The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  Nor did I care to discuss the matter in a room full of minions.

  ‘I will show you the truth of my Breton dower, my lord,’ I announced in a voice that drew the attention of more than one clerk.

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘But it seems to me that I must. If you will come with me?’

  I turned on my heel, not waiting to see if Henry followed me, but of course he did. Leaving the rolls of my dower to the care of Henry’s clerks, we walked side by side, in a silence that was not quite comfortable, to my own chambers, where I summoned a page to bring one of my travelling coffers and its key. Whereupon I lifted the lid to reveal rolls and documents, neatly arranged, much like Henry’s.

  ‘You are remarkably efficient.’

  ‘Of course.’ I ignored the suspicion of surprise. Henry must learn what manner of woman I was too. ‘I need to know where my wealth is, where the rents are paid—or not paid. But look at this.’ I sought for and handed him a scroll. ‘This is an accounting of my income from Brittany. The rents I should receive.’ And then another roll, much handled. ‘This is the amount in rents that has never been paid to me for one reason or another. There, so marked, is the sum that I and my clerks have never been able to wring out of the men in question. The culprits are listed below.’ I watched him read, resentment still simmering not far below the surface. ‘I’ll not cry poverty, Henry, but I’m no wealthy widow come here with the intention of bleeding England dry.’

  If I was taken aback at the bitterness that suddenly larded my tone, so was Henry who abandoned the accounting to stare at me. ‘I never thought you were. And I see that your Breton finances are compromised. I am sorry for it.’

  Fidgeting with the key, I was aware of nothing but the fact that the closeness between us had been spoiled. Nor did I quite understand how we had arrived at this uneasy place, except that royal finance was at the bottom of it. And that Henry’s tight-fisted Exchequer had stirred the pot.

  My expression must have been easy to read that morning.

  ‘Have I angered you?’ Henry asked, his hand brushing over my wrist as I retrieved the documents from him. ‘Interfering in Breton finances that are no concern of mine?’

  I might have thought he was lightly mocking, but his gaze was surprisingly stern, and I realised that I was frowning at him across the two rolls. I should not be frowning. Henry had fought to achieve my magnificent dowry for me and I must show my gratitude. Nor must I allow finance—either Breton or English—to become a festering sore between us that would undermine our new understanding. I would not have Henry frown at me as I was frowning at him. It behoved me to make reparation.

  And since we were alone, I took a step and kissed him, as he had kissed me.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  Henry was courteous rather than gratified.

  ‘To show my appreciation for what you have done for me. To persuade you not to frown at me. And to persuade you to consider a favour I would ask of you.’

  The relaxation in his stance, in the lines around his mouth, was palpable. ‘Since you are still a new bride, how can I refuse?’

  So I asked, hoping he would not take it amiss, but suspecting that he might. ‘I wish to have my own council and administration for my dower lands and my income. And a place in which to house them.’

  Which took Henry aback, casting some new emotion over him, evident in his voice.

  ‘Is that entirely necessary?’

  Should I not have expected it? Henry must see it as an implied slur on his own fiscal organisation. Where I had intended to draw the single unpleasant sting, I had in fact let loose a swarm of bees.

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘I had presumed that your affairs would be amalgamated with mine.’

  I kept my reply smooth, as if it were a matter of little moment. ‘I have always dealt with my own finances as Duchess of Brittany. Why change the habits of a lifetime? There is no need for you to be troubled by my Breton dower. I am the one to do it. I’ll not burden you, Henry.’

  Henry was not mollified. I could see it in the tilt of his chin.

  ‘It is your intention, then, to keep close ties with Brittany.’

  ‘Of course.’ Why would he question this? Was this another unexpected morass in which I must step carefully, or be dragged unsuspectingly below the surface? ‘It may be that I have left my sons behind, but I will not cut my ties with them completely. Would you expect that of me? I will always have Breton interests at heart, because they are the interests of my eldest son.’

