Free The King’s Sister by Anne O'Brien

for all of us. What would you have had me do? Stay to bandy words of admiration and dalliance?’ He made an economic gesture of acceptance. And then there was the slow smile as his breathing eased. ‘Before God, I did admire you, Elizabeth. You were bold and brave and deliciously unforgettable. Never doubt it, you are a jewel of incomparable value. Am I not a connoisseur of women?’ The smile became imbued with warm malice. ‘Married or otherwise.’
    Then he was striding off through the gathering, leaving me feeling alive and vibrant and vividly aware of my surroundings. I was as breathless as if I had been riding hard after the hunt. What a play of emotions in this mercurial royal brother, and how my own had responded to his. It seemed that I had won his regard and his admiration, as he surely had mine.
    Did I enjoy flirting with danger?
    There was no danger here, I asserted. Merely an exchange of opinion with an uncommonly quick-witted man. Not one of which my late lamented mother would have approved, but why not? He had taken my eye, appealing to my curiosity, and that exchange had been harmlessly teasing rather than dangerous. He had called me cousin. There was nothing here but the closeness of family.
    Did I believe my simplistic dissection of our lively exchange, when every one of my senses had leaped and danced? If I did not, if I knew we had enjoyed far more than a courtly conversation over a cup of wine, I was not prepared to confess it, even to myself.
    I made my way towards the group containing Philippa and Henry, turning over the content of the past minutes, discovering one thing to ponder. John Holland’s sharp retreat from any discussion of his own parentage. The instability of his background was well known, even the sly accusations of illegitimacy, product of Princess Joan’s disgracefully bigamous ownership of two husbands before her royal marriage. Was he sensitive to that? I did not think so, for it was generally agreed that there was no truth in it, and I suspected that Sir John was not sensitive to anything but his own desires. What was as clear as glass to me was that he had ambitions to make his own name, not simply as the King’s brother. It was impossible not to recognise in him an appetite, a ruthlessness to savour every dish in the banquet and drink life dry. He might be aware of the shadows, perhaps resenting them, but would be inexorable in sweeping them aside if they stood in his path. Already he was acquiring land to match his enhanced status as a prestigious Knight of the Garter, at Richard’s creation.
    For the past ten minutes he had made me the object of his potent, exhilarating, undivided attention, and I had gloried in it.
    ‘Flexing your talons?’ Philippa observed, a critical observer who made no attempt to hide her dismay. ‘As long as you don’t get hurt.’
    ‘I will not. Nor will I hurt others. And, before you level the accusation, dearest sister, I will certainly not harm Jonty.’
    I could barely wait for the tournament to begin.

Chapter Three

    B efore such fanfare and panoply, the court was called upon to welcome Princess Joan herself, and what an appearance she made as a majestic plumed palanquin, complete with outriders, an army of servants and a half dozen pack animals, all deemed necessary for a lengthy stay, made its ponderous way into the inner courtyard where it lurched to a halt. It was not necessary to draw back the curtains for the occupant to be recognisable, or for her importance to be appreciated. Heraldic achievements aflutter and pinned to every minion’s breast, here was Joan, Fair Maid of Kent, Dowager Princess of Wales, King’s Mother.
    The lady was handed out by two of her women, enabling her to stand and survey the hastily assembled welcoming party, irritation written in every line of her body. Positioned as I was behind a little knot of courtiers, I could barely see her short figure, only the wide padded role of the chaplet that concealed every