The Scandalous Duchess

Chapter Nine

My role as magistra was one into which I could slide effortlessly. As the Duke had observed, my own tuition at Court had been unstinting. The ducal children, and my own, would benefit from those rigorous demands, and from my own ability to engage in polite conversation, walk gracefully, hold a tune and entertain competently on the strings of a lute. I found myself able to apply my skills with confidence.

There was only one rule to be followed to the exclusion of all else. Reticence must command with an iron hand. Discretion must guide my every action.

I became used to seeing the Duke: at a distance, at close quarters in the midst of his family, but in public always with that careful separation between us. There must be no suspicion, no careless moment of intimacy to cause an in-drawing of breath from a casual observer. No indiscreet comment that presumed knowledge that should not exist. How it kept me on my toes, to dance to this complicated tune. And I learned to tolerate that void between us, knowing that it would be bridged when he could. His awareness of me was a tangible thing, but handled with delicacy.

The pattern of my days was laid down when we went hawking in the marshes across the river: a family party on horseback, a noisy collection of children with servants to accompany and safeguard. Constanza too, who relished the exercise, and her damsels.

He was frequently with Constanza in those days.

Sister Philippa rode at my side as I kept an eye on Elizabeth who was headstrong. Henry and my son Thomas had their heads together in some plotting. Perhaps one day, I thought absently but with no real hope, my son John would participate in such an outing as this with his father. For there in the midst was the Duke, a keen owner of a new pair of goshawks.

We flew them at pigeons and wading water-birds.

When the Duke handed a little merlin to me, our gloved hands touched as they must. How was it possible to experience the heat of another’s hand through two layers of stitched leather of the hawking gloves?

Neither of us exhibited any acknowledgement.

But afterwards, when the falconer returned the hawks to their perches, and the children were engaged in their afternoon occupations, when Constanza knelt at her prie-dieu to petition God for a son and Philippa cared for Katalina, he came to me in my chamber and all my yearnings were fulfilled. When he possessed me, I was a willing captive.

The rumours began, as they must. Did we think we could exist on our gilded cloud of secrecy for ever? Only a fool would give any weight to the possibility.

What was it that drew attention?

I knew not.

First the whispering started, the sibilance of words cut off, or almost smothered, when I entered the room. Constanza’s damsels, like their mistress, had a better command of French now, and their vocabulary was not always that of gently reared women. Even when the consonants were hissed in pure Castilian, their meaning was clear. A minor inconvenience, I told myself. I was no naïve girl to believe that so physical an affair could remain a secret in the hotbed of the Duchess’s household where gossip was the order of the day. They dared not be overtly discourteous, and they were careful not to express their opinions in the Duchess’s company.

The observations were predictable, I supposed.

Who was ever to know the source of such rumours? What I did know was that it would only be a matter of time before the torrid Castilian details came to Constanza’s ear. And then, would she insist on my dismissal to rid herself of my contaminating presence?

It worried me enough for me to consider: what would the Duke do if caught in a direct line of conflict between wife and mistress? As a man of honour, of known chivalry, he could hardly support his mistress before his royal wife. As a man of ambition, he could not ignore the wishes of a wife who could bring him the crown of Castile for his own.

I set my teeth and applied myself to the raising of my lover’s children, trying not to allow my thoughts to linger with my own small son so far away. I had made my bed. Now I must lie in it, with all the confidence and composure I could muster. When the vile accusations reached me, I raised my chin and pretended that I was invulnerable.

But I could not lay claim to a thickness of skin for long. A constant irritant must soon cause an abrasion, like a stone in the heel of a shoe, and the abrasion showed signs of becoming an open wound when my sister heard the rumbling undercurrent from her solar companions. Nor was that the worst of it. For when our paths crossed, as they must in one of our sojourns at The Savoy, there deep in conversation with Philippa was a figure I could not mistake, and who I wished in that moment of recognition far from England’s shores.

Short and stout, son of a London Vintner and so not of Philippa’s social worth—which always rankled with her—Geoffrey Chaucer was the other half of her arranged marriage and a man of many things. Most dangerously, a man of clever mind and wicked pen. A shame, I thought, as I approached them, that he didn’t love my sister as much as he loved his books. They were clearly, audibly arguing. I considered walking smartly past, but then slowed my steps. Argument was a frequent occurrence in that marriage and I was not without sympathy for Philippa. I might rescue her.

