by Anne O'Brien
‘Ah! But Henry knew there would be difficulties over your marriage from the very beginning.’ Bishop Henry smiled knowingly. ‘He was amazingly circumspect in his dealings with the Council.’
‘You mean he kept it secret?’
‘Indeed. Until the negotiations were complete and the deal done and you almost on your way. What the Council didn’t know, the Council could not oppose. When your ambassadors arrived, and the Council questioned the purpose of the visit, Henry informed the Council that it was none of their business.’
So the whole wooing had been clandestine. I had known of his desire for discretion; he had made it plain enough. But to keep the whole affair hidden was more extreme than I had realised. I did not know what to think of this.
‘Henry did not tell me of the extent of this opposition.’
‘Perhaps he thought you would know without the need for his telling.’
‘Yes, I was aware of some dissatisfaction. But not that the Council would rather Henry marry a daughter of the Grand Turk than marry me. Am I so naive?’
‘I would never be so discourteous, Madam.’
‘But you think I should have known.’
‘If you ask my advice, yes. You must learn to look at this through English eyes. We have had years of dispute over who rules the sea between us.’ He ticked them off on his elegantly jewelled fingers. ‘Trade disputes, fishing disputes. Pirate activities. Breton alliances with France. It puts Brittany firmly on the shelf of those whom the English distrust. And your son is Duke of Brittany. Why would it surprise you if they look askance when you walk into a room or express an opinion?’
‘I see. I suppose it is on the same level as Burgundy warning me of the consequences of my coming to England. That this marriage would be opposed by France. Then it seems I have been truly naive.’
No, I thought. Not naive. But ill-informed. I should have done better, perhaps. And then the sharp thought, sharp enough to wound. Henry should have been honest with me, as I had been with him. I had warned him of Burgundy’s open hostility. Henry might have hinted at disapproval, but he had given me no image of the true level of English disfavour.
Meanwhile, Bishop Henry inclined his head, his fingers stroking over the silver crucifix on his chest. ‘It is an extra obligation on my brother that he could well do without. The pressures are building on him. He is beleaguered on every side.’
‘But will your stiff-necked English necessarily like me more when they know me better?’ I asked, not liking the idea of being one of Henry’s problems, an albatross around his neck. ‘I have done nothing to antagonise anyone. And yet I feel the frost in this Court is deepening. I know I don’t mistake the chatter when I walk into a chamber. Any conviviality dries up like a well in summer. Will they ever find me more acceptable?’
I detested having to ask. England had acquired in me a Queen with high blood and status, acknowledged throughout Europe. My brother of Navarre had approved of the match. Why should past enmity between pugnacious fishermen sour my welcome? Better a high-ranking royal daughter than an unknown woman, or even an English girl, who would bring England’s King no enhancement to his position. England should see me as an asset rather than a difficulty to be overcome.
‘Why not?’ Bishop Henry was as smooth as the silk of his robes. ‘As you say, you have been here so little time. But you might consider…’
Something else for me to consider? I raised my brows extravagantly.
Bishop Henry laughed, showing his teeth. ‘How unaccommodating you appear, Joanna, when you try so hard not to be. Tell me this. How many servants have you, waiting at this moment outside my door?’
‘Seven. Six of my waiting-women,’ I said. ‘And one of my pages.’
‘And how many of them are Breton?’
‘Seven.’
‘How many servants in your household are Breton?’
‘All of them. Except for the handful of members of my Council, provided by Henry.’
‘There’s your answer. Your connection with Brittany is still very strong. Too strong.’
So that was at the root of it. That I had come to England with the women and people of my household who had served me in Brittany, and I had made no changes.
‘And,’ Bishop Henry pursued,‘would it be true to say that your confessor and your physician and your cupbearer, not to mention your sempstress and your daughters’ nurses are also all Breton?’
‘Yes.’ And seeing the direction of his questions, I tilted my chin despite the heat I felt along my cheekbones. ‘And I’ll not dismiss them.’
