‘This is inappropriate, for a married women who is content with her situation,’ I announced aloud, dismayed by the detail of my recollection. ‘And one who is carrying a child. He is nothing to you.’
Yet the sense of distress would not leave me. And the little punch of guilt. Engaged in a marriage not of my choosing to a man certainly of advanced age, I had discovered through this marriage, and to my delight, an unexpected blessing. John had given me his friendship and a deep respect that proved to be mutual, as was the firm affection that underpinned our life together as the years passed and our children were conceived. I could not have hoped for a better mate when, through necessity as a child of a royal family intent on building powerful alliances, I had been placed in this marriage with the Duke of Brittany.
Did I know love in my marriage? No. Not if love was the emotion of which our minstrels sang, extolling the heating of blood and heart so that the loved one was essential to the drawing of breath. For John I experienced a warm acceptance of all he was to me, but I was not dependent on him for every moment of happiness. Nor was I a necessity for him. We were content together but distance, when John travelled to the far reaches of his domains, did not destroy us.
Henry of Derby, in the space of that brief meeting, had forced me to consider an entirely new landscape.
‘What is it, my lady?’ Marie de Parency, the most intimate of my Breton ladies-in-waiting, was instantly at hand, always watchful for my needs.
I shook my head, sighing as I stretched on my bed, trying for comfort as my ankles throbbed. ‘Hand me my rosary, Marie. I have need of a self-inflicted penance.’
A small flame that had been lit in some far recess still flickered, but of course it had not been lit for him. Earl Henry had been blessed with true love with his wife, now sadly departed this life. I closed my eyes as I spread my hands on my belly where the child grew, confident in the knowledge that my own strange discomforts would soon vanish.
Early pregnancy made a woman overly imaginative.
*
A grand hunt brought to conclusion the wedding of Richard and Isabelle. We made a combined party, it becoming evident that the Lancaster family was as fiercely keen on hunting as we were in Brittany. An occasion of much laughter and chatter, of reminiscence and proposals for future meetings. My pregnancy offering no hindrance to my participation, when we halted in a clearing in the woodland to draw breath, I found myself in the close company of Earl Henry.
I had been aware of him, riding in the forefront, from the moment the royal huntsman had given us the office to start, and I had seen enough of him to know that he was a peerless proponent of the sport. Not that I had watched him, of course. Riding at a more sedate pace, not always of my own choosing, beside Duchess Katherine, I had made the most of the opportunity to darn the holes in my knowledge of this family.
Now it was Earl Henry who manoeuvred his horse to my side while I determined to keep him at an amicable distance. I noticed that he had dispensed with the white hart on his gold livery collar.
‘I see you number horsemanship amongst your many talents, Madam Joanna.’
‘As you have a silken tongue amongst yours, sir,’ I replied smartly. ‘This wretched animal, lent to me by my uncle of Burgundy, has barely extended herself out of a slow trot.’
He smiled at me. And I smiled back.
And there was that same intensity that had unsettled me on the previous day. A sense of closeness, of keen understanding. More than that. Like the click of a key turning in the lock of a jewel coffer so that all the intricate parts slid smoothly together as if our acquaintance was of long-standing. Why should I resist? Why should I not take him as my friend? I had few outside my immediate family. The household in which I had been raised in Navarre, redolent with suspicion and vicious deeds, had not encouraged friendship. I would enjoy what this man had to offer me, and it would be no sin.
This thought in your mind is not friendship, a whisper in my mind.Don’t pretend that it is. This is entirely different. Have a care.
Wary now, even dismayed, I hid it behind a light smile and even lighter remark.
‘That is a fine falcon you have, my lord.’
The Earl reached across to take the bird from his falconer, removing her hood, then one of his gauntlets so that he could run his hand affectionately over her head and wings. The finely marked bird bobbed her head and shook out her pinions.
‘She is beautiful,’ he agreed, indulgently possessive. ‘She was bred from my own birds at Hertford. She is inordinately partial to chicken, when she can get it.’
‘Extravagant!’
‘If she is worth her value to me, then it behoves me to feed her well.’
I stroked the feathers of her neck, admiring the fervour of this man in his appreciation for his hunting hawk. ‘What will you do after this gathering, my lord? I hear you have been on Crusade.’ Having discovered as much from Duchess Katherine.
‘And I might again,’ the Earl was replying as, with dexterous fingers, one-handed, he re-hooded the falcon. ‘I have a desire to return to Jerusalem. To stand before the Holy Sepulchre and experience God’s infinite grace. But I’m more like to go back to England. To see my own children, to take over some of the administration of the Lancaster estates. I have two young daughters as well as four sons to raise. The boys are as strong and active as a small herd of hill ponies. I think you have sons. You’ll know what I mean.’
His enthusiasm was compulsive. ‘Indeed I do.’
‘And then…’
Gravity descended, like an obscuring shadow. I considered it to be born of a concern long held, some bone of contention long debated. I saw it in John when he broached some intricate matter of business, most often Breton trade disputes with our mercantile neighbours.
‘Is there a problem for you at home, sir?’
Handing the falcon to John who, approaching, was eyeing the bird with some envy, Earl Henry considered for a moment, then replied with striking frankness:
‘I have a need to return. Sometimes it seems to me that my position in England is under a subtle duress. I am being pushed to the margins of political life. Positions and dignities are given elsewhere. My cousin Edward of York is preferred before me, even though as heir to Lancaster my supremacy is unquestionable.’
So here was pride again. And rightly so. With the death of two of King Edward’s sons, Edward of Woodstock and Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the Lancaster heirs with their true male line were foremost in the land after the King Richard. As I had suspected, the hostility between Earl Henry and King Richard, first cousins though they might be, was not merely a remnant of childhood tussles in the mud.
‘Richard fears me,’the Earl said, the line between his brows dug deep. ‘I dare not be absent from England any longer. It might give our King the opportunity to find some means of casting a pall of disgrace over my family. That must not be. My father is ageing. The duty is mine to protect and hold fast to what we have, and fight for what we should have.’
‘Why