  ‘I suppose I should expect no less…’

  I waited. And then to prompt the thought that had stamped Henry’s face with contemplative lines:‘But what?’

  I thought he would reply, and that I would not like his judgement, but something changed his mind, so that at last his lips curved into a reassuring smile of great charm.

  ‘There are no buts, my dear. None at all. I mustn’t forget that your son John will always retain a place in your heart.’ He placed the rolls back in their coffer for me and locked it, returning the key to me, as if that would end the discord between us. ‘As for your request, I will give you your council, and a tower sufficiently appropriate to house them and your records.’ But there was the ghost of a frown again. ‘I suppose if you keep some contact with Brittany, it will at least help to prevent war breaking out between us.’

  I looked up sharply. ‘Do you expect war?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would tell me if you did.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And yet you see it on the horizon.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  What a bleak little exchange. And there I was, frowning again.

  ‘It is the duty of every ruler to guard his boundaries,’ Henry said. ‘There has been ill-will between English and Bretons since at least my grandfather’s day.’ His hands were fisted on his hips. ‘Let’s cry truce here, Joanna. Trade squabbles between our countries need not mean hostility between ourselves. As your own mother must have discovered.’

  ‘I doubt my mother felt any emotion towards my father other than intense dislike. He was not a man easy to love.’

  Which, to my relief, made Henry laugh. ‘An understatement. And much unlike his daughter. Whom I find it impossible not to love.’

  Which smoothed away all the wrinkles in the day. Had we not, without any difficulty at all in the end and an honest exchange of opinion, resolved the dissension that had disturbed the surface of our new marital pond, like trout rising to snap at unsuspecting mayflies? Henry drew my hand through his arm to lead me back to the muniment room.

  ‘We will deal well together, Joanna.’

  ‘Of course.’ And then, because I would not allow secrets to lie undiscovered, ‘Why is the English Exchequer being uncooperative over my dower?’

  ‘The Exchequer is no longer uncooperative,’he stated, as if it was not a matter of debate. ‘Your dower is secure.’ His smile was warm. ‘Whatever problems we have to face in the future, we will not allow our financial state to come between us.’

  ‘No. Of course we will not.’

  But it left me wondering what other problems there might be. What did Henry foresee that I did not? And I had noted the smart diplomatic hop from war to trade squabbles, bringing the whole down to a lower level of importance.

  But then I was distracted, for Henry’s good humour was all restored.

  ‘Come and see what I have in mind for your new domain. I am in process of building a new tower. Is that fate, do you think? It is almost complete and will be most suitable…’

  And I was impressed when he showed me the drawings, near to the gate to Westminster Hall. This would become mine, for the custody of all my affairs of business and the space in which I might house my own personal treasurer, my receiver general, my chancellors and my steward. As to who would hold the offices, Henry suggested English men of skill and experience who would ease my way into English politics. It would please me to m
eet and instruct John Chandeler, Bishop of Salisbury, as my treasurer, and Henry Luttrell, my steward.

  With much satisfaction at the outcome of the morning’s work, I flexed my fingers, jewel-heavy, decorative but practical. I would help Henry to rule, standing beside him as he became the great King I knew he would be. It had perhaps been a day of uncomfortable learning, but the lessons had been fruitful. We were both of a mind to drive forward to fulfil our own desires—many would say we were too set in our ways—but I had no doubt that with good sense any divisions born of our new alliance would be fast healed.

  I kissed him lightly, in the spirit of my new learning, scribbling clerks notwithstanding, before leaving Henry to his dusty documents.

  *

  Pulling a fur-lined cloak around my shoulders, I shivered.

  ‘Do I send for spiced wine, my lady?’ Marie de Parency, my most loyal of serving women, was already summoning a page.

  I shook my head. Undoubtedly there was a coolness in the air at the English Court, but one that had nothing to do with the refusal of a chilly spring to blossom into true summer. This hint of frost had developed, slowly, insidiously, and I could not doubt that it was directed at me. It would take more than a cup of hippocras to cure it.

