by Anne O'Brien
‘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.’
