The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Did your father tell you of that one?’

  ‘No, I heard about it from the ostlers. The Countess is first cousin to the Percys. She has an axe to grind against us. The French were to land in Essex, but they didn’t come. And Richard is dead anyway.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  He shrugged inelegantly. ‘Three months ago or thereabouts. They tried to land in the Isle of Wight but were driven off. We’ll not let the bloody French set foot in England.’

  He was astonishingly laconic, until he recalled my own French connections, at which his youthful features flushed to the roots of his hair. But his discomfiture was of no account to me. Henry had said he was fighting for his life, an assertion I had brushed aside as an exaggeration. But this was not in any way an exaggeration. With these conspiracies as well as the revolt of Glyn Dwr and the Percys, and the planned involvement of French troops, it was a miracle Henry had not been brought home to lie dead at my feet. It was a miracle that he had lived to wed me in the first place. The metal contraption of Humphrey’s telling might only be a rumour, but who was to say it might not become a reality? As for poisoned saddles…

  The threat of violent death was suddenly very close. I grasped Lord Thomas’s sleeve again as he put his foot in the stirrup.

  ‘I presume that Henry thinks it might be someone in his household who anointed his saddle. So that he must take precautions every time he mounts a horse.’

  ‘It’s possible, my lady.’

  ‘Must be, I’d say,’ added Humphrey.

  And I remembered, as sharp-cut as if he stood beside me.

  ‘I trust no one.’ And then, ‘I am fighting for my life.’

  I had not understood. I had wilfully not understood, and Henry had deliberately kept his own counsel.

  ‘Who can he trust? Once he would have said that a Percy lord was the best friend he could ask for. But that was before the bloodbath of Shrewsbury.’ Lord Thomas swung into the saddle with all the vitality of a man less than half his age. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. All we can do is protect him from plots and take care of the royal saddlery.’

  I felt guilt sweep through me as I stared blindly at Lord Thomas’s departing back. I knew Henry faced opposition, but I had not known the threats to be of so widespread or of so personal a nature. I knew nothing of the Countess of Oxford, a Percy cousin, and her plottings. I should have made it my place to find out from other, better sources than the ostlers. I had been too busy regretting Henry’s unwillingness to allow me access to his private concerns. I had been neither supportive nor understanding.

  The French invited to invade England by this Percy cousin? Another excellent reason why I might be hailed as the most unpopular of Queens.

  And why had Henry not told me any of this? Because it was in his nature to be protective. What was it that he had said in the chapel only the previous day? It will be better if you remain here where you will be safe. And I had thought it merely a matter of the English despising their Breton mercantile adversaries, while Henry had closed his mouth like a rat-trap so that his fears of yet another attempt on his life and mine would not be transferred as an equal weight to bear down on my heart.

  ‘By the Virgin!’I said aloud, astounded once more at the overweening pride of men.

  ‘Madam Joanna…?’

  I came back to the busy scene of the courtyard to find Humphrey staring at me with some species of concern. ‘I did not mean to worry you,’ he said gruffly. And then as if he could read my mind,‘My father would not tell you. He never does. He keeps his thoughts to himself, and he would not wish to cast a shadow over your life. He takes precautions, and he would think that was enough.’ He hesitated. ‘He has increased the guards at Eltham when Philippa and your girls are there. And when we spend Christmas there. No harm must come to you, you know. He values you highly. We all do. You are very kind. My father said I must not worry you. I’m sorry if I have…’

  It made me want to weep.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry—I’ll not tell him that you broke his confidence. It is good that you did.’

  I felt like ordering a horse to be saddled to ride after Henry, but that I could not do. I must harness my guilt until he returned to me.

  Later, much later, when the events of the next turbulent days had rolled out, when all became clearer in my mind, I was to return to this moment. To Henry’s deliberate secrecy. To his constant fears for his own safety and that of his family. How could I, knowing the difficulties of a ruler holding a state together, of holding tight to Crown and power, how could I have been so blind to what he was facing? From family as well as from enemies, and it was the treacherous undermining by his family that bit the deepest and drew his heart’s blood. Facing deep plottings and insurrection from those he should have been able to trust, Henry needed all the courage in the world to raise his head above the parapet. But that is what he did, day after day, to hold this country securely in his hands and preserve some semblance of peace.

