It was Edward. Oh, I was not without blame, but it was my cousin of York who had betrayed the plotters, telling every detail of their intent, for no other motive than to put himself right in Henry’s eyes and receive recompense. Was it true? Of course it was. Edward was the only one of them who had not been punished, but instead was received once more at court, ostentatiously busy in Henry’s confidences. If I needed any evidence, there it was. Henry had used our cousin for his own ends, and Cousin Edward had seen a chance for his own ambitions. My little cousin who had the skill of falling on his feet: adopted as Richard’s brother but turning his allegiance fast enough to Henry. Trusted by John in the Revolt of the Earls, but wooed by Henry to turn evidence against them.

I despised the ground he trod on. But my hatred of Edward could wait for another day, for that was not all. Folded within the page of John’s letter was the briefest of notes in Henry’s hand.

I hope this eases your broken heart and your conscience, Elizabeth. I am in haste to Scotland. You might find it in you to reconsider John Cornewall as your husband if he returns from this debacle intact.

Henry had taken the time to do this for me, beset as he was with his own problems. Understanding why he had done it, my heart melted towards him a little.

Finishing the wine, I made my excuses before retiring again to my chamber, where I opened my jewel coffer to retrieve the broken pieces of John’s worthless silver heart, given so long ago when we had nothing to think about but the attraction between us. How could he have guessed its terrible foreshadowing? Once, fancifully, I had thought of having a silversmith mend it but it had never been done. It would never be restored now. Was not my own heart still broken? But both halves were in my keeping, and one day they might be healed.

I lifted the pieces of silver to my lips, just once, before replacing them in the coffer.

Is forgiveness possible, John?

Here was for me the truth in the mirror that John’s letter had held up so that I might see my soul. I could face the most painful question of all: would I make the same choice again, if presented with the same dilemma?

Yes, I would. Because to put my love for my husband before my integrity and duty towards my brother would have been to condone the death of Henry and his sons. How could I have lived with that burden on my conscience? Yes, I would make the same decision again, even though I now knew that Henry’s political ambition took precedence over his brotherly affection for me. I was betrayed on all sides, but yes, I too was capable of betrayal.

How tainted was royal blood.

‘Is forgiveness possible, John?’ I asked again, aloud.

He thought so. It was his last and most gracious, most precious gift to me. I touched the veiled head of the little statue of the Virgin on my prie-dieu. I felt her forgiveness at last.

In the following days I read John’s letter until I could repeat it word for word, waiting. And then, with the arrival of the news I had been anticipating, I prepared to travel north again. The Scottish campaign was over; Henry and his army were returned to England.

I forgive you, John had written.

Could I forgive myself?

Perhaps, at last, these days blessed by the gift of John’s absolution had proved to me that I could.

For the briefest of moments other figures were there to accompany me as I made my arrangements for the journey, ghosts from the past keeping pace.

Jonty, as I had known him in his youthful enthusiasms, would have raced around, into everything, his enjoyment a noisy entity in this quiet place. He was always a boy in my memories. He always would be.

Richard, even before he wore the crown, would have had no interest at all, abandoning such mundane tasks to those in his employ, while he sought out someone to impress and admire. As King of England he would have demanded an entourage worthy of his greatness.

Whereas John, my beloved John, would have prowled like some caged beast in the royal menagerie, ever-restless, exchanging ribald comments with his men, laughing at shared memories, giving me no rest until I abandoned whatever took my time, to join him in some expedition or engagement. He would have lured me, flattered me, employing all the charm he possessed until I remembered why I had missed him so desperately during his absence.

For a moment, just a shadow caught by a blink of an eye, John was there at my side. It was always John who was with me as I rose at the beginning of each day. The one true centre of my life, the bane of my life, who had shattered the bond between us because of loyalty to his brother, as I became estranged from him through loyalty to mine. How complex were constancy and fidelity when they would seem to be the most unambiguous truths in the world, how full of pain and regrets. John and I would have loved and argued and lived until old age, and I would not have been standing here, adrift, at Dartington, if conflicting honour had not dragged us down.

But that was in the past. Here in my mind were new possibilities, new ventures. Deliberately, heart-wrenchingly, I drove John’s ghost away.

The capacity to love does not die when the lover dies.

I would never love John less, but maybe it was possible to find affection again. My passion for John would not be diminished if I allowed myself to take this step into the future.

So many ends to be taken up and mended, if my Plantagenet pride would allow it. Like my ageing tapestry fraying from careless use, it would need careful stitching over a lifetime. Or, I decided, it was more like a palimpsest, where the manuscript was scraped clean, the old words removed, new ones rewritten. Here was the future for my re-writing, forming in my head with bold strokes, and I knew it was what Princess Joan would have done, with utmost conviction.

Go to Henry. Make your peace with him. Petition again in moderate words for lands and titles for your sons. Allow Henry to arrange good marriages for your daughters. He will listen to you, he must listen. And then go to Pleshey to acknowledge the burial of John Holland and let him rest in peace, so that you, too, can find peace.

And there was more, crowding into my thoughts, emerging from my own intuition.

I would be icily tolerant of Thomas FitzAlan, as a political necessity. I would try to be decorous in the company of the Countess of Hereford. I would grit my teeth and speak with my cousin Edward as if the hatred in my belly did not exist. I would do that, all of that. The grief and guilt that had wearied me, numbed me, had lost their hold and I felt strong and sure at last. Henry needed to hold on to this kingdom and I would not hinder him.

Yes, I would do all of those things, through duty and sisterly affection, but what of me and my life? And at last I smiled a little for there would be a man at Henry’s side. John Cornewall, a bold knight with perfect manners, a knight with only twenty-five years to his name, younger even than Jonty, whom I had rejected as a child when I was full grown at seventeen. How strange the circles of life. But the years had moved on and the difference in life span between us was not so great. Here was no untried boy: here was a man metalled in battle, a man with strong views and ambitions to match.

I might be a path to power and wealth for this man of my brother’s choosing, but I thought it would not be an unsatisfactory bargain between us. Burdens were to be borne as lightly as possible. Love? I did not think so, but respect and graciousness were not to be disparaged in a coming together of man and wife.

Would he forgive me the ill-manners of our parting? I thought that he would. He might even ask me to dance again. And, with an unexpected surge of life within me, of new hope, I thought that I might accept.



INSPIRATION FOR THE KING’S SISTER

My compulsion to write about Elizabeth of Lancaster, younger daughter of John of Gaunt and Blanche of Lancaster, was born out of my own initial ignorance about her, followed by a visit to the Church of St Mary, a tiny rural church in Burford, Shropshire, close to where I live.