I cast the letter aside.
No doubt one of my clerks could write a suitable reply, at some point in the coming days, from the exceedingly busy Duchess Joanna, Regent of Brittany. There was no urgency. No urgency at all.
Spring 1400: Château at Vannes, Brittany
The heraldic device, gracing the inner court of my castle, was gold and red and silver, hanging limply on pennon and banner in the warm air. I did not know it.
‘Who is it?’ I asked my steward, viewing it at an angle from the window of the muniment chamber.
‘A courier, come from England, my lady, so I am informed.’
‘But a courier from whom?’
An occurrence unusual enough that I arranged to meet with this English visitor in the audience chamber. It would be a matter of trade, a mercantile dispute over some commodity or toll or shoal of herring. Anticipating an hour of tedious exchange of views on cloth and fish, I was already seated, clad in a cote-hardie, embroidered and jewelled and suitable to the occasion, my furred sleeves sweeping the floor to either side, when the man was announced. A member of the merchant elite perhaps, as he strode through the door, for he was not lacking in poise. Or perhaps a notary attached to one of their trading interests, although his garments and the livery of his escort suggested he was a man of some wealth. I would give him the time commensurate with the problem. It did not do to neglect matters of trade where the Bretons were concerned. So with two of my women and my steward to give the occasion the importance it deserved, I settled on the high-backed chair on the dais, arranging my skirts, folding my hands in my lap. At my side sat my son, the sixth Duke John of Brittany. It would be good experience for him.
The visitor approached to bow with a spare courtliness, awakening me to the fact that here was neither merchant nor notary. Tall, lean, long past the first bloom of youth certainly, but there was evidence of an active life in his upright stance, the firm flesh beneath his houppelande that fell in stately fashion to his calves. A soldier, I decided on closer inspection, now become a courtier, nearing perhaps his fiftieth year. When he swept off the velvet folds of his hat it was to show a mass of dark hair, well silvered.
‘My Lord Thomas, Baron de Camoys,’ my steward announced.
Lord Thomas de Camoys bowed again, not lacking some flamboyance, to me and to my son.
‘I am grateful that you consent to receive me, my lady, my lord. I am come from my lord Henry, King of England.’
My folded hands tightened against each other. For as Lord Thomas de Camoys smiled his thanks, his eyes confidently on mine, I knew that this was no ordinary courier, but a very personal envoy from Henry. An ambassador, forsooth.
‘Lord Thomas. We make you welcome.’ I found myself returning the smile, for he was a very personable man, his air distinguished. So what had Henry to say to me? I felt a little beat of blood at my wrist.
‘My lady,’ Lord Thomas confirmed. ‘I am here as envoy from my King. I am empowered to give you this, with his warmest regards.’
Stepping forward he handed over the folded square of a document, the royal seal vivid and untouched by travel. Lord Thomas had cared for it well. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect, waiting until I was alone to read it, but I could not wait, sliding my nail beneath the seal, but not before placing a warning hand on the shoulder of my son who had begun to shuffle. Then I began to read.
My first impression was that, once again, it was disappointingly brief. Preserving a magisterial expression, I read rapidly to the end, the beat in my blood subsiding into the dullness of dismay.
My dear and most honoured lady and cousin.
That was good of course. And at least this time I believed it to be in Henry’s own hand. The uneven, hastily written letters were not those of a clerk.
My eye ran on, absorbing the comments, the requests, the hopes. My state of health. That of my children. Assurances that he would respond to any call for aid should I find myself in need. He was keeping me in his prayers. He was assured that the Holy Ghost would protect me in my hour of need.
All very good and proper. So why did despondency wash over me in a cool wave, so that I was heavy with it? As a king newly come into his kingdom, to which his claim was not altogether clear, Henry would have serious matters on his mind. Writing to the Duchess of Brittany would not be a priority since our merchants, hampered by winter storms, were enjoying a period of truce. It was a foolish woman who dreamed of more from a man struggling to retain the throne he had just snatched from his royal cousin. A sensible woman would be grateful that he had found the time and the thought to write to her at all.
It did not assuage my regret that there was not more.
Rubbing my thumb over the signature, I folded the page with precision. I would read it again at my leisure, but I knew there was no hidden message to give substance to the first leap of hope when I had seen Lord Thomas holding out a letter. I stood with a brief smile, and gestured to my steward.
‘My thanks, Lord Thomas. I will write my reply. We will of course make you comfortable meanwhile. My steward will accompany you to your accommodation. You will dine with us, I hope. Will you perhaps hunt later in the day with me and my children?’
I could not imagine why Henry would send so impressive a personage to deliver so unimpressive a message, but so he had and Lord Thomas deserved that I see to his comfort and entertainment before his departing. Lifting my heavy skirts, I stepped down from the dais and began to walk towards the door, my hand once more lightly on my son’s shoulder.
‘My lady.’ Lord Thomas, straight as an arrow, neither acknowledged his dismissal nor moved one foot. ‘I will be honoured to dine and hunt with you. But I have a private message to deliver to you, from my King.’
I paused, looked back over my shoulder, a little impatient. ‘Indeed. I have read it, sir. And I will respond in due course.’
‘It is not written, my lady. It was delivered by my King to me in person, and I must repeat it to you, if you will allow me the liberty of a private audience.’
His eye moved over my little son, and back to me.
A personal message. A private audience. The little throb began again, as well as the puzzlement.
‘It is most delicate, my lady. A matter of greatest discretion,’ he added as I continued to hesitate. ‘For all of us.’
How persuasive. And how could I resist such an intriguing request? But it seemed that I too must be discreet, and so rose to the occasion, as any Regent would.
‘A matter of alliances perhaps, Lord Thomas?’
‘It is, my lady. To be negotiated with utmost secrecy, for the wellbeing of all concerned.’
‘Then I must not disappoint your King.’ I dismissed my women, my steward. And to Duke John:‘If you would instruct our chamberlain that we have a guest at our table tonight.’ And as John departed, enthusiastic in his freedom: ‘Come with me, if you please, Lord Thomas.’
I led the way to a private parlour where I arranged for wine and a platter of sweetmeats, and so we talked of his journey and the state of the roads, the length of his crossing, inconsequential affairs while the wine was poured into my favourite silver cups and my mind ran ahead to what he might say. What Henry might say. Meanwhile I watched Thomas de Camoys. Dignified and familiar with court affairs, there was no frivolity or flippancy in his manner. Certainly a soldier rather than a courtier. An interesting choice of envoy for Henry to make. Here might be a friend or a loyal comrade in arms despite the difference in years, rather than a royal official.
The beat in my blood quickened.
‘Do