The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘God’s Blood! Where is my son?’

      Sensibly Richard had made himself available, with as many members of his court as he could muster when the Princess’s proximity was announced. Now he emerged from the royal apartments, walking in stately fashion down the steps, only to be seized in the Princess’s arms and dragged into a close embrace as if he were still a small boy, while I slid my way between shoulders and overlapping skirts until it was easy for me to see the strange pair they made in this reunion. Richard, young and angelically fair, had grown tall in recent months, over-reaching his mother who had become so stout that even climbing the steps at his side made her catch her breath. Once, before my birth in the reign of the old King, Joan had been acknowledged as the most beautiful woman in England, and led a scandal-ridden life that made the most of her undoubted charms. Now her broad features and less than svelte figure proclaimed a woman who was a shadow of that former beauty.

      But her eyes, although they might be swathed in little mounds of flesh, were still keen and beautifully sharp, and the timbre of her voice was mellifluous even though it could cut like a knife. As it did.

      ‘Holy Virgin! That journey was a nightmare from start to finish. The state of the roads between here and Wallingford is a disgrace, Richard. You must do something about it. And the riff-raff that use them. I have come to meet the bride. I should have been here yesterday.’

      ‘I would have sent my own escort, Madam,’ Richard said, not pleased at being taken to task.

      ‘That would hardly shorten my journey.’

      ‘You appear to have travelled in comfort,’ Richard observed with an eye to the equipage being led away.

      The Princess waved this irrelevance aside but her complaint ground to a halt as, noticing them in the crowd, she graciously extended her hand for her two sons by her first marriage to Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent, to kiss. Which I noticed they did with alacrity, yet much affection, even if they were now grown men and royal counsellors.

      ‘Thomas …’ she said. ‘And John …’

      ‘My wife is within,’ Richard announced, intent on reclaiming his mother’s attention.

      ‘In a moment …’

      The Princess’s eye, still quartering the crowd like a huntsman searching out its prey, fell on me. Since she saw fit to snap her fingers in imperious command, I approached and curtsied again, wishing Philippa was with me. I might be Elizabeth of Lancaster but this lady, my aunt by marriage, was the King’s Mother and of vast consequence. She was also a person of hasty temper and trenchant opinions. Besides, she had more affection for Philippa than she held for me.

      ‘So you’re here too, Elizabeth. Of course you are. And your father? Where’s Constanza? Not that it matters. She’ll do as she chooses—she always has. You’d better join my ladies. I have need of an intelligent woman about me.’ She looked me over from head to foot with a surprising degree of speculation. ‘Come with me. I need to regain my strength before I make the acquaintance of my new daughter. You can be of use.’

      So I followed Princess Joan who walked without hesitation to the chambers usually allotted to her when she stayed at Westminster, her habitual accommodation and my own obedience presumed with royal hauteur. And that was the manner in which, for a short period of time, I became a member of Princess Joan’s demanding household. An unnerving experience, all in all, as the lady, her colour high, dismissed her own women, piled her outer garments into my arms, instructed me to send for wine and food, then handed me a comb as she removed the complication of her hair-covering. And I complied. Princess Joan, not a woman blessed with tolerance, appeared to be in a mood of high volatility.

      Eventually she was settled to her liking on a bank of pillows, eating sweetmeats and drinking honeyed wine to recover from her ordeal. Disposed on a low stool at her side, waiting for the moment when she would command me to comb her hair, I sighed at the third telling of the stresses of her travelling. Hearing me, the Princess stared, before directing her attention fully to my appearance.

      ‘Fine feathers, my girl.’

      I was no finer than the Princess, heated and opulent in a high necked robe with fur at neck and cuffs, the complex pattern of leaves and flowers rioting over her bulk so that she resembled a vast spring meadow.

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      ‘And why not? Enjoy your youth while you may. It dies fast enough. And then there is nought to look forward to but old age when those around you ignore you.’ Which I could not imagine for one moment had been the Princess’s experience. Continuing to regard me, her chin tilted. ‘Now tell me. Is your marriage to young Pembroke satisfactory?’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’ I might resent such peremptory questioning, but to answer briefly and politely would be circumspect and invoke no criticism.

      ‘Not consummated yet, I take it.’

      ‘No, my lady.’

      ‘Is Pembroke here?’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      The Princess’s stare sharpened. ‘I’ve a word of advice for you. I trust you’ll not use this occasion of merriment to cause gossip. He’s very young and you’re of an age to look for more than a boy can offer.’

      I stiffened, hand clenching around the comb, at the unwarranted attack. ‘My demeanour will be beyond criticism, my lady.’

      ‘Good. Because beautiful young women always cause gossip, even when they are innocent of all charges. And don’t look at me as if I had no knowledge of what goes on when the court is in flamboyant mood. I caused scandal enough in my youth. Although I was not always innocent …’ She paused to sip the wine and dispatch another plum, chewing energetically. ‘But listen to me, madam. I called you here because you are young and lovely and ripe for mischief. Don’t deny it …’ As I opened my mouth to do so. ‘You must curb your passions. It would be dangerous for your father if any further scandal were to be attached to his name at this juncture. His position is too precarious. That monkish weasel Walsingham might be prepared to sing the Duke of Lancaster’s praises again, but he still has more enemies than is healthy. It is essential that you remain alert for those who would wound him. You and your sister must live exemplary lives.’

      ‘I do. We both do.’

      ‘No need to be affronted, Elizabeth.’ Her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘So you were not conversing for too long and in too intimate a fashion with my son, under the eye of the whole court? Don’t look so astonished. Court intrigue spreads faster than poison from a snake-bite.’

      I sought for a reply, thoughts racing through my mind. It was like holding a master swordsman at bay. And I was indeed astonished. Where had that piece of gossip originated? There was no blame for which I needed to apologise.

      ‘I was in conversation with Sir John, my lady,’ I admitted lightly. ‘But there was nothing untoward. We did not even dance. He brought me wine, entertained me and addressed me as cousin. I would never indulge in intrigue.’

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