by Anne O'Brien
‘I forgive yours, Lord Thomas.’
If he noticed my omission of Henry’s lack of grace, he made no comment. We moved, by common consent towards the door. Had we not said all there was to say?
‘Will you stay and eat with us?’ I invited.
‘I am instructed to return with all speed. With your consent, my lady.’
I bowed my consent. ‘But I fear that your King is destined to disappointment.’ Lord Thomas’s speech had presented Henry in full regal indignation, stunningly blasphemous and intemperate flow. The thought came to me that the King had never before been rejected by a woman in his enormously privileged life.
Until now.
Lord Thomas kissed my fingertips with punctilious courtesy. There was a gleam of appreciation in his sad eye.
‘My King is well used to disappointment in his life, my lady. Disappointments and reverses, however, have never prevented him from achieving his ultimate desire.’
‘Then perhaps this will be his first experience of it,’ I replied, unsure whether to be hopeful or even more unsettled.
*
I was left alone to read the letter, Blanche discovering me and climbing into my lap, Marguerite also appearing to lean against my arm. Nothing here that I did not expect. Nothing committed to writing that could be considered dangerous. Was our union the subject of so much English hostility? I did not know. My eye travelled rapidly over Henry’s commending me and my children to God’s care. If this note fell into the wrong hands no one would possibly consider it to be a letter written by a man with more than familial concern in his heart or on his mind. Warm, affectionate, but no passion.
I dropped a kiss onto the linen coif of Marguerite and then of Blanche.
I would have liked a little passion.
Allowing the letter to fall onto my lap, it was snatched up by my youngest daughter, her interest caught by the ribboned seal, while I found myself speculating on the spot where Thomas de Camoys had stood to deliver his peroration.
It was as if Henry had peeked into my mind. He knew exactly which obstacles would cause me to stumble. In small part it was comforting that he should understand me so well: in major part it was infuriating, as if he had been overlooking my shoulder as I had listed my doubts. Delving into my sleeve, I extracted and examined the beautifully wrought pen case, a costly gift, suitable for one ruler to another, yet more intimate than a livery collar or jewelled hanap. This was a practical gift that I might use, every day. And so think of its giver, every day.
I frowned at the inkhorn, for Henry had discussed all my problems with his envoy, whereas I was not given to confidences. I was never one for gossip in my solar. Who knew where that would end?
And yet I knew that I could trust Thomas de Camoys with every word I had spoken, even touching on my thoughts of love. Perhaps he would return with some chivalric offering from Henry rather than a diatribe against my pride.
Perhaps I should return this costly gift, since I would not accept its giver.
But why will you not accept him, I asked in my silent ruffling of my daughter’s unruly hair, escaping from her little coif? Why will you not accept what is offered, welcoming it, appreciating it as a true statement of Henry’s love? I had had no doubt of his sincerity in the heated atmosphere of the jewel-bright chapel. But now I balked against that tantalising invitation, like a horse held on a tight rein, my thoughts running free and honestly, for time had passed me by and Henry absent from it. There was nothing like a distant perspective to give a woman a true evaluation of her position.
I rubbed my cheek against my daughter’s, laughing as she shrugged me off, then quickly becoming sober as Henry intruded in my vision. For Henry was a man both provocative and seductive, attributes that could so easily hide his power. If I wed him I would, as in the manner of all wives, be putting myself under his dominion. Did I want that? For the first time in my life as the widowed Duchess I had a measure of independence to order my life as I wished, and to my satisfaction. I enjoyed the minutiae of day to day affairs, as well as the great moments of diplomacy. I enjoyed the authority that was mine and could be questioned by no one. Of course it was a finite responsibility; when my son came of age he would take the power himself, as it should be, but until then I ruled Brittany in my own name.
And there was the dilemma that surprised me by its strength. To marry Henry I must relinquish as least some of my powers in Brittany if not all. Would I have the same autonomy as Queen of England? I did not think so. It might be that I must accept a more ceremonial role, or at least must struggle for elements of my new life where I did more than wear a crown and ermine, a voiceless presence at my new husband’s side. I realised that this was not an eventuality that I could relish.
