Westminster Palace, Summer 1433 #2
‘And so they ride together every day, and in the evening, they have music and Frank, the lord of Borssele, sings to her. Jacqueline is interested in the new learning, and they study together. They live, not as a gaoler and his prisoner, but as a man of great honour and a beautiful lady as his guest – every day is a new adventure for them; every day becomes precious. He is quite enchanted by her, until the day that he realises he is not imprisoning her but it is he who has been captured; and she realises she is not bound to stay with him by parole exacted under duress but by her love for him – love given freely. The two of them are bound by chains of love, and freely give their hearts.’
I cannot think why this vapid fairy tale, almost certainly exagger-ated and untrue, makes me feel so miserable – as if Jacqueline, despite defeat and despair, is always hopeful, always starting fresh, a bubbling spring constantly renewed, and I am a dry riverbed, cracked and deserted.
‘It’s hardly love!’ I interrupt sharply.
‘She’s never been in love! That woman doesn’t have the capacity for love.
She’s only ever married for advantage. She would not know love even if she had a real chance at it.
She always marries to get an army or win her inheritance.
She wouldn’t fall in love; she wouldn’t be part of this fairy tale of yours.
She’s a countess, not a damsel in distress.
And he won’t be in love with her; he’ll be pretending for his own advantage.
He’ll trick her, take her lands, and sell her out to Philip of Burgundy.
She can’t inspire loyalty! All her husbands always betray her. ’
There is a little murmur in the room, as if someone that I cannot see is muttering that it is perfectly true that my husband, for one, betrayed her. And someone else whispers that I was the cause of that.
The joy drains from the storyteller’s face. ‘If you say so, Your Grace. I was only repeating what everyone says.’
‘Oh, go on,’ I say irritably. ‘I just know that this isn’t true. I know Jacqueline. She wouldn’t fall in love.’
The little duchess, married without love, turns one long look on me, and then gestures that her lady should finish the story.
‘When Duke Philip of Burgundy found out that the countess had married her gaoler, he was so angry that he swore to execute the lord and his lady for betrayal and treason, and make the countess a widow,’ she starts again, a little subdued.
‘But here’s the wonder of the story – Countess Jacqueline loves her new husband so much that she traded her lands and her claim to her lands and her title, in return for his life.
Everything she has fought for, all her life, she gave up for him.
She gave up everything to save her husband’s life.
She surrendered the greatest fortune for the man she loves. ’
Everyone turns to see how I take this dramatic ending, and I cannot manage my expression.
I know I look as aghast as if this is news of a terrible loss and death, rather than of love and a wedding.
I cannot set my expression to one of laughing disbelief; I cannot keep my voice steady.
‘Is this true? She gave up her lands and her title for his life?’
She nods. ‘All her lands are given to Duke Philip of Burgundy. She said it was a small price to pay for the gain of her heart’s desire.’
I look at her quite horrified, as if she is a travelling fortune-teller, promising me the reverse of Jacqueline’s journey: as if Jacqueline and I – who were once so close – have gone in opposite directions.
I have won wealth and lands but lost my heart’s desire, and she, who said that she wanted her lands and her wealth, has chosen love.
I, who longed so much for Owen, have married for gain, and she, who was prepared to die for her lands, has given them up.
I have won a great name, and I am as solitary as a stone tower overlooking a dark sea.
She has given up everything she wanted; and she spends her days in pleasure and her nights in her husband’s bed.
‘So what will happen next?’ Duchess Jacquetta asks into the lingering silence, as if this is a fairy story and she will hear it till the very end.
‘It’s the most beautiful thing,’ the fool of a woman tells her, avoiding my steely gaze.
‘His lordship risked his life in marrying her, but he married her anyway, for love – the truest love there can be, with no advantage and life itself to lose. And now – it really is like a story! – Philip has forgiven them; he will take Hainault and all her lands from her, but he leaves her with her husband and true love, and he has given Frank van Borssele the lands and title of Count of Oostervant. Jacqueline is a countess again, she is Jacqueline, Countess of Oostervant and a beloved wife, and her husband has a wife who could have owned half of Europe but gave it all up for him.’
There is a pretty ripple of applause and comment, but I am silent and sour. Since I kneeled beside my mother’s deathbed at Sterborough Castle, I have known that nothing matters more than winning my way in the world to a great place – and Jacqueline used to think so too.
Now, it is as if she sent me a loud message by a trumpeter and a herald to say: ‘We were wrong. Love matters more than wealth. All the trappings that you have won with your cold-hearted cleverness – the guards and the jewels, the deference and the service, the title and the command of thousands – all this will not make you happy. I have given it all up for love, and I have found happiness, but you will never be satisfied – not even if you win the thrones of England and France – for you have lost Owen Tudor, the love of your life, and he has gone to a better woman than you.’
The only benefit to me from this mawkish story of love is that Jacqueline’s reckless lust wipes the last of the lingering gossip from my name.
By taking a new husband she proves that she was never married to mine.
Now, she is Countess of Oostervant, and I am the only and undeniable Duchess of Gloucester.
My reputation is scrubbed clean; the chroniclers and historians will speak well of me, as a duchess – they may even speak of me as a queen.
But her reputation will be ruined forever.
She will be named as a woman of four husbands – nobody will remember that two were forced on her, that one was her only route to survival; but when she had the chance, she married for love.
If I did not envy her; if I believed in love, I would wish her happiness. But I don’t believe in love or happiness any more.