The Queen's Choice

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘So what are you saying? In plain words,’ I demanded. ‘For I have a strong predilection for the truth and it seems to me the blackest condemnation of Hal that you could ever make.’

  Bishop Henry hitched a shoulder, as if in regret, but did not hesitate to turn the knife in my sore heart. ‘The King has instituted this accusation of witchcraft in order to take from you the land and money that he needs for the war. You were too wealthy to leave untouched. If you wish to know the source of the accusation against you, I fear it is the King himself. He desired to put you in a position of absolute weakness. He was the instigator.’

  The poison that Hal had sown hovered in the air, filling my lungs with its grim residue. Breathing was suddenly difficult.

  ‘Would Henry’s own son be so unprincipled?’ I asked. I could not accept that I had misread this splendid heir so completely.

  ‘My nephew would use the word pragmatic,’ Bishop Henry said. ‘He would say that it was the obvious means to a much desired end.’

  Yes, of course he would. Raised as a soldier from the earliest age, conquest and victory against the French had been the determining factors throughout his whole life. Now his dedication had placed me at the very centre of the royal strategy, threatening to blight the rest of my life.

  ‘It is a ruthless and wilful act, based on sheer greed,’ Thomas was saying. ‘There is no excuse. But knowing is no help to you. It is impossible to change the decision of the Royal Council, unless Henry orders it. I’m afraid it all points to his never being persuaded to do that. He will wed the French princess and by so doing claim the French Crown for his as yet unborn heirs. You, Joanna, are part of that plan.’

  Bishop Henry released my hands but remained seated before me, a jaundiced expression tightening the corners of his mouth. ‘All I can do is pray for a better resolution of the situation.’

  ‘Pray! Do that! I hope it is efficacious.’ They were all so infuriatingly calm, whereas I would never be calm again. Once more I squeezed my fingers into fists on my lap. ‘We are all pawns in this vicious game. I presume that Father John is also innocent. And my poor hapless servants. For the sake of Henry’s achievements in France we are all dragged into the foul detritus of the gutter. By the Virgin!’A memory slid into my thoughts. ‘And I suppose that our revered Archbishop is all part of the plot, ordering his clerics to preach against the dangers of necromancy. How well the King laid the foundations, spreading fear through the whole country so that no one would be at all astonished to hear that the Queen Dowager herself, for some inexplicable reason, wished to do away with her step-son. If the Archbishop of Canterbury saw witches scurrying under every stone that was lifted, then I must be as evil as they say.’

  Ungovernable fury was rippling dangerously close to the surface, but beneath it a grief. All my servants had been turned off from my employ. Some subjected to atrocities I could not contemplate. My own reputation dragged into the mire. All to put money into Hal’s hands to fund the French war and a new wife.

  ‘And I loved him, as Henry’s son. How could he punish me in this manner? How Henry would grieve if he knew. I am almost relieved that he has passed beyond knowing the vile deed his son is capable of!’

  ‘It’s deplorable,’ Bishop Henry agreed gently, gathering my fists into his large hands as if he could contain my anger and grief. ‘But you will not be the first woman to suffer in this manner. Tell me a better, a more effective way to remove a powerful woman. A wealthy woman. One who already has a history rife with rumour and superstition. As a political move, it is superb.’

  My grief was banished. ‘Would you defend him? Would you sit before me and tell me that your nephew is merely a superb politician?’

  ‘No.’

  And as the implication of the Bishop’s words drove home, I dragged my fists from his grasp:‘I don’t take your meaning.’ And then:‘I hope I don’t take your meaning.’

  Bishop Henry did not even have the grace to show regret. His face was as stern as if I were the worst sinner in his flock. ‘Is it not true, Joanna, that your father possessed a most unenviable reputation when dealing with his enemies?’

  ‘My father? I can think of nothing good to say about my father. But how does this have bearing on my life? On this accusation of black heresy and sorcery? I knew my father’s vicious character but not this.’ I looked round the trio of visitors. ‘What is being said of my father?’

