The Queen's Choice

‘By a good few years,’ I admitted with praiseworthy warmth. ‘Mary is held to be elegant and attractive. If my uncle of Berry considers you a suitable match for his daughter, you should be honoured. His pride is a thing of wonder, as is his wealth. Take her.’ I paused, reading the set of his mouth very well. ‘I don’t believe you need my advice,’ I chided. ‘I think you knew what you intended to do, without any eulogies from me.’

‘Perhaps. But I wanted to know what you would say.’ His eyes were lightly appreciative on mine. ‘If you vouch for her abilities and affections, I would be a fool to refuse.’

Aware of the uncomfortable warmth at my temples, I forced a smile. ‘So now you know that I can say nothing but good about her. Tell Charles that you will take a French bride.’

Henry’s shoulder lifted, a touch of grace. ‘If I must wed, this elegant and attractive lady would seem the perfect choice. It will not harm me to have the Duke of Berry on my side. Or King Charles if he is willing to entrust his niece to my care. And since you are so eloquent in her cause…’

‘Have you not met her?’ John asked, forestalling me.

‘No. It is arranged that I will do so next week. She is invited to attend one of the assemblies at the Hotel de St Pol. I am invited too.’

‘Give her my love,’ I said dryly. ‘And my felicitations for a fruitful union.’

Wishing my elegant and attractive cousin Mary, quite frankly, to the devil.

*

The meeting was duly arranged to introduce the bridal pair, and because it was a family occasion, John and I were invited too. As on all such prestigious occasions, my charming cousin Mary was paraded before Henry as an exemplary wife, tricked out in courtly style with a fortune of fine gems in the collar that enhanced her not insignificant bosom. The Court watched indulgently. I watched less indulgently, and then I did not watch indulgently at all.

Henry saluted Mary’s fingers, then her cheek, with rare grace.

They talked seriously, with much to say between them.

They laughed.

They danced.

It would be an exceptional marriage for both of them.

Mary was young, younger than I, and beautiful.

Earl Henry smiled with true enjoyment as he led his partner in the procession, tilting his head so that he could hear her flattering address and reply.

I could watch no more.

I was ashamed.

*

‘Will you dance, Madam Joanna?’

I considered refusing, but that would be too particular. Of course he would invite me, because Duke Henry was courteous to the tips of his finely curled hair. And I would accept. It was inappropriate to draw attention to one’s emotions when surrounded by a keen-eyed, gossip-ridden, manipulative Court. In my own family, in Navarre, I had learned early that it was dangerous to show either pain or pleasure; it threw you into the clutches of those who would use their knowledge to their own advantage. Such as my father. My father’s children developed a disinterestedness worthy of the purest saint facing his martyrdom.

I was intent on moving out of the shadow of King Charles the Bad, to prove myself to be a woman of integrity and honesty and strong principle. Charles the Bad might have trampled over the talents of his daughters, unaware that they even existed, but I would show the world that Joanna of Navarre was worthy of note.

‘It will be my pleasure, sir,’ I consented, magnificently mild in my accord.

Taking my hand, Duke Henry led me into yet another formal procession which did not allow for conversation or privacy, except for:

‘Did you enjoy Mary’s company?’ I asked, curious despite my antipathy.

‘Lady Mary is a woman of great charm.’ Our palms kissed, parted, rejoined. ‘She dances with a formidable lightness of foot.’

Oh, it hurt.

‘An exemplary woman,’ I agreed as we came together again, his fingers a quick intimacy, a most impersonal one, as he led me through a trio of light dancing steps, in which I apparently was no match for my superlative cousin.

‘She converses well too.’

‘Which will be an advantage, I believe, at Richard’s Court when you return home.’

‘Indeed. Richard will admire her and take her to his heart.’

With a decided gleam, Duke Henry’s eyes touched on mine. Then held there, considering. I thought he would have spoken, but the interweaving of the procession led us apart again so the moment was lost when I found myself partnered with my cousin of Orleans, my concentration taken up in avoiding his large and inept feet. Until, restored to Duke Henry at the completing of the procession, the minstrels falling silent, our companion dancers drifted away to find refreshment and new partners. Duke Henry remained holding my hand, our arms raised aloft in an elegant arch, as if we still had the final steps to complete, his face set in surprisingly solemn lines.

‘I have you to thank. Your judgement of your cousin was correct in all aspects.’ He lowered our arms, but did not completely break the contact. ‘She is lovely, in face and in mind. She is intelligent, well read, devout. A woman who has more in her thoughts than the cloth of her gown and the cut of her bodice.’ He paused. His soft voice was in no manner sardonic. ‘A woman who I consider to be capable of great loyalty, and affection. She would be a perfect bride for a Lancaster.’

Whereas he had described me as merely handsome. Jealousy, sour as unripe pippins, nibbled at the edges of my smile so that my reply was more barbed than I would have wished. ‘And all this discovered within the time and space of one dance.’

‘Of course. We had much to talk about. If we are to be wed, we must make up for lost opportunities.’

I turned to look at him. There was nothing in his face but discreet admiration for my spritely cousin, now dancing with another Valois lord.

‘You forgot her ability to ride to the hunt and play the lute,’ I added.

‘No. I did not forget. It did not need mentioning. She will be acceptable in every way, my lady.’

‘Then I wish you every happiness.’

Why should the Duke not wed her? Why should he not find happiness with this charming cousin? Her connections were impeccable. She would be of inestimable value. Yet such a declaration of admiration on so short an acquaintance shook me, even as I knew that I was too old and too wise for such unwarranted sentiments. Sadly, my envy knew no bounds. With the briefest of curtseys I turned on my heel and left him. I did not want him to marry my decidedly attractive cousin. I wanted…but I did not know what I wanted. Nor could I have it, even if I did.

I prayed hard that night. For composure. For a return of the stillness in my mind and heart. For a return of the acceptance of my life as it was. Inflicting my own penance, I prayed for the success of this marriage to Mary of Berry. It would be suitable reparation and the pain for me would be immeasurable. Which I undoubtedly deserved.

*

The next week we all attended one of the regular Court audiences. King Charles, shuffling his feet, encased in an unfortunate shade of vermilion, let his gaze slide to one side, then slide back again. The sudden sharp tension, that came to hang in the air like a noisome odour, increased when he stared at Henry, his mouth twisting in disapprobation.

Henry, straight-backed, was absorbing the tension too.

And then I saw, as Mary turned her head to look at her betrothed. What I read there made my belly lurch. When I would have expected her to show her approval, her pleasure, her mouth was as sharp set as if she had been dosed against worms with bitter purge of hyssop. Present with her family, she bent her head to hear some whispered comment from her father.

And in that moment, touched by a presentiment of danger, if I could have stopped the whole proceedings by some deep magic I would have done so. Instead all I could do was to stand, perfectly still and let events take their course.

Blinking furiously, Charles beckoned the Duke of Burgundy who, horribly prepared, stepped forward from his place beside the royal throne. He cleared his throat loudly, before announcing in the clearest of accents, staring at Henry as he did so:

‘King Charles wishes it to be known. This proposed marriage between the Lady Mary of Berry and the Duke of Hereford is anathema. We cannot think of marrying our cousin the Lady Mary to a traitor.’

Traitor. The fatal word dropped into a sudden silence.