The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  Enough of politics. Kneeling on the boards of this storm-tossed vessel I lifted from the coffer the cloth-protected girdle I had so painstakingly sewn with the forget-me-nots. What an eye Henry had for a gift for a woman who was far away and whose mood was unfathomable. The spangles gleamed softly against the rich blue of the silk in a shining skein, a gilded waterfall in the candles’ flicker. It was beautiful, a true symbol of Henry’s love, and his faith that I would have the strength to weather all storms, even this terrifying lashing of wind and rain, to be with him.

  I replaced the girdle in its protection. It was done. No regrets. No turning back. I would wear it for my wedding, emblazoned with Henry’s heraldic flower. For my second wedding. Was I not already wed in the eye of the church and the law? I had been wedded by proxy since April at a place called Eltham, where my representative Anthony Rhys stood beside Henry, taking the bridal role with all the aplomb of an experienced ducal ambassador. In the eyes of the law I was already a married woman, as witnessed by Rhys, the Beauforts and the powerful Percy aristocracy who had helped Henry to take the English throne.

  Now, somewhere on the coast of England, Henry would be waiting for me.

  Chapter 7

  January 1403: Falmouth

  ‘Where is the King?’ I asked.

  I had landed, but there was no embassy to greet me. There was no King either. No one even knew where the King was. There was nothing to welcome me but a little sea-washed village, a smattering of fishing boats—probably those that caused my Bretons so much damage—and a chorus of raucous gulls.

  Our landfall had been precipitate, product of the whim of wind and storm-waves. This, I was told, was Falmouth, far to the west in the country called Cornwall and as Queen of England, although as yet uncrowned, I must learn that these pungent fishermen who doffed their caps in some astonishment at a woman who probably looked no better than a drowned rat, were now my concern. I must no longer think of the Bretons as my own. No longer Duchess of Brittany, I was Queen of England.

  In the rustic inn that gave us temporary shelter, exhausted as we all were, I saw the girls put to bed with broth for their bellies, hot bricks for their feet and a good dose of tincture of pennyroyal, excellent for the lingering effects of mal de mer. While they fell into exhausted sleep as the very young can do, sleep was far from me. My restless body demanded action, my anticipation was stretched thin as the sole of a beggar’s shoe, so although as hungry and cold as my daughters, I went in search of those who held my immediate future in their hands.

  They did not take much finding, in the one room, redolent of smoke and sweat and the all-pervading stench of fish, that housed visitors of whatever rank. There, seated on rough stools around a much used wooden table, cups of ale and wine before them, garments steaming in the heat, was what appeared to be a Council of War. Thus the puissant nobles from Henry’s Court in deep discussion. Their heads turned as one as I entered, inclined politely, before returning to the matter in hand, which I suspected was not primarily our progress towards London, but something of greater import. They would shut me out, merely informing me on the morrow of their decision, which was not a circumstance of which I had experience. Did they expect me to leave them to their deliberations and return to my own chamber, a self-effacing woman? If this was my immediate future under discussion, I would be part of it.

  I took a stool beside the fire, disposed my wet skirts with a grimace, and listened.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Somerset asked, abandoning the previous discussion, deferring to Worcester.

  ‘We could wait here.’ The Earl of Worcester, Admiral and Steward of Henry’s Household, emerged from his brooding to scowl. ‘Until the King comes.’ He was in no good mood.

  ‘No point in that.’ Bishop Henry forewent the deference to Worcester whatever his age and position. ‘Henry was to meet Madam Joanna at Southampton.’

  ‘So do we go there?’Worcester scowled harder. ‘I say we should wait.’

  By this time I was on my feet.

  ‘How long will it take the King to meet up with us?’ I interrupted.

  Bishop Henry turned to look at me. Somerset studied the ale-rings on the table. Worcester, in his surprise, forgot to scowl. Lord Thomas did not quite hide a smile.

  ‘It all depends on where he is now, Madam,’ Worcester announced. ‘He was intending to spend New Year at Windsor.’