‘Then you will continue to fall into disfavour. You are expected to put English interests first.’
‘Which I will. All the members of my new council are English. My treasurer is English. My steward is English. That is enough. I’ll not dismiss those who came to serve me.’
Bishop Henry’s brows arched as beautifully as mine. ‘If you are of a mind to be intransigent…’
‘Perhaps I am.’ And then, because it was uppermost in my mind:‘Why would Henry not tell me this?’
‘At this precise moment, Henry has other priorities than the nationality of your servants. You might consider, Joanna, when you are mulling over all the rest, that the sum of money Henry negotiated for your dowry was greater, as far as I am aware, than that given to any other queen in the history of this country. It is a mark of my brother’s high regard. If you will accept more advice, you should perhaps consider how you spend the money when parliament is showing its disapprobation of royal expenses. Your extravagance can only weaken Henry in his attempt to find accord with Council or parliament. It would receive much praise from the Royal Council. I expect they would smile on you if they saw your lifestyle being more frugal.’
‘Curb my expenditure? As I recall, there was no curb on the expenditure for my wedding feast. What did that cost Henry?’
The Bishop winced delicately. ‘Far too much, many would say. But as for you, Joanna, if I might be forthright—perhaps the ordering of Flanders linen is not good policy.’
I bridled. ‘Flanders linen is of the finest.’
‘And most expensive. As I imagine is the sable pelt around your cuffs. And as for the purchase of wine and other comestibles from your previous home at Vannes…’Bishop Henry’s nose narrowed with disapproval. ‘Such luxuries could be purchased in England.’
I stood, angry now, at such a personal level of disapproval.
‘And how do you know what I order, or from whom I order it?’
‘Gossip, lady. Only gossip. But I swear it’s true.’ For a moment he considered me. ‘Will you take some advice?’ And before I could reply, ‘My brother does not give his confidences easily, a habit that of late has become more pronounced. They have to be teased out of him, gently like a whore’s kiss. Or excavated with a hatchet.’
‘And which method do you propose that I use?’
‘I will leave that for your discerning eye, Madam Joanna. But I would use a hatchet. It’s quicker.’
I did not like the gleam in his eye as I placed my untouched cup of wine on the coffer and left him to his interrupted petitions to the Almighty. Well, I had asked for the truth had I not? That I did not like what I had heard was no fault of Bishop Henry’s, but it left me unable to make polite conversation as if it had never been said.
On the threshold I paused to bow my head. ‘I will consider your advice, your grace.’
And what a wealth of new knowledge for me to digest. A dislike of all things Breton. Extravagance. My unwillingness to employ English women around me. I had not given any of this a second thought, merely continuing my lifestyle as I had managed it in Brittany. And as I returned to my chambers, flanked by my despised Bretons, I wished Henry had been more open. Was it lack of courage in him? I did not think so. Consideration for my sensibilities? I had thought we had a marriage that could withstand honesty.
Perhaps I had been wrong on a number of fronts.
I could no longer ignore the
level appraisals as I traversed the rooms and antechambers. They were sufficiently Medusa-like to turn an unsuspecting onlooker, even an English Queen, into stone.
*
My first instinct was to pack my travelling coffers before sending a message to my husband that I was returning forth-with to Eltham, where at least my daughters and Philippa would smile as I walked into a room. They would enjoy my company, showering me with questions and demands. Still undecided, I considered my household, looking at it with Bishop Henry’s jaundiced eagle eye. The pages, servants, musicians, the women who dealt with my laundry and mending, my ladies in waiting. Yes, they were all Breton. A sin of omission rather than commission. It had not entered my mind to take an English woman into my service when I had so many who knew my ways and worked with cheerful competence. What had my mother done? Had she kept her French retinue when she became Queen of Navarre? When I had become Duchess of Brittany, had I not brought my own people from Navarre? Of course I had. Eventually I had employed Breton ladies as the need arose. I could recall no outcry over the speed or lack of in forming my new household.
