The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

Mindful of this slide of power into such small and inexperienced hands, I took my son’s shoulders 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.

  Chapter 5

  Spring 1400: Château at Vannes, Brittany

  The heraldic device, gracing the inner court of my castle, was gold and red and silver, hanging limply on pennon and banner in the warm air. I did not know it.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked my steward, viewing it at an angle from the window of the muniment chamber.

  ‘A courier, come from England, my lady, so I am informed.’

  ‘But a courier from whom?’

  An occurrence unusual enough that I arranged to meet with this English visitor in the audience chamber. It would be a matter of trade, a mercantile dispute over some commodity or toll or shoal of herring. Anticipating an hour of tedious exchange of views on cloth and fish, I was already seated, clad in a cote-hardie, embroidered and jewelled and suitable to the occasion, my furred sleeves sweeping the floor to either side, when the man was announced. A member of the merchant elite perhaps, as he strode through the door, for he was not lacking in poise. Or perhaps a notary attached to one of their trading interests, although his garments and the livery of his escort suggested he was a man of some wealth. I would give him the time commensurate with the problem. It did not do to neg
lect matters of trade where the Bretons were concerned. So with two of my women and my steward to give the occasion the importance it deserved, I settled on the high-backed chair on the dais, arranging my skirts, folding my hands in my lap. At my side sat my son, the sixth Duke John of Brittany. It would be good experience for him.

  The visitor approached to bow with a spare courtliness, awakening me to the fact that here was neither merchant nor notary. Tall, lean, long past the first bloom of youth certainly, but there was evidence of an active life in his upright stance, the firm flesh beneath his houppelande that fell in stately fashion to his calves. A soldier, I decided on closer inspection, now become a courtier, nearing perhaps his fiftieth year. When he swept off the velvet folds of his hat it was to show a mass of dark hair, well silvered.

  ‘My Lord Thomas, Baron de Camoys,’ my steward announced.

  Lord Thomas de Camoys bowed again, not lacking some flamboyance, to me and to my son.

  ‘I am grateful that you consent to receive me, my lady, my lord. I am come from my lord Henry, King of England.’

  My folded hands tightened against each other. For as Lord Thomas de Camoys smiled his thanks, his eyes confidently on mine, I knew that this was no ordinary courier, but a very personal envoy from Henry. An ambassador, forsooth.

  ‘Lord Thomas. We make you welcome.’ I found myself returning the smile, for he was a very personable man, his air distinguished. So what had Henry to say to me? I felt a little beat of blood at my wrist.

  ‘My lady,’ Lord Thomas confirmed. ‘I am here as envoy from my King. I am empowered to give you this, with his warmest regards.’

  Stepping forward he handed over the folded square of a document, the royal seal vivid and untouched by travel. Lord Thomas had cared for it well. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect, waiting until I was alone to read it, but I could not wait, sliding my nail beneath the seal, but not before placing a warning hand on the shoulder of my son who had begun to shuffle. Then I began to read.

  My first impression was that, once again, it was disappointingly brief. Preserving a magisterial expression, I read rapidly to the end, the beat in my blood subsiding into the dullness of dismay.

  My dear and most honoured lady and cousin.

  That was good of course. And at least this time I believed it to be in Henry’s own hand. The uneven, hastily written letters were not those of a clerk.

  My eye ran on, absorbing the comments, the requests, the hopes. My state of health. That of my children. Assurances that he would respond to any call for aid should I find myself in need. He was keeping me in his prayers. He was assured that the Holy Ghost would protect me in my hour of need.

  All very good and proper. So why did despondency wash over me in a cool wave, so that I was heavy with it? As a king newly come into his kingdom, to which his claim was not altogether clear, Henry would have serious matters on his mind. Writing to the Duchess of Brittany would not be a priority since our merchants, hampered by winter storms, were enjoying a period of truce. It was a foolish woman who dreamed of more from a man struggling to retain the throne he had just snatched from his royal cousin. A sensible woman would be grateful that he had found the time and the thought to write to her at all.

  It did not assuage my regret that there was not more.

  Rubbing my thumb over the signature, I folded the page with precision. I would read it again at my leisure, but I knew there was no hidden message to give substance to the first leap of hope when I had seen Lord Thomas holding out a letter. I stood with a brief smile, and gestured to my steward.

  ‘My thanks, Lord Thomas. I will write my reply. We will of course make you comfortable meanwhile. My steward will accompany you to your accommodation. You will dine with us, I hope. Will you perhaps hunt later in the day with me and my children?’

  I could not imagine why Henry would send so impressive a personage to deliver so unimpressive a message, but so he had and Lord Thomas deserved that I see to his comfort and entertainment before his departing. Lifting my heavy skirts, I stepped down from the dais and began to walk towards the door, my hand once more lightly on my son’s shoulder.

  ‘My lady.’ Lord Thomas, straight as an arrow, neither acknowledged his dismissal nor moved one foot. ‘I will be honoured to dine and hunt with you. But I have a private message to deliver to you, from my King.’

  I paused, looked back over my shoulder, a little impatient. ‘Indeed. I have read it, sir. And I will respond in due course.’

  ‘It is not written, my lady. It was delivered by my King to me in person, and I must repeat it to you, if you will allow me the liberty of a private audience.’

  His eye moved over my little son, and back to me.

