The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘He will be pleased you are here,’ I said to Hal.

  ‘We have spoken.’ He welcomed me with habitual reserve, but I thought that he was not unmoved, and I kissed his cheek.

  ‘Have you made your peace with him?’

  ‘My father exhorted me to live a good life, while I promised to pay his debts.’ There was the remnant of the spare humour I recalled in him when he was a barely a man.

  ‘And you will do it, as I know. He has given you a great inheritance.’

  ‘Do I not know it? On my honour, I will not squander it.’ His mouth, seemingly always stern, twisted a little. ‘I did not always make things easy for him, did I?’Then, before I could reply, surprising me, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I acknowledge your care of my father, of all of us. And I acknowledge your good advice. As your son, I will ensure the comfort of your future life here in England.’

  His gentle consideration touched all my emotions, nor had I an appropriate response since it presaged Henry’s death, but it was a comfort.

  At my feet, Henry moved restlessly, eyes open. In them as they fixed on me I could read the relentless pain, but he still managed the ghost of a smile as, Hal forgotten, I sank to my knees. Hal could wait.

  ‘You came,’ Henry whispered.

  ‘Lord Thomas brought me.’

  It might have made me weep to see this shadow of the man I had known, but his eyes burned with an intense fire and I realised that this was to be his final achievement. He saw death at my shoulder and had no fear of it. Had he not made his confession at the Shrine of the saintly Edward the Confessor? He had been kneeling there at the moment of this final collapse. There would be no more resurrections. Assuredly he would receive God’s ultimate grace.

  Henry slid back into unconsciousness. It did not matter for, tasting the power of the future, we had made our farewells at Eltham. There was nothing more to say as I sat on the floor beside him, refusing all offers of cushions or wine for my comfort as we waited for the inevitable, and I remembered. When he had left me at Nantes, I had refused to sit on the floor in mourning. Duchesses did not so demean themselves. Now it seemed only right that I, Henry’s Queen, should be here. If Henry would die on a pallet on the floor, I would sit with him, in the dust. We would be regal and glorious together at the end.

  Henry opened his eyes.

  ‘Joanna.’

  His hands, crossed on his breast, were talon-like in his pain. I closed my own hands over them and pressed my lips to his forehead. Then his mouth. Reading a desire in his eyes, I lifted my rosary from my girdle and wound it around our linked fingers, before turning my head to locate the little travelling coffer. There it stood against the wall.

  ‘Open that, if you will,’ I directed Hal. And when he did, ‘Bring the Crown here and place it where the King can see it.’

  Which he did with rare grace, setting it at the foot of the pallet where the low-burning fire lit the gold and jewels with an inner resilience that seemed to illuminate the whole chamber. Henry’s gaze thanked me as he found strength from somewhere, even though he could no longer stretch out a hand to touch the symbol of his earthly achievements.

  ‘You are my greatest blessing,’ he murmured. ‘What exhortation do you have for me today?’

  ‘Merely to be at peace at last. It has been a long time coming. You have earned it. And here is the Crown that will be yours until the end.’

  ‘God will be merciful.’

  An assurance in him that had rarely been there in recent years.

  ‘God will be merciful,’ I echoed.

  ‘Pray for me.’

  As I did, while his grip woke pain in me, the silver crucifix trapped between our palms, and I repeated the best, most heartfelt, comfort I knew.

  ‘Hail, Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee.

  Blessed art Thou amongst women.

  And blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.’

  Henry’s thread of a voice joined with mine, as it had so often in the past.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,

  Now and at the hour of our death…’

  They were all there, his sons, his friends, but it was my hand he held, his grip whitening my fingers when the pain came upon him. They were all there, but it was my face his eyes rested on when the end came, when the final seizure robbed him of further speech. His gaze, tortured, anguished, spoke of enduring love. So did mine.

  Until on a sigh, life departed. So softly, so effortlessly. All that vibrant spirit was no more. The man I had crossed the sea to be with, the man I had battled and loved and in the end preserved had gone from me for ever. The one true light in my life snuffed out like a candle under what I now must think of as a caring hand. I did not know what to do except sit beside him as his hands cooled under mine. Five and forty years seemed to be such a little time for him to bring England to peace and acceptance.