It was all a storm in wine-cup. And if so, to brood at Eltham would do nothing to calm the waves. I was not good at silent brooding.
Thus my second instinct: to remain at Westminster and do what I did best: immerse myself in my own affairs and the business of my finances. They had been long neglected, some ends that were uncomfortably loose needed to be mended. I would be here when Henry was less preoccupied. Meanwhile I would spend my time wisely and effectively. If nothing else I would make it plain to these English subjects that they had a Queen capable of applying herself to business, far more than a decorative consort, incapable of appreciating the needs of this country. And if my garments were made of the finest linen and silk, edged with the finest fur, I would show the English that I was worthy of that expenditure.
It might also be that I should accept Bishop Henry’s needle-sharp advice and consider the composition of my household. To add a cluster of well born Englishwomen would not come amiss and might help to allay suspicions that I was beyond accepting good advice. It would be good policy to show my appreciation of the wives of Henry’s noble families.
In this satisfactory turn of mind I immersed myself in the fiscal dealings in my tower where it soon became clear to me that, in respect of my Breton dower, there was one obvious step for me to take. A sensible decision all round. And so I began to dictate to William Denys, one of my English officials.
‘It is my will that my claims to the sum of seventy thousand livres due, as dower income from my marriage to John de Montfort, Duke of Brittany, together with the annual rent of six thousand livres on lands in Normandy, as listed below, will be transferred from me and placed under the jurisdiction of my son John, Duke of Brittany, for his use in perpetuity.’ I paced as I spoke. ‘Signed and sealed by my hand on this day in the year 1404 at Westminster…’
‘If there is any single step that you might take, to make the English dislike you more than they already do, Madam, it is that one.’
A damning observation. The dictation dried on my lips as I turned slowly.
‘My lord, I did not expect you.’
‘Unfortunately, as I am made aware.’
Henry waved my people, suddenly all ears, back to their work. His expression was not one such as I had come to know. Here was anger. Here was frustration. Here was stark debate in his eyes.
‘Do you need me?’ I asked, as wary as a rabbit below a circling buzzard, an experience I did not appreciate. ‘I thought your time today was required by your Council.’
‘It is.’ His gaze swept over my clerks who, heads down, hands busy, were astonishingly industrious. ‘Perhaps I have neglected you. Perhaps I should have made myself more aware of what you and your fiscal officers are doing.’
‘I am overseeing the disposition of moneys that are mine. I have the right.’
Now his gaze was on me. ‘Is it your right to give it to your son?’
I resented the tone. I resented the arrogantly raised brows. I resented the presumption. My reply was suitably caustic.
‘Why should I not?’
‘Why not indeed? Shall I tell you how I see it?’
I waited in silence.
‘You brought nothing to England. You brought no financial advantage. Nothing that could be put to good use for England.’ How gratingly cold his voice, like the fall of a portcullis. How grim his face, as if facing an enemy on the battlefield. As if I were one of the Percys at Shrewsbury. ‘I did not ask it of you. I wanted you, not your wealth. But here I find you granting away what you have to be used in Breton policies.’ His voice now fell to a harsh croak. ‘I cannot believe that you are so politically unaware, Joanna. By sending these rents to your son, it is pouring money into the pockets of Burgundy. And what do you suppose the Duke of Burgundy will do with it? Burgundy has no love for us. He’ll rub his hands in joy when he receives this godsend, plotting how many ships he can supply to spearhead an invasion of England.’
How did I respond to this accusation, that I would wilfully put money into enemy coffers? Pride was a shackle on my tongue. Quick anger, that I had been accused and judged, was a harsh curb. I would not be told what I might and might not do with my own dower. Let Henry so judge me.
‘I trust that my uncle of Burgundy will use the rents for the good of Brittany, my lord,’I said. ‘So that my son, when he comes of age to govern, inherits a state of some wealth and power.’
‘I forbid you to do it.’ A reply I should have expected.
‘Forbid?’
I held his stare with my own. And in it Henry read my denial.
