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Aware of the uncomfortable warmth at my temples, I forced a smile. ‘So now you know that I can say nothing but good about her. Tell Charles that you will take a French bride.’
Henry’s shoulder lifted, a touch of grace. ‘If I must wed, this elegant and attractive lady would seem the perfect choice. It will not harm me to have the Duke of Berry on my side. Or King Charles if he is willing to entrust his niece to my care. And since you are so eloquent in her cause…’
‘Have you not met her?’ John asked, forestalling me.
‘No. It is arranged that I will do so next week. She is invited to attend one of the assemblies at the Hotel de St Pol. I am invited too.’
‘Give her my love,’ I said dryly. ‘And my felicitations for a fruitful union.’
Wishing my elegant and attractive cousin Mary, quite frankly, to the devil.
*
The meeting was duly arranged to introduce the bridal pair, and because it was a family occasion, John and I were invited too. As on all such prestigious occasions, my charming cousin Mary was paraded before Henry as an exemplary wife, tricked out in courtly style with a fortune of fine gems in the collar that enhanced her not insignificant bosom. The Court watched indulgently. I watched less indulgently, and then I did not watch indulgently at all.
Henry saluted Mary’s fingers, then her cheek, with rare grace.
They talked seriously, with much to say between them.
They laughed.
They danced.
It would be an exceptional marriage for both of them.
Mary was young, younger than I, and beautiful.
Earl Henry smiled with true enjoyment as he led his partner in the procession, tilting his head so that he could hear her flattering address and reply.
I could watch no more.
I was ashamed.
*
‘Will you dance, Madam Joanna?’
I considered refusing, but that would be too particular. Of course he would invite me, because Duke Henry was courteous to the tips of his finely curled hair. And I would accept. It was inappropriate to draw attention to one’s emotions when surrounded by a keen-eyed, gossip-ridden, manipulative Court. In my own family, in Navarre, I had learned early that it was dangerous to show either pain or pleasure; it threw you into the clutches of those who would use their knowledge to their own advantage. Such as my father. My father’s children developed a disinterestedness worthy of the purest saint facing his martyrdom.
I was intent on moving out of the shadow of King Charles the Bad, to prove myself to be a woman of integrity and honesty and strong principle. Charles the Bad might have trampled over the talents of his daughters, unaware that they even existed, but I would show the world that Joanna of Navarre was worthy of note.
‘It will be my pleasure, sir,’ I consented, magnificently mild in my accord.
Taking my hand, Duke Henry led me into yet another formal procession which did not allow for conversation or privacy, except for:
‘Did you enjoy Mary’s company?’ I asked, curious despite my antipathy.
‘Lady Mary is a woman of great charm.’ Our palms kissed, parted, rejoined. ‘She dances with a formidable lightness of foot.’
Oh, it hurt.
‘An exemplary woman,’ I agreed as we came together again, his fingers a quick intimacy, a most impersonal one, as he led me through a trio of light dancing steps, in which I apparently was no match for my superlative cousin.
‘She converses well too.’
‘Which will be an advantage, I believe, at Richard’s Court when you return home.’
‘Indeed. Richard will admire her and take her to his heart.’
With a decided gleam, Duke Henry’s eyes touched on mine. Then held there, considering. I thought he would have spoken, but the interweaving of the procession led us apart again so the moment was lost when I found myself partnered with my cousin of Orleans, my concentration taken up in avoiding his large and inept feet. Until, restored to Duke Henry at the completing of the procession, the minstrels falling silent, our companion dancers drifted away to find refreshment and new partners. Duke Henry remained holding my hand, our arms raised aloft in an elegant arch, as if we still had the final steps to complete, his face set in surprisingly solemn lines.
‘I have you to thank. Your judgement of your cousin was correct in all aspects.’ He lowered our arms, but did not completely break the contact. ‘She is lovely, in face and in mind. She is intelligent, well read, devout. A woman who has more in her thoughts than the cloth of her gown and the cut of her bodice.’ He paused. His soft voice was in no manner sardonic. ‘A woman who I consider to be capable of great loyalty, and affection. She would be a perfect bride for a Lancaster.’