‘Where are you going?’ my sister demanded of him.

‘You know better than to ask.’ Geoffrey grinned. The world of cynical patience on his lips would have driven a better woman to harsh words.

‘So when will you be back? Can you tell me that?’

‘When the royal business is done.’

A writer of naughty verses but a sublime wit, a composer of poetry, of songs and ballads under the generous patronage of the Duke, Geoffrey looked ripe for escape.

Hearing me approach, he looked over his shoulder. ‘Katherine…’

Our eyes were not quite on a level, and so he had perforce to stretch to kiss my cheek, while his eyes gleamed, sharp as a hunting knife, with some unspoken idea that I thought I might not like.

‘Geoffrey,’ I replied. I was always careful around him, what I said and did not say. Every mild, insubstantial implication could be caught up like a pike snapping up a summer mayfly in its maw for he had an unrivalled way with words. ‘So you are telling us nothing?’

‘As usual,’ Philippa said, unable to risk rising to the bait.

‘Out and about on the King’s secret affairs?’ I suggested with a smile.

As well as a man of letters, Geoffrey was also a military man. A courier. A spy, some said. I could well believe it.

‘Of course.’ He made a neat little bow. ‘It is my employment. Even if my wife still takes exception to it.’

‘I take exception because I am not considered important enough to know of your business dealings,’ his wife retaliated.

‘What you don’t know you can’t gossip about. Do you lack for anything?’

‘Nothing that you are willing to give me!’

I sighed quietly. How they ever had children together when they spent so little time in each other’s company and with so little charity between them I could not guess. Then Geoffrey’s eyes slid to fix on mine. Bright as an acquisitive magpie locating something desirable.

‘And what of you, Katherine? I’m hearing astonishing things about you.’

‘Now what could they be?’ My insouciance was marvellous considering the sudden beat of my heart. I had no wish to be portrayed in any manner, good or bad, by his greedy pen.

‘I’ll not say…Or not yet. I’ll consider it. Now I’m off.’

He saluted my cheek again, whispering, ‘There are many who will say. Watch your step, Lady de Swynford.’ He landed a brief peck on Philippa’s cheek and strolled out.

I would have followed.

‘Is it true?’

Philippa thrust out a hand to stop me, her brows climbing to her plucked hairline, mine tightening into a straight line that could quickly become a frown. I had anticipated this confrontation almost as much as I feared the one with Constanza.

‘Is what true?’ I withdrew my sleeve from her clasp, praying that she had not uttered one word of her suspicions to her husband. Who knew where he might turn his agile mind next? Geoffrey, fervent admirer of Duchess Blanche that he was, had been pleased to portray the Duke as the grieving widower in his Book of the Duchess. He might equally well turn him into a pariah if he caught any whiff of scandal.

‘Whore? Harlot? Is it true?’

And here was Philippa, selecting the most common of the words, as she worked out her fury with Geoffrey on me. My earlier compassion drained fast away.

‘Yes.’ What use in denying it? The words still echoed in my head from the breaking of our fast, murmured over the ale and bread so that I would hear. ‘Although I would not have put it in quite those terms.’

The damsels had, more fluently. Puta. Hija de Puta. Mujerzuela. Even in their own tongue, the meaning was ugly. Whore. Slut. Harlot.

‘And when were you going to tell me?’ Philippa demanded, hard-eyed. ‘Or is your sister no longer in your confidence?’

‘I’m sorry. I should have told you.’ I would apologise for a sin of omission but nothing else. I held her stare as we stepped aside when a maid from the dairy came between us bearing a round of cheese. Philippa picked up her weapons as soon as the cheese was gone.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself. But I don’t suppose you are, or you would not be back here. You would be holed up at Kettlethorpe.’

I stiffened. I took up the challenge immediately.

‘No. I am not ashamed. I love him, and I’ll not ask your permission, your approval or your forgiveness. It is not your affair, Philippa.’ Yes, it was a curt reply but I could see from her face that there would be no understanding from her. ‘Now, if you will let me pass…’ The damsels’ words had ruffled me more than I had cared to admit.

Philippa stepped again to bar my way.

‘And I suppose you do have a son, as the Castilian bitches say?’ she murmured. At least she kept her voice down. ‘Would you not have found the opportunity to tell me that either? That I have a bastard nephew by the Duke of Lancaster?’

