ISBN: 978-1-474-03253-7

THE QUEEN’S CHOICE

© 2016 Anne O’Brien

Published in Great Britain 2016

by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2019-04-12

Acclaim for the author ANNE O’BRIEN

‘The author a compulsive storyteller.’

–Sunday Express

‘If you enjoy Philippa Gregory and Alison Weir,

you will love Anne O’Brien.’

–We Love This Book

‘This book has everything – royalty, scandal, fascinating

historical politics and ultimately, the shaping

of the woman who founded the Tudors.’

–Cosmopolitan

‘One of the best writers around.’

–The Sun

‘Flawlessly written.’

–Birmingham Post

‘Another excellent read from Anne O’Brien.’

–The Bookbag

‘One of Britain’s most popular and talented writers

of medieval novels.’

–Lancashire Evening Post

‘A must-read for any historical fiction fan.’

–The Examiner

‘Her writing is highly evocative of the time period…

O’Brien had produced an epic tale.’

–Historical Novel Society

‘Anne O’Brien’s novels give a voice to

the “silent” women of history.’

–Yorkshire Post

‘Brings the origins of the most famous royal

dynasty to vibrant life.’

–Candis

‘I was keen to see if this book… lived up to

the hype—which it did.’

–Woman

To George, as always with my love, and thanks for

allowing me to fill the house with music and songs

of courtly love from the medieval troubadours.

As Joanna might have sung to Henry:

‘To you, sweet good-natured one, have I give my heart. Never shall it be taken from you.’

Jehan de Lescurel d.13o4

Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?

Christopher Marlowe 1564-1593: Hero and Leander

Forasmuch as I am eager to hear of your good estate…I pray you, my most dear and most honoured lord and cousin, that you would tell me often of the certainty of it, for the great comfort and gladness of my heart. For whenever I am able to hear a good account of you, my heart rejoices exceedingly.

Written at Vannes 15th February 1400: the duchess of Brittany to King Henry IV

(The wives of powerful noblemen) must be highly knowledgeable about government, and wise…

Christine de Pizan: The Book of the City of Ladies c. 1405

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Exodus 22.18

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acclaim for the Author ANNE O’BRIEN

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Also by Anne O'Brien

Extract

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

WHAT INSPIRED ME TO WRITE ABOUT JOANNA OF NAVARRE?

AND AFTERWARDS

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF JOANNA OF NAVARRE

QUESTIONS FOR READING GROUPS

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

October 1396: the town of Ardres, near Calais

It was to be the day, although I did not know it when my women confined my hair to a jewelled caul and coronet, my feet to gilded-toed shoes, and all in between to layers of fine linen, silk damask and fur.

It was to be the day that my life tilted on its even keel; the day that my ordered existence warped, as a tapestry, ill-formed in the hands of a careless Arras weaver, would stretch immoderately in the damp of winter. I had one such in my audience chamber at the Château of Vannes, until I dispatched it, ruined, to some distant storeroom. On this day it was as if some power had disturbed an exact balance that throughout my life had been secure and unquestioned.

It was the day that I met Henry, Earl of Derby.

Not that I had any presentiment of such meddling in what fate, my father and my husband had decreed for me. Nor did I look for such turbulence in my life, for I lived in placid luxury, always predictable, sometimes dull, but never less than harmonious. My life demanded no emotional response from me, rather a practical acceptance of my role as wife, mother, ducal consort. Indeed my whole life had been one of acceptance. I was particularly good at it. I was nobly born, twenty-eight years old, and had been Duchess of Brittany for ten of them. But on that bright morning, my thoughts occupied far from any intrusive dabbling, all was overset.

‘What do you think?’

A soft voice in my ear managed to pierce the snap and flap of canvas of the dozens of pavilions, a huge encampment constructed for the occasion. The voice of John de Montfort, my husband, the fifth Duke of Brittany.

‘Poor mite. It’s no age to be wed,’ I whispered back. I would not wish for one of my daughters to be wed at so tender an age, but dynastic marriages demanded sacrifice. My mother, undoubtedly a sacrifice in her union with my father, had been wed at eight years.

‘He’ll only get her allegiance.’ John frowned at the charming scene where the bridegroom kissed the cheek of his child-bride. ‘Not her body.’

‘So I should hope.’

I smiled.

I liked weddings. Such an opportunity to reunite with family and friends, and erstwhile enemies too, without the prospect of drawn swords or blows traded in the aftermath of too many toasts to the happy couple. Although, I considered as the two puissant kings, one of England, the other of France, drew close to exchange the desired kiss of peace, that could not always be guaranteed. I remembered occasions when good manners had drowned in a pot of ale almost before the marriage vows had been taken.

But not today. Today, we had been assured, would be a day of good omen. We all knelt in a gleaming shiver of silk and satin as Richard of England and Charles of France clasped hands and beamed their goodwill.

I particularly like French weddings, with the wealth of aunts and uncles and a fistful of cousins here for me to enjoy, for through my mother’s blood I was a Valois princess. And now that the greatest blot on the political landscape, my father, no longer defiled this earth with his presence, there was no need for me to hold my breath as I had as a young girl. My father was dead, and had been for almost ten years. He and his vile temper and even viler habits would not be missed.

My father, of atrocious repute, had been King of Navarre, that prestigious little kingdom which bordered with France and English possessions to the south, and so was much desired in alliance. But it was my mother, daughter of the Valois King John the Good, who gave me my true rank. King Charles the Sixth of France was my first cousin, the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy my uncles. I could claim cousinship with every man or woman at the Valois Court of France. Every man or woman who mattered in the politics of Europe. I had been raised to know my worth.

‘I see that Charles is in his right mind,’ I observed, my eyes lowered in deepest respect for this royal cousin who was acknowledged as mad and could become violent in the blink of an eye. ‘I expect the whole Court has been offering up novenas to St Jude.’

‘Ha! It would take more than a petition to lost causes. I wager it would take a full Requiem Mass to guarantee Charles’s sanity for more than a day at a time,’ my husband replied.

We were here for a momentous alliance that might bring some vestige of peace to our troubled lands. And there he was, the bridegroom, tall and resplendent in red, smiling and gracious, luminous with satisfaction. We had heard that it was not altogether a popular move across the sea, a French woman to be crowned Queen of England, but the English King would have his way. King Richard the Second, a widower, was in need of a wife and an heir. A country was precarious without heirs, and here I could admit to my own smugness. I came from fertile stock, with six stalwart children of my own, four of them sons to safeguard the inheritance of Brittany. I had every reason to enjoy my own achievements. Was family not everything?

We rose to our feet, my husband’s hand beneath my arm, allowing me the time to cast an eye over the bride, this child Isabelle who was still four weeks from her seventh birthday. I did not fear for her. She would be given all the time she needed to grow up before she must become a wife.

‘He will care for her.’

I turned to the owner of the voice who had echoed my thoughts, John, solid in dark velvet, as handily at ease in silk and fur and jewelled rings as he was in armour. My lord was given to opulence when the occasion demanded it.

‘He looks at her as if she were a present wrapped in gold,’ I said. The bride giggled as Richard bent again to kiss her cheek. ‘Do you think it will bring an end to the conflict?’

‘King Richard does not have a name for warfare,’ John said, and in truth the rancorous relations between England and France had settled a little since Richard had taken the throne. ‘He’s not of a mind to pursue English claims in France, lost by Edward, the old King.’

And there the discussion of rights and wrongs, of who should wear the Crown of France ended, as the royal families moved towards the dais. The crowds milled. The musicians and minstrels puffed and blew with enthusiastic disharmony. Platters of food and vessels of wine were produced. I sighed a little.

‘Do you wish to go? I can arrange for you to retire.’

John’s hand was again solicitously on my arm, for I was carrying another child. No one would notice—there was no need yet for my sempstresses to loosen the stitching of my bodice—but John had a protective care for me and I covered his hand with mine.

‘Certainly not.’

John, wisely, did not waste his breath in argument. ‘Then if you are feeling robust, my love, come and meet a family for whom I have the greatest affection.’

John set about forcing a path, the bejewelled crowd parting before his impressive figure like the Red Sea before Moses. We were heading, I realised, towards the English contingent that had accompanied their King, now standing in an elegant little group to one side of the dais. Superbly dressed, superbly self-aware as they viewed the proceedings, they were here to honour the event and be gracious. I did not know them.

‘John of Lancaster. The King’s uncle.’ My husband, coming to my rescue, shepherded me between two gesticulating parties, Burgundian by their accent. ‘An interesting family and a powerful one. They make good friends and bad enemies. They’re not without a little pride and their blood is more royal than most.’ He looked back at me over his shoulder with a speculative gleam. ‘Much like you. I think you will like them.’

Which allowed me in the few seconds left to me to claw through my knowledge of this illustrious grouping. For this was an important family: a family of the highest rank, a family worthy of my own status. Duke John of Lancaster, royal uncle to the King of England. His new wife Katherine, a woman of some scandals before marriage made her respectable. And with them a cluster of young men and women of their family and household, wearing conspicuous livery collars that bore the emblem of the white hart, the showiness of the enamelled gold at odds with the understated costliness of their robes. Clearly a gift from King Richard on this momentous day that they were unable to refuse.

Lancaster’s face lit with pleasure when his eye fell on my husband, and rather than a formal handclasp, they embraced, two men who wielded power with utmost confidence in their right to do so, two men of an age although it seemed to me that my husband was carrying his years more easily than Lancaster. There was no reticence in the welcome.

‘I hoped I would see you,’ Lancaster said after some male shoulder-smacking.

‘My wife would not allow me to stay away,’ John replied, drawing me forward.

The introductions were made and I was drawn into the Lancaster circle, to talk with Duchess Katherine while Lancaster and my husband relived their youth, their boyhood rivalry and their military exploits when fighting together in France.

‘I first recall your husband at Court when King Edward made him a Knight of the Garter,’ the Duchess said. ‘He enjoyed every minute of the pomp and pageantry.’

‘Now, why am I not surprised?’

I turned my head to watch him with a certain pride, admiring his present flamboyance in managing the folds of a Court houppelande that swept the floor with hem and dagged sleeve. Many, who did not know us, would think him to be my father. There were twenty-eight years between us, all well lived by John through war and diplomacy.

‘We are being summoned,’ the Duchess remarked as Richard raised an imperious hand. ‘We are to formally meet the bride.’ And as the Lancaster family regrouped and approached the dais with suitable obeisance, I was left with John to watch the little ceremony develop.

‘They were the strongest friends I ever had in England,’he said,‘when I was sorely in need of friends. I wonder where Lancaster’s son is…?’ As he turned his head, a man garbed in blue and white emerged from the crowd. ‘Ah. There you are. I thought you’d made a bolt for it,’ John observed with friendly cynicism.

‘You’re not far short of it. The temptation is strong. But, as you see, I am royally imprinted for the occasion, making me noticeable in any crowd.’

The voice was light-timbred, pleasant on the ear, with a hint of humour beneath an impatience as he slapped his palm onto the arresting white hart on his breast. Then as he clasped hands with John, the man’s gaze rested on me. ‘And this must be your incomparable Duchess, of whom I have heard much but whom I have yet to meet. I am honoured.’

A tall man with a swordsman’s shoulders and the mark of his father in his dark hair, uncovered now, kissed with autumn in the bright sunshine. His eyes were dark, direct and agate-bright.

I began to smile my appreciation of his flattery as I felt the weight of that gaze. I felt the authority of his soldierly presence. I felt a sense of him deep within me, a sense that continued to reverberate like the solemn tone of the passing bell in the Cathedral at Nantes. Unaccountably, for I was not inexperienced in the demands of polite conversation, I was at a loss for a response.

‘This is Joanna,’ John was saying whilst I grasped at good manners. ‘Who rules my household with a rod of iron but a velvet glove and sleeve. Don’t be fooled for one minute by this frivolity.’ He lifted the gold-stitched fullness of one of my over-sleeves in wry acknowledgement. ‘And this, my love, is Henry Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby. Lancaster’s heir.’

I extended my hand as if this introduction was nothing more than a commonplace between members of one highbred family and another, as I ignored the fact that my heart had given a little leap, as if it had recognised the imminence of something long yearned for. This was so far beyond my experience that I resented it. No man, however puissant his family, had the right to disturb me beyond my habitual poise.

‘My lord Henry,’ I murmured.

‘Lady Joanna.’

His fingers, heavy with rings, were light around mine, the salute against my cheek such as might be exchanged between a man and woman meeting for the first time, but that formal embrace stiffened the planes of my face, seizing my pulses to set them alive. And as I sought for some comment suitable to the occasion, John’s attention was claimed by my uncle of Burgundy, leaving me to take up the reins of prudent conversation.

