The Queen's Choice

‘I can see that the offer is not an unpleasant one, my lady.’

‘No, Lord Thomas. It is not.’ But that was my heart speaking, and my mind was fast taking control, rearranging thoughts and impressions. The results were not good.

‘Do I tell my King that you will consider his offer?’

The smile was gone.

‘These are heavy matters, sir.’ Abruptly I stood to walk to the window to look out over the river and meadows of my country by marriage, seeing it greening on hedge and tree, keeping my face turned from him so that he would not read my disappointment:‘Why did your King not come himself, with so important a consideration?’

There was no hesitation. ‘My King is beleaguered, my lady.’

‘So strongly beleaguered that he must embark on a proxy wooing?’

I turned to look at my proxy suitor, the light falling fully on his dignified figure, his eyes dark with some difficult level of understanding. I did not like what I thought might be pity in them. I did not appreciate pity.

‘There has been insurrection, my lady. And with the recent unfortunate death of the late King Richard while incarcerated in Pontefract Castle, it is no time for my King to be absent from his realm, even for so crucial a visit as this.’ And when I might have interrupted,‘I speak personally now, as I read the situation in England, my lady. It is the priority of my King to settle the realm into peace and firm rule. Yet still he thinks of you with such affection and respect that he would woo you, even from afar.’

It was a better reply than many. I directed my thoughts determinedly away from how King Richard might have died. It would merely cloud an already murky issue. So I nodded briskly. ‘I will consider it carefully, Lord Thomas.’

‘As must every woman in the land, my lady.’

I stared at him, unsure of his meaning, disturbed by the glint of what might have been humour in his face.

‘My lady wife–Elizabeth–must always consider deeply every action she takes,’ he explained. ‘I meant no disrespect. This is an important decision for you to make. For you and for Brittany. I know that you will be aware of the difficulties such a marriage must face. As is my King.’

It unnerved me that he had read me so well.

‘I think the difficulties, as you word it, Lord Thomas, might be insurmountable. We will speak again.’

*

How accurate his assessment. Once I came to terms with the fact that Henry had not come himself, no doubt with good enough reason, the difficulties began to multiply, much like the quantity of books in John’s library.

Marriage. A second marriage. To King Henry the fourth of that name of England. Was there any reason why I should not? There was every reason in the world. They tumbled over me, to lie in a discouraging heap of impossibilities at my feet as soon as I was alone to consider. Surely Henry must be aware of how unfeasible it would be, for himself and for me.

Seated at my table where I read and signed documents every morning, I took a pen and wrote a reply to Henry, full of nothing but family and affection and prayers for his safety, as he had written to me. As blandly unexciting as a Lenten meal of salt fish and dried beans, expressing nothing of the terrible mix of longing and dismay that his offer had awoken. When there had been no possibility of such a union between us, I had tucked the notion away, as if with John’s old legal texts, to be forgotten and gather dust. Now it was dragged into the open, shaken out, where it proceeded to run amok through my thoughts.

To cure myself of this nonsense, my polite little reply being complete and signed, I set myself to write a list of all the traps that opened up before me. And I suspected there were many more that I had not yet appreciated. I wrote them in a rapidly growing list, watching as all the obstacles fell into place, my hand strong and sure, even as my belly chilled, for as a denial of this marriage proposal, they were bone-crushingly brutal.

The Valois will never support such a union. They will oppose it tooth and nail. The Duke of Burgundy will use every means at his disposal to stop it.

I am Regent of Brittany. Who will rule in my stead?

Do I wish to renounce my authority in Brittany?

I have a duty to my son, to Brittany, imposed on me by John and willingly undertaken.

There is long-standing antipathy between English and Breton.

Would I be despised as an enemy Queen?

If I leave Brittany, what will happen…

My hand faltered at the last. There was one final cataclysmic consequence that I foresaw and that I could not write. That I did not have the capacity to even contemplate. It was far too distressing. Instead I read through each dismal objection to this marriage, each one more intimidating than the last, until, screwing up the page in my hands I tossed it into the fire where the costly parchment was consumed in a bright flame. Commit nothing to the written word, Henry had said, not even my fears. It was good advice, and fire would scour the longing from my mind.