  I could not fault the correctness of how I was received in England. Respect was paramount. Deference all-pervading. I was bowed into every chamber I wished to use. I was greeted with fanfare of hautboy, shawm, sackbut and pipe at dinner. My beauty was lauded by Henry’s minstrels, a little too unctuous perhaps—I was past the heady days of my youth—but it was flattering, and I thought my face not beyond favour.

  ‘White as the lily, more crimson than the rose,

  Dazzling as a ruby from the East,

  At your beauty past compare I always gaze…’

  What woman would not enjoy such appreciation? Sung in my mother’s tongue, it added another fine layer to my happiness.

  The brief discord between Henry and me over the matter of my dower had, it seemed to me, been effectively laid to rest.

  But it was a cold acceptance from these proud English aristocrats in Henry’s Royal Council. There was no corresponding warmth in their demeanour. A smile, for their courtesy was without fault, had the glittering edge of a blade, quickly sheathed. There was no laughter, more often a tight silence if I entered a chamber unannounced to take them unawares.

  And occasionally, disturbingly, increasingly, there was no laughter in Henry either.

  I considered the cause. There was the rebellion, of course, that had been rumbling when I first came to England, of which I had now discovered every detail, as every good wife should. Henry might not speak much of it, but I had made it my policy to discover all about Owain Glyn Dwr. A Welsh lord, this Glyn Dwr, who had proclaimed himself Prince of Wales and, with an army of Welsh behind him, was snapping at Henry’s heels, promoting rebellion throughout that province far to the west, then crossing the border into England at every opportunity to stir trouble in the Marches. Had that not been the reason for our rush across country to Winchester and on to Westminster, the increasingly heavy discussions? It had certainly been the reason for the absence of Henry’s son and heir from our wedding. Prince Hal, young as he was, had been in Wales at the head of an army, whilst Henry could not afford to take his eye off this malingering insurrection for one second. Even to wed me.

  Henry should talk to me about this perennial thorn in his flesh, I decided. He had been too long alone, too long without a confidante to share his inner thoughts when he sat at ease with a cup of wine when the demands of the day were done. Who better in this role than his wife, a woman of some political experience? I would provide a solid sounding board for his plans and fair counsel for all Henry’s deliberations. It seemed to me to be the most obvious of roles for an able consort to play, and entirely fitting for my temperament.

  *

  My anticipation that Henry would consider my words of fair counsel was to fall fruitlessly, with a reverberating crash, onto stony ground. A misapprehension on my part that was to be shattered with brutal simplicity when, riding through London one morning in the direction of Westminster, I pulled my horse to a standstill, fingers tight on the reins in something akin to shock: my head whipped round.

  ‘Wait here!’ I said to Marie de Parency and my escort.

  There was a new head displayed for public disparagement on London Bridge.

  Not an unusual occurrence, criminals frequently being called on to pay this most degrading of penalties, nor was I in the habit of inspecting them, but this one was chilling. I pushed my mare closer. This one I knew, and it roused nausea in the pit of my belly for I had not been forewarned. Here were the pale features with sunken eye-sockets and the effects of vicious carrion of Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. His hair tangled on his brow, rank with sweat and blood. The last time I had seen the Earl of Worcester he had escorted me from Brittany, before standing shoulder to shoulder, impeccably groomed in silk and fur and jewels on his breast with his brother the Earl of Northumberland and his nephew Hotspur, to honour my wedding.

  The Earl would be a morose onlooker no longer.

  Now he was horribly and gorily dead, and I knew full well the reason why. This was the terrible reality of civil war. In calamitous association with Owain Glyn Dwr, the great northern magnates of the Percy family, with all their allies and retainers, had risen up in arms against their King.

