Читать книгу The Scandalous Duchess - Anne O'Brien - Страница 14

The rank poverty of Kettlethorpe settled over me in a desolation, as thick and dark as one of the boiled blood puddings that my cook was too keen on stirring up. Three thousand acres my son held here, and all of it either sand or stone or thick forest. Of good soil there was none; the land was incapable of producing anything other than a poor yield of hay, flax or hemp, and the meadows flooded regularly. Ruinous was the only word to come to mind as the mean houses came into view. The village looked run down, grim with deprivation, and so did my manor.

No surprise then that Hugh had sold his soldiering skills. Not that life as a soldier was anything but his first preference. If it was a choice of riding off to war or tilling the land, farming came a long way second, even if it meant being absent from me for most of our short married life. I considered, not for the first time, how I had managed to conceive three children. But I had, and they were my blessing.

For a moment the hall was silent except from the drip of water into a wooden bucket and the distant irritable bark of a dog. Then a rush of feet, followed by an authoritarian voice. I opened my arms, and into them fell Margaret, growing awkwardly at six years, and Thomas who at four had more noisy energy than he could control. I kissed Margaret, as self-contained as Blanche, and hugged Thomas until he squirmed for release. Hugh’s heir. Hugh’s pride and joy and hope for the future.

And there was Agnes Bonsergeant, my own nurse, who had come with me to Kettlethorpe, and did not mince her words as she clasped her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheeks.

‘I thought we might not see you for a little while yet. You were not offered a position with the new Duchess then?’

‘No.’ Stripping off my gloves enabled me to hide my expression.

‘Why not?’

I sighed silently, hoping she did not notice. ‘The Duke was busy. The Prince is ill, the King fading.’

‘Nothing new in that. I thought that he might have valued your service—his wife carrying a child and all. Nothing like a mother with healthy children to give good advice. I’d have snapped you up.’

‘So I hoped. Her own childhood nurse attends her. And her sister travels with her. Why would she need more?’

I did not want to answer any more questions.

‘Still…you look pale, Katherine.’

‘Tired, that’s all,’ I admitted, allowing Margaret to pull me into the private chamber.

‘And Blanche? How is my little Blanche?’ Agnes asked, collecting up Thomas with an experienced arm.

‘Well. They are all well. Lady Alice sends her best wishes to you and wishes a fine husband on you.’ I sank onto a settle by the fire. ‘It’s good to be home.’

Agnes grunted at the suggestion of a husband, fine or otherwise. ‘We have some problems.’

I raised my brows. ‘Some wine first, I think. Then the bad news.’

And while I drank, Agnes told me of the leaking roof, the pest that had affected the chickens, the poor quality wood, and lack of it, set aside for burning. We were short of ale, the last delivery being sour. A request that the road over towards Coleby should be improved at my expense—the list went on.

‘It’s not good,’ I said.

‘Nor is this place good for your health. Or the children’s. You could go into Lincoln. Hire a house there for the winter.’

‘I have no money to be spent on hiring houses. If I have no money to mend the roof, or pay to bring Hugh’s body home, I have no right to squander what I have where it is not necessary.’ I watched Thomas. We had given him a wooden sword for a New Year gift, which he wielded with dangerous vigour. Would he choose to be a soldier like Hugh? ‘How would I forgive myself if I had nothing to give Thomas but a worn-down inheritance, and me sitting in luxury in Lincoln?’

‘Hardly in luxury…’

‘We must do what we can. I suppose the roof is the first priority.’

‘A position at court would have solved the problem.’

‘But I haven’t got one,’ I snapped, then immediately regretted it when Agnes scowled as if I were an ill-mannered child. ‘I ask pardon, Agnes. I am more weary than I thought.’ Then on impulse: ‘Mistress Saxby said I should take a man to my bed.’

‘Did she now. And who is Mistress Saxby?’

‘A pilgrim with a practical turn of mind.’

‘A man would double your problems, some would say!’

And at last I laughed. She was doubtless right. Agnes had never married nor ever would. Her opinion of Hugh had not been high.

‘I have not come home empty-handed,’ I announced before Agnes could consider asking me if I had any particular man in mind. And from my saddle bag I brought sweetmeats for Margaret and Thomas, a length of fine wool of a serviceable dark blue, well wrapped in leather for Agnes.

