The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
‘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