Whereas he had described me as merely handsome. Jealousy, sour as unripe pippins, nibbled at the edges of my smile so that my reply was more barbed than I would have wished. ‘And all this discovered within the time and space of one dance.’
‘Of course. We had much to talk about. If we are to be wed, we must make up for lost opportunities.’
I turned to look at him. There was nothing in his face but discreet admiration for my spritely cousin, now dancing with another Valois lord.
‘You forgot her ability to ride to the hunt and play the lute,’ I added.
‘No. I did not forget. It did not need mentioning. She will be acceptable in every way, my lady.’
‘Then I wish you every happiness.’
Why should the Duke not wed her? Why should he not find happiness with this charming cousin? Her connections were impeccable. She would be of inestimable value. Yet such a declaration of admiration on so short an acquaintance shook me, even as I knew that I was too old and too wise for such unwarranted sentiments. Sadly, my envy knew no bounds. With the briefest of curtseys I turned on my heel and left him. I did not want him to marry my decidedly attractive cousin. I wanted…but I did not know what I wanted. Nor could I have it, even if I did.
I prayed hard that night. For composure. For a return of the stillness in my mind and heart. For a return of the acceptance of my life as it was. Inflicting my own penance, I prayed for the success of this marriage to Mary of Berry. It would be suitable reparation and the pain for me would be immeasurable. Which I undoubtedly deserved.
*
The next week we all attended one of the regular Court audiences. King Charles, shuffling his feet, encased in an unfortunate shade of vermilion, let his gaze slide to one side, then slide back again. The sudden sharp tension, that came to hang in the air like a noisome odour, increased when he stared at Henry, his mouth twisting in disapprobation.
Henry, straight-backed, was absorbing the tension too.
And then I saw, as Mary turned her head to look at her betrothed. What I read there made my belly lurch. When I would have expected her to show her approval, her pleasure, her mouth was as sharp set as if she had been dosed against worms with bitter purge of hyssop. Present with her family, she bent her head to hear some whispered comment from her father.
And in that moment, touched by a presentiment of danger, if I could have stopped the whole proceedings by some deep magic I would have done so. Instead all I could do was to stand, perfectly still and let events take their course.
Blinking furiously, Charles beckoned the Duke of Burgundy who, horribly prepared, stepped forward from his place beside the royal throne. He cleared his throat loudly, before announcing in the clearest of accents, staring at Henry as he did so:
‘King Charles wishes it to be known. This proposed marriage between the Lady Mary of Berry and the Duke of Hereford is anathema. We cannot think of marrying our cousin the Lady Mary to a traitor.’
Traitor. The fatal word dropped into a sudden silence.
What a masterpiece of insensitivity. Of cold discourtesy. Of humiliation directed at a son of so noble and royal a family. It was beyond belief that such a rebuttal should have been made, when Duke Henry had been received and feted for so many weeks at the royal court. And announced by the Duke of Burgundy no less, and so publically. A wall of held breath seemed to hem us in.
‘So now we know what this was all about,’ John murmured at my side.
‘Yes.’
My throat was as dry as the dust motes glinting in the stale air. My heart bled for the Duke. Every inch of him was governed, his voice evenly controlled, now addressing the King rather than Burgundy.
‘I am no traitor, Sire. If any man here charges me with treason I will answer him in combat. Now, or at whatever time the King may appoint.’
‘No, cousin.’ It was Charles who replied. ‘I do not believe you will find a man in all of France who will challenge your honour. The expression my uncle saw fit to use comes from England, not from us.’
‘From England?’
And there, in the two words, was the anger in him, the sheer fury, burning hot beneath his denial.
‘We have had an embassy. From your cousin, King Richard.’ Charles’s gaze once again slid away, his words as slippery as his expression. ‘He advised that no marriage should be contemplated with a man under the burden of treachery against his King.’ He paused. ‘But rest assured. We will stand as your friend—until better times. We will not cast you off entirely. We hope that you will one day prove your innocence.’
But you will question his integrity before the whole court, I thought. It could not have been plainer. All eyes were on Henry. Deny it, I willed him. Argue the rightness of your cause. But of what value would that have been?