  A personal message. A private audience. The little throb began again, as well as the puzzlement.

  ‘It is most delicate, my lady. A matter of greatest discretion,’ he added as I continued to hesitate. ‘For all of us.’

  How persuasive. And how could I resist such an intriguing request? But it seemed that I too must be discreet, and so rose to the occasion, as any Regent would.

  ‘A matter of alliances perhaps, Lord Thomas?’

  ‘It is, my lady. To be negotiated with utmost secrecy, for the wellbeing of all concerned.’

  ‘Then I must not disappoint your King.’ I dismissed my women, my steward. And to Duke John:‘If you would instruct our chamberlain that we have a guest at our table tonight.’ And as John departed, enthusiastic in his freedom: ‘Come with me, if you please, Lord Thomas.’

  I led the way to a private parlour where I arranged for wine and a platter of sweetmeats, and so we talked of his journey and the state of the roads, the length of his crossing, inconsequential affairs while the wine was poured into my favourite silver cups and my mind ran ahead to what he might say. What Henry might say. Meanwhile I watched Thomas de Camoys. Dignified and familiar with court affairs, there was no frivolity or flippancy in his manner. Certainly a soldier rather than a courtier. An interesting choice of envoy for Henry to make. Here might be a friend or a loyal comrade in arms despite the difference in years, rather than a royal official.

  The beat in my blood quickened.

  ‘Do you have a family, Lord Camoys?’I asked as the servant fussed with the fire that had burned low.

  ‘I have a son, Richard,’ he replied with obvious pride. ‘And a newborn child, I expect, when I have returned. My wife Elizabeth was near her time.’

  ‘You must have been sorry to leave her.’

  ‘It was necessary, my lady.’

  ‘I think you have been a soldier, sir.’

  ‘I have been so, in my youth. I have served in France.’

  At last, at last, the servant closed the door and we were alone.

  ‘So, Lord Thomas.’ I raised my cup in a little toast, that he returned. ‘Now that we are private and supremely discreet, tell me what it is that your King will not commit to a written document.’

  I saw him take a breath as if he were marshalling a text that he had committed to memory. He stood. Then he began, fluently, confidently.

  ‘This is what I am to tell you, my lady. These are the words of my King. He would exchange opinions with you, my lady, on affairs of the utmost privacy. What cannot be read, cannot be discovered by others beyond this room. I am to tell you, my lady, that my King puts every confidence in my discretion. You are, he suggests, to treat my ears like the ears of King Henry himself.’

  ‘Indeed, Lord Thomas.’

  I admitted to being taken aback. This surely was no formal alliance between our two countries. Not that it would ever be possible as things stood, without considerable negotiation to hammer out the piracy menace in our respective ports. But was such a level of secrecy really necessary? I thought not. I frowned a little.

  ‘I confess to some surprise. This is not, then, an exchange of views to engender an alliance of mutual satisfaction between England and Brittany,’ I said.

  ‘But yes, my lady, it most ce
rtainly is.’ I suspected a gleam in the stern eye of Lord Thomas. ‘My King has one particular alliance in mind.’

  I waited.

  ‘My King asks that you will consider the benefits of a marriage alliance.’

  It should not have been a surprise. Henry had sons and daughters of marriageable age. As did I. He might consider looking across the sea to find a valuable connection for his heir. Who better than a child of Brittany, bringing with her the blood of France and Navarre. But I could not understand why such a proposition could not be addressed formally through a royal herald complete with trumpet blast, marriage documents and seals.

  ‘Between our children?’ I remarked. ‘It would not be impossible, with careful negotiation to please the Breton merchants…’

  ‘You misunderstand, my lady. The marriage would be between yourself and my King. Now that you are free to consider remarriage. After the sad death of Duke John.’

  Placing my cup gently on the table at my side, I refused to allow my fingers to clasp hard into the damask of my skirts, even though my heart tripped like the tuck of a military drum. Through years of long practice I knew that my composure remained unaltered to any interested eye. No one would guess at the inner turmoil. I resisted the urge to recover the cup and take a long, slow mouthful of wine.

  ‘Indeed?’ I observed with exemplary restraint.

  ‘Indeed, my lady.’ Lord Thomas was unperturbed by what could well be interpreted as a lack of enthusiasm. ‘My King recalls your meetings with him in the past, the pleasure you took in each other’s company. He is of the opinion that you would not be averse to such a suggestion. And now that you are widowed, and the initial period of mourning over, he sends a formal request. My King has dispatched me to offer you his hand in marriage.’

  Marriage. Marriage to the man I could not forget. The word hung in the air, with a weight all its own.

  And how politely worded. I wondered if Henry had been so polite. When driven by ambition or injustice, as I knew, he could be as trenchant as a swordsman fighting to the death. Would desire for marriage so move him? I could imagine him issuing his orders to Lord Thomas; I want the Duchess for my wife. Tell her that she must wed me. I will arrange time and place. Leave her in no doubt of my sentiments. No circling round with flowery phrases or troubadour sentiments of honeyed nothings. Yet I smiled, enjoying my image of Henry striding through his antechambers, as sleek and powerful as the golden-crowned antelope on his heraldic achievements as he issued his orders, at the same time as I appreciated Lord Thomas’s diplomatic rendering. And seeing it, Lord Thomas, visibly relaxing, returned it.