Читать книгу The Queen's Choice - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 10
ОглавлениеOctober 1398: Hotel de St Pol in Paris
There was an unexpected tension in the air. Not of hostility or incipient warfare, nor of some blood-soaked treachery, but of a nose-twitching, ear-straining, prurient interest. Such as when there might be a scandal, dripping with innuendo, to be enjoyed. It was present in the sparkle of every eye, in the whisperings, with no attempt at discretion. It might be considered beneath my dignity as Duchess of Brittany to be lured by such hints of someone’s depravity, but my senses came alive, like a mouse scenting cheese.
John and I were engaged in one of our frequent visits to Paris, to reassure the Valois that the loyalty of the Duke of Brittany to their interests was beyond question. Our family was left comfortably behind in Nantes with governors and nursemaids, including the recent addition to the family. I had been safely delivered of a child, another daughter Blanche, over a year ago now. I had not met my end in childbed. There had been no need for my husband to consider a precipitate remarriage after all.
We had expected to occupy rooms in the royal residence, the Hotel de St Pol, as was our wont, with its rabbit-warren of chambers and antechambers, but it seemed an unlikely prospect, for here was a bustle of royal dukes, prelates and barons. Of the royal dukes I recognised my uncles of Berry and Burgundy and my cousin of Orleans. It all had a strangely festive air about it as we found ourselves ushered into the most opulent of King Charles’s audience chambers, as if we were part of the invited gathering.
Charles was sitting upright, enthroned on a dais, his servants having reminded him to don robes that added to his authority. So this must be some important foreign deputation come to request an alliance or impress with gifts. I could see no crowd of foreign dignitaries, yet someone was speaking. Charles was nodding.
I touched John’s arm, which was all that was needed. Using his bulk and a degree of charm, he pushed between the audience, while I flattened the fullness of my skirts and followed, until we came to the front ranks. The delegate was still speaking, a flat measured delivery, in perfect, uninflected French. Some puissant lord then. Perhaps an ambassador from the east, but ambassadors rarely attracted so much commotion. The petitioner was still hid from my view but he was flanked by the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy. Such personal condescension on their arrogant part indicated a visitor of some merit.
Charles was in the process of rising to his feet, smiling vaguely in our direction as if he might eventually recall who we were, before returning his limpid gaze to the man who stood before him. Smile deepening, Charles raised both hands, palms up, in acceptance of what had been offered.
‘We are pleased that you decided to come to us in your extremity, sir.’
‘I am honoured by your invitation to find refuge here, Sire.’
‘You were at Calais?’
‘I was, Sire, but briefly. His Majesty King Richard pronounced that I might spend only a week there, with a mere twelve of my men. I had, perforce, to leave.’
The direction of this conversation had little meaning for me; but the visitor had, and my heart registered a slow roll of recognition. Henry, Earl of Derby, returned to France. No, Henry, Duke of Hereford now, I reminded myself. Henry, heir of Lancaster. Duke Henry who had once, many months ago now, stirred some novel emotion to life in my heart, when I wished he had not. I had wished that persistent longing a quick death. It was inappropriate, disloyal.
Had it died?
I thought it had. Absence could deal a death blow to the most rabid of passions, or so I believed. Standing to the side as I was, my regard was fixed on his flat shoulders, the hawk-like outline of his profile, simply because he was an acquaintance and this was an event that spiked the air with danger. I was a mere onlooker, with more interest than good manners.
‘We welcome you, my lord of Hereford.’ Charles beckoned to one of his many minions, who approached with a cushion bearing a livery collar. ‘I would present you with this note of our esteem.’
Duke Henry knelt at Charles’s feet and the chain was cast over his bowed head to lie, glinting opulently.
‘I am honoured, Sire.’
‘Good. Good. That’s how it should be. We give you use of the Hotel de Clisson during your residence in Paris. It is close to us, here at the Hotel de St Pol. I wish you to feel at home as you take your place at my Court.’ Charles beamed.
Henry, standing again, said, ‘I would return to England soon, Sire.’
‘As I know. Your family ties are strong. But I think it will not be possible. Make yourself at ease with us, until you see in which direction the English wind will blow.’
‘My thanks, Sire. And my gratitude for this haven in a time of storms.’
Everything about him was familiar, yet I acknowledged the difference from the man who had asked my advice and, I presumed, had acted on it and bought Isabelle a doll, only two years ago. Now there was a rigidity about him that I did not recall, his shoulders tense under the livery chain. Magnificently groomed, clad as befitted an English prince, his voice was smooth and cultured yet lacking any emotion. There was none of the vibrancy of the Earl who had ridden to hounds with such panache, or who had shone in gilded Italian armour at the tournament. It was as if he was applying the demands of courtesy because it was inherent in a man of his breeding, but it seemed to be a bleak response, with little pleasure in it. How could that be when Charles had offered him a house for his own particular use in Paris? But what was this extremity? Why would Duke Henry need to test the English wind? My curiosity was roused, even more when I realised that Charles was continuing his extravagant welcome, that did not match the troubled frown on his brow.
‘My brother Orleans will see to your comfort, my lord. And here is the Duke of Brittany and his fair wife, well known to you.’ Charles gestured, with a hint of desperation, for us to step forward. ‘You will not lack for friends here, however long or short your stay. We will make it our priority that you pass the time agreeably with us.’
