afford one of this value. It was a gift from my father.’ And I spread the fingers of my right hand so that the ruby glowed blood-red in its heart, as red as the tunic that flattered John Holland’s colouring so perfectly.
‘I would willingly spend all I have to make you smile at me. As I will fight to win your praises.’
I was flattered, of course, as he intended. Except that I knew he had no intention of spending all he had, and would participate in the tournament whether I was there or not. And would probably win.
‘Perhaps you will ask me to dance again afterwards?’ I suggested.
‘I might.’
‘And I might accept.’
‘I doubt if you could refuse me.’
‘I will have many offers.’
He stood and offered his hand to bring me to my feet.
‘You will not refuse, Elizabeth, because you see the danger in accepting my offer. How could you resist the desire that sparkles through your blood even now? I can see it as clearly as if written on velum with a monkish pen.’
This time I was the one who frowned. Did I wish to acknowledge this uncannily accurate reading of my response to him? Again he had pushed ahead far too quickly and into unknown territory.
‘I could resist,’ I said. ‘I have amazing willpower.’
‘Then perhaps we will put it to the test.’
He bowed, took my empty cup, only to abandon it on the floor. Seizing my wrist, he turned back the edging of my oversleeve, and stopped, fingers stilled, assessing the immediate problem.
‘I can get no further with this,’ he remarked.
‘And why would you wish to?’
The sleeve of my undergown was tightly buttoned almost to my knuckles.
‘To see if your wrist was scarred by the rebel’s knife.’ The words were curt, the consonants bitten off. ‘I regretted that.’
Uncertain of this brief emergence of irritation when it seemed unnecessary, I misunderstood. ‘But it was not your fault, sir.’
He was not smiling, and his clasp was firmer than the occasion warranted. ‘It should not have happened. I should have been there sooner to ensure your safety. Your brother was unharmed, but you suffered. You are too beautiful to carry any blemish. I would not have it so.’
And my heart tripped a little, because I thought, of all the words we had exchanged that day, his contrition was genuine, and he had phrased it so neatly with the artistry of any troubadour. But my flattering knight bowed abruptly, released me and turned to walk away as if he had received a royal summons that demanded urgent action.
‘Sir John …’ I called, disconcerted. ‘There is no scar.’
He halted, and returned abruptly so that we were face to face.
‘How could I forget you?’ he asked, as if I had only just that minute asked him the question, as if it were the one thought uppermost in his mind that angered him beyond measure. ‘I swear you are the most compelling woman I have ever met. I wish it were not so, but you have inveigled your way into my thoughts from that first day I noticed you.’ Clearly he was not pleased with the prospect. ‘Since then I have found it impossible to remove you. You’re like a burr caught in a saddlecloth, lethal to horse and rider.’
‘You bundled me into a barge with your mother,’ I retaliated, recalling the occasion all too vividly. ‘And that was after you told me to stop shrieking in your ear because it would draw attention to us. I don’t think you realised how terrified I was …’
‘Of course I did.’
I became haughty. ‘You were lacking in compassion, sir.’
‘My compassion, as you put it, was directed at getting you and your brother out of a situation that could have been certain death 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.
Before 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,
