by Anne O'Brien
Chapter Twenty
Dismissing Eltham’s steward in a somewhat peremptory fashion, I stood outside the chamber, one hand pressed down hard against the door so that the grain of the linenfold bit into my flesh. Here was my future, for good or ill; this man would direct my life to his liking and his advantage. Would he be objectionable to me, some despicable knight without culture or even kindness? Lancaster might consider this to be the worst form of punishment, of degradation, to give me into the hands of a man I could not even respect. I shivered beneath the weight of my garments, grimacing at the knowledge of my hem heavy with dust, for had I not travelled to Eltham in them? I was not garbed for meeting a bridegroom.
But then it would not matter what I wore. This was no wooing, on either side.
Soft footsteps sounded behind me, a servant, sent by Lancaster I presumed, who in heightened suspicion was taking nothing for granted. He opened the door for me, ushered me within, then bowing, closed it. No flight for me now. Remaining with my back to the door I stood motionless and regarded the man who waited, my heart beating hard so that it seemed the whole room echoed with it. Candles had been lit here, a multitude of them. My proposed bridegroom, by chance or design, was illuminated in a glow of gold.
He was standing at the far side of the room, his back turned to me, looking down into the dark courtyard where there was some commotion of servants and guests arriving, voices of welcome and command lifting on the evening air. His figure was softened by the rich tapestries that clothed the wall on either side. Then he turned.
I inhaled, my heartbeat gradually slowing. I did not want him, but Lancaster had not punished me with a man I could not respect. He had simply allowed me to worry that he had negotiated my hand with some unwashed, illiterate lord who would bury me in his castle in a rural fastness, far from sight or sound of royal affairs. No such thing. I walked forward towards this man who was no stranger to me, since no one associated with the Royal Court would fail to recognise him. I had known him, albeit distantly, all my life; Lancaster could not have chosen better if I were amenable to remarriage, a willing bride.
Baron Thomas de Camoys, soldier, diplomat, administrator. King’s friend. A man of considerable skill, a widower, older than I by almost two decades, I supposed. Dependable, loyal, with a reputation for sound judgement, he was the perfect gaoler to prevent my further involvement in Mortimer politics. Lancaster had made an exceptional choice for me, if I were willing to accept his goodwill in the disposing of my life.
I was not willing.
I laughed, a hard sound in the still room.
Of course. The perfect manner in which to keep my future loyalties under scrutiny and control. Marry me to a man who is your friend, your most loyal subject, a man who has the respect of every follower of Lancaster in the country, and many who are not, so that I am walled about by Lancaster supporters and goodwill.
It had been so carefully plotted, so thoroughly decided. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I could feel tears, bitter with regret, gathering in my throat.
I had been directed to meet with Baron de Camoys in one of the smaller rooms used when friends and family were entertained, which I supposed had the intention of encouraging intimacy, rather than a formal, vastly proportioned audience chamber, but I made no gesture of greeting or of grace. Rather I stood unmoving and unreceptive. The only blessing was that we were left to conduct this interview alone. I thought that I would have preferred the distancing of an audience chamber.
Baron de Camoys, cap in hand, taking no instruction from me, bowed with all the courtly manners that I had deliberately abandoned.
‘My cousin says that I must wed you,’ I announced when he had straightened again to his full and not unimpressive height. ‘I presume you are in agreement with this proposed alliance. Did Lancaster have to pay you to take a wife who has shown herself to be not averse to treason? Lancaster denies the need, but my suspicions are rank. How much, my lord? Or was it a grant of land? A castle? An enhanced title, perhaps? I would be interested to know.’
‘I know of your previous loyalties, my lady. Who does not? I think that I might understand why you took that dangerous path.’
His voice was low and well modulated. I sensed no criticism there, merely a sense of amenable negotiation, which I instinctively did not trust.
‘I do not want your understanding, my lord.’