  My geographical knowledge of where exactly I was at that moment was vague, but what use in sitting here at Falmouth? And so I announced,‘Then we travel east, my lords. Surely the closer to London we are, the more likely the welcoming party is to trip over us somewhere on our route.’

  They had not expected me to voice an opinion. Did English queens have no role in decision making, in royal counsels? Perhaps they were merely wary of me, not knowing me. When I was crowned and anointed Queen I would assume the role I expected. Indeed I would make my desires clear now to this dour steward I had inherited through marriage.

  ‘I’m not sure that we should, my lady.’ Worcester, scowl returned, rubbed his chin with his hand.

  ‘But I am very certain of it, my lord.’

  I allowed my gaze to rest on each one, returning ultimately to my lord of Worcester. Who, gracelessly, did not comply.

  It was Bishop Henry who did. ‘We go east tomorrow,’ he agreed. ‘We’ll make contact somewhere.’

  Which pleased me. And yet a blast of sheer panic, like the shower of hail that was beating against the windows, shook me with its force, making me turn to Lord Thomas as the impromptu council appeared to be preparing to depart to its bed.

  ‘What is it, my lady?’

  ‘I think I have forgotten what he looks like. Is that possible?’

  How foolish it sounded. How immature. But I was losing my vision of him, so that it was becoming harder to call his features to mind. All I could see was an outline, a particular stance, a turn of his head. Even though I remembered tracing his features so that they would remain implanted in my imagination, time had robbed me of my certainty. Not all the golden spangles in the world could assuage this fear that he had become a stranger to me.

  All I wanted, I acknowledged with a terrible honesty, was to get this meeting over and done with. To be reassured that I had not been mistaken. To be confident that I had directed my feet towards a future that would bring the happiness I had dreamed of. But as the days passed and we plodded east through cold and ice, my fear deepened with every step. I had given up all the safety and security of my existence, all the warmth of family and acknowledged status. And for what? A husband whose claim to the Crown he wore was still suspect. A King who would never be recognised as King by the Valois. A King who was hated by the Bretons simply for being English.

  For a husband who was not present.

  ‘What do I say to him?’ I heard myself asking.

  ‘You will see him soon. It has been a long journey for you.’ And I knew Lord Thomas did not only mean the crossing of the sea. It had been an interminable journey, full of demons and dangers to be overcome. ‘As for words—say what is in your heart. That’s what he will want to hear, after all this time.’

  Still hunched by the fire, Somerset and Worcester together with the Bishop were again in a deep conversation, so essentially furtive that it drew my attention.

  ‘Is there a difficulty?’ I asked.

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘I feel I am being cushioned from reality.’

  ‘All will be resolved, my lady. Not long now, but you must exercise patience.’

  ‘Why?’ I almost asked. Lord Thomas too was keeping me in the dark.

  ‘My King will be just as anxious to meet up with you, as you are with him.’

  I looked at him, at the kind eyes, the nose once as straight as a blade, now bent by some past blow in battle, that for some reason reassured me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, sighing.

  I was here in England at last where all would indeed be resolved. I would come to know th
at emotion that had surprised me by its power. It would still be there in Henry’s heart, as it was in mine. I would experience the joy of it. When, that is, I had the fortune to cross Henry’s path again.

  *

  Henry and I met on the side of the road in the environs of Exeter, in the midst of our joint escorts, with much milling and noise and the royal banners, bright and gilded against the grey. Not what I had envisaged, but they had been dreams, without substance. This was reality. Practicality. This was no lovers’ tryst. How ridiculous the troubadours’ songs of fervent meetings after long partings, of a passionate gaze and the heated caress as if the years of parting did not exist, and the lovers could pick up a conversation from where they had left off, so long ago. This, on the road to Exeter, was what happened when two persons of rank met in the depths of a late freezing January. We were both muffled in furs and wool from head to toe and my erstwhile lover was much occupied in conversation with his envoys. It surprised me that nerves shivered over my skin.