‘From Lady Alice. She thinks we live in dire penury. I think she assessed the value of the clothes on my back and found them wanting.’

‘She would be right. Did she give you anything?’

‘No.’

I kept the pilgrim’s badge in my scrip, even when I had considered pinning it to Margaret’s bodice. I would keep it for myself, a memento of a very female heart-to-heart.

‘And how was Lord John?’ Agnes asked as, much later, we sat at supper, an unappetising array of pottage and beans and a brace of duck. ‘Apart from being busy.’

‘Why?’ I was immediately on guard.

‘Because he is the only member of the household you have not talked of.’

It was a jolt, but I forced myself to smile, my muscles to relax as I considered my reply, finding a need to dissemble. Agnes of the suspicious mind was watching me. With an arm around her shoulders, I hugged her close. She was very dear to me.

‘Conspicuous,’ I remarked. A word that barely did justice to the Duke’s eye-catching quality, but it would satisfy Agnes. ‘When is he ever not?’

And just as enigmatic, I could have added, but didn’t. Agnes’s eye would have become even more searching. Meanwhile, the Duke’s disturbing assertions continued to echo in my mind like the clang of the passing bell.

‘Visitors, my lady. And by the look of them, they’ve travelled far.’

‘It’s not the Duke of Lancaster, is it?’ I asked caustically.

Master Ingoldsby looked puzzled. ‘Why no, mistress. I’d not say so. Did we expect his lordship?’

I squeezed his arm, sorry to have taken advantage of his limitations. Grey of hair, his face deeply lined, Master Ingoldsby’s years were catching up with him. ‘No, we did not. I doubt he’ll find a path to my door.’

The Duke’s carnal desire for me had died a permanent death. It must be something of a relief to both of us.

I was in the cellars, bewailing the contaminated hams—the roofleaked here also—and assessing the barrels of inferior ale, when Master Ingoldsby came to hover at my shoulder. I left the hams and ale willingly, and went out into the courtyard, tucking the loose strands of my hair beneath my hood, considering whether it might be my sister Philippa. I did not think so. Life in the country did not suit my sister, a town mouse, born and bred.

And no it was not. The sound of horses’ hooves greeted me and the lumbering creak and groan of a heavy wagon on the road, and as I walked out past the gatehouse, I saw that the wagon had an escort of men, without armour or livery to help my identification, but well-mounted with an impressive array of weapons. As Lady of Kettlethorpe I would have to offer them hospitality. I wondered if my cook could stretch our supper of mutton collops and a dish of salt cod to accommodate another half-dozen mouths. Something, I supposed, could be achieved with bread, eggs and a hearty pottage, as I walked towards the man who had already dismounted and was pulling off his hood as he bowed. His expression was severe, his carriage upright, and I thought he had the look of a soldier despite his advancing years.

‘Lady Katherine de Swynford…’

‘Sir?’

The man inclined his head. ‘I am instructed to deliver this to you.’ He raised his chin in the direction of the wagon. ‘I am Nicholas Graves, my lady. A soldier by profession.’

The ever-present nerves in my belly settled, assuaged by his courtesy. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

Intrigued, I walked to the wagon, expecting I knew not what as he drew back the heavy canvas cover.

‘Oh!’

It took me a moment to acknowledge what I saw. A large linen-wrapped bundle of what would be pieces of armour and mail, another swathed roll of knightly weapons. A worn travelling coffer. A smaller box with a lock. And over all was draped a banner. A sea of silver, divided by the slash of a black chevron, three snarling boars heads in gold, teeth and tongues gleaming through the wear and tear of warfare.

The possessions and accoutrements of a knight on military service.

My attention was drawn back to the box with the locked lid. Someone had carved a chevron and three boars’ heads on it, rough but recognisable. It was the small size of it…and as truth struck home at last, my knees buckled and I found myself clinging to the side of the wagon. Then Agnes was beside me, an arm around my shoulder, and Master Ingoldsby had a grip of my arm.

‘I was ordered to arrange to conduct Sir Hugh’s possessions home, my lady,’ the soldier said.

‘Hugh…’ I whispered.

‘Yes, my lady.’ He looked at me as if he expected me to collapse at his feet, but I was made of sterner stuff than that.