‘My thanks, Sire. I do not have the words to express my gratitude.’
The royal frown might mean nothing of course. Charles was not always in command of his reactions. And there was Duke Henry coming to clasp hands with my husband and salute my proffered fingers. The expression on his face could only be described as engraved in flint.
I smiled, murmured suitable words of welcome to cover my alarm. Now that I could inspect his face I could see that the passage of time, not of any great length, had for some reason taken its toll. There was a new level of gravity beneath the perfect manners, a tightening of the muscles of his jaw. He might smile in return but there was strain too in the deepening of the lines beside eye and mouth. They were not created by laughter or joy. Here was a man with trouble on his brow.
‘Come and dine with us when we are settled,’ John invited, offsetting a similar attempt by the Duke of Orleans to commandeer Duke Henry’s company. Which was interesting in itself, for Orleans was never without self-interest. ‘And then you may tell us why you are to stay as an honoured guest in France. My wife is, I believe, bursting with curiosity.’
‘I was too polite to mention it,’ I said, supremely matter-of-fact. ‘I endorse my husband’s invitation, but I promise we will not hound you if you do not wish to speak of it.’
Henry’s smile was sardonic. ‘I will, and with thanks. You deserve to know the truth. But you may not like the hearing. And I will not enjoy the telling.’
And I would discover what it was that had drawn the line between Henry’s brows, deep as a trench, and invited his mouth to shut like a trap, as if to speak again would allow the truth to pour out and scald us all. Whatever it was that had driven Duke Henry to take refuge at the Valois Court had hurt him deeply.
And no, the attraction was not dead at all. Merely dormant. Now it was shaken most thoroughly back into life.
*
The following day the Duke came to dine with us, a roil of temper all but visible beneath the Valois livery that he still wore out of deference to his host. In the meagre chambers found for us in the Hotel de St Pol, while our servants supplied us with platters of meats and good wine, we spoke of inconsequential matters, of family, of friends, even though Duke Henry’s mind was occupied elsewhere, and not pleasantly. I prompted him to talk of his sons and daughters. He asked after our own.
It was a good pretence. Some might have been led to believe that the Duke was troubled by nothing more than the discovery of some high-bred prince whom he considered a suitable match for his daughters. Some might have thought that I had no more than a desire to know of the health of Duchess Katherine.
Such ill-informed persons would have been wrong on both counts.
Servants dismissed, the door barely closing on their heels, the Duke cast his knife onto the table with a clatter. ‘You will have heard by now. I warrant the Court is talking of nothing else.’
So we had, and the Court was rife with it. The astonishing behaviour of the English King; the slight to his cousin who sat at our board with little appetite. We knew exactly why the Lancaster heir had found need to throw himself on the mercy of King Charles, and was detesting every minute of it. The heir to Lancaster had no wish to beg for sanctuary, here or at any other Court of Europe. I felt his shame, while John launched into the heart of the matter.
‘So you have been banished from England?’
Any relaxation engendered by the meat and wine vanished in the blink of the Duke’s eye, which became full of ire. Duke Henry placed his hands flat on the table with a flare of baleful fire from his rings and took a breath.
‘I have, by God, and for no good reason.’
‘Then tell us. What’s in your royal cousin’s mind?’
‘A false accusation of treason against me, which Richard chooses to believe for his own purposes.’
‘How long?’ John asked, the one pertinent question.
‘Ten years. God’s Blood! The Duke of Norfolk and I played magnificently into Richard’s hands, without realising what vicious calumny he had in mind. We fell into his trap as neatly as wolves into a hunter’s pit.’ Duke Henry’s explanation was clipped, almost expressionless in its delivery, but it was not difficult to read the underlying abhorrence. It positively simmered over the folds of his fashionable thigh-length tunic. ‘There was no reasoning with Richard. He would not even consider what might be owed to Lancaster, for our support and loyalty from the day he took the Crown as a boy of ten years. He owes my father so much, but there was no compassion in him.’ Now Duke Henry smoothed the fair cloth beneath his hands with short angry sweeps. ‘He banished Norfolk, who made the accusation of treason against me, for life. There was no leniency at all for him in Richard’s black heart.’
‘It will soon pass.’ I tried to be encouraging, but could see no encouragement in the vast expanse of ten years. ‘Could he not be persuaded to reconsider? Richard’s anger might grow cold as the weeks pass.’
‘I don’t anticipate it.’ Duke Henry’s regard was fierce as it rested momentarily on my face. ‘Do you see what he has achieved in this neat little strategy? Richard has rid himself of the last of the two Lords Appellant with one blow. Norfolk and I were two of the five who stood against him, and forced him to accept the advice of his counsellors. Three of the five are dead. Norfolk and I are the only two left, and so Richard struck, hard and sure. Richard will not go back on it. It’s not Richard’s way. There was no treason, simply an opportunity for Richard to take his revenge. I imagine he’s rubbing his hands with royal glee.’
‘What of your children?’ I asked, because I knew it would be a concern.