  Greetings were exchanged. Handclasps between Henry and his brothers. With Worcester. With Lord Thomas.

  ‘And not before time, my lord.’

  I was too caught up in the moment to take note of Worcester’s sour welcome, but I was to recall it later. Henry, I noticed, swept it aside, before indulging in some lengthy exchange of information that appeared to be crucial to Henry’s late arrival, while his expression reflected nothing but a stern resolve over some matter of policy to which I was not privy. While I, throughout it all, sat on my weary mount and waited.

  How long would I have to wait?

  Until this vastly important affair of business, assuredly more important than I, was complete. It was a salutary lesson. Here was no lover to fling himself at my feet in a passion of long-envisaged rapprochement. Was that not what any woman would expect from her professed admirer? Yes, I did. I was unused to being reduced to waiting on the convenience of any man, even if he was King of England.

  At last, at last, Henry manoeuvred his horse alongside mine. We faced each other. King of England meeting Duchess of Brittany. Husband and wife.

  If I expected a cataclysmic thunderclap at the fulfilment of my destiny, I was mistaken. The world went on around us, the escorts eager to move on, a flock of some small finches flying up from the hedgerow with busy twitterings. I was cold and damp. Henry’s face was ruddy beneath the dense velvet folds of his chaperon, his outer garments mired from hard travel. No blaze of sunshine thrust through the heavy cloud to highlight our meeting. No gentling of the stiff wind. This was as ordinary as any meeting could be.

  ‘My lady.’

  Henry took and raised my gloved fingers to his mouth.

  ‘My lord.’

  I inclined my head with due respect. Henry leaned to kiss my cheeks, lips cold, a brief and formal salute between distant royal cousins, inconvenienced by being on horseback. Our smiles were evident, but close-lipped, possibly frozen. Was there the same impact as I recalled when our eyes last acknowledged what we had, incontinently, dared to call love? The same sparkle in my blood, all the way to my fingertips? There was not, even though Henry kept my hand hard-clasped in his for longer than was strictly proper. The layers of leather made it entirely impersonal. The air dank around us, my cloak clammy against my throat, Henry swathed in cloak and hood and a fair amount of mud, we were observed by an audience of well-nigh thirty people.

  No meat for my minstrels here.

  I felt nothing. This man, this King, might have been a stranger to me, caught up in far more urgent affairs. Which I could understand, of course, for did not kings have heavy duties on their shoulders? But I was a bride, long in journeying. A most desirable one. And I experienced a sharp dismay, which deepened when Henry cast an eye over my entourage.

  ‘By the Rood! Is this an invasion from Brittany? And a popinjay, by God!’

  Was this a caustic observation on the impressive extent of my Breton household, male and female as well as the popinjay, that had travelled with me? I could get no sense of him, of the direction of his thoughts.

  ‘I presumed that I had come to stay,’ I heard myself reply with what I considered to be excusable acidity, born of weariness and frozen feet. And with a distinct lack of grace.

  ‘I had presumed so too.’

  Tilting his head at the chill in my voice, Henry released my hand before nudging his mount over to the travelling litter. ‘And who have we here?’ He twitched back the curtains, that had already been parted by curious occupants, to survey the girls and their nurse. ‘You’ll be pleased to see the end of this, mistress,’ Henry acknowledged Mistress Alicia.

  ‘Indeed we shall, my lord.’ She was far more accommodating than I. ‘All of us.’

  Which I accepted, along with the quick glance in my direction, as the reprimand she had intended. But the dismay had transmuted into a real fear. If I felt nothing for Henry of England, had I given up all that meant most to me in life for nothing? Was this bleak emptiness all there was for me?

  But Henry, aware only of two pairs of eyes fixed on him, bright beneath their hoods, looked over towards me. The girls were so weary their skin was translucent.

  ‘I’d forgotten how young they were.’

  ‘Ten years and five,’I said. ‘This is Marguerite and Blanche. They have proved to be stalwart travellers, but in truth it has become wearying for them. The days are long.’

