The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  It was July.

  Henry did not come home. I could not reach him, neither in my thoughts nor my dreams. I continued to light candles and offer prayers when from the north Henry marched into Wales. It was not until December, when Worcester’s head was stripped of all flesh and frost was heavy on timber and stone that Henry rode into London and I was there, with the formidable bulwark of the Royal Council behind me, to honour his return.

  And how conflicting my response to him.

  This was a King returned to his capital as conqueror in magnificent array. Henry might be fine drawn with lack of sleep and food but his entry into the city was exquisitely ordered to impress. Banners and pennons blazed with proud Plantagenet colours in the cold air; the royal standard, fringed and gilded, flew over all with its lions no less fierce than Henry had been in battle. The royal livery breathed power and authority, winter sun creating a shining pathway in heavenly blessing.

  Henry, riding with all his formidable experience at the head of his private retinue as if born to rule, called to my heart. Such power, such confidence, such conviction. Such beauty as he removed his helm to receive the massed acclamation of his subjects. He would annoy me, repudiate my considered thoughts, he could set me at a distance, but my love for him was immeasurable. As I watched him draw near, my senses were set aflame by his smile for a well-wisher with her child, stretching out his hand to her as he passed. Those hands that could master the fragile strings of a rebec as easily as curb the energies of his horse. Soon he would stretch out his hands to me.

  But by now, after five months of parting, I was finding it difficult to show any emotion at all in public. I felt as if I were a pickled neat’s tongue, the planes of my face unresponsive to any emotion. Five months of absence and warfare were a blight on any marriage. Old habits of reticence had taken hold of me once more.

  ‘You are right welcome, my lord.’

  It was all I could manage, hideously formal, and I could see, by the merest flicker of his eye, that Henry was disappointed in me. The Council left me in no doubt that I should have received him with hautboys, cymbals and rejoicing, but I could not. When I might have fallen to the floor at his feet in a wash of relief, all I could do was greet him in cool and measured tones. The lessons of my youth had been too well learned to gather him into some flamboyant embrace.

  I allowed him to kiss my hand.

  ‘We have missed you,’ I said. ‘We have rejoiced at your victory.’

  Henry risked a kiss to my icy cheek.

  And then we were free to speak, the councillors bowing themselves out of our presence, when it might have been expected that formality would go by the board and we might indulge in some warmer exchange of opinion, even if not of an intimate nature.

  There was no warmth.

  ‘I saw Worcester’s head,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you would.’

  ‘Did you kill Northumberland too?’ Where were my words of love and longing? ‘Has his head gone missing on the journey south? Or did you leave it on the gates of York with that of his son?’ Oh, I was not temperate.

  Henry’s expression was beyond reading. ‘Did you expect me to execute him?’

  ‘Yes. Why not eradicate the whole family?’

  ‘I did not. Northumberland is now languishing under guard for his treachery, to answer before parliament. His punishment for raising arms against me will be parliament’s decision. He has taken oaths of fealty, so I doubt he will suffer death. Does that please you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could not let Worcester and Hotspur go free at Shrewsbury unless they came to terms. I tried. By God, I tried, but Worcester made every excuse he could muster not to negotiate. If I had used them with mercy they would have been in Glyn Dwr’s camp before I could draw breath after offering them polite forgiveness. It won’t work, Joanna.’

  No. Perhaps it would not. The Percys might be cowed but Glyn Dwr was stronger than ever and a French fleet was sniffing round the southern ports. I had learned a hard lesson. The security of England was more important than the law and in achieving it Henry could be pitiless.

  ‘Have you a kiss for your long-absent husband?’ Henry asked, his expression still as stern as if passing judgement on the absent Northumberland. ‘Have you at least a smile that is a genuine expression of your love? For I believe you do love me, beneath that daunting exterior.’

  And then he was smiling at me. He was within touching distance. He was safe and he was home.

