon the axe or wield magnanimity? The odds were, I feared, stacked against John. He could be disposed of as quickly as Richard had rid himself of the little knight that lay in two pieces of carved ivory against the far wall.

I realised that I was holding my breath.

A movement at my side as my father stepped forward.

‘Sire. A wise king can be persuaded to change his mind. If there is doubt over the crime.’

‘God’s Blood! There is no doubt. He admits it himself …’

‘Or if he confesses his misjudgement.’

‘Misjudgement!’ Stafford exploded.

‘Or if the man is one of great gifts.’

‘Not if he is a man of vicious humour,’ Stafford growled.

‘I ask you to reconsider, sire.’ Still the Duke pressed on. ‘It is my belief that Holland is repentant.’

‘Well?’ Richard returned to loom over his still-kneeling brother. ‘You have my uncle to speak for you. What do you say?’

‘That I am full of regret, sire. I will accept any punishment that allows me to continue to serve you.’

The King pondered. Stafford’s hand tightened on his sword. John was motionless, so still that not a hair of his head moved, the light gilding his hair and shoulders, adding patches of red and blue from the stained glass. The Duke shifted softly from one foot to the other.

And I?

Since I had come here, I must make my case. I stepped to my father’s side. My voice was clear and carried well, so strong it all but overpowered me, but I did not hesitate.

Princess Joan had demanded my oath and I was the only one here who could speak for her. My father frowned at my forwardness. Richard scowled. Stafford turned his back. As for John Holland, he did not want me here. Had he not commanded me to keep away? His motionless posture said it all, his eyes remaining resolutely on the wall behind Richard’s shoulder. And did I wish to be here, forced to acknowledge the ignominy of a man I had thought I might love? No, I did not. But Princess Joan had passed this burden to me and I would not falter, even in the face of such concerted opposition and rank disapproval.

‘Will you hear me, sire?’

Flinging himself back on his great chair, Richard did not even look in my direction. ‘If I must.’

‘In her dying words before her confessor, Princess Joan asked that I plead for her son John Holland. As she lay dying, she still had hopes that you would be satisfied with less than his death.’

‘I will consider.’

‘The Princess expressed her love for you. She prayed that you would show the same greatness of character as your heroic father, the Prince of Wales.’ I took a breath. I would risk all. ‘She believed that her own blood was strong enough in you to melt your stony heart and allow you to heal the wounds in your family. The Princess vowed that she would only rest in peace when you were reconciled with Sir John Holland. She begged that you listen and give good judgement, tempered with affection, for her and for your brother.’

‘A reasoned argument, by God!’ Richard’s eyes widened on me, but he was still surly, turning on his brother, fists clenched. ‘Why did you have to do this? I detest that you gave no thought to my situation. I loved you, and this is how you repay me. I see no way of pardoning you. It is all your fault …’

My heart was thudding loudly in my ears. The only man present who seemed to be unmoved was John Holland, his back as rigid as a pike, but by now I knew well his ability to dissemble. His fate lay balanced on Richard’s chancy judgement.

My father, mightily controlled, bowed. ‘Might I suggest, sire, that with a pardon from the King, Sir John might work for his reinstatement in your eyes by joining my expedition to Castile in the Spring of next year.’

Well now! I slid a glance towards the Duke, whose expression was one of mild interest, his offer so smoothly delivered that it came to me that I was not the only one to have an interest in this outcome. Here the Duke saw an opportunity to bring Sir John into the Lancaster fold, and keep him there through saving his life. Sir John would be a redoubtable asset in the foreign expedition. Was every man in this room driven by intrigues and stratagems? But then, so was I. And I cared not as long as John Holland’s life was saved.

‘I have use of a man of such talents as his with my army,’ the Duke continued. ‘He will be able to prove the worth of his repentance on the field of battle. Would you join me in Castile, Sir John?’

The room hung on the little pause. So John Holland too saw the tightening of shackles around his wrists. Either he bared his neck before Richard’s verdict, or committed himself to a campaign of uncertain length and outcome in Castile. But of course there was really no choice for him to make.

‘I would accept.’ John Holland’s voice was as uninflected as my father’s.

‘Would you consider such a request, sire?’ the Duke was asking. ‘It could only be to England’s advantage.’

Once again I was holding my breath as Richard stood, to walk slowly forward to his brother, walking round him, his robes brushing against John’s boots. A smile touched his lips. Widened to become a gleam of delight, although not one I would trust. I had seen the same smile when Richard had got his own way as a thwarted child.

‘It seems eminently suitable,’ he murmured.

‘But sire …’ Stafford’s fingers visibly gripped his sword belt.

‘Princess Joan would lie at rest, sire,’ I interrupted. ‘She was greatly troubled and this would give her soul peace.’

