The Queen's Choice

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 certainly 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.

‘I can see that the offer is not an unpleasant one, my lady.’

‘No, Lord Thomas. It is not.’ But that was my heart speaking, and my mind was fast taking control, rearranging thoughts and impressions. The results were not good.

‘Do I tell my King that you will consider his offer?’

The smile was gone.

‘These are heavy matters, sir.’ Abruptly I stood to walk to the window to look out over the river and meadows of my country by marriage, seeing it greening on hedge and tree, keeping my face turned from him so that he would not read my disappointment:‘Why did your King not come himself, with so important a consideration?’

There was no hesitation. ‘My King is beleaguered, my lady.’

‘So strongly beleaguered that he must embark on a proxy wooing?’