Henry knew it too. With stark elegance he sank to his knees before the King, head bent in submission. ‘Then may God preserve my friends and confound my enemies!’ He could not hide the bitterness, but Charles chose to ignore it, waving to him to rise.
‘We will talk of marriage again. But first you must obtain your inheritance, for it will be necessary for you to make provision for your wife before we can move forward.’ Charles beamed as if he had hit on the perfect way to rid himself of this uncomfortable situation. ‘You will understand, my lord. When your inheritance is secure, return to our Court, and we will listen to you again.’
Which left Duke Henry no path to take but one of acceptance. Turning, his gaze swept over the ranks of avid courtiers who slavered over his every word, like a pack of hunting dogs scenting its prey; lingered on the Duke of Berry and his lovely daughter who looked anywhere but at Henry; touched on the frowning figure of the Duke of Burgundy. And then they rested on me, but momentarily, with what message I could not read, while I tried to wish him courage.
‘My thanks, Sire,’ was all he said. ‘I am grateful for your forbearance. And for that of your tolerant Court.’
Without a further acknowledgement of those present, Henry did what I knew he would do. He bowed with grace and walked from the room. And as if this ultimate degradation of one of its number had never occurred, the Valois Court again broke into conversation and laughter; hard and callous and unfeeling.
Anger drove out all other thoughts from my mind. ‘Could it have been done no other way?’ I demanded of John, sotto voce.
‘It was not tactful. Burgundy is never tactful.’ He took my arm. ‘I think we had better rescue our protégé from the depths of despair.’
I had seen anger. But despair?‘But the King absolved him of treason. Didn’t he?’
John’s flat brows said it all. There had been no absolution here, only a cowardly sidestepping of the issue. But first things first.
‘I have need of a moment with my cousin,’ I said.
I could not leave it like this. Calmly smiling, answering greetings as I went, I was at Mary’s side, wasting no time in fine words.
‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was planned here. You knew it would strip his pride from him. How could you not warn him of this little conspiracy to humiliate him and damage his reputation for honesty and integrity beyond repair.’
‘What is it to you?’ There was undoubtedly guilt from the set of Mary’s fine jaw to the clench of her hands into inelegant fists. ‘What could I have done?’
‘Could you not have warned him?’
‘I was told not to discuss it.’
‘So you let him go into that bear pit unprotected. To be torn apart by the dogs.’
Mary tilted her chin. ‘Duke Henry needed no protection from me.’
‘He deserved to know that he would be proclaimed traitor before the whole Court!’
There was high colour in her cheeks. ‘It’s a marriage I’m well out of. If a man feels threatened, his judgement can be impaired.’ Her eyes flitted over my face. ‘What I don’t understand is why you should take me to task. What is he to you?’
‘He is a friend.’ I would not be discomfited. ‘Friends should be treated with honour.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘You are very hot in his defence, Joanna.’
‘And you are cold for a woman who, yesterday, was not averse to marriage.’
‘Such heat, my dear Joanna, is unbecoming and could be misconstrued.’
Here was danger. ‘I know the value of friendship,’ I replied, smooth as the silk of my girdle. Yet gratitude was strong as John appeared at my side to rescue me, saying:‘My wife is supportive of Duke Henry, for my sake. The family is very much in my heart. We take it ill when his good name is blackened for no reason.’
Mary, a little flushed at the mild chastisement, bit her lip, while I withdrew into icy civility. Perhaps I had been intemperate but injustice could not be tolerated. If I had known as she did, I would have done all in my power to protect him.
‘Forgive me, Mary, but it was not well done. Not at all.’
‘Would you have disobeyed your father? I doubt it.’
‘I might well if I thought it honourable. You are no longer a child. You have a right to your own thoughts on these matters.’
Mary turned away, leaving me to explain my intemperance to John, who was regarding me with some irony.
‘Well, that put Mary firmly in her place, didn’t it?’
‘It had to be said.’
‘But perhaps not so furiously.’
‘I thought I was very restrained.’
‘Then God help us when you are not.’
