The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  Marie and I clasped hands for those final moments, for it came to me that if I were found guilty of witchcraft, Marie, the closest of my women, might too share the blame.

  ‘Go to Bishop Henry,’ I urged. ‘He won’t let you suffer for your service to me.’

  Sir John’s hand was on my arm, guiding me remorselessly to the door.

  ‘We leave now, my lady.’

  I stopped and looked at him, at his hand that intimated my new lack of freedom. ‘It is not my intention to resist, Sir John.’

  And so he released me, while I eyed him with contempt.

  ‘I recall when you were a loyal servant to my husband, the late King.’

  ‘Now I serve the present King, his son, my lady.’

  Quite unmoved, impervious to any slight of betrayal, Sir John stepped back. Thus I walked out of my lovely manor of Havering-atte-Bower, a prisoner, under duress, even though I was helped to mount my horse with a curt deference.

  ‘Sir John?’ I asked as he mounted beside me.

  ‘My lady.’

  ‘You say that evidence was laid before the Council by Father John Randolf.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Where is he? Where is my confessor now?’

  Sir John did not look at me as he gave his animal the office to start.

  ‘He has confessed to his own involvement in your spurious plots. He is imprisoned in the Tower of London.’

  *

  We rode in silence apart from the comfortable creak and jingle of leather and harness, unaware of the glory of the day. There was nothing comfortable about my state of mind. Blind to the autumn colours that had so entranced me, giving me such joy in my surroundings, the vivid yellow of the oak leaves hinted at the onset of death, the blood-red berries of the rowan told of poison. The feeding of swallows reminded me that they would soon be gone and winter would close down on us. And where would I be then? At Rotherhithe, a royal manor. Or somewhere much worse.

  I would not think of the Tower of London with its confinement for traitors.

  As we approached the river where we must make a crossing, the beat of horses’ hooves drove a path through the tumult of my thoughts. From behind us, moving faster than we were, we were quickly being overhauled. My Governor motioned for his men to pull aside, but the approaching horsemen slowed to a walk and came alongside. The livery was instantly recognisable, the sight of it a relief. I would have cried out to him, unusually vocal in my relief that someone had come to my aid at last, but the expression on his face stopped the words in my mouth. With not even a single glance in my direction, Lord Thomas de Camoys saluted Sir John Pelham.

  ‘Sir John. I need a word with the Queen Dowager.’

  ‘My instructions are that my prisoner be conveyed to Rotherhithe without communication with anyone.’ As Sir John raised his hand, one of my escort placed himself between me and Lord Thomas, leaning to take a grasp of my bridle.

  ‘I care not what your instructions might be. I call rank here, Sir John.’

  ‘You would challenge the Royal Council?’

  Lord Thomas, frowning mightily, slapped his gauntlet against his thigh. ‘Have sense, man. What harm will it do? Are you expecting me to ride off with the Queen in some ill-judged campaign to rescue her? Ten minutes of your time and you’ll be on your way. Now give me—and the Queen—some privacy.’

  Not waiting for a reply, using his weight, his undoubted authority, and his restive mount to push my escort aside, he laid hands on my bridle near the bit and hauled me and my horse to the far side of the road.

  ‘Thank God, Thomas.’ It was all I could say, and I held on tight when he folded one hand around mine.

  ‘No thanks yet, Joanna. I’m not a rescue party.’ He grimaced. ‘I just needed to see you and know how you fared.’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Keep your voice low.’

  ‘I’ve been accused of necromancy, to put Hal’s life in danger.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They say my confessor laid evidence. Is that true?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, yes, it is.’

  ‘And the Royal Council—do they believe it? I’ve seen the warrant and the seals.’ And then it struck me what it was that I did not know. What, in my rejection of all that had been said, I had not actually asked. Now I asked it. ‘What is it that I am supposed to have done to the King?’And with a slew of bitterness I could not prevent:‘He seemed hale and hearty enough when he left for France. How can I have bewitched him to near death?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. This is all I know.’ Lord Thomas hauled on his reins as his mount, ears flattened, sidestepped in impatience. ‘There is no detail that I can discover on the form of magic you used—are said to have used—but three witnesses have been found who will speak out against you and testify. Your confessor Randolf and two members of your household, Peronell Brocaret and Roger Colles. They are yours?’