I inhaled steadily, confidence restored. I had been conversing through the courts of Europe since before I had reached my twentieth year. Any strange imaginings were a product of the heat of the day, the weight of the fur at hem and neck and insufficient sleep in the closet that was called a chamber. I smiled with regal grace as the Earl restored my hand to me.

‘My husband was pleased to meet with your father again,’ I said.

But instead of responding in kind, he asked abruptly,‘Are you enjoying this?’ He gestured with his arm to the royal party, as if it were a question that needed to be asked.

‘Yes. Certainly I am.’ It could be tedious with much posturing, certainly overlong, but what was there not to like?

‘I can’t imagine why.’ The Earl’s reply could have been presumed sour.

‘Because I have enough relatives here to fill, and indeed overflow, one of these vulgarly glittering pavilions,’ I said. ‘I enjoy gossip.’

‘You’ll not be disappointed then. There’s plenty to gossip about.’ A frown was directed towards his royal cousin who was still addressing King Charles with expansive animation. ‘They say it has cost our illustrious King not far short of two hundred thousand pounds to stage this spectacle.’

I could not understand why the cost should trouble him. Given the quality of his raiment, a Court houppelande brilliant with spangles, sweeping down to his soft boots, and the size of the jewels in his rings, the House of Lancaster was not without wealth.

‘Is the bride not worth the expenditure?’ I asked.

‘Is any bride worth it?’ Earl Henry responded smartly. ‘The English Exchequer will barely stand the cost. Besides, it’s not the bride Richard seeks to honour. He’ll make such a spectacle that no one will ever forget His Gracious Majesty King Richard the Second, condescending to take a French bride. No one is ever at the forefront of Richard’s mind except Richard.’

No one could mistake the sardonic overtones, and not spoken softly. I thought it not wise, given the company, and risked a glance over my shoulder to guard against eavesdroppers. A quick movement that Earl Henry noted, with a frown, as if I had accused him of a wilful indiscretion. Which, of course, it was.

‘There’s no one to hear, or I wouldn’t have said it.’

‘There’s me.’ His observation had amused me. Shocked me.

A glimmer of a smile lightened the severe features, smoothing the indented corners of his mouth. ‘You will think me too harsh. But you seem to me a woman of great common sense. Extravagance is a sin when a state lacks gold in its coffers. Do you not agree?’

‘Certainly. As we know in Brittany.’ I paused, then because we seemed to have dived headlong into a stream of personal comment:‘But you are very judgemental, sir, against a man who is not only your King but also your cousin.’

‘Forgive me.’ He grimaced slightly, before allowing another more expansive smile. ‘This is supposed to be a day of celebration. There’s no reason to inflict my particular brand of disillusion on you, Madam Joanna. Will you forgive what must seem to you to be a nasty case of envy?’

‘Yes.’

I said it without hesitation.

‘Well that’s got the introductions over with. What—or should I say whom, since you have a mind for gossip—shall we discuss now?’

I liked him. I liked his candour. As I allowed myself to acknowledge this, we found our attention once more drawn towards the royal tableau on the dais.

‘Shouldn’t you be with your family?’ I asked.

‘Richard won’t miss me.’ There again, the edge had crept back into his voice; the cynicism darkening his eye. ‘Look at him, wringing every drop of glamour from this alliance. That’s not to say that he will not do well by his bride. He will dress her in silk, laden her with jewels and treat her as she treats her dolls. She will be his little sister.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Perhaps he’ll not allow her to keep all the jewels in her dowry. He’ll wear most of them himself. Richard likes to glitter when in company.’

The bride had a collar of rubies that almost out-weighed her.

Aware of the sudden silence beside me, I turned to look, to see that Earl Henry was regarding the King of England, and in the muscles of his jaw and the brilliance of his eye, I thought I read not so much displeasure at Richard’s unwise open-handedness but a very personal dislike.

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ I said before I could think of the wisdom of such an observation.

‘Liking is too facile an emotion for my relationship with Richard. He is my King and my cousin. I am duty-bound to be loyal.’ My companion’s spine stiffened a little, words and expression immediately shuttered like a storm candle, obscuring the light. And I was sorry. I liked his honesty rather than the discreet presence bred in him by his father. I liked his smile, rather than the present grim demeanour. Perhaps I could entice him back into this intriguing view of the English King.

‘You can admit to not liking him,’ I said softly. ‘Certainly in my company. I didn’t like my father at all.’

Earl Henry’s eyes gleamed with appreciation until suave diplomacy once more invested his features. ‘I dare to surmise, Madam, that no one liked your august father.’

‘It would be beyond the powers of any normal human to view my father with anything but disgust. My father was accused of every sin from poisoning to sorcery with a deal of blood-letting in between. And I expect he was guilty of all of it.’ What point in being circumspect? ‘Hence Charles the Bad. Charles the very Bad!’And when my companion’s brows arched expressively, I continued:‘I say only what everyone here knows. There was much rejoicing at his death even if not for the manner of it, although many expressed the opinion that it was a well-deserved foretaste of the fires of Hell.’ My father had been consumed in a conflagration in his bed when the bandages he wore, soaked in brandy against some sweating disease, had been set alight by a careless servant with a candle. ‘Why don’t you like your cousin?’

Earl Henry slid a speculative glance but his response was smooth and I felt that he was restoring us to the realms of polite discourse. ‘A mere memory of youthful frictions. Richard and I were raised together, and not always amicably, I suppose because our tastes and interests are vastly different. Richard is the most inept wielder of a sword that I know. There you are. Nothing more and nothing less than childhood conflicts. You might say that I should have grown beyond such trivial grievances.’

‘I would not be so indiscreet as to say any such thing, sir.’

I did not believe him. There was a stern brooding involved here, but our acquaintance was so transient that I must allow his diversion, however much I might like to discover more.

‘No. I don’t suppose you would,’ he replied, lightly now. ‘Not only a lady of common sense but one of great discernment, I think. And of considerable presence. Duke John is a fortunate man to have a wife who is as handsome in character as she is in person.’

I wondered if he was guilty of a soft mockery at my expense, for I had never been considered a great beauty, even when touched with the kind hand of youth, and so I challenged him, my brows a little raised, but he met my provocation directly and held it. Once again I experienced that uncomfortable little jump of my heartbeat; a warmth spreading beneath my bodice as if a flame had been lit.

And I was intrigued. There was no mockery in his steady regard. Instead there was a curious arrest, almost a bafflement as if some unexpected emotion had intruded on our innocuous exchange of opinion. Even the air felt heavy with portent. His lips parted as if he would express what was occupying his thoughts.

Then it was gone, the moment broken, the tension that held us falling away, so that the air settled quietly around us again, as my husband, abandoned by Burgundy, rested a hand on Earl Henry’s shoulder, and I was left to wonder if I had imagined the whole episode as John observed: ‘You were a child when I saw you last. And here you are, Earl of Derby, with a reputation as an expert jouster.’ His eye twinkled. ‘How old were you? Ten?’

‘About that. And I remember, sir.’ Earl Henry was at ease again, and whatever he had been about to say was lost for ever. ‘You gave me a hunting knife when we rode out at Windsor and I had lost mine. I still have your gift. It has a fine engraved blade. If I recall, I didn’t let it out of my sight for months.’

John laughed. ‘You’ll do your father proud. It’s good to have an heir. Richard will have a long time to wait for his bride to grow up and bear him a son.’

Once again we inspected the group on the dais where Richard spoke gravely to King Charles, who looked mildly interested, and Isabelle threaded her fingers through the gems on her girdle.

‘Do you stay for the whole of the celebrations?’ Earl Henry asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes. My wife will not allow it to be otherwise.’

With promises to meet again, we prepared to follow the royal party, Earl Henry saluting my fingers with a chivalric grace worthy of the most famous of troubadours.

‘Thank you for your discretion, my lady.’

‘It is my pleasure, my lord.’

‘And what was that about?’ John asked as Earl Henry threaded his way to his father’s side.

‘I have promised to keep secret the fact that Earl Henry detests his royal cousin,’ I replied, following his progress, struck again by the unconscious grace.

‘I expect King Richard knows it full well,’ John growled. ‘We’ll do well to keep out of English politics, for our own health. And particularly out of the sphere of that young man. As your uncle of Burgundy was kind enough to advise, although why he should think that I cannot judge the matter for myself I have no idea. Who knows more about treachery than I? Burgundy says to steer clear.’

‘Did he?’ I was surprised.

‘He considers the Earl of Derby to be a dangerous fire-brand. There is already the taint of treason about him. He raised arms against Richard ten years ago.’ John eased his shoulders beneath the weight of bullion. ‘I see no danger but we will keep our friendship warm but appropriately circumspect.’

It was a warning but softly given and not one I needed. I had no intention of becoming involved. As for Henry, Earl of Derby, ours was a mere passing acquaintance. A friendship. An opportunity to give open and honest exchange of opinion, where neither of us needed to be circumspect. That was trust. Was that not the essence of friendship?

But then I recalled that first brilliant moment of awareness. Something, some close link, like those in the Earl’s glittering livery chain, had scattered my thoughts like the stars in the heavens, nudging into life a longing I could not recognise. It disquieted me, unnerved me. How could it be that I could trust a man within a handful of minutes of my setting eyes on him? I was certainly not given to immoderate confidences.

And he stayed in my mind as I retired to our cramped chamber to rest my ankles that, in these early days of my pregnancy, had a tendency to swell in the heat. With soothing cloths soaked in a tincture of red wine and cinquefoil, my hair loosed from its confines, I lay back against the pillows and had no difficulty at all in summoning the Lancaster heir into my presence. The fan of lines at the corner of his eyes that had smiled so readily, when not shadowed and sombre. The flare of passion when he had admitted his dislike of his King, even if one born out of childhood antipathy. The austere nose, a mark of all the Lancasters, that spoke of command. The agile carriage, albeit swathed in fragile cloth, of a man of action. Instinctively I knew that the extravagantly ringed hands could wield a sword and manage reins with force and skill. And as for the pride, it infiltrated his every movement, every turn of his head. He too knew his own value as a scion of the Plantagenets, raised into it by a powerful father, the most influential of the sons of old King Edward.

‘This is inappropriate, for a married women who is content with her situation,’ I announced aloud, dismayed by the detail of my recollection. ‘And one who is carrying a child. He is nothing to you.’

Yet the sense of distress would not leave me. And the little punch of guilt. Engaged in a marriage not of my choosing to a man certainly of advanced age, I had discovered through this marriage, and to my delight, an unexpected blessing. John had given me his friendship and a deep respect that proved to be mutual, as was the firm affection that underpinned our life together as the years passed and our children were conceived. I could not have hoped for a better mate when, through necessity as a child of a royal family intent on building powerful alliances, I had been placed in this marriage with the Duke of Brittany.

Did I know love in my marriage? No. Not if love was the emotion of which our minstrels sang, extolling the heating of blood and heart so that the loved one was essential to the drawing of breath. For John I experienced a warm acceptance of all he was to me, but I was not dependent on him for every moment of happiness. Nor was I a necessity for him. We were content together but distance, when John travelled to the far reaches of his domains, did not destroy us.

Henry of Derby, in the space of that brief meeting, had forced me to consider an entirely new landscape.

‘What is it, my lady?’ Marie de Parency, the most intimate of my Breton ladies-in-waiting, was instantly at hand, always watchful for my needs.

I shook my head, sighing as I stretched on my bed, trying for comfort as my ankles throbbed. ‘Hand me my rosary, Marie. I have need of a self-inflicted penance.’

A small flame that had been lit in some far recess still flickered, but of course it had not been lit for him. Earl Henry had been blessed with true love with his wife, now sadly departed this life. I closed my eyes as I spread my hands on my belly where the child grew, confident in the knowledge that my own strange discomforts would soon vanish.

Early pregnancy made a woman overly imaginative.

*

A grand hunt brought to conclusion the wedding of Richard and Isabelle. We made a combined party, it becoming evident that the Lancaster family was as fiercely keen on hunting as we were in Brittany. An occasion of much laughter and chatter, of reminiscence and proposals for future meetings. My pregnancy offering no hindrance to my participation, when we halted in a clearing in the woodland to draw breath, I found myself in the close company of Earl Henry.

I had been aware of him, riding in the forefront, from the moment the royal huntsman had given us the office to start, and I had seen enough of him to know that he was a peerless proponent of the sport. Not that I had watched him, of course. Riding at a more sedate pace, not always of my own choosing, beside Duchess Katherine, I had made the most of the opportunity to darn the holes in my knowledge of this family.