‘Do you wish to be held up for even more hostile criticism?’ he asked. ‘I was given to think that your present unpopularity disturbed you.’
‘You have been talking with your brother.’
‘Yes.’
I did not like that he had been discussing me with Bishop Henry. ‘Why did you not tell me that my Breton associations were a matter of disgust to your subjects?’
‘I did not think I had to. Could you not see it for yourself?’
Pride and anger took me in an even tighter grip. ‘I thought I was a valuable wife for a man who has usurped his throne. A man who needs to improve his standing in the eyes of the rulers of Europe. A Valois princess, sister to the King of Navarre, would be a considerable achievement. It seems to me that I have misread my worth.’
While the atmosphere in my tower room positively crackled, I waited for the lash of Henry’s retaliation. It did not come. Instead, accents biting:
‘You might have proved to be a better wife, more acceptable as Queen of England, if your damnable Breton subjects had not within the last three days put themselves into a state of outright warfare against us.’
‘They have not,’ I breathed.
‘Do you say?’
‘If you mean trade skirmishes, have they not been in existence since as long as anyone recalls? There have always been such disputes between our two countries.’
‘And I see you side with Brittany.’
‘No, I do not. That is not what I meant and…’
Henry’s hand flashed and gripped my arm, fingers as biting as his voice.
‘It’s not important what you meant. By God, Joanna, it’s not a mealy mouthed matter of fish and cloth this time. What the Bretons are doing at this very moment is signing treaties with the Welsh! The bloody Welsh and Owain Glyn Dwr! And, by God, if that isn’t enough, the Bretons have joined up with your precious Valois connections to make landings in Wales. Yesterday, God damn them, they launched a raid on Plymouth which we were hard stretched to beat off.’
I did not ask if it were true or claim disbelief. I knew it must be so.
‘And you are sending sources of income to your son,’ Henry continued, dripping scorn from his tongue to scald me. ‘You’d be better making use of your high-born connections that you are so proud of in negotiating a truce.’
> ‘I have no power in Brittany. I gave it all up for you.’
‘You do have power. More than you know. If you send your son rents to strengthen Breton efforts on behalf of Glyn Dwr you are stabbing me in the back. And what’s this?’ He picked up a detailed list awaiting my approval, surveying it with a clench of his jaw. ‘Wine and furs, is it? An order for supplies from Vannes. So my brother was right. More money in Breton coffers to fund the war against us.’
There was nothing I could say in my own defence. Nor would I, even though shame had begun to lick around the edges of my defiance. I doubted Henry would have listened even if I had.
‘I worked hard for a dower for you, and achieved it against all the odds,’ he snapped. ‘You might show some appreciation by not supporting Brittany at every move.’
The blood had drained from my face. ‘Are you regretting it? Am I not worthy of it?’
‘Oh, yes. Your connections are beyond value to a usurper.’ In bitter irony Henry picked up my prideful words. ‘Or I would not have worked so hard to get it for you. You came to England with nothing to our benefit. No treaty. No land. No money. This is how you repay me.’ His voice dropped so that none would overhear. ‘I have enough enemies, Joanna, without my own wife adding to their number.’
Every sense froze into disbelief.
‘I am no enemy of yours,’ I said.
Tell him. Tell him the truth.
But there was no opportunity. Nor was I of a mind to do so.
Henry cast the order for commodities on the table with a contemptuous turn of his wrist before striding from the room, leaving me to deal with an anger as cold but as viable as his. Yet beneath it all I castigated myself for my foolishness. Pride had driven me. Pride had allowed him to think the worst of me. I should have been honest, but instead I had given him due cause to suspect that I was playing a part in financing Breton-French attacks on behalf of the Welsh traitor Glyn Dwr.
But I could not forgive his berating me as if I were a lowly clerk. Nor could I believe that he had accused me of being his enemy. With dismay and defiance in equal portion, I completed the transfer of rents, singed it, sealed it, and ordered it to be sent to my son. Henry thought the worst of me. So be it.