‘How did he die?’ I asked as the driver climbed from his seat and began to unload the wrapped pieces of armour. My voice seemed faint to my ears and far away. I was shivering uncontrollably, but it was not the cold of the little wind that had picked up.

‘Dysentery, my lady,’ he replied laconically. ‘He was too ill to travel home in September. We thought he was growing stronger—but he failed. In November.’

‘Yes, I knew it was November. I was told.’ I frowned at the fiercely grinning boars’ heads, hating their vigour. ‘But I did not arrange this. I cannot pay.’ Now I heard the panic in my voice. I had visions of these sad remnants being taken away from me, because I did not have the coin to pay the driver of the wagon or the escort. Where would I find the money for this? I felt Agnes shift her grip and her hands closed tighter on my shoulders.

‘There is no need for your concern. It is all paid for, my lady.’

‘Who paid for it? Who arranged it?’

‘My lord arranged it.’

I shook my head. I could not seem to take my eyes from the battered gauntlet that had slid from its wrapping and lay, fingers curled upwards.

‘The Duke arranged it all. I serve him, my lady. The Duke of Lancaster.’ As if he was addressing a want-wit. ‘And I am instructed to give you these.’ He pushed into my hand two leather bags, one large and one small, and two folded letters.

I blinked as I exhaled slowly. So this was the Duke’s doing.

‘Sir Hugh’s body was too…’ Master Graves began, then bit off his words. ‘Given the circumstances—well, it was decided to bring only his heart back here to England.’

‘Yes…’

‘My lady…?’ I became aware of my steward looking to me for orders. I must think about the Duke of Lancaster’s gift to me, but not now. Not yet.

‘If one of your men could take the…the heart to the church, sir,’ I said, pointing to where the tower of the little church of St Peter and St Paul could be seen behind a stand of trees. And to Master Ingoldsby: ‘And these men need ale, if we can find any fit to drink. Then food.’

How superbly practical I had become as a warmth bloomed in my belly that Hugh’s heart had been brought home. It was enough, and what he would have wanted. Later I would open the other packages brought by Master Graves. Later I would read the two letters. Then I would supervise the cleaning, repair and storing of Hugh’s armour, which would one day belong to Thomas.

And I would, of necessity, consider the implications of such generosity from the Duke, for it was no light matter. Such open-handedness would put me under an obligation.

For no reason that I could fathom, Mistress Saxby of the wide hips and wider hat swayed flirtatiously into my mind. A lady might accept a mirror or a girdle from her lover. Or even a pair of gloves, for they were symbols of a true affection.

What if the impatient lover gave the gift of the husband’s heart? The Duke had restored the only remnant of my dead husband to me, with the money to assure a tomb of some magnificence. The Duke had given far more than a passing thought to what I would most desire. Where did a dead husband’s heart weigh in Mistress Saxby’s assessment?

I had no idea. For a moment I wished she was there in her jingling pilgrim’s garb to advise me.

I knew that would not serve. Any decision I made must be on my own conscience.

The larger leather purse hardly needed investigation. I could tell by its weight that it contained a sum of money sufficient to inter Hugh with honour. I pushed it aside. It meant much to me to be able to pay for an effigy on Hugh’s tomb at the hand of a true craftsman, but it was the demands of the living, not the dead, that drew my eye. Lingering in the hall, I addressed the letter that I considered to be the more innocent of the pair, carrying it to a cresset, my nose wrinkling at the stench of hot fat. The wick needed trimming. It was all a far cry from the fine wax candles of The Savoy.

And there it was. What I had hoped for.

To Lady Katherine de Swynford,

Monseigneur de Lancaster has expressed a wish for your attendance and future service at The Savoy. It is expected that the Duchess of Lancaster, Constanza, Queen of Castile, will make her entry into London in the second week in February. As a valued member of Duchess Blanche’s household, and in recognition of Sir Hugh Swynford’s valuable contribution in

Aquitaine as Monseigneur de Lancaster’s retainer, a place is offered to you in the household of the Duchess Constanza.

Your remuneration will be generous.

We expect to see you forthwith.