  ‘My love. My dear love.’ I no longer cared who heard my wretched longing. A lifetime of discretion in public places bowed at last to loss and grief.

  They left me with him for a little while.

  And as the chamber emptied, settling into silence, I realised for the first time where we were, and so realising I found room in my heart for a strange joy. Henry had seen Jerusalem. I laughed a little, very softly, for the Virgin never abandoned us in our extreme need. Henry had died in the Abbot’s Jerusalem Chamber.

  No tears. I would not weep, but a grief I had never known before shook me. There in his hand at the last was the silver talisman I had given him, the Virgin honouring him with her constant presence.

  The greatest blessing I could ever have asked for.

  *

  I returned to Eltham and haunted the empty rooms, finding no solace. For the first time in my life I was alone. Not only alone but lonely. Used as I was to men with whom I could discuss policy, the events of the day, the week, the year, there was no one. Our new King Henry would never discuss policy with me. I doubted King Henry the Fifth of that name would exchange matters of business with any woman. I had been blessed in my life with men who could see behind the frivolity of female garments to the intelligence and interest and experience a woman could offer.

  Leaning against the door jamb of the chamber that Henry had liked the best of all, with its view over the river, I inhaled the stillness, thinking of my own children and Henry’s. They were not here at Eltham, nor did I wish for them. My grief was too deep-seated to share, and I could not laugh. I would never return to my own tapestry. I could not envisage stitching those final fine details of my love for Henry and his for me.

  Pushing myself upright, I continued to walk the rooms, the halls, the corridors, marvelling that, in spite of all the months we had spent here, there could be no sense of him. Neither in the air nor in the shadows where the stair turned, nor in the soft folds of the tapestries that I had brought from Brittany and which I now brushed with my hand as I passed. His prie dieu was unused. The rosary beads, all gold and coral, hung motionless, flat and unglinting, in the air. The missal I had given him, when I thought I would never see him again, was closed. I could not open it, and Henry never would. Never again. He was no longer here with me.

  Except that I could easily be seduced. Once perhaps the soft hush of his feet at the rise of the stair caught my attention, but it was a cat scampering for cover. Probably the same source for nocturnal whisperings.

  Your breath is gone. Your heart is still. Your eyes are closed. Yet I still breathe. My heart still beats. My eyes still see the void and shadows. How can that be? It is an empty world without you, Henry, my love.

  I had thought that I might have a sense of him, here where we had spent such time together, but nothing. And I knew why, and could wish it no other way. Henry was at peace at last. Such pain as had tormented him, such guilt; I would not wish that on any man, certainly not on one I loved. What had it taken for this complex man to hold onto the Crown when his flesh screamed in agony and his body betr
ayed him? His mind remained sharp and keen to the end. Impossible not to admire him, to pray daily for his recovery, but this was better. Henry was at last at peace.

  God keep you at rest in his bosom, my dear love.

  I could not weep. I had wept for him finally in the Jerusalem Chamber, all but flooding it with my tears when all had gone and I was left alone with the remnant of the King. Now was a time for strength and decisions, even though, behind the mask, I wept and raged at my loss.

  What to do, now that my ties with England were severed? I considered in a desultory fashion.

  Navarre, where I was born and raised. I had no strong memories of that Court except for my viciously wayward father. Family, yes, but too much time and distance between us.

  Brittany? I would be made welcome at my son’s Court, but to return to a Court where I had once held sway might not be to my taste. I would undoubtedly interfere. Best to keep my distance.

  France, then. No, the strains and tensions of the Valois Court did not appeal.

  I found myself standing in the centre of the magnificently appointed Great Hall, hands clasped loosely, feet undirected, thoughts uncontrolled, watching the sun bar the walls and floor with golden stripes. Like bars in a cell. A little shiver touched my nape until I shrugged it off. This was no prison. There was no curtailment to my movements. Any decision I made would be mine alone. No one could compel me to choose what did not please me.