  It was a further unexpected blow. ‘Yes. Yes, they are mine.’ Their names and faces were as familiar to me as were all my household. It made it all the more unbelievable, unpardonable that they should have made such claims. ‘Brocaret is employed by my physician. Colles is a clerk under the authority of my steward. They have been with me since Henry’s death. I don’t accept that they have given such a testimony.’

  ‘Confessor, physician and clerk,’Thomas grunted, whether in disbelief or frustration I could not tell. ‘Well, Joanna, all I can say is that all three claim knowledge. The Council is stating that it was Randolf who had the skill and the power to lure you into a plot to destroy the King. They have accused him of persuading you to resort to witchcraft. That’s why they’ve locked him in the Tower. Until a trial’s set up, I presume.’

  ‘Of Father John? Or of me?’Thus I voiced my worst fears. And when Thomas shook his head:‘I can’t condone that my confessor would admit something so patently untrue.’

  ‘A man in fear of his life might do any manner of things.’

  ‘Has he been tortured?’

  Thomas lifted a shoulder. ‘I know not. It’s possible. Probable.’

  ‘So I can do nothing unless I can prove my innocence. But how do I do that? When I don’t know the form of my sin? I doubt there’s any hope of my speaking with Father John? No, of course there isn’t. Do I not know the way of such trials as well as anyone else? Keep everyone in fear and ignorance and hope the accused falls to his knees in confession.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do until we know more.’ Thomas must have seen the momentary flicker of panic on my face, and gentled his voice and his grip. ‘Be brave, Joanna. This is not the end of the story.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘To London. To see what I can discover. And I think it behoves me to talk to the Bishop of Winchester who usually has his finger in all manner of pies.’

  Of course. Bishop Henry would know. But why not go higher than that?

  ‘Thomas. Listen.’ I was aware of Sir John becoming restive. ‘Would you petition the King? On my behalf?’

  ‘No point in going to the King.’ He made no hesitation although his fingers tightened momentarily around my wrist. ‘He’s in France, and will be for the foreseeable future. If anything can be done, it’s the Bishop we want. I’ll see him. All you have to do is to remain stalwart.’

  ‘Which is well-nigh impossible when they have taken everything I own apart from a change of clothing, and dismissed all my people. Even Marie. I have nothing of my own, not even my Book of Hours.’ Dismay was in my heart yet I kept my spine straight, my chin firm. I would weather this storm with all the courage Thomas had hoped for me. That my beloved Henry would demand from me. That I, Princess, Duchess and Queen, had been raised to impart to my audience however small or large. I had never shown public emotion. I would not begin now.

  ‘I have something here for you.’

  As if it took no thought at all on his part, Thomas thrust his hand in the breast of his tunic and produced a rosary, p
ressing it to his lips, before sliding it into my palm, all as surreptitiously as a jester might magic a trick for the delight of a small child, but there was no joy here.

  ‘It was my wife’s,’ he said gruffly. ‘My second wife, God rest her soul. She knew about sorrow and hardship. She would want it to give you comfort. If comfort is possible this side of the grave. There seems to be little commerce in it today.’

  Never had I known him so disheartened, the lines denoting his melancholic humour so deeply engraved, yet he could think of me. I pressed my hand with its burden to my heart.

  ‘Be assured, I will make use of it. And make grateful thanks to your wife in my prayers.’ Elizabeth Mortimer had died, leaving Thomas with another son.

  ‘I have no doubt that you will.’ As if regretting his bleak view of the future, Lord Thomas managed a smile of sorts as he gathered up his reins. ‘Do not despair, Joanna. You will not be unsupported in this.’

  And then with a nod of his head to Sir John, and a brisk gesture to his own escort, he turned his horse’s head in the direction of London.