Slowly he walked towards me, to stand within an arm’s length. He was, I acknowledged, closer to the Earl of Northumberland’s age than to mine, not a comparison that I found comforting or appealing. The Earl was sly and deceitful, thoroughly selfish. Would this man prove to be the same when dealing with his own personal affairs? His reputation suggested a man of better qualities, but it still had to be seen. Many said that he was a man of great kindness. Tall and lean with the musculature of a soldier and a mass of silvered dark hair, he was a figure to take the eye.
‘Very well,’ he said, with no kindness at all, ‘if you want straight speaking from me without the balm of compassion, this marriage is no more to my taste than I imagine it is to yours. You were unwise. You were badly counselled. As for this proposed alliance between us, no payment has either been mentioned or considered necessary. It was merely a suggestion made to me by the King. A royal wife with royal blessing.’
‘For you to take me off his hands.’
‘Something like that. If I was willing to shoulder the burden of a dangerous wife.’
‘It is a bad bargain, so I warn you,’ I said, undermined by emotion that I had thought had ebbed. Instead it came back with storm force to shatter against my utter loneliness. The rock on which I had based my life was broken; the comet that had blazed through my skies had foundered in the unforgiving depths of the sea. I wanted no husband. I did not want Thomas de Camoys. Nor would he want me with all my bitter thoughts of revenge and despair. He was a good man, I knew. He deserved better than me. But in that moment I despised him and all he stood for.
I looked up, dry-eyed, to see that he was watching me.
‘What do we say now?’ I asked, without grace.
‘I have not yet told the King that I will accept this offer of your hand.’ And when my brows rose in disbelief: ‘You may not be to my liking. Indeed, you are not. I doubt there is any man in the country who would relish Elizabeth Percy as a wife. He would spend his life looking over his shoulder, expecting a dagger between the shoulder blades.’
It was like a blow, an unexpected blow from a gloved fist that had seemed as soft as the finest kid. Whereas I had expected gentle courtesy from this man whom Lancaster had chosen as one of those magnates to escort his new wife from Brittany to England, I had received a further battering of truth.
‘I doubt that I will be to any man’s liking,’ I said, rallying fast. ‘Unless my royal blood is sufficient to compensate for my disaffection. Obviously, in this case, it is not. I regret that you have been placed in this embarrassing position, my lord.’
‘Forgive my plain speaking, my lady. I thought it was what you wanted. I too regret if I have given offence, but you are a hazardous choice as a wife.’
I turned away when I could find no immediate response, to take up a stance before an empty fireplace. ‘I admire your good manners, Lord Thomas. I have none.’
‘Good manners are ingrained from birth, whatever the enticement to lapse into crudity.’
Another unexpected blow. I looked over my shoulder in some degree of hurt. Seeing it, Lord Thomas withdrew from the attack.
‘I expect yours are but hidden beneath your intransigence. I doubt you enjoyed the King’s disposition of your future.’
It made me flush with mortification as he laid bare my lack.
‘You are honest too,’ I admitted. ‘Honesty has been in short supply in my world of late.’
He marked his acknowledgement in a brisk nod. ‘It would not be too late for you to be open with me before we leave this chill room where every action and every thought is laid bare in this glare of l
ight.’ Abruptly he quenched two of the candles at his side. ‘I would be reluctant to accept your hand from the King if I thought you were not in agreement at some level. Tell me that you are not, and we will draw a line beneath the suggestion.’
‘I am not in agreement.’
‘Then there is no more to be said between us. There will be no compulsion from me. I will tell the King that we do not consider marriage between us acceptable.’
Which caught my interest in the likelihood of such defiance.
‘You would not!’
‘I am too old to desire a tempestuous wife.’
Which was no answer at all. Would it be so easy to thwart Lancaster, to simply refuse and risk the consequences of his regal temper? I considered this pre-eminent baron of Lancaster’s court. His grave composure. His confidence. Even a layer of humour and, above all, of calm good sense.