  Yet slowly I turned so that the sun’s bars were behind me. They unsettled me.

  Then footsteps approached behind me. Not the cat. Certainly no premonition of Henry. Firm and soldierly, perhaps not the youngest of steps, but they paced the painted tiles without hesitation. The voice too was confident, instantly familiar, that of a friend of long standing.

  ‘I thought I would find you here, my lady.’

  I turned back, oblivious to the disquieting stripes now broken up by the approaching shadow of the figure I knew well, and managed to stretch the unused muscles of my face into a smile.

  Which Lord Thomas de Camoys returned with much more spontaneity. ‘Let me guess what you are thinking, my lady.’

  ‘I imagine you can,’ I replied as I accompanied him towards the door that would give access to the gardens leading down to the river. Once there, a little wind blowing off the water and rippling the dense black silk of my over-sleeves, I faced him. ‘What do I do now, Lord Thomas?’

  ‘Why do you need to do anything? You have your dower lands. Enjoy the luxury of travelling round them and living where you choose.’

  Practical as ever. ‘I could, of course. Would Hal object to my remaining?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  Clouds had begun to gather so we retraced our steps. ‘There will be no place for me at Hal’s Court as Queen Dowager.’ I frowned as the prospect took on a life of its own that I did not like. ‘How old that makes me feel.’ I was forty-four years old and on that day felt a hundred.

  ‘As Queen Dowager there will always be a place.’

  ‘Hal will wed soon,’ I mused. ‘His new wife will be pre-eminent in any ceremonial.’

  I could imagine it. Being invited, tolerated, where I could be pushed into a corner and overlooked as a woman of no influence. I did not think the new King would necessarily be an advocate of Madam Christine de Pizzano. In his erudite mind he might give a nod to her in passing, but he would never allow me to sit in judgement, or even offer an opinion.

  ‘A woman of your presence and birth will be invaluable to a new King, and a young one. Your experience can only be an asset to him in any negotiations with the Valois.’ A pause. ‘You could, of course, wed again.’

  I wondered if he was serious. But of course he would be. I would still be a valuable commodity in the market for rich and influential widows. Nothing was further from my mind. We had made our way up the flight of stairs to the gallery where we lingered, Lord Thomas a silent companion, melancholy refusing to give up its grip on me, until surprising myself, I stopped and turned to him.

  ‘What do I do, Thomas? Give me your advice.’ I smiled. ‘I recall asking your advice when you came to me as Henry’s courier with words of love.’ A laugh caught in my throat. ‘And impatient exhortation…’

  His expression stopped my breath.

  ‘Joanna…’

  So did the intimacy in his simple use of my name.

  ‘Stay,’ he said.

  Lord Thomas was never less than punctilious.

  ‘Stay, Joanna. I ask as a friend.’

  I thought about it. Friendship. A sympathetic ear. An acerbic opinion. A worldly-wise view of the Court. Why not? He took my hand and enclosed it within his, more used to wielding a sword than wooing a woman, but what an admirable man he was. I would pretend that I did not see the emotion in his eye.

  ‘Will you, then?’ And when I tilted my chin, still considering. ‘Henry would say stay,’ he persuaded with an unexpected grin that lightened the melancholy of the atmosphere.

  ‘So he would. As a friend, Thomas, I give you my reply.’

  ‘I presume that means you will.’ He released me. ‘I think you won’t regret it. And now I must return you to your women.’

  He escorted me, with all the courtesy and chivalry I had come to know in him, while at the centre of my heart, a tiny nugget of warmth was fostered. I would stay in England. I had a friend and one whom I could trust. I discovered that it mattered much to me. I would choose to stay, to watch and enjoy Hal make England the great state that Henry had envisioned.

  Chapter 17

  September 1419: Havering-atte-Bower

  ‘Visitors,’ remarked Marie, bright with anticipation, as, slowing our horses, we turned into the stable courtyard. We had been riding in the autumn-tinted woodland, enjoying the passing of the seasons although the years flew too fast for me. ‘Were we expecting anyone, my lady?’