  ‘Lord Thomas,’I called, on a thought, and when he drew back:‘Did you see this coming? Did you hear any rumour of this, for it was a shock to me?’

  ‘I would say no. Yet in retrospect, the warning was there.’ His mouth became a sneer. ‘His grace the Archbishop of Canterbury certainly had a thought of it.’

  Which, to my annoyance, was all he would say. His mouth shutting like a trap, he cantered off, leaving me and my gaoler to continue to Rotherhithe, where I was rowed across the Thames to the royal manor that I knew very well. And all the time I kept the rosary crushed in my palm, the crucifix digging in, as a talisman, the only comfort I had.

  If anything can be done…

  That is what Thomas had said, I recalled as the little grey waves on the river slapped against the side of the craft.

  If…

  I had hoped for confidence, for a bullish certainty, from Lord Thomas. In uneasy retrospect, he had neither. The Royal Council had a heavy hand when it chose to wield it. But why had that heavy hand chosen to fall on me? Innocent I might be, but the odds seemed to be stacking up against me. And why had Thomas been unwilling to petition the King? Surely there would be the obvious source for the truth of any plot against him?

  Chapter 18

  I disliked Rotherhithe.

  I detested Rotherhithe. I hated it with a virulence. Oh, it was a charming enough royal manor with its walls and timber-framed structures, its outer and inner courts, and vistas over the river. Built by Henry’s grandfather the old King Edward on the banks of the Thames where the marsh created a little island, Henry had had an affection for it. But this was one of the places where, in those latter years of torment, Henry had suffered greatly. Where pain had driven him to a frenzy of self-doubt and punishment for sins he had committed. Or even to my mind not committed. It was a place where he could not in the end find peace.

  I despised it.

  I was given the best bedchamber, Henry’s own bedchamber, but hardly had I set foot in it than I demanded that I be accommodated elsewhere. Not merely to be difficult and unpredictable, although the thought occupied my mind. In truth I could not bear to see the perch that the old King Edward had had made for his prized falcons outside the window. The perch that Henry too had made use of for his indulged favourites. The perch was empty which resurrected all my grief. Henry had not found peace there; I doubted it would be possible for me. I did not want the memories.

  Every stone of Rotherhithe smacked to me of despair.

  I maintained an unyielding expression when Sir John visited me in the chamber furnished for my daytime use.

  ‘What do I do now?’ I asked him with less graciousness than I would have ever used towards a subject in happier times.

  ‘You wait, my lady.’ He was equally severe. So this was to be the tone of our relationship. But what else could it be between prisoner and gaoler? I supposed I should have been grateful that he had not sent for me to present myself before him. Or had me dragged under guard. This was a cold distancing but at least there was no attempt to humiliate me.

  ‘For what must I wait?’ I asked.

  ‘For the Royal Council to make its decision, my lady.’ He stood with apparent stolid indifference, with no pretence of deference, eye contact rigidly held. His hand rested lightly on his sword hilt. It struck me that he was dressed for travel.

  ‘What can it decide, Sir John? I have had neither a hearing before the Council nor a trial to weigh my guilt under these damaging charges.’

  ‘That is what we wait on, my lady.’

  So he would tell me nothing, but I would not make my incarceration easy for him. Was I to be a pauper for the uncertain length of my stay? I would lure him into some disclosure if I could.

  ‘I shall have need of clothing, Sir John, if the waiting is long.’

  ‘You will be provided with what you need, my lady.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I set my jaw. ‘I want a psalter. And a missal, since I was robbed of my own. Surely if I am suspected of witchcraft, it would be considered good policy to provide me with means to save my soul. It seems I have no confessor to guide me. Do you provide me with a priest, to say Mass? I think it is the least you can do, if I am to remain here for any length of time, or my immortal soul could indeed be in danger from neglect.’

  ‘I will provide all you need for the state of your soul, my lady.’

  Anger was beginning to rise, at the effortless manner in which my imprisonment was being dealt with.