‘I don’t fear for them, if that’s what you mean. Hal, my heir, has been taken into the royal household, a hostage for my good behaviour. I despise Richard for that, but I don’t believe Hal’s in any danger except for being bored out of his mind by the never-ending ceremony of Richard’s Court. Besides, there’s nothing I can do about it other than have my brothers—my Beaufort half-brothers—keep a watchful eye.’ A pause grew, lengthening out as Duke Henry took up his cup and contemplated the wine in it, and I exchanged a hopeless glance with John. ‘I think it does not need saying—my real fear is for my father. Lancaster’s health is not good. My banishment aged him ten years overnight, so my fear is that he’ll not see out the length of my banishment before death claims him. It is in my mind that we will not meet again this side of the grave.’
It was a desperate cry that echoed beneath the formidable control. All I could do was leave John to make the only possible response:‘We must hope you are wrong. We will assuredly pray for a swift resolution and a speedy return for you.’
Duke Henry drained his cup. ‘It is in my mind to return to England, with or without royal permission.’ And seeing some reaction from John’s raised hand—a brusque denial of such a plan, of what the consequences might be—he looked towards me, with something approaching a scowl. ‘Will you offer advice again, Madam Joanna, to remedy this parlous state in which I find myself?’
Yet something in his request, polite as it was, suggested that Duke Henry did not want advice from me. Or from anyone. I raised my chin a little, detecting an underlying aggression. If he was humouring me, there was no need. I barely recognised this brittle individual from whom all the joy and the laughter had been stripped clean. Understandable of course, but I would be the target of no man’s ill-humour.
‘I will if you wish it,’ I said. ‘Although it had no good effect last time. As I recall, I advised the building of bridges and pleasing Isabelle. Which either failed—or you ignored.’
The heavy brows twitched together. Perhaps the dart had been unkind in the circumstances.
‘I worked hard to mend any quarrel with Richard. It failed, but that doesn’t mean your advice was flawed. What do you say now?’
I thought for a moment, weighing what I might say. Here was a man whose self-esteem had been damaged. How much he must resent having to bend the knee before Charles of Valois to beg for protection, to accept the condescending invitations of Orleans and Burgundy. To accept that he no longer wielded authority over his own lands and his own people. Even worse, to have the taint of treason hanging over him.
‘I would say…’ I began.
Before I could expand Duke Henry placed his cup, which he had been turning and turning in his hands, quietly onto the table, and quite deliberately let his gaze drop away from me.
‘No,’ he said, silencing me with a shake of his head. ‘No. There is no need. I know what I must do. My heart might pull me to return to England where I should cast myself on Richard’s mercy and hope for restoration so that my father will not be alone in his final years. Who’s to say that the climate in England might not change, so that I can return with the promise of a pardon?’ He grimaced, pushing the cup beyond his reach. ‘A pardon for something I had no hand in. Before God, it would stick in my gullet like week-old bread to have to beg for Richard’s forgiveness.
‘But we all know it would be to no avail. So, rejecting what my heart tells me, I know in my mind that it would be a fatal step to put myself in Richard’s hands. All my instincts tell me that I must stay clear of the shores of England until I have the chance of returning with more than a hope of redemption. As it is, I am declared traitor. If I went home, my life would be forfeit.’
‘It is what I would have advised,’ I said briskly, not a little ruffled, ‘if you had allowed it.’ Thinking that I might add: ‘Why ask, if you did not want to listen?’
But out of propriety I did not, and Duke Henry did not look at me but studied his hands, now loosely clasped.
‘And you have the right of it. I must not return. As long as my father continues in good health, I remain here in banishment.’
‘And I would say—stay in Paris,’ John added. ‘If things change in England, it’s not far for you to hear and take action. If you have to return fast, it can be arranged.’
‘I have no choice, do I?’
‘No. I don’t think you do.’
With no lightening of his countenance Duke Henry made his departure to his new residence, but not before a forthright explosion of his disillusionment.
‘How long will it be before King Charles decides that having a traitor in his midst is not good policy? Traitors are too dangerous to entertain, even visiting ones. I doubt I can rely on the friendship of Berry and Burgundy.’ He settled the velvet folds of his chaperon into an elegant sweep and pulled on his gloves with savage exactness. ‘I will be turned out of the Hotel Clisson and forced to make my living at the tournament.’
‘If such comes to pass,’ John remarked calmly, ‘you will come to us, of course.’
Which generated, at last, the semblance of a smile. ‘Only after I have apologised for my crude manners here today. Forgive me, Madam Joanna.’
His bow was as courtly as I could have expected, his salute on my hand the briefest brush of his lips. His final glance at me barely touched my face.
Alone, John wrapped his arm companionably around my waist as we walked through to the space that masqueraded as a bedchamber.
‘Although where we should put him I have no idea,’ he said as I sank onto the bed so that John could reach the coffer at the foot. ‘Do we support him, Joanna? It is a hard road for a young man with so many expectations. How fortunate that he did not remarry, in the circumstances.’ He sat back on his haunches, elbows resting on knees. ‘Treason leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Many here—your uncle of Burgundy for one—will take the line that there’s no smoke without a real conflagration. Officially he is accused of treason to the King of England, judged and banished. Many would question his right to be here at all. It’s a dangerous policy to support a traitor against a rightful king. Do we hold out the hand of friendship, or do we turn a cold shoulder?’
‘I suppose it all depends on if we consider him to be guilty,’ I said. ‘Do we?’
John did not take any time to consider. ‘No. I cannot think that. His sense of duty was engrained since birth. But what I do think is that we have to protect him from himself. He’ll not accept this lightly, and might be driven to some intemperate action.’