Rescuing the inkhorn from Blanche’s grasp when she showed signs of gnawing the intricate cap, I dislodged my children, shooing them from the room. Then it pleased me to fill the inkhorn and find a pen that would fit perfectly into the penholder. On a sheet of fine parchment, I began to write.
To my dear lord and cousin…
He had thought of all the worries I had, and swept them away with a forthright ease. Don’t tell anyone. Do what you want. Make your own decision. But there were more personal considerations that could not be swept away. I doubted that they had crossed his mind.
I sighed and put the pen down, propping my chin on my fists. So Henry thought I had the courage to sweep everything before me. I wished he were here with me so that I might see him in the flesh. Hear him. Be encouraged by him. Thomas de Camoys was a worthy suitor, but he was not Henry. For a moment I let myself return to the day in the chapel at Nantes, where our hands were encompassed by the jewel-colours from the window. A hopeless love, we had admitted, then. To my mind it still was.
I considered the true dangers here, for it was without doubt an admission of Breton weakness that had dogged John all his days. Brittany had long been at the mercy of English and French ambitions, both competing powers perfectly willing to overrun and annexe this small state given any opportunity. After difficult early years in exile, John had steered a superbly diplomatic path between the two, achieving for Brittany a careful autonomy, but one that could so easily be compromised during a Regency. Was this not John’s legacy to me? That I should hold Brittany in safety for our son? It would be the ultimate betrayal if I, through despicable self-interest, abandoning my charge here for the sake of trivial emotion, were to give France grounds for even the slightest interference. I would not sleep easily in my bed, and rightly so. This was the duty so firmly placed on my shoulder as Regent of Brittany. Heavy it might be, but I had the knowledge and the skill to carry it until my son had the years and experience to take it from me. My heart might quail at the height and breadth of the burden but I could not be deflected from lifting it by a personal yearning that I must have the pride to deny.
As I must deny it, even if my heart was wrung with pain.
Chapter 6
January 1402: Château of Vannes, Brittany
‘I am come here, Joanna, to see your son, the Duke.’
A visitor. A visitor that was not Baron de Camoys.
The gold and blue of the banners and pennons, every inch of them heartily scattered with fleur-de-lys and recognisable from one end of Europe to the other, had heralded this arrival and my heart sank for I could read his demeanour by the set of his jaw as he strode into my home as if he owned it. The curve of his mouth was not one of goodwill. This was not destined to be an amenable meeting.
I braced myself.
‘You are welcome, sir.’ I awaited him in my own chamber, on my own territory, hastily donning a furred surcoat, a jewelled chain, an embroidered chaplet and a flowing veil. I had considered the suitability of my ducal coronet, holding it aloft to allow the winter sun to warm the old gold into fire, but then replaced it in its travelling coffer. I did not need such overt magnificence to face my uncle. I might be braced against his displeasure, but I was not of a mind to greet this powerful
magnate with anything that might be interpreted as either an apology or a show of power.
‘It is good of you to find time in your busy commitments to visit us.’ My smile was insouciant, my manner deeply courteous. ‘How kind. I am in good health, as you see.’
I extended my hand for him to salute.
Duke Philip of Burgundy, my mother’s august and most powerful brother.
‘Good, good.’ He flushed a little as he restored my hand to me. ‘I heard the children as I entered. I presume they are the same.’
I might have reminded him of the need for good manners, but not, I thought, for long. His grunt of refusal when, with impressive grace I offered wine, was not encouraging. Soldier, diplomat, strategist, a man of valour and opinion, earning the title Philip the Bold, he could be smiling and urbane. He could be outspoken to a fault. He could be as foul-mouthed as one of his ostlers.
Which would he be today? The years were beginning to take their toll, and not kindly as the bony Valois nose jutted, the chin lifted and he used his gloves to beat the dust from his sleeves.