Now it was Earl Henry who manoeuvred his horse to my side while I determined to keep him at an amicable distance. I noticed that he had dispensed with the white hart on his gold livery collar.

‘I see you number horsemanship amongst your many talents, Madam Joanna.’

‘As you have a silken tongue amongst yours, sir,’ I replied smartly. ‘This wretched animal, lent to me by my uncle of Burgundy, has barely extended herself out of a slow trot.’

He smiled at me. And I smiled back.

And there was that same intensity that had unsettled me on the previous day. A sense of closeness, of keen understanding. More than that. Like the click of a key turning in the lock of a jewel coffer so that all the intricate parts slid smoothly together as if our acquaintance was of long-standing. Why should I resist? Why should I not take him as my friend? I had few outside my immediate family. The household in which I had been raised in Navarre, redolent with suspicion and vicious deeds, had not encouraged friendship. I would enjoy what this man had to offer me, and it would be no sin.

This thought in your mind is not friendship, a whisper in my mind.Don’t pretend that it is. This is entirely different. Have a care.

Wary now, even dismayed, I hid it behind a light smile and even lighter remark.

‘That is a fine falcon you have, my lord.’

The Earl reached across to take the bird from his falconer, removing her hood, then one of his gauntlets so that he could run his hand affectionately over her head and wings. The finely marked bird bobbed her head and shook out her pinions.

‘She is beautiful,’ he agreed, indulgently possessive. ‘She was bred from my own birds at Hertford. She is inordinately partial to chicken, when she can get it.’

‘Extravagant!’

‘If she is worth her value to me, then it behoves me to feed her well.’

I stroked the feathers of her neck, admiring the fervour of this man in his appreciation for his hunting hawk. ‘What will you do after this gathering, my lord? I hear you have been on Crusade.’ Having discovered as much from Duchess Katherine.

‘And I might again,’ the Earl was replying as, with dexterous fingers, one-handed, he re-hooded the falcon. ‘I have a desire to return to Jerusalem. To stand before the Holy Sepulchre and experience God’s infinite grace. But I’m more like to go back to England. To see my own children, to take over some of the administration of the Lancaster estates. I have two young daughters as well as four sons to raise. The boys are as strong and active as a small herd of hill ponies. I think you have sons. You’ll know what I mean.’

His enthusiasm was compulsive. ‘Indeed I do.’

‘And then…’

Gravity descended, like an obscuring shadow. I considered it to be born of a concern long held, some bone of contention long debated. I saw it in John when he broached some intricate matter of business, most often Breton trade disputes with our mercantile neighbours.

‘Is there a problem for you at home, sir?’

Handing the falcon to John who, approaching, was eyeing the bird with some envy, Earl Henry considered for a moment, then replied with striking frankness:

‘I have a need to return. Sometimes it seems to me that my position in England is under a subtle duress. I am being pushed to the margins of political life. Positions and dignities are given elsewhere. My cousin Edward of York is preferred before me, even though as heir to Lancaster my supremacy is unquestionable.’

So here was pride again. And rightly so. With the death of two of King Edward’s sons, Edward of Woodstock and Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the Lancaster heirs with their true male line were foremost in the land after the King Richard. As I had suspected, the hostility between Earl Henry and King Richard, first cousins though they might be, was not merely a remnant of childhood tussles in the mud.

‘Richard fears me,’the Earl said, the line between his brows dug deep. ‘I dare not be absent from England any longer. It might give our King the opportunity to find some means of casting a pall of disgrace over my family. That must not be. My father is ageing. The duty is mine to protect and hold fast to what we have, and fight for what we should have.’

‘Why would he fear you?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Do you threaten him?’

‘It has to be said that I did,’ the Earl admitted. ‘In my youth I was one of the five Lords Appellant who forced Richard to rule more circumspectly after we removed his favourite de Vere from the scene. A decade ago now, but it will rankle still. Richard hadn’t the strength to oppose us then, but he has never forgiven us.’

Which explained a lot. ‘Hardly the basis for a sound friendship.’

‘As you say. Although why I am burdening you with this, on a fine hunting day, I have no clear idea.’

‘Because I can be a good listener,’ I said.

He looked at me, eyes as incisively watchful as those of the hawk on John’s fist, but there was a smile there too.

‘So that’s why I’ve been lured into this eddy of self-pity. Would you tell me that all is lost, between Lancaster and the King?’

I thought about it as my mare tossed her head, deceptively eager to be on the move. ‘I think you could well redeem yourself. I think you should…’ I stopped. I was in no position to give him advice. He would find me intrusive at best, unjustified at worst.

Earl Henry tilted his head. ‘Do you advise your husband in matters of government?’

‘Most certainly I do.’

‘Does he accept it?’

I thought about this. ‘Sometimes.’ And paused under John’s sudden acerbic scrutiny. ‘Often.’

‘Almost always,’ John added from behind my shoulder. ‘I would not dare do otherwise. She has a rare talent for seeing the smoothest road between two irreconcilable parties. I’d take her advice if I were you.’

He rode off, still in possession of the hawk, leaving me to collect my composure.

‘Then tell me, Madam Joanna. What should I do?’

‘You should go home. Be gracious and charming on all occasions. Never criticise Richard’s choice of counsellors. Make friends with your cousin of York…’

I hesitated, seeing a glint of speculation in his eye.

‘Don’t stop now. I stand corrected and ashamed for all past behaviour.’

How could I not continue? The rich wine of European government and intrigue ran in my blood. ‘Then this is what I think. Set your jaw and tolerate Richard’s behaviour towards you. It may be nothing more than jealousy and spite. He cannot harm you. You have your own authority over your Lancaster lands. How can he destroy your illustrious name? Give him gifts on every possible occasion and make yourself pleasant to Isabelle. You have daughters. You know how to do it. She likes dolls.’

‘What excellent advice.’ And then, smoothing the leather of his reins between his fingers as he considered:‘There is some pressure on me to marry again. It has been two years since Mary’s death. I have resisted taking a new wife so soon, but it would be wise, even if I have no need of an heir. A strong alliance with one of our English families would be good policy. It behoves me to do it, whatever my personal inclination.’

A coldly sobering thought that took me aback, when it should not have. Were we not surrounded by death; by marriage and remarriage to tie powerful families with bonds of blood and allegiance? Would John feel a reluctance to remarry if I were to die within a few months in childbirth? Or would he wed again within the year? I was his third wife. He might happily take a fourth, and why should he not? Marriage for us was a matter of politics, not of passion, and Brittany must look to the security of her borders. My husband would be looking for another bride, and perhaps another Valois princess, within the week of my death. Which made me observe, with an intimacy I could not claim:

‘You were fortunate indeed, sir.’

‘In what manner?’

‘To find such love with your wife. That you would consider not marrying again after her loss.’

He looked at me, his brows raised in query.

‘It does not come to everyone of our rank,’ I reminded him, not that he would need the reminding. ‘Some would say it is a rarity.’

He looked as if he might have replied with some polite usage. Instead:‘Are you happy in your marriage?’

Since no one had ever asked such an intrusive question, I did not readily reply. I had never had to consider it in quite such terms. Content yes. Happy? What constituted happiness? And for a moment I resented the question. But since mine to the Earl had been very particular, I could hardly take issue with him. But I was aware of the chill in my voice.

‘Why do you ask that? Do I appear discontented?’

‘No. But your husband is more my father’s age than mine. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-eight years.’

‘As I thought. We are much of an age. I warrant the Breton Duke is at least in his fiftieth year.’

‘And a better man I do not know.’ I was sharp. I would not be pitied, or made to feel uneasy by what could be counted an impertinence. ‘It could have been worse.’ Never had I spoken so openly, so plainly. ‘My father was not known for altruistic gestures. I could have been married to a monster such as he. I thank God daily for an amenable husband who speaks to me as an equal, considers my wellbeing before his own and does not berate me when I am undoubtedly extravagant in the purchase of a gown or a new hound. No, I have never experienced the love that came to you and your wife, sir, if that is the overblown passion of which my troubadours and minstrels sing, but I have experienced much affection, and for that I am grateful.’

Earl Henry inclined his head in acceptance of what was undoubtedly a reprimand. ‘Then I too will thank God for his blessings on you. It was not my intention to discomfit you. If I have offended, I ask pardon.’

‘You have not.’

Off to our left, a horn blew, as if to call a halt to such an exchange. We gathered up our reins and turned our mounts to follow the massed ranks.

‘And will you?’ I asked, importunate to the last.

‘Will I what? Return to England?’ He was thoughtful. ‘Yes. I think I would be wise to act on your advice.’

But that is not what I had meant. I should have let it lie. I did not. ‘Will you wed again?’

He turned his head to look at me, foursquare, bringing his animal to a halt again so that others perforce must jostle round us. His eyes skimmed my face.

‘I have no plans. I have not yet met the woman whom I would choose to marry,’ he said simply.

His gaze as bright as the dark jewels on his breast, Earl Henry lifted his hand, so that I thought that it was his intention to touch my arm. Instead he raised it to his cap, to touch the feather secured by a jewelled pin in a smart salute. Then, using his heels, making the high-bred animal he rode jump, he urged his horse on. Another raucous blast prevented any reply from me as we once more followed the hunt, the hounds picking up the scent of our quarry, leaving me to follow slowly, unnervingly wistful, in his wake.

Not that there was anything of merit to say.

‘You have only met him twice.’ I took myself to task.

Sadly twice was enough. For joy. For dismay.

Next morning I turned my back on the pavilions, urging my horse to keep up with John’s mount as we began our long journey to the west, to Vannes. As the miles unfolded, I considered with some grim amusement what I had learned about myself at Isabelle’s wedding; that the state of unrequited love, however mild a form it might take, did not suit me. Too much superfluous emotion to disturb the even tenor of my days. Too much uncertainty. Too much undignified craving. I had too much self-esteem to allow myself to succumb to an emotion that could never have a future. It would be no better than suffering a permanent stone in a shoe: an aggravation, an annoyance, with no resolution until the stone was removed. I did not want such uncertainty in my life. I would accept a simple steady platform of equanimity without the highs and lows of blazing desire.

But there it had been: a touch of minds, a brush of yearning, which I would never forget. A thing of wonder, an awakening. A response to a man that was neither friendship nor affection but something far stronger and beyond my control. Indeed it was a hunger. A taste, a sip, of what had never been part of my life’s banquet, and never would.

Chapter 2

October 1398: Hotel de St Pol in Paris

There was an unexpected tension in the air. Not of hostility or incipient warfare, nor of some blood-soaked treachery, but of a nose-twitching, ear-straining, prurient interest. Such as when there might be a scandal, dripping with innuendo, to be enjoyed. It was present in the sparkle of every eye, in the whisperings, with no attempt at discretion. It might be considered beneath my dignity as Duchess of Brittany to be lured by such hints of someone’s depravity, but my senses came alive, like a mouse scenting cheese.

John and I were engaged in one of our frequent visits to Paris, to reassure the Valois that the loyalty of the Duke of Brittany to their interests was beyond question. Our family was left comfortably behind in Nantes with governors and nursemaids, including the recent addition to the family. I had been safely delivered of a child, another daughter Blanche, over a year ago now. I had not met my end in childbed. There had been no need for my husband to consider a precipitate remarriage after all.

We had expected to occupy rooms in the royal residence, the Hotel de St Pol, as was our wont, with its rabbit-warren of chambers and antechambers, but it seemed an unlikely prospect, for here was a bustle of royal dukes, prelates and barons. Of the royal dukes I recognised my uncles of Berry and Burgundy and my cousin of Orleans. It all had a strangely festive air about it as we found ourselves ushered into the most opulent of King Charles’s audience chambers, as if we were part of the invited gathering.

Charles was sitting upright, enthroned on a dais, his servants having reminded him to don robes that added to his authority. So this must be some important foreign deputation come to request an alliance or impress with gifts. I could see no crowd of foreign dignitaries, yet someone was speaking. Charles was nodding.

I touched John’s arm, which was all that was needed. Using his bulk and a degree of charm, he pushed between the audience, while I flattened the fullness of my skirts and followed, until we came to the front ranks. The delegate was still speaking, a flat measured delivery, in perfect, uninflected French. Some puissant lord then. Perhaps an ambassador from the east, but ambassadors rarely attracted so much commotion. The petitioner was still hid from my view but he was flanked by the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy. Such personal condescension on their arrogant part indicated a visitor of some merit.

