The Queen's Choice

I left them to the care of their multitude of maids and servants, making my way without urgency, considering where the visitors might be with mild interest. In an audience chamber if official, more comfortably in one of our private rooms if family or friend. John had not sent to tell me. If it was my sister, she would have come out to me immediately. Perhaps the Duke of Burgundy over some matter of high politics that did not require my presence.

And then I heard the raised voice through the door which led into one of our private rooms, a voice, usually beautifully modulated, but now with an edge that would hack through steel. I recognised it immediately, stepping from the tranquillity of the garden to this hotbed of fury. Pausing for only one moment to guard my features, I entered quietly to see the one man I did not expect, who was draining a cup of wine as if he had been lost for days in a desert. Any reaction of my senses in meeting Henry of Lancaster again was subsumed in a blast of anger that pulsed from the walls.

‘Would you believe what he has done?’ Henry, in a sheen of dust and leather and the distinct aroma of horse, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, holding out the cup for a refill as his voice acquired a resonant growl. ‘Well, of course you would. You know as well as I just what he is capable of. God rot his foul soul in hell!’

Such lack of restraint. I had never seen this in Henry. Anger yes, frustration certainly, a deep melancholy on occasion, but never this fury, threatening to run wild like a forest fire in summer, consuming all before it. There was no control here. And although there had been no name so far uttered, I knew without doubt it must be King Richard who had lit the conflagration.

Henry had not even noticed my entrance.

‘He will destroy me. God’s Wounds! I should have expected it. But even if I had, how could I have pre-empted such a mendacious act? He has me spitted on the point of his fancy dagger!’

John was in the act of pouring more wine. Henry was continuing, each word bitten off at the root as he dug forceful fingers into his skull, dishevelling further his sweat-flattened hair. ‘I am come here because you are the only friend I have in whom I trust. I know I can be honest with you. By the Body of Christ! I trust no one at the Valois Court where it has been made plain as a scoured bread-pan that I am an embarrassment.’

The cup, emptied again, was returned to the surface of the coffer with dangerous force.

‘I can’t argue against any of that.’ John took his arm. ‘Come and sit. Ah, Joanna. We have a guest…’

Henry turned his head, so that now I could see the passion that had him in its grip. There was a pallor to his face, below the summer bronze from wind and weather.

‘Forgive me, my lady.’ He bowed brusquely. ‘I was not aware.’

‘So I see. And hear… Welcome, Henry.’

I smiled to put him at his ease, walking to join them, taking a stool beside them and a cup of wine. It was all Henry could do to sit, his hands on his thighs, fisting and flexing with hard-leashed energy.

‘My cousin has disinherited me.’

He could sit no longer but strode to the window as if he could see across the water to England where events developed without him. I looked at John who shrugged in ignorance.

‘The King of England has used his fair judgement against me,’ Henry stated, knuckles white where he gripped the carved stonework, lip curling. ‘My banishment is no longer one of a mere ten years. It is for life. As for the Lancaster inheritance—my rightful inheritance as my father’s heir—it now rests in Richard’s hands. Every castle, every acre, every coffer of coin. Richard has enriched himself at my expense. He has no right. Not even the King of England has that right.’ He paused, as if this one terrible fact still would not be absorbed. ‘But that’s not all. In lack of a son, Richard has chosen his heir. It is to be my uncle of York, and so, in the order of things, my cousin of Aumale, York’s eldest son, is now regarded as Richard’s brother. I am disinherited from my own inheritance. But by God he has destroyed my claim to the English throne as well. Perpetual banishment and forfeiture for Lancaster. And my son Hal still a hostage to my good behaviour at Richard’s Court.’

‘It is a despicable act,’ I agreed in the face of this wanton destruction.

‘He has robbed me of everything. I’ll not accept it. Everything within me demands vengeance and restitution.’

‘Of course you will not bow before such injustice. What man of honour would?’ John rose to stand with him, his eye too on the tidal river, busy with traffic. ‘How many ships do you need to borrow? Four? Five? I have them at your disposal.’

