The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

my royal cousin King Charles, in his innocence, intervened.

      ‘So what is Charles doing to entertain you this week?’ John asked with more slyness than necessary as we finished off the crumbs and sweetmeats of a desultory supper. ‘Any more theological arguments to exercise your mind when you have nothing else to think about?’

      ‘This week it’s marriage,’ Henry announced, his expression carefully austere.

      ‘Whose?’

      ‘Mine.’

      ‘You are to be wed?’ John was obviously amused.

      ‘King Charles, in a fit of sanity, sees a means of chaining me to his side, whatever the future might hold. He seeks a bride for me. A French lady of some distinction.’

      John might be amused, but did I find amusement in this clever strategic manoeuvring? I could understand it well enough. Whatever the outcome of this temporary isolation for Duke Henry, since one day he would assuredly regain his inheritance it might be good policy to make him a friend of France through a desirable marriage. Good policy indeed. And yet my hands stilled on my lap, my knuckles as white as the sun-bleached linen that covered the table. A new bride. Was that not what we had all expected? I should wish him well.

      ‘And who is the fortunate lady?’ I sounded to have a genuine interest.

      ‘A cousin of yours. The Duke of Berry’s daughter.’

      I allowed my brows to rise gently. ‘A powerful match. An important bride. King Charles values you highly.’

      ‘Even though I am banished, my reputation tarnished beyond repair.’

      ‘You will not always be.’ His cynicism was difficult to bear, particularly when he spoke nought but the truth.

      ‘It seems a lifetime.’ Henry promptly adopted a bleak stoicism. ‘So the Valois would condescend to me, and I must accept. Tell me about her. Should I seek it? After all, I have nothing to lose.’

      ‘And much to gain.’ John waved his hand in my direction. ‘Joanna will tell you all you need to know about the lady. She has the convoluted relationships of the Valois family at her fingertips.’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied immediately. ‘You should snatch at it.’

      I would have dragged him away from such a marriage. From any marriage.

       How can you be so selfish? His future is not yours to direct.

      I forced an astonishing depth of approval into my voice. She would make him an exemplary wife. And as I did so, became aware of John beaming at me. My lord and husband. My dear friend. He did not deserve my disloyalty, not to any degree. Morality decreed that I turn my thoughts to him, not to Duke Henry. Was I not a woman of high principle?

      Never had I known such inner conflict. When a woman knew nothing of love-lorn longings, she did not yearn for them. Now my heart was sore with them, wretched with jealousy.

      ‘She is a widow, I understand,’ Henry was observing.

      ‘Twice over,’ determined, in atonement, to paint Cousin Mary in the best of lights,‘but she married very young and was widowed within five years. She has four children by her second husband. She administers the land for her son with considerable aplomb.’ I took another breath and began to dig a grave for my own sharp desire as my fingers picked apart the tough skin of a late fig. ‘Mary would make an excellent wife for a man of rank.’

      ‘She is younger than I.’

      ‘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