Читать книгу The Queen's Choice - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 11
ОглавлениеJune 1399: Château of Nantes, Brittany
I lifted my head, interrupted from the conversation with my eldest daughter. Visitors. The clamour of a distant arrival: voices, orders given, the clatter of hooves. A small party, I assumed, coming to visit us at Nantes where we had settled for the summer months, fending off the heat and lethargy as best we might with breezes from the coast. It was a good time, with a visit from my eldest daughter Marie, who was chattering beside me like a small blue-clad bird. We were shade-seeking, in the garden overlooking the placid estuary waters of the River Loire.
‘Are you enjoying your new home?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, maman. Although I miss you and my sisters. Not my brothers so much. But Jean is kind to me. And Madam his mother.’
Seated on a low stool, she crossed her ankles and linked her fingers. How unsettlingly adult she was. Eight years old. It was a year since we had celebrated her marriage to Jean, the fourteen-year-old heir to the Count of Alençon, and now Marie was living in the Alençon household in the Château de l’Hermine. I recalled being adamant, on the occasion of Isabelle’s wedding to the English king, that no daughter of mine would be dispatched to so early a union, but alliances were necessary, marriages made. The Alençons were cousins and kind. I had no complaint in their care of her as she grew up to become a wife in more than name. It amused me when, abandoning her dignity, she took possession of a bat and ball, hitching her sophisticated skirts.
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.’
The words shivered over me, through me, and I replied as I wished to, as he would want me to. As, now I realised in those moments of blinding revelation, John had given me permission to reply. Flattening all my pride, my lips burning as I spoke, my tongue forming the words I had never said before to any man, and with such ease:‘I love you, Henry of Lancaster.’
‘There, it is done. Our love acknowledged in God’s presence.’ He smiled at me, all his beauty restored, all the harsh anger of the last hour stripped away. Yet he took a step away from me. ‘I will not kiss you again.’
But it was not enough. Not at all enough.
‘Then I will kiss you.’
And with a step I did so, abandoning my habitual reserve, as with grave courtesy, mouth against mouth, reawakening the same sensations so that my heart beat hard beneath my bodice, my blood raced beneath skin that suddenly felt fragile.
The kiss ending, I pursued what I desired without permission, tracing the contours of Henry’s face with my fingertips, as he had traced mine. The straight nose, the uncompromising brows, the line of his lips, the springing texture of his hair, the contour of his jaw, as if I might absorb a memory that would remain with me for the rest of my life. And this from a woman who guarded her emotions, shielding herself from any power to hurt or destroy. I was shaken with amazement at my courage as I allowed Henry to read my thoughts, my utter longing.
At last I let my hand fall away.
‘Will you remember me?’ Henry asked.
‘Yes. I will remember.’
It seemed to me that an abyss was suddenly yawning between us.
‘You will be careful,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
A tense little silence fell, tight-held with unspoken emotion, as once more he gathered my hands into his. The warmth was enough. It would have to be enough.
‘I will use the Book of Hours, every day.’ It was Henry who broke the silence. ‘Will you pray for me? Even though…’ He shrugged, his smile a little twisted.
Even though I stir up insurrection against my cousin. ‘Yes. I will pray for you.’
‘There is so much I would say. But we both know it would be wrong.’
‘A betrayal of trust and much kindness.’ I sought for the words amidst my grief that we might never speak again. ‘It is in my heart that you succeed. And that you find a wife who will bring you strength and comfort.’
‘She will always be second best. A pale shadow. I must not let her know my heart is given elsewhere.’ He raised his head, listening, becoming aware of the outside world and all it demanded from him. ‘I must go, Joanna. It will be best if you remain here…’
One of the little windows beside us had been opened by the priest to allow a breath of air to enter. Seeing it, inspired by some quirk of his imagination, Henry drew me with him as he placed the palm of his hand flat against the dusty glass, fingers spread across the deep blue and red and gold of the craftsman’s art in depicting an angelic throng. And without a word passing between us, I placed mine on the opposite side of the pane, so that my palm matched his perfectly, spreading my fingers so that they covered his as much as I was able. The glass was sun-warmed, the colours deep and rich, heavy with gilding.
It was not a kiss. No it was not, but it was as if the colours bound us together.
‘I will never forget you,’ he said softly.
‘Will you write and tell us?’ I asked. ‘To tell us how you fare?’And then I wished I had not asked. Better to let our lives diverge as they must without keeping the useless skeins intact. ‘No. I think you should not,’ I added.
I knew he understood, for he nodded. ‘I will when I can. It will be all about armies and finance and inheritance. Farewell, Joanna. Farewell, my love.’
‘Adieu. God go with you, Henry.’
He was the first to remove his hand. The colours around me seemed less bright.
When Henry collected his accoutrements and the book, despite his express wishes, I followed him out into the courtyard to keep a last, final image of him, and as I did so, a thought touched me.
‘Why did you come here today? If you would refuse John’s proffered aid, why travel so far? You could have told us of your intent by courier.’
Henry turned.