If I had been astounded at Richard’s perfidy, now I was horrified. John offering ships. Was this John encouraging Henry to plot invasion? I looked from one to the other. This was dangerous work. This was rebellion. However gross the humiliation for Henry, this was insurrection.

‘John!’

My husband swung round to look across at me. ‘It’s what he’s thinking. Isn’t it?’

‘It is exactly what I am thinking,’ Henry confirmed, the light of battle in his eye.

A suspicion of anger heated my blood. I too rose, to grip my husband’s arm. ‘It’s too dangerous. You should be persuading him to wait. To negotiate. To return would be to compound the charge of treason.’

Which Henry ignored, focusing on John. ‘Why would you lend me ships?’

‘It’s to my advantage,’ John replied promptly. ‘If you come out of this with any influence in England, I would demand a trade treaty in recompense. An advantageous position for my Bretons with English merchants.’

A hovering stillness took possession. A presumption that dried the mouth and set the heart beating. All three of us saw the implication here.

‘I could only promise that,’ Henry said steadily, ‘if I became King of England.’

‘Is that not what you are thinking? At this juncture, can you reclaim your inheritance any other way?’ John closed his hand over mine, where it still creased his expensive velvet. ‘I think you are wrong, Joanna. I don’t see Richard being open to negotiation. Not now, not ever. If you want your inheritance, Henry, you will have to take it by force. Yes, it could be construed as treason, but what choice do you have? Go for the land and the Crown, I’d say. If negotiation becomes possible, then…’

I interrupted, dismay deepening with every word. ‘Is that what you are planning?’

‘Of course.’ There was no irresolution in Henry. ‘To return to England and take back what is mine. If I don’t, I remain a penniless exile for life. To accept this would be to betray my father and all he had created.’

‘It’s too hazardous.’

‘What would you have me do? There is not one man in England who will support what Richard has done. And I will have justice.’

‘But you will be returning as an invader. How many men in England will rise to support an invading force against the true King?’

‘There is no other way.’

I let my hand fall from John’s arm and took a step back. ‘I cannot like it.’

‘I don’t like it either.’ Henry was unmoved by my distress. ‘But to accept it is beyond tolerance. Would you in your heart advise me to sit tight and wait for better things?’

‘I would say that to invade puts you in the wrong. And might threaten your life. But I suppose you would say that such is soft advice.’ I could not quite mask the bitterness. ‘A woman’s advice.’

‘Yes,’ said John.

‘Yes,’ echoed Henry.

‘Does that make it of less value?’

‘On this occasion, I think it does,’ said Henry, but with less ire as if he would smooth my ruffled feathers, as he had smoothed his falcon, so long ago when Henry’s future was still reconcilable without resort to arms. ‘I cannot wait. I was banished as Hereford. I will return as Lancaster as soon as I can arrange a ship to take me there.’

But my feathers would not be smoothed and I walked from the room, unable to stay in that heated atmosphere where the plans were all of blood and conquest, with the high risk of death. I could hear the two men begin to talk tactics even before I closed the door. Of course I understood. Who would not want justice for so vicious an act? In truth I knew that Richard would never soften with time: there would never be negotiation. Richard wanted the Lancaster inheritance; he had seized it and would not give it up, for it seemed to me that Richard did indeed both hate and fear his cousin. The death of Duke John of Lancaster had provided the English King with the perfect opportunity to rid himself of what he saw as a perennial threat.

But for Henry to invade—was that not too great a risk? If he was innocent of treason before, to return with an invading force, to take up arms against a King anointed with God’s holy oil, would cast him fully into the arms of unspeakable treachery. There was no argument to justify such an act.

So how could I wish him well in this chancy venture? All I saw were the dangers. Even if he accepted John’s offer, of men and ships, how many men would stand with him in England, where he might well find himself facing an army led by Richard himself? What then? I imagined the possibilities with a cold dread. Death on the battlefield. Capture, imprisonment and execution, hanged as a traitor. In that bright, empty antechamber where the shimmer of light from the river touched every surface, Henry’s death had a terrible inevitability about it.