‘He’ll make his own decision.’ And found myself announcing, when I had sworn that I would not, because it sounded petulant even to my ears:‘He did not want my opinion, did he?’
‘Not every man is as foresighted as I.’ John smiled at my displeasure and, as he rose, patted me, neatly, on my head, forcing me to laugh. ‘I see your worth. One day Henry might too.’ He turned a book in his hand. ‘Now, what do you wish to do before the next interminable royal audience?’
‘Walk in the gardens. This place has no air.’
*
We fell into a pattern. Duke Henry came to us, formality abandoned. And when he did, John and Henry discussed politics: the uneasy stalemate between England and France, the dire situation of English and Breton piracy. They played chess, rode out to hunt, sampled some of John’s best wines, talked about Henry’s extensive travels in the east.
With me Henry also played chess but with less harmonious results.
‘You let me win.’ Indignantly I snatched up my knight that had cornered his king after a clumsy move by one of his pawns, a move a man gifted in the art of warfare, even if only on a chessboard, should never have contemplated.
‘I did no such thing.’ His regard was disconcertingly innocent.
‘You will never win a battle,’ I pronounced. ‘Your strategy is atrocious.’
‘Then I must learn, before I take to the battlefield,’ he pronounced gravely.
‘You walk a narrow path between truth and dissimulation, sir.’
Henry smiled.
‘And frequently fall off the edge,’ I added.
Indeed there had been no need for him to sacrifice his pawn. I was a match on the chessboard for any man. But he was chivalrous, impressive in his good manners, his mouth was generous when he smiled, and he was gifted in more than warfare. I discovered in him a love of the written word as he leafed through the pages of our books. Music moved him, and poetry. He tuned a discordant lute of mine to perfection.
So Henry and John took pleasure in each other’s company. But did I?
It was a bittersweet experience, driving me to my knees in repentance. Henry of Hereford took up residence in my thoughts once more and I could not dislodge him. He was there, like the annoyance of a bramble thorn beneath the skin. There were too many times when his entrance into a room where I sat or stood caused my heart to jump like one of our golden carp in our fishponds at Nantes. Or my blood to surge with the heat of mulled wine. Well, I would have to tolerate this discomfort until it passed me by, like the annoyance of a bad cold in winter. I could achieve that with equanimity. I would achieve it. I never held my breath when a man walked into the room.
I held it when Duke Henry visited and bowed over my hand. I held it when, his sleeve brushing against mine as we set up the chessmen once again, his proximity destroyed all my assurance. I held it when he took my lute, making it sing with bright joy or heart-wrenching grief, drawing his battle-hardened fingers across the strings. Duke Henry could sing too, effortlessly, without reticence, quick to be charmed into a rendition of Dante Alighieri’s song that could enflame any woman’s heart.
‘Love reigns serenely in my lady’s eyes,
Ennobling everything she looks upon;
Towards her, when she passes, all men turn,
And he whom she salutes feels his heart fail…’
Uninvited I joined my voice to his in counterpoint, so that he smiled:
‘All sweetness, all humility of thought
Stir in the heart of him who hears her speak;
And he who sees her first is blest indeed.’
It was sung with commitment, with delight in the words and music, but with no wilful treachery. We were not lovers exclaiming over our enchantment. Henry was not moved by the same yearning as I, that undermined with desire every lightly offered melody, and nor was I capable of such deceit. John, an indulgent audience, was tolerant but music moved him less than his gardens and the tales of travellers. He retreated into plans for planting aromatic shrubs at Nantes, leaving me awash with the seduction of music and shared passions. More breathless than ever, and not from the singing.
I stowed away the chess pieces in their box, placed my lute in my travelling coffer. It seemed to me to be a wise move.
And then my royal cousin King Charles, in his innocence, intervened.
‘So what is Charles doing to entertain you this week?’ John asked with more slyness than necessary as we finished off the crumbs and sweetmeats of a desultory supper. ‘Any more theological arguments to exercise your mind when you have nothing else to think about?’
‘This week it’s marriage,’ Henry announced, his expression carefully austere.
‘Whose?’
‘Mine.’
‘You are to be wed?’ John was obviously amused.
‘King Charles, in a fit of sanity, sees a means of chaining me to his side, whatever the future might hold. He seeks a bride for me. A French lady of some distinction.’
John might be amused, but did I find amusement in this clever strategic manoeuvring? I could understand it well enough. Whatever the outcome of this temporary isolation for Duke Henry, since one day he would assuredly regain his inheritance it might be good policy to make him a friend of France through a desirable marriage. Good policy indeed. And yet my hands stilled on my lap, my knuckles as white as the sun-bleached linen that covered the table. A new bride. Was that not what we had all expected? I should wish him well.
‘And who is the fortunate lady?’ I sounded to have a genuine interest.
‘A cousin of yours. The Duke of Berry’s daughter.’
I allowed my brows to rise gently. ‘A powerful match. An important bride. King Charles values you highly.’
‘Even though I am banished, my reputation tarnished beyond repair.’
‘You will not always be.’ His cynicism was difficult to bear, particularly when he spoke nought but the truth.
‘It seems a lifetime.’ Henry promptly adopted a bleak stoicism. ‘So the Valois would condescend to me, and I must accept. Tell me about her. Should I seek it? After all, I have nothing to lose.’