  ‘I cannot be less than daunting in public,’ I said.

  ‘But we are no longer in public. We are very private.’ His fingers were lightly engaged around mine.

  ‘We are in an audience chamber.’

  ‘Which is empty. Except for the two of us.’ His lips were pressed against my wrist, against the quick beat of my blood. ‘And I have been apart from you for so very long.’

  At last I smiled, my face softening, my senses melting, as I welcomed him into my arms, and when my own desired words still escaped me, I discovered those within the span of my own knowledge, and made amends with them.

  ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.’

  Henry replied from the same source, familiar to both of us.

  ‘Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death.’

  My amends were well received, allowing us to discover much to reunite us in the sultry beauty and passion of the Song of Solomon. Henry was returned, he had shown clemency at the end, and I was glad.

  *

  ‘What’s amiss?’ I asked, when for the whole morning Henry had been locked in collaboration with his Council whose members looked as collectively disobliging as the statues above the great west door into Westminster Abbey. I had caught my preoccupied husband’s attention by the simple expedient of awaiting their departure from the Westminster chamber, then taking a stool beside him at the table of business.

  ‘Are we at war again? There is a furrow deep enough between your brows to plant a crop of cabbages,’ I said, hoping for a softening of expression.

  ‘What do you know about planting cabbages?’ he responded. He regarded me as if from a great distance.

  ‘Not a thing. What I do know is that a pall of trouble hangs over you. Are we at war?’ I repeated.

  There was that breath of a hesitation. One I was becoming used to, as if he might be considering whether to honour me with his confidence or not. So that when Henry placed his hands flat-palmed on the wood, to push himself to his feet, I grasped his nearest wrist, and tugged, to prevent his escape.

  ‘I would like to think that I knew what was in your mind, Henry, rather than have to guess.’

  Which made Henry settle back in his chair, with some resignation, turn to rest his elbow on the table and grin briefly. ‘Then I must ask pardon, Madam. It is become a matter of habit to keep my own counsel.’ So I had been right about that. ‘Am I anxious? Sad, perhaps, at the death of a woman who had more influence in my life than she would ever know.’

  I frowned a little. So it was a family bereavement that was gouging the lines. ‘Not one of your sisters.’

  ‘No. Duchess Katherine has died. In Lincoln.’ His smile was wry. ‘She was always there, in one capacity or another, throughout my life.’

  I recalled her at Calais. Graciously friendly, wearing her new status as the Duke’s wife with ease. There was no doubt that in that relationship love had triumphed over the overt hostility of those who thought such a marriage between the ageing Duke and his mistress to be unseemly.

  Henry was continuing, in pensive mood. ‘Her ending was a peaceful one. She missed my father beyond bearing.’ And then, more to himself than to me,‘It will help to ease your dower situation with parliament and the Council. Some of Duchess Katherine’s property will devolve to you.’

  Which struck me as peculiarly insensitive from a man who was rarely thus. ‘I would not wish her dead. For the sake of an est
ate and a house, however valuable,’ I responded.

  ‘Of course not.’

  And I saw that any door on confidences that I had opened had closed again. But I had not come to discuss my dower.

  ‘Do your ministers approve of me yet, Henry?’ I asked.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would they not?’

  Which was not helpful. ‘Do they fear my intervention, seeing it as meddling? I will help you in every way I can.’

  ‘As I know.’ Henry had become brisk. ‘As for my ministers, they need time to become acquainted with you.’ Then, after an infinitesimal pause:‘And with how you see your role as Queen of England.’

  I considered this. ‘Is my role a matter of dispute between us?’