  Why had I not seen? Because Henry had wilfully intended me to be blind, to protect me, to preserve my peace of mind. The poisoned saddle was a deliberate attack against Henry. A chance arrow when hunting, a skilful thrust of a sword in battle, might both end Henry’s life, but his sons too had been threatened at the Epiphany tournament. Henry would see it as a matter of pride to protect his family. Knowing Henry, as I now did, he would bear the burden of it from one year’s end to the next, but I must not be allowed to worry.

  And no, I had not noticed the increase in armed retainers at Eltham.

  But oh, I should have done so. I should have shared the problems. Could not a wise wife inveigle her husband into telling her the inner secrets of his heart? Instead I had withdrawn into pride and haughty anger when my finances came under scrutiny and my Breton servants were threatened. I had been as much in the wrong as Henry.

  Proud men were not always willing to listen to the counsel of women. That would change. Had Henry never read the wisdom of Madam Christine from Pizarro? I would ensure that he did. I would belabour him with the pertinent passages if necessary, between Mass and breaking our fast.

  Proud Queens, it seemed, must also change. As Madam Christine observed in her writing under the patronage of my uncle of Burgundy, a wise woman should avoid oppressing her men-folk, since was that not the surest way to incur their hatred? She would best cultivate their loyalty by speaking to them boldly and consistently, and with wisdom.

  I sighed. Madam Christine’s beautifully written City of Ladies was a rare essay of good advice to any woman. But first Henry must return to me in one piece. And where to start? Promoting peace in my own marriage, the erudite lady would doubtless advise.

  I became aware of Humphrey still fidgeting at my side. With my new insight, I wondered: ‘Did your father leave you here to have an eye to my safety?’ I asked.

  At fifteen years he was the same age as his older brothers when they had already been experienced in the field. Now Humphrey was concentrating, more than was necessary, on the departing baggage train.

  ‘No, my lady, there would be no need. You are in no danger.’

  I did not believe him. He was as adept at dissimulation as his father.

  I patted Humphrey’s shoulder. ‘We must endeavour to entertain ourselves, it seems, in your father’s absence.’

  He looked askance. ‘What is it you wish to do, Madam?’

  ‘Would your father object if we try out his young hounds? It’s good weather for it.’

  A glint appeared in Humphrey’s eye as if he had been rescued from unimaginable boredom. ‘He might say they are still too young.’

  ‘He will not know, nor will we put them under any pressure. I think a gentle lope along the water-meadows will do them no harm at all.’

  He did not hesitate. ‘Let’s do it.’ His eye slid to mine. ‘I think I should tell you, since you know the rest of it. My father carries a bezoar stone. Even at home.’

  ‘Does he now?’ A
n item of magical properties, to guard its owner from the effects of poison. ‘Tell me more, Humphrey.’

  So it happened that I was still standing on the steps with Humphrey as Henry rode out through the gateway. I saw him stop, wheel his horse and look back, Math obediently at his horse’s heels. Henry was too distant for me to read his expression, or he mine, but he raised his hand, palm towards me in a little gesture of peace.

  Don’t go! I longed to shout after him. Don’t leave me with so much unsettled between us.

  But that is not how we did things.

  I raised my hand in the same acknowledgement. When he returned I would talk to him. I would make him talk to me.

  Chapter 12

  February 1405: Kennington Palace

  The day of Saint Valentine, when the birds of the air discover their mates and swear their true love, according to the writings of Geoffrey Chaucer, back in the reign of the now assuredly dead King Richard. An auspicious day for my reuniting with Henry, some would say. I wasted no time in my travelling to Kennington when Henry’s courier informed me that he would be there.