*
In the aftermath, Henry bore the affront to his dignity with a fortitude stronger than any I had ever witnessed, even knowing that it was King Richard who, in the name of his little Valois wife, had dispatched an ambassador, the Earl of Salisbury, festooned with seals and letters of credence, demanding that Charles rescind his offer of marriage and sanctuary. Duke Henry accepted the judgement with nerve-chilling control.
‘My father’s loyalty to the English Crown, and mine, is beyond debate. This is how Richard repays me, making me persona non grata in every Court of Europe. A political liability.’ He was pale, as if he had suffered a blow from a mailed fist, but his delivery was eloquent. ‘I have been conspicuously loyal to him for ten years, since the Lords Appellant set his feet on the path to fair government. I have done everything in my power to support my cousin. Now he destroys my good name, hounding me when I could have made a temporary life for myself here in France. My every motive, my principles, every tenet of my life—all now suspect. So Charles will think again of the marriage, when I have come into my inheritance? Before God, he will not!’
Which summed it up succinctly, as cold and crisp as winter ice beneath the tumult in his eyes. Duke Henry glowered like a thunder cloud about to break and deluge us all.
‘Richard considers me a traitor, worthy of banishment. How can the courts of Europe cast that aside, as an accusation of no merit? I know that Charles has tolerated me because of my Lancaster blood, and you too because of past friendships, but unless I can clear my name there will always be rank suspicion hanging over me. And how can I clear my name? Until I can return to England and take my place again as heir to Lancaster with Richard’s blessing, there is no hope for my restitution. And I think I will never have Richard’s blessing. He has covered it well over the years with smiles and gestures of friendship, but he despises the air I breathe.’
Henry had understood from the beginning the insecurity of his position. He might have been lured into believing he could make a home here and wait out the empty years with French support and a French wife, but I thought he had never truly believed that. He had always envisaged this ending. Now his masterly summing up left neither John nor I with anything to say. As he faced the uncertain future, I admired him more than I dared admit. A proud man driven to his knees. A man of honour forced to accept the charge, and bear it, because there was no evidence that he was not a traitor. What would his denial weigh against the conviction of King Richard?
‘What can we do to help him?’ I asked John, hollow with regret when he had gone.
‘Not a thing.’
As bleak a reply as I could envisage.
*
Couriers brought the news. Surely there should have been storms and fiery comets lighting the heavens, signs of great portent? There were none. The stars continued to pursue their habitual path. The sun rose and set without interruption, when John, Duke of Lancaster, the greatest of the Plantagenet princes, passed from this life. It was rumoured that King Richard heard of his uncle’s demise with a sort of joy, but no one spoke of it in Duke Henry’s hearing. There would have been no rejoicing at Leicester where Lancaster breathed his last, alone except for his wife Katherine, without the comfort of his son and heir, over whose unprotected head the clouds grew blacker yet.
In Paris a High Mass was ordered by King Charles, to pray for Lancaster’s soul.
But Henry was Lancaster now. A man of title, of land and pre-eminent rank, yet a man destined to kick his heels in whichever court of Europe would accept him for the next hand-span of years, the charge of treason dogging his every step.
The Mass, honoured by the entire Valois household, was a dour occasion despite the glitter of jewels on every shoulder, every breast. Incense clogged every sense, flattening the responses, while Henry was immaculately calm under the pressure of so much official compassion. But beneath the composure the degradation and fury continued to seethe, for his pride had been stripped from him along with his freedom to order his life as he wished. I could sense it in the manner in which he held his head, his gaze fixed on the glitter of gold and candles on the high altar, his lips barely moving as we prayed for his father’s soul. Lancaster might be at peace but his son was not. I prayed for him too.
Holy Virgin. Grant him succour when he despairs of the future.
‘Have courage,’ John said, when Henry had extricated himself from the Valois embrace, and we returned to our chambers where we could take our leave in private. We were going home to Brittany. ‘Is that not what your father would have advised? Hold to what you know is right. We cannot see the future.’
‘That’s what I fear.’
His expression was as aloof as the one he had maintained throughout the Mass.
‘It may be better than you envisage. Where will you go?’
