The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘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.

  Chapter 3

  June 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 h
ope 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.