face.
‘He has gone,’ I said. ‘I gave him the Book of Hours.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘I knew you would. And you said farewell.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have an attraction towards him. Or I might even say that you love him.’
A statement. Two statements, not questions. And so simply expressed. Not wrapped around in troubadour’s words or in the accusation of a furious husband. It was as if John had struck me, but not a hard blow and there was indeed no accusation in his face. Only an acceptance.
‘Yes, I do,’ I admitted simply. I would not deny his generosity with a lie. ‘I love him without reason. Without cause. Without any encouragement from him. Or from me.’
Hands folded, breathing held in check, I could say no other. Nor could I apologise for what had been not of my seeking. All I could do was hope he would understand. And forgive.
‘I can see it in you.’
‘You sent me with the book,’ I said, as all had become plain, like an outline etched on glass. ‘So that we could say adieu alone.’
‘And anything else that needed to be said between you—without an audience.’
So he had. It had been deliberate, as I now realised. An offering of such impossible indulgence, so that Henry and I might speak of this emotion that held us so strongly. For John had given me—had given both of us—his permission to say farewell. He had offered me his permission to acknowledge the love that had so wantonly undermined the vows made in my marriage to him. He had allowed me his permission to admit, without treachery, that I loved Henry of Lancaster, and then draw a line of finality beneath it, for the Duke’s future was far distant from mine.
In that one astonishingly clever and compassionate move, John had demolished the pride in me that had refused to allow me to acknowledge, or certainly act on, so flighty an emotion as love. What manner of man did that make my husband? One of such honour and magnanimity beyond my imagining. Or beyond my deserts.
‘I cannot believe your indulgence towards me,’I said with difficulty. ‘And I am ashamed. I am sorry. I have betrayed you.’
John shook his head. ‘You have never done that.’ Then: ‘Will you go with him? To England?’
If John’s knowledge of my feelings had rocked the foundations of my self-control, this set my belly to roil. Go with Henry? Abandon my marriage and family? How could he think it of me?
‘No, John! Never! How could I do that?’
As he swept the feather of the pen across the carefully drawn coastline, his expression was benign.
‘You could if you wished it enough. There would be scandal, but men and women have parted throughout the ages, when the horror of living apart from the one they loved became stronger than the fear of the world’s condemnation.’ He placed the pen on the table and linked his fingers quite calmly as if discussing some matter of business. ‘It is not given to everyone to love with fervour.’ And when I would have denied any emotion so extreme, John raised his hand. ‘Your love for him is immeasurable. I see it in your face when you look at him. It astonishes you.’ His mouth took on the faintest of smiles although I thought there was no humour in him. ‘You never looked at me like that. Nor did I expect it. Ours was never that sort of marriage. Will you go with him?’
‘He has not asked it of me.’
‘No. He would not, of course. He is a man of honour. But would he wish it?’
‘I don’t know. We did not speak of such things.’
‘Both too honourable.’
‘But I am not honourable.’ Confession was difficult but must be made. ‘I would never betray you in body, but my mind knows only disobedience. I cannot govern it.’
‘Nor do you have to.’ John stood, walking round the table to stand before me. ‘Our marriage was one of political alignment. We both knew that. It was not one of love.’
‘But it should have been one of loyalty. I hope I have been a good wife to you.’
He took my hands in his, his thumbs stroking over my wrists where the blood beat, heavy with guilt. And loss.
‘I can think of none better. Three times I took a new wife to bed, making the best alliances I could for Brittany. Mary Plantagenet. Joan Holland. Both English, they were good wives. But you have been the best. Do we not talk? Do we not share interests and laugh together? Do you not share my duties in this land which is not yours by birth? No man could ask for a better woman at his side in affairs of business. You have given me the gift of your intellect and the finest brood of children any man could ask for.’ Leaning, he placed a kiss between my brows. ‘I’ll not upbraid you for discovering an attraction for another man. I am nearing my sixtieth year and can never give you the passion that Henry of Lancaster could give you. You are still so young…’
He touched my lips with one finger when I would have remonstrated.
‘No. Listen. I give you permission to think of Henry without guilt. It was never my intention to replace the tyranny of a deranged father with that of an old and importunate husband.’
I would not be silenced. His nobility was a marvel that tore at my heart. So much emotion, all in one afternoon.
‘Ah, John. That is not how I see you. You are no tyrant. Nor will I ever leave you. My duty lies here with you and our children. More than duty. My affection is bound up in all we have here together. Can you question my loyalty?’
‘No, never. And I accept your word. I think you are my friend as well as my wife. You always have been, since that first day when as a young girl you took your vows.’
‘And so I shall remain. I have said my farewells. Henry will go to England, he will become King if fortune smiles on him, and perhaps my cousin Mary will be offered to him once he is respectable again with a crown on his head.’
‘Perhaps so.’
And John folded me into his arms, his hand gently on my head so that my face was pressed against his shoulder. Tears were heavy in my chest, for Henry’s danger, for John’s nobility, for my guilt, but I would not weep for another man in John’s arms. That would indeed be a betrayal. How generous. How caring. I had not thought that John loved me, but then, there were so many degrees of love. My gratitude for his understanding was overwhelming but I would not thank him again for it. It would be a denial of his own grace and compassion in making the sacrifice.
It would be another layer of betrayal, if I accepted the right to think of Henry.
Thus, all decided however hard it might be, I would continue to be the best wife that I could. I would banish Henry. And if I could not, then he must exist on the very edges of my thoughts. That was what I promised with my forehead pressed tight against the sumptuous weave of John’s tunic, his arms a haven around me. I would put Henry in his proper place. I was Duchess of Brittany. I would dedicate my life to that.
John was the first to move, raising his head, looking towards the window.
‘That sounded like
