the hunt, the hounds picking up the scent of our quarry, leaving me to follow slowly, unnervingly wistful, in his wake.
Not that there was anything of merit to say.
‘You have only met him twice.’ I took myself to task.
Sadly twice was enough. For joy. For dismay.
Next morning I turned my back on the pavilions, urging my horse to keep up with John’s mount as we began our long journey to the west, to Vannes. As the miles unfolded, I considered with some grim amusement what I had learned about myself at Isabelle’s wedding; that the state of unrequited love, however mild a form it might take, did not suit me. Too much superfluous emotion to disturb the even tenor of my days. Too much uncertainty. Too much undignified craving. I had too much self-esteem to allow myself to succumb to an emotion that could never have a future. It would be no better than suffering a permanent stone in a shoe: an aggravation, an annoyance, with no resolution until the stone was removed. I did not want such uncertainty in my life. I would accept a simple steady platform of equanimity without the highs and lows of blazing desire.
But there it had been: a touch of minds, a brush of yearning, which I would never forget. A thing of wonder, an awakening. A response to a man that was neither friendship nor affection but something far stronger and beyond my control. Indeed it was a hunger. A taste, a sip, of what had never been part of my life’s banquet, and never would.
October 1398: Hotel de St Pol in Paris
There was an unexpected tension in the air. Not of hostility or incipient warfare, nor of some blood-soaked treachery, but of a nose-twitching, ear-straining, prurient interest. Such as when there might be a scandal, dripping with innuendo, to be enjoyed. It was present in the sparkle of every eye, in the whisperings, with no attempt at discretion. It might be considered beneath my dignity as Duchess of Brittany to be lured by such hints of someone’s depravity, but my senses came alive, like a mouse scenting cheese.
John and I were engaged in one of our frequent visits to Paris, to reassure the Valois that the loyalty of the Duke of Brittany to their interests was beyond question. Our family was left comfortably behind in Nantes with governors and nursemaids, including the recent addition to the family. I had been safely delivered of a child, another daughter Blanche, over a year ago now. I had not met my end in childbed. There had been no need for my husband to consider a precipitate remarriage after all.
We had expected to occupy rooms in the royal residence, the Hotel de St Pol, as was our wont, with its rabbit-warren of chambers and antechambers, but it seemed an unlikely prospect, for here was a bustle of royal dukes, prelates and barons. Of the royal dukes I recognised my uncles of Berry and Burgundy and my cousin of Orleans. It all had a strangely festive air about it as we found ourselves ushered into the most opulent of King Charles’s audience chambers, as if we were part of the invited gathering.
Charles was sitting upright, enthroned on a dais, his servants having reminded him to don robes that added to his authority. So this must be some important foreign deputation come to request an alliance or impress with gifts. I could see no crowd of foreign dignitaries, yet someone was speaking. Charles was nodding.
I touched John’s arm, which was all that was needed. Using his bulk and a degree of charm, he pushed between the audience, while I flattened the fullness of my skirts and followed, until we came to the front ranks. The delegate was still speaking, a flat measured delivery, in perfect, uninflected French. Some puissant lord then. Perhaps an ambassador from the east, but ambassadors rarely attracted so much commotion. The petitioner was still hid from my view but he was flanked by the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy. Such personal condescension on their arrogant part indicated a visitor of some merit.
Charles was in the process of rising to his feet, smiling vaguely in our direction as if he might eventually recall who we were, before returning his limpid gaze to the man who stood before him. Smile deepening, Charles raised both hands, palms up, in acceptance of what had been offered.
‘We are pleased that you decided to come to us in your extremity, sir.’
‘I am honoured by your invitation to find refuge here, Sire.’
‘You were at Calais?’
‘I was, Sire, but briefly. His Majesty King Richard pronounced that I might spend only a week there, with a mere twelve of my men. I had, perforce, to leave.’
The direction of this conversation had little meaning for me; but the visitor had, and my heart registered a slow roll of recognition. Henry, Earl of Derby, returned to France. No, Henry, Duke of Hereford now, I reminded myself. Henry, heir of Lancaster. Duke Henry who had once, many months ago now, stirred some novel emotion to life in my heart, when I wished he had not. I had wished that persistent longing a quick death. It was inappropriate, disloyal.
Had it died?
I thought it had. Absence could deal a death blow to the most rabid of passions, or so I believed. Standing to the side as I was, my regard was fixed on his flat shoulders, the hawk-like outline of his profile, simply because he was an acquaintance and this was an event that spiked the air with danger. I was a mere onlooker, with more interest than good manners.
‘We welcome you, my lord of Hereford.’ Charles beckoned to one of his many minions, who approached with a cushion bearing a livery collar. ‘I would present you with this note of our esteem.’
Duke Henry knelt at Charles’s feet and the chain was cast over his bowed head to lie, glinting opulently.
‘I am honoured, Sire.’
‘Good. Good. That’s how it should be. We give you use of the Hotel de Clisson during your residence in Paris. It is close to us, here at the Hotel de St Pol. I wish you to feel at home as you take your place at my Court.’ Charles beamed.
Henry, standing again, said, ‘I would return to England soon, Sire.’
‘As I know. Your family ties are strong. But I think it will not be possible. Make yourself at ease with us, until you see in which direction the English wind will blow.’
‘My thanks, Sire. And my gratitude for this haven in a time of storms.’
Everything about him was familiar, yet I acknowledged the difference from the man who had asked my advice and, I presumed, had acted on it and bought Isabelle a doll, only two years ago. Now there was a rigidity about him that I did not recall, his shoulders tense under the livery chain. Magnificently groomed, clad as befitted an English prince, his voice was smooth and cultured yet lacking any emotion. There was none of the vibrancy of the Earl who had ridden to hounds with such panache, or who had shone in gilded Italian armour at the tournament. It was as if he was applying the demands of courtesy because it was inherent in a man of his breeding, but it seemed to be a bleak response, with little pleasure in it. How could that be when Charles had offered him a house for his own particular use in Paris? But what was this extremity? Why would Duke Henry need to test the English wind? My curiosity was roused, even more when I realised that Charles was continuing his extravagant welcome, that did not match the troubled frown on his brow.
‘My brother Orleans will see to your comfort, my lord. And here is the Duke of Brittany and his fair wife, well known to you.’ Charles gestured, with a hint of desperation, for us to step forward. ‘You will not lack for friends here, however long or short your stay. We will make it our priority that you pass the time agreeably with us.’
‘My thanks, Sire. I do not have the words to express my gratitude.’
The royal frown might mean nothing of course. Charles was not always in command of his reactions. And there was Duke Henry coming to clasp hands with my husband and salute my proffered fingers. The expression on his face could only be described as engraved in flint.
I smiled, murmured suitable words of welcome to cover my alarm. Now that I could inspect his face I could see that the passage of time, not of any great length, had for some reason