It had the pompous tone of a demand rather than a request, much as I would expect from Sir Thomas Hungerford, the Lancaster steward who exercised his authority over all the ducal properties in the south, but my heart leaped, and I was smiling as my eye ran down to the less formal hand, added at the bottom. Lady Alice had applied her own brand of entreaty.

Do come, Katherine. With your knowledge of the dangers of childbirth and your experience in the rearing of young children, you will be invaluable to the new Duchess who seems to be fragile in her pregnancy. Her journey from Dorset has been uncommonly slow. We will judge her calibre when she arrives.

It is expected that your sister Philippa will also return as part of the household since her husband has been dispatched abroad.

It is anticipated that you will bring your children with you.

We expect to be settled at Hertford.

I look to you and your sister to support me against the influx of Castilians. Do you by any chance speak Castilian?

Quite like old times, I think. I look forward to your coming…

Alice had signed her name.

I folded the page and pushed it into the bodice of my overgown, my face warm with pleasure. A position again. A welcome. A generous income to bolster the rents from Kettlethorpe. Perhaps the ever-flooding Fossdyke would be put to rights at last and my neighbours would not glower as I rode past.

I would see Blanche, reunite all my children, install myself with Alyne and Lady Alice. I swept Thomas up into my arms, already on my way to my inner chamber, but then my steps slowed and reality checked my delight. Here was danger. I had made my refusal of the Duke’s demand succinctly clear, but if I returned to The Savoy, into Duchess Constanza’s household, was that not my being complicit in placing myself back within the Duke’s power? Was I not opening myself to a situation that would be a moral insult to both myself and his new wife?

I had wanted this position so badly, yet now all was changed, all my initial naïve pleasure dimmed. I came to a halt halfway up the stairs, furious with the absent Duke, who, I suspected, had answered to no one since the day of his birth. I was not responsible for his arrogant invitation. I was the innocent party, I was not complicit. I had said no. The Duke was under no illusions about my thoughts on this. He might have a claim on my loyalty, he might pay me for service to his wife, but there it would end.

I was perfectly entitled to make my dignified return to The Savoy, on my own terms.

But there was the other folded page and a soft leather bag, small enough to fit into my palm, with a seal on the parchment that was the Duke’s own with the leopards of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France.

Open it! I ordered. You are making more of this than need be. It cannot possibly make your obligation to him greater than it already is. Read it!

Instead, I tucked both items into my bodice, where the letter proceeded to burn a hole against my breast and the pouch nestled until it seemed to be a weight on my soul. I could barely resist opening it, even though I knew with certainty that if I did, if I read what must be a personal missive from the Duke, then it would be opening a dangerous window. Better that I consign them both to the flames in my bedchamber.

But I destroyed neither. Instead, dispatching Thomas to Agnes’s care, I wrapped a cloak around me, strapped on a pair of patterns and made my way to the church, squelching through the puddles and wondering if I had lost my senses. Once there I walked down the aisle towards the final resting place of the earthly remains of Hugh Swynford.

Replenishing the candles, re-lighting them, I knelt by the little casket, where one day a fine effigy would stand, and prayed first for the repose of Hugh’s soul. He would have been thirty-two years old, the same age as the Duke.

Looking over my shoulder to ensure that I was alone, I began to explain.

‘I am going to Hertford. I am to have a place in Duchess Constanza’s household. She is the Duke’s new wife, the Castilian Queen. You would not have known about this alliance with Castile—or perhaps you did before you…well!’ I took a breath. Speaking to the dead was foolish perhaps, but I felt a need to do it. ‘I know that is what you would want for me. Have we not always served the royal family? I will take the children with me. But I will not neglect my role here. They already call me the Lady of Kettlethorpe, did you know? I am proud of that and I hope you are too.’ I paused for a moment, trying hard to concentrate. ‘I swear I will preserve your inheritance for your son. Thomas is growing well. His education under Lady Alice’s eye will be of the best. I expect he will become a page and learn all he needs to know about being a good knight. I give thanks for it.’

The letter against my heart almost vibrated with an urgency.

‘I am grateful to the Duke for his generosity. He remembers you with affection.’

I closed my fingers over the cloth of my bodice so that the parchment of the letter crackled. The package felt hard and uneven, its composite parts moving one against the other.

‘It will be good to reunite the children,’ I said. ‘I have missed Blanche.’

I retrieved the letter.