‘Do you not fear that it will bring Lancaster’s anger down on your head?’ I was curious, my thoughts dragged from my own worries.
‘I am too old to fear that too. He may snap and snarl, but I am in no danger.’
‘Perhaps Archbishop Scrope said exactly the same when he led an armed demonstration of citizens out of York, in support of Northumberland’s signing the Tripartite Indenture,’ I remarked. ‘He paid for his misdeeds with his head.’
‘I’ll risk it. My lord the King has more trust in me than he had in Scrope who unwisely encouraged those who would rebel. The King and I have much history together, so much so that I think my head is safely attached to my shoulders. And yours too, I imagine. I don’t fear Lancaster’s retribution over a matter of a marriage that is not to our taste.’
‘A fine way of describing my thorough detestation of the whole matter.’ I found that I was smiling a little. ‘Forgive me, Lord Thomas, I cannot marry you.’
‘Why not? Have you given it sufficient thought?’
‘No. No thought at all. I have a dislike of being manipulated, and being given no voice in the outcome.’
‘Which is not flattering to your present suitor. Am I not offering you a voice?’ Approaching, he surprised me by taking my hand, tightening his grip when I resisted, then leading me to a plain wooden settle set against the wall. I allowed it, and sat, as he sat beside me at a careful distance, much as two petitioners without knowledge of each other, waiting for an audience with the King. ‘Think about it now,’ he ordered, releasing me, ‘and tell me why you cannot.’
I took a breath and obeyed.
‘It would be ungracious of me to burden you with my affairs. I don’t believe that you are in ignorance of them. You are expected to wed me to stop me from snapping at Lancaster’s heels or taking a bite out of his calf as Constance Despenser did. You are expected to growl and ward off any further approaches by my brother Edmund Mortimer, to inveigle me into lending my weight in another uprising. You are intended, by whatever means you can, to deter me from plotting the release of my nephews. As for what the Earl of Northumberland is planning, in exile in Scotland with my son…’ I shrugged a little. ‘In short you are expected to play the guard dog.’
‘You have a way with words, my lady. You can hardly blame Lancaster for protecting his own back. There have been far too many would-be assassins dogging his steps.’
‘I am not one of them, despite your fear that I might so attack you if you took me to wife.’ I considered. ‘I would not wish Lancaster’s death. I think I am too weary for rebellion. But I doubt Lancaster will ever accept my loyalty, even if I were prepared to offer it.’
‘Which would be almost impossible, knowing your past history.’
I lapsed into silence, unable to see the direction that we were taking, deciding to leave it in the hands of Baron de Camoys.
‘Well, we have dealt with your own political inclinations,’ he said. ‘Now let us contemplate your present situation.’ How calm he was, how drily appreciative. ‘Would marriage to me be too unacceptable to you? If, as you seem to fear, it keeps you out of imprisonment, where your every action is restrained? I would not so restrain you. Surely marriage to me would offer you a better life than taking the veil?’
‘I’ve no mind for a husband to keep a permanent eye on my movements.’
‘I would promise to be very discreet.’
‘I thought you said you did not want me.’
I looked at him, studying the lines of experience. Of a grief of his own.
‘I am reassessing, as are you, and giving you the time and space to consider wisely, before casting yourself on the King’s mercy. It is in my nature to be discreet. I would not demand to know your every thought. I would not chain you to the bed in one of my manors. I would accept your good sense, and a promise of loyalty to me even if you were not prepared to make one to my lord the King.’ He thought for a moment, his gaze stern on my face. ‘As long as I did not find Northumberland with an army at my gates, demanding admittance, demanding your participation in yet another hopeless uprising because of your Mortimer blood. England has had enough of upheavals to last a lifetime and so have I. Northumberland has a silken tongue when he chooses to use it, but is difficult to trust.’
Which made me laugh a little. There was a gleam in his eye. As if encouraged, he held out his hand again. I placed mine there, conscious that it was a soldier’s hand, rough with rein and callous and swordplay, yet so different from Harry’s. Square and broad-palmed, it had not the fine elegance of Harry’s hand.