  ‘Trusting them so implicitly was my mistake,’ Henry had said, irritation investing his every movement as he prepared to depart. ‘Rewarding them for past loyalties was an even greater one. Give them one purse of gold and they demand twenty. Gold that I have not got!’ He finished buckling his sword-belt with crisp exactness. ‘I have to stop Hotspur meeting up with Glyn Dwr at all costs. He’s marching through Cheshire, collecting troops. I haven’t the resources to fight two of them together. If they join forces the whole country will erupt in flames, taking me with it.’

  So Henry had gone to war. Not a skirmish. Not a siege of some Welsh town or castle. Henry had left, not four months after our wedding, with the prospect of a fully fledged battle, Englishman waging death-dealing blows against Englishman. Almost before the dishes from our Winchester banquet had grown cold, sauces congealing, Henry was summoning his retainers and levies, donning his armour, informing the Council of his intent.

  My soul curled within me in dread of the repercussions, and I had said as much to Henry, appalled that this family that had brought Henry safe to his inheritance should now be engaged in bringing him to his knees. I did not need the experience of it to know that war within a country breathed disaster. Victor and conquered must find the common ground to live with each other afterwards, that much I could see. Re-establishing peace would be no easy matter if king and rebels came to outright battle with heavy losses on both sides. Even presuming that Henry returned the victor.

  Henry must have read the concern in my face. ‘We’ll defeat them yet. I have Hal and his troops in Wales to call on.’ His hand was firm on mine, and I caught it as he would have walked away from me to collect all the personal accoutrements necessary to kill and defend.

  ‘When you win, Henry.’ There was a warning in my voice. ‘Show mercy to them.’

  Henry’s face and reply were equally uncompromising. ‘I think not.’

  Still I would make the case for leniency. ‘Clemency is a fine attribute for you as King. It might be politic to win the Percy trust again when the blood and fury and dust of battle have all settled. To show them that you will deal within the law as a worthy ruler, bent on justice and honour.’

  It was as strong an argument as I could make.

  Henry’s reasoning was even stronger.

  ‘How do I show justice and honour to those who commit treason and break their foresworn oaths? They are out for my blood, so the penalty must be death. Necessitas non habet legem.’ He frowned over the loose stitching on a glove. ‘Do I need to translate?’

  ‘No.’
r />   It needed no translation, and I was exasperated that he would ask. Necessity has no law. There would be no compassion for Henry at Percy hands if they emerged victorious; for his part Henry saw his path as one of ruthless efficiency in obliterating his enemies, and clearly, if his last blighting comment was a measure of it, Henry’s temper was running high. I tried again in measured tones.

  ‘It is an uncomfortable policy to pursue. It might create more enmity.’

  ‘What choice do they give me? How can it create more than I already face? Must I tolerate war in my own lands, between my own people, bringing bloodshed and destruction? Before God, I will not.’ He hugged me hard against the unforgiving armour—‘Keep the faith, Joanna!’—before letting me go, allowing me no more time than to return a brief kiss. Thus I was summarily abandoned, with nothing to do but wait, the lot of all women. My opinion, prudently offered, had been nothing but chaff to be dissipated in the stiff wind of Henry’s convictions.

  And so I waited. With votive candles and prayers and increasing anxiety.

  Until, now regarding Worcester’s battered, raven-scarred head on London Bridge, my anxieties were answered unequivocally. But mercy? Had Henry been moved by my plea? Henry had shown none, news flooding in that all was effectively settled in a fierce and particularly bloody battle for both sides outside the marches town of Shrewsbury where Prince Hal and Henry faced the Percy levies. In the aftermath Worcester was executed for the treason he had undoubtedly committed, Hotspur cut down on the battlefield. No mercy here. Nor did Henry come home but instead marched north to bring Northumberland to its knees after dispatching Worcester’s severed head to spread its message of treachery, while taking the grisly head of Hotspur to York, to reduce his father Northumberland through fear and grief. The rest of his traitorous body had been displayed in towns the length and breadth of the country.

  No compassion then, and there would be some faces spectacularly absent from the ranks of Henry’s councillors. Without doubt this campaign would instil fear. But would it heal and mend? I doubted it.