The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
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