  ‘It is said,’ Humphrey observed, ‘that King Charles of Navarre used necromancy to rid himself of any man who stood in his way to power.’

  I stood. ‘Who says?’

  ‘There have always been rumours.’

  ‘Rumours! Since when did a man need witchcraft, when he could readily use poison or a paid assassin with a handy dagger to achieve his ends? To my knowledge my father was prepared to use both. I will never defend him for he brought too many good men to their death. But necromancy? People might talk of it, but I deny any evidence. Nor is there evidence against me, his daughter. Do I keep a grimoire beneath my pillow and robes of sorcery in my clothes press?’

  Bishop Henry was unmoved. ‘All you say might be true. But your father’s grim reputation does not help you. Nor do you need a text of magic. Herbal knowledge is sufficient, in which I—and others—are aware that you are well versed. You must see that is so.’

  A cold, clear statement of fact. I was caught in the net of Hal’s weaving, my father’s cunning hand with poison and cold steel, and not least my own acquired proficiency. There was no escape from it.

  I sat, allowing the thoughts to swim in my mind, inspecting their ever-changing pattern, considering new designs that could save me from this débâcle, but never creating anything that could rescue my floundering spirit. My visitors remained silent too, allowing me my privacy for this terrible reflection. They had had time to consider the hopelessness of it all. It was new to me. Thomas walked behind me to place a hand on my shoulder as if that could comfort me. And perhaps the warmth of it did a little.

  ‘So knowing all of this, and accepting it because I must, what do I do?’ I asked at last, allowing Bishop Henry to take my hands again.

  ‘There is nothing you can do. The Royal Council will only release you if—or when—Hal changes his mind.’

  Hal was not known for changing his mind. My fate appeared to be sealed, and my freedom with it. Rising I went to stare out at a scene that might be mine until the day I died. Walls and turrets, barred gates and guards to prevent my escape. Since it was too bleak to contemplate, I returned slowly to stand with my messengers of bleak despair.

  ‘I have never received such a remarkable New Year’s gift.’

  Humphrey shifted uneasily:‘Victory in the French war is of vital importance to us.’

  ‘Oh I know,’ I returned. ‘I suppose that I should admire your support for your brother. But don’t try to persuade me that England’s greatness and a French bride are worth my degradation. You’ll not succeed and I’ll not think well of you for trying. I pray your brother’s young wife has a better experience at his hands than I have.’ I turned to the Bishop. ‘If Henry were alive today, what would be his advice to me?’

  ‘To get over rough ground as easily as possible with strategy and planning. Unfortunately my nephew would advise exactly the same.’

  ‘I’m sure he would. And how do I plan against the unknown?’

  After which there was not much more to say. Refusing offers of food, Beaufort and Plantagenet departed, Bishop Henry making the sign of the cross in blessing.

  ‘May God keep you in His holy care and give you succour.’

  ‘Amen. May He indeed. And open Hal’s eyes to the iniquity of his actions!’

  They bowed and made to leave, but not before a final blast of temper assailed them from the depths of my soul.

  ‘Not one of you can propose any course of action to release me from this outrage. Do I have to call on my son of Brittany? My nephew of Valois? Do I have to beg them to come with force of arms to de
stroy the walls that curtail me? Not that they would, for neither can hold sway in this barbarous country against this atrocity of English law when a Queen can be shut away to rob her of her money. You are men of straw, all three of you. And you, Baron Thomas de Camoys, you persuaded me to stay here in England, to make my home in this nest of vipers.’

  ‘My lady.’ Bishop Henry’s discomfort was a pleasure to see. ‘Hold fast to your faith and to the strength that brought you here to your life with Henry. You have good friends.’

  ‘But more enemies than I had realised. Leave me. You have done enough to destroy my confidence in the conscience of powerful men.’

  Bishop and Duke bowed and departed, which left me momentarily, still trembling, with Thomas.

  ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ he said. ‘So often in the past I have given you advice. Now I am at a loss.’

  ‘If you were going to attempt to smooth my ruffled feathers with placatory words, don’t even try. My feathers are un-smoothable.’