‘We will go to the practice ground.’ I tucked my hand into his arm, an intimacy he reluctantly accepted. ‘The Duke will be taking lessons in swordplay at this time of day.’
We descended to watch my sons exhibit the extent of their education to make them knights of renown. Duke John, now growing strongly at twelve years, was developing a swagger more pronounced than his skill. I remained silent while Burgundy appraised with a stern eye. Burgundy must make his own moves here. There would be no help from me.
‘John handles a sword well.’
‘Indeed. Do you wish to see the girls? They will be at their lessons within.’ I knew full well he did not. It pleased me to see at least a flicker of discomfiture in his staring eyes. ‘It is a long journey merely to cast an avuncular eye over my son.’
‘It’s not my only reason.’
He turned to face me.
‘So I thought.’ I waited while Burgundy chewed his lower lip. I was not used to seeing him so hesitant. ‘A matter of Court diplomacy, perhaps?’
Which unleashed the torrent.
‘I am led to understand, Joanna, that there is a path well-worn between here and London. By the feet of English couriers. Is it true?’
‘Indubitably.’ I smiled thinly. ‘My husband was always close to the Lancaster family, as you know. I have kept the connection. They have proved to be good friends.’
His dark-eyed glance skewered me unkindly. ‘You would not be considering an inappropriate move, Joanna?’
‘What would I possibly consider that was inappropriate?’
‘Any connection with England would be denounced as folly by France.’
‘Folly? My interest in the wellbeing of the new King of England will have no bearing on the strategies of France. Did you know, sir, that King Henry’s children are similar in age to mine? We have much to discuss. I will show you the letters if you wish. I think the content highly appropriate from one ruler to another.’
He eyed me askance, mouth taut. So I had made him uncomfortable.
‘Yes, Joanna. I think I do wish to read them. In the interests of European diplomacy.’
A little whisper of fear crept through my blood. I had not expected him to rise to my challenge. Affairs were more serious than I had thought.
‘Do you not trust me, uncle?’ I asked.
And not waiting for a reply, I walked before him, back into the castle, the whisper becoming a ripple of anger to heat my blood. Once there I made my way calmly up the staircase in the West Tower to my chamber of business where I took Henry’s letters from a coffer and offered them without a word. By the time Burgundy had read through them, taking his time to discover any hidden nuances, I could not speak for fury that he should question my actions, demand to see my private correspondence. And I, Regent of Brittany.
Burgundy’s glance became more and more perfunctory as he finished reading.
‘Hmn. Friendly.’
‘What did you expect?’ I had my temper under control. When he handed the folded sheets back to me, and I returned them to the coffer, my hands were perfectly steady, but I knew that I had not yet won this battle. Burgundy was not used to being out-manoeuvred. ‘You should know that I have replied to them, in similar tone. Do you wish to inspect anything else, sir? My records of rents and outgoings, perhaps?’
Oh, he knew I was angry.
‘I am a man of experience,’ he observed. ‘I’ll speak plain. You and the English King are both widowed. You have an acquaintance. Perhaps you found some level of pleasure in each other’s company. What would be more natural than that you look for a marriage alliance?’
I raised my brows infinitesimally.
‘And I have to tell you,’ Burgundy continued, into the silence,‘it will not do.’
‘I hope that you are not accusing me of indelicate behaviour during John’s lifetime, sir.’ I did not wait for a reply. ‘I have not seen Henry of Lancaster since he returned to England, more than two years ago. This is the tone of the letters we exchange. Is this indelicate? If there is any policy between us, it is to negotiate an end to the disputes between our merchants. That is not indelicate. That is good policy and John would have approved.’
‘If you were considering, my dear Joanna, a more personal arrangement…’
Now I raised my brows with less subtlety. ‘If I receive a proposal of marriage, one which I intend to accept, I will of course inform you of it.’
