The Queen's Choice. Anne O'Brien

18

       Chapter 19

       Epilogue

       Also by Anne O'Brien

       Extract

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

       WHAT INSPIRED ME TO WRITE ABOUT JOANNA OF NAVARRE?

       AND AFTERWARDS

       IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF JOANNA OF NAVARRE

       QUESTIONS FOR READING GROUPS

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

Chapter 1

       October 1396: the town of Ardres, near Calais

      It was to be the day, although I did not know it when my women confined my hair to a jewelled caul and coronet, my feet to gilded-toed shoes, and all in between to layers of fine linen, silk damask and fur.

      It was to be the day that my life tilted on its even keel; the day that my ordered existence warped, as a tapestry, ill-formed in the hands of a careless Arras weaver, would stretch immoderately in the damp of winter. I had one such in my audience chamber at the Château of Vannes, until I dispatched it, ruined, to some distant storeroom. On this day it was as if some power had disturbed an exact balance that throughout my life had been secure and unquestioned.

      It was the day that I met Henry, Earl of Derby.

      Not that I had any presentiment of such meddling in what fate, my father and my husband had decreed for me. Nor did I look for such turbulence in my life, for I lived in placid luxury, always predictable, sometimes dull, but never less than harmonious. My life demanded no emotional response from me, rather a practical acceptance of my role as wife, mother, ducal consort. Indeed my whole life had been one of acceptance. I was particularly good at it. I was nobly born, twenty-eight years old, and had been Duchess of Brittany for ten of them. But on that bright morning, my thoughts occupied far from any intrusive dabbling, all was overset.

      ‘What do you think?’

      A soft voice in my ear managed to pierce the snap and flap of canvas of the dozens of pavilions, a huge encampment constructed for the occasion. The voice of John de Montfort, my husband, the fifth Duke of Brittany.

      ‘Poor mite. It’s no age to be wed,’ I whispered back. I would not wish for one of my daughters to be wed at so tender an age, but dynastic marriages demanded sacrifice. My mother, undoubtedly a sacrifice in her union with my father, had been wed at eight years.

      ‘He’ll only get her allegiance.’ John frowned at the charming scene where the bridegroom kissed the cheek of his child-bride. ‘Not her body.’

      ‘So I should hope.’

      I smiled.

      I liked weddings. Such an opportunity to reunite with family and friends, and erstwhile enemies too, without the prospect of drawn swords or blows traded in the aftermath of too many toasts to the happy couple. Although, I considered as the two puissant kings, one of England, the other of France, drew close to exchange the desired kiss of peace, that could not always be guaranteed. I remembered occasions when good manners had drowned in a pot of ale almost before the marriage vows had been taken.

      But not today. Today, we had been assured, would be a day of good omen. We all knelt in a gleaming shiver of silk and satin as Richard of England and Charles of France clasped hands and beamed their goodwill.

      I particularly like French weddings, with the wealth of aunts and uncles and a fistful of cousins here for me to enjoy, for through my mother’s blood I was a Valois princess. And now that the greatest blot on the political landscape, my father, no longer defiled this earth with his presence, there was no need for me to hold my breath as I had as a young girl. My father was dead, and had been for almost ten years. He and his vile temper and even viler habits would not be missed.

      My father, of atrocious repute, had been King of Navarre, that prestigious little kingdom which bordered with France and English possessions to the south, and so was much desired in alliance. But it was my mother, daughter of the Valois King John the Good, who gave me my true rank. King Charles the Sixth of France was my first cousin, the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy my uncles. I could claim cousinship with every man or woman at the Valois Court of France. Every man or woman who mattered in the politics of Europe. I had been raised to know my worth.

      ‘I see that Charles is in his right mind,’ I observed, my eyes lowered in deepest respect for this royal cousin who was acknowledged as mad and could become violent in the blink of an eye. ‘I expect the whole Court has been offering up novenas to St Jude.’

      ‘Ha! It would take more than a petition to lost causes. I wager it would take a full Requiem Mass to guarantee Charles’s sanity for more than a day at a time,’ my husband replied.

      We were here for a momentous alliance that might bring some vestige of peace to our troubled lands. And there he was, the bridegroom, tall and resplendent in red, smiling and gracious, luminous with satisfaction. We had heard that it was not altogether a popular move across the sea, a French woman to be crowned Queen of England, but the English King would have his way. King Richard the Second, a widower, was in need of a wife and an heir. A country was precarious without heirs, and here I could admit to my own smugness. I came from fertile stock, with six stalwart children of my own, four of them sons to safeguard the inheritance of Brittany. I had every reason to enjoy my own achievements. Was family not everything?

      We rose to our feet, my husband’s hand beneath my arm, allowing me the time to cast an eye over the bride, this child Isabelle who was still four weeks from her seventh birthday. I did not fear for her. She would be given all the time she needed to grow up before she must become a wife.

      ‘He will care for her.’

      I turned to the owner of the voice who had echoed my thoughts, John, solid in dark velvet, as handily at ease in silk and fur and jewelled rings as he was in armour. My lord was given to opulence when the occasion demanded it.

      ‘He looks at her as if she were a present wrapped in gold,’ I said. The bride giggled as Richard bent again to kiss her cheek. ‘Do you think it will bring an end to the conflict?’

      ‘King Richard does not have a name for warfare,’ John said, and in truth the rancorous relations between England and France had settled a little since Richard had taken the throne. ‘He’s not of a mind to pursue English claims in France, lost by Edward, the old King.’

      And there the discussion of rights and wrongs, of who should wear the Crown of France ended, as the royal families moved towards the dais. The crowds milled. The musicians and minstrels puffed and blew with enthusiastic disharmony. Platters of food and vessels of wine were produced. I sighed a little.

      ‘Do you wish to go? I can arrange for you to retire.’

      John’s hand was again solicitously on my arm, for I was carrying another child. No one would notice—there was no need yet for my sempstresses to loosen the stitching of my bodice—but John had a protective care for me and I covered his hand with mine.

      ‘Certainly not.’

      John, wisely, did not waste his breath in argument. ‘Then if you are feeling robust, my love, come and meet a family for whom I have the greatest affection.’

      John set about forcing a path, the bejewelled crowd parting before his impressive figure like the Red Sea before Moses. We were heading, I realised, towards the English contingent that had accompanied their King, now standing in an elegant little group