  Thomas sighed a little. ‘I’ll come and see you.’

  ‘When I am in a better mood? I doubt that I ever will achieve that state of grace. But you may come as you wish. I won’t be going anywhere, will I?’ How savage my response when he did not deserve it, as I knew in the depths of my heart. But he was the messenger and who else could I attack? ‘I should be grateful, of course. I might have been facing death by fire. But somehow I cannot be grateful.’ I turned my back on him. ‘God damn you, Hal. Do you suppose he has any feeling of guilt over what he has done?’

  ‘I would not wager your popinjay on it.’

  ‘Unfortunately I no longer have a popinjay to wager.’

  *

  I was moved to Pevensey, Sir John’s own property, with its bleak walls and vast towers. Then to Leeds Castle with its watery beauty, ironically my own dower. And always the fear accompanied me, that the next step would be the dread Tower where traitors were incarcerated. For there was no doubt that I was a prisoner. Despair set in, and with it anger throbbed in my mind so that my head ached with it. I had no kin to respond to my cry for help. No friends. All dead or estranged or powerless. Or disinterested.

  So it must be. I made my decision. If this was to be my fate, then I would embrace it with cold bitterness. I would encumber no one with my plight. To do so made a woman vulnerable. I would live out my days in icy dignity, numb detachment. My world would be like a cold cloister, full of empty chanting and choking incense. Would I ever become inured to confinement? I did not think so, but I would be dependent on no one for company or entertainment. Even God, it seemed in my extremity, had forsaken me. I was abandoned.

  Henry would not have left me so bereft. But Henry was dead. I could not think of Henry.

  And Hal. The victorious King, hero of Agincourt, great soldier, loved, revered, the hope of England. What had he done? Destroyed me. Degraded me. Humiliated and betrayed me. He had not once visited me, to stand by his decision in my presence.

  Cowardice to my mind, rank cowardice.

  I was desolate but anger ruled me. I suspect that I was impossible to live with.

  ‘You are to be provided with an allowance, my lady, and a clerk of the household, Master Thomas Lilbourne, to supervise it,’ Sir John informed me.

  ‘I have no household.’

  ‘I will arrange for servants to be appointed for your comfort.’

  ‘Now why would this be, Sir John? If I am thought guilty of the foulest of crimes against the King.’

  ‘It is the wish of the Council, my lady.’

  ‘A sop to their conscience, I presume.’

  Which brought our conversation to a brisk end.

  In a spirit of defiance, I began to compile a list for the long-suffering Master Lilbourne, a pale, resolute young clerk, purchasing all I needed for the life I must lead, and in its compilation I was driven by a vengeful delight. Master Lilbourne tried hard not to raise his brows at its extent.

  ‘Are you certain, my lady?’

  ‘Do you question my orders, sir?’

  No, I was not pleasant to live with.

  And no, I was not spending outside my means. It was after all an excellent bargain for the King. He had acquired ten thousand marks from me, paid into his treasury every year. My allowance, worthy as it might seem, was a drop in the ocean to him. A bribe for my acquiescence. I would spend it.

  When the result of my lists of commodities began to arrive, so too did Sir John, but in his inimitable fashion, made no comment, except to say:

  ‘You may ride out using my horses which I will leave stabled here. You will of course be accompanied by one of my men.’

  So prim. So contained, like honey running smooth over the back of a silver spoon. Abjuring all good manners, I turned my back on him and walked into my own property: that was no longer mine.

  Sometimes loneliness had the sharp teeth of a rat.

  *

  Thomas returned at the beginning of April, a whole month after my arrival at Leeds, by which time I was ravenous for company but disinclined to admit it. My temper simmered, an endless bubble of it, like the surface of a winter pottage, but far less appetising. As he dismounted, still agile, still a man of action as well as supreme organisational skill despite his nearing his sixtieth year, issuing orders to the Captain of his escort who was to ride on to some prearranged meeting, all I felt was resentment. My welcome, if that is what it was, was unsmilingly chilling.