Oh, but I wanted it. I wanted this marriage. If only this desire could be obliterated as consummately as the fire had reduced my concerns to formless ash. I wanted to know once again the physical enjoyment of Henry’s nearness. I wanted to enjoy his quick mind, the skill of his hands on the lute. I wanted to play chess again with him, and capture his king on my own merits. I wanted the time to talk with him, for there was so much to this man I had yet to discover. More than anything, to my mortification, I wanted to enjoy the experience of his lips against mine.

I simply wanted to be with him.

But my mind continued to lurch from one insurmountable hurdle to the next, until I gave up on them and went to discover my children whose chatter would soon distract me. And we would go hunting with my surrogate wooer, Lord Thomas de Camoys.

*

We hunted, at a sedate pace, for all my children accompanied us except for Blanche at three years, but which proved to be no obstacle to Lord Thomas’s enjoyment. What an equable temperament he had. Our ambling disturbed him not at all as he conversed companionably with my children.

‘This is my land.’ Duke John, with regrettable self-importance.

‘And well governed, as I see.’

‘I have a new pony.’ Marguerite, eight years old, and shy but intent on drawing attention from her brothers.

‘And you ride the pretty creature with grace, my lady.’

‘I will be a knight when I am grown.’ Richard, sturdy and ambitious.

‘Perhaps you will come to me in England, to be a page in my household.’

At last turning for home, the children streaming ahead, with all the exuberance of unleashed hounds with servants and huntsmen in attendance, I was presented with an opportunity to uncover more.

‘Does King Henry find time to hunt?’

‘No, my lady. Unless it is the Scots.’ Lord Thomas grunted a laugh. ‘It colours his language frequently.’

I raised a brow in query.

And Lord Thomas complied. ‘There is the prospect of war against the Scots if they will not come to terms. When I left England my King was at York. As he says, he has little time for anything but war and insurrection.’

‘Is there much unrest?’

‘There has been a threat against his life, and that of his sons.’ He must have caught my expression, adding quickly, ‘It was at Epiphany, but has since been diffused, my lady.’

Henry, in his brief note, had not told me of any dangers he might be facing. But then, why would he? Would I tell him all my concerns for Brittany and my family? We were both entirely self-sufficient and capable of managing our own affairs without interference from interested onlookers.

‘Apart from bringing the Scots to heel, my King is also negotiating marriages for his two daughters.’ Lord Thomas proceeded to enlighten me. ‘Blanche it is hoped will wed the heir of the Holy Roman Emperor, a most advantageous match, and Philippa to the future King of Sweden. My King is aware of the importance of such dynastic alliances. Given the circumstances in which he acquired the Crown, he knows that he cannot afford to be complacent. It is imperative that he ties his family securely into a European entente.’

Such inconsequentially offered discourse. With such blighting consequences for me.

‘I imagine it would be of great importance,’ I managed. ‘As is the marriage of my own children.’ My mouth was dry, my lips stiff as I formed the words.

‘The princesses are still very young, of course,’ Lord Thomas continued, unaware that he was applying a second coat of pitch to my spirits. ‘But daughters are very valuable. As you yourself know. And for my King, since the assassination attempts against him, the need for these alliances has become critical.’

‘And has he wives in mind for his sons?’ My voice was as smooth as my pleated hair beneath my veil, but my senses turbulent.

Lord Thomas waxed suitably eloquent. ‘My King has hopes that Isabelle, Richard’s widow, might make an acceptable bride for his heir, Prince Hal. She has a considerable dowry.’ He noted my startled reaction. ‘You may not have heard, Madam. Richard has died in Pontefract Castle.’

No, I had not heard, until Lord Thomas had so carelessly announced the bleak fact on the previous day. I noticed that my English companion made no explanation of Richard’s sudden death, but my mind was preoccupied with our original conversation.