‘Master Ingoldsby will look after everything while I am away. The meadows have flooded again.’

I broke the seal and opened it, smoothing the creases.

‘I don’t have the money to clear out the Fossdyke. Not yet—but perhaps I can do it when I am remunerated. I will try to do my best…’

My words dried and I sank back on my heels and read. Strikingly formal, it was not of any great length. My heart beating in my ears, I read, my eye skimming over the first brief paragraph. It was as if he were standing beside me, with a similar irritation to my own, colouring his choice of words, which were abrupt.

To Madame Katherine de Swynford,

I had hoped that you would remain at The Savoy until my return from Kennington but you found a need to return to Lincolnshire. Perhaps the fault was mine, that circumstances prevented me from making your situation clear. I remedy that now, by the hand of Sir Thomas.

That was good, was it not? Rather sharp and caustic, even a thread of criticism that my precipitate departure had necessitated this letter. My heart steadied.

There was a space on the single page and then:

As for the rest that stands between us, I have no regret in voicing it. The matter is not closed. I live in hope that you will reconsider your refusal. I should warn you that it will be my life’s quest to win you for my own. Your anxieties reached out to my notions of chivalry and honour, demanding that I come to your aid, but it was your infinite beauty, finely drawn through grief and the burden you carry, that smote at my senses. Your image remains with me still, even in your absence, as if I carried a painted icon against my heart. It is beyond my fathoming, but you are ever present, instilling me with your radiance. I need to see you again.

I send you this trifle as a symbol of my regard for your welfare, of both body and soul.

I am, and will always be, despite your expressed qualms, yours to command.

My future happiness, for good or ill, rests with you.

There was another little space. And then:

It is my wish that you will leave your widow’s weeds in Lincolnshire. I wish to see you clad as befits your status in my household. Apart from my own wishes, why would a felicitous bride desire a damsel dressed like storm-crow?

There was no signature. There did not need to be, for the owner of the flamboyant wording and forceful command was without doubt the Duke. As I took in what was imperiously issued with no consideration that I might actually refuse, I scowled at the final comment, and was aware of making a little mew of distress as my heart once again thudded against my ribs. I looked up—surely a sign of guilt—as if Hugh might be aware and would ask what tormented me.

But the church was settled into its habitual silence around me.

So what had the importunate Duke sent me?

I laid the letter down, loosed the draw-string of the little pouch, but, before I could catch it, out slithered a rosary, a string of simple beads threaded on a length of silk, to fall to the floor at my side. But not simple at all, I saw as I scooped them up. The aves in their little groups of ten were of coral, the softest pink, as seductively smooth as a baby’s palm, richly interposed by the larger paternosters of carved jet with gilded flowers.

This was no trifle. I breathed out slowly, lifting the gift so that the candlelight glimmered along its length. I looked again at the letter and the lovely beads, which I allowed to slide again from my hand to be caught by the fullness of my skirts.

And there was Mistress Saxby beside me, with her world-weary smile.

Has he given you a gift? If he does it shows he had designs on your respectability.

So I should refuse any such gift?

I’d say accept any gift he makes you. It may well be that it is the sign of a true regard, if he is willing to spend money on you and he has matched the gift well to your inclination.

He had given me a rosary. He knew that such a gift would be close to my heart.

Unless he merely wishes to lure you into his bed. Mistress Saxby was still needling with her observations.

But a rosary, with its exquisitely carved silver crucifix. Did he make light of my strong faith, which would make the position of mistress, no matter how important the lover, anathema? Were these gifts, a string of beads, a purse of coin and a preserved heart, nothing more than lures to buy my compliance?

Or was he concerned merely to give me what I needed? What would please me?

How could I discover the answers to such impossible questions? For the briefest of moments I covered my face with my hands, then knelt upright and squared my shoulders.

‘Dear Hugh, I want you to know. I honoured you. I was loyal to you in thought and deed through all the years of our marriage. But…forgive me.’ I stuffed the letter and beads back into my overgown and placed my hand flat on the carved coffer lid. ‘I was never unfaithful to you. I was a good wife. But now…’

And because I could no longer stay there in that holy place with my thoughts in such wanton turmoil I stood, genuflected and hurried out.

Will God punish us for snatching at happiness in a world that brings a woman precious little of it?