‘And much to gain.’ John waved his hand in my direction. ‘Joanna will tell you all you need to know about the lady. She has the convoluted relationships of the Valois family at her fingertips.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied immediately. ‘You should snatch at it.’
I would have dragged him away from such a marriage. From any marriage.
How can you be so selfish? His future is not yours to direct.
I forced an astonishing depth of approval into my voice. She would make him an exemplary wife. And as I did so, became aware of John beaming at me. My lord and husband. My dear friend. He did not deserve my disloyalty, not to any degree. Morality decreed that I turn my thoughts to him, not to Duke Henry. Was I not a woman of high principle?
Never had I known such inner conflict. When a woman knew nothing of love-lorn longings, she did not yearn for them. Now my heart was sore with them, wretched with jealousy.
‘She is a widow, I understand,’ Henry was observing.
‘Twice over,’ determined, in atonement, to paint Cousin Mary in the best of lights,‘but she married very young and was widowed within five years. She has four children by her second husband. She administers the land for her son with considerable aplomb.’ I took another breath and began to dig a grave for my own sharp desire as my fingers picked apart the tough skin of a late fig. ‘Mary would make an excellent wife for a man of rank.’
‘She is younger than I.’
‘By a good few years,’ I admitted with praiseworthy warmth. ‘Mary is held to be elegant and attractive. If my uncle of Berry considers you a suitable match for his daughter, you should be honoured. His pride is a thing of wonder, as is his wealth. Take her.’ I paused, reading the set of his mouth very well. ‘I don’t believe you need my advice,’ I chided. ‘I think you knew what you intended to do, without any eulogies from me.’
‘Perhaps. But I wanted to know what you would say.’ His eyes were lightly appreciative on mine. ‘If you vouch for her abilities and affections, I would be a fool to refuse.’
Aware of the uncomfortable warmth at my temples, I forced a smile. ‘So now you know that I can say nothing but good about her. Tell Charles that you will take a French bride.’
Henry’s shoulder lifted, a touch of grace. ‘If I must wed, this elegant and attractive lady would seem the perfect choice. It will not harm me to have the Duke of Berry on my side. Or King Charles if he is willing to entrust his niece to my care. And since you are so eloquent in her cause…’
‘Have you not met her?’ John asked, forestalling me.
‘No. It is arranged that I will do so next week. She is invited to attend one of the assemblies at the Hotel de St Pol. I am invited too.’
‘Give her my love,’ I said dryly. ‘And my felicitations for a fruitful union.’
Wishing my elegant and attractive cousin Mary, quite frankly, to the devil.
*
The meeting was duly arranged to introduce the bridal pair, and because it was a family occasion, John and I were invited too. As on all such prestigious occasions, my charming cousin Mary was paraded before Henry as an exemplary wife, tricked out in courtly style with a fortune of fine gems in the collar that enhanced her not insignificant bosom. The Court watched indulgently. I watched less indulgently, and then I did not watch indulgently at all.
Henry saluted Mary’s fingers, then her cheek, with rare grace.
They talked seriously, with much to say between them.
They laughed.
They danced.
It would be an exceptional marriage for both of them.
Mary was young, younger than I, and beautiful.
Earl Henry smiled with true enjoyment as he led his partner in the procession, tilting his head so that he could hear her flattering address and reply.
I could watch no more.
I was ashamed.
*
‘Will you dance, Madam Joanna?’
I considered refusing, but that would be too particular. Of course he would invite me, because Duke Henry was courteous to the tips of his finely curled hair. And I would accept. It was inappropriate to draw attention to one’s emotions when surrounded by a keen-eyed, gossip-ridden, manipulative Court. In my own family, in Navarre, I had learned early that it was dangerous to show either pain or pleasure; it threw you into the clutches of those who would use their knowledge to their own advantage. Such as my father. My father’s children developed a disinterestedness worthy of the purest saint facing his martyrdom.
I was intent on moving out of the shadow of King Charles the Bad, to prove myself to be a woman of integrity and honesty and strong principle. Charles the Bad might have trampled over the talents of his daughters, unaware that they even existed, but I would show the world that Joanna of Navarre was worthy of note.
‘It will be my pleasure, sir,’ I consented, magnificently mild in my accord.
Taking my hand, Duke Henry led me into yet another formal procession which did not allow for conversation or privacy, except for:
‘Did you enjoy Mary’s company?’ I asked, curious despite my antipathy.
‘Lady Mary is a woman of great charm.’ Our palms kissed, parted, rejoined. ‘She dances with a formidable lightness of foot.’
Oh, it hurt.
‘An exemplary woman,’ I agreed as we came together again, his fingers a quick intimacy, a most impersonal one, as he led me through a trio of light dancing steps, in which I apparently was no match for my superlative cousin.
‘She converses well too.’
‘Which will be an advantage, I believe, at Richard’s Court when you return home.’
‘Indeed. Richard will admire her and take her to his heart.’
With a decided gleam, Duke Henry’s eyes touched on mine. Then held there, considering. I thought he would have spoken, but the interweaving of the procession led us apart again so the moment was lost when I found myself partnered with my cousin of Orleans, my concentration taken up in avoiding his large and inept feet. Until, restored to Duke Henry at the completing of the procession, the minstrels falling silent, our companion dancers drifted away to find refreshment and new partners. Duke Henry remained holding my hand, our arms raised aloft in an elegant arch, as if we still had the final steps to complete, his face set in surprisingly solemn lines.
