The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
my polite little reply being complete and signed, I set myself to write a list of all the traps that opened up before me. And I suspected there were many more that I had not yet appreciated. I wrote them in a rapidly growing list, watching as all the obstacles fell into place, my hand strong and sure, even as my belly chilled, for as a denial of this marriage proposal, they were bone-crushingly brutal.
The Valois will never support such a union. They will oppose it tooth and nail. The Duke of Burgundy will use every means at his disposal to stop it.
I am Regent of Brittany. Who will rule in my stead?
Do I wish to renounce my authority in Brittany?
I have a duty to my son, to Brittany, imposed on me by John and willingly undertaken.
There is long-standing antipathy between English and Breton.
Would I be despised as an enemy Queen?
If I leave Brittany, what will happen…
My hand faltered at the last. There was one final cataclysmic consequence that I foresaw and that I could not write. That I did not have the capacity to even contemplate. It was far too distressing. Instead I read through each dismal objection to this marriage, each one more intimidating than the last, until, screwing up the page in my hands I tossed it into the fire where the costly parchment was consumed in a bright flame. Commit nothing to the written word, Henry had said, not even my fears. It was good advice, and fire would scour the longing from my mind.
Oh, but I wanted it. I wanted this marriage. If only this desire could be obliterated as consummately as the fire had reduced my concerns to formless ash. I wanted to know once again the physical enjoyment of Henry’s nearness. I wanted to enjoy his quick mind, the skill of his hands on the lute. I wanted to play chess again with him, and capture his king on my own merits. I wanted the time to talk with him, for there was so much to this man I had yet to discover. More than anything, to my mortification, I wanted to enjoy the experience of his lips against mine.
I simply wanted to be with him.
But my mind continued to lurch from one insurmountable hurdle to the next, until I gave up on them and went to discover my children whose chatter would soon distract me. And we would go hunting with my surrogate wooer, Lord Thomas de Camoys.
*
We hunted, at a sedate pace, for all my children accompanied us except for Blanche at three years, but which proved to be no obstacle to Lord Thomas’s enjoyment. What an equable temperament he had. Our ambling disturbed him not at all as he conversed companionably with my children.
‘This is my land.’ Duke John, with regrettable self-importance.
‘And well governed, as I see.’
‘I have a new pony.’ Marguerite, eight years old, and shy but intent on drawing attention from her brothers.
‘And you ride the pretty creature with grace, my lady.’
‘I will be a knight when I am grown.’ Richard, sturdy and ambitious.
‘Perhaps you will come to me in England, to be a page in my household.’
At last turning for home, the children streaming ahead, with all the exuberance of unleashed hounds with servants and huntsmen in attendance, I was presented with an opportunity to uncover more.
‘Does King Henry find time to hunt?’
‘No, my lady. Unless it is the Scots.’ Lord Thomas grunted a laugh. ‘It colours his language frequently.’
I raised a brow in query.
And Lord Thomas complied. ‘There is the prospect of war against the Scots if they will not come to terms. When I left England my King was at York. As he says, he has little time for anything but war and insurrection.’
‘Is there much unrest?’
‘There has been a threat against his life, and that of his sons.’ He must have caught my expression, adding quickly, ‘It was at Epiphany, but has since been diffused, my lady.’
Henry, in his brief note, had not told me of any dangers he might be facing. But then, why would he? Would I tell him all my concerns for Brittany and my family? We were both entirely self-sufficient and capable of managing our own affairs without interference from interested onlookers.
‘Apart from bringing the Scots to heel, my King is also negotiating marriages for his two daughters.’ Lord Thomas proceeded to enlighten me. ‘Blanche it is hoped will wed the heir of the Holy Roman Emperor, a most advantageous match, and Philippa to the future King of Sweden. My King is aware of the importance of such dynastic alliances. Given the circumstances in which he acquired the Crown, he knows that he cannot afford to be complacent. It is imperative that he ties his family securely into a European entente.’
Such inconsequentially offered discourse. With such blighting consequences for me.
‘I imagine it would be of great importance,’ I managed. ‘As is the marriage of my own children.’ My mouth was dry, my lips stiff as I formed the words.
‘The princesses are still very young, of course,’ Lord Thomas continued, unaware that he was applying a second coat of pitch to my spirits. ‘But daughters are very valuable. As you yourself know. And for my King, since the assassination attempts against him, the need for these alliances has become critical.’
‘And has he wives in mind for his sons?’ My voice was as smooth as my pleated hair beneath my veil, but my senses turbulent.
Lord Thomas waxed suitably eloquent. ‘My King has hopes that Isabelle, Richard’s widow, might make an acceptable bride for his heir, Prince Hal. She has a considerable dowry.’ He noted my startled reaction. ‘You may not have heard, Madam. Richard has died in Pontefract Castle.’
No, I had not heard, until Lord Thomas had so carelessly announced the bleak fact on the previous day. I noticed that my English companion made no explanation of Richard’s sudden death, but my mind was preoccupied with our original conversation.
‘Such a marriage between Isabelle and the Prince would bring him money and an enviable Valois connection.’
‘So it would. A connection of far too great an importance to be overlooked. My King would be ill-advised to send Isabelle and her dowry back to her father.’
‘Indeed. Now I understand why it should be so imperative for your King to seek a bride of his own.’
I marvelled at how level I could keep my observation, as flat as the marsh-grass through which our horses strode. And just as unemotional.
‘Indeed.’ Baron Camoys nodded in agreement. ‘An obvious step to take, to seek a wife of rank and reputation. King Henry’s appreciation of such affairs is second to none. I swear that he will achieve his desired goal, against all the odds.’
So innocently observed. The final nail in the coffin of my resurrected hopes and dreams. Did Baron de Camoys not realise what it was that he had imparted to me? I should have realised, as would any woman of intellect and experience. Thus does physical desire undermine political experience. In self-disgust, I used my heel against my mare’s side.
‘Let us ride on, Lord Thomas.’
I resisted his quizzical look. No, he had no inkling of what he had done. And I needed to think, long and hard, even though it did not make for comfortable thinking as the wind took my veil, pulling at it in spritely mood while I snatched at its fullness to anchor it against my neck, all the time regretting that I had allowed my hopes to rise because of something so foolishly charming as a distant wooing. All was not as it seemed. How could I have ever thought that it was?
I had thought that Henry wanted me for his wife because he loved me for myself. Because he remembered the knitting of that strange bond between us. Because he believed there was a place for me in his life that no other woman could