I pushed Mistress Saxby’s questionable wisdom aside, but shame and desire kept joint pace with me. Returned to the manor, I made excuses—I knew not what—to Agnes and Master Ingoldsby and took refuge behind the closed door of my chamber.

And there, for the first time for almost eight years I allowed thoughts of John of Lancaster to flood in without restraint, and take possession. This was the man. This was what he meant to me.

I stood by the head of my bed, in the shadow of the thick damask hangings, once a lustrous blue, worn and faded now into a uniform greyness. I stood as if I were an onlooker, for the walls of my chamber grew dim in my sight, to be replaced with the rich severity of the chapel at The Savoy where I had been wed to Hugh.

How powerful memory could be. Instead of the dusty silence of my chamber, broken only by occasional rustles and cheeps from the singing finches in their cage, bright little birds that I had bought for Margaret’s amusement, the scene was peopled with faces and figures from the past that I knew well, a little gathering to celebrate an old and sacred rite. The candles were bright, the high quality wax perfumed with incense, the altar heavy with gold, but it was a quiet, intimate scene, without display as was fitting. I, fourteen years old and newly delivered of my daughter, stood with the child in my arms.

It was as if I had stepped into the ceremony already underway with prayers said and promises made. With the appropriate words, the priest lifted the infant from me, allowing the linen covering to fall to the floor, before lowering her into the font where the shock of the cold water caused her to drag in a breath and expel it in a cry of pure anguish. Her hands beat on the water, her dark eyes wide and staring with distress, and I, new mother as I was, was stricken.

It was the Duke, standing as my child’s godfather—was I not highly favoured in the household in those days?—who lifted the baby from the font, wrapping her slippery body with astonishing deftness, in a pearl-encrusted chrysom robe handed to him by Duchess Blanche herself, for whom my baby was called. His cradling of her was sure, confident. I could not imagine Hugh doing as much with his soldier’s hands, rough with old scars and abrasions even though the two men were of an age.

‘Hush then,’ the Duchess murmured, touching her name-sake’s cheek while, cupping her head with his hand, the Duke smiled ruefully.

‘There’s no need for all this, Mistress Blanche Swynford,’ he said. ‘You are named in the sight of God and much loved. Look at all here-present, who will care for you. Why would you weep?’

The unexpected words struck hard at my heart, the unbelievable tenderness of them, and my infant’s cries instantly subsided to whimpers, before ceasing on a sob and a hiccup. Everyone laughed, the domestic replacing, for that one instant, the sacred. As if entranced, little Blanche’s myopic gaze fixed on the face above her.

Entranced? If my daughter was caught up in the Duke’s glamour, then so was I.

It is his hands, I thought, trying to swallow against the lump in my throat. Broad palmed, long fingered, eminently capable, whether lifting a child or wielding a sword. Fine boned and beautiful, they transfixed me.

‘Will you take her, Hugh? The first of your line?’

‘I’m more likely to drop her,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Katherine has a safer pair of hands.’

‘You have a comely daughter, and I foresee a clutch of strong sons.’ The Duke stepped to hand her to me, and in doing so his fingers brushed against mine. The rock in my throat hardened and my breath shuddered between my lips, catching a little as it never did when Hugh touched me far more intimately. When I felt my heart tremble, I clutched little Blanche so tightly that she whimpered again.

‘Gently,’ Duchess Blanche advised, as if it was my inexperience that was the problem.

I loosed my grip, turning my face away, as the priest offered his blessing on the little gathering.

What had happened here? It was the only question in my mind as my daughter settled to sleep against my breast.

I looked at the priest who was smiling benignly. At Hugh, who was every inch the proud husband and father, hoping that indeed next time it would be a son. At Duchess Blanche who, already mother of two fine daughters and despite the loss of her baby son, John, was carrying another ducal child high beneath her jewelled girdle.

And the Duke?

I had known him for ever. What was different today? I had seen him in full royal splendour, all gold and jewels and Plantagenet lions. In gleaming armour, the sun illuminating his tall stature as if resplendent with God’s heavenly blessing. I had seen him walk into the Hall at Kenilworth, at Hertford, at Tutbury, hot and sweaty with effort in the tilt-yard, dishevelled and dust-ridden but his face alive with the expending of energy. I had heard him in furious argument with his brothers. In flirtatious laughter and tender mood with Duchess Blanche. Had seen him short-tempered with a clumsy servant, furious as a youth when his will was thwarted, repentant when taken to task by Queen Philippa.