‘I have you to thank. Your judgement of your cousin was correct in all aspects.’ He lowered our arms, but did not completely break the contact. ‘She is lovely, in face and in mind. She is intelligent, well read, devout. A woman who has more in her thoughts than the cloth of her gown and the cut of her bodice.’ He paused. His soft voice was in no manner sardonic. ‘A woman who I consider to be capable of great loyalty, and affection. She would be a perfect bride for a Lancaster.’
Whereas he had described me as merely handsome. Jealousy, sour as unripe pippins, nibbled at the edges of my smile so that my reply was more barbed than I would have wished. ‘And all this discovered within the time and space of one dance.’
‘Of course. We had much to talk about. If we are to be wed, we must make up for lost opportunities.’
I turned to look at him. There was nothing in his face but discreet admiration for my spritely cousin, now dancing with another Valois lord.
‘You forgot her ability to ride to the hunt and play the lute,’ I added.
‘No. I did not forget. It did not need mentioning. She will be acceptable in every way, my lady.’
‘Then I wish you every happiness.’
Why should the Duke not wed her? Why should he not find happiness with this charming cousin? Her connections were impeccable. She would be of inestimable value. Yet such a declaration of admiration on so short an acquaintance shook me, even as I knew that I was too old and too wise for such unwarranted sentiments. Sadly, my envy knew no bounds. With the briefest of curtseys I turned on my heel and left him. I did not want him to marry my decidedly attractive cousin. I wanted…but I did not know what I wanted. Nor could I have it, even if I did.
I prayed hard that night. For composure. For a return of the stillness in my mind and heart. For a return of the acceptance of my life as it was. Inflicting my own penance, I prayed for the success of this marriage to Mary of Berry. It would be suitable reparation and the pain for me would be immeasurable. Which I undoubtedly deserved.
*
The next week we all attended one of the regular Court audiences. King Charles, shuffling his feet, encased in an unfortunate shade of vermilion, let his gaze slide to one side, then slide back again. The sudden sharp tension, that came to hang in the air like a noisome odour, increased when he stared at Henry, his mouth twisting in disapprobation.
Henry, straight-backed, was absorbing the tension too.
And then I saw, as Mary turned her head to look at her betrothed. What I read there made my belly lurch. When I would have expected her to show her approval, her pleasure, her mouth was as sharp set as if she had been dosed against worms with bitter purge of hyssop. Present with her family, she bent her head to hear some whispered comment from her father.
And in that moment, touched by a presentiment of danger, if I could have stopped the whole proceedings by some deep magic I would have done so. Instead all I could do was to stand, perfectly still and let events take their course.
Blinking furiously, Charles beckoned the Duke of Burgundy who, horribly prepared, stepped forward from his place beside the royal throne. He cleared his throat loudly, before announcing in the clearest of accents, staring at Henry as he did so:
‘King Charles wishes it to be known. This proposed marriage between the Lady Mary of Berry and the Duke of Hereford is anathema. We cannot think of marrying our cousin the Lady Mary to a traitor.’
Traitor. The fatal word dropped into a sudden silence.
What a masterpiece of insensitivity. Of cold discourtesy. Of humiliation directed at a son of so noble and royal a family. It was beyond belief that such a rebuttal should have been made, when Duke Henry had been received and feted for so many weeks at the royal court. And announced by the Duke of Burgundy no less, and so publically. A wall of held breath seemed to hem us in.
‘So now we know what this was all about,’ John murmured at my side.
‘Yes.’
My throat was as dry as the dust motes glinting in the stale air. My heart bled for the Duke. Every inch of him was governed, his voice evenly controlled, now addressing the King rather than Burgundy.
‘I am no traitor, Sire. If any man here charges me with treason I will answer him in combat. Now, or at whatever time the King may appoint.’
‘No, cousin.’ It was Charles who replied. ‘I do not believe you will find a man in all of France who will challenge your honour. The expression my uncle saw fit to use comes from England, not from us.’
‘From England?’
And there, in the two words, was the anger in him, the sheer fury, burning hot beneath his denial.
‘We have had an embassy. From your cousin, King Richard.’ Charles’s gaze once again slid away, his words as slippery as his expression. ‘He advised that no marriage should be contemplated with a man under the burden of treachery against his King.’ He paused. ‘But rest assured. We will stand as your friend—until better times. We will not cast you off entirely. We hope that you will one day prove your innocence.’
But you will question his integrity before the whole court, I thought. It could not have been plainer. All eyes were on Henry. Deny it, I willed him. Argue the rightness of your cause. But of what value would that have been?
Henry knew it too. With stark elegance he sank to his knees before the King, head bent in submission. ‘Then may God preserve my friends and confound my enemies!’ He could not hide the bitterness, but Charles chose to ignore it, waving to him to rise.
‘We will talk of marriage again. But first you must obtain your inheritance, for it will be necessary for you to make provision for your wife before we can move forward.’ Charles beamed as if he had hit on the perfect way to rid himself of this uncomfortable situation. ‘You will understand, my lord. When your inheritance is secure, return to our Court, and we will listen to you again.’
