by Anne O'Brien
‘I will not accept such a judgement.’ Here was desperation. ‘I will appeal to King Charles against such monstrous dealings.’
And Burgundy had the temerity to sneer. ‘King Charles will do exactly as I say.’
He waited for my reply. My denial or my anger. Which would have gained me nothing, for we both knew it to be true. The Duke of Burgundy held the reins of power in France, in my cousin’s imbecility.
His hand was on the latch, his final words crisp and dry, stripped of all emotion. ‘I have said all I wish to say. I had thought better of you. The Lancaster heir is not the rightful King. France considered him unsuitable as a husband for Mary of Berry; he is not suitable for you. You will put a stop to this nonsense.’
I remained anchored to the spot, hearing the rattle of horses’ hooves as Burgundy and his escort left.
Was it foolishness? Was it lust?
All based on exchanged kisses and the light shining through our joined hands. All based on a longing that might be no more than my imagination. It might well be lust. After so long a separation I was no longer certain of anything. As for this interview, it had shaken me, even though I had always foreseen this particular outcome. I did not need Burgundy to tell me. And yet it drove it home like the point of a sword in the hands of a master of the craft. If I wed Henry I must accept the loss of my authority. And worse, far worse, I would lose my children.
Was that too high a price to pay?
I was afraid that it was. My heart and my mind were at war. Never had I felt so vulnerable as the foundations of my life shook.
Oh, Henry. What a cauldron of broth you have tipped me into.
At that moment I needed to be with my children.
*
Collecting Marguerite and Blanche, to their delight at being released from their lessons, I set them running before me, well wrapped in wool and furs against the cold, back to the practice yard. My sons had finished their sword-practice and were seated in a row on the floor, their breath white in the frosty air, enduring a lecture from their tutor.
‘And you must not give up when you think you are tired, Master Richard! On the battlefield you are never tired. And you, Master Gilles, will never be a knight if you don’t stand your ground when under attack.’
Gilles hung his head while John and Arthur smirked.
At my side my daughters chattered and giggled over a doll they had brought with them, until Marguerite snatched it for herself and Blanche wailed. Straight-backed, I watched and listened, the minutiae of family life going on around me as I settled my daughters with a reprimand for one and a mopping of tears for the other.
‘I’m cold, maman,’ Marguerite said, bottom lip thrust out.
‘We will not stay long.’
Could I live without them? Could I allow them to become adult without seeing the effect of the passage of years? If I allowed the desire of my heart to speak out and be heard, what terrible cost it would be. Blanche still had to reach her fifth year, Richard only a year older. John might be growing fast towards manhood but Arthur and Gilles were still children. My uncle of Burgundy had laid it out for me like the map of a foreign campaign: if I crossed the sea to England, my children would not cross with me. I pulled my furs around my throat as my sons scrambled to their feet and ran to select bows and a handful of arrows. I could no longer procrastinate. Here was truth. Here before me was my present and future life.
A servant appeared at my shoulder. ‘There is a delegation come from the town, my lady. They would speak with you about market tolls.’
‘Later,’ I said, summoning a smile of thanks. ‘Give them food and wine in the small audience chamber. Tell them I will be with them in a half hour.’
And I would, however distracted I might be. For this was my duty. To Brittany. To John’s people. I dug my fingers into the sable lining of my cloak, yet finding no comfort in its seductive warmth. Was love, love for a man I had not seen for so many passing seasons, and so ephemeral an emotion at best, suitable territory on which to base a marriage that would destroy all I held dear?
I forced my thoughts into calmer channels. I had not heard from Henry for some months now after my last rejection. The Baron de Camoys had found no further need to beat his path to my door. Perhaps after all Henry had seen the advantage of taking some aristocratic English woman as his wife, drawing some noble family into a strong alliance. His image of me as a desirable wife had doubtless faded. I could only assume that Henry had accepted my dismissal of his suit.
The passage of time could be a great healer. Two years could quickly become four and then ten. I would forget him, as he had forgotten me.