  ‘And your sons?’

  I shook my head. At that moment it was beyond my power to summon up a concise explanation that would not overset me. I was more weary than I had thought.

  ‘I understand.’ And so that I would not have to explain, with all the grace that had failed me, Henry turned back to my daughters. ‘I knew just such tedious journeys when I was a boy. Let’s see what we can do. Do you like music, Blanche?’

  Blanche nodded.

  Henry looked about, brows meeting as he considered, until he beckoned to a page, a young boy who made up part of his entourage.

  ‘Let me borrow your pipe, Sim.’ From where it was tucked in the lad’s belt, a little carved wooden pipe exchanged hands, and was passed into the confines of the litter.

  ‘They have pastimes of their own.’ I felt the need to defend myself. Were my children not well provided for?

  ‘Ah, but this one has the interest of novelty,’Henry replied. ‘You’ll see.’

  We were accompanied for the rest of the short journey into the town of Exeter by some un-tuneful renderings. It was the giggles that meant most. And then inevitably a raised querulous voice and the sound of a slap. The piping died an instant death. Which made Henry laugh.

  ‘I remember that too! My great aunt, Lady Wake, who was ever present in my own childhood, had a short toleration of music.’

  How understanding he had been. I felt humbled, and touched beyond words by his concern. But it was not love. An absence of three years had undoubtedly proved to be far too long to keep alive an affection that had barely been given time to be born. Any nurturing had been by Lord Thomas and our own ultimate determination to snatch a future together. But determination was not love. And that after all was why I was here in this foreign country with my feet numb with cold and no sensation of love anywhere within me.

  *

  Exeter welcomed us with cheering through the streets. Oh, for a tapestried chamber, a bed with a good mattress and candles that did not reek of tallow. I was used to a level of luxury that did not include smoking fires, damp coverlets, water still icy from the well, and fleas. The populace, well primed with news and with ale, was vocal enough to bring colour to my cheeks although I knew the cheers were more for Henry than for me, their future queen. A foreign queen at that. There was something I needed to know.

  ‘Do they know I am Breton by marriage? And French by maternal birth? Will they approve of me?’ I asked Henry who rode beside me, acknowledging the well-wishing. I was not naive enough to think I would be welcomed with open arms. Any liking would be of my own making in this insular lan
d where foreigners were habitually suspect. It might not be the easiest of roads for me. It would interest me to hear Henry’s view of his foreign wife, more enemy than ally.

  ‘It remains to be seen. You may have to woo them.’

  Henry tossed the brief comment lightly into my lap. So he foresaw a degree of hostility: a difficulty, but not beyond my solving. Then, as I was considering ways and means of a Breton duchess winning over recalcitrant subjects, and even perennially morose ones like my lord of Worcester, we were come to the Bishop’s palace, where, as a guest, I had nothing to do but stand in the centre of the episcopal hall and once again wait for my husband by proxy to come to me.

  It was here, surrounded by cold stone and clerical minions, that, to my relief, as I watched Henry, at last memories began to flow strongly as this action, and then that one, this gesture, that particular turn of his head, urged them into life. There was the same energy, the same air of command, the same proud authority in his lineage that he wore without realising it. And the same love of garments to impress. Beneath the mud-spattered cloak, his tunic was panelled and pleated in close-woven blue wool. His boots might be encrusted but were of the finest leather. His hood was jewelled with rubies, as was the linked chain that defined his shoulders. So little had changed from the Henry who had been disinherited and returned to right a great wrong. Or so I thought.

  But then I saw the thumbprint of age as he dragged off his hood and ruffled his hair which was cropped shorter than I recalled, and there were lines between his brows that had not been permanent three years ago. Nor had there been the shadow of grooves running from nose to mouth that, in the moment that he turned his head, endowed him with a decidedly saturnine look. And yet again, as Henry moved about the room, ever restless, I saw the same lithe athlete I had known. I imagined he would be the same successful combatant today at the joust where he had made a reputation second to none. The years had laid no burden on him at all.