Which left Duke Henry no path to take but one of acceptance. Turning, his gaze swept over the ranks of avid courtiers who slavered over his every word, like a pack of hunting dogs scenting its prey; lingered on the Duke of Berry and his lovely daughter who looked anywhere but at Henry; touched on the frowning figure of the Duke of Burgundy. And then they rested on me, but momentarily, with what message I could not read, while I tried to wish him courage.
‘My thanks, Sire,’ was all he said. ‘I am grateful for your forbearance. And for that of your tolerant Court.’
Without a further acknowledgement of those present, Henry did what I knew he would do. He bowed with grace and walked from the room. And as if this ultimate degradation of one of its number had never occurred, the Valois Court again broke into conversation and laughter; hard and callous and unfeeling.
Anger drove out all other thoughts from my mind. ‘Could it have been done no other way?’ I demanded of John, sotto voce.
‘It was not tactful. Burgundy is never tactful.’ He took my arm. ‘I think we had better rescue our protégé from the depths of despair.’
I had seen anger. But despair?‘But the King absolved him of treason. Didn’t he?’
John’s flat brows said it all. There had been no absolution here, only a cowardly sidestepping of the issue. But first things first.
‘I have need of a moment with my cousin,’ I said.
I could not leave it like this. Calmly smiling, answering greetings as I went, I was at Mary’s side, wasting no time in fine words.
‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was planned here. You knew it would strip his pride from him. How could you not warn him of this little conspiracy to humiliate him and damage his reputation for honesty and integrity beyond repair.’
‘What is it to you?’ There was undoubtedly guilt from the set of Mary’s fine jaw to the clench of her hands into inelegant fists. ‘What could I have done?’
‘Could you not have warned him?’
‘I was told not to discuss it.’
‘So you let him go into that bear pit unprotected. To be torn apart by the dogs.’
Mary tilted her chin. ‘Duke Henry needed no protection from me.’
‘He deserved to know that he would be proclaimed traitor before the whole Court!’
There was high colour in her cheeks. ‘It’s a marriage I’m well out of. If a man feels threatened, his judgement can be impaired.’ Her eyes flitted over my face. ‘What I don’t understand is why you should take me to task. What is he to you?’
‘He is a friend.’ I would not be discomfited. ‘Friends should be treated with honour.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘You are very hot in his defence, Joanna.’
‘And you are cold for a woman who, yesterday, was not averse to marriage.’
‘Such heat, my dear Joanna, is unbecoming and could be misconstrued.’
Here was danger. ‘I know the value of friendship,’ I replied, smooth as the silk of my girdle. Yet gratitude was strong as John appeared at my side to rescue me, saying:‘My wife is supportive of Duke Henry, for my sake. The family is very much in my heart. We take it ill when his good name is blackened for no reason.’
Mary, a little flushed at the mild chastisement, bit her lip, while I withdrew into icy civility. Perhaps I had been intemperate but injustice could not be tolerated. If I had known as she did, I would have done all in my power to protect him.
‘Forgive me, Mary, but it was not well done. Not at all.’
‘Would you have disobeyed your father? I doubt it.’
‘I might well if I thought it honourable. You are no longer a child. You have a right to your own thoughts on these matters.’
Mary turned away, leaving me to explain my intemperance to John, who was regarding me with some irony.
‘Well, that put Mary firmly in her place, didn’t it?’
‘It had to be said.’
‘But perhaps not so furiously.’
‘I thought I was very restrained.’
‘Then God help us when you are not.’
*
In the aftermath, Henry bore the affront to his dignity with a fortitude stronger than any I had ever witnessed, even knowing that it was King Richard who, in the name of his little Valois wife, had dispatched an ambassador, the Earl of Salisbury, festooned with seals and letters of credence, demanding that Charles rescind his offer of marriage and sanctuary. Duke Henry accepted the judgement with nerve-chilling control.
‘My father’s loyalty to the English Crown, and mine, is beyond debate. This is how Richard repays me, making me persona non grata in every Court of Europe. A political liability.’ He was pale, as if he had suffered a blow from a mailed fist, but his delivery was eloquent. ‘I have been conspicuously loyal to him for ten years, since the Lords Appellant set his feet on the path to fair government. I have done everything in my power to support my cousin. Now he destroys my good name, hounding me when I could have made a temporary life for myself here in France. My every motive, my principles, every tenet of my life—all now suspect. So Charles will think again of the marriage, when I have come into my inheritance? Before God, he will not!’
Which summed it up succinctly, as cold and crisp as winter ice beneath the tumult in his eyes. Duke Henry glowered like a thunder cloud about to break and deluge us all.
‘Richard considers me a traitor, worthy of banishment. How can the courts of Europe cast that aside, as an accusation of no merit? I know that Charles has tolerated me because of my Lancaster blood, and you too because of past friendships, but unless I can clear my name there will always be rank suspicion hanging over me. And how can I clear my name? Until I can return to England and take my place again as heir to Lancaster with Richard’s blessing, there is no hope for my restitution. And I think I will never have Richard’s blessing. He has covered it well over the years with smiles and gestures of friendship, but he despises the air I breathe.’
