The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien

It all began as a family gathering: a meeting of almost everyone I knew in the lush setting of Kenilworth where my father’s building plans had provided room after spacious room in which we could enjoy a summer sojourn. Intriguingly, though, the intimate number of acquaintances was soon extended with a constant arrival of guests. So, I considered. What indeed was afoot? A most prestigious occasion. From elders to children, aristocratic families from the length and breadth of the land rode up to our gates, filing across the causeway that kept their feet dry from the inundations of the mere.

Philippa and I watched them with keen anticipation, now in the company of our younger brother Henry, an energetic, raucous lad, whose shrill voice more often than not filled the courtyards as he engaged in games with other boys of the household—dangerous games in which he pummelled and rolled with the best of them in combat à l’outrance. Even now he bore the testimony of a fading black eye. But today Henry was buffed and polished and on his best behaviour. As the thirteen-year-old heir of Lancaster, he knew his worth.

‘Something momentous,’ Philippa surmised.

‘With music and dancing,’ I suggested hopefully.

My father’s royal brothers, the Dukes of Gloucester and York, together with their wives, made up a suitably ostentatious display of royal power. The vast connection of FitzAlans and the Northumberland Percies were there, heraldic badges making a bright splash of colour. There was Edward, our cousin of York, kicking at the flanks of a tolerant pony. Thin and wiry, Edward was still too much of a child for even Henry to notice. The only one notably absent was the King.

‘We’ll not miss him overmuch,’ croaked Henry, on the cusp of adolescence.

True enough. Of an age with Henry, what would Richard add to the proceedings, other than a spirit of sharp mischief that seemed to have developed of late? There was little love lost between my brother and royal cousin.

The noble guests continued to arrive with much laughter and comment.

I was not one for being sensitive to tension in the air when I might be considering which dress would become me most, but on this occasion it rippled along my skin like the brush of a goose feather quill. Chiefly because there were far too many eyes turned in my direction for comfort. It seemed to me that I was an object of some interest over and above the usual friendly comment on the rare beauty and precocious talents of the Duke of Lancaster’s younger daughter. What’s more, on that particular morning, I had been dressed by my women with extraordinary care.

Not that I had demurred. My sideless surcoat, of a particularly becoming blue silk damask, hushed expensively as I walked. My hair had been plaited into an intricate coronet, covered with a veil as transparent as one of the high clouds that barely masked the sun.

‘Is it a celebration?’ I mused. ‘Have we made peace with France?’

‘I doubt it. But it’s a celebration for something.’ My sister’s mind was as engaged as mine as the FitzAlan Countess of Hereford and her opulent entourage arrived in the courtyard, soon followed by the Beauchamp contingent of the Earl of Warwick.

‘It’s a marriage alliance. A betrothal. It has to be,’ I announced to Philippa, for surely this was the obvious cause for so great a foregathering, and one of such high-blooded grandeur festooned in sun-bright jewels and rich velvets. ‘The Duke is bringing your new husband to meet with you.’

‘A husband for me? If that’s so, why is it that you are the one to be clad like a Twelfth Night gift?’ Philippa said, eyeing my apparel. ‘I am not clad for a betrothal. This is my second best gown, and the hem is becoming worn. While you are wearing my new undertunic.’

Which was true. And Philippa more waspish than her wont since my borrowed garment was of finest silk with gold stitching at hem and neck and the tiniest of buttons from elbow to wrist, yet despite her animadversions on her second best gown, Philippa looked positively

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