It was a bleak acceptance.
‘Maman!’At my side, Marguerite pulled at my sleeve.
‘One minute more,’ I said, watching my sons as, with cries of victory or derision, they loosed their arrows at the butts. It was as if they were aiming them at my heart.
‘If you please, my lady.’ Now it was Mistress Alicia, once my own nurse, now the guiding hand and stern mentor of my own children despite her advancing hers. Her tone was uncompromising. ‘Marguerite has something to say to you. Your daughter has an admission to make.’
Which took my attention fast enough. I studied Marguerite on whose face guilt was suddenly writ large, and Mistress Alicia, who nodded in grim disapproval of her charge.
‘What have you done?’
Marguerite studied the toes of her shoes as if she had never seen them before. Mistress Alicia nudged her, though gently. Whereupon my daughter drew from her sleeve an item that had been secreted there all along, and, without a word or a glance, held it out.
I took it, more intrigued than angry, for how important could it be? It was a little silken packet, roughly and inex-pertly wrapped in its original leather cover. Some petty keepsake or fairing, fallen into her inquisitive hands.
But no, it was not.
‘Delivered by courier last week, my lady,’ Mistress Alicia announced so that my heart leapt at the unexpectedness of it. ‘As Mistress Marguerite here has now admitted. When you were busy with the lengthy deputation from your brother the King of Navarre. She kept it. For which there will be dire retribution.’
‘Come with me,’ I said urgently, ushering daughters and Mistress Alicia inside, where I retired to my chamber with the silken packet that Marguerite had kept for her own enjoyment, teasing open a corner to examine the contents. I could not scold her, although Mistress Alicia undoubtedly would. The blue silk was too enticing.
It was from England. It was from Henry.
Alone, throat so dry that I could barely swallow, I released the little packet from its cover, the contents sliding flatly, seductively, beneath my fingers, until, opening the already frayed edge of the silk, a shower of gold fell onto my bed-covering. And I laughed with sheer delight as I scooped it up, allowing it to sift down again through my fingers. Of course Marguerite had been unable to resist.
A shower of golden forget-me-nots from Henry, spangles for a costly gown.
They were beautiful. They were magical in their significance.
I knew all about forget-me-nots, described with loving appreciation in one of my herbal records. I sought in my locked coffer, amongst my vast array of books on herbal lore, on cures and nostrums, on plants benign and dangerous in the hands of those without skill. Books that it was wise to keep locked away from prurient eyes. There I discovered what I wanted, searching through the pages as if they held the secret of my future happiness. Running my fingers once more through the glittering hoard of flowery sequins, I found and read the inscription.
There is a little flower called forget me not which will recommend itself to her who would be in joyous mood. It is worn by her who at no time wants to forget her love.
Was that not a perfect gift for a woman afflicted by indecisions too great to contemplate? When I had accepted that Henry had forgotten me, given up on me, he had not. This was a gift with much percipience in its giving. How it pleased me th
at he knew that I would understand the weight of this particular flower as an offering from a lover to a beloved. It was as precious a gift to me as any jewel-set collar, and I knew immediately what I must do. A length of silk damask in the richest shade of azure, a pair of shears and a needle and thread were soon discovered and the sequins stitched into a shining length, a girdle fit for a lover or a queen. Every stitch a lover’s knot, anchoring me to Henry. Every snip of the shears severing me from my past.
And then, after I had dealt with the final gleaming flower, saving that last one for Marguerite for her own, within the silk packet I discovered the tiny note that had been tucked amongst the spangles. No larger than my palm. So small that no one would ever read it but myself.
Come, Joanna. I can wait no longer.
There it was, Henry’s declaration, as clear as my reflection in my mirror. Neither, I decided, could I wait.
I sent for my uncle of Burgundy. I had an urgent negotiation to undertake.