  I was strangely nervous but I held my emotions under restraint as I was received with honour and escorted by the chamberlain to where Henry was waiting for me in one of the family chambers. The weariness of travel was on him, I saw immediately as I entered. For once he was not busy with cannon or finance or any other urgent affair. For the first time since I had known him, his hands were not engaged with pen or book or weapon of war. Rather, simply sitting, hands loose on the arms of his chair, head resting on the back, Math at his feet, he had been staring beyond the window towards the south, suspended in a strange calm that was not a calm at all, as if he were waiting for something. Or someone. His face was thinner. How could that be? We had been apart for barely a month, but he looked pared down to bone and muscle. Then the long moments of introspection were set aside, the air of hard-strung tension dissipating as the greyhound rose to greet me. Henry’s mouth softened, but I could not call it a smile.

  ‘My lady.’ He rose as the chamberlain closed the door quietly at my back, and bowed.

  ‘My lord.’ I curtsied.

  For some reason the occasion demanded the formality. Perhaps it was the setting. The room Henry had chosen had no fire, no soft comfort. The painted tiles and the carved window arches patterned with fitful sunshine were the only decoration.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ I asked, stretching my hand to his.

  ‘Two days ago.’ He touched my fingertips with his own, lightly, impersonally.

  ‘And were the defences against the Bretons as you would have wished?’

  Henry acknowledged this with a winged brow. ‘Against a full-fledged French invasion? No. But we will do what we can. Enough of that. I invited you to come here because there are things that need to be said between us.’

  ‘Which is why I am come to be with you.’

  St Valentine, I decided, would find it hard work to cast his shadow over this moment.

  ‘Do we sit, or do we face each other in combat?’ Henry asked.

  ‘We sit. I am not here to fight with you, Henry.’

  ‘Nor I with you. Then come.’ His hand was warm around mine as he led me to the window seat where he seated me beside him before casting an oblique glance in my direction. ‘I have not even kissed you yet in greeting.’

  ‘I noticed the omission. But, then, I have not kissed you.’

  ‘We have much ground to make up.’

  Which we did, with no difficulty. His mouth was warm and firm on mine, lingering a little on a sigh of pleasure that I shared. Perhaps I had been too apprehensive about this meeting. Perhaps all was possible.

  The latch on the door clattered. Without warning, the chamberlain hovering behind, a dishevelled youth staggered in before he managed a cursory bow. Henry looked across, frowning at the intrusion, but the squire’s demeanour and weather-stained livery were sufficiently arresting to halt any rebuke.

  ‘My lord…’ The lad fell to one knee, before pushing himself upright with some effort, hat clutched to his chest. With a concern I had discovered to be so typical of Henry, he was across the chamber and at the squire’s side before his knees could buckle again, grasping his arm, while I procured a cup of ale, of which the lad gulped down a mouthful, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He was unaware of the dust that smeared his chin and cheek. ‘There’s danger, Sire…’

  ‘Be calm, man.’ Within the conflict that had just invaded the room, Henry’s voice was gentle. ‘Hugh, isn’t it? Take a breath or two. Then tell me.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I’m come from Windsor, sent by the Constable.’ The young man was in control now, and the words came, fast but true, and spine-chilling in their implication. ‘It’s the Mortimer lads, my lord. They’re there no longer at Windsor. They’ve been taken by their guardian, my Lady Despenser. Their door was secretly unlocked…’ He dragged in a breath, took another gulp of ale as his voice croaked. ‘Her ladyship’s riding west to Abingdon with them. The lady’s tenants are up in arms in support of her. The Constable said you must be told. At all costs.’

  I listened, absorbing the critical elements that could cast England into another maelstrom. The pallor of the squire, the urgency of his delivery, his eruption into the room, held no surprise for me. I knew about this situation and its lurking threat against Henry. There was indeed no secret to it. Lady Constance Despenser and her brothers Edmund of Aumale and Richard of Cambridge, all offspring of the Duke of York, and thus Henry’s first cousins, had been guests at my wedding at Winchester. I knew them as part of Henry’s extensive family, enough to exchange a Court conversation with them. But this alliance between Mortimer and York presented one of those complex problems of inheritance that existed in every family. And this one had the potential for dragging England down into civil war. The young Mortimer boys, Edmund and Roger, had a claim to the English throne that could threaten Henry’s own.