  ‘Lord Thomas. So you have come at last.’

  ‘Madam.’ His heavy brows flattened for a moment. Then his eyes gleamed as he bowed. ‘Can it be that you lack company? I would be flattered if I did not think that you might even welcome Sir John in the same fulsome manner.’

  Which did not embarrass me one jot. ‘Of course I lack company. And since you are now here, I hope you will give me some news. I feel as enclosed as a nun.’

  ‘I thought you had been given permission to ride out.’

  My temper leapt.

  ‘With a tight escort. Of what value is that to me? If you can tell me nothing about my situation, at least we can talk about the weather and the poor quality of the salt fish. Lent can be very trying. My waiting women—do you know that I now have four English women to wait on me?—have no conversation at all. Although of course I should be grateful that I have the means to employ them.’

  ‘No, I have nothing new to give you about your situation. But I promise I’ll not talk to you about fish, or the weather.’ He glanced at me as we began to climb the shallow steps into the entrance hall. ‘You are favouring your right foot, I think. Have you suffered an injury?’

  ‘No injury. Merely old bones,’I said, unaccommodatingly dismissive, stiffening my sinews so that I did not limp. ‘Did you not know? I am graciously allowed to consult with Pedro de Alcobaca, Henry’s physician of great renown.’ I shook my head as I saw him preparing to question me as to my ailments. ‘There is nothing wrong with me that freedom and justice would not cure.’ I was not in a mood to be a martyr to my woes. I would not admit to them, even as they took my breath when I moved without care. ‘While you, Lord Thomas, look to be in astonishing good health.’

  Not waiting for a reply I led him to one of my favourite rooms, overlooking the river where water birds swam and squabbled and the scudding clouds made ever-changing patterns. Resentment swirled, much like the water. I was beyond courtesy. Inexcusable, but product of pain and sleeplessness, of formless grey fear and rampant injustice.

  ‘What will I tell you that will keep you in touch with the world beyond your gates? And will sweeten your temper.’

  It was typical of him to express it so matter-of-factly. And did nothing to remedy the problem, for I had been struck down by such pain, a swelling of tender joints, a tightening of skin so that every movement was an excruciation of agony, all exacerbated by cold and damp and, quite possibly, my own ill-humour. Any hopes to which I tried to cling fell around my suffering ankles, l
ike feathers falling into a drift from a plucked capon, as I dragged myself from my bed to face yet another day of debilitating agonies. I could no longer stride along the wall walk. I did not even contemplate the saddling of Sir John’s mare. Not only was I locked behind the walls of this castle but my spirit was entrapped within my failing body.

  ‘My temper is beyond sweetening,’ was all I said, voicing nothing of my compounded miseries. ‘What have you been doing while I sew and read and petition the Blessed Virgin for mercy?’

  ‘I’m sure the Lady will keep you in Her care.’

  ‘Are you? I am finding it difficult to be so certain. Do sit.’

  We sat in chilly silence as Agnes Thorley, Isabelle’s equally colourless sister—for I had a busy quartet of English ladies to wait on me including a Margaret and a Katherine, as well as grooms and pages of the chamber—poured spiced wine, whereupon Thomas, blandly cooperative with my demands, proceeded to tell me of his travails to raise money to array and muster men for the French war.

  ‘So you are busy,’ I remarked when he had finished a tedious record, while I had sat in silence, refusing to drink. ‘And what is the King doing?’

  Thomas’s stare was enigmatic. He knew what was in my mind. If the King returned to England, would he pursue the case against me? When he returned, would he dare to face me after all he had done?

  The reply to my demand was flatly informative. ‘He’s busy as usual, building alliances, making his hold on France too strong to break. He’s joined with your cousin of Burgundy to wage war against the Dauphin. An uneasy alliance since they were once strong enemies, but it will hold as long as the new Duke is furious with the Dauphin at the assassination of the Duke’s father on the bridge at Montereau. At the same time Hal’s in negotiation with the French Court. He is certain to marry the French princess if they can work out her value.’