*
‘Blessed Virgin. If in your divine mercy you can see your way to bring me safe to dry land, I vow I will never again follow my own selfish desires. Holy Mother forgive me. It was probably a great sin.’ I took a breath. ‘But don’t let me die now.’
The storm-winds shrieked in the rigging above my head like a soul in torment. When a gust stronger than the one before lashed my skirts tight against my body, my fingers of one hand, the one not clinging to the ship’s bulwark, wound tight into the rosary at my waist. The carved beads dug into my palm, offering a different pain from the sharp grief in my heart.
‘Holy Virgin protect me. Let my hopes not founder at this eleventh hour. Grant me courage, for I am in sore need.’
I breathed out the plea, silently I thought, except that the ghost of an amen from the man at my side caught my ear before the next blast and buffet whipped it away. Beneath my feet the planks heaved and bucked, forcing me now to hang on to the side with both hands, my nails sliding, tearing, catching in the wood. A deluge of seawater drenched me from head to foot. I shivered and chided myself for a fool in embarking on this voyage.
I had done it. For the first time in all the thirty years of my life I had followed the dictates of my heart. I had disobeyed my uncle of Burgundy, I had disobeyed the power of France. And at what cost? At what terrible cost?
‘Holy Virgin forgive my abandoning my children.’
‘Amen.’
The response gave me no comfort, for I had lost the battle with Burgundy. It had been a bleak little interlude that inscribed indelibly the consequences of my actions.
‘Do you have no compassion?’ I asked when Burgundy bent his frown upon me.
‘None.’
‘I have the maternal right to oversee the education of my children.You do not have the right to deny me. Even if John remains here in Brittany,’I was willing to compromise,‘the younger ones must accompany me.’
‘It is not fitting, Joanna, that the sons of Brittany be raised in a potentially hostile state.’ I forbore to point out that my husband had lived all his young life in England. ‘In the name of King Charles of France, I will not relent. They do not go with you.’
No, there was no compassion in Burgundy. I admitted defeat, so that when I set sail for England, my sons, even Richard, so young and impressionable as he was, remained behind in Nantes. The memory of our leave-taking threatened to sweep over me, as bitter as the salt spray to my lips. They were stoical, not realising that my farewell was not a temporary one, for they had experience enough of my comings and goings. It was I who mourned their loss, that was sealed in Burgundy’s fury.
I kissed them, bade them be obedient sons in memory of their brave father. I advised John to be a good Duke of Brittany. And throughout it all, I displayed no emotion, so that they were not unmanned. But my heart was wrung within me.
I would not think about it. Not now. Not yet.
My skirts wrapped their sodden length around my legs, yet could not quite dampen what I still considered to be a minor triumph. I had lost my sons, but for my daughters I had fought bitterly, using every armament I had against Burgundy, even tears, for which I was ashamed, And so he had relented, since I was as entrenched as he in the final outcome. Burgundy would stand guardian for my sons, but Marguerite and Blanche would come with me.
Here we were, being tossed like pebbles in a bucket in December, a month not known for easy travel. What a day to choose, with one of the worst storms of the winter looming. But I had been determined to sail. The new course of my future was set and I could postpone it no longer.
‘You should not be out here, my lady.’
It took a shout for it to reach me, although my companion, the ever-stalwart Lord Thomas de Camoys, sent by Henry as escort, was barely an arm’s length away.
‘I know I shouldn’t,’ I mouthed back with a spike of irritation.
In a sudden moment of calm between one squall and the next, catching my breath I struggled to look back over my shoulder, pushing aside the hood from a borrowed cloak. As the ship wallowed and dipped, I could make out no outline, not even a smudge on the horizon. The die was cast, the shore of Brittany already hid in cloud and an oncoming torrent of rain. There was no going back for me now. But neither could I make out any fair haven before us. It was as if we were suspended in some grey miasma, without colour or form, without beginning or end.
‘We are helpless,’ I said.
It went unheard, or perhaps my companion had nothing to add. The oncoming squall hit us, drenching us, and I pulled the hood back over my hair and cowl, staggering as I did so, grateful for the hand that gripped my elbow through the folds.
