The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
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