‘Such a marriage between Isabelle and the Prince would bring him money and an enviable Valois connection.’

‘So it would. A connection of far too great an importance to be overlooked. My King would be ill-advised to send Isabelle and her dowry back to her father.’

‘Indeed. Now I understand why it should be so imperative for your King to seek a bride of his own.’

I marvelled at how level I could keep my observation, as flat as the marsh-grass through which our horses strode. And just as unemotional.

‘Indeed.’ Baron Camoys nodded in agreement. ‘An obvious step to take, to seek a wife of rank and reputation. King Henry’s appreciation of such affairs is second to none. I swear that he will achieve his desired goal, against all the odds.’

So innocently observed. The final nail in the coffin of my resurrected hopes and dreams. Did Baron de Camoys not realise what it was that he had imparted to me? I should have realised, as would any woman of intellect and experience. Thus does physical desire undermine political experience. In self-disgust, I used my heel against my mare’s side.

‘Let us ride on, Lord Thomas.’

I resisted his quizzical look. No, he had no inkling of what he had done. And I needed to think, long and hard, even though it did not make for comfortable thinking as the wind took my veil, pulling at it in spritely mood while I snatched at its fullness to anchor it against my neck, all the time regretting that I had allowed my hopes to rise because of something so foolishly charming as a distant wooing. All was not as it seemed. How could I have ever thought that it was?

I had thought that Henry wanted me for his wife because he loved me for myself. Because he remembered the knitting of that strange bond between us. Because he believed there was a place for me in his life that no other woman could fill. Because he would play chess with me again and capture my king fair and square.

How wrong I had been. I had become simply a priceless piece in the mosaic of King Henry’s strategy to place his new dynasty on the map of Europe, beyond assault. I had become the desirable Queen on the chessboard of King Henry’s new political strategies.

*

‘Good morning, Lord Thomas.’

Returned once more to the audience chamber, but this time alone, I stood on the dais in regal splendour and prepared to be gracious. It was not the dignified Baron de Camoys’s fault. He would have no idea of the death blow he had dealt to my hopes. Now he was garbed in the wool and leather appropriate for travel, with no suspicion of what I would say. I handed over my innocuous and thoroughly dull reply to Henry’s letter, which he took and stowed in the purse at his belt.

‘Have you a response that I might take to my King, my lady?’

‘I have, sir.’ I did not even bring to mind the list I had compiled and destroyed. ‘If you will be so good as to tell this to your King. I find that I cannot accept his offer. I am honoured, but I will not be his wife.’

A shadow of surprise crossed the weathered face, before being fast smoothed-over in the manner of an experienced diplomat.

‘Do I say no more, my lady?’

‘That is all that needs to be said,’ I replied with hauteur.

Baron de Camoys undoubtedly deserved more, but how could I give my private doubts into the keeping of a man I had not known until a matter of hours ago? I would have told Henry. I would have been more than forthright with Henry. But he had found more pressing demands on his time.

Unfair, my conscience whispered.

But true, I replied. I, in my own right, am not a priority in King Henry’s schemes. He will find a new bride with more impressive credentials than mine.

In response to my silence, Lord Thomas was regarding me with what I could only interpret as disapprobation. ‘I have been given leave to answer your concerns, my lady, or carry them to England for my King to give his consideration. If that is what you would prefer.’

‘It is not an alliance I wish to make, my lord. It is my personal decision, based on my own inclination. It is not a matter of high politics. You must thank your King and explain my regrets.’

Such was my dismissal of a once most desired proposal of marriage. Cool, calm, unmoved. Rejected out of hand, with no concessions to the baron’s kindness.

‘I regret that, my lady. Why can it not be done?’ Lord Thomas asked the question as a friend would ask it. And reading I knew not what in my face he ignored my ducal trappings, took my hand in his and led me to step down from the dais before asking:‘Was it something I said? Have I said something to turn you against my King?’

‘No.’

‘But I think I must have been at fault. I understood that you were not averse to this match when first broached.’

