The Queen's Choice

‘He knows what he is doing. He’ll not take unnecessary risks.’ John took my hand, rubbing it as if to warm my flesh on a cold day, even though the heat in the room was great. ‘It is his destiny. Victory or death. We cannot help him now.’

It gave me no satisfaction. He had gone. The echo of his retreating footsteps had fallen silent, leaving nothing but a memory of sharp dissension and clash of will. How disturbing it had all been.

And yet I knew the outcome as if I were a practised soothsayer peering into a scrying glass. He would win his own again, driven by justice and honour to retrieve what was undoubtedly his by birth and blood and true inheritance. Would this ambition carry him through this campaign to seize the Crown of England? It might indeed. And then France, faced with a new king de facto might just come begging, with Mary of Berry as a simpering offering, a new bride who would be Queen of England.

‘Joanna?’

‘Yes?’ I blinked. I had been standing with my ever-circling, troubled thoughts, a huge sense of loss bearing down on me, my hand still lightly held by John.

‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled in apology. ‘I was just thinking how hard it will be for him.’ And feeling the weight of John’s strangely speculative gaze:‘I must return to the children…’

‘Not yet.’ John rubbed his thumb along the edge of my chin, then walked slowly to the coffer beneath the window, the one that stored the most precious of his books and documents. Raising its lid, he delved inside to extract a book, which he held out to me.

‘That’s a family possession,’ I said, not moving to take it, not understanding.

‘Yes it is.’ His eyes were clear, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘I want you to take it down to Henry before he leaves. I meant to give it to him. I forgot. It will strengthen him when his courage is at its lowest ebb, surrounded by enemies, as he will be. When he needs to feel God’s presence and guidance, this will help.’

It was a Book of Hours, belonging to some long-dead Duchess of Brittany, illuminated with jewel-like pictures of angels and saints.

‘Are you sure?’ I frowned, very unsure. ‘You could send a servant.’

‘I could, of course. I think you should take it.’ He was still holding it out to me, his voice suddenly gruff. ‘If you don’t hurry, he’ll be gone.’

I took it, smoothing my hands over the old vellum and gilding. I did not need to open it to know the beauty of the inks, the fine clerical script with its decorative letters. It had great value.

‘Tell him that the Duke and Duchess of Brittany will keep him in their thoughts and their prayers,’ John was saying. ‘And you can give him your own personal good wishes. Which you failed to do when he left. It may be hotter than the fires of Hell in here but I swear there was ice under your feet.’

Which I deserved.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes I will.’

John’s eyes were bright on mine, his face stern and then he smiled. I still did not understand.

‘Run, Joanna.’

*

I ran, my skirts hitched, as uncaring of appearances as my daughter in her spirited game, the book clasped tight as I navigated the turn in the stair and out onto the shallow flight of steps. The stables. That is where he would be. His escort was already mounted in the courtyard but there was no sign of Henry. I slowed to a walk more suitable to my rank, entering the dusty dimness, blinded by the bright rays slanting in bars through the small apertures. There was his horse, saddled and bridled but still waiting, a squire at its head.

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘Gone to the chapel, my lady.’

I should have known. I turned and, manoeuvring my way through the handful of mounted men who made up his escort, I walked, more slowly now, to the carved arch that led into the tower where our private chapel was housed, pushing open the door, reluctant to disturb Henry in this final moment of prayer.

But there he was, already striding out into the little antechamber between apse and outer door, sword, gloves and hood in one hand as he tucked a crucifix into the neck of his tunic with the other. It was plain, I noticed, such as any soldier might use, and there was about him a serenity that had been absent before.

I stopped.

So did he.

I could thrust the book into his hand with the briefest of explanations and apologies for my previous lack, and make my escape before stepping into dangerous waters. I did no such thing. With a rare commitment to what I felt rather than what I was thinking, I closed the door behind me.

The sun which had made prison bars in the stable, here, in this octagonal space with its joyously painted floor-tiles, bathed us in iridescence through a trio of little stained-glass windows depicting brave saints and martyrs, John’s pride and joy. It was like a holy blessing over us, as for one of the few times in my life, no words came to me. It was as if the whole essence of me was held in suspension, like fragrant dust in the liquid of some herbal potion.