Charles was in the process of rising to his feet, smiling vaguely in our direction as if he might eventually recall who we were, before returning his limpid gaze to the man who stood before him. Smile deepening, Charles raised both hands, palms up, in acceptance of what had been offered.

‘We are pleased that you decided to come to us in your extremity, sir.’

‘I am honoured by your invitation to find refuge here, Sire.’

‘You were at Calais?’

‘I was, Sire, but briefly. His Majesty King Richard pronounced that I might spend only a week there, with a mere twelve of my men. I had, perforce, to leave.’

The direction of this conversation had little meaning for me; but the visitor had, and my heart registered a slow roll of recognition. Henry, Earl of Derby, returned to France. No, Henry, Duke of Hereford now, I reminded myself. Henry, heir of Lancaster. Duke Henry who had once, many months ago now, stirred some novel emotion to life in my heart, when I wished he had not. I had wished that persistent longing a quick death. It was inappropriate, disloyal.

Had it died?

I thought it had. Absence could deal a death blow to the most rabid of passions, or so I believed. Standing to the side as I was, my regard was fixed on his flat shoulders, the hawk-like outline of his profile, simply because he was an acquaintance and this was an event that spiked the air with danger. I was a mere onlooker, with more interest than good manners.

‘We welcome you, my lord of Hereford.’ Charles beckoned to one of his many minions, who approached with a cushion bearing a livery collar. ‘I would present you with this note of our esteem.’

Duke Henry knelt at Charles’s feet and the chain was cast over his bowed head to lie, glinting opulently.

‘I am honoured, Sire.’

‘Good. Good. That’s how it should be. We give you use of the Hotel de Clisson during your residence in Paris. It is close to us, here at the Hotel de St Pol. I wish you to feel at home as you take your place at my Court.’ Charles beamed.

Henry, standing again, said, ‘I would return to England soon, Sire.’

‘As I know. Your family ties are strong. But I think it will not be possible. Make yourself at ease with us, until you see in which direction the English wind will blow.’

‘My thanks, Sire. And my gratitude for this haven in a time of storms.’

Everything about him was familiar, yet I acknowledged the difference from the man who had asked my advice and, I presumed, had acted on it and bought Isabelle a doll, only two years ago. Now there was a rigidity about him that I did not recall, his shoulders tense under the livery chain. Magnificently groomed, clad as befitted an English prince, his voice was smooth and cultured yet lacking any emotion. There was none of the vibrancy of the Earl who had ridden to hounds with such panache, or who had shone in gilded Italian armour at the tournament. It was as if he was applying the demands of courtesy because it was inherent in a man of his breeding, but it seemed to be a bleak response, with little pleasure in it. How could that be when Charles had offered him a house for his own particular use in Paris? But what was this extremity? Why would Duke Henry need to test the English wind? My curiosity was roused, even more when I realised that Charles was continuing his extravagant welcome, that did not match the troubled frown on his brow.

‘My brother Orleans will see to your comfort, my lord. And here is the Duke of Brittany and his fair wife, well known to you.’ Charles gestured, with a hint of desperation, for us to step forward. ‘You will not lack for friends here, however long or short your stay. We will make it our priority that you pass the time agreeably with us.’

‘My thanks, Sire. I do not have the words to express my gratitude.’

The royal frown might mean nothing of course. Charles was not always in command of his reactions. And there was Duke Henry coming to clasp hands with my husband and salute my proffered fingers. The expression on his face could only be described as engraved in flint.

I smiled, murmured suitable words of welcome to cover my alarm. Now that I could inspect his face I could see that the passage of time, not of any great length, had for some reason taken its toll. There was a new level of gravity beneath the perfect manners, a tightening of the muscles of his jaw. He might smile in return but there was strain too in the deepening of the lines beside eye and mouth. They were not created by laughter or joy. Here was a man with trouble on his brow.

‘Come and dine with us when we are settled,’ John invited, offsetting a similar attempt by the Duke of Orleans to commandeer Duke Henry’s company. Which was interesting in itself, for Orleans was never without self-interest. ‘And then you may tell us why you are to stay as an honoured guest in France. My wife is, I believe, bursting with curiosity.’

‘I was too polite to mention it,’ I said, supremely matter-of-fact. ‘I endorse my husband’s invitation, but I promise we will not hound you if you do not wish to speak of it.’

Henry’s smile was sardonic. ‘I will, and with thanks. You deserve to know the truth. But you may not like the hearing. And I will not enjoy the telling.’

And I would discover what it was that had drawn the line between Henry’s brows, deep as a trench, and invited his mouth to shut like a trap, as if to speak again would allow the truth to pour out and scald us all. Whatever it was that had driven Duke Henry to take refuge at the Valois Court had hurt him deeply.

And no, the attraction was not dead at all. Merely dormant. Now it was shaken most thoroughly back into life.

*

The following day the Duke came to dine with us, a roil of temper all but visible beneath the Valois livery that he still wore out of deference to his host. In the meagre chambers found for us in the Hotel de St Pol, while our servants supplied us with platters of meats and good wine, we spoke of inconsequential matters, of family, of friends, even though Duke Henry’s mind was occupied elsewhere, and not pleasantly. I prompted him to talk of his sons and daughters. He asked after our own.

It was a good pretence. Some might have been led to believe that the Duke was troubled by nothing more than the discovery of some high-bred prince whom he considered a suitable match for his daughters. Some might have thought that I had no more than a desire to know of the health of Duchess Katherine.

Such ill-informed persons would have been wrong on both counts.

Servants dismissed, the door barely closing on their heels, the Duke cast his knife onto the table with a clatter. ‘You will have heard by now. I warrant the Court is talking of nothing else.’

So we had, and the Court was rife with it. The astonishing behaviour of the English King; the slight to his cousin who sat at our board with little appetite. We knew exactly why the Lancaster heir had found need to throw himself on the mercy of King Charles, and was detesting every minute of it. The heir to Lancaster had no wish to beg for sanctuary, here or at any other Court of Europe. I felt his shame, while John launched into the heart of the matter.

‘So you have been banished from England?’

Any relaxation engendered by the meat and wine vanished in the blink of the Duke’s eye, which became full of ire. Duke Henry placed his hands flat on the table with a flare of baleful fire from his rings and took a breath.

‘I have, by God, and for no good reason.’

‘Then tell us. What’s in your royal cousin’s mind?’

‘A false accusation of treason against me, which Richard chooses to believe for his own purposes.’

‘How long?’ John asked, the one pertinent question.

‘Ten years. God’s Blood! The Duke of Norfolk and I played magnificently into Richard’s hands, without realising what vicious calumny he had in mind. We fell into his trap as neatly as wolves into a hunter’s pit.’ Duke Henry’s explanation was clipped, almost expressionless in its delivery, but it was not difficult to read the underlying abhorrence. It positively simmered over the folds of his fashionable thigh-length tunic. ‘There was no reasoning with Richard. He would not even consider what might be owed to Lancaster, for our support and loyalty from the day he took the Crown as a boy of ten years. He owes my father so much, but there was no compassion in him.’ Now Duke Henry smoothed the fair cloth beneath his hands with short angry sweeps. ‘He banished Norfolk, who made the accusation of treason against me, for life. There was no leniency at all for him in Richard’s black heart.’

‘It will soon pass.’ I tried to be encouraging, but could see no encouragement in the vast expanse of ten years. ‘Could he not be persuaded to reconsider? Richard’s anger might grow cold as the weeks pass.’

‘I don’t anticipate it.’ Duke Henry’s regard was fierce as it rested momentarily on my face. ‘Do you see what he has achieved in this neat little strategy? Richard has rid himself of the last of the two Lords Appellant with one blow. Norfolk and I were two of the five who stood against him, and forced him to accept the advice of his counsellors. Three of the five are dead. Norfolk and I are the only two left, and so Richard struck, hard and sure. Richard will not go back on it. It’s not Richard’s way. There was no treason, simply an opportunity for Richard to take his revenge. I imagine he’s rubbing his hands with royal glee.’

‘What of your children?’ I asked, because I knew it would be a concern.

‘I don’t fear for them, if that’s what you mean. Hal, my heir, has been taken into the royal household, a hostage for my good behaviour. I despise Richard for that, but I don’t believe Hal’s in any danger except for being bored out of his mind by the never-ending ceremony of Richard’s Court. Besides, there’s nothing I can do about it other than have my brothers—my Beaufort half-brothers—keep a watchful eye.’ A pause grew, lengthening out as Duke Henry took up his cup and contemplated the wine in it, and I exchanged a hopeless glance with John. ‘I think it does not need saying—my real fear is for my father. Lancaster’s health is not good. My banishment aged him ten years overnight, so my fear is that he’ll not see out the length of my banishment before death claims him. It is in my mind that we will not meet again this side of the grave.’

It was a desperate cry that echoed beneath the formidable control. All I could do was leave John to make the only possible response:‘We must hope you are wrong. We will assuredly pray for a swift resolution and a speedy return for you.’

Duke Henry drained his cup. ‘It is in my mind to return to England, with or without royal permission.’ And seeing some reaction from John’s raised hand—a brusque denial of such a plan, of what the consequences might be—he looked towards me, with something approaching a scowl. ‘Will you offer advice again, Madam Joanna, to remedy this parlous state in which I find myself?’

Yet something in his request, polite as it was, suggested that Duke Henry did not want advice from me. Or from anyone. I raised my chin a little, detecting an underlying aggression. If he was humouring me, there was no need. I barely recognised this brittle individual from whom all the joy and the laughter had been stripped clean. Understandable of course, but I would be the target of no man’s ill-humour.

‘I will if you wish it,’ I said. ‘Although it had no good effect last time. As I recall, I advised the building of bridges and pleasing Isabelle. Which either failed—or you ignored.’

The heavy brows twitched together. Perhaps the dart had been unkind in the circumstances.

‘I worked hard to mend any quarrel with Richard. It failed, but that doesn’t mean your advice was flawed. What do you say now?’

I thought for a moment, weighing what I might say. Here was a man whose self-esteem had been damaged. How much he must resent having to bend the knee before Charles of Valois to beg for protection, to accept the condescending invitations of Orleans and Burgundy. To accept that he no longer wielded authority over his own lands and his own people. Even worse, to have the taint of treason hanging over him.

‘I would say…’ I began.

Before I could expand Duke Henry placed his cup, which he had been turning and turning in his hands, quietly onto the table, and quite deliberately let his gaze drop away from me.

‘No,’ he said, silencing me with a shake of his head. ‘No. There is no need. I know what I must do. My heart might pull me to return to England where I should cast myself on Richard’s mercy and hope for restoration so that my father will not be alone in his final years. Who’s to say that the climate in England might not change, so that I can return with the promise of a pardon?’ He grimaced, pushing the cup beyond his reach. ‘A pardon for something I had no hand in. Before God, it would stick in my gullet like week-old bread to have to beg for Richard’s forgiveness.

‘But we all know it would be to no avail. So, rejecting what my heart tells me, I know in my mind that it would be a fatal step to put myself in Richard’s hands. All my instincts tell me that I must stay clear of the shores of England until I have the chance of returning with more than a hope of redemption. As it is, I am declared traitor. If I went home, my life would be forfeit.’

‘It is what I would have advised,’ I said briskly, not a little ruffled, ‘if you had allowed it.’ Thinking that I might add: ‘Why ask, if you did not want to listen?’

But out of propriety I did not, and Duke Henry did not look at me but studied his hands, now loosely clasped.

‘And you have the right of it. I must not return. As long as my father continues in good health, I remain here in banishment.’

‘And I would say—stay in Paris,’ John added. ‘If things change in England, it’s not far for you to hear and take action. If you have to return fast, it can be arranged.’

‘I have no choice, do I?’

‘No. I don’t think you do.’

With no lightening of his countenance Duke Henry made his departure to his new residence, but not before a forthright explosion of his disillusionment.

‘How long will it be before King Charles decides that having a traitor in his midst is not good policy? Traitors are too dangerous to entertain, even visiting ones. I doubt I can rely on the friendship of Berry and Burgundy.’ He settled the velvet folds of his chaperon into an elegant sweep and pulled on his gloves with savage exactness. ‘I will be turned out of the Hotel Clisson and forced to make my living at the tournament.’

‘If such comes to pass,’ John remarked calmly, ‘you will come to us, of course.’

Which generated, at last, the semblance of a smile. ‘Only after I have apologised for my crude manners here today. Forgive me, Madam Joanna.’

His bow was as courtly as I could have expected, his salute on my hand the briefest brush of his lips. His final glance at me barely touched my face.

Alone, John wrapped his arm companionably around my waist as we walked through to the space that masqueraded as a bedchamber.