Unless Henry could command more support than Richard…

But even then the future would be fraught with untold dangers. If it became a struggle for the Crown of England, France for one would oppose him at every step. France would be a dangerous enemy if Queen Isabelle’s position was threatened. That I could not wish on him. Would he find a friend anywhere in Europe? I thought not. A usurper, an invader who threatened to overthrow the God-chosen King would have a name poisoned by the worst of betrayals. Henry would be friendless.

I came to a halt in the centre of the antechamber, eyes tight-shut against the images of death and dishonour, to the unease of a passing servant, until I forced my mind into the pragmatic steps that any ruler must consider. Invasion might be the only way for Henry to take back what was his, and knowing him as I did, would he respond in any other way? Even now he was plotting routes and advantageous landings. He would challenge the dragon and fight it to the death. There would be as little compassion in him when facing Richard as St George had dispensed to his scaly adversary.

As for my thoughts in this matter, that Henry should tread with utmost care, they had been swept aside as nothing better than women’s thoughts by both those opinionated men. But why should a woman not have an opinion on affairs of government, as valid as that of any man? Was I, Duchess of Brittany, alone in my belief that a woman should have much to say in the ruling of a state, and considerable skill in the saying of it?

Certainly I was not, for there were ideas coming from France, from the pen of the redoubtable Madam Christine, a widow of Italian birth in Pizzano, that would give credence to any stand that I might make. A woman after my own heart: erudite, educated, cultured, a lady of letters with a growing reputation for her forthright approach, she too believed that a woman’s body might be more fragile than a man’s, but her understanding was far deeper. A woman, Madam Christine pronounced, should concern herself with the promotion of peace because men by nature were foolhardy and headstrong. Their desire for vengeance blinded them to the resulting dangers and terrors of war.

Which was all very well, I considered, riven with frustrations. But of course the man in question must be persuaded to actually listen to this capable woman. I doubted that Madam Christine had ever had to deal with masculine self-will as strong as that of John of Brittany and Henry of Lancaster.

And I sighed. My fears for Henry, still very lively, did not excuse my ill-mannered flight. My fears would not persuade Henry to take a different path. An apology was demanded from me, unless he had departed precipitately with his offer of ships, his mind full of strategy, without his taking his leave of me. I almost wished he had. Until, in my mind’s eye, I saw Richard, smiling and victorious and Henry dead at his feet.

‘Well, Madam Christine,’ I announced to the empty room. ‘I suppose I must apply the wit and wisdom God has given me and try to bring peace to bear on the discussion. But I’d not wager on my success.’

So I retraced my steps and re-entered, taking my seat silently, to John’s announcement, somewhat dryly:‘And here is Joanna again, repentant of her discourtesy.’

I managed a smile of reparation and a little open-handed gesture of apology towards Henry. ‘My abhorrence of this plan still stands, but I am guilty as charged.’

‘I know why you advise me not to go. I see the dangers, and I like the role of invader as little as you do. But what choice do I have?’ Henry too managed a smile of sorts. ‘You would not wish to see me begging at your cousin Charles’s table for the rest of my life, living in a house that was not my own.’

No, I would not wish it. Nor would I argue further against the inevitable, but I could not summon a blessing on such a venture. I heard my voice, cool and even. ‘Do you take John’s help?’

‘No, lady, I do not.’ He acknowledged my chill with a brisk response. ‘To land a force in Breton ships might seem like strength, but it also smacks too highly of a foreign invasion. I need to win support when I get to England, not antagonise the English lords who might throw in their lot with me. I’ll go alone, with a handful of men who will follow me, and hope it will persuade my fellow Englishmen that I have come to put myself in their hands. The power will be theirs, to win justice for me. I hope they will see the right of my cause.’

‘And Richard?’ I asked, anticipating a reply I would not like.

And how simple it was, spoken without any rancour. ‘I cannot trust Richard to keep any promise he decides to make. I must not allow myself to forget that.’

Which confirmed all I feared. My thoughts were once again drenched with blood as Henry clasped hands with John, saying:‘I’m for the coast and a ship to take me to England. We talk easily of destiny. This is mine. It is not easy at all, but by God I will take it and hold it fast.’

After which his leaving was short and formal, a warm God Speed from John. A cool farewell from me. Madam Christine’s maxims had been notable only in their failure.