  ‘You have to understand.’ Henry was become even brisker. ‘The Duke of Brittany allowed you considerable autonomy but here in England it is not in living memory that the Queen has engaged herself directly in the events of the realm. My grandmother Queen Philippa was a woman content to lavish her talents on her children and her household. She might hear petitions and dispense patronage but she did not deal directly with affairs of government. Richard’s first wife Anne might have done so, but her death was untimely. Isabelle, of course, was a mere child. The only Queen of England the nobility will remember from family anecdote and experience was Isabella, wife of the second King Edward who meddled outrageously, undermined the King’s power and dragged the country almost into civil war.’ Henry’s regard was not without compassion for my position. ‘Not only that, Isabella became involved to an unfortunate degree with Earl Mortimer, siding with him against her husband the King. Her memory has done you no favours. It is thought by many that the best policy is for the Queen to be a self-effacing wife, highly decorative, with no demand on her time but to bear heirs for the kingdom and dispense charity.’

  Which effectively put me in my place. ‘I see. And is that what you wish? For me to be good and decorative and fertile, and nothing more?’

  ‘No,’ Henry replied without pause. ‘I value you far more highly than that. So will my ministers. Give them time.’

  I should have been satisfied. And yet I felt that Henry was a master of quiet dissimulation. Not trickery: that was not his way. But he could keep concerns as close to his chest as a swan would cleave to its single remaining cygnet.

  I stood, preparing to leave him to his discussions when the shuffling of his returning ministers could no longer be ignored, but his hand on mine stopped me.

  ‘Might I make a suggestion?’ He did not wait longer than to read my raised brows. ‘That you do not scowl at the members of my Council.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘They would think so. It is difficult to read a frown and set mouth as friendly.’

  ‘But they resent my presence.’

  ‘Only, as I have explained, because there is no precedent for it. Put your pride aside, Joanna, and smile at them. They will warm to you.’

  Sinking back to my stool I saw the truth in it, of course, acknowledging that I had been unwise. I knew better than to engender hostility through careless handling. The path to successful negotiation was one of cool calm politeness, not snarling ferocity. My only excuse was that I was still finding my feet amongst the eddying of power in this Court where nothing was as it seemed.

  ‘I have been wrong,’ I admitted. I will remedy it immediately.’

  I smiled at the returning counsellors. Some of them even returned it when I asked their pardon for interrupting the business of their Council.

  And so I retired with a degree of accomplishment, yet in spite of his concurrence that I would be accepted and allotted a role at his side, I felt that Henry was still manoeuvring me, gently but even more firmly into the background. I had sensed it on the journey to Winchester. I sensed it even more strongly now. Music and passion would be shared with me, but anything appertaining to royal policy was slammed hard and fast behind a closed door.

  I was not a woman to be shut out.

  How unfortunate that Queen Isabella had left such an uncomfortable legacy for me. Nor was that of Queen Philippa any more acceptable. What would I do with my time if I were to mirror my life on hers, full of family and dispensation of patronage? I was not a woman to spend it in setting fine stitches.

  *

  My resolute smiles and friendly overtures towards Henry’s councillors having no significant effect, matters quickly came to a head.

  I was in process of traversing an antechamber at Westminster, one that I rarely used and one that at this precise moment was redolent with passion, where Henry’s newly hung tapestries were of war and conquest, the hues bright and red with blood where sword bit into flesh. Yet no more hostile than the mood of the men who had gathered centrally to exchange their low-voiced conversation. I halted on the threshold, my page who carried my missal dragged into immobility by my hand clamped to his shoulder, my ladies staunchly frozen behind me. I might be on my way to hear Matins, but this atmosphere, these chance-heard opinions, wiped away any desire for immediate prayer.

  I let my gaze travel the room. Since my own advent was not immediately recognised, the conversation continued. Low-voiced it might be, but it carried well. A sibilant hiss on finance. The harsh consonants of Breton. The short open vowel of war.

  I would not hover in the doorway in my own palace.

  Releasing my page, I walked forward, and since I made no attempt to creep, the discussion dropped into a potent stillness, like an axe through the neck of a traitor. The silence was absolute. Not even a scrape of shoe or rustle of damask sleeve. All eyes were turned to me. It was like treading through pools of venom.

