A Tapestry of Treason, page 35
‘Not unless you take a fit of the ague or the pox. I’ll not have your head, cousin. Edward to Pevensey. You to Kenilworth. Your brother Dickon is under my eye, playing the role of perfect courtier in the hope that I will promote him. That should keep the York family in check for the foreseeable future.’
‘Imprisonment.’ I repeated the word, savouring it in my mouth. I could not quite absorb what he had just said. ‘So I will live.’
‘To my detriment. Any decision otherwise will be with God.’
I felt the blood, now even colder, drain from my face.
‘I thought you might at least be thankful.’
I could barely speak. All my senses were held in suspension, closing in on me. It was only then that I could admit how deep my fear had been that Henry would take my life. I felt a hand close on my arm.
‘Your face is as white as new snow. You won’t faint, will you?’
‘Certainly not.’ I buried my teeth in my lower lip.
‘For a moment I thought you might astound me by proving to have a range of human emotions.’
‘No, Henry,’ I managed to reply evenly as the blackness receded. ‘I have none. I am as you see.’ He freed me, as if to touch me was anathema. But then, as relief swept through me, I remembered. An unpleasant doubt crept through my mind on silent feet. ‘Richard was sent to Pontefract. He failed to live long enough to come out of Pontefract except in a shroud. Why would Kenilworth be different for me?’
Henry looked affronted. ‘I’ll not starve you to death.’
I would live. It seemed that I would live after all.
‘How long will you keep me there?’ I was echoing my brother, so was not surprised by the response. But there was a lightness in my breast.
‘Until I think you might enjoy your freedom without stabbing me in the back. Be thankful.’
I considered. ‘And my children. My son? He will be without guardianship, with Edward imprisoned.’
‘I will ensure that he is well cared for, in my wife’s household. I will visit neither his uncle nor his mother’s sins on his head unless he shows your traits too strongly. Your dower lands will become my property, of course. I may at least get some benefit from your betrayal. It will help pay for my campaign against Glyn Dwr.’
I could expect no less. Kenilworth. So I would not be kept in penury. It was more palace than castle since my uncle the Duke of Lancaster had put his lavish hand to the private living apartments.
‘And my daughter Isabella?’
‘In my magnanimity I will allow her to remain with you. She is very young to be separated from her mother.’
‘May I receive visitors?’
‘Within reason.’
I would not be totally isolated, but who would visit me was beyond my imagining.
At last I curtsied, deeply, because he deserved my recognition. ‘Thank you, my lord. You have my gratitude.’
‘I wish I believed it. I will arrange an escort for you.’
As I walked towards the door, his voice followed me.
‘I thought that perhaps you would wish to say farewell to your brother. You will find him waiting for you. My serjeant-at-arms will take you there.’
I stood, head bowed. Henry had arranged this, an unpleasant little touch of malice to end the day. This would be the first time that Edward and I had been alone together since the abortive plot, since he had sworn evidence against me before the Council. Without reply I allowed myself to be escorted, and there he was, in yet another unused antechamber, even colder than the one where Henry had made his judgement. At the sight of him, when I stood before him, my escort retreating to the wall, I was empty of all but memories and an anger that shook me.
‘I have nothing to say to you, brother.’
‘Did you expect me to leap to your protection? When it would have incriminated me?’
I tilted my chin. ‘No. In all honesty I should have known what to expect. But I thought that you would not so publicly brand me a traitor and a liar.’
‘You accused me of the assassination attempt.’
‘You denied me.’
He raised his hands palms upwards. ‘It is done, Constance. It is behind us. Is there no reconciliation in you?’
‘No. There never will be.’
A grin lightened his expression into the handsome visage that everyone at Court would recognise. ‘We’re not dead, nor will be until the span of our heartbeats determines the end of life. He’ll let us go eventually, you know.’
‘You, perhaps; I think he’ll happily forget about me. I am to go to Kenilworth.’
