The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
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‘Perhaps so.’
And John folded me into his arms, his hand gently on my head so that my face was pressed against his shoulder. Tears were heavy in my chest, for Henry’s danger, for John’s nobility, for my guilt, but I would not weep for another man in John’s arms. That would indeed be a betrayal. How generous. How caring. I had not thought that John loved me, but then, there were so many degrees of love. My gratitude for his understanding was overwhelming but I would not thank him again for it. It would be a denial of his own grace and compassion in making the sacrifice.
It would be another layer of betrayal, if I accepted the right to think of Henry.
Thus, all decided however hard it might be, I would continue to be the best wife that I could. I would banish Henry. And if I could not, then he must exist on the very edges of my thoughts. That was what I promised with my forehead pressed tight against the sumptuous weave of John’s tunic, his arms a haven around me. I would put Henry in his proper place. I was Duchess of Brittany. I would dedicate my life to that.
John was the first to move, raising his head, looking towards the window.
‘That sounded like tears. Perhaps we should intervene…’
‘I think so. Our daughter still has not the patience worthy of the future Countess of Alençon.’
‘She will learn. She will learn well from her mother.’
We went down to the riverside in accord. No one would ever guess that my thoughts struggled to fly elsewhere, rather than remain here in this sun-washed garden where my daughters clamoured for attention and my husband dropped a kiss on my cheek as he placed Blanche on my lap. I hugged her close, as I held tight to the marvellous gift that John had just given to me, the freedom to admit, at last, freely and without restraint, my love for Henry of Lancaster.
*
‘He has done it! He has actually done it, by God!’ ‘Who has done what?’ I barely looked up from yet another damaged lute-string. Marguerite had been practising, ineptly.
John patted me on the head as if I were Marguerite, an endearing habit. ‘Henry, of course. Our Duke of Lancaster has achieved the impossible, and, in retrospect, I’m not sure what I think about it. And the fact that I actually encouraged him. Write to him!’
Thus John’s announcement in the autumn of that year.
And so I wrote.
To my honoured lord and cousin, Henry, King of England, I write from myself and my lord the Duke to express our pleasure at your achievements. We heard the news with relief and know that you will uphold justice in your new realm. We hope that you continue in good health and that your children do likewise. We will continue to pray for you, that the Holy Ghost will keep you safe in His keeping.
Henry had regained his inheritance, but more than that. Henry had taken the Crown of England for his own. With Richard leading a campaign to Ireland and Henry landing on the coast far to the north east, supporters had come to the exiled Duke of Lancaster, men of power, men of influence. Friendless no longer Henry had taken Richard captive and now, crowned and anointed, it was Henry who occupied the throne of England. I imagined the whole consort of European rulers shivering in their respective shoes at the success of such an enterprise. The rightful King of England was overthrown, another sat in his place. A dangerous precedent indeed. No wonder John’s thoughts were ambivalent.
I wrote again, precise and formal as required:
We would ask that you keep us informed of your good fortune. It is in the mind of my lord to remind you of a promise to consider a trading agreement to calm the increasingly acrimonious situation between our fishermen.
I did not think I had ever written so unfeeling or so valueless a letter.
We assure you of our future goodwill.
I signed it Joanna of Brittany, with a flourish, and used John’s seal. Then I sat back, imagining what I would have added to the end if I were free to do so.
I have agonised over your safety, and can now rejoice with you in the restoration of all you had hoped for, and more. I am well and my good wishes towards you as fervent as they ever were. There is no place for me in your life, but I hold you close in my heart today and every day.
But I did not express one word of that, rather gave the document into the hands of our chamberlain for it to be dispatched to the English Court by courier. It would be a good thing all round if Henry did not reply. My moment of passion, joyous as it had been, was at an end. Henry’s destiny was assured.
November 1399: Château of Nantes, Brittany
‘Do you suppose we’ll be ready some time before our Christmas festivities begin?’
It was an excellent day for hunting, bright and cool with fitful sun and a breeze to shiver the reeds by the river, but John was unusually impatient. We were taking out the hawks, a brace of brache hounds and our eldest children.
We had not heard from the new English King. How would he have time to write personal letters when his days were dominated by settling England into good government after surviving the throes of insurrection? With Richard imprisoned in Pontefract Castle, Henry would be faced with a delicate handling of affairs. Writing to Brittany would be the last thing on his mind. Deliberately I had thrust him into the shadows of my life at the same time as I continued to include him and his family in my prayers. I would be happy for him, reunited with his sons and daughters, the injustices of the past laid to rest, but I refused to let any further memories encroach. There was no place for memories in my life.
‘Are we perhaps ready at last?’ John surveyed the party.
And in that moment, in the splash of sunlight across his face, I thought he looked weary. He had not slept well, that I knew, nor, unusually, had much enthusiasm for breaking his fast.
‘Do you really want to do this?’ I asked quietly.
John had been from home until the previous day, travelling to the far outreaches of his jurisdiction, renewing friendships over wine and hunting, sitting in judgement where necessary, while I had held audience with diplomats and merchants here at Nantes, discussing new tolls and minting rights, employing new minstrels to enhance John’s dignity when he entertained visiting magnates. Essential but minor matters compared with John’s constant burden. I knew that it was no easy task for him to preserve his hold on this volatile duchy whose past history had swooped acrimoniously between the territorial claims of both England and France. How hard he had worked to keep the Breton lords firmly behind him, not least in creating his new chivalric Order of the Ermine to enhance loyalty to his dynasty. With four thriving sons, of which John was inordinately proud, our dynasty was under no threat.
‘Hunting can wait until you are more rested,’ I suggested, concerned by the imprint of strain around his eyes, the unexpected shadows.
‘And what would our offspring say if I called it all off now?’
‘They would be polite, as they have been raised.’
‘Their disappointment would be palpable. Not to mention tears from Marguerite.’ Who had a tendency to play on her father’s soft heart. ‘We go. Don’t worry, Joanna. I am too tough an old bird to be brought low by a se’enight of touchy vassals demanding my time. Just too many hard roads, too many fast meals between one meeting and the next and too much inferior wine. It rots the gut faster than being on campaign. Now—let’s show the children how to fly a hawk.’ He already had one, hooded and leashed, on his fist. But as we rode out I saw him hand it back to his huntsman and rub the heel of his hand against his breastbone.
‘John…’
‘Don’t fuss, woman. Keep an eye on Arthur.’
He