A Tapestry of Treason. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘No, you were not merely enquiring.’ Now she did look up and her gaze was a forthright stare. ‘Yes, I do resent it, and no, it is not your affair, Constance. You were delving into my relationship with your father.’

      Which I suppose I had been, my query born out of impatience rather than compassion, which made me deserving of the rebuke. No, she was not lacking in confidence, and I had been wrong. But then a granddaughter of Joan of Kent would be unlikely to be a wilting flower, choked by the pre-eminence of those around her. The Fair Maid of Kent by both character and reputation had never been intimidated. I was ten years old when she died and recalled a woman with a sharp tongue and little patience for royal children who got under her feet.

      Perhaps my stepmother, ridiculous as it might seem to have such who was younger than I, deserved my attention. I studied her profile as once again she turned back to her work. Not the beauty of Princess Joan, nor her flamboyant choice of style and colour, but she had inherited her caustic tongue when she allowed it free rein. It was regretful that Joan still favoured a sideless surcoat in dull autumnal hues rather than a houppelande, and her silk chaplet with a short veil was plain to a fault, but it might be worth my while to make better acquaintance of her, given that we were destined to spend considerable time together in the circumstances.

      ‘Do you remember your grandmother?’ I asked.

      ‘Barely. I was little more than six years when she died, and she had lived most of her final years as a recluse at Wallingford.’

      ‘She was a remarkable woman. I remember her visits to Court at New Year.’ I continued to regard her. ‘Have you been satisfied in your marriage, Joan? Until this upheaval?’ Some conversation was better than none.

      ‘Life could be worse.’

      ‘Your grandmother wed where she chose.’

      ‘And I did not.’ She was quick to pick up my implication. Once again she fixed me with a stare that was a challenge. ‘I would never have chosen a man almost forty years older than I as my husband.’

      Here was plain speaking. I could not imagine why I had been used to refer to her, in my thoughts at least, as ‘poor Joan’. I paused in my perambulations. ‘Was your heart given elsewhere?’ I was surprised to find that she had my compassion if it was so. I had no experience of such. My heart was quite untouched, either within marriage or without.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Does my father hold an affection for you?’

      ‘Yes, he does. I am grateful.’

      Again there was the warning, in the flash of an eye, that I should not intrude too far. I considered, reluctantly liking her spirit.

      ‘I imagine he has more thought for you than for Isabella.’

      ‘He detested Isabella. So it would not be difficult.’

      ‘Has he told you that?’ Now this did surprise me. They must be closer than I had imagined for my father to bare his soul.

      ‘Yes. He disliked her face, her character and her morals. He only wed her because he was instructed to do so by your grandfather.’

      So they did converse. Which is more than Thomas and I did.

      ‘Did he tell you that too?’

      ‘Yes. If he hadn’t wed her, Isabella would have been prey for any man who had an eye to the kingdom of Castile. Better if both daughters of King Pedro, Constanza and Isabella, were safely shackled with English princes. John of Gaunt had little affection for Constanza, but at least she did not act the whore, whereas he was not averse to flaunting his Swynford mistress with appalling immorality before the whole Court. Isabella had no thought at all for her reputation, only for her personal satisfaction.’

      She paused, colouring faintly. ‘Forgive me. I should not have said any of that about the lady who was your mother, or about your uncle. There may have been extenuating circumstances, I suppose. I might have done the same as Isabella if I had been trapped in such a marriage.’

      ‘Whereas you can see widowhood at least hovering on your horizon.’

      ‘Yes.’ Her gaze was again formidably forthright. ‘I’ll not lie to you. Being Duchess of York is all very well, but I’d exchange it for my freedom. Or the hope of a child.’

      Which made me laugh. I had not expected to find a confidante so plain-speaking, or so close to my own heart. I decided to repay honesty with honesty.

      ‘I am as aware of my mother’s reputation as you appear to be, and I had little affection for her other than that demanded by duty. As little as she had for me.’ My thoughts deflected from the present chaos. ‘I know my father spent as little time with her as he could. Enough to get himself an heir. And myself.’

      ‘But not your younger brother.’

      I felt my brows rise. ‘So he told you that as well.’

      ‘Of course. He makes no claim that Dickon is his.’

      ‘And, since you are so well informed, I presume you know who rumour says is Dickon’s father?’

      ‘Yes.’ She appeared quite unmoved. ‘My uncle has a reputation.’

      Indeed he had. It was whispered in kitchens and royal bedchambers that my mother Isabella had enjoyed a lengthy and fiery liaison with John Holland, Duke of Exeter, the result of which had been Dickon. My father’s lack of interest in the child merely added fuel to the flames. So Dickon was born a York son, but raised under sufferance. I frowned. My younger brother was the only one of my family who roused my compassion.

      ‘Sometimes I think it would be better for Dickon if my father was more compassionate of his circumstances. It is not his fault and it does no good to treat him as a bastard. There is a bitterness in Dickon that worries me.’ I took a cushioned stool beside Joan, thinking of my own children. ‘Is there no hope for you, for a child? Do you and the Duke never share a bed?’

      ‘Again it is not your concern. But no.’ At last her hands fell unheeding to her lap, crushing her despised needlework as her cheeks flushed stronger with bright colour. ‘His pain is too great, and his hope is in Edward. He regrets that Edward has no children of his own to carry on the line.’

      ‘Nor is there any likelihood,’ I observed.

      Edward had married Philippa de Mohun, a lady a good decade older than he who had already been twice wed, twice widowed. She bore her first two husbands no children, nor was there more success with Edward. Where the fault lay would be impossible to say. Perhaps Edward should have chosen more wisely. He was said to have married for love but I saw no evidence of it in their calm demeanour and frequent partings.

      ‘She may yet be fortunate.’ Joan was condemning of my cold judgement.

      All I could do was give the lightest of shrugs. ‘Your one consolation is that my father is almost into his sixtieth year and in ill health. You will be a young widow. And a desirable one.’ It sounded callous, even to my own ears, but it was true, and no more callous than Joan’s own opinion of the whole affair. ‘His brothers have not proved to be particularly long-lived.’

      ‘Particularly when murdered.’ СКАЧАТЬ