The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  All my thanks to Helen Bowden and her staff at Orphans Press who continue to rescue me from website problems, as well as turning my genealogy and maps into works of art. I am very grateful for their tolerance and friendship.

  WHAT INSPIRED ME TO WRITE ABOUT JOANNA OF NAVARRE?

  Joanna of Navarre was regal from her toes to her fingertips. Daughter of King Charles II (the Bad) of Navarre and Joan de Valois, who was a daughter of King John II (the Good) of France, Joanna was related to almost every important family in Europe through either blood or marriage. On the death of her first husband Duke John V of Brittany, Joanna, as Duchess of Brittany, became Regent in the name of her young son. Joanna was a woman of considerable presence, reputation and European status. She was also a woman of intellect, quite capable of ruling a medieval state.

  King Henry IV of England, on the other hand, although of Plantagenet birth and royal blood as the only son of John of Gaunt, was a newly made King. What’s more he was a usurper in the eyes of many established rulers of Europe, particularly France, because he had seized the crown from his cousin King Richard II, the rightful, God-Anointed King. Thus Henry was a dangerous entity. Few were willing to support such a precedent for the overthrow of a ruling monarch.

  What was it that made Joanna, a renowned and highly capable ruler of thirty years of age, with a healthy family of seven children and an enviable reputation, give up everything - power, family, approval - to choose to come to England to wed the usurper Henry? Could it have been love? Was not Joanna past the age of frivolous emotion? Her duty surely lay with Brittany.

  Furthermore it was to be no easy marriage for Henry and Joanna, with England torn apart in an ongoing civil war instigated by the powerful Percy family and Owain Glyn Dwr. Would Henry and Joanna weather the storms of political upheaval and open rebellion?

  And then there was the terrifying accusation of necromancy against her.

  The consequences for Joanna of the choices she made in her life were far reaching. They brought her enhanced status and much happiness but also condemned her to a life of great uncertainty.

  This, I decided, was a story worth writing.

  The Queen’s Choice is the story of a Queen of England who has remained in the shadows. It is a story of betrayal and tragedy, but also one of great love and redemption. Joanna was a formidable character whose life epitomised the dangers inherent in the role of Queenship.

  AND AFTERWARDS

  Joanna’s last years contain little of note, but she was free from any taint of suspicion, which is excellent proof of how lightly England regarded Henry V’s accusations against her. There is no hint of any necromancy in her life.

  After being released from her confinement in the weeks before the death of Henry V in 1421, Joanna continued to live in England. The possessions confiscated from her were gradually restored, although not all her dower lands and she was still trying to recoup some of her problematic Breton arrears in 1428.

  In her later years, Joanna lived in a semi-retired state on a reduced but still comfortable income, first at Langley and then returning to Havering-atte-Bower, where, typically, she continued to be frustrated by the poor management of the estate. She seems to have had an interest in the promotion of scholars at Oxford and Cambridge but she was not a notable patron.

  As for her family, Joanna remained in contact with her son Duke John until the end of her life and also with the young King Henry VI of England. She played no active part in Court life but clearly King Henry had an affection for her and treated her with courtesy, giving her a gift of jewellery at New Year in 1437.

  Joanna died at Havering-atte-Bower in early July 1437 at the age of sixty nine years and was buried beside Henry in Canterbury Cathedral where her own marble image was added to the tomb.

  It has to be said that Joanna left no important legacy to England from her days as Queen, except for her signature of ‘Royne Jahanne’ the first of any English queen to be on record.

  The coffin of Henry and Joanna at Canterbury was opened in 1832 when it was recorded that Henry’s face was seen in a complete state of preservation with a russet beard until it disintegrated in the air. There was no evidence of leprosy on Henry’s skin. Joanna’s remains were left unexamined.

  IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF JOANNA OF NAVARRE

  For those of us who like to travel and enjoy the palaces and castles that Joanna would have known, or even if we browse the web or the pages of a travel guide on a cold winter’s day, here is some inspiration for you:

  Falmouth: where Joanna landed, blown in on a storm. No sign of her footprints in the holiday resort in Cornwall, but it’s possible to imagine a cold wet January day when she had given up everything and Henry was not there to meet her…

  Winchester Cathedral: the scene of Joanna and Henry’s marriage on 7th February, 1403. A ‘must visit’on your itinerary. Also find time to admire the superb tomb of Bishop Henry Beaufort, a most gifted and ambitious politician.

  Westminster Abbey: on everyone’s list who enjoys royal occasions and tombs. Joanna was crowned Queen of England here on 26th February 1403.

  Eltham Palace: Henry’s favourite palace, and so the home of choice where he and his family spent most Christmas and New Year celebrations. Much rebuilding has been done to create the Art Deco jewel it is today, but the Great Hall is much as Joanna and Henry would have known it.

  The Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk: where Henry prayed for a miracle of healing. The Roman Catholic shrine was destroyed at the Dissolution of the Monasteries. The modern shrine is Anglican, restored in 1934, allowing pilgrims once more to visit the holy site.

  Leeds Castle, Sussex: one of Joanna’s dower properties and where she spent most of her captivity for necromancy in 1420-21, even if it was a cushioned one. A beautiful setting, but not if you are forbidden to leave.

