The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien
in my grasp as he slid down from his horse. First steps. Small ones, but as a pattern for the future, entirely necessary.
‘Go to our steward,’ I ordered gently, taking the goshawk from him at last, seeing the panic leap into my son’s eye.
‘Where will he be, maman?’
‘In the muniment room. If not, one of the servants will take you to him. Tell him that we need to meet with him in my solar, in an hour. We have couriers to send out. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, maman.’ He drew himself up another few inches. I would not dishonour his new dignity by straightening his hair or wiping the stain of tears from his cheeks. But as he turned away:
‘You must not run. Not today. It is a stark and solemn day. You may run again tomorrow.’
He went. His first task as Duke of Brittany. And Arthur walked with him with such brotherly care it near broke my heart. It would take his mind from the horror of seeing his father drop from his saddle into death.
What of me?
I accompanied John’s body to the chapel to ensure that all was seemly. Then stood in the antechamber where the iridescent light through the little windows gave the brilliance of jewels to every surface, patterning on my skirts. I must remember to order black mourning garb for the household. I was alone. For the first time in my life I was alone, under the jurisdiction of no one.
There was a freedom attached to that aloneness. Just as there was memory present in that room where so much and so little had been said. It would have been rank dishonesty in me to say that that there was not.
*
First things first. I sought out the Duke’s man of law. ‘Did my lord the Duke leave a will?’
‘Indeed he did, my lady.’ The clerk laid his hand, in his busy fashion, on a scroll he had already extricated from a coffer. ‘I thought you would have need of it.’
‘To whom has he give authority, during my son’s minority?’ Better to know sooner than later. ‘Is it the Duke of Burgundy?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘The Duke of Berry?’ I was surprised, and prayed that it was not my cousin of Orleans. I did not like his ambitions.
The lawyer was shaking his head. ‘No, my lady. You misunderstand. My lord the Duke has left the power to yourself.’ He smoothed the document, turning it so that I might read. ‘You are named Regent during the young lord’s minority.’
I stared at the words and the ducal seals, heavily impressed in the wax, that confirmed all, and as I did so, all thoughts of freedom drained away and a chill hand closed over my nape. I was Regent. The authority to govern in Brittany was my own, with no interference from Burgundy or Berry or Orleans. It was mine. A blessing? At least my role was now clear, sanctified by the law and the Duke’s final wishes.
‘Some might be astounded, my lady. That the Duke—the late Duke, I should say—should choose a woman…’
‘They might.’ I was brusque. ‘I am not.’
For would not John see me as the best choice, the obvious choice to guide and guard his son?
It was in that moment that my decisions were made; my promise, to myself and to my son, as I shrugged off the cold sense of imprisonment. I would rule Brittany well. I would allow nothing that John had achieved to be destroyed by this death. Brittany would remain strong and secure under my hand. Had I not enough influential connections, in France, in Navarre, in Burgundy, to stand by me if I found myself in need? I would shoulder the burden myself, for that was my duty, my chosen path for the future, until my son was old enough to take his father’s sword and armour as his own. Since John had seen the ability in me in naming me Regent, I would never denigrate his choice. I would stand at my son’s side as he grew, to give advice, support, to instil courage. I would do it for John who was dead. For my son John who was alive. For my adoptive country that had taken me into its care and give me much happiness. As well as for my own pride.
Despite my female state, I would be a most effective Regent.
And the price that I must pay?
Here was no freedom.
The price was a heavy one, demanding that I brace my spine to take the weight, for I was no longer alone, under no man’s jurisdiction. My life was now bound with invisible chains of duty and service, of honour and a true dedication to the role that John had assigned to me. I was not free. I would never be free until my son no longer needed me, taking his place amongst the rulers of Europe with confidence and authority. I walked to my solar, aware of the figure that strode beside me in the making of those decisions. The figure who had leapt into vivid, vital life in the many-hued light of the chapel’s antechamber.
With no more than one thought of regret, I banished him. I drove him away. As well as the duty and service, my shoulders would bear the pain of that entirely necessary rejection too.
We sent off couriers that day, with letters written by our clerks, to France, to Navarre, to Burgundy. And because it was the diplomatic thing to do, I sent one to England too. It was not a personal letter.
Then I ordered black for my household.
*
The letter from England arrived on my table in my chamber of business. It took no longer than a dozen heartbeats to absorb the gist of it.
To my most honoured and respected cousin,
We can imagine your pain. Our thoughts are with you at this difficult time, and our prayers. We were remiss in our lack of communication in recent months, but we assure you of our compassion. We pray daily for your comfort and healing in your grief, as we know you have prayed for us in the past. We know that the future of Brittany is in good hands. We know that you will stand as our good friend, as you have in the past.
Your cousin,
Henry, King of England.
Written at Eltham, on this date in March, in the year 1400.
And that was that. There was no need for me to read it again.
Disappointment welled up in me. I recalled Henry saying that when he wrote it would be of armies and finance and inheritance, but this was so impersonal it might have been written by a palace clerk. In fact, studying the hand that was tight and even, I thought that it was. It was not Henry’s doing. It was the manner of condolence that might have been written as a diplomatic gesture to any ruler experiencing loss; or to an acquaintance, when a proposal to buy a high-blooded warhorse had fallen through, I thought savagely. This bleak notion of sympathy was not what my wayward heart had hoped for. I doubted that the signature scrawled at the bottom was his own, but then, I had never witnessed it.
I cast the letter aside.
No doubt one of my clerks could write a suitable reply, at some point in the coming days, from the exceedingly busy Duchess Joanna, Regent of Brittany. There was no urgency. No urgency at all.
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