  ‘I also desire the means to write, Sir John.’

  For the first time his eyes were hooded. ‘I consider that your writing of letters is not wise at this time, my lady.’

  So I was not to be allowed to communicate. I swallowed against the burn of dismay. And not a little fear which I could not shake free.

  ‘Will I, in your consideration, be allowed visitors during my restraint, Sir John?’

  Which he thought about, lips thinning then curving into a tight smile. ‘I consider that if they are worthy men, and approved by the Council, then it will be possible.’

  I exhaled slowly in relief. There would be limits to my isolation.

  ‘I need a serving woman,’ I demanded.

  ‘I will see to it.’

  We eyed each other. Sir John bowed. But before he could make his departure:

  ‘Do you not stay here, sir, to oversee the misery of my punishment?’ I asked, anything to discomfit him. ‘To beat me into submission so that I will confess to the Council forthwith and all can be put to rights?’

  ‘No, my lady. I have duties at Pevensey, my own property.’ He was already halfway to the door. ‘I have arranged that you are not without comfort here. You are free of the rooms I have assigned to you. You are, of course, not free to leave. Guards will remain to ensure your compliance. Good day, my lady.’

  Sir John inclined his head and strode out, clicking the latch softly with impeccable good manners but it was as if he had slammed it shut and turned a key on my freedom. Cushioned it might be, but imprisonment it was, all my actions dependent on the will of another. Sir John might offer me courtesy but it was as if it were smothered in hoar frost.

  I rose from my chair to look out over the river to where men in boats had freedom to row with or against the tide, as they pleased. I had none. So I must wait. And pray it was not for long.

  A knock at the door heralded a guard who escorted in a young woman. ‘Your waiting woman, Madam.’

  She curtsied. A pale-faced young woman, hair severely curtailed beneath a plain linen cap.

  ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘Isabelle Thorley, my lady.’ It was barely a whisper. Her eyes never rose above the level of my shoes. Isabelle Thorley had obviously been warned that I had dangerous powers. I sighed. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  ‘Do you play chess, Mistress Thorley?’ It was my one hope.

  ‘No, my lady.’

>   How fortunate then that I had not demanded from Sir John a chessboard.

  *

  The weather grew colder and wetter, and, contrapuntally, my spirits lowered.

  I missed my confessor. I missed Marie. I passed the hours considering what it was that I might inadvertently have done, turning over and over in my mind all the things that a woman might do that could be construed as sorcery. The making of perfumes and potions. The tending of herbs for potpourri for winter use. For ailments of the household. That was not all, of course. I had tended to Henry’s increasing need with draughts and balms to ease his pain. As I had made preparations to engender conception of a child. Some of my household knew of this. I had not kept it secret.

  Was any of it witchcraft? I did not think so. Nor did I think Marie or anyone in my household was so involved in nefarious practices. Yes, I had the knowledge and skill to kill a man with a dose of belladonna, but knowledge did not imply intent. Yes, I had possession of the books with their instructions for the use of herbs both malign and beneficial, but possession did not dictate that I would ever turn my hand to necromancy. As for telling the future? Did my serving women? Perhaps they did in moments of frivolity, laughing over the outcome, decrying the choice of lover or admirer, hoping to see the outcome of a flirtation, in the pattern of rose petals scattered in a bowl of water during a full moon.

  Nothing I had ever laid my hand to had been vindictive towards Hal. Nothing, I would swear it, could be construed as sorcery. I regretted his desire to take power from Henry before his time, but any dissension had been healed with Henry’s death, our recent communication becoming gracious, considerate, even affectionate. Hal had been generous in granting me a role in his victory after Agincourt, inviting me to join the procession through the streets of London. And did I not so honour him, despite my own grief? For the dread field of Agincourt was not all celebration for me. It had robbed me of my brother Charles, King of Navarre. My son Arthur was taken prisoner, my daughter Marie’s young husband Jean d’Alençon was dead. Such was the cost of war, glorious achievement for one, desolation for the other.