  Pevensey Castle, Sussex: the property of Sir John Pelham, another place of confinement for Joanna in 1419. The walls and towers of the impressive ruins have plenty of atmosphere.

  Rotherhythe: very little remains of this royal manor on the south bank of the Thames where Joanna began her captivity. It was a favourite haunt of Edward III and Henry IV. Now there is little more than sporadic stonework.

  Canterbury Cathedral: an essential visit. Here is the tomb of Henry and Joanna, commissioned by Joanna, showing their figures in high quality marble carving. Henry chose to be buried here, perhaps because of the nearby tomb of his uncle Edward, the Black Prince.

  The Church of St George, Trotton, Sussex: the church dedicated to the de Camoys family. Here is the tomb of Baron Thomas de Camoys and his second wife Elizabeth Mortimer in beautifully inscribed brass.

  In Brittany there is little to see that is contemporary with Joanna in her days as Duchess and Regent. The chateaux of the Dukes of Brittany in Nantes and Vannes were rebuilt almost totally after Joanna’s day so although the site is correct, the buildings are more recent. The tomb of John de Montfort, Duke of Brittany, paid for and created by Joanna in the cathedral at Nantes, was destroyed in the French Revolution.

  QUESTIONS FOR READING GROUPS

  1. Joanna was presented with a very difficult choice: power, family and European status or marriage to Henry IV, with unpredictable results. Could you have made the same choice that Joanna made?

  2. Which do you consider to be Joanna’s strongest emotions when she made her choice?

  3. How difficult was it for a woman to follow her own desires in the early fifteenth century when morality and duty had such a strong influence? Is it easier for us today?

  4. In your experience, how difficult is it for a man to accept advice from a woman?

  5. Do you consider that a deep platonic friendship, such as the one between Joanna and Thomas de Camoys, is possible between a man and a woman?

  6. How would you respond to a ‘wooing by proxy’?

  7. Joanna could not have anticipated the repercussions of the choices she made in her life. Have you experienced similar difficult,
unpredictable consequences from any choices you have made?

  8. Can we justify to any degree Henry V’s treatment of Joanna?

  9. What is your opinion of Henry’s role in the death of Richard II? Can we justify his role in this event?

  10. What does The Queen’s Choice tell us about the state of medical practice in medieval times?

  11. Which aspect of Joanna’s character do you most admire?

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  Read on for an extract from THE KING’S SISTER by Anne O’Brien.

  Chapter One

  1380, Kenilworth Castle

  ‘What’s afoot?’ Henry asked, loping along the wall walk, sliding to a standstill beside us.

  It all began as a family gathering: a meeting of almost everyone I knew in the lush setting of Kenilworth where my father’s building plans had provided room after spacious room in which we could enjoy a summer sojourn. Intriguingly, though, the intimate number of acquaintances was soon extended with a constant arrival of guests. So, I considered. What indeed was afoot? A most prestigious occasion. From elders to children, aristocratic families from the length and breadth of the land rode up to our gates, filing across the causeway that kept their feet dry from the inundations of the mere.

  Philippa and I watched them with keen anticipation, now in the company of our younger brother Henry, an energetic, raucous lad, whose shrill voice more often than not filled the courtyards as he engaged in games with other boys of the household—dangerous games in which he pummelled and rolled with the best of them in combat à l’outrance. Even now he bore the testimony of a fading black eye. But today Henry was buffed and polished and on his best behaviour. As the thirteen-year-old heir of Lancaster, he knew his worth.

  ‘Something momentous,’ Philippa surmised.

  ‘With music and dancing,’ I suggested hopefully.

  My father’s royal brothers, the Dukes of Gloucester and York, together with their wives, made up a suitably ostentatious display of royal power. The vast connection of FitzAlans and the Northumberland Percies were there, heraldic badges making a bright splash of colour. There was Edward, our cousin of York, kicking at the flanks of a tolerant pony. Thin and wiry, Edward was still too much of a child for even Henry to notice. The only one notably absent was the King.

  ‘We’ll not miss him overmuch,’ croaked Henry, on the cusp of adolescence.

  True enough. Of an age with Henry, what would Richard add to the proceedings, other than a spirit of sharp mischief that seemed to have developed of late? There was little love lost between my brother and royal cousin.

  The noble guests continued to arrive with much laughter and comment.

  I was not one for being sensitive to tension in the air when I might be considering which dress would become me most, but on this occasion it rippled along my skin like the brush of a goose feather quill. Chiefly because there were far too many eyes turned in my direction for comfort. It seemed to me that I was an object of some interest over and above the usual friendly comment on the rare beauty and precocious talents of the Duke of Lancaster’s younger daughter. What’s more, on that particular morning, I had been dressed by my women with extraordinary care.

  Not that I had demurred. My sideless surcoat, of a particularly becoming blue silk damask, hushed expensively as I walked. My hair had been plaited into an intricate coronet, covered with a veil as transparent as one of the high clouds that barely masked the sun.

  ‘Is it a celebration?’ I mused. ‘Have we made peace with France?’