Burgundy glowered. ‘You are an attractive woman still. Your connections are worth their weight in gold to any man of high blood and ambition. I am not against your remarriage, Joanna.’ And how condescending that was. ‘But not with the English King. If you receive an offer from that quarter, you will decline it.’
‘I will make my own decision.’
‘So you have received a proposal.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘You don’t have to. What are you thinking? How can you give even a minute’s thought to an alliance more politically inept? If you must take a husband, take some well-connected man of rank who can come and live in Brittany while you fulfil your obligations. You are Regent of Brittany until your son is of age. How can you even consider a marriage with England?’
‘So I remain a widow until my son is of an age to rule? How many years do you suppose will pass? Six? Ten?’ My composure held firm. My blood seethed. ‘Which man of rank will consider me a good prospect as a wife in ten years? When I will be past the age of his getting me with child.’
Rich colour rose to the roots of Burgundy’s hair. ‘Your language is surprisingly crude. It is your duty, Joanna, to remain here. To govern Brittany. To support the Bretons and France against English incursions. This is not the marriage for you. You do not leap into bed with the enemy.’
Which reminded me uncomfortably of my exchange of views with Thomas de Camoys. ‘Leap into bed?’ I observed. ‘How salacious you make it sound.’
‘You are flippant. Hear me, Joanna.’ He leaned his hands on the desk before him, his whole posture threatening. ‘If you go ahead with this, there will be repercussions you have not even considered.’
‘Do you threaten me, uncle?’
‘I do not threaten. But here’s the truth of it. Are you willing to give up your position as Regent of Brittany? You are a woman who enjoys power. Then consider well. You will have little practical power as Queen of England other than the pre-eminence of the title. Marry Henry of England and your days as Regent here will be over.’
I could barely master a reply before he was continuing, his face raw with passion.
‘Nor will you be a wealthy woman. Your income as Duchess of Brittany will be forfeit. Does your English husband realise this? That he would be taking on a penniless wife, with no dowry?’
‘My dowry is within my own authority. It is not in your power to dispose of it.’
‘Is it not?’ Burgundy would not be distracted. ‘If what we
hear is true, the English King is deep in debt. He’ll want a woman with a sizable portion to her name.’
I was lured into saying, ‘If he wanted me as his wife, I think a dowry would not be important.’
‘Then he would be a fool.’ Pushing himself erect, Burgundy seized his gloves, slapping them hard against his hand as he strode to the door. ‘If you try to undertake such a policy, I’ll do all in my power to stop you.’
Could he? Could he stand in the way of my marriage to Henry, if that is what I decided to do? The anger within me remained, but was now interlaced with more complex emotions. Did I not know the form of retribution that Burgundy would take towards me? Still I remained obdurate in my challenge.
‘I think there is nothing that you could do to stop me.’
Burgundy spun round, and smiled, a cold hard smile. ‘If you go to England, you go alone.’ The smile became wider, like the gape of a snake. ‘If you go to Henry of England as his wife, I’ll not let you take the children with you.’
There it was. Spoken aloud to give it a cruel reality. The one weapon that could be used against me that I had feared more than all the rest. That I had been unable to write when I acknowledged all the rest in that trite little list. It was a stone in my belly, a cold hand against my throat. A wrenching tear in my heart.
‘You would not be so heartless.’
Could any man be so ruthless, so uncaring of the bond between me and my children? And yet I knew that Burgundy would do exactly as he threatened.
‘I’ll not have the Duke of Brittany raised in England at the English Court.’
‘You cannot take them from me.’
‘They stay here. They are Breton. They will not be raised in England. If you go ahead with this, say goodbye to your children, Joanna.’
I lifted my chin, silently defiant.
My uncle walked back, managing a softer tone. ‘It is not my intention to be unfeeling. All I do is show you the reality of the future. You are an effective Regent, I’ll give you that. And you have raised your children well. But this is the truth of what you must accept if you give in to this foolishness, this unacceptable lust. France forbids such a union. To stop you I’ll strip you of your power and your children.’