I found myself sitting on the cushions of a window seat. With Lord Thomas sitting beside me, my hand still in his. And against all my intentions in how to conduct this brief little audience, I found myself replying as if he were indeed a friend.

‘King Henry is intent on building a powerful dynasty. You indicated as much yesterday. I understand why it must be. A usurper can do no less.’ I recalled the humiliation at the Valois Court, when Mary’s hand was denied him because he had been declared traitor. Henry would remember it too, and be determined to do all in his power to rebuild his pride and his acceptability to the courts of Europe. Even little Isabelle, widowed but still in England, was to play a role in the scheme.

‘Marriages are the surest way to consolidate connections and build a block of alliances to give a ruler strength and standing in diplomacy and discussion,’ I continued as if instructing my own son in the role of European negotiation. Who would know better than I? Valois princesses had married into every royal family in Europe over the years. And acknowledging it, a cold hand closed even more firmly around my heart. If I asked outright, would this man tell me the truth? Yet I did not think I even needed him to do so. I knew it for myself. ‘I accept that I would be the perfect consort for a man in King Henry’s position. It would make absolute sense. With my son as Duke of Brittany and my brother as King of Navarre—and my first cousin as King of France of course—I would give him the connections he seeks.’

A narrow bar of colour appeared along Lord Thomas’s cheekbones as I extricated my hand from his.

‘I hope, my lady, I did not give the impression that King Henry is more interested in your blood line than your person.’

‘Yes, Lord Thomas. You did. I appear to be part of a well-constructed plan. I do not wish to be part of a dynastic scheme for King Henry’s aggrandisement.’

The colour darkened. Baron de Camoys’s hands flexed where they rested on his thighs.

‘I regret it. It is true that my King is aware of your value as a royal bride. As a princess of Navarre he knows that he could look no higher. As for your vast array of family connections to those who hold power…’

‘As I have said,’ I interrupted, as stern as my audience, standing briskly, any softness within me at an end. ‘It seems I am to be part of a dynastic bulwark to give the King of England recognition.’

‘But I would not say so. The King has considered no other European bride but you. Nor any who is English-born from one of our noble families. It was you he wanted.’ Lord Thomas paused, also on his feet, considering how to add weight to his argument. ‘My King gave you time to mourn Duke John.’

‘A bare three months?’

‘He thought it would be enough.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He has told me. Only then did he venture to ask for your hand. You must not pre-judge him, my lady. From my knowledge of King Henry, he sees you as far more value than a bride to bring him enhanced rank and acceptance.’

It was not flattering to see myself in a step on the road to European greatness, even though it was not new to me. As a wealthy, well-connected, powerful widow, I would be much sought after. Did I wish to remarry? I might with the right incentives. I had hoped Henry might have deeper motives, but I must accept that his purpose as King was very different from the day in my chapel when he spoke to me of love. You are loved, he had said. You are my most treasured delight.

Discarding those words, I walked to the door, my robes falling in heavy and expensive lines to the floor. Face calmly disposed, voice coldly authoritative, I knew exactly the impression I wished to give, and did so as I turned to give my final reply.

‘You must tell your King that I am not able to gratify him with my acceptance. It is not in my power to do so. Nor in his to persuade me.’

There was no hint of the anger that all but consumed me as Baron de Camoys bowed his way from my presence.

I lingered at the window of my chamber, watching the English courier depart.

‘Leave me.’

My women left, warned by my voice, obviously surprised by the raw tone that had crept in. As was I. Surprised and astonished at the anger of which I was capable. I who had rarely experienced anger in my life. Where was this heat born? Out of disappointment and regret, my newly sprouting hopes being shredded to destruction, like a flourishing bed of nettles beneath the peasant’s scythe over in the meadows. My hands clenched into fists on the stone window-coping, and I hammered them against the chiselled decoration until my flesh complained. But it did not hurt as much as my hopes that had been dealt their death-blow. I would not be haggled over, like a prime salmon in a fishmonger’s basket. Joanna of Navarre would be haggled over by no man. If Joanna of Navarre was to invite a second husband into her bed, he would be of her own choosing and for her own pleasure.