‘I know. At least you won’t have to listen to Pelham’s lectures on your lack of opprobrium.’ He tilted his chin to match mine. ‘Do you despise me utterly?’
‘Yes.’ I considered. ‘Yes, I think I do.’ I gestured to the guard at the door who had been an interested party, except that there had been nothing to hear. ‘I am ready to go.’
‘Farewell, Constance.’
I could not reply. My guilt was self-evident but his betrayal had been unmerciful, while my hopes of marriage to Edmund Holland were buried in a grave of my own making.
Chapter Eighteen
Winter 1405: Kenilworth Castle
* * *
What does a woman do with her days, incarcerated at the royal will in a royal fortress? The moments of time hung like rotting fruit on a winter’s bough. My life became enclosed within walls and though I was free to order my own life within their confines, Henry’s watchful household and resident guards prevented my stepping beyond, not even to ride beside the mere. I could watch the comings and goings of servants and couriers, of those merchants and craftsmen who delivered goods, of smart retinues of liveried soldiers. I could admire the freedom beyond the walls, acknowledging all the time that there was none for me.
Luxury was mine, for Kenilworth had enjoyed the indulgent hand of John of Gaunt. Unnumbered chambers with efficient fireplaces that did not belch smoke, a Great Hall and dancing chamber if I were in a mood to dance. Unnumbered beds with hangings and tapestries, woven and stitched with skill in the Low Countries. My own waiting-women, my own possessions to keep me company; all had been restored to me. My daughter Isabella. My life and my days were my own, but still I could not leave.
Even the news from the Court and the travails facing Henry seemed to be distilled into the merest drops of dew. It felt to me that I was simply existing, suspended in a silken cocoon which wrapped me around in soft luxury just as it pinioned me in hard containment. No chance of plotting here, no knowledge even of what might benefit from my interference, which was exactly what Henry had intended. Here at Kenilworth I was involved in nothing other than what I might eat, when I might visit the chapel to give thanks for my life, which intricate pattern I might set my needle to. I was not allowed to correspond.
Occasionally I wondered: what was Edward doing in Pevensey? I would wager that he had at least persuaded Sir John Pelham to allow him to hunt.
Meanwhile I withdrew into my own world. Too cold to walk in the gardens where the plants had retreated into autumn hibernation, I read and stitched and played the lute, but not songs of love. I played more games of chess than I could count, the only plotting that I was allowed. I laughed with the visiting mummers and sang with Henry’s minstrels. I read the stories of King Arthur to Isabelle but she was too young to understand. I attended Mass.
By the Virgin, boredom struck hard, every day more difficult than the last. I would welcome anyone with some erudite conversation. The priest’s offerings were little more than homilies on the importance of clasping a life without sin to my bosom. He sent me yawning to my bed after supper.
Had not Henry promised to allow me visitors? Probably in a moment of weakness. I had little hope, and as the weeks crawled past with agonising slowness, I gave up. Would it be like this for the rest of my life? I had thought myself a woman of strong will, but loneliness gnawed at me. I might keep a perfect semblance of acceptance, occupied from dawn to dusk, but who was to know my mind?
I did not think about Edmund. I would not. I banished him during my days, but my dreams were beyond my control.
* * *
The first intimation was the half-grown grey kitten that scampered across the floor of my chamber and vanished behind a tapestry, whether from fear of, or in pursuit of a rat I did not know. And then a voice, beyond my door that was ajar, raised into giving some sort of command.
Joan.
I was shocked by the intensity of that moment of sheer pleasure. Desperately short as I was of a conversation other than the climate, the mould on the walls in the old keep and the state of my soul, Joan was more than a welcome guest.
The anonymous servant bowed. ‘You have visitors, my lady.’
My heart jolted again, my embroidery sliding from my knee to the floor. Was it possible that Edmund had come with her? I stood to face the door. Careful. Be careful. Nothing has changed between you since that day he abandoned you to Henry’s justice. Be grave and circumspect, for have you not proved that you do not need him? Love has a finite quality when it is ignored and betrayed.
