Читать книгу The Scandalous Duchess - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 17

June 1372: Hertford Castle

‘She’ll have a hard time of it, mark my words.’ Mistress Elyot, experienced midwife summoned by the Duke to attend his wife, was quick to give her opinion. We were all established at last at Hertford and the important event loomed.

‘Narrow hips. And she’s not strong. Comes of being Castilian, I expect.’

Tears filled Mistress Elyot’s eyes and she sniffed in doleful anticipation.

I did not see that Duchess Constanza being Castilian had any bearing on her ability to grit her teeth, hold onto the hand of one of her Castilian damsels and push hard when instructed to do so, but since Mistress Elyot had the reputation of a wise-woman, and her nature was well-known to me, I did not argue the point. Mistress Elyot had supported Blanche through her pregnancies so her reputation was well-earned and perhaps she was right. The weather was June-sultry, the rooms at Hertford uncomfortably hot, but Constanza insisted on the windows tight shut to ward off malign forces, since she was Queen of Castile and that is how all royal children were born.

‘This son,’ she panted between groans and heart-rending cries, ‘will be King of Castile.’

We suffered with her, for her demands were frequent. At least the nausea that had so afflicted her in the early months had vanished, but now her ankles and feet were so swollen that the skin was as tight as a drum. I drew on all the knowledge I had, bathing the afflicted areas in rose oil and vinegar, encouraging her to eat lightly of chicken. Praising the beneficial properties of quince fruits and pomegranate.

Duchess Constanza was a poor patient but for the sake of the child gave in to my ministrations.

Mistress Elyot nodded curtly, faint but noteworthy praise. Constanza insisted on my remaining at her side, day and night. The little cluster of damsels, useless except to carry carefully learned messages and fetch trays of food that went for the most part uneaten, glowered speechlessly at me. My sister Philippa, dislodged from her place at Constanza’s right hand, observed with a caustic shrug that there was no accounting for the strange decisions of pregnant queens.

‘This is a great endeavour for me,’ Constanza whispered as her strength waned, despite the cups of spiced wine held to her lips. ‘I must bear a son for my lord.’

Her final words, before a dark-haired, red-faced, squalling scrap of humanity took its first breath and howled. Strong enough, lively enough, but not received with any great rejoicing. Constanza’s great endeavour was a girl.

Washed gently and wrapped in linen, the baby had improved to the eye when Constanza, also restored, held out her arms. I placed the infant there.

‘She has the look of my sister Isabella,’ Constanza observed, touching the dark hair, before handing her back to me almost immediately. ‘Take her. Fetch me new linen for my bed.’

‘She is a fine daughter,’ I assured her, the light weight of the child in my arms reminding me of my own labours, the joy and relief at the outcome. That the Duchess showed so little concern except for her own discomfort was worrying me. I would not have handed my new daughter to other arms, with barely a glance.

‘Better a son,’ the Duchess announced.

‘Next time, my lady,’ Mistress Elyot cooed.

‘I suppose I must.’ Her brow was furrowed. ‘It is my duty. To my country.’

And I knew that she did not mean England. The frown remained heavy on Constanza’s brow.

‘Your daughter will be of great value in a marriage alliance when she grows, to the glory of Castile,’ I said. An angry woman did not make a good mother. ‘She will be very beautiful, and much sought after,’ I tried.

‘Yes.’ She was not soothed. ‘I will call her Katalina. Katherine, I think you say.’

I felt my whole body tense, my arms tightening around the child who whimpered a little, as the unpalatable incongruity of it struck home. The Duke’s child called after the Duke’s mistress. As dismay stirred uneasily in my belly, I could only imagine the waspish tongues, stinging at my expense, heaping mockery on all of us, if the truth ever became the talk of the court.

I would not wish that for the Duchess.

‘It is not a royal name in England, my lady,’ I suggested lightly, keeping my eyes on the child, keeping my mouth in a smile, selecting the only argument that I thought would hold any weight with her. ‘Monseigneur might not like it.’

‘Why would he not? It is a beautiful name.’ She looked directly at me. ‘Is it not, Katherine?’

There was a rustle of laughter at this rather laboured attempt at humour. But for me, although I kept the smile intact, dismay turned to horror. Constanza could not know that I had kissed the Duke with more than the respect expected from a damsel of the household. She could not.

‘St Katherine is the saint I admire most,’ Constanza continued, impervious to my cold fear.

Of course she did not know. And relief flooded through me. I must learn to control my reactions. I could not allow myself to be so vulnerable, so open to every breath of possible scandal, for the rest of my life. The die was cast and I had the audacity to hold my nerve.

‘It is an admirable name,’ I replied easily now, for I too admired St Katherine, a virgin princess of Alexandria, martyred for her faith by a Roman Emperor.

‘I approve of her courage in adversity, holding fast to her faith in the face of death,’ Constanza announced. ‘As I will hold fast to mine—that my lord will recover Castile for me. And next time I will bear a son. Go to the chapel and give thanks to St Katherine and the Virgin, for my safe delivery,’ she directed us. ‘And for the child, of course. I expect my lord daily.’

As I handed the babe to the waiting wet nurse, my compassion was stirred a little, for I saw the disappointment swim in Constanza’s eyes with the unshed tears. She would not weep. Queens of Castile, she had informed us, did not weep. But that did not mean that she was untouched by what she saw as a failure.

I would see no successful birth of a child of mine as a failure, son or daughter.

And I too looked for the Duke’s arrival. He was in London, in attendance on the King. It was almost three months since we had been together for that shortest of hours, a lifetime of absence and longing.

My sister prayed beside me, then kept step with me as we left the chapel.

‘Since when did you care what she calls the child?’ she asked sotto voce since Lady Alice with her sharp hearing was a mere few steps in front of us. Philippa’s glance was equally sharp. ‘Does it matter?’

My reply was cool. ‘I spoke without any real intent.’

‘You never speak without intent, Kate. Your cheeks are flushed.’

‘Are we not all flushed in this heat?’

‘Perhaps…it’s having an effect on your temper too.’

‘And on my patience!’ I responded as my sister’s barbs got the better of me.

Lady Alice, falling back to walk with us, clicked her tongue. Philippa stalked off ahead. I sighed.

‘I promise to offer up two novenas in penance,’ I remarked, but with a wry smile.

Lady Alice laughed. ‘But your sister is right. Something is troubling your equanimity.’

‘Nothing that a good night’s sleep and a cup of warm ale would not cure. If the Duchess can allow me out of her sight for an hour or two.’

‘Perhaps she will become less demanding when the Duke arrives. It will be good to see him.’

I lay on my bed, the hangings drawn back to allow even a breath of air. I wished with all my heart that the Duke would come.

‘I present to you your daughter, my lord.’

The Duke had arrived at Hertford.

But I did not want this. I did not want to be in this formal audience chamber with the newest royal child in my arms, under the combined eyes of a nursemaid, a servant, a liveried page and William de Burgh, the chaplain, but the office had been given to me. Since Constanza remained secluded in her chambers until she was churched, it was decided that I should be the one to present Katalina, now two weeks old, to her father.

I did not want to do this at all.

I had once shivered at that brutal word hypocrisy. Here it stared me in the face, that I, the mistress, should present the child of the legitimate wife to her lover.

My excuses were ignored, rolled over like a charge of cavalry, my suggestions for one of the Castilian damsels to have the honour swatted away. Mistress Elyot declared herself too busy. And at least, she added, with a jaundiced eye to the damsels, I could speak good French when I conversed with my lord, which was more than…