‘Although where we should put him I have no idea,’ he said as I sank onto the bed so that John could reach the coffer at the foot. ‘Do we support him, Joanna? It is a hard road for a young man with so many expectations. How fortunate that he did not remarry, in the circumstances.’ He sat back on his haunches, elbows resting on knees. ‘Treason leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Many here—your uncle of Burgundy for one—will take the line that there’s no smoke without a real conflagration. Officially he is accused of treason to the King of England, judged and banished. Many would question his right to be here at all. It’s a dangerous policy to support a traitor against a rightful king. Do we hold out the hand of friendship, or do we turn a cold shoulder?’

‘I suppose it all depends on if we consider him to be guilty,’ I said. ‘Do we?’

John did not take any time to consider. ‘No. I cannot think that. His sense of duty was engrained since birth. But what I do think is that we have to protect him from himself. He’ll not accept this lightly, and might be driven to some intemperate action.’

‘He’ll make his own decision.’ And found myself announcing, when I had sworn that I would not, because it sounded petulant even to my ears:‘He did not want my opinion, did he?’

‘Not every man is as foresighted as I.’ John smiled at my displeasure and, as he rose, patted me, neatly, on my head, forcing me to laugh. ‘I see your worth. One day Henry might too.’ He turned a book in his hand. ‘Now, what do you wish to do before the next interminable royal audience?’

‘Walk in the gardens. This place has no air.’

*

We fell into a pattern. Duke Henry came to us, formality abandoned. And when he did, John and Henry discussed politics: the uneasy stalemate between England and France, the dire situation of English and Breton piracy. They played chess, rode out to hunt, sampled some of John’s best wines, talked about Henry’s extensive travels in the east.

With me Henry also played chess but with less harmonious results.

‘You let me win.’ Indignantly I snatched up my knight that had cornered his king after a clumsy move by one of his pawns, a move a man gifted in the art of warfare, even if only on a chessboard, should never have contemplated.

‘I did no such thing.’ His regard was disconcertingly innocent.

‘You will never win a battle,’ I pronounced. ‘Your strategy is atrocious.’

‘Then I must learn, before I take to the battlefield,’ he pronounced gravely.

‘You walk a narrow path between truth and dissimulation, sir.’

Henry smiled.

‘And frequently fall off the edge,’ I added.

Indeed there had been no need for him to sacrifice his pawn. I was a match on the chessboard for any man. But he was chivalrous, impressive in his good manners, his mouth was generous when he smiled, and he was gifted in more than warfare. I discovered in him a love of the written word as he leafed through the pages of our books. Music moved him, and poetry. He tuned a discordant lute of mine to perfection.

So Henry and John took pleasure in each other’s company. But did I?

It was a bittersweet experience, driving me to my knees in repentance. Henry of Hereford took up residence in my thoughts once more and I could not dislodge him. He was there, like the annoyance of a bramble thorn beneath the skin. There were too many times when his entrance into a room where I sat or stood caused my heart to jump like one of our golden carp in our fishponds at Nantes. Or my blood to surge with the heat of mulled wine. Well, I would have to tolerate this discomfort until it passed me by, like the annoyance of a bad cold in winter. I could achieve that with equanimity. I would achieve it. I never held my breath when a man walked into the room.

I held it when Duke Henry visited and bowed over my hand. I held it when, his sleeve brushing against mine as we set up the chessmen once again, his proximity destroyed all my assurance. I held it when he took my lute, making it sing with bright joy or heart-wrenching grief, drawing his battle-hardened fingers across the strings. Duke Henry could sing too, effortlessly, without reticence, quick to be charmed into a rendition of Dante Alighieri’s song that could enflame any woman’s heart.

‘Love reigns serenely in my lady’s eyes,

Ennobling everything she looks upon;

Towards her, when she passes, all men turn,

And he whom she salutes feels his heart fail…’

Uninvited I joined my voice to his in counterpoint, so that he smiled:

‘All sweetness, all humility of thought

Stir in the heart of him who hears her speak;

And he who sees her first is blest indeed.’

It was sung with commitment, with delight in the words and music, but with no wilful treachery. We were not lovers exclaiming over our enchantment. Henry was not moved by the same yearning as I, that undermined with desire every lightly offered melody, and nor was I capable of such deceit. John, an indulgent audience, was tolerant but music moved him less than his gardens and the tales of travellers. He retreated into plans for planting aromatic shrubs at Nantes, leaving me awash with the seduction of music and shared passions. More breathless than ever, and not from the singing.

I stowed away the chess pieces in their box, placed my lute in my travelling coffer. It seemed to me to be a wise move.

And then my royal cousin King Charles, in his innocence, intervened.

‘So what is Charles doing to entertain you this week?’ John asked with more slyness than necessary as we finished off the crumbs and sweetmeats of a desultory supper. ‘Any more theological arguments to exercise your mind when you have nothing else to think about?’

‘This week it’s marriage,’ Henry announced, his expression carefully austere.

‘Whose?’

‘Mine.’

‘You are to be wed?’ John was obviously amused.

‘King Charles, in a fit of sanity, sees a means of chaining me to his side, whatever the future might hold. He seeks a bride for me. A French lady of some distinction.’

John might be amused, but did I find amusement in this clever strategic manoeuvring? I could understand it well enough. Whatever the outcome of this temporary isolation for Duke Henry, since one day he would assuredly regain his inheritance it might be good policy to make him a friend of France through a desirable marriage. Good policy indeed. And yet my hands stilled on my lap, my knuckles as white as the sun-bleached linen that covered the table. A new bride. Was that not what we had all expected? I should wish him well.

‘And who is the fortunate lady?’ I sounded to have a genuine interest.

‘A cousin of yours. The Duke of Berry’s daughter.’

I allowed my brows to rise gently. ‘A powerful match. An important bride. King Charles values you highly.’

‘Even though I am banished, my reputation tarnished beyond repair.’

‘You will not always be.’ His cynicism was difficult to bear, particularly when he spoke nought but the truth.

‘It seems a lifetime.’ Henry promptly adopted a bleak stoicism. ‘So the Valois would condescend to me, and I must accept. Tell me about her. Should I seek it? After all, I have nothing to lose.’

‘And much to gain.’ John waved his hand in my direction. ‘Joanna will tell you all you need to know about the lady. She has the convoluted relationships of the Valois family at her fingertips.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied immediately. ‘You should snatch at it.’

I would have dragged him away from such a marriage. From any marriage.

How can you be so selfish? His future is not yours to direct.

I forced an astonishing depth of approval into my voice. She would make him an exemplary wife. And as I did so, became aware of John beaming at me. My lord and husband. My dear friend. He did not deserve my disloyalty, not to any degree. Morality decreed that I turn my thoughts to him, not to Duke Henry. Was I not a woman of high principle?

Never had I known such inner conflict. When a woman knew nothing of love-lorn longings, she did not yearn for them. Now my heart was sore with them, wretched with jealousy.

‘She is a widow, I understand,’ Henry was observing.

‘Twice over,’ determined, in atonement, to paint Cousin Mary in the best of lights,‘but she married very young and was widowed within five years. She has four children by her second husband. She administers the land for her son with considerable aplomb.’ I took another breath and began to dig a grave for my own sharp desire as my fingers picked apart the tough skin of a late fig. ‘Mary would make an excellent wife for a man of rank.’

‘She is younger than I.’

‘By a good few years,’ I admitted with praiseworthy warmth. ‘Mary is held to be elegant and attractive. If my uncle of Berry considers you a suitable match for his daughter, you should be honoured. His pride is a thing of wonder, as is his wealth. Take her.’ I paused, reading the set of his mouth very well. ‘I don’t believe you need my advice,’ I chided. ‘I think you knew what you intended to do, without any eulogies from me.’

‘Perhaps. But I wanted to know what you would say.’ His eyes were lightly appreciative on mine. ‘If you vouch for her abilities and affections, I would be a fool to refuse.’

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.

I left them to the care of their multitude of maids and servants, making my way without urgency, considering where the visitors might be with mild interest. In an audience chamber if official, more comfortably in one of our private rooms if family or friend. John had not sent to tell me. If it was my sister, she would have come out to me immediately. Perhaps the Duke of Burgundy over some matter of high politics that did not require my presence.

And then I heard the raised voice through the door which led into one of our private rooms, a voice, usually beautifully modulated, but now with an edge that would hack through steel. I recognised it immediately, stepping from the tranquillity of the garden to this hotbed of fury. Pausing for only one moment to guard my features, I entered quietly to see the one man I did not expect, who was draining a cup of wine as if he had been lost for days in a desert. Any reaction of my senses in meeting Henry of Lancaster again was subsumed in a blast of anger that pulsed from the walls.

‘Would you believe what he has done?’ Henry, in a sheen of dust and leather and the distinct aroma of horse, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, holding out the cup for a refill as his voice acquired a resonant growl. ‘Well, of course you would. You know as well as I just what he is capable of. God rot his foul soul in hell!’

Such lack of restraint. I had never seen this in Henry. Anger yes, frustration certainly, a deep melancholy on occasion, but never this fury, threatening to run wild like a forest fire in summer, consuming all before it. There was no control here. And although there had been no name so far uttered, I knew without doubt it must be King Richard who had lit the conflagration.

Henry had not even noticed my entrance.

‘He will destroy me. God’s Wounds! I should have expected it. But even if I had, how could I have pre-empted such a mendacious act? He has me spitted on the point of his fancy dagger!’

John was in the act of pouring more wine. Henry was continuing, each word bitten off at the root as he dug forceful fingers into his skull, dishevelling further his sweat-flattened hair. ‘I am come here because you are the only friend I have in whom I trust. I know I can be honest with you. By the Body of Christ! I trust no one at the Valois Court where it has been made plain as a scoured bread-pan that I am an embarrassment.’

The cup, emptied again, was returned to the surface of the coffer with dangerous force.

‘I can’t argue against any of that.’ John took his arm. ‘Come and sit. Ah, Joanna. We have a guest…’

Henry turned his head, so that now I could see the passion that had him in its grip. There was a pallor to his face, below the summer bronze from wind and weather.

‘Forgive me, my lady.’ He bowed brusquely. ‘I was not aware.’

‘So I see. And hear… Welcome, Henry.’

I smiled to put him at his ease, walking to join them, taking a stool beside them and a cup of wine. It was all Henry could do to sit, his hands on his thighs, fisting and flexing with hard-leashed energy.

‘My cousin has disinherited me.’

He could sit no longer but strode to the window as if he could see across the water to England where events developed without him. I looked at John who shrugged in ignorance.

‘The King of England has used his fair judgement against me,’ Henry stated, knuckles white where he gripped the carved stonework, lip curling. ‘My banishment is no longer one of a mere ten years. It is for life. As for the Lancaster inheritance—my rightful inheritance as my father’s heir—it now rests in Richard’s hands. Every castle, every acre, every coffer of coin. Richard has enriched himself at my expense. He has no right. Not even the King of England has that right.’ He paused, as if this one terrible fact still would not be absorbed. ‘But that’s not all. In lack of a son, Richard has chosen his heir. It is to be my uncle of York, and so, in the order of things, my cousin of Aumale, York’s eldest son, is now regarded as Richard’s brother. I am disinherited from my own inheritance. But by God he has destroyed my claim to the English throne as well. Perpetual banishment and forfeiture for Lancaster. And my son Hal still a hostage to my good behaviour at Richard’s Court.’

‘It is a despicable act,’ I agreed in the face of this wanton destruction.

‘He has robbed me of everything. I’ll not accept it. Everything within me demands vengeance and restitution.’

‘Of course you will not bow before such injustice. What man of honour would?’ John rose to stand with him, his eye too on the tidal river, busy with traffic. ‘How many ships do you need to borrow? Four? Five? I have them at your disposal.’

If I had been astounded at Richard’s perfidy, now I was horrified. John offering ships. Was this John encouraging Henry to plot invasion? I looked from one to the other. This was dangerous work. This was rebellion. However gross the humiliation for Henry, this was insurrection.

‘John!’

My husband swung round to look across at me. ‘It’s what he’s thinking. Isn’t it?’

‘It is exactly what I am thinking,’ Henry confirmed, the light of battle in his eye.

A suspicion of anger heated my blood. I too rose, to grip my husband’s arm. ‘It’s too dangerous. You should be persuading him to wait. To negotiate. To return would be to compound the charge of treason.’

Which Henry ignored, focusing on John. ‘Why would you lend me ships?’