I considered my clothing, picking embroidery threads from my sleeve, wishing I were arrayed in more than a plain houppelande and a linen coif – for we kept no formality at Kenilworth – but too late for that now.
‘Constance. There you are.’
Joan approached, her hands held out in greeting.
‘Joan. Your gift gave you away. It’s chasing vermin behind the arras.’
There was that gentle laugh that hid a frequently sharp tongue. ‘I brought it for company for you, not as a mouser. You have to win it to your affections.’
‘I will do no such thing. I dislike cats. I am not so desperate.’
Oh, but I was. My heart had sunk with a thud as Joan’s companion stepped into the room in her wake. Even worse, it seemed that my second visitor had read my response. He smirked.
‘Sorry I’m not Edmund.’
It was Dickon.
‘Joan said I should come,’ he admitted.
‘So you were not persuaded through love of your sister.’
‘No. It would be good policy at this precise moment to keep in with our cousin Henry.’
‘Of course it would. But I will not persuade you into rebellion.’
‘I can see the opportunities for myself,’ he replied. ‘But for now I am the most dedicated subject.’
He subjected me to a rough clasp. I expected that Joan had ordered him to do so, since I might lack for human contact and so be encouraged by a brotherly embrace, which touched me, but as soon as I could extricate myself, I stepped back to survey him. Dickon was no longer a youth, but a grown man. There was a solidity, even a quaint dignity to him. But was that only a facade? I still suspected that beneath the wool and leather that encased his broad shoulders there was the old restlessness, the perennial disgruntlement. Momentarily I wondered what man he would become. He was no soldier, and, I thought, no diplomat. What were his gifts? Perhaps he would become merely a trustworthy servant, one day taking his seat on the Royal Council, although I did not think that Henry would ever value his advice. Dickon was a ship driven by strange winds. If Henry would give him a title and land he might settle into loyalty.
‘Has the King decided to espouse your cause?’ I asked, since I detected a contentment about him, usually absent.
He replied promptly. ‘He is heavily involved in the marriage of his daughter Philippa to the King of Denmark, probably next year when she will be eleven years, of an age to travel. It is mooted that I accompany her to Denmark as part of her official escort.’
So at least one member of the York family would keep the name prominent in Henry’s mind. ‘And will Henry pay for your clothing and jewels so that you might make a good impression?’ I eyed his garments, which were less than impressive after the long journey.
‘I hope so.’ There was a sudden glint in his eye. ‘I think he will knight me before I go.’
I smiled at his pleasure. ‘Tell him you would like a title at the same time, as well as the annuity that he promised you but never paid.’
A servant bought wine, and so we sat, conversing about those we knew. After a successful campaign in the north to demolish Percy power, the Earl of Northumberland being forced into exile in Scotland, Henry was once again tied up in campaigning against the Welsh prince Glyn Dwr, suffering bad weather and significant loss, eventually retreating from the field. When I expressed little interest in Henry’s victory or defeat, Dickon turned the conversation adroitly to the personal.
‘Richard is thriving in the Queen’s household. Edward is making the most of his little sojourn with Sir John Pelham.’
‘I do not care if Edward burns in the fires of hell.’
‘He says he dislikes Pevensey,’ Dickon continued. ‘He says it’s like living in purgatory with no hope of redemption.’ He grin widened. ‘But he is making good use of his time.’
I raised my brows. Of course he was. ‘Has he found some kitchen wench to admire him?’
‘He is writing a book.’
I laughed. How could I not? ‘A book?’
‘About game and hounds and hunting and some such.’
Joan hid a smile, entering the exchange of news. ‘We hear that he has found a noted French work of erudition about the chase. We think he is copying most of it into his hand to pass it off as his own.’
How apposite of Edward. ‘And if he dedicates it to the King, he will buy his release quicker.’
