The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 my coffers with gold and jewels? I needed none of these. With Brittany’s alliances intact, I had no need of a royal husband to ride to my rescue, and I would not be a decorative element in the pattern of Henry’s planning, to give pre-eminence to the new English monarchy.

      My anger continued to hop and spit, fuelled further by an entirely superficial and unwarrantable irritation. As a prospective bride, was I not worthy of a fanfare, an embassy, an ambassador and a Lancaster herald? Was I not worthy of a finest kid document with seals and illuminated letters? If Henry was serious about marriage, I expected more. I expected more than Baron Thomas de Camoys, a baron of some status perhaps, but not one of the great magnates of England. He had come with no embassy, no fine-clad entourage to give Henry’s offer weight. I, Duchess and Regent of Brittany, was worthy of more, and Henry of England must know it. Why must I consent to some secretive arrangement, whispered behind closed doors? My marriage should not be a matter of some conspiratorial negotiating, as if it had some nefarious purpose rather than the alliance between two rulers of esteem.

      Pride. Beware the sin of pride, Joanna. Nothing good will come of it. You will regret what you have done today.

      I would not regret it. I had wanted, in a selfish corner of my heart, to be desired for myself. Could I not wish for that, for the first, for the only time in my life, rather than for the value of my breeding and the vast spider’s web of connection of my family?

      It seemed that I could not.

      *

      ‘Baron de Camoys,’ I said. Not exactly welcoming, some few weeks later. And with some surprise.

      ‘Madam.’

      I had not expected a return visit. Had my refusal not be sufficiently plain? I could well imagine Henry’s displeasure at my rejection, but he was a pragmatic man and must accept it. I would be my own woman; I might have burnt my list of objections but the content remained true and fair in my mind.

      Yet I admitted to my curiosity being engaged. What would my English courier have to say to me now? His return was very rapid. I doubted he had time to do more than repeat my refusal to his King before turning about and retracing his watery steps back to Brittany.

      ‘I bid you good day, my lord.’ I achieved a diplomatic smile. I had just ridden in from the town to discover this English delegation, red and gold pennons once again aflutter.

      Already dismounted, my courier approached to take hold of my bridle. But as he looked up into my face, although I read the grave courtesy with which I was familiar, a courtesy that not even my previous blunt refusal could shake, I thought he looked strained. More than strained. Perhaps the crossing had been stormy enough to dig the line between his brows. He deserved a welcome from me, even if I was wary.

      ‘I see that you are in good health. Did you have time to visit your wife and new child?’

      ‘I did, Madam.’ He did not return my smile.

      ‘I doubt she was pleased to lose you again so soon. I surmise that King Henry’s desires were paramount.’

      I slid from the mare to stand beside him. The lines engraved between nose and mouth seemed even heavier now that we were face to face. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it and merely gave a curt bow of the head. My desire to know Henry’s desires was pushed aside. There was sadness here, and this was far too public a place for me to encourage him to tell me.

      ‘Come with me, Lord Thomas.’

      Silently he followed me, through entrance hall and a succession of chambers and corridors, where I stopped only long enough to redirect a skipping Blanche towards her nursemaid, until we came to a small parlour, a favourite and private place that collected the spring sunshine and overlooked one of John’s well-planted gardens. It always seemed to me a place where it was possible to find comfort. It seemed to me that Lord Thomas needed comfort.

      Lord Thomas stood, waited, as servants came to divest us of outer garments, to leave wine. Shoulders braced, there was none of the warmth I recalled. Grief was written into every line of his body. Was this Henry’s doing? Had he given a difficult message to be delivered?

      Then the servants were gone.

      ‘I see trouble in your face, sir.’

      ‘A personal matter, my lady,’ he rallied. ‘I have a reply from my King.’

      Rejecting my overture, he produced a written missive from the breast of his tunic and a small package wrapped in leather. The letter he gave to me, and I took it, tucking it into my sleeve. It could wait. And so could whatever it was that Henry had directed this man to say to me.

      ‘Sit, Lord Thomas,’ I commanded. ‘Tell me what douses the fire in your eye. Is it the King?’

      He remained standing, СКАЧАТЬ