  ‘No. But visitors are always welcome.’

  I was smiling, when once I had thought never to smile again. It was six years since Henry’s death. Five years during which I had achieved some sort of balance in my life without him.

  ‘Well protected, whoever they are.’

  They were indeed. An escort of armed men sat their mounts in the forecourt of my mellow dower property at Havering, and although I cast my eye over them, they bore no livery. So an anonymous caller, and strangely disquieting in its way. I liked to know who approached my door. It would not be any one of Henry’s sons, frequent visitors, for they would travel with heraldic emblazons to the fore, and Bishop Henry with everything but his mitre. Hal was in France. Nor was it Lord Thomas who would even now be walking towards me to help me dismount.

  With my mare pulled to a standstill, I prepared to slide down, but then, for no reason that I could name, I chose to remain mounted, for the Captain was standing foursquare on the sweep of my steps, hands fisted on hips and frowning at me. I expect my brows rose. I was used neither to being frowned at by a mounted escort, nor to the lack of respect in his posture before my door. Then he was frowning no longer, but descending the steps to take my bridle and offer his hand.

  ‘My lady…’

  I noted a number of sumpter horses, unladen, and an empty wagon such as used for transporting my immediate necessities when I travelled to another of my dower properties. Was my visitor, come for a long stay, perhaps already inside and waiting for me?

  ‘And you are?’ I asked as I complied, shaking out my skirts, brushing a few leaves and petals that had attached themselves to my sleeves.

  ‘Edward Holt, my lady.’

  ‘Who is it that you have brought to visit me?’

  There was the tiniest of pauses, barely recognisable as such, then:‘I have not, my lady. You have no visitor. I command these men, in the name of the Royal Council.’

  My hand, collecting an errant piece of twiggery lodged in the embroidery of my cuff, stilled.

  ‘The Council?’ I was intrigued. I looked around at the empty wagon, but found no clue. Had I been sent
something of value? Was it something to do with Hal? The Captain’s face was a masterpiece of severity. ‘Is there a message for me?’ I asked. But if it was some news, would the Council not have sent a courier rather than a troop of soldiers? Perhaps they were simply en route to another engagement. I felt a ripple of pleasure. It might be that I was invited to Westminster to participate in some formal celebration. I would enjoy that. Life at Havering, part hunting lodge, part palace, with its patchwork of roofs and additions over the years, once the favoured home of Henry’s grandmother Queen Philippa and in later years King Edward, suited me very well, but I was no Julian of Norwich, living as an anchoress, far from the company of friends and family.

  ‘No message, my lady,’ Captain Holt was replying. ‘I am under orders.’ Again, he paused, expression grave, lips tight pressed. Which should perhaps have warned me, but it did not, so that when he added:‘I am under instruction to confiscate your possessions,’ it took me by surprise. The words fell on my ear inconsequentially, without meaning, nor was my mind quick to assimilate them.

  ‘You are here for what purpose?’ I asked as if he had spoken in a language I did not quite grasp.

  ‘I am ordered by the Royal Council to confiscate your personal belongings,’ he repeated slowly, stressing each word with care. And then when I simply stood and stared at him. ‘I am to take possession of all that you own.’ Another pause as if giving me time to realise the full scope of what he said. ‘Including this manor of Havering-atte-Bower.’

  The heat of the day drained away from me. It was still not making sense. My mind concentrated on the final statement.

  ‘Am I to move from here, then?’ I asked. My thoughts awry, even the intake of breath from Marie, who had come to stand at my shoulder, did not force my mind into line with what I was hearing.

  ‘That will be arranged at another time. It is not within my remit.’

  Well, I had other houses I could go to. Had not Hal given me permission to live in Windsor during his absence in France? Or I could go to my castle at Leeds. In any event, I would not be homeless. But now my thoughts began to concentrate, my mind to clear. Was I being turned out of Havering? That could not be. It was mine until my death. This was my dower.