The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
been. I had become simply a priceless piece in the mosaic of King Henry’s strategy to place his new dynasty on the map of Europe, beyond assault. I had become the desirable Queen on the chessboard of King Henry’s new political strategies.
*
‘Good morning, Lord Thomas.’
Returned once more to the audience chamber, but this time alone, I stood on the dais in regal splendour and prepared to be gracious. It was not the dignified Baron de Camoys’s fault. He would have no idea of the death blow he had dealt to my hopes. Now he was garbed in the wool and leather appropriate for travel, with no suspicion of what I would say. I handed over my innocuous and thoroughly dull reply to Henry’s letter, which he took and stowed in the purse at his belt.
‘Have you a response that I might take to my King, my lady?’
‘I have, sir.’ I did not even bring to mind the list I had compiled and destroyed. ‘If you will be so good as to tell this to your King. I find that I cannot accept his offer. I am honoured, but I will not be his wife.’
A shadow of surprise crossed the weathered face, before being fast smoothed-over in the manner of an experienced diplomat.
‘Do I say no more, my lady?’
‘That is all that needs to be said,’ I replied with hauteur.
Baron de Camoys undoubtedly deserved more, but how could I give my private doubts into the keeping of a man I had not known until a matter of hours ago? I would have told Henry. I would have been more than forthright with Henry. But he had found more pressing demands on his time.
Unfair, my conscience whispered.
But true, I replied. I, in my own right, am not a priority in King Henry’s schemes. He will find a new bride with more impressive credentials than mine.
In response to my silence, Lord Thomas was regarding me with what I could only interpret as disapprobation. ‘I have been given leave to answer your concerns, my lady, or carry them to England for my King to give his consideration. If that is what you would prefer.’
‘It is not an alliance I wish to make, my lord. It is my personal decision, based on my own inclination. It is not a matter of high politics. You must thank your King and explain my regrets.’
Such was my dismissal of a once most desired proposal of marriage. Cool, calm, unmoved. Rejected out of hand, with no concessions to the baron’s kindness.
‘I regret that, my lady. Why can it not be done?’ Lord Thomas asked the question as a friend would ask it. And reading I knew not what in my face he ignored my ducal trappings, took my hand in his and led me to step down from the dais before asking:‘Was it something I said? Have I said something to turn you against my King?’
‘No.’
‘But I think I must have been at fault. I understood that you were not averse to this match when first broached.’
I found myself sitting on the cushions of a window seat. With Lord Thomas sitting beside me, my hand still in his. And against all my intentions in how to conduct this brief little audience, I found myself replying as if he were indeed a friend.
‘King Henry is intent on building a powerful dynasty. You indicated as much yesterday. I understand why it must be. A usurper can do no less.’ I recalled the humiliation at the Valois Court, when Mary’s hand was denied him because he had been declared traitor. Henry would remember it too, and be determined to do all in his power to rebuild his pride and his acceptability to the courts of Europe. Even little Isabelle, widowed but still in England, was to play a role in the scheme.
‘Marriages are the surest way to consolidate connections and build a block of alliances to give a ruler strength and standing in diplomacy and discussion,’ I continued as if instructing my own son in the role of European negotiation. Who would know better than I? Valois princesses had married into every royal family in Europe over the years. And acknowledging it, a cold hand closed even more firmly around my heart. If I asked outright, would this man tell me the truth? Yet I did not think I even needed him to do so. I knew it for myself. ‘I accept that I would be the perfect consort for a man in King Henry’s position. It would make absolute sense. With my son as Duke of Brittany and my brother as King of Navarre—and my first cousin as King of France of course—I would give him the connections he seeks.’
A narrow bar of colour appeared along Lord Thomas’s cheekbones as I extricated my hand from his.
‘I hope, my lady, I did not give the impression that King Henry is more interested in your blood line than your person.’
‘Yes, Lord Thomas. You did. I appear to be part of a well-constructed plan. I do not wish to be part of a dynastic scheme for King Henry’s aggrandisement.’
The colour darkened. Baron de Camoys’s hands flexed where they rested on his thighs.
‘I regret it. It is true that my King is aware of your value as a royal bride. As a princess of Navarre he knows that he could look no higher. As for your vast array of family connections to those who hold power…’
‘As I have said,’ I interrupted, as stern as my audience, standing briskly, any softness within me at an end. ‘It seems I am to be part of a dynastic bulwark to give the King of England recognition.’
‘But I would not say so. The King has considered no other European bride but you. Nor any who is English-born from one of our noble families. It was you he wanted.’ Lord Thomas paused, also on his feet, considering how to add weight to his argument. ‘My King gave you time to mourn Duke John.’
‘A bare three months?’
‘He thought it would be enough.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He has told me. Only then did he venture to ask for your hand. You must not pre-judge him, my lady. From my knowledge of King Henry, he sees you as far more value than a bride to bring him enhanced rank and acceptance.’
It was not flattering to see myself in a step on the road to European greatness, even though it was not new to me. As a wealthy, well-connected, powerful widow, I would be much sought after. Did I wish to remarry? I might with the right incentives. I had hoped Henry might have deeper motives, but I must accept that his purpose as King was very different from the day in my chapel when he spoke to me of love. You are loved, he had said. You are my most treasured delight.
Discarding those words, I walked to the door, my robes falling in heavy and expensive lines to the floor. Face calmly disposed, voice coldly authoritative, I knew exactly the impression I wished to give, and did so as I turned to give my final reply.
‘You must tell your King that I am not able to gratify him with my acceptance. It is not in my power to do so. Nor in his to persuade me.’
There was no hint of the anger that all but consumed me as Baron de Camoys bowed his way from my presence.
I lingered at the window of my chamber, watching the English courier depart.
‘Leave me.’
My women left, warned by my voice, obviously surprised by the raw tone that had crept in. As was I. Surprised and astonished at the anger of which I was capable. I who had rarely experienced anger in my life. Where was this heat born? Out of disappointment and regret, my newly sprouting hopes being shredded to destruction, like a flourishing bed of nettles beneath the peasant’s scythe over in the meadows. My hands clenched into fists on the stone window-coping, and I hammered them against the chiselled decoration until my flesh complained. But it did not hurt as much as my hopes that had been dealt their death-blow. I would not be haggled over, like a prime salmon in a fishmonger’s basket. Joanna of Navarre would be haggled over by no man. If Joanna of Navarre was to invite a second husband into her bed, he would be of her own choosing and for her own pleasure.
Which thought shocked me a little, until I considered the logic of it. Did I need a husband to enhance my status? To protect my country? To fill