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      ‘You are a brave woman, Elizabeth.’

      ‘Why is that? It was you who exhibited bravery today, sir.’

      Sir John kissed my fingers, fleetingly but with heat. My heart fluttered.

      ‘Not all bravery is in wielding a sword or a lance. If you look round this hall, at this precise moment I think there are at least a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on you.’

      ‘Because I dance so well.’

      ‘If that is what you wish to believe. But I know better. And so do you, Countess.’ His parting shot, before he strolled away to engage the Queen in some light conversation.

      I knew what he meant. I was not naïve in the ways of the court, or in John Holland’s unpredictable character. I was aware of Philippa’s warning glance, of Henry frowning in my direction. What of it? Turning my back on them I set myself to dance every dance, foiling any attempt my brother might make to put his frowns into words. I had a suspicion of what he would say, but he was only my brother, and younger than I. There was no necessity for me to listen to him, was there? My public demeanour had crossed no line; there was no cause for me to acknowledge any social impropriety.

      The second day of the tournament dawned, brother Henry taking the crowd by storm. Truly dazzling, the silver spangles on his armour, fashioned into the form of unfolding roses, elicited a cheer from the spectators.

      I spent a moment in admiration. But only a moment for I was not here to admire Henry. Today, in the new Queen’s gift I would be Lady of the Lists with the seat of honour. I would cheer Lancaster on to victory and I would be the one to crown Sir John Holland with laurels.

      Much like my brother, I had dressed to take every eye at the tournament, a cloak of magnificent sables and a jewelled coif gleaming in the winter sun as I made my way to the steps where I would climb to the front of the pavilion, smiling at those I knew, exchanging words of welcome. Anticipation of what was to come was a fine thing that made me want to laugh aloud. The sharp sunshine set the armour and weapons glittering so that everything in my sight was hard edges, as if rimmed with a keen frost. I would enjoy this day like no other.

      But was there something amiss? A watchfulness perhaps. A standing on tiptoe tension. Yet how could there be? The jousting had yet to begin. As with all tournaments in my experience, the knights were yawningly tardy in making their preparations, the heralds were still deep in conversation, trumpets tucked beneath their arms.

      No, the whole event was simply waiting on my appearance. As I lifted my furs to take that first step, I smiled with a comment to my aunt of Gloucester, who replied with a slide of eye towards the principal seats.

      And I saw what it was.

      The principal seat with its cushions and fringed awning—the one promised to me—was occupied by a diminutive lady that was not the Queen. Beautifully clad, the net that covered her hair thick with gems that caused her dark curls to glitter as if covered with rain drops, the Lady of the Lists held court, laughing with her ladies who had commandeered the seats beside her.

      Isabella, Duchess of York, my aunt by marriage. Constanza’s Castilian sister.

      I hesitated, knowing that in this moment of my discomfiture I was on display, and would look callow and foolish if I hesitated here much longer. I was not the only one to know that the Queen had promised me this honour. Perhaps I had been unwise to broadcast my delight so freely. Now I could sense the faces turning in my direction, in amusement, or gentle mockery, or perhaps even malice from those who would gladly deflate the pride of Lancaster.

      Where to sit? How to practice nonchalance with my aunt Gloucester smirking at my rigid shoulder blade.

      Rescue was to hand; Queen Anne, taking a handful of my sables and pulling me to the seat next to her, where I subsided with much relief, well camouflaged as I twitched my furs into order. All smoothly accomplished as if this had been my intent all along.

      ‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked quietly beneath the increased bustle as the combatants rallied.

      ‘Oh, no.’ My smile was brilliant. I would never admit to so shallow an emotion.

      ‘Richard changed his mind. He wished to honour the Duchess of York.’

      And probably put me in my place, I thought. ‘Richard often changes his mind,’ I said. ‘It is of no importance.’

      I was too well mannered to make a scene, too conscious of my own dignity to draw attention to the dismay that hung heavy as a stone in my chest. It would make no difference, of course. Sir John would still be my champion. Or even the Queen’s, which I could accept.

      The knights approached, the Duke of York even more lugubrious than on the previous day. Here was glorious Henry. And Jonty, bearing my father’s helm with great care, grinned at me, managing not to wave in recognition. And here, at last, magnificently mounted, all dark glamour from his ordered hair to the light glancing off his armour, was John Holland, who rode past me as if I did not exist.

      My smile had the quality of a bizarre death rictus when my chivalric knight betrayed me to bow before Isabella, Lady of the Lists, who stood as she untied the obligatory knot of ribbons from her sleeve. Leaning forward, she presented them to her champion who tucked them beneath his breastplate. And before she released them, she had the temerity to press them to her painted lips.

      It pained me to watch, but watch I did. How could jealousy be so painful? To have the Duchess of York preening as Lady of the Lists was one thing. To have John Holland fight for her was quite another—and her saluting him in this manner, giving credence to all the salacious detail of common gossip about the pair of them.

      Was rumour true? It undoubtedly was. No one with any sense could deny it after this little show of intimacy.

      ‘I will fight as your champion today, Lady.’ Hand on heart Sir John bowed his head.

      ‘I am honoured, Sir John.’ Isabella’s reply, coloured seductively by Castile and her own intent, slid smoothly on the air. ‘I wait to reward you for your success.’

      Her smile had a knowing edge. His was bright with mischief.

      Suddenly I could not bear to look. Such treachery stoked my fury. Had he not promised me that he would once again wear my guerdon? And here he publically rode past me to dally with the woman whose name, coupled with his, had been the subject of discussion in every solar from Windsor to Edinburgh and back again. I might have claimed I did not believe all that had been said of his want of morality. I might have given him the benefit of the doubt.

      There was no doubt at all!

      It was as if he had blasted the scurrilous details of their affair for all to see and hear. And he had ignored me, leaving me to taste the ignominy of having no champion. Henry was encouraging his child wife to tie one of her scarves around his arm, while the Duke honoured Constanza. I, my Father’s daughter, was ostracised with the less favoured, despite my magnificent furs and my equally magnificently plaited hair.

      I gathered together all my pride and firmed my spine. No one—no one—would know my sense of rejection.

      The Queen, taking in every nuance of the scene, was nudging my arm.

      ‘There’s your champion,’ she murmured.

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