‘To the Prince actually. He will dedicate it to Prince Hal.’
Which reminded me of the Prince leaping to Edward’s defence to my cost.
‘Ha! I doubt then that Edward will stay long in purgatory, since Prince Hal was so impressed with his efforts against the Welsh. Edward will be received back into the angelic choir before we can blink.’
They stayed with me overnight, Dickon leaving us in peace after supper.
‘Are you happier with your new husband?’ I asked.
‘A woman can’t complain.’
‘I could. Are you carrying a Willoughby heir yet?’
‘I will let you know when I am.’
There was no disguising the sadness that touched her soul as she turned the exchange into other channels, but wherever our discussions took us, there was one question I did not ask, that I had no intention of asking. In the end, with suspect insouciance, Joan provided the answer.
‘Edmund says—’
‘I have no interest in what Edmund says.’
‘But still I will tell you. He is in good health.’
I did not reply.
‘He is busy.’
Everyone was busy except for me. Even Dickon. Even Edward was putting pen to parchment in his prime interest of hounds and hunting and how to impress the King.
‘So the Earl of Kent is also making a name for himself with Henry,’ I observed.
‘Yes.’
‘Henry had no suspicion of Edmund, as their uncle, of being involved in my Mortimer escapade.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Nor of you, as their aunt.’
‘I am above suspicion.’
‘How fortunate.’
‘Edmund has begun to step into our father’s shoes, extending his powers as Justice of the Peace in the south. He has also been given a command under Prince Thomas in the royal fleet.’
‘Excellent.’
Joan refused to be deterred although her voice had become acid.
‘He made a name for himself off the coast of Normandy, and at some engagement against the French at Sluys.’
‘How gratifying.’
Which ended any confidences until Joan prepared to leave on the following morning, on the way to one of her husband’s northern properties.
‘Take the cat with you,’ I said.
‘I doubt I can find it.’
Her groom helped her to mount and she gave the command to depart.
‘Joan…’
She reined in, looking down at me with a little sigh as if she knew what I would say.
‘Tell him…’
But what could I suggest that she tell him? If he could not come of his own volition, I did not want him. Even Dickon had managed to find his reluctant way to Kenilworth.
I shook my head. ‘Tell him nothing at all.’
‘Then you will become a lonely old woman.’
‘But it will be my choice.’
When she had ridden out of calling distance, Dickon at her side, I wished I had not been so proud.
* * *
Henry had, in his appalling tolerance which I found little less than a humiliation, given orders that I might be allowed, under strict guard, to ride in the environs of the castle. I would not thank him, but it added greatly to the quality of my life, even though our riding, with Isabella, was of a sedate nature. Sometimes, under metallic grey skies, wrapped in furs, we took out the hawks to fly at the wildfowl on the mere. It was a relief to view the majesty of the rosy sandstone walls from without rather than from within. When the sun managed to shine, it looked less of a prison.
Returning on a dank morning, my features half frozen by a brisk wind and a spattering of rain, I was alerted before I even rode into the bailey. He had arrived a little time ago and rather than wait inside had seated himself in a sheltered patch of desultory sunlight on the steps, accompanied by the kitten that was growing into a sleek cat. It was purring under his hand.
For a moment I sat on my mare and regarded him, as he regarded me. The perfect influential magnate and King’s friend, Edmund Holland, Earl of Kent, his dark magnificence enhanced by a velvet chaperon and a sable cloak. His gauntlets, cast aside on the step, offered enough gilding to rival my new altar cloth.
He stood and swept me a bow as if I were the Queen herself.
I dismounted, any reaction to the mere sight of him effectively quashed behind the need to twitch the damp folds of my gown into seemly order, smooth my veil, and issue a range of instructions to my escort, none of which was essential. I thanked my groom, supervised my daughter being lifted to the ground. Only then did I turn to him. I would not appear too needful of his company.