Which thought shocked me a little, until I considered the logic of it. Did I need a husband to enhance my status? To protect my country? To fill my coffers with gold and jewels? I needed none of these. With Brittany’s alliances intact, I had no need of a royal husband to ride to my rescue, and I would not be a decorative element in the pattern of Henry’s planning, to give pre-eminence to the new English monarchy.

My anger continued to hop and spit, fuelled further by an entirely superficial and unwarrantable irritation. As a prospective bride, was I not worthy of a fanfare, an embassy, an ambassador and a Lancaster herald? Was I not worthy of a finest kid document with seals and illuminated letters? If Henry was serious about marriage, I expected more. I expected more than Baron Thomas de Camoys, a baron of some status perhaps, but not one of the great magnates of England. He had come with no embassy, no fine-clad entourage to give Henry’s offer weight. I, Duchess and Regent of Brittany, was worthy of more, and Henry of England must know it. Why must I consent to some secretive arrangement, whispered behind closed doors? My marriage should not be a matter of some conspiratorial negotiating, as if it had some nefarious purpose rather than the alliance between two rulers of esteem.

Pride. Beware the sin of pride, Joanna. Nothing good will come of it. You will regret what you have done today.

I would not regret it. I had wanted, in a selfish corner of my heart, to be desired for myself. Could I not wish for that, for the first, for the only time in my life, rather than for the value of my breeding and the vast spider’s web of connection of my family?

It seemed that I could not.

*

‘Baron de Camoys,’ I said. Not exactly welcoming, some few weeks later. And with some surprise.

‘Madam.’

I had not expected a return visit. Had my refusal not be sufficiently plain? I could well imagine Henry’s displeasure at my rejection, but he was a pragmatic man and must accept it. I would be my own woman; I might have burnt my list of objections but the content remained true and fair in my mind.

Yet I admitted to my curiosity being engaged. What would my English courier have to say to me now? His return was very rapid. I doubted he had time to do more than repeat my refusal to his King before turning about and retracing his watery steps back to Brittany.

‘I bid you good day, my lord.’ I achieved a diplomatic smile. I had just ridden in from the town to discover this English delegation, red and gold pennons once again aflutter.

Already dismounted, my courier approached to take hold of my bridle. But as he looked up into my face, although I read the grave courtesy with which I was familiar, a courtesy that not even my previous blunt refusal could shake, I thought he looked strained. More than strained. Perhaps the crossing had been stormy enough to dig the line between his brows. He deserved a welcome from me, even if I was wary.

‘I see that you are in good health. Did you have time to visit your wife and new child?’

‘I did, Madam.’ He did not return my smile.

‘I doubt she was pleased to lose you again so soon. I surmise that King Henry’s desires were paramount.’

I slid from the mare to stand beside him. The lines engraved between nose and mouth seemed even heavier now that we were face to face. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it and merely gave a curt bow of the head. My desire to know Henry’s desires was pushed aside. There was sadness here, and this was far too public a place for me to encourage him to tell me.

‘Come with me, Lord Thomas.’

Silently he followed me, through entrance hall and a succession of chambers and corridors, where I stopped only long enough to redirect a skipping Blanche towards her nursemaid, until we came to a small parlour, a favourite and private place that collected the spring sunshine and overlooked one of John’s well-planted gardens. It always seemed to me a place where it was possible to find comfort. It seemed to me that Lord Thomas needed comfort.

Lord Thomas stood, waited, as servants came to divest us of outer garments, to leave wine. Shoulders braced, there was none of the warmth I recalled. Grief was written into every line of his body. Was this Henry’s doing? Had he given a difficult message to be delivered?

Then the servants were gone.

‘I see trouble in your face, sir.’

‘A personal matter, my lady,’ he rallied. ‘I have a reply from my King.’

Rejecting my overture, he produced a written missive from the breast of his tunic and a small package wrapped in leather. The letter he gave to me, and I took it, tucking it into my sleeve. It could wait. And so could whatever it was that Henry had directed this man to say to me.