‘You know the answer, Joanna.’ Never had my name sounded so like a caress. ‘It was to see you, even if we could not be alone, to say goodbye. I was not so soaked in passion at Richard’s injustice that I could leave you without your knowing.’
So he feared death. He feared for the future. But he loved me enough to put his fears aside and come to me.
Henry bowed, to any onlooker the bow of the most respectful of courtiers to the Duchess of Brittany.
‘I may die in battle. I may succeed in taking back what is mine. I may wed again. Whatever the future holds for me, I swear I will never forget you, in this world or the next.’
*
‘He has gone.’
Could any phrase be more empty, more lacking in hope?
I had returned to our chamber with its rounded walls and fair aspect. I could have gone back to the garden, where the shouts and laughter of the children carried to us, a shrill squawk of impatience cutting through the rest. But I could not laugh with them. I could have returned to the chapel antechamber, to sit on the tiles in the dust and allow the sun-warmed colours to heal my loss. But the Duchess of Brittany did not sit on the floor and mourn. Besides, it would have been a coward’s way out. I had to face my husband. The generosity of what he had done shivered over my skin, like the brush of a goose-quill. For now I understood the quality of the gift that John had bestowed on me, a gift of vast proportions, worthy of a man with a truly great soul.
Where was my loyalty now? Treachery was not only committed by men who took up arms against their liege lord, for had I not snatched at the gift John had given me?
Head lifted, spine straight, I walked in, to stand before the table where John had taken up his occupation with pen in hand, a map under his elbow. At his side, Henry’s empty chair and discarded wine cup. My eyes were on my husband’s when they lifted to my face.
‘He has gone,’ I said. ‘I gave him the Book of Hours.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘I knew you would. And you said farewell.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have an attraction towards him. Or I might even say that you love him.’
A statement. Two statements, not questions. And so simply expressed. Not wrapped around in troubadour’s words or in the accusation of a furious husband. It was as if John had struck me, but not a hard blow and there was indeed no accusation in his face. Only an acceptance.
‘Yes, I do,’ I admitted simply. I would not deny his generosity with a lie. ‘I love him without reason. Without cause. Without any encouragement from him. Or from me.’
Hands folded, breathing held in check, I could say no other. Nor could I apologise for what had been not of my seeking. All I could do was hope he would understand. And forgive.
‘I can see it in you.’
‘You sent me with the book,’ I said, as all had become plain, like an outline etched on glass. ‘So that we could say adieu alone.’
‘And anything else that needed to be said between you—without an audience.’
So he had. It had been deliberate, as I now realised. An offering of such impossible indulgence, so that Henry and I might speak of this emotion that held us so strongly. For John had given me—had given both of us—his permission to say farewell. He had offered me his permission to acknowledge the love that had so wantonly undermined the vows made in my marriage to him. He had allowed me his permission to admit, without treachery, that I loved Henry of Lancaster, and then draw a line of finality beneath it, for the Duke’s future was far distant from mine.
In that one astonishingly clever and compassionate move, John had demolished the pride in me that had refused to allow me to acknowledge, or certainly act on, so flighty an emotion as love. What manner of man did that make my husband? One of such honour and magnanimity beyond my imagining. Or beyond my deserts.
‘I cannot believe your indulgence towards me,’I said with difficulty. ‘And I am ashamed. I am sorry. I have betrayed you.’
John shook his head. ‘You have never done that.’ Then: ‘Will you go with him? To England?’
If John’s knowledge of my feelings had rocked the foundations of my self-control, this set my belly to roil. Go with Henry? Abandon my marriage and family? How could he think it of me?
‘No, John! Never! How could I do that?’
As he swept the feather of the pen across the carefully drawn coastline, his expression was benign.
‘You could if you wished it enough. There would be scandal, but men and women have parted throughout the ages, when the horror of living apart from the one they loved became stronger than the fear of the world’s condemnation.’ He placed the pen on the table and linked his fingers quite calmly as if discussing some matter of business. ‘It is not given to everyone to love with fervour.’ And when I would have denied any emotion so extreme, John raised his hand. ‘Your love for him is immeasurable. I see it in your face when you look at him. It astonishes you.’ His mouth took on the faintest of smiles although I thought there was no humour in him. ‘You never looked at me like that. Nor did I expect it. Ours was never that sort of marriage. Will you go with him?’
‘He has not asked it of me.’
‘No. He would not, of course. He is a man of honour. But would he wish it?’
‘I don’t know. We did not speak of such things.’
‘Both too honourable.’
‘But I am not honourable.’ Confession was difficult but must be made. ‘I would never betray you in body, but my mind knows only disobedience. I cannot govern it.’
‘Nor do you have to.’ John stood, walking round the table to stand before me. ‘Our marriage was one of political alignment. We both knew that. It was not one of love.’
‘But it should have been one of loyalty. I hope I have been a good wife to you.’
He took my hands in his, his thumbs stroking over my wrists where the blood beat, heavy with guilt. And loss.