‘It’s to my advantage,’ John replied promptly. ‘If you come out of this with any influence in England, I would demand a trade treaty in recompense. An advantageous position for my Bretons with English merchants.’

A hovering stillness took possession. A presumption that dried the mouth and set the heart beating. All three of us saw the implication here.

‘I could only promise that,’ Henry said steadily, ‘if I became King of England.’

‘Is that not what you are thinking? At this juncture, can you reclaim your inheritance any other way?’ John closed his hand over mine, where it still creased his expensive velvet. ‘I think you are wrong, Joanna. I don’t see Richard being open to negotiation. Not now, not ever. If you want your inheritance, Henry, you will have to take it by force. Yes, it could be construed as treason, but what choice do you have? Go for the land and the Crown, I’d say. If negotiation becomes possible, then…’

I interrupted, dismay deepening with every word. ‘Is that what you are planning?’

‘Of course.’ There was no irresolution in Henry. ‘To return to England and take back what is mine. If I don’t, I remain a penniless exile for life. To accept this would be to betray my father and all he had created.’

‘It’s too hazardous.’

‘What would you have me do? There is not one man in England who will support what Richard has done. And I will have justice.’

‘But you will be returning as an invader. How many men in England will rise to support an invading force against the true King?’

‘There is no other way.’

I let my hand fall from John’s arm and took a step back. ‘I cannot like it.’

‘I don’t like it either.’ Henry was unmoved by my distress. ‘But to accept it is beyond tolerance. Would you in your heart advise me to sit tight and wait for better things?’

‘I would say that to invade puts you in the wrong. And might threaten your life. But I suppose you would say that such is soft advice.’ I could not quite mask the bitterness. ‘A woman’s advice.’

‘Yes,’ said John.

‘Yes,’ echoed Henry.

‘Does that make it of less value?’

‘On this occasion, I think it does,’ said Henry, but with less ire as if he would smooth my ruffled feathers, as he had smoothed his falcon, so long ago when Henry’s future was still reconcilable without resort to arms. ‘I cannot wait. I was banished as Hereford. I will return as Lancaster as soon as I can arrange a ship to take me there.’

But my feathers would not be smoothed and I walked from the room, unable to stay in that heated atmosphere where the plans were all of blood and conquest, with the high risk of death. I could hear the two men begin to talk tactics even before I closed the door. Of course I understood. Who would not want justice for so vicious an act? In truth I knew that Richard would never soften with time: there would never be negotiation. Richard wanted the Lancaster inheritance; he had seized it and would not give it up, for it seemed to me that Richard did indeed both hate and fear his cousin. The death of Duke John of Lancaster had provided the English King with the perfect opportunity to rid himself of what he saw as a perennial threat.

But for Henry to invade—was that not too great a risk? If he was innocent of treason before, to return with an invading force, to take up arms against a King anointed with God’s holy oil, would cast him fully into the arms of unspeakable treachery. There was no argument to justify such an act.

So how could I wish him well in this chancy venture? All I saw were the dangers. Even if he accepted John’s offer, of men and ships, how many men would stand with him in England, where he might well find himself facing an army led by Richard himself? What then? I imagined the possibilities with a cold dread. Death on the battlefield. Capture, imprisonment and execution, hanged as a traitor. In that bright, empty antechamber where the shimmer of light from the river touched every surface, Henry’s death had a terrible inevitability about it.

Unless Henry could command more support than Richard…

But even then the future would be fraught with untold dangers. If it became a struggle for the Crown of England, France for one would oppose him at every step. France would be a dangerous enemy if Queen Isabelle’s position was threatened. That I could not wish on him. Would he find a friend anywhere in Europe? I thought not. A usurper, an invader who threatened to overthrow the God-chosen King would have a name poisoned by the worst of betrayals. Henry would be friendless.

I came to a halt in the centre of the antechamber, eyes tight-shut against the images of death and dishonour, to the unease of a passing servant, until I forced my mind into the pragmatic steps that any ruler must consider. Invasion might be the only way for Henry to take back what was his, and knowing him as I did, would he respond in any other way? Even now he was plotting routes and advantageous landings. He would challenge the dragon and fight it to the death. There would be as little compassion in him when facing Richard as St George had dispensed to his scaly adversary.

As for my thoughts in this matter, that Henry should tread with utmost care, they had been swept aside as nothing better than women’s thoughts by both those opinionated men. But why should a woman not have an opinion on affairs of government, as valid as that of any man? Was I, Duchess of Brittany, alone in my belief that a woman should have much to say in the ruling of a state, and considerable skill in the saying of it?

Certainly I was not, for there were ideas coming from France, from the pen of the redoubtable Madam Christine, a widow of Italian birth in Pizzano, that would give credence to any stand that I might make. A woman after my own heart: erudite, educated, cultured, a lady of letters with a growing reputation for her forthright approach, she too believed that a woman’s body might be more fragile than a man’s, but her understanding was far deeper. A woman, Madam Christine pronounced, should concern herself with the promotion of peace because men by nature were foolhardy and headstrong. Their desire for vengeance blinded them to the resulting dangers and terrors of war.

Which was all very well, I considered, riven with frustrations. But of course the man in question must be persuaded to actually listen to this capable woman. I doubted that Madam Christine had ever had to deal with masculine self-will as strong as that of John of Brittany and Henry of Lancaster.

And I sighed. My fears for Henry, still very lively, did not excuse my ill-mannered flight. My fears would not persuade Henry to take a different path. An apology was demanded from me, unless he had departed precipitately with his offer of ships, his mind full of strategy, without his taking his leave of me. I almost wished he had. Until, in my mind’s eye, I saw Richard, smiling and victorious and Henry dead at his feet.

‘Well, Madam Christine,’ I announced to the empty room. ‘I suppose I must apply the wit and wisdom God has given me and try to bring peace to bear on the discussion. But I’d not wager on my success.’

So I retraced my steps and re-entered, taking my seat silently, to John’s announcement, somewhat dryly:‘And here is Joanna again, repentant of her discourtesy.’

I managed a smile of reparation and a little open-handed gesture of apology towards Henry. ‘My abhorrence of this plan still stands, but I am guilty as charged.’

‘I know why you advise me not to go. I see the dangers, and I like the role of invader as little as you do. But what choice do I have?’ Henry too managed a smile of sorts. ‘You would not wish to see me begging at your cousin Charles’s table for the rest of my life, living in a house that was not my own.’

No, I would not wish it. Nor would I argue further against the inevitable, but I could not summon a blessing on such a venture. I heard my voice, cool and even. ‘Do you take John’s help?’

‘No, lady, I do not.’ He acknowledged my chill with a brisk response. ‘To land a force in Breton ships might seem like strength, but it also smacks too highly of a foreign invasion. I need to win support when I get to England, not antagonise the English lords who might throw in their lot with me. I’ll go alone, with a handful of men who will follow me, and hope it will persuade my fellow Englishmen that I have come to put myself in their hands. The power will be theirs, to win justice for me. I hope they will see the right of my cause.’

‘And Richard?’ I asked, anticipating a reply I would not like.

And how simple it was, spoken without any rancour. ‘I cannot trust Richard to keep any promise he decides to make. I must not allow myself to forget that.’

Which confirmed all I feared. My thoughts were once again drenched with blood as Henry clasped hands with John, saying:‘I’m for the coast and a ship to take me to England. We talk easily of destiny. This is mine. It is not easy at all, but by God I will take it and hold it fast.’

After which his leaving was short and formal, a warm God Speed from John. A cool farewell from me. Madam Christine’s maxims had been notable only in their failure.

‘You should not have encouraged him.’ As soon as Henry was beyond the door I rounded on my husband. ‘It is treason, John. I see no good outcome.’

But John was unperturbed. ‘He would have done it anyway. With or without my support. If you think there was even the faintest chance that we could turn him from it, you don’t know him.’

But I did know him. I knew he would fight for his rights. Henry had begun a venture of great danger and, many would say, no certain outcome. Richard’s army was in battle-readiness for a campaign in Ireland. Henry had no army at all, merely the anticipation of goodwill from those whom Richard’s heavy-handed foolishnesses had pushed into enmity.

‘I am afraid for him.’

‘He knows what he is doing. He’ll not take unnecessary risks.’ John took my hand, rubbing it as if to warm my flesh on a cold day, even though the heat in the room was great. ‘It is his destiny. Victory or death. We cannot help him now.’

It gave me no satisfaction. He had gone. The echo of his retreating footsteps had fallen silent, leaving nothing but a memory of sharp dissension and clash of will. How disturbing it had all been.

And yet I knew the outcome as if I were a practised soothsayer peering into a scrying glass. He would win his own again, driven by justice and honour to retrieve what was undoubtedly his by birth and blood and true inheritance. Would this ambition carry him through this campaign to seize the Crown of England? It might indeed. And then France, faced with a new king de facto might just come begging, with Mary of Berry as a simpering offering, a new bride who would be Queen of England.

‘Joanna?’

‘Yes?’ I blinked. I had been standing with my ever-circling, troubled thoughts, a huge sense of loss bearing down on me, my hand still lightly held by John.

‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled in apology. ‘I was just thinking how hard it will be for him.’ And feeling the weight of John’s strangely speculative gaze:‘I must return to the children…’

‘Not yet.’ John rubbed his thumb along the edge of my chin, then walked slowly to the coffer beneath the window, the one that stored the most precious of his books and documents. Raising its lid, he delved inside to extract a book, which he held out to me.

‘That’s a family possession,’ I said, not moving to take it, not understanding.

‘Yes it is.’ His eyes were clear, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘I want you to take it down to Henry before he leaves. I meant to give it to him. I forgot. It will strengthen him when his courage is at its lowest ebb, surrounded by enemies, as he will be. When he needs to feel God’s presence and guidance, this will help.’

It was a Book of Hours, belonging to some long-dead Duchess of Brittany, illuminated with jewel-like pictures of angels and saints.

‘Are you sure?’ I frowned, very unsure. ‘You could send a servant.’

‘I could, of course. I think you should take it.’ He was still holding it out to me, his voice suddenly gruff. ‘If you don’t hurry, he’ll be gone.’

I took it, smoothing my hands over the old vellum and gilding. I did not need to open it to know the beauty of the inks, the fine clerical script with its decorative letters. It had great value.

‘Tell him that the Duke and Duchess of Brittany will keep him in their thoughts and their prayers,’ John was saying. ‘And you can give him your own personal good wishes. Which you failed to do when he left. It may be hotter than the fires of Hell in here but I swear there was ice under your feet.’

Which I deserved.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes I will.’

John’s eyes were bright on mine, his face stern and then he smiled. I still did not understand.

‘Run, Joanna.’

*

I ran, my skirts hitched, as uncaring of appearances as my daughter in her spirited game, the book clasped tight as I navigated the turn in the stair and out onto the shallow flight of steps. The stables. That is where he would be. His escort was already mounted in the courtyard but there was no sign of Henry. I slowed to a walk more suitable to my rank, entering the dusty dimness, blinded by the bright rays slanting in bars through the small apertures. There was his horse, saddled and bridled but still waiting, a squire at its head.

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘Gone to the chapel, my lady.’

I should have known. I turned and, manoeuvring my way through the handful of mounted men who made up his escort, I walked, more slowly now, to the carved arch that led into the tower where our private chapel was housed, pushing open the door, reluctant to disturb Henry in this final moment of prayer.

But there he was, already striding out into the little antechamber between apse and outer door, sword, gloves and hood in one hand as he tucked a crucifix into the neck of his tunic with the other. It was plain, I noticed, such as any soldier might use, and there was about him a serenity that had been absent before.

I stopped.

So did he.

I could thrust the book into his hand with the briefest of explanations and apologies for my previous lack, and make my escape before stepping into dangerous waters. I did no such thing. With a rare commitment to what I felt rather than what I was thinking, I closed the door behind me.

The sun which had made prison bars in the stable, here, in this octagonal space with its joyously painted floor-tiles, bathed us in iridescence through a trio of little stained-glass windows depicting brave saints and martyrs, John’s pride and joy. It was like a holy blessing over us, as for one of the few times in my life, no words came to me. It was as if the whole essence of me was held in suspension, like fragrant dust in the liquid of some herbal potion.

Words did not escape Henry.

‘You came to me.’ The sudden light in Henry’s face was so bright that I was transfixed. ‘I could not hope that you would. Knowing that you had no liking for my venture.’ Then the light faded. Henry’s brows flattened. ‘You should not be here. I should send you away.’

‘I will not go yet.’ I proffered the book. ‘I am here to give you this. In honour of our friendship. To give you strength in times of need. It was John’s idea, but you should know that I am in agreement.’

