The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

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.

      What a masterpiece of insensitivity. Of cold discourtesy. Of humiliation directed at a son of so noble and royal a family. It was beyond belief that such a rebuttal should have been made, when Duke Henry had been received and feted for so many weeks at the royal court. And announced by the Duke of Burgundy no less, and so publically. A wall of held breath seemed to hem us in.

      ‘So now we know what this was all about,’ John murmured at my side.

      ‘Yes.’

      My throat was as dry as the dust motes glinting in the stale air. My heart bled for the Duke. Every inch of him was governed, his voice evenly controlled, now addressing the King rather than Burgundy.

      ‘I am no traitor, Sire. If any man here charges me with treason I will answer him in combat. Now, or at whatever time the King may appoint.’

      ‘No, cousin.’ It was Charles who replied. ‘I do not believe you will find a man in all of France who will challenge your honour. The expression my uncle saw fit to use comes from England, not from us.’

      ‘From England?’

      And there, in the two words, was the anger in him, the sheer fury, burning hot beneath his denial.

      ‘We have had an embassy. From your cousin, King Richard.’ Charles’s gaze once again slid away, his words as slippery as his expression. ‘He advised that no marriage should be contemplated with a man under the burden of treachery against his King.’ He paused. ‘But rest assured. We will stand as your friend—until better times. We will not cast you off entirely. We hope that you will one day prove your innocence.’

      But you will question his integrity before the whole court, I thought. It could not have been plainer. All eyes were on Henry. Deny it, I willed him. Argue the rightness of your cause. But of what value would that have been?

      Henry knew it too. With stark elegance he sank to his knees before the King, head bent in submission. ‘Then may God preserve my friends and confound my enemies!’ He could not hide the bitterness, but Charles chose to ignore it, waving to him to rise.

      ‘We will talk of marriage again. But first you must obtain your inheritance, for it will be necessary for you to make provision for your wife before we can move forward.’ Charles beamed as if he had hit on the perfect way to rid himself of this uncomfortable situation. ‘You will understand, my lord. When your inheritance is secure, return to our Court, and we will listen to you again.’

      Which left Duke Henry no path to take but one of acceptance. Turning, his gaze swept over the ranks of avid courtiers who slavered over his every word, like a pack of hunting dogs scenting its prey; lingered on the Duke of Berry and his lovely daughter who looked anywhere but at Henry; touched on the frowning figure of the Duke of Burgundy. And then they rested on me, but momentarily, with what message I could not read, while I tried to wish him courage.

      ‘My thanks, Sire,’ was all he said. ‘I am grateful for your forbearance. And for that of your tolerant Court.’

      Without a further acknowledgement of those present, Henry did what I knew he would do. He bowed with grace and walked from the room. And as if this ultimate degradation of one of its number had never occurred, the Valois Court again broke into conversation and laughter; hard and callous and unfeeling.

      Anger drove out all other thoughts from my mind. ‘Could it have been done no other way?’ I demanded of John, sotto voce.

      ‘It was not tactful. Burgundy is never tactful.’ He took my arm. ‘I think we had better rescue our protégé from the depths of despair.’

      I had seen anger. But despair?‘But the King absolved him of treason. Didn’t he?’

      John’s flat brows said it all. There had been no absolution here, only a cowardly sidestepping