This was nothing more than a domestic scene, the Duke and Duchess seeing fit to lavish an unexpected honour on two of their dependents, and it should not have moved my heart in this manner. His tunic and hose were plain for a prince, his sleeves wet from the font, the breast of his tunic dark with water. No jewels, no weapons, no armour. No heraldic motif to advertise his power. Nothing here to force a reaction from my nerves that continued to ripple beneath my skin.

And then as I raised my eyes from his hands to his face, I saw the Duke look over at his wife, a glance of such heartfelt compassion, of such gentle understanding for her, for the recent loss of their son. He too longed for a son to be heir to the Lancaster inheritance. The Duke’s love for his wife was a thing of wonder. Such utter devotion, equally returned by his Duchess. A blinding love that I wished was for me.

Before I could be observed, I gave my attention to my child, ordering my thoughts into acceptability. Much, I decided, like pounding herbs and spices through a sieve in a stillroom. This is an infatuation, I remonstrated, from a young girl for her lord who has the glamour and handsome features that a troubadour might sing of, a foolish longing that would fade and die within the time it took for my little Blanche to find her feet and walk unaided.

But it was not. It was a longing that would not leave me.

Why Lord John of Lancaster? I demanded. Why him? It was not his position, his wealth, or his power. It was not his royal blood. As part of Duchess Blanche’s household my path had crossed those of the other royal sons. I did not shiver at the splendid proximity of Prince Edward. Nor was I seduced by the easy charm of the tragically dead Lionel. Or enjoy the easy wit of my lord of Gloucester. It was John of Lancaster who made my blood race. It was that dangerous indefinable allure that moved my heart.

Did I try to douse that flare of desire?

Yes, I tried. Of course I did. Did I not know that the Duke of Lancaster was not for such as I? His royal blood placed him so far above me, while he, oblivious to my youthful yearnings, had eyes only for his beautiful wife, which was as it should be. And so I learned to live with the terrifying discomfort. I was free to admire his glamour and worship silently at his feet. That he had no feelings for me other than honour and duty and a light affection was in some sense a safety net, for he would never look at me and suspect the tenor of the feelings that stalked me.

And Hugh? Did that make me a disloyal wife to my husband? As an arranged marriage between a girl of good birth but no substance and a young man from a solid knightly family, it was a perfect arrangement to suit us both. On a personal level I seemed to please him well enough, for he was briskly considerate and I was of a practical turn of mind. I gave him my loyalty and the duty of my body. I was to bear him another daughter, Margaret, and his precious son and heir, Thomas.

I did not think that I was disloyal.

Except when my mind evaded my conscience.

The scene from the past winked out as a movement, perhaps the hopping of one of the finches from one perch to another, brought my mind back to the here and now so that I once more stood beside my marriage bed, the bed curtain clenched tight in my right hand. As I released it, smoothing out the creases I had made, my thoughts turned inwards. I had been a gracious and well-mannered wife who served the Duchess and administered the Kettlethorpe estates if need arose.

Duty, honour, loyalty. Hard words to cling to when my thoughts were with a man who could wield the power, with the faintest smile, the most innocuous of requests, to make my heart lurch. But I swore that I would go to my death without his knowing how the hand of desire touched me that day with such fervour that the need still growled in my belly. Nor would Duchess Blanche ever guess, for my disloyalty to her was unthinkable.

And yet sometimes when the Duke laced his fingers with Blanche’s, kissed her lips with his, the longing was a raging fire in my veins.

I had never spoken of it, nor would I. Some sins were best kept between the sinner and God. I had been the perfect damsel, and I learned to keep my distance, to hide my thoughts. I was not without intelligence or the ability to dissemble when the need arose and I saw the right sense of it. It was a relief when the Duke went to France to fight at the side of his brother Prince Edward.

But what now?

I sank to the edge of the bed.

