The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 on. Another raucous blast prevented any reply from me as we once more followed the hunt, the hounds picking up the scent of our quarry, leaving me to follow slowly, unnervingly wistful, in his wake.

      Not that there was anything of merit to say.

      ‘You have only met him twice.’ I took myself to task.

      Sadly twice was enough. For joy. For dismay.

      Next morning I turned my back on the pavilions, urging my horse to keep up with John’s mount as we began our long journey to the west, to Vannes. As the miles unfolded, I considered with some grim amusement what I had learned about myself at Isabelle’s wedding; that the state of unrequited love, however mild a form it might take, did not suit me. Too much superfluous emotion to disturb the even tenor of my days. Too much uncertainty. Too much undignified craving. I had too much self-esteem to allow myself to succumb to an emotion that could never have a future. It would be no better than suffering a permanent stone in a shoe: an aggravation, an annoyance, with no resolution until the stone was removed. I did not want such uncertainty in my life. I would accept a simple steady platform of equanimity without the highs and lows of blazing desire.

      But there it had been: a touch of minds, a brush of yearning, which I would never forget. A thing of wonder, an awakening. A response to a man that was neither friendship nor affection but something far stronger and beyond my control. Indeed it was a hunger. A taste, a sip, of what had never been part of my life’s banquet, and never would.

Chapter 2

       October 1398: Hotel de St Pol in Paris

      There was an unexpected tension in the air. Not of hostility or incipient warfare, nor of some blood-soaked treachery, but of a nose-twitching, ear-straining, prurient interest. Such as when there might be a scandal, dripping with innuendo, to be enjoyed. It was present in the sparkle of every eye, in the whisperings, with no attempt at discretion. It might be considered beneath my dignity as Duchess of Brittany to be lured by such hints of someone’s depravity, but my senses came alive, like a mouse scenting cheese.

      John and I were engaged in one of our frequent visits to Paris, to reassure the Valois that the loyalty of the Duke of Brittany to their interests was beyond question. Our family was left comfortably behind in Nantes with governors and nursemaids, including the recent addition to the family. I had been safely delivered of a child, another daughter Blanche, over a year ago now. I had not met my end in childbed. There had been no need for my husband to consider a precipitate remarriage after all.

      We had expected to occupy rooms in the royal residence, the Hotel de St Pol, as was our wont, with its rabbit-warren of chambers and antechambers, but it seemed an unlikely prospect, for here was a bustle of royal dukes, prelates and barons. Of the royal dukes I recognised my uncles of Berry and Burgundy and my cousin of Orleans. It all had a strangely festive air about it as we found ourselves ushered into the most opulent of King Charles’s audience chambers, as if we were part of the invited gathering.

      Charles was sitting upright, enthroned on a dais, his servants having reminded him to don robes that added to his authority. So this must be some important foreign deputation come to request an alliance or impress with gifts. I could see no crowd of foreign dignitaries, yet someone was speaking. Charles was nodding.

      I touched John’s arm, which was all that was needed. Using his bulk and a degree of charm, he pushed between the audience, while I flattened the fullness of my skirts and followed, until we came to the front ranks. The delegate was still speaking, a flat measured delivery, in perfect, uninflected French. Some puissant lord then. Perhaps an ambassador from the east, but ambassadors rarely attracted so much commotion. The petitioner was still hid from my view but he was flanked by the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy. Such personal condescension on their arrogant part indicated a visitor of some merit.

      Charles СКАЧАТЬ