Words did not escape Henry.

‘You came to me.’ The sudden light in Henry’s face was so bright that I was transfixed. ‘I could not hope that you would. Knowing that you had no liking for my venture.’ Then the light faded. Henry’s brows flattened. ‘You should not be here. I should send you away.’

‘I will not go yet.’ I proffered the book. ‘I am here to give you this. In honour of our friendship. To give you strength in times of need. It was John’s idea, but you should know that I am in agreement.’

Slowly he walked the few steps towards me, taking the book from me, placing it unopened on the stone window embrasure at his side along with gloves and hood. His sword was propped against the wall. Not once in the disposal of his property did his gaze move from mine, and my breath was compromised as he drew me towards him until his hands released mine and framed my face. Then I was even more breathless when his mouth found mine and he kissed me.

It was no affectionate kiss exchanged between close cousins, no formal salute between family, or even between friends. Or not in my limited experience. Beginning softly with a brush of lip against lip, it gained an intensity. An assurance. A depth. In the end a knowledge that it would be reciprocated. And as he kissed me a new horizon spread before me. A new geography beneath my feet. I drank from him, as from a bottomless well to slake a thirst I had never known I had. I clung to him. I buried my guilt in his embrace as I buried my nails in the thick stuff of his gambeson.

It was an intoxication such I had never known, even from spiced wine. Even more, it was an astonishment that he should have a need to kiss me in this manner. I could never have anticipated it, not in all the months I had known him.

Slowly Henry lifted his head and let me go.

‘Do you know how much I love you?’

His expression was grave. He continued to speak while I simply stood and absorbed the enormity of what he was saying:

‘I would not kiss you in Paris because you were wed and it would not be honourable for me to do so. Neither would I speak to you of what was in my heart from the first moment that our paths crossed at Richard’s marriage. Did you realise? I thought that you must. I could repeat every part of that conversation when you told me that you had never known love in life. My soul cried out to tell you that you were loved. That I loved and desired you. I almost abandoned honour. I almost held you and kissed you, but I knew I must not with the imprint of the cross on your palm. All I could do was seal that precious image with my lips. And now I have done both—kissed you and declared my love—in your own husband’s castle, in his chapel where I have just sought God’s blessing. How much honour have I? And yet I have not one regret.’ His fingertips moved gently over my cheeks. ‘I promised myself that I would never say this. But some promises are made to be broken. I love you, Joanna.’

The words stroked over my mind with such sweetness.

‘I don’t understand how this can be,’ I said.

‘Nor do I.’

‘I thought you admired my cousin.’ I was still struggling to quiet my breathing, baffled at the suddenness of it all.

‘Admiration is not love.’

‘Your description of her was that of a man bent on love.’

‘My description was of you. Did you not recognise yourself, most handsome of women?’ There was his smile that melted my bones. ‘As you so wisely remarked, how would I know Lady Mary to such a degree after one dance?’

And I laughed, a little in relief, in wordless delight, as Henry continued to pour his words of love over me.

‘How can I deny something that has become a part of me? I have not seen you for six months, I have not heard your voice, but you are fixed in my memory as brightly as an illuminated initial in that magnificent gift you have bestowed on me. I cannot deny it. I will not, even though there is no future for us together. If it is honour to let you go, then I will. But I will say this first, so that, in the rest of our lives apart, you will never forget it and you will always know it. You are loved, Joanna. You are my most treasured delight.’

The words shivered over me, through me, and I replied as I wished to, as he would want me to. As, now I realised in those moments of blinding revelation, John had given me permission to reply. Flattening all my pride, my lips burning as I spoke, my tongue forming the words I had never said before to any man, and with such ease:‘I love you, Henry of Lancaster.’

‘There, it is done. Our love acknowledged in God’s presence.’ He smiled at me, all his beauty restored, all the harsh anger of the last hour stripped away. Yet he took a step away from me. ‘I will not kiss you again.’

But it was not enough. Not at all enough.