‘Good, good.’ And there was Richard in our midst, all graciousness, as if there had been nothing to disturb his untrammelled existence. ‘I will order a Mass to be said in her name. As for you, brother … You must make recompense. You must establish three chaplains to pray for Ralph Stafford’s soul in perpetuity.’

‘Gladly, sire.’

‘Will that satisfy you, Stafford?’ I knew it did not but it would be an unwise man to gainsay his King. ‘Stand up,’ Richard commanded his brother.

John stood.

‘I will restore your property to you, of course. I can’t have my brother living on my generosity, can I?’ He enfolded John Holland’s stiff shoulders in an embrace. ‘You should not do this, John. It unsettles me. You should curb your temper. I don’t wish to be at odds with you.’ All his ill-temper blown away, Richard was unnervingly friendly. ‘I need to know that I can rely on you.’

John returned the embrace. ‘I am your man. Now and forever.’

The relief in the room was tangible, except for Stafford whose stare at John held a quality of hatred.

‘I will hold the pardon over your head, you know.’

‘My future behaviour will be without stain, sire.’

‘Then come, John, and drink a cup of wine with me.’

He was swept off by the King, Richard’s arm looped through his as if nothing had ever occurred to undermine their closeness, leaving the Duke and me to watch them go. At the last John turned and his eyes, wide and dispassionate, met mine, reminding me of the venom of his arrival at Wallingford. Then he smiled at the King at his side, and was gone.

‘He looks at me as if he despises me,’ I spoke without thinking.

‘Are you surprised? What did you want?’ The Duke was already following Stafford and the Queen from the room. ‘A herald’s fanfare for coming to his defence? What man of pride wants an audience for his annihilation?’

‘I did not think.’

‘Then perhaps in future you will.’

Of course I remembered, the moment he had registered my presence beside the Duke. He had not liked it. He had not expected this very public audience. He had indeed despised my seeing him on his knees, witnessing the outcome, witnessing his downfall and his humiliation. How much he would detest that I had pleaded for him with Joan’s final words. He did not want me there. Go home to Hertford, he had said. A man of pride, he did not wish to be humbled before me.

‘You don’t understand a man like John Holland.’

Was that it? Did I not understand him? But I thought I did. Pride. That was all it was. But what value pride when a man was fighting for his life?

I exhaled slowly, but the Duke, waiting for me, continued to watch them go.

‘They are both dangerous men, Richard and Holland, in their own way,’ he observed, as well he might.

‘Will you take him to Castile?’

‘Of course. If nothing else he is a brave man and a good one to have at your side. He can mend his reputation with his sword in my service.’ He turned to me. ‘And you, I think, should return to Kenilworth. It’s time you saw that young husband of yours.’

‘Do you think I’ll forget him?’

‘More like he’ll forget you. I’m travelling there in two days. Accompany me. You should see him. He’ll soon be of an age to be a husband to you.’

Or more like Sir John’s charm would tempt me into sin.

But in that charged interlude all intimacy had been swept away.

Forget it. Forget him. The Duke was right. I did not understand him at all.

Oh, but I wanted to. On that day I had watched a man sink his pride and beg for his life. I could not abandon the flame he had lit in my heart because it still lived, faint and flickering under his rejection, but not dead.

I feared that it would never die. I would live with the joy and sorrow of it until my own death when my last breath doused the flame.

Richard kept his brother close, as if to let him out of the royal sight would give him leave to commit some new, monstrous crime. I saw him, as I must, but at a distance, wrapped around by royal favour. No more outrageous communication as the sumptuous dishes of Richard’s cooks passed before us. John Holland sat at his brother’s right hand, his attention demanded wholly by Richard. When we rode to the hunt, John Holland, firmly ensconced in Richard’s intimate coterie, even ousted de Vere from the royal side. It would have been entertaining to watch the favourite’s ire, if it had not been so infuriating.

Meanwhile, throughout the whole, John Holland’s face remained as expressionless as a Twelfth Night mask. If he was playing a role of the regretful penitent, he was doing it with a flourish, while Richard smiled on him. Richard smiled on all of us. It was like the smile of a raptor seeing its prey in the long grass.

John Holland did not come near me, not one step closer than he had to through necessity, and with my new knowledge of him, I understood why. He was too proud. He had been forced to cast himself on his brother’s mercy and bear Richard’s patronising tolerance. John Holland was undoubtedly nursing his wounds.

Preparations went ahead for me to travel north with the Duke whose directive in the months before he embarked for Castile was to personally secure the border against Scottish inundations.

I fidgeted and snapped. I could not leave things like this, even if John Holland could. Had I not risked Richard’s displeasure to plead for him? Following the distant pattern of his thoughts as he bowed with exquisite grace in my direction, accompanied by a fierce smile that had all the charm of a rat, was like trying to follow the path to the centre of a labyrinth. I could not reach him, and in two days I would have retired to the wilds of Kenilworth, to be reunited with Jonty, who was fast growing up. I would no longer be a virgin bride.