The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘Oh no. For you, Elizabeth.’

      ‘For me? Why me?’ How gauche I sounded in sudden consternation, and felt my cheeks flush.

      ‘Because it will be a valuable alliance. He is the grandson of the Countess of Norfolk.’

      ‘Will I like him?’ Was that the only thought in my mind? At that moment all my powers of reasoned thought were hopelessly awry.

      ‘Your father will never choose anyone you dislike.’ Dame Katherine was brisk, enough to quell any further discussion. ‘When has he ever used the whip or the spur to take you to task?’

      And then, an aura of unease still palpable, she was forcing a path through the throng with an urgent, muttered instruction for the poulterer.

      A marriage. I was too delighted to be anxious. This unknown Earl would soon be riding across the causeway and then I could see for myself. If he was an Earl how could he not make me a desirable husband? With the Countess of Norfolk as his grandmother, his importance was guaranteed. For a long moment I simply stood and breathed in the excitement of my future until it seemed that my whole body was suffused with it. Soon, very soon, I would see him for myself.

      Why was everyone so reluctant to talk about this dynastically vital occurrence?

      Joyful expectancy stamped out any concerns as I rejoined my sister, saying nothing more of my discovery. It would only hurt Philippa that I had been chosen over her for this match. And then when it was becoming more and more impossible to keep my lips tight, my blood sparkling with the opening of this new window in my life, there was warning of the arrival.

      ‘Come with me!’ I seized Philippa’s hand and dragged her with me, running down the steps into the courtyard.

      ‘Why?’ she asked, laughing and breathless.

      ‘You’ll see!’

      ‘Elizabeth …!’ Dame Katherine called after me as we threaded our way through all the chattering ranks of the nobility of England.

      ‘Later,’ I called back. Whatever it was, it could wait. Everything could wait. Here was the superbly well-connected man with whom I would spend the rest of my life. I shook out my skirts, smoothed the deeply embroidered panels, ensured that my light veil fell in seemly folds about my face, and prepared to meet my future.

      The gates were already open to receive the impressive entourage with mounted retainers, a curtained palanquin, and various wagons loaded with the necessities for a lengthy stay. Most prominent on pennon and flag was the flowing red sleeve, accompanied by a cluster of red martlets on silver and blue, which I took to belong to the Earl of Pembroke. Mightily impressive, I decided, although nothing to compare with my father’s royal leopards, his standards snapping in red and gold and blue in the brisk wind.

      I straightened my spine, lifted my chin. The Earl of Pembroke must be aware of the jewel he was getting with marriage to a daughter of Lancaster, first cousin to King Richard himself. If the solid might and luxury of Kenilworth did not impress him—and how could it not? —then I certainly would.

      I wondered fleetingly why I had no recall of meeting him before this, since most of the high nobility had come within my orbit at Richard’s coronation three years ago. Perhaps he had been fighting in France. Perhaps he had a high reputation as a knight on the battlefield or in the tournament like my father. I would like that.

      And then there was quite a fuss as two ladies were helped to step from the cumbersome travelling litters. The Countess of Norfolk, whom I knew: as thin and acerbic as vinegar, her hair severely contained in the metal and jewelled coils much in fashion when she was a girl. And a lady, younger, whom I did not. But where was he?

      ‘Where is the Earl?’ I whispered, when I could wait no longer.

      Dame Katherine, who had come to watch with us, stepped behind me, her hands closing lightly on my shoulders.

      ‘There,’ she remarked softly. ‘There he is. John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke.’

      I could not see. I looked back at her, to follow the direction of her gaze. I could see no Earl of Pembroke, no man dressed finely, or mounted on a blood horse, who had come to wed me, but I felt no presentiment. Until, behind me I heard my governess sigh and her fingers tightened just a little.

      ‘There is he. Just dismounting,’ Dame Katherine repeated. ‘With his grandmother, the Countess of Norfolk, and his mother, the Dowager Countess of Pembroke.’

      And so I saw him, in the act of leaping down from his horse.

      I sucked in a breath of air, every muscle in my body taut. My lips parted. And at that moment I felt Dame Katherine’s palm press down firmly on my shoulder. She knew. She knew me well enough to know what I might do, what I might say in a moment of wilful passion. My head whipped round to read her expression, and the pressure, increasing, was enough to anchor me into all the courtesy and good manners in which I had been raised.

      ‘Say it later,’ she whispered. ‘Not now. Now it is all about the impression you make. Consider what is due to your birth and your breeding, and to your father’s pride.’

      And so I sank into the required obeisance before our well-born guests.

      The women of Norfolk and Pembroke returned the greeting. The Earl bowed. Then scuffed the toe of his boot on the stones, rubbing his chin with his fist.

      ‘He is younger than Henry,’ I whispered back in disbelief, in a mounting horror, when I could.

      He was a boy. A child.

      ‘Yes, he is,’ Dame Katherine murmured back with a weight of compassion in her reply. ‘He is eight years old.’

      And I was seventeen. I could not look at Philippa. I could not bear the pity I knew I would read in her face.

      As I expected, I was summoned to my father’s private chamber within the hour, allowing me only the opportunity to gulp down a cup of ale and endure a strict lecture from Dame Katherine on the exquisite good manners expected of a Plantagenet lady—whatever the perceived provocation. I promised I would keep her advice well in my mind. So far I seemed to be unable to utter a word.

      How could he do this to me? How could my father inflict a boy not out of his first decade on me as my husband? The thoughts revolved and revolved with no resolution. He had done it. At least Philippa did not attempt to console me with bright platitudes. Her kiss on my cheek said it all.

      Now I curtsied before Constanza, my father’s Castilian wife, who sat in chilly pre-eminence, her feet on a little footstool. Then to the rest of the party: the Countess of Norfolk, the Countess of Pembroke, the youthful Earl who was watching me bright-eyed. And there was my father coming towards me, a smile of welcome lighting his features. Tall but lightly built, he was every inch a royal prince, and his gaze commanded me.

      ‘Elizabeth.’ He took my hand to lead me forward and make the introductions. ‘Allow me to present Elizabeth to you. My well beloved daughter.’

      The Countess of Norfolk, of matriarchal proportions and inordinate pride—as befitted a granddaughter of the first King Edward and thus Countess in her own right—regarded me, and saw fit to smile on me, the СКАЧАТЬ