by Anne O'Brien
‘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 ha
d 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.’