‘Hold firm, my lady.’
At least he did not chivvy me below again. Not like the young man now lurching across the deck towards me would do, displeasure clear on his face. He would assuredly take me to task with priestly authority, even though his clerical clothing had been packed away from the ravages of salt and water.
‘You should be below, my lady. It is not fitting for you to be here.’
As I had thought. Thick set, confident, this young priest considered himself to be closer to God than I. Did he feel God’s presence, even in this inferno of sound and motion?
‘No, sir. Not yet…’ I did not explain why I wished to prolong my discomfort. I did not have to explain.
‘As you wish, my lady. I am at your service if you have need.’ Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Lincoln, a man already climbing the ladder to political power, made a creditable attempt at a bow and abandoned me to my choice.
Was this deliberate policy by Henry? To ensure that I did not fall into doubt at the eleventh hour and step back from my venture, by sending his two Beaufort half-brothers, sons of Duchess Katherine, as well as Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, to bring me across the channel. If I need conviction that Henry was giving me an escort of impeccable lineage, this was it. John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, who was suffering in his cabin, Bishop Henry who was impervious to discomfort, and the Earl of Worcester who was sheltering in sour mood in the shadow of the mast.
These Beauforts would be my new family, for me to come to know. And what would they think of me? I looked up at my companion through so many negotiations.
‘The Bishop is always very proper. How old is he?’
The wind had eased again to make conversation possible.
‘Twenty-seven years, give or take a day. But a more astute man I have yet to meet.’
‘Does he approve of me? I can’t tell.’
‘Neither can I.’ I caught the glimmer of a grin in the murk. Lord Thomas was unperturbed by our ambitious young cleric. ‘And he’s not saying. He’s a skilled dissembler.’
I fixed Thomas de Camoys with a direct regard, which he returned, as I dropped into informality fitting for the occasion when we were both drenched and windblown.
‘Have I made a terrible mistake, Thomas?’
‘How can I say, my lady? It is made, and you are on your way. For better or wo
rse.’
‘I need reassurance, sir. Not a jaundiced view of the choices made by women.’
Seeing the grin spread again across the lines of experience, I was forced into my own smile, and then he replied, the words I had wanted to hear.
‘My King thinks you have made the best possible choice. He will be waiting for you. For him you cannot come soon enough.’
Of course I had made the right decision, and with the making could look ahead to see my chosen path. As long as this vessel was not dragged beneath the waves, or driven onto the rocks of the English coast.
‘Holy Virgin. Get me to dry land,’ was all I could say, but I gripped Lord Thomas’s wet hand in thanks. He had proved a better friend than my lengthy procrastination had sometimes deserved.
‘The Virgin will not abandon you, my lady. My King will be praying too.’
In the end, stomach rebelling against the swell, I went below to Marguerite and Blanche, to take refuge in a cup of wine. The coastline of England had not come into view at all, the waves continued to batter at us, driving us in the direction of the wind’s choosing, and the King might be praying for me but it was three years and more since I had last seen him. Three years and more since I had been married and widowed. Three years during which I had rejected the possibility of this union.
Yet now I stood on the threshold of a new life.
And here, with me, was the ultimate source of my assurance. Passing my empty cup to Marie de Parency, I struggled to kneel beside a small casket, and lifted the lid. The document, wrapped in leather against the damp, crackled under my hand, the edges of the Burgundian seals snapping. Carefully I returned it. I did not need to see the content to know the ultimate freedom it gave me. I had no need to re-read the agreement I had demanded from my uncle of Brittany who was now Regent for my son. The Duke might govern in my son’s name, but never in the name of France or of Burgundy. My son’s autonomy was guaranteed by my uncle’s sworn oath, as here witnessed. I had done all I could to honour John’s faith in my holding Brittany together, ensuring that there would be no French or Burgundian troops in the streets of Nantes, other than my uncle’s ceremonial guard.
