The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

you this. In honour of our friendship. To give you strength in times of need. It was John’s idea, but you should know that I am in agreement.’

      Slowly he walked the few steps towards me, taking the book from me, placing it unopened on the stone window embrasure at his side along with gloves and hood. His sword was propped against the wall. Not once in the disposal of his property did his gaze move from mine, and my breath was compromised as he drew me towards him until his hands released mine and framed my face. Then I was even more breathless when his mouth found mine and he kissed me.

      It was no affectionate kiss exchanged between close cousins, no formal salute between family, or even between friends. Or not in my limited experience. Beginning softly with a brush of lip against lip, it gained an intensity. An assurance. A depth. In the end a knowledge that it would be reciprocated. And as he kissed me a new horizon spread before me. A new geography beneath my feet. I drank from him, as from a bottomless well to slake a thirst I had never known I had. I clung to him. I buried my guilt in his embrace as I buried my nails in the thick stuff of his gambeson.

      It was an intoxication such I had never known, even from spiced wine. Even more, it was an astonishment that he should have a need to kiss me in this manner. I could never have anticipated it, not in all the months I had known him.

      Slowly Henry lifted his head and let me go.

      ‘Do you know how much I love you?’

      His expression was grave. He continued to speak while I simply stood and absorbed the enormity of what he was saying:

      ‘I would not kiss you in Paris because you were wed and it would not be honourable for me to do so. Neither would I speak to you of what was in my heart from the first moment that our paths crossed at Richard’s marriage. Did you realise? I thought that you must. I could repeat every part of that conversation when you told me that you had never known love in life. My soul cried out to tell you that you were loved. That I loved and desired you. I almost abandoned honour. I almost held you and kissed you, but I knew I must not with the imprint of the cross on your palm. All I could do was seal that precious image with my lips. And now I have done both—kissed you and declared my love—in your own husband’s castle, in his chapel where I have just sought God’s blessing. How much honour have I? And yet I have not one regret.’ His fingertips moved gently over my cheeks. ‘I promised myself that I would never say this. But some promises are made to be broken. I love you, Joanna.’

      The words stroked over my mind with such sweetness.

      ‘I don’t understand how this can be,’ I said.

      ‘Nor do I.’

      ‘I thought you admired my cousin.’ I was still struggling to quiet my breathing, baffled at the suddenness of it all.

      ‘Admiration is not love.’

      ‘Your description of her was that of a man bent on love.’

      ‘My description was of you. Did you not recognise yourself, most handsome of women?’ There was his smile that melted my bones. ‘As you so wisely remarked, how would I know Lady Mary to such a degree after one dance?’

      And I laughed, a little in relief, in wordless delight, as Henry continued to pour his words of love over me.

      ‘How can I deny something that has become a part of me? I have not seen you for six months, I have not heard your voice, but you are fixed in my memory as brightly as an illuminated initial in that magnificent gift you have bestowed on me. I cannot deny it. I will not, even though there is no future for us together. If it is honour to let you go, then I will. But I will say this first, so that, in the rest of our lives apart, you will never forget it and you will always know it. You are loved, Joanna. You are my most treasured delight.’

      The words shivered over me, through me, and I replied as I wished to, as he would want me to. As, now I realised in those moments of blinding revelation, John had given me permission to reply. Flattening all my pride, my lips burning as I spoke, my tongue forming the words I had never said before to any man, and with such ease:‘I love you, Henry of Lancaster.’

      ‘There, it is done. Our love acknowledged in God’s presence.’ He smiled at me, all his beauty restored, all the harsh anger of the last hour stripped away. Yet he took a step away from me. ‘I will not kiss you again.’

      But it was not enough. Not at all enough.

      ‘Then I will kiss you.’

      And with a step I did so, abandoning my habitual reserve, as with grave courtesy, mouth against mouth, reawakening the same sensations so that my heart beat hard beneath my bodice, my blood raced beneath skin that suddenly felt fragile.

      The kiss ending, I pursued what I desired without permission, tracing the contours of Henry’s face with my fingertips, as he had traced mine. The straight nose, the uncompromising brows, the line of his lips, the springing texture of his hair, the contour of his jaw, as if I might absorb a memory that would remain with me for the rest of my life. And this from a woman who guarded her emotions, shielding herself from any power to hurt or destroy. I was shaken with amazement at my courage as I allowed Henry to read my thoughts, my utter longing.

      At last I let my hand fall away.

      ‘Will you remember me?’ Henry asked.

      ‘Yes. I will remember.’

      It seemed to me that an abyss was suddenly yawning between us.

      ‘You will be careful,’ I said.

      ‘Yes.’

      A tense little silence fell, tight-held with unspoken emotion, as once more he gathered my hands into his. The warmth was enough. It would have to be enough.

      ‘I will use the Book of Hours, every day.’ It was Henry who broke the silence. ‘Will you pray for me? Even though…’ He shrugged, his smile a little twisted.

      Even though I stir up insurrection against my cousin. ‘Yes. I will pray for you.’

      ‘There is so much I would say. But we both know it would be wrong.’

      ‘A betrayal of trust and much kindness.’ I sought for the words amidst my grief that we might never speak again. ‘It is in my heart that you succeed. And that you find a wife who will bring you strength and comfort.’

      ‘She will always be second best. A pale shadow. I must not let her know my heart is given elsewhere.’ He raised his head, listening, becoming aware of the outside world and all it demanded from him. ‘I must go, Joanna. It will be best if you remain here…’

      One of the little windows beside us had been opened by the priest to allow a breath of air to enter. Seeing it, inspired by some quirk of his imagination, Henry drew me with him as he placed the palm of his hand flat against the dusty glass, fingers spread across the deep blue and red and gold of the craftsman’s art in depicting an angelic throng. And without a word passing between us, I placed mine on the opposite side of the pane, so that my palm matched his perfectly, spreading my fingers so that they covered his as much 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