‘You should not have encouraged him.’ As soon as Henry was beyond the door I rounded on my husband. ‘It is treason, John. I see no good outcome.’

But John was unperturbed. ‘He would have done it anyway. With or without my support. If you think there was even the faintest chance that we could turn him from it, you don’t know him.’

But I did know him. I knew he would fight for his rights. Henry had begun a venture of great danger and, many would say, no certain outcome. Richard’s army was in battle-readiness for a campaign in Ireland. Henry had no army at all, merely the anticipation of goodwill from those whom Richard’s heavy-handed foolishnesses had pushed into enmity.

‘I am afraid for him.’

‘He knows what he is doing. He’ll not take unnecessary risks.’ John took my hand, rubbing it as if to warm my flesh on a cold day, even though the heat in the room was great. ‘It is his destiny. Victory or death. We cannot help him now.’

It gave me no satisfaction. He had gone. The echo of his retreating footsteps had fallen silent, leaving nothing but a memory of sharp dissension and clash of will. How disturbing it had all been.

And yet I knew the outcome as if I were a practised soothsayer peering into a scrying glass. He would win his own again, driven by justice and honour to retrieve what was undoubtedly his by birth and blood and true inheritance. Would this ambition carry him through this campaign to seize the Crown of England? It might indeed. And then France, faced with a new king de facto might just come begging, with Mary of Berry as a simpering offering, a new bride who would be Queen of England.

‘Joanna?’

‘Yes?’ I blinked. I had been standing with my ever-circling, troubled thoughts, a huge sense of loss bearing down on me, my hand still lightly held by John.

‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled in apology. ‘I was just thinking how hard it will be for him.’ And feeling the weight of John’s strangely speculative gaze:‘I must return to the children…’

‘Not yet.’ John rubbed his thumb along the edge of my chin, then walked slowly to the coffer beneath the window, the one that stored the most precious of his books and documents. Raising its lid, he delved inside to extract a book, which he held out to me.

‘That’s a family possession,’ I said, not moving to take it, not understanding.

‘Yes it is.’ His eyes were clear, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘I want you to take it down to Henry before he leaves. I meant to give it to him. I forgot. It will strengthen him when his courage is at its lowest ebb, surrounded by enemies, as he will be. When he needs to feel God’s presence and guidance, this will help.’

It was a Book of Hours, belonging to some long-dead Duchess of Brittany, illuminated with jewel-like pictures of angels and saints.

‘Are you sure?’ I frowned, very unsure. ‘You could send a servant.’

‘I could, of course. I think you should take it.’ He was still holding it out to me, his voice suddenly gruff. ‘If you don’t hurry, he’ll be gone.’

I took it, smoothing my hands over the old vellum and gilding. I did not need to open it to know the beauty of the inks, the fine clerical script with its decorative letters. It had great value.

‘Tell him that the Duke and Duchess of Brittany will keep him in their thoughts and their prayers,’ John was saying. ‘And you can give him your own personal good wishes. Which you failed to do when he left. It may be hotter than the fires of Hell in here but I swear there was ice under your feet.’

Which I deserved.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes I will.’

John’s eyes were bright on mine, his face stern and then he smiled. I still did not understand.

‘Run, Joanna.’

*

I ran, my skirts hitched, as uncaring of appearances as my daughter in her spirited game, the book clasped tight as I navigated the turn in the stair and out onto the shallow flight of steps. The stables. That is where he would be. His escort was already mounted in the courtyard but there was no sign of Henry. I slowed to a walk more suitable to my rank, entering the dusty dimness, blinded by the bright rays slanting in bars through the small apertures. There was his horse, saddled and bridled but still waiting, a squire at its head.

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘Gone to the chapel, my lady.’

I should have known. I turned and, manoeuvring my way through the handful of mounted men who made up his escort, I walked, more slowly now, to the carved arch that led into the tower where our private chapel was housed, pushing open the door, reluctant to disturb Henry in this final moment of prayer.

But there he was, already striding out into the little antechamber between apse and outer door, sword, gloves and hood in one hand as he tucked a crucifix into the neck of his tunic with the other. It was plain, I noticed, such as any soldier might use, and there was about him a serenity that had been absent before.