‘Have you told me the worst, then?’ Lord Thomas de Camoys asked.
‘Is it not bad enough?’
‘Perhaps, but it is not an impregnable barrier. It all depends on what you wish to do next. To live at peace or continue to stir the pot. Or the poisoned chalice may be a more apposite image.’ Then: ‘Is your heart given to another?’ he asked, surprising me.
‘Does it matter?’
‘No.’
‘My heart is dead and in pieces. Cut to pieces on a battlefield. I cannot love again, if that is what you mean.’
‘Nor do you need to. People of our standing can marry for many different reasons. Love is the least valuable, I imagine. We can marry for affection if we are fortunate, for companionship. We might discover an ability to work together over the demands of estates and income. It might not be unpleasant.’
‘Are you talking yourself into this marriage, or me, Lord Thomas?’
‘Both of us, I think.’
I liked that he did not offer me compassion, merely an acceptance. ‘What would it mean for you?’ I asked.
‘Do you wish for me to be truthful?’
‘Since we are being so. Horrifyingly so.’
‘The companionship of an intelligent woman as the years move on.’
‘Even if her opinions do not march with yours? What an uncomfortable match if we could not share a single thought without argument.’
‘And I would fear it, but it need not be so. You would find me often on campaign or with a need to visit my most widespread estates.’ He smiled. ‘We would not have to agree on everything, but perhaps you would have to learn discretion too.’
‘Perhaps.’ I no longer disliked the thought as much as I had. ‘You have a son, I believe, and his children, if all you wish for is companionship to ward off loneliness in old age.’
‘I do. Richard, who has grown into a fine man. But he and his new wife and family live their own lives, as they should.’
‘Did you love your wife?’ I asked, perhaps in response to the rather wistful comment from this brusque soldier.
‘It was not a marriage of love, but we had an understanding. A close affection. She was called Elizabeth too.’ He released my hand. I had forgotten that he had been holding it. ‘I would not be a demanding husband.’
‘Ah. Is your heart perhaps given elsewhere?’
He hesitated, just a moment. ‘Yes.’
Now this I had not expected. ‘Will she not wed you?’
‘It is not possible.’
A moment of insight came t
o me. ‘Does she know that you love her?’
‘No. Nor will I tell her. She is not free to wed me nor would it be suitable. You would not need to feel threatened that a woman would undermine our marriage by her constant shadow. There will be no one there but the two of us, and your dead husband unless you choose to banish him. I hope that with the passage of time you might. Hotspur would make for an uncomfortable bedfellow.’
It took my breath, but before I could think of a response:
‘Think about it, my lady. It would bring you much benefit and few problems. I will make life comfortable for you, make no unnecessary demands. I will respect your broken heart. It may be that we would find some pleasure in each other’s company. If not, you will have security, and can depend on my absence in the King’s service. I can at least offer you a home. It is better than any alternative offered by the King.’
Again unexpected emotion rose within me. He was indeed as kind as his reputation implied.
‘You are considerate, my lord, more than I deserve. My heart is full of hatred and revenge.’
‘I regret that. It will not lead to happiness.’
‘I do not look for happiness.’
‘Is it that you think you do not deserve it?’
How prescient he was, but I could not give my confidence, no matter how easy it suddenly seemed to be. ‘That is not your concern, sir.’
‘Then I will leave you to your complicated concerns, if you are unwilling to allow me to advise you on them. You must inform the King what it is you wish to do. I wish you well of your choice, my lady, for your own sake. But I would say that it is now approaching three years since your lord died. You have grieved. You have failed in an attempt to destroy the King and create a Mortimer dynasty. The past is dead and gone. A sensible woman could put an end to her grieving and look to the future.’
‘I have no future. My future has been destroyed.’
Standing, he bowed and moved to open the door.
‘Then that is what you must tell the King. And when you have decided, then you can tell me.’
