The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

as I was able. The glass was sun-warmed, the colours deep and rich, heavy with gilding.

      It was not a kiss. No it was not, but it was as if the colours bound us together.

      ‘I will never forget you,’ he said softly.

      ‘Will you write and tell us?’ I asked. ‘To tell us how you fare?’And then I wished I had not asked. Better to let our lives diverge as they must without keeping the useless skeins intact. ‘No. I think you should not,’ I added.

      I knew he understood, for he nodded. ‘I will when I can. It will be all about armies and finance and inheritance. Farewell, Joanna. Farewell, my love.’

      ‘Adieu. God go with you, Henry.’

      He was the first to remove his hand. The colours around me seemed less bright.

      When Henry collected his accoutrements and the book, despite his express wishes, I followed him out into the courtyard to keep a last, final image of him, and as I did so, a thought touched me.

      ‘Why did you come here today? If you would refuse John’s proffered aid, why travel so far? You could have told us of your intent by courier.’

      Henry turned.

      ‘You know the answer, Joanna.’ Never had my name sounded so like a caress. ‘It was to see you, even if we could not be alone, to say goodbye. I was not so soaked in passion at Richard’s injustice that I could leave you without your knowing.’

      So he feared death. He feared for the future. But he loved me enough to put his fears aside and come to me.

      Henry bowed, to any onlooker the bow of the most respectful of courtiers to the Duchess of Brittany.

      ‘I may die in battle. I may succeed in taking back what is mine. I may wed again. Whatever the future holds for me, I swear I will never forget you, in this world or the next.’

      *

      ‘He has gone.’

      Could any phrase be more empty, more lacking in hope?

      I had returned to our chamber with its rounded walls and fair aspect. I could have gone back to the garden, where the shouts and laughter of the children carried to us, a shrill squawk of impatience cutting through the rest. But I could not laugh with them. I could have returned to the chapel antechamber, to sit on the tiles in the dust and allow the sun-warmed colours to heal my loss. But the Duchess of Brittany did not sit on the floor and mourn. Besides, it would have been a coward’s way out. I had to face my husband. The generosity of what he had done shivered over my skin, like the brush of a goose-quill. For now I understood the quality of the gift that John had bestowed on me, a gift of vast proportions, worthy of a man with a truly great soul.

      Where was my loyalty now? Treachery was not only committed by men who took up arms against their liege lord, for had I not snatched at the gift John had given me?

      Head lifted, spine straight, I walked in, to stand before the table where John had taken up his occupation with pen in hand, a map under his elbow. At his side, Henry’s empty chair and discarded wine cup. My eyes were on my husband’s when they lifted to my face.

      ‘He has gone,’ I said. ‘I gave him the Book of Hours.’

      ‘Yes.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘I knew you would. And you said farewell.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You have an attraction towards him. Or I might even say that you love him.’

      A statement. Two statements, not questions. And so simply expressed. Not wrapped around in troubadour’s words or in the accusation of a furious husband. It was as if John had struck me, but not a hard blow and there was indeed no accusation in his face. Only an acceptance.

      ‘Yes, I do,’ I admitted simply. I would not deny his generosity with a lie. ‘I love him without reason. Without cause. Without any encouragement from him. Or from me.’

      Hands folded, breathing held in check, I could say no other. Nor could I apologise for what had been not of my seeking. All I could do was hope he would understand. And forgive.

      ‘I can see it in you.’

      ‘You sent me with the book,’ I said, as all had become plain, like an outline etched on glass. ‘So that we could say adieu alone.’

      ‘And anything else that needed to be said between you—without an audience.’

      So he had. It had been deliberate, as I now realised. An offering of such impossible indulgence, so that Henry and I might speak of this emotion that held us so strongly. For John had given me—had given both of us—his permission to say farewell. He had offered me his permission to acknowledge the love that had so wantonly undermined the vows made in my marriage to him. He had allowed me his permission to admit, without treachery, that I loved Henry of Lancaster, and then draw a line of finality beneath it, for the Duke’s future was far distant from mine.

      In that one astonishingly clever and compassionate move, John had demolished the pride in me that had refused to allow me to acknowledge, or certainly act on, so flighty an emotion as love. What manner of man did that make my husband? One of such honour and magnanimity beyond my imagining. Or beyond my deserts.

      ‘I cannot believe your indulgence towards me,’I said with difficulty. ‘And I am ashamed. I am sorry. I have betrayed you.’

      John shook his head. ‘You have never done that.’ Then: ‘Will you go with him? To England?’

      If John’s knowledge of my feelings had rocked the foundations of my self-control, this set my belly to roil. Go with Henry? Abandon my marriage and family? How could he think it of me?

      ‘No, John! Never! How could I do that?’

      As he swept the feather of the pen across the carefully drawn coastline, his expression was benign.

      ‘You could if you wished it enough. There would be scandal, but men and women have parted throughout the ages, when the horror of living apart from the one they loved became stronger than the fear of the world’s condemnation.’ He placed the pen on the table and linked his fingers quite calmly as if discussing some matter of business. ‘It is not given to everyone to love with fervour.’ And when I would have denied any emotion so extreme, John raised his hand. ‘Your love for him is immeasurable. I see it in your face when you look at him. It astonishes you.’ His mouth took on the faintest of smiles although I thought there was no humour in him. ‘You never looked at me like that. Nor did I expect it. Ours was never that sort of marriage. Will you go with him?’

      ‘He has not asked it of me.’

      ‘No. He would not, of course. He is a man of honour. But would he wish it?’

      ‘I don’t know. We did not speak of such things.’

      ‘Both too honourable.’

      ‘But I am not honourable.’ Confession was difficult but must be made. ‘I would never betray you in body, but my mind knows only disobedience. I cannot govern it.’

      ‘Nor do you have to.’ John stood, walking round the table to stand before me. ‘Our marriage was one of political alignment. We both knew that. It was not one of love.’

      ‘But it should have been one of loyalty. I hope I have been a good wife to you.’

      He took my hands in his, his thumbs stroking over my wrists where the blood beat, heavy with guilt. And loss.

      ‘I can think of none better. Three times I took a new wife to bed, making the best alliances I could for Brittany. Mary Plantagenet. Joan Holland. Both English, they were good wives. But you have been the best. Do we not talk? Do we not share interests and laugh together? Do you not share my duties in this land which is not yours by birth? No man could ask for a better woman at his side in affairs of business. You have given me the gift of your intellect and the finest brood of children any man could ask for.’ Leaning, he placed a kiss between my brows.