  ‘Gentlemen, my lords, I hope I do not disturb your deliberations.’

  My lips smiled. My deportment was impeccable.

  So was their response. They bowed, respectful to a man, as I walked the distance between them to the far door. Even when it was closed at my back, I felt the lowering cloud of their disapproval. I had been right about the chill, whatever Henry might say. Like the thinnest of ice on a puddle, but sharp enough to draw blood if one was unfortunate enough to have a thin skin. Nor could I broach the matter again with Henry. He would simply placate me with soft words, to wait until they knew me better.

  How long would that take? A year? A lifetime? Would they finally find me acceptable as I neared my deathbed?

  I would not wait. It was not in my nature to live with this covert disapprobation any longer. Moreover I knew who would deliver an honest answer, however uncomfortable it might make him, however distasteful I would find it. So deciding, I diverted from my plan of prayer and heavenly assurance, directing my steps in the opposite direction. Perhaps I was mistaken after all and the wintry temperature had everything to do with the undercurrent of unrest in the country rather than with me.

  I hoped it was so. If I was a naive woman, I might have believed it.

  *

  I might have abandoned prayer for the occasion, but Henry Beaufort, enjoying his luxurious apartments, was on his knees before his prie dieu. Nor did he immediately rise when I was ushered into the room by his servant. Here was a man of presence and self-confidence, newly created Lord Chancellor of England and enjoying the glory of it. There was no doubting his abilities, or his ambition, but I decided that he would be a friend to me in my need for information.

  Bishop Henry rose, crossed himself with a hand that glittered with gems, and genuflected before the crucifix. Only then did he turn, showing no surprise.

  ‘Madam Joanna.’

  ‘Bishop Henry.’

  ‘Now why would you need to seek me out so early in the day?’

  ‘Because despite your lack of years, a more astute cleric I have never met.’

  Henry Beaufort, royal half-brother, Bishop of Winchester, Chancellor of England, was all of twenty-eight years old. He grinned.

  ‘I will do my poor best. If you will sit…’

  I sat while Bishop Henry poured wine for us both and took the carved h
igh-backed chair opposite me.

  ‘Well, then?’

  I inhaled steadily. ‘I wish to know how I am regarded. Here in England. There was much celebration when I was made Queen. I was lauded as Henry’s wife. Warwick fought as my champion. Yet within a year the gilding has worn thin. Now, whichever way I turn, I feel the shadow of a storm-crow hanging over me.’

  Bishop Henry pursed his lips. ‘I could say that you are mistaken.’

  ‘You could. But you won’t. You will tell me the truth.’

  ‘Then I could say that I think you should ask my brother to answer the question. It is—how shall I say?—a sensitive subject.’

  ‘So sensitive that your brother won’t tell me. He is polite and reassuring that I will be the most well-loved of queens when the English nobles come to know me. I don’t believe him. I am treated with a cold distancing as if I were the carrier of the plague. I have been married less than a twelve-month. What have I done? Is it some English custom I am ignorant of? Have I committed some grave solecism?’

  He tilted his head considering, eyes bright, smile as dry as dust. He might be younger than my years, but I felt he could strip the flesh from my bones and read my entrails if he so wished.

  ‘Why come to me?’

  He looked as if he wished I had not.

  ‘Because you will tell me. Henry denies it. Lord Thomas would be soothing. You will be honest. Even though I presume I will not like your reply.’

  ‘No.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘I don’t think you will. But it is quite simple. You are disliked. Quite spectacularly, in fact. You are probably the most unpopular royal bride for at least a century. You are considered untrustworthy because you are Breton.’

  And no, I did not like it, as the brutal delivery struck home. The implied venom in the enlightenment momentarily took my breath.

  ‘But I am not Breton. I am Navarrese. I am Valois.’

  ‘Just as bad. The enemy, in effect.’

  ‘But they knew that when Henry first broached our marriage.’