  Complex and threatening indeed.

  For Edmund and Roger Mortimer were direct descendants of Lionel, Henry’s uncle, second son of the old King Edward. Which, with King Richard dead, might for some put the blood claim of these two boys to the English throne before Henry’s own. Except that their royal descent was through a female line, Lionel’s daughter Philippa, which for others removed them from the reckoning. Edmund, now fourteen years old, was Earl of March after the death of his father; his brother Roger was two years younger. A dangerous age if any discontented Englishman might consider the young Earl of March a more suitable king than Henry. Or a useful puppet.

  Henry had placed the boys at Windsor under lock and key, in the care of his cousin Lady Constance Despenser. Better to have them under his eye than at large, where ambitious men would be more than willing to make use of their royal blood. Except that now, according to the squire, a conspiracy had cast up another treacherous situation, from within his own family.

  It raised in my mind the old mischief-making prophesy, with Henry as the despised mole, threatened by the Lion, the Dragon and the Wolf. For the Mortimer uncle of these two lads was the self-same Mortimer, the Lion from Ireland, in close alliance with Owain Glyn Dwr. A complex situation indeed for me to work through but it was as clear as day that to have the Mortimer boys in the hands of their ambitious uncle and the Dragon Glyn Dwr would hack away at Henry’s tenuous hold on the country.

  ‘And they are heading west, you say?’ Henry was asking, still astonishingly calm.

  ‘So the Constable thinks, my lord.’

  ‘And then on, if I know Constance, to South Wales. To join up with Mortimer and Glyn Dwr who will be awaiting their coming.’

  The squire was not expected to reply. Moving to stand at his side, I acknowledged the true pressure that Henry lived under. Every day. Every minute. His whole family seething around him with insurrection and ambition.

  Who indeed could he trust?

  ‘So they have a start on us,’ Henry was saying.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I
t was discovered early this morning, before dawn. They must’ve gone late last night. I rode as fast as I could.’ No wonder the squire was close to collapse. It was more than a score of miles from Windsor to Kennington. ‘I would have been earlier. My horse near foundered.’

  ‘You were a brave lad,’ Henry assured him with a hand to his shoulder. ‘It was well ridden. It may be that you have saved us all from bloodshed.’

  Then all was action. What did our differences matter, or our first tentative kisses, when these two royal-blooded boys had been seized to make mischief for Henry? While I dispatched the squire to the kitchens for food and warmth, Henry shouted for a page who was sent running to raise his brother John Beaufort from wherever he might be in the palace. Who arrived forthwith, to be advised briskly of how he would be spending the hours of this day and the next:

  ‘Take a small force and get after them, John. Stop them. The boys must not be allowed to fall into the hands of their uncle or Glyn Dwr. Not at any cost. If they do they’ll become pawns in a bloody game from which none of us will emerge with our necks intact. Send news to Windsor of how you go.’

  No further explanation was needed. John was gone, issuing orders as he went.

  I waited, although I knew what Henry would do, even as for a moment he thought, head bowed, arms folded. Then:

  ‘I’m for Windsor. To find those involved in this accursed plotting—not that it will take long, for I see my cousin Richard of Cambridge’s hand in this as well as that of his sister. I’d hoped I could trust her with the boys’safety, but she has been lured into the Mortimer camp. I doubt I could have foreseen that.’ He lifted his shoulders, a resigned little gesture, but there was no resignation in his planning. Conviction laced every word. ‘Once I know what’s afoot, I’ll see what needs to be done to secure the country from attack. It may be they’ve invited the French to advance their planned invasion, in which case the Council must be informed. All ports must be kept under surveillance. Then I follow after my brother. Although I know I can rely on him to make best speed.’