‘I can think of none better. Three times I took a new wife to bed, making the best alliances I could for Brittany. Mary Plantagenet. Joan Holland. Both English, they were good wives. But you have been the best. Do we not talk? Do we not share interests and laugh together? Do you not share my duties in this land which is not yours by birth? No man could ask for a better woman at his side in affairs of business. You have given me the gift of your intellect and the finest brood of children any man could ask for.’ Leaning, he placed a kiss between my brows. ‘I’ll not upbraid you for discovering an attraction for another man. I am nearing my sixtieth year and can never give you the passion that Henry of Lancaster could give you. You are still so young…’
He touched my lips with one finger when I would have remonstrated.
‘No. Listen. I give you permission to think of Henry without guilt. It was never my intention to replace the tyranny of a deranged father with that of an old and importunate husband.’
I would not be silenced. His nobility was a marvel that tore at my heart. So much emotion, all in one afternoon.
‘Ah, John. That is not how I see you. You are no tyrant. Nor will I ever leave you. My duty lies here with you and our children. More than duty. My affection is bound up in all we have here together. Can you question my loyalty?’
‘No, never. And I accept your word. I think you are my friend as well as my wife. You always have been, since that first day when as a young girl you took your vows.’
‘And so I shall remain. I have said my farewells. Henry will go to England, he will become King if fortune smiles on him, and perhaps my cousin Mary will be offered to him once he is respectable again with a crown on his head.’
‘Perhaps so.’
And John folded me into his arms, his hand gently on my head so that my face was pressed against his shoulder. Tears were heavy in my chest, for Henry’s danger, for John’s nobility, for my guilt, but I would not weep for another man in John’s arms. That would indeed be a betrayal. How generous. How caring. I had not thought that John loved me, but then, there were so many degrees of love. My gratitude for his understanding was overwhelming but I would not thank him again for it. It would be a denial of his own grace and compassion in making the sacrifice.
It would be another layer of betrayal, if I accepted the right to think of Henry.
Thus, all decided however hard it might be, I would continue to be the best wife that I could. I would banish Henry. And if I could not, then he must exist on the very edges of my thoughts. That was what I promised with my forehead pressed tight against the sumptuous weave of John’s tunic, his arms a haven around me. I would put Henry in his proper place. I was Duchess of Brittany. I would dedicate my life to that.
John was the first to move, raising his head, looking towards the window.
‘That sounded like tears. Perhaps we should intervene…’
‘I think so. Our daughter still has not the patience worthy of the future Countess of Alençon.’
‘She will learn. She will learn well from her mother.’
We went down to the riverside in accord. No one would ever guess that my thoughts struggled to fly elsewhere, rather than remain here in this sun-washed garden where my daughters clamoured for attention and my husband dropped a kiss on my cheek as he placed Blanche on my lap. I hugged her close, as I held tight to the marvellous gift that John had just given to me, the freedom to admit, at last, freely and without restraint, my love for Henry of Lancaster.
*
‘He has done it! He has actually done it, by God!’ ‘Who has done what?’ I barely looked up from yet another damaged lute-string. Marguerite had been practising, ineptly.
John patted me on the head as if I were Marguerite, an endearing habit. ‘Henry, of course. Our Duke of Lancaster has achieved the impossible, and, in retrospect, I’m not sure what I think about it. And the fact that I actually encouraged him. Write to him!’
Thus John’s announcement in the autumn of that year.
And so I wrote.
To my honoured lord and cousin, Henry, King of England, I write from myself and my lord the Duke to express our pleasure at your achievements. We heard the news with relief and know that you will uphold justice in your new realm. We hope that you continue in good health and that your children do likewise. We will continue to pray for you, that the Holy Ghost will keep you safe in His keeping.
Henry had regained his inheritance, but more than that. Henry had taken the Crown of England for his own. With Richard leading a campaign to Ireland and Henry landing on the coast far to the north east, supporters had come to the exiled Duke of Lancaster, men of power, men of influence. Friendless no longer Henry had taken Richard captive and now, crowned and anointed, it was Henry who occupied the throne of England. I imagined the whole consort of European rulers shivering in their respective shoes at the success of such an enterprise. The rightful King of England was overthrown, another sat in his place. A dangerous precedent indeed. No wonder John’s thoughts were ambivalent.
I wrote again, precise and formal as required:
We would ask that you keep us informed of your good fortune. It is in the mind of my lord to remind you of a promise to consider a trading agreement to calm the increasingly acrimonious situation between our fishermen.
I did not think I had ever written so unfeeling or so valueless a letter.
We assure you of our future goodwill.
I signed it Joanna of Brittany, with a flourish, and used John’s seal. Then I sat back, imagining what I would have added to the end if I were free to do so.
I have agonised over your safety, and can now rejoice with you in the restoration of all you had hoped for, and more. I am well and my good wishes towards you as fervent as they ever were. There is no place for me in your life, but I hold you close in my heart today and every day.
But I did not express one word of that, rather gave the document into the hands of our chamberlain for it to be dispatched to the English Court by courier. It would be a good thing all round if Henry did not reply. My moment of passion, joyous as it had been, was at an end. Henry’s destiny was assured.