Slowly he walked the few steps towards me, taking the book from me, placing it unopened on the stone window embrasure at his side along with gloves and hood. His sword was propped against the wall. Not once in the disposal of his property did his gaze move from mine, and my breath was compromised as he drew me towards him until his hands released mine and framed my face. Then I was even more breathless when his mouth found mine and he kissed me.

It was no affectionate kiss exchanged between close cousins, no formal salute between family, or even between friends. Or not in my limited experience. Beginning softly with a brush of lip against lip, it gained an intensity. An assurance. A depth. In the end a knowledge that it would be reciprocated. And as he kissed me a new horizon spread before me. A new geography beneath my feet. I drank from him, as from a bottomless well to slake a thirst I had never known I had. I clung to him. I buried my guilt in his embrace as I buried my nails in the thick stuff of his gambeson.

It was an intoxication such I had never known, even from spiced wine. Even more, it was an astonishment that he should have a need to kiss me in this manner. I could never have anticipated it, not in all the months I had known him.

Slowly Henry lifted his head and let me go.

‘Do you know how much I love you?’

His expression was grave. He continued to speak while I simply stood and absorbed the enormity of what he was saying:

‘I would not kiss you in Paris because you were wed and it would not be honourable for me to do so. Neither would I speak to you of what was in my heart from the first moment that our paths crossed at Richard’s marriage. Did you realise? I thought that you must. I could repeat every part of that conversation when you told me that you had never known love in life. My soul cried out to tell you that you were loved. That I loved and desired you. I almost abandoned honour. I almost held you and kissed you, but I knew I must not with the imprint of the cross on your palm. All I could do was seal that precious image with my lips. And now I have done both—kissed you and declared my love—in your own husband’s castle, in his chapel where I have just sought God’s blessing. How much honour have I? And yet I have not one regret.’ His fingertips moved gently over my cheeks. ‘I promised myself that I would never say this. But some promises are made to be broken. I love you, Joanna.’

The words stroked over my mind with such sweetness.

‘I don’t understand how this can be,’ I said.

‘Nor do I.’

‘I thought you admired my cousin.’ I was still struggling to quiet my breathing, baffled at the suddenness of it all.

‘Admiration is not love.’

‘Your description of her was that of a man bent on love.’

‘My description was of you. Did you not recognise yourself, most handsome of women?’ There was his smile that melted my bones. ‘As you so wisely remarked, how would I know Lady Mary to such a degree after one dance?’

And I laughed, a little in relief, in wordless delight, as Henry continued to pour his words of love over me.

‘How can I deny something that has become a part of me? I have not seen you for six months, I have not heard your voice, but you are fixed in my memory as brightly as an illuminated initial in that magnificent gift you have bestowed on me. I cannot deny it. I will not, even though there is no future for us together. If it is honour to let you go, then I will. But I will say this first, so that, in the rest of our lives apart, you will never forget it and you will always know it. You are loved, Joanna. You are my most treasured delight.’

The words shivered over me, through me, and I replied as I wished to, as he would want me to. As, now I realised in those moments of blinding revelation, John had given me permission to reply. Flattening all my pride, my lips burning as I spoke, my tongue forming the words I had never said before to any man, and with such ease:‘I love you, Henry of Lancaster.’

‘There, it is done. Our love acknowledged in God’s presence.’ He smiled at me, all his beauty restored, all the harsh anger of the last hour stripped away. Yet he took a step away from me. ‘I will not kiss you again.’

But it was not enough. Not at all enough.

‘Then I will kiss you.’

And with a step I did so, abandoning my habitual reserve, as with grave courtesy, mouth against mouth, reawakening the same sensations so that my heart beat hard beneath my bodice, my blood raced beneath skin that suddenly felt fragile.

The kiss ending, I pursued what I desired without permission, tracing the contours of Henry’s face with my fingertips, as he had traced mine. The straight nose, the uncompromising brows, the line of his lips, the springing texture of his hair, the contour of his jaw, as if I might absorb a memory that would remain with me for the rest of my life. And this from a woman who guarded her emotions, shielding herself from any power to hurt or destroy. I was shaken with amazement at my courage as I allowed Henry to read my thoughts, my utter longing.

At last I let my hand fall away.

‘Will you remember me?’ Henry asked.

‘Yes. I will remember.’

It seemed to me that an abyss was suddenly yawning between us.

‘You will be careful,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

A tense little silence fell, tight-held with unspoken emotion, as once more he gathered my hands into his. The warmth was enough. It would have to be enough.

‘I will use the Book of Hours, every day.’ It was Henry who broke the silence. ‘Will you pray for me? Even though…’ He shrugged, his smile a little twisted.

Even though I stir up insurrection against my cousin. ‘Yes. I will pray for you.’

‘There is so much I would say. But we both know it would be wrong.’

‘A betrayal of trust and much kindness.’ I sought for the words amidst my grief that we might never speak again. ‘It is in my heart that you succeed. And that you find a wife who will bring you strength and comfort.’

‘She will always be second best. A pale shadow. I must not let her know my heart is given elsewhere.’ He raised his head, listening, becoming aware of the outside world and all it demanded from him. ‘I must go, Joanna. It will be best if you remain here…’

One of the little windows beside us had been opened by the priest to allow a breath of air to enter. Seeing it, inspired by some quirk of his imagination, Henry drew me with him as he placed the palm of his hand flat against the dusty glass, fingers spread across the deep blue and red and gold of the craftsman’s art in depicting an angelic throng. And without a word passing between us, I placed mine on the opposite side of the pane, so that my palm matched his perfectly, spreading my fingers so that they covered his as much as I was able. The glass was sun-warmed, the colours deep and rich, heavy with gilding.

It was not a kiss. No it was not, but it was as if the colours bound us together.

‘I will never forget you,’ he said softly.

‘Will you write and tell us?’ I asked. ‘To tell us how you fare?’And then I wished I had not asked. Better to let our lives diverge as they must without keeping the useless skeins intact. ‘No. I think you should not,’ I added.

I knew he understood, for he nodded. ‘I will when I can. It will be all about armies and finance and inheritance. Farewell, Joanna. Farewell, my love.’

‘Adieu. God go with you, Henry.’

He was the first to remove his hand. The colours around me seemed less bright.

When Henry collected his accoutrements and the book, despite his express wishes, I followed him out into the courtyard to keep a last, final image of him, and as I did so, a thought touched me.

‘Why did you come here today? If you would refuse John’s proffered aid, why travel so far? You could have told us of your intent by courier.’

Henry turned.

‘You know the answer, Joanna.’ Never had my name sounded so like a caress. ‘It was to see you, even if we could not be alone, to say goodbye. I was not so soaked in passion at Richard’s injustice that I could leave you without your knowing.’

So he feared death. He feared for the future. But he loved me enough to put his fears aside and come to me.

Henry bowed, to any onlooker the bow of the most respectful of courtiers to the Duchess of Brittany.

‘I may die in battle. I may succeed in taking back what is mine. I may wed again. Whatever the future holds for me, I swear I will never forget you, in this world or the next.’

*

‘He has gone.’

Could any phrase be more empty, more lacking in hope?

I had returned to our chamber with its rounded walls and fair aspect. I could have gone back to the garden, where the shouts and laughter of the children carried to us, a shrill squawk of impatience cutting through the rest. But I could not laugh with them. I could have returned to the chapel antechamber, to sit on the tiles in the dust and allow the sun-warmed colours to heal my loss. But the Duchess of Brittany did not sit on the floor and mourn. Besides, it would have been a coward’s way out. I had to face my husband. The generosity of what he had done shivered over my skin, like the brush of a goose-quill. For now I understood the quality of the gift that John had bestowed on me, a gift of vast proportions, worthy of a man with a truly great soul.

Where was my loyalty now? Treachery was not only committed by men who took up arms against their liege lord, for had I not snatched at the gift John had given me?

Head lifted, spine straight, I walked in, to stand before the table where John had taken up his occupation with pen in hand, a map under his elbow. At his side, Henry’s empty chair and discarded wine cup. My eyes were on my husband’s when they lifted to my face.

‘He has gone,’ I said. ‘I gave him the Book of Hours.’

‘Yes.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘I knew you would. And you said farewell.’

‘Yes.’

‘You have an attraction towards him. Or I might even say that you love him.’

A statement. Two statements, not questions. And so simply expressed. Not wrapped around in troubadour’s words or in the accusation of a furious husband. It was as if John had struck me, but not a hard blow and there was indeed no accusation in his face. Only an acceptance.

‘Yes, I do,’ I admitted simply. I would not deny his generosity with a lie. ‘I love him without reason. Without cause. Without any encouragement from him. Or from me.’

Hands folded, breathing held in check, I could say no other. Nor could I apologise for what had been not of my seeking. All I could do was hope he would understand. And forgive.

‘I can see it in you.’

‘You sent me with the book,’ I said, as all had become plain, like an outline etched on glass. ‘So that we could say adieu alone.’

‘And anything else that needed to be said between you—without an audience.’

So he had. It had been deliberate, as I now realised. An offering of such impossible indulgence, so that Henry and I might speak of this emotion that held us so strongly. For John had given me—had given both of us—his permission to say farewell. He had offered me his permission to acknowledge the love that had so wantonly undermined the vows made in my marriage to him. He had allowed me his permission to admit, without treachery, that I loved Henry of Lancaster, and then draw a line of finality beneath it, for the Duke’s future was far distant from mine.

In that one astonishingly clever and compassionate move, John had demolished the pride in me that had refused to allow me to acknowledge, or certainly act on, so flighty an emotion as love. What manner of man did that make my husband? One of such honour and magnanimity beyond my imagining. Or beyond my deserts.

‘I cannot believe your indulgence towards me,’I said with difficulty. ‘And I am ashamed. I am sorry. I have betrayed you.’

John shook his head. ‘You have never done that.’ Then: ‘Will you go with him? To England?’

If John’s knowledge of my feelings had rocked the foundations of my self-control, this set my belly to roil. Go with Henry? Abandon my marriage and family? How could he think it of me?

‘No, John! Never! How could I do that?’

As he swept the feather of the pen across the carefully drawn coastline, his expression was benign.

‘You could if you wished it enough. There would be scandal, but men and women have parted throughout the ages, when the horror of living apart from the one they loved became stronger than the fear of the world’s condemnation.’ He placed the pen on the table and linked his fingers quite calmly as if discussing some matter of business. ‘It is not given to everyone to love with fervour.’ And when I would have denied any emotion so extreme, John raised his hand. ‘Your love for him is immeasurable. I see it in your face when you look at him. It astonishes you.’ His mouth took on the faintest of smiles although I thought there was no humour in him. ‘You never looked at me like that. Nor did I expect it. Ours was never that sort of marriage. Will you go with him?’

‘He has not asked it of me.’

‘No. He would not, of course. He is a man of honour. But would he wish it?’

‘I don’t know. We did not speak of such things.’

‘Both too honourable.’

‘But I am not honourable.’ Confession was difficult but must be made. ‘I would never betray you in body, but my mind knows only disobedience. I cannot govern it.’

‘Nor do you have to.’ John stood, walking round the table to stand before me. ‘Our marriage was one of political alignment. We both knew that. It was not one of love.’

‘But it should have been one of loyalty. I hope I have been a good wife to you.’

He took my hands in his, his thumbs stroking over my wrists where the blood beat, heavy with guilt. And loss.

‘I can think of none better. Three times I took a new wife to bed, making the best alliances I could for Brittany. Mary Plantagenet. Joan Holland. Both English, they were good wives. But you have been the best. Do we not talk? Do we not share interests and laugh together? Do you not share my duties in this land which is not yours by birth? No man could ask for a better woman at his side in affairs of business. You have given me the gift of your intellect and the finest brood of children any man could ask for.’ Leaning, he placed a kiss between my brows. ‘I’ll not upbraid you for discovering an attraction for another man. I am nearing my sixtieth year and can never give you the passion that Henry of Lancaster could give you. You are still so young…’

He touched my lips with one finger when I would have remonstrated.

‘No. Listen. I give you permission to think of Henry without guilt. It was never my intention to replace the tyranny of a deranged father with that of an old and importunate husband.’

I would not be silenced. His nobility was a marvel that tore at my heart. So much emotion, all in one afternoon.

‘Ah, John. That is not how I see you. You are no tyrant. Nor will I ever leave you. My duty lies here with you and our children. More than duty. My affection is bound up in all we have here together. Can you question my loyalty?’

‘No, never. And I accept your word. I think you are my friend as well as my wife. You always have been, since that first day when as a young girl you took your vows.’