  ‘I doubt it. But it’s a celebration for something.’ My sister’s mind was as engaged as mine as the FitzAlan Countess of Hereford and her opulent entourage arrived in the courtyard, soon followed by the Beauchamp contingent of the Earl of Warwick.

  ‘It’s a marriage alliance. A betrothal. It has to be,’ I announced to Philippa, for surely this was the obvious cause for so great a foregathering, and one of such high-blooded grandeur festooned in sun-bright jewels and rich velvets. ‘The Duke is bringing your new husband to meet with you.’

  ‘A husband for me? If that’s so, why is it that you are the one to be clad like a Twelfth Night gift?’ Philippa said, eyeing my apparel. ‘I am not clad for a betrothal. This is my second best gown, and the hem is becoming worn. While you are wearing my new undertunic.’

  Which was true. And Philippa more waspish than her wont since my borrowed garment was of finest silk with gold stitching at hem and neck and the tiniest of buttons from elbow to wrist, yet despite her animadversions on her second best gown, Philippa looked positively regal in a deep red cote-hardie that would never have suited me. A prospective husband would never look beyond her face to notice the hem. If the honoured guest was invited here as a suitable match, he must be intended for my sister. As the elder by three years, Philippa would wed first. Did not older sisters always marry before younger ones? I stared at her familiar features, so like my own, marvelling at her serenity. There was still no husband for her, not even a betrothal of long standing, at twenty years. No husband had been attracted by her dark hair and darker eyes, inherited from our father. It was high time, as daughter of the royal Duke of Lancaster as well as first cousin to King Richard himself, even if he was only a tiresome boy, that she was sought and won by some powerful bridegroom.

  Of course this would be her day.

  I sighed that it behoved me to wait, for marriage to a handsome knight or illustrious prince was an elevation to which I aspired. The songs and tales of the troubadours, of fair maidens lost and won through chivalric deeds and noble self-sacrifice, had made a strong impression in my youthful heart. But today was no day for sighing.

  ‘I have been counting all the unwed heirs of the English aristocracy who will make suitable husbands for you,’ I said, to make Philippa smile. ‘I have a tally of at least a dozen to choose from.’

  It was Henry who grunted a laugh. ‘But how many of them are either senile or imbecile?’

  I stepped smartly and might have punched his shoulder but Henry was agile, putting distance between us. And because we were finely dressed, he did not retaliate. I turned my back on him.

  ‘He could be a foreign prince, of course.’ This was Philippa, ever serious.

  ‘So he could.’ I turned back to the carpet of richly-hued velvet and silk below, imagining such an eventuality. Would I enjoy leaving England, living far away from my family, those I had known and loved all my life? ‘I don’t think I would like that.’

  ‘I would not mind.’ Philippa lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

  ‘You will do whatever you are told to do.’

  Her arm, in sisterly affection, slid round my waist. ‘As will you.’

  It did not need the saying. I might be wrapped in girlhood dreams of romantic notions of knights errant, but I had been raised since birth to know the role I must play in my father’s schemes. Alliances were all important, friendships and connections built on shared interests and the disposition of daughters. Henry might be the heir, and much prized as a promising son, but Philippa and I were valuable commodities in furthering the ambitions of Lancaster. My husband would, assuredly, be a man of high status and proud name. He would be an owner of vast estates and significant wealth, possessing an extensive web of connections of his own to meld with those of the Duke into one over-arching structure of power. He would have significance at the royal court, where I
would take my place, glowing from his reflected authority and, I hoped, glamour. There was nothing so attractive as a powerful man, as I well knew. And, of course, this man would be worthy of my Plantagenet blood. I would never be given away to a mere nobody, a man without distinction.

  When my woman combed my hair to braid it for the night and I inspected my features in my looking glass I knew that my husband would have an affection for me. Was it possible for a man of perception not to fall in love with a face as perfectly proportioned as mine? There was the elegant Plantagenet nose, the dark hooded eyes that suggested a mine of secrets to be explored. My lips were quick to smile, my brows, surprisingly dark and nicely arched, and my hair, unlike Philippa’s, the same lustrous fairness of my mother whose memory faded from me as the years passed. It was a face that promised romance and passion, I decided. No, my husband would be unable to resist and would continue to indulge my desires in formidable style. I was destined to enjoy my future life.

  When a shout of laughter went up from one of the groups in the courtyard—enticing Henry to condemn us as dull company and leave us, bounding down the steps to join the throng—I too descended from our high vantage point in search of enlightenment, and discovered Dame Katherine Swynford. Our governess and much more than a mere member of the Lancaster household, she was as close as an oyster, preoccupied with some matter to do with the guests, although why it should fall to her I could not fathom. Did we not employ a steward, a chamberlain, a vast array of servants to oversee every aspect of life at Kenilworth? Indeed I was interested to see a brief shadow flit over her face, a sudden discomfiture that I suspected had no connection with her own illicit and highly scandalous relationship with the Duke.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. No point in subtlety as yet another festive group arrived.

  When Dame Katherine, intent on speeding away, shook her head so that her veils shivered, suspicions began to flutter in my belly. There was something here that she did not wish to discuss with me.