the promise of a pardon?’ He grimaced, pushing the cup beyond his reach. ‘A pardon for something I had no hand in. Before God, it would stick in my gullet like week-old bread to have to beg for Richard’s forgiveness.
‘But we all know it would be to no avail. So, rejecting what my heart tells me, I know in my mind that it would be a fatal step to put myself in Richard’s hands. All my instincts tell me that I must stay clear of the shores of England until I have the chance of returning with more than a hope of redemption. As it is, I am declared traitor. If I went home, my life would be forfeit.’
‘It is what I would have advised,’ I said briskly, not a little ruffled, ‘if you had allowed it.’ Thinking that I might add: ‘Why ask, if you did not want to listen?’
But out of propriety I did not, and Duke Henry did not look at me but studied his hands, now loosely clasped.
‘And you have the right of it. I must not return. As long as my father continues in good health, I remain here in banishment.’
‘And I would say—stay in Paris,’ John added. ‘If things change in England, it’s not far for you to hear and take action. If you have to return fast, it can be arranged.’
‘I have no choice, do I?’
‘No. I don’t think you do.’
With no lightening of his countenance Duke Henry made his departure to his new residence, but not before a forthright explosion of his disillusionment.
‘How long will it be before King Charles decides that having a traitor in his midst is not good policy? Traitors are too dangerous to entertain, even visiting ones. I doubt I can rely on the friendship of Berry and Burgundy.’ He settled the velvet folds of his chaperon into an elegant sweep and pulled on his gloves with savage exactness. ‘I will be turned out of the Hotel Clisson and forced to make my living at the tournament.’
‘If such comes to pass,’ John remarked calmly, ‘you will come to us, of course.’
Which generated, at last, the semblance of a smile. ‘Only after I have apologised for my crude manners here today. Forgive me, Madam Joanna.’
His bow was as courtly as I could have expected, his salute on my hand the briefest brush of his lips. His final glance at me barely touched my face.
Alone, John wrapped his arm companionably around my waist as we walked through to the space that masqueraded as a bedchamber.
‘Although where we should put him I have no idea,’ he said as I sank onto the bed so that John could reach the coffer at the foot. ‘Do we support him, Joanna? It is a hard road for a young man with so many expectations. How fortunate that he did not remarry, in the circumstances.’ He sat back on his haunches, elbows resting on knees. ‘Treason leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Many here—your uncle of Burgundy for one—will take the line that there’s no smoke without a real conflagration. Officially he is accused of treason to the King of England, judged and banished. Many would question his right to be here at all. It’s a dangerous policy to support a traitor against a rightful king. Do we hold out the hand of friendship, or do we turn a cold shoulder?’
‘I suppose it all depends on if we consider him to be guilty,’ I said. ‘Do we?’
John did not take any time to consider. ‘No. I cannot think that. His sense of duty was engrained since birth. But what I do think is that we have to protect him from himself. He’ll not accept this lightly, and might be driven to some intemperate action.’
‘He’ll make his own decision.’ And found myself announcing, when I had sworn that I would not, because it sounded petulant even to my ears:‘He did not want my opinion, did he?’
‘Not every man is as foresighted as I.’ John smiled at my displeasure and, as he rose, patted me, neatly, on my head, forcing me to laugh. ‘I see your worth. One day Henry might too.’ He turned a book in his hand. ‘Now, what do you wish to do before the next interminable royal audience?’
‘Walk in the gardens. This place has no air.’
*
We fell into a pattern. Duke Henry came to us, formality abandoned. And when he did, John and Henry discussed politics: the uneasy stalemate between England and France, the dire situation of English and Breton piracy. They played chess, rode out to hunt, sampled some of John’s best wines, talked about Henry’s extensive travels in the east.
With me Henry also played chess but with less harmonious results.
‘You let me win.’ Indignantly I snatched up my knight that had cornered his king after a clumsy move by one of his pawns, a move a man gifted in the art of warfare, even if only on a chessboard, should never have contemplated.
‘I did no such thing.’ His regard was disconcertingly innocent.
‘You will never win a battle,’ I pronounced. ‘Your strategy is atrocious.’
‘Then I must learn, before I take to the battlefield,’ he pronounced gravely.
‘You walk a narrow path between truth and dissimulation, sir.’
Henry smiled.
‘And frequently fall off the edge,’ I added.
Indeed there had been no need for him to sacrifice his pawn. I was a match on the chessboard for any man. But he was chivalrous, impressive in his good manners, his mouth was generous when he smiled, and he was gifted in more than warfare. I discovered in him a love of the written word as he leafed through the pages of our books. Music moved him, and poetry. He tuned a discordant lute of mine to perfection.
So Henry and John took pleasure in each other’s company. But did I?
It was a bittersweet experience, driving me to my knees in repentance. Henry of Hereford took up residence in my thoughts once more and I could not dislodge him. He was there, like the annoyance of a bramble thorn beneath the skin. There were too many times when his entrance into a room where I sat or stood caused my heart to jump like one of our golden carp in our fishponds at Nantes. Or my blood to surge with the heat of mulled wine. Well, I would have to tolerate this discomfort until it passed me by, like the annoyance of a bad cold in winter. I could achieve that with equanimity. I would achieve it. I never held my breath when a man walked into the room.
I held it when Duke Henry visited and bowed over my hand. I held it when, his sleeve brushing against mine as we set up the chessmen once again, his proximity destroyed all my assurance. I held it when he took my lute, making it sing with bright joy or heart-wrenching grief, drawing his battle-hardened fingers across the strings. Duke Henry could sing too, effortlessly, without reticence, quick to be charmed into a rendition of Dante Alighieri’s song that could enflame any woman’s heart.
‘Love reigns serenely in my lady’s eyes,
Ennobling everything she looks upon;
Towards her, when she passes, all men turn,
And he whom she salutes feels his heart fail…’
Uninvited I joined my voice to his in counterpoint, so that he smiled:
‘All sweetness, all humility of thought
Stir in the heart of him who hears her speak;
And he who sees her first is blest indeed.’
It was sung with commitment, with delight in the words and music, but with no wilful treachery. We were not lovers exclaiming over our enchantment. Henry was not moved by the same yearning as I, that undermined with desire every lightly offered melody, and nor was I capable of such deceit. John, an indulgent audience, was tolerant but music moved him less than his gardens and the tales of travellers. He retreated into plans for planting aromatic shrubs at Nantes, leaving me awash with the seduction of music and shared passions. More breathless than ever, and not from the singing.
I