‘There’s nothing to stop me crusading again now. A crusade is being planned,’ Duke Henry announced. ‘To rescue the King of Hungary from the Bayezid. What better way to earn my redemption than in the service of God? I have nine years to fill.’ He rolled his shoulders, as if to do so could dislodge the guilt that sat there like some malevolent imp. ‘I am Duke of Lancaster. I have a duty to that title. My lands need me. My people need me.’
‘We have talked of this, Henry. To return now could be to sign your death warrant.’ John clasped his hand. ‘We have good hunting in Brittany. Come and enjoy it and let your mind rest a little.’ John smiled at me, placed a hand on my shoulder with a light pressure. ‘I have a courier awaiting my pleasure. I’ll leave you to persuade him, Joanna, or send him on his way…’
We were alone. Folding my hands flat over the crucifix on its heavy chain, pressing its wrought silver outline hard against my heart, I ordered my words to those of emotionless leave taking.
‘Farewell, Henry. I wish you well, whatever life holds for you. I will pray for you.’
For a moment he did not reply, head bent. Then, looking up, startling me:
‘Tell me what is in your heart, Joanna.’
It was a shock, to be invited to speak of what had lived with me for so long. My eyes searched his face, trying to detect the pattern of his thoughts, but could read nothing there except the familiar intensity when emotion rode him hard, as it had been since Burgundy’s so very public denunciation.
‘I cannot. You know that I cannot,’ I said.
The curve of his lips was wry, before disappearing completely beneath a stern line. ‘No. For it would simply compound the issue between us, would it not? It was wrong of me to ask it of you. I will not press you.’
The cross made indentation into the embroidered funeral damask of my bodice. And into my palm. My heart thudded beneath both. I watched his breathing beneath the black silk of his tunic pause as, slowly, he raised and held out his hand, in his offered palm a request. For the length of a breath I did not move, until compelled by some unseen force I released the crucifix. I placed my hand in his. But when I expected him to kiss my fingertips, as he might in farewell, he turned it palm up, and traced the imprint of the cross there with his thumb.
‘Even here we are reminded of solemn vows, of lines of duty and honour and conviction that we must not cross,’ he said. ‘It is not an easy choice, is it?’
Henry pressed his mouth to my palm where the indentation was beginning to disappear, leaving an even more burning imprint, rendering me breathless, my skin aware of the sudden brilliance in the air around me.
I looked at him, every nerve stretched tight. Henry looked at me, every thought governed. The walls of the room seemed to close in around us, suffocatingly, the flatly stitched faces on Charles’s expensive tapestries agog, the figures almost leaning to hear more.
There was no more to hear. With a bow Duke Henry was gone, leaving the chamber, and me, echoing in emptiness. The tapestried figures retreated to their seats in the flowery glade. I could do nothing but stand and regard the closed door, my fingers tight-closed over my palm where I would swear the imprint still remained.
How guarded we had been. How vigilant in our use of words. Not once had we spoken of what might be in our hearts. But then, I did not know what was in his, for he had never said.
Chapter 3
June 1399: Château of Nantes, Brittany
I lifted my head, interrupted from the conversation with my eldest daughter. Visitors. The clamour of a distant arrival: voices, orders given, the clatter of hooves. A small party, I assumed, coming to visit us at Nantes where we had settled for the summer months, fending off the heat and lethargy as best we might with breezes from the coast. It was a good time, with a visit from my eldest daughter Marie, who was chattering beside me like a small blue-clad bird. We were shade-seeking, in the garden overlooking the placid estuary waters of the River Loire.
‘Are you enjoying your new home?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, maman. Although I miss you and my sisters. Not my brothers so much. But Jean is kind to me. And Madam his mother.’
Seated on a low stool, she crossed her ankles and linked her fingers. How unsettlingly adult she was. Eight years old. It was a year since we had celebrated her marriage to Jean, the fourteen-year-old heir to the Count of Alençon, and now Marie was living in the Alençon household in the Château de l’Hermine. I recalled being adamant, on the occasion of Isabelle’s wedding to the English king, that no daughter of mine would be dispatched to so early a union, but alliances were necessary, marriages made. The Alençons were cousins and kind. I had no complaint in their care of her as she grew up to become a wife in more than name. It amused me when, abandoning her dignity, she took possession of a bat and ball, hitching her sophisticated skirts.