The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

and unwarrantable irritation. As a prospective bride, was I not worthy of a fanfare, an embassy, an ambassador and a Lancaster herald? Was I not worthy of a finest kid document with seals and illuminated letters? If Henry was serious about marriage, I expected more. I expected more than Baron Thomas de Camoys, a baron of some status perhaps, but not one of the great magnates of England. He had come with no embassy, no fine-clad entourage to give Henry’s offer weight. I, Duchess and Regent of Brittany, was worthy of more, and Henry of England must know it. Why must I consent to some secretive arrangement, whispered behind closed doors? My marriage should not be a matter of some conspiratorial negotiating, as if it had some nefarious purpose rather than the alliance between two rulers of esteem.

      Pride. Beware the sin of pride, Joanna. Nothing good will come of it. You will regret what you have done today.

      I would not regret it. I had wanted, in a selfish corner of my heart, to be desired for myself. Could I not wish for that, for the first, for the only time in my life, rather than for the value of my breeding and the vast spider’s web of connection of my family?

      It seemed that I could not.

      *

      ‘Baron de Camoys,’ I said. Not exactly welcoming, some few weeks later. And with some surprise.

      ‘Madam.’

      I had not expected a return visit. Had my refusal not be sufficiently plain? I could well imagine Henry’s displeasure at my rejection, but he was a pragmatic man and must accept it. I would be my own woman; I might have burnt my list of objections but the content remained true and fair in my mind.

      Yet I admitted to my curiosity being engaged. What would my English courier have to say to me now? His return was very rapid. I doubted he had time to do more than repeat my refusal to his King before turning about and retracing his watery steps back to Brittany.

      ‘I bid you good day, my lord.’ I achieved a diplomatic smile. I had just ridden in from the town to discover this English delegation, red and gold pennons once again aflutter.

      Already dismounted, my courier approached to take hold of my bridle. But as he looked up into my face, although I read the grave courtesy with which I was familiar, a courtesy that not even my previous blunt refusal could shake, I thought he looked strained. More than strained. Perhaps the crossing had been stormy enough to dig the line between his brows. He deserved a welcome from me, even if I was wary.

      ‘I see that you are in good health. Did you have time to visit your wife and new child?’

      ‘I did, Madam.’ He did not return my smile.

      ‘I doubt she was pleased to lose you again so soon. I surmise that King Henry’s desires were paramount.’

      I slid from the mare to stand beside him. The lines engraved between nose and mouth seemed even heavier now that we were face to face. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it and merely gave a curt bow of the head. My desire to know Henry’s desires was pushed aside. There was sadness here, and this was far too public a place for me to encourage him to tell me.

      ‘Come with me, Lord Thomas.’

      Silently he followed me, through entrance hall and a succession of chambers and corridors, where I stopped only long enough to redirect a skipping Blanche towards her nursemaid, until we came to a small parlour, a favourite and private place that collected the spring sunshine and overlooked one of John’s well-planted gardens. It always seemed to me a place where it was possible to find comfort. It seemed to me that Lord Thomas needed comfort.

      Lord Thomas stood, waited, as servants came to divest us of outer garments, to leave wine. Shoulders braced, there was none of the warmth I recalled. Grief was written into every line of his body. Was this Henry’s doing? Had he given a difficult message to be delivered?

      Then the servants were gone.

      ‘I see trouble in your face, sir.’

      ‘A personal matter, my lady,’ he rallied. ‘I have a reply from my King.’

      Rejecting my overture, he produced a written missive from the breast of his tunic and a small package wrapped in leather. The letter he gave to me, and I took it, tucking it into my sleeve. It could wait. And so could whatever it was that Henry had directed this man to say to me.

      ‘Sit, Lord Thomas,’ I commanded. ‘Tell me what douses the fire in your eye. Is it the King?’

      He remained standing, placing the package on a low coffer. ‘No, Madam.’

      An inkling came to me. ‘Is it perhaps your wife?’

      ‘Yes, Madam.’

      ‘Was she not safely delivered of the child?’

      ‘No, Madam. she was not. Elizabeth is dead. The child lives but my wife is dead.’

      It was chilling, as was the unemotional delivery. ‘I am sorry.’

      Not knowing him well enough to commiserate—for what would I say to him, not knowing the terms of his marriage?—all I could do was offer a cup of wine. Pouring it myself, I urged him to sit, closing my hand over his shoulder where all the muscles were taut.

      ‘Did you love her greatly, sir?’

      If it was a true love match I might regret opening wounds, but I could not ignore the silently borne pain.

      ‘It was not a love match, Madam, but we had an affection. It is a grief that stays with me.’

      It touched my heart. I knew of such grief for John. Not lover but friend whom I missed more than I would have thought possible.

      ‘Did you laugh together?’ I asked.

      He looked up, surprised perhaps at what might appear an inconsequential thought.

      ‘Yes,’ he replied.