As a widow, as a mother with a duty to her children, duty and honour still guided my steps. Acting on the stark awareness that beat beneath my bodice was still not a choice I could ever contemplate. My respectability was assured and inviolable. It was bearable for had I not been the perfect mistress of self-command for more years than I wished to count? I knew what was expected of me and what was due to me and to my family name. I would never follow my chosen path in life with anything but propriety and courtly dignity.

Easy to say. I found that once again I had clutched the hangings, for now all was changed. The Duke’s statement of intent had made it unbearable, and if he would trifle with my emotions, it would undermine all I had done to keep my thoughts under strict discipline. I did not understand how a man of such erstwhile integrity could place this burden at my feet. I did not need this complication. I did not want it.

But he wanted me.

I want you. I want you for my own.

My feelings for him were so complex as to defy definition, my heart and mind in severe conflict: to take care, or to throw care and discretion to the wind. To refuse a priceless gift, or seize it with both hands. To condemn what was a gross sin, or claim it as my heart’s desire. How I wished that he had not spoken, yet when I closed my eyes, the words were written on the darkness of my vision, shimmering there in gold, and horribly seductive.

A light knock, the click of the latch that encouraged the finches to trill briefly, and there was Agnes at the door. ‘We have a problem, Katherine.’

‘Not another.’ I stood, banishing the Duke to where he properly belonged, waiting at The Savoy for the arrival of Duchess Constanza. I had enough to worry about without malingering in the past.

‘The reed thatch on the stable block has collapsed in the inner corner. It’s brought down a portion of the hay loft. Master Ingoldsby says the rest is sure to follow if this rain continues, so we must move the horses to dry accommodations. He says do we send to our neighbours? Then there’s the little matter of water seeping into the well in the court-yard…’

‘And I need the funds to put it all right. I know.’ I must have succumbed to dismay, for Agnes approached, eyes narrowed on my face, but I essayed a laugh to deflect her concern. ‘The Duke’s offer could not have come at a more opportune moment. Do you suppose that he foresaw our thatching difficulties?’

Agnes snorted at my levity. ‘A pretty thing.’ She nodded at the rosary clutched in my hand.

Lifting it, I allowed the light to play along its length, picking out the carving on the crucifix. ‘Yes. It’s beautiful.’

Beautiful, but the implications of its giving were dangerous.

‘A gift?’ Agnes probed.

She knew I could not afford to purchase an item of such value.

‘Yes.’ How easy it was to be drawn into deception. ‘From Lady Alice.’ And as if to hide my guilt I closed my hand over the beads.

‘Nice if you have the money,’ Agnes sniffed. ‘Did I see coral there? And gold?’

‘Yes.’ It was as I knew, too valuable even for Lady Alice’s giving.

‘I thought you said Lady Alice gave you nothing.’

‘Did I?’ Beware, those who lie. I tried a rueful smile. ‘I forgot.’

‘Heaven knows you could forget that!’ I squirmed with discomfort but just shook my head. ‘You could sell it and re-roof the stables. Unless you are absolutely fixed on joining the new Duchess?’

I returned her puzzled stare for a moment, suddenly calmly assured, quite certain in my own mind.

‘Yes, I am fixed on it. I will earn enough from my position with Duchess Constanza to re-roof the whole house,’ I said. ‘What possible reason would there be for me to refuse such open-handed generosity?’ I began to slide the paternosters into their leather pouch.

‘It’s a very costly gift,’ Agnes remarked, looking at me rather than at the beads.

‘Then I must be sure to be worthy of my hire.’

Tucking the rosary into a coffer, with unwarranted impatience I cast a cloth over the finches whose singing had picked up in volume.

‘And you’d better take those with you,’ Agnes continued in the same sceptical tone, as if she did not believe one word I had said, ‘or Margaret will never forgive us. I don’t suppose the Duke will mind.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he will,’ I responded briskly.

And since there was so much to organise, I extinguished the scene I had just conjured up as efficiently as if I had used a candle snuffer, yet there remained with me a complicated interweaving of thoughts, lingering like a final wisp of smoke.

What would I say to the Duke when our paths next crossed? Would it not be for me like stepping into a hornets’ nest? If he demanded again that I be more than a lady-in-waiting to his wife, as he surely would, what would I say?

So many questions. I knew the answer to none of them, but my mind was resolved to go to The Savoy, whatever fate might hold in store for me.

I refused to admit what was in my heart.