Henry had understood from the beginning the insecurity of his position. He might have been lured into believing he could make a home here and wait out the empty years with French support and a French wife, but I thought he had never truly believed that. He had always envisaged this ending. Now his masterly summing up left neither John nor I with anything to say. As he faced the uncertain future, I admired him more than I dared admit. A proud man driven to his knees. A man of honour forced to accept the charge, and bear it, because there was no evidence that he was not a traitor. What would his denial weigh against the conviction of King Richard?
‘What can we do to help him?’ I asked John, hollow with regret when he had gone.
‘Not a thing.’
As bleak a reply as I could envisage.
*
Couriers brought the news. Surely there should have been storms and fiery comets lighting the heavens, signs of great portent? There were none. The stars continued to pursue their habitual path. The sun rose and set without interruption, when John, Duke of Lancaster, the greatest of the Plantagenet princes, passed from this life. It was rumoured that King Richard heard of his uncle’s demise with a sort of joy, but no one spoke of it in Duke Henry’s hearing. There would have been no rejoicing at Leicester where Lancaster breathed his last, alone except for his wife Katherine, without the comfort of his son and heir, over whose unprotected head the clouds grew blacker yet.
In Paris a High Mass was ordered by King Charles, to pray for Lancaster’s soul.
But Henry was Lancaster now. A man of title, of land and pre-eminent rank, yet a man destined to kick his heels in whichever court of Europe would accept him for the next hand-span of years, the charge of treason dogging his every step.
The Mass, honoured by the entire Valois household, was a dour occasion despite the glitter of jewels on every shoulder, every breast. Incense clogged every sense, flattening the responses, while Henry was immaculately calm under the pressure of so much official compassion. But beneath the composure the degradation and fury continued to seethe, for his pride had been stripped from him along with his freedom to order his life as he wished. I could sense it in the manner in which he held his head, his gaze fixed on the glitter of gold and candles on the high altar, his lips barely moving as we prayed for his father’s soul. Lancaster might be at peace but his son was not. I prayed for him too.
Holy Virgin. Grant him succour when he despairs of the future.
‘Have courage,’ John said, when Henry had extricated himself from the Valois embrace, and we returned to our chambers where we could take our leave in private. We were going home to Brittany. ‘Is that not what your father would have advised? Hold to what you know is right. We cannot see the future.’
‘That’s what I fear.’
His expression was as aloof as the one he had maintained throughout the Mass.
‘It may be better than you envisage. Where will you go?’
‘There’s nothing to stop me crusading again now. A crusade is being planned,’ Duke Henry announced. ‘To rescue the King of Hungary from the Bayezid. What better way to earn my redemption than in the service of God? I have nine years to fill.’ He rolled his shoulders, as if to do so could dislodge the guilt that sat there like some malevolent imp. ‘I am Duke of Lancaster. I have a duty to that title. My lands need me. My people need me.’
‘We have talked of this, Henry. To return now could be to sign your death warrant.’ John clasped his hand. ‘We have good hunting in Brittany. Come and enjoy it and let your mind rest a little.’ John smiled at me, placed a hand on my shoulder with a light pressure. ‘I have a courier awaiting my pleasure. I’ll leave you to persuade him, Joanna, or send him on his way…’
We were alone. Folding my hands flat over the crucifix on its heavy chain, pressing its wrought silver outline hard against my heart, I ordered my words to those of emotionless leave taking.
‘Farewell, Henry. I wish you well, whatever life holds for you. I will pray for you.’
For a moment he did not reply, head bent. Then, looking up, startling me:
‘Tell me what is in your heart, Joanna.’
It was a shock, to be invited to speak of what had lived with me for so long. My eyes searched his face, trying to detect the pattern of his thoughts, but could read nothing there except the familiar intensity when emotion rode him hard, as it had been since Burgundy’s so very public denunciation.
‘I cannot. You know that I cannot,’ I said.
The curve of his lips was wry, before disappearing completely beneath a stern line. ‘No. For it would simply compound the issue between us, would it not? It was wrong of me to ask it of you. I will not press you.’
The cross made indentation into the embroidered funeral damask of my bodice. And into my palm. My heart thudded beneath both. I watched his breathing beneath the black silk of his tunic pause as, slowly, he raised and held out his hand, in his offered palm a request. For the length of a breath I did not move, until compelled by some unseen force I released the crucifix. I placed my hand in his. But when I expected him to kiss my fingertips, as he might in farewell, he turned it palm up, and traced the imprint of the cross there with his thumb.
‘Even here we are reminded of solemn vows, of lines of duty and honour and conviction that we must not cross,’ he said. ‘It is not an easy choice, is it?’
Henry pressed his mouth to my palm where the indentation was beginning to disappear, leaving an even more burning imprint, rendering me breathless, my skin aware of the sudden brilliance in the air around me.
I looked at him, every nerve stretched tight. Henry looked at me, every thought governed. The walls of the room seemed to close in around us, suffocatingly, the flatly stitched faces on Charles’s expensive tapestries agog, the figures almost leaning to hear more.
There was no more to hear. With a bow Duke Henry was gone, leaving the chamber, and me, echoing in emptiness. The tapestried figures retreated to their seats in the flowery glade. I could do nothing but stand and regard the closed door, my fingers tight-closed over my palm where I would swear the imprint still remained.
How guarded we had been. How vigilant in our use of words. Not once had we spoken of what might be in our hearts. But then, I did not know what was in his, for he had never said.