‘And so I shall remain. I have said my farewells. Henry will go to England, he will become King if fortune smiles on him, and perhaps my cousin Mary will be offered to him once he is respectable again with a crown on his head.’

‘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.

Chapter 4

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 kicked his mount into a smart canter, not waiting to see if we followed to cross the water meadows towards the river. At fifty-nine years he was as hale as the young huntsman who kept pace with him, as energetic as the children who could all ride well. We pulled up in good form amongst the sedges where there was a quantity of duck and heron to give us sport.

‘Look.’ Marguerite pointed at the geese that dabbled in the shallows further along the river.

John pushed his horse on again. Then stopped, pulling clumsily on the reins. He coughed harshly. In an instant I was beside him.

‘John…’

He waved me aside, gripping his reins more firmly as if he would canter on, then dropped them, grinding a fist hard against the centre of his chest.

‘We don’t need to do this.’ I dug my fingers into his sleeve, trying to recover his reins at the same time, touched by a sudden dread. I had never before seen John drop his reins.

‘I need a moment. Just a moment…’ And then a harsh rattling breath in his chest, and I felt his weight press against my grip. I tightened it but I knew I could not hold him.

‘I need help…’ I raised my voice.

The servants were beside me in an instant, but help did not come fast enough and indeed I could not hold him. John toppled from saddle to ground with a groan. I followed, abandoning both horses, sinking to the chill grass to take his head and shoulders across my lap. His face was ashen, lips pulled back in a rictus.

‘Wine…’ His throat could barely form the word, but I found a wine container thrust into my hand by our falconer and I held it to his lips. He could not drink. It splashed from his mouth onto his tunic, onto the grass.

‘John! Listen to me.’ I strove for calm. ‘We will get you home where you can rest.’

He could not speak, his breathing becoming more laboured. And then, with a cry of sheer agony, I felt the muscles in his body stiffen against the pain.

‘What can we do?’ I looked up, in momentary panic, at the huntsman who had come to kneel at my side. ‘He cannot ride. You must return to the castle and fetch a wagon…’

His hand closed over my shoulder.

‘Not now, my lady.’

‘But we must. He cannot lie here…’

‘Not now.’

And, at last hearing the words he would not speak, I looked down at John’s face where I saw the inexorable shadows gathered there, the grey pall of death. I knew it as I smoothed my hand over his forehead, down his cheek. I knew that death stalked him, here in his own meadows, as well as I knew that I would still be alive on the morrow.

‘Joanna…’ he whispered on a long exhalation.

‘I’m here. I’m here with you.’

And that was the end. No more, no less, his eyes empty and sightless, every muscle in his face still after that final breath. How could a man leave this life so fast, with so little tremor in the movement of the world around us? I could not accept what my mind told me. How could it be that this man, who had laughed with his children, who had ridden across his own land with such energy not moments ago, was no more than the lifeless clay to which we would all one day return? Yet here was the truth. The heart beneath my hand no longer beat.

John was dead. My dear John, with all his care and compassion, was dead. Of all my knowledge of tinctures and potions and salves, of the powerful value of herbs and plants, nothing would restore life to John’s inert body. His bright sprit was gone.

I looked up at the faces around, all looking down at us with various qualities of curiosity or horror. Our servants who saw the truth. My children who still could not grasp the magnitude of what had happened. I found myself staring at my eldest son, at John’s heir, who, at ten years old, was observing his father with some species of shock that had drained his young face of all its colour.

He was now Duke of Brittany, with all the nobility and authority dependent on that great inheritance. So young, so inexperienced, so lacking in knowledge of the world. He would never prove to his father that he could read and write. He would never win the promised goshawk. I saw the instinctive swallow in his thin neck. Perhaps it was being driven home for him at last as I stood and began to issue detailed instructions, dispatching two servants to fetch a carriage, for I was determined: John would not travel on that final journey home across the saddle of his horse. He would return home to his castle with grace.

So under my guidance John was lifted onto the bed of a wagon made seemly with a woollen coverlet, while I brushed the rime from his sleeves, combed my fingers through his hair and replaced his hat so that the jewels glimmered bravely. I closed his eyes with a gentle hand. Finally I ordered the placing of a cloth embroidered with even squares of gold and blue across his body; he would return with all the gravity of his heraldic symbols on his breast.

Remounting to follow in sad procession, seeing the residue of terror still imprinted on every line of my eldest son’s face: ‘Wait.’

And I took the hawk from the falconer onto my own wrist and held it out to John, my son.

‘The goshawk is yours now. You will carry him home. Your father would want it. He would have given him to you.’

My son gulped but the tears dried and raising his arm he carried the hawk with great pride. It was well done.

Thus began the saddest journey of my life as I rode beside my husband’s body. Such were my regrets: no final words to recall, no deathbed speech, no struggle to defeat the hand of death. No opportunity for me to tell him of my regard. It had come so fast and without warning. He had lived for fifty-nine years, many of them difficult ones when he could not call his inheritance his own, then left this life as fast as a soft breath when falling asleep, just when his hold on Brittany was stronger than it had ever been and he should have been able to anticipate years of good government.

‘It was his heart, my lady. I have seen such before. It can strike when least expected. He was a great man. It was a blessing that you were there with him.’ Father Clement who had been advised and had ridden out with the wagon, pulled his mount to ride alongside. ‘He loved you greatly, my lady.’

‘Thank you. I know it.’

What more to say? I had lost the one person I considered to be my friend, who had given my life stability. Not a lover, although we had shared a bed with pleasure and obvious results, but a friend in whom I could trust. John had been courteous and affectionate. He had respect for me, the third of his wives. Never burdening me with the heady concept of love, he had treated me with a warmth and closeness that I could never have imagined. He had acknowledged my inexplicable feelings for Henry, without castigating me for disloyalty.

Could any husband deal with his wife with such sensitivity as John had dealt with me?

We had been wed for thirteen years and now it was over. I should have expected it perhaps, for he was no longer a young man, but I had not. His energies had not once waned, nor had his mind grown lax. I had, foolishly, thought my comfortable life would last for ever. Who would I talk with now, about the ambitions of the Duke of Orleans or the consequences of King Charles’s fragile mind?

We made a sorry party as we rode through the arched gateway into the courtyard where news had gone out and the servants and household were gathering. Many wept openly. I did not. It behoved me to take command and set in motion the needs of the day. Accepting that it was my role to be strong where others were weak, my thoughts were crammed with detail that must be addressed until I forced them into ordered ranks. All attention was focused on me. I must thrust aside all distractions and concentrate on what must happen now.

My son was Duke of Brittany. But who would rule in his stead, until he was of an age to take on the mantle? Had John made provision? Surely there was a will that would make all clear. Maybe John had chosen the Duke of Burgundy, an obvious choice for many, a man of wide experience and reputation, yet I felt my lips tighten in distaste. I would not like his interference in Breton affairs and in the life of my son. Nor, I thought, would John. As for myself, I could not envisage my future, my role, in this state that had become mine through marriage, but no longer. Now it was under the authority of my son, however incongruous it seemed.

Mindful of this slide of power into such small and inexperienced hands, I took my son’s shoulders in my grasp as he slid down from his horse. First steps. Small ones, but as a pattern for the future, entirely necessary.

‘Go to our steward,’ I ordered gently, taking the goshawk from him at last, seeing the panic leap into my son’s eye.

‘Where will he be, maman?’

‘In the muniment room. If not, one of the servants will take you to him. Tell him that we need to meet with him in my solar, in an hour. We have couriers to send out. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, maman.’ He drew himself up another few inches. I would not dishonour his new dignity by straightening his hair or wiping the stain of tears from his cheeks. But as he turned away:

‘You must not run. Not today. It is a stark and solemn day. You may run again tomorrow.’

He went. His first task as Duke of Brittany. And Arthur walked with him with such brotherly care it near broke my heart. It would take his mind from the horror of seeing his father drop from his saddle into death.

What of me?

I accompanied John’s body to the chapel to ensure that all was seemly. Then stood in the antechamber where the iridescent light through the little windows gave the brilliance of jewels to every surface, patterning on my skirts. I must remember to order black mourning garb for the household. I was alone. For the first time in my life I was alone, under the jurisdiction of no one.

There was a freedom attached to that aloneness. Just as there was memory present in that room where so much and so little had been said. It would have been rank dishonesty in me to say that that there was not.

*

First things first. I sought out the Duke’s man of law. ‘Did my lord the Duke leave a will?’

‘Indeed he did, my lady.’ The clerk laid his hand, in his busy fashion, on a scroll he had already extricated from a coffer. ‘I thought you would have need of it.’

‘To whom has he give authority, during my son’s minority?’ Better to know sooner than later. ‘Is it the Duke of Burgundy?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘The Duke of Berry?’ I was surprised, and prayed that it was not my cousin of Orleans. I did not like his ambitions.

The lawyer was shaking his head. ‘No, my lady. You misunderstand. My lord the Duke has left the power to yourself.’ He smoothed the document, turning it so that I might read. ‘You are named Regent during the young lord’s minority.’

I stared at the words and the ducal seals, heavily impressed in the wax, that confirmed all, and as I did so, all thoughts of freedom drained away and a chill hand closed over my nape. I was Regent. The authority to govern in Brittany was my own, with no interference from Burgundy or Berry or Orleans. It was mine. A blessing? At least my role was now clear, sanctified by the law and the Duke’s final wishes.

‘Some might be astounded, my lady. That the Duke—the late Duke, I should say—should choose a woman…’

‘They might.’ I was brusque. ‘I am not.’

For would not John see me as the best choice, the obvious choice to guide and guard his son?

It was in that moment that my decisions were made; my promise, to myself and to my son, as I shrugged off the cold sense of imprisonment. I would rule Brittany well. I would allow nothing that John had achieved to be destroyed by this death. Brittany would remain strong and secure under my hand. Had I not enough influential connections, in France, in Navarre, in Burgundy, to stand by me if I found myself in need? I would shoulder the burden myself, for that was my duty, my chosen path for the future, until my son was old enough to take his father’s sword and armour as his own. Since John had seen the ability in me in naming me Regent, I would never denigrate his choice. I would stand at my son’s side as he grew, to give advice, support, to instil courage. I would do it for John who was dead. For my son John who was alive. For my adoptive country that had taken me into its care and give me much happiness. As well as for my own pride.

Despite my female state, I would be a most effective Regent.

And the price that I must pay?

Here was no freedom.

The price was a heavy one, demanding that I brace my spine to take the weight, for I was no longer alone, under no man’s jurisdiction. My life was now bound with invisible chains of duty and service, of honour and a true dedication to the role that John had assigned to me. I was not free. I would never be free until my son no longer needed me, taking his place amongst the rulers of Europe with confidence and authority. I walked to my solar, aware of the figure that strode beside me in the making of those decisions. The figure who had leapt into vivid, vital life in the many-hued light of the chapel’s antechamber.

With no more than one thought of regret, I banished him. I drove him away. As well as the duty and service, my shoulders would bear the pain of that entirely necessary rejection too.

We sent off couriers that day, with letters written by our clerks, to France, to Navarre, to Burgundy. And because it was the diplomatic thing to do, I sent one to England too. It was not a personal letter.

Then I ordered black for my household.

*

The letter from England arrived on my table in my chamber of business. It took no longer than a dozen heartbeats to absorb the gist of it.

To my most honoured and respected cousin,

We can imagine your pain. Our thoughts are with you at this difficult time, and our prayers. We were remiss in our lack of communication in recent months, but we assure you of our compassion. We pray daily for your comfort and healing in your grief, as we know you have prayed for us in the past. We know that the future of Brittany is in good hands. We know that you will stand as our good friend, as you have in the past.

Your cousin,

Henry, King of England.

Written at Eltham, on this date in March, in the year 1400.

And that was that. There was no need for me to read it again.

Disappointment welled up in me. I recalled Henry saying that when he wrote it would be of armies and finance and inheritance, but this was so impersonal it might have been written by a palace clerk. In fact, studying the hand that was tight and even, I thought that it was. It was not Henry’s doing. It was the manner of condolence that might have been written as a diplomatic gesture to any ruler experiencing loss; or to an acquaintance, when a proposal to buy a high-blooded warhorse had fallen through, I thought savagely. This bleak notion of sympathy was not what my wayward heart had hoped for. I doubted that the signature scrawled at the bottom was his own, but then, I had never witnessed it.

I cast the letter aside.

No doubt one of my clerks could write a suitable reply, at some point in the coming days, from the exceedingly busy Duchess Joanna, Regent of Brittany. There was no urgency. No urgency at all.

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