I stopped.

So did he.

I could thrust the book into his hand with the briefest of explanations and apologies for my previous lack, and make my escape before stepping into dangerous waters. I did no such thing. With a rare commitment to what I felt rather than what I was thinking, I closed the door behind me.

The sun which had made prison bars in the stable, here, in this octagonal space with its joyously painted floor-tiles, bathed us in iridescence through a trio of little stained-glass windows depicting brave saints and martyrs, John’s pride and joy. It was like a holy blessing over us, as for one of the few times in my life, no words came to me. It was as if the whole essence of me was held in suspension, like fragrant dust in the liquid of some herbal potion.

Words did not escape Henry.

‘You came to me.’ The sudden light in Henry’s face was so bright that I was transfixed. ‘I could not hope that you would. Knowing that you had no liking for my venture.’ Then the light faded. Henry’s brows flattened. ‘You should not be here. I should send you away.’

‘I will not go yet.’ I proffered the book. ‘I am here to give you this. In honour of our friendship. To give you strength in times of need. It was John’s idea, but you should know that I am in agreement.’

Slowly he walked the few steps towards me, taking the book from me, placing it unopened on the stone window embrasure at his side along with gloves and hood. His sword was propped against the wall. Not once in the disposal of his property did his gaze move from mine, and my breath was compromised as he drew me towards him until his hands released mine and framed my face. Then I was even more breathless when his mouth found mine and he kissed me.

It was no affectionate kiss exchanged between close cousins, no formal salute between family, or even between friends. Or not in my limited experience. Beginning softly with a brush of lip against lip, it gained an intensity. An assurance. A depth. In the end a knowledge that it would be reciprocated. And as he kissed me a new horizon spread before me. A new geography beneath my feet. I drank from him, as from a bottomless well to slake a thirst I had never known I had. I clung to him. I buried my guilt in his embrace as I buried my nails in the thick stuff of his gambeson.

It was an intoxication such I had never known, even from spiced wine. Even more, it was an astonishment that he should have a need to kiss me in this manner. I could never have anticipated it, not in all the months I had known him.

Slowly Henry lifted his head and let me go.

‘Do you know how much I love you?’

His expression was grave. He continued to speak while I simply stood and absorbed the enormity of what he was saying:

‘I would not kiss you in Paris because you were wed and it would not be honourable for me to do so. Neither would I speak to you of what was in my heart from the first moment that our paths crossed at Richard’s marriage. Did you realise? I thought that you must. I could repeat every part of that conversation when you told me that you had never known love in life. My soul cried out to tell you that you were loved. That I loved and desired you. I almost abandoned honour. I almost held you and kissed you, but I knew I must not with the imprint of the cross on your palm. All I could do was seal that precious image with my lips. And now I have done both—kissed you and declared my love—in your own husband’s castle, in his chapel where I have just sought God’s blessing. How much honour have I? And yet I have not one regret.’ His fingertips moved gently over my cheeks. ‘I promised myself that I would never say this. But some promises are made to be broken. I love you, Joanna.’

The words stroked over my mind with such sweetness.

‘I don’t understand how this can be,’ I said.

‘Nor do I.’

‘I thought you admired my cousin.’ I was still struggling to quiet my breathing, baffled at the suddenness of it all.

‘Admiration is not love.’

‘Your description of her was that of a man bent on love.’

‘My description was of you. Did you not recognise yourself, most handsome of women?’ There was his smile that melted my bones. ‘As you so wisely remarked, how would I know Lady Mary to such a degree after one dance?’

And I laughed, a little in relief, in wordless delight, as Henry continued to pour his words of love over me.

‘How can I deny something that has become a part of me? I have not seen you for six months, I have not heard your voice, but you are fixed in my memory as brightly as an illuminated initial in that magnificent gift you have bestowed on me. I cannot deny it. I will not, even though there is no future for us together. If it is honour to let you go, then I will. But I will say this first, so that, in the rest of our lives apart, you will never forget it and you will always know it. You are loved, Joanna. You are my most treasured delight.’