No, I had never told her. I had told no one. And as I sensed a gloss of hurt running over her accusations, I felt a little flicker of regret that my sister should have discovered the truth from cruel gossip. Why had I not told her? Because I did not want to hear those crude words on the lips of my own sister.

‘Yes. I do have a son,’ I replied, keeping my voice quiet in the confined space as unlooked for emotion struck at me. ‘He is called John. He is almost three months old, and bears too much resemblance to the Duke for me to bring him with me. I love him with all my heart. And I miss him.’

Philippa was unmoved. ‘And you are a hypocrite, sister Kate. You are here under false pretenses. In her household—or as near as—and she does not know. I pity her, and I condemn you for your cruelty.’

This is what I had dreaded. Philippa’s marriage to Geoffrey Chaucer had brought her no joy and had hardened her spirit.

‘Oh, Philippa!’ Suddenly overwhelmed with remorse for her loveless state, I touched her arm. ‘I am sorry for your own squabbles with Geoffrey, but what I do or do not do has no bearing on it. Nor did I steal the Duke’s love from Constanza.’

‘You don’t know that! Is that what he tells you?’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘He would not lie to me, I know that. Their marriage was one of political expediency, as she would be the first to admit. I cannot bear guilt for her dissatisfaction, just as I cannot live my life to please you. I am not responsible for the lack of satisfaction in your own marriage.’

Philippa visibly flinched as if I had struck her cheek. We never talked of her unhappiness.

‘I do not expect you to live your life to please me.’

‘Yet you think I should repudiate the man I love.’

‘Yes, I do, when we all live cheek by jowl…’

‘Would you?’ I asked.

‘Would I what?’

‘If you loved your husband so much that he occupies your every thought, would you not follow him to the ends of the earth?’ She flushed. ‘I know there is little between you. But if there were…’

‘We are not talking about me.’

‘No. You are picking apart my emotions, my morals. My private life.’

‘You have no private life.’

‘But you do not have the right to hang it out to dry for the damsels to gloat over.’

It silenced her.

‘All I ask is that you do not add your own voice to the gossip. And,’ I added, trying a smile, ‘that you do not entertain Geoffrey with the details. I don’t wish to be pilloried in some fashionable song. Will you do that for me?’

‘Oh, I’ll not talk about it to anyone,’ Philippa responded, rejecting my olive branch. ‘I am not proud of what my sister is doing, even if she claims to be lost in love. Is that why you received such an astonishing annuity from the Duke? For your offices in his bed?’

‘And if it was?’ I was severely discomfited, horrified that she should think that.

‘Shame on you, Kate. If it matters to you at all, Constanza is unaware.’ Her lips sneered, something I had never seen before. ‘I don’t suppose you care. You will brazen it out, flaunting your pre-eminence.’

Philippa stalked off along the corridor, leaving me prey to all manner of hurt that I had tried so hard to deny. Now I no longer could, when my own sister placed the blame at my door rather than that of the Duke. Was that not always the way of the world? I should have seen it with far more clarity. I had thought that I had seen the quagmire that would lie in wait, but I had not seen its depths. Now I had a taste of it and it was bitter indeed.

Unwilling to go to my own chamber where I might have to bandy words with Philippa again and defend a stance that, on my conscience, was fast becoming indefensible, I took refuge in Constanza’s little garden. Sinking to the stone seat beneath a vigorously pruned arbour, I regarded my reflected image in my little mirror.

Who was this woman who looked back at me? Was it the same woman who had looked back at me in that moment, not so very long ago when I had stood in my sodden shoes and decided to return to The Savoy?

Whore. Harlot.

How repulsive the words were, striking at me again and again like well-aimed arrows.

But what I saw was no different from the woman who looked back at me every morning. A polished, courtly image: smooth hair beneath its restraining filet and veil, immaculately arched brows, a straight nose and firm lips. A hint of delicate enhancement to brows and cheeks. Without doubt a woman who lived in pampered luxury, composed and confident.

Was this the face of a whore?

My confidence as the Duke’s beloved shivered under my own questioning, threatening to crumble into the rose petals at my feet, despite the face showing nothing of my inner turmoil. How strange that I had not felt this sense of ignominy, not until the Castilian women had given it a name. Now it was all too real.

Your integrity is undermined. Your reputation is defiled. You should be ashamed.

At what unaccountable cost had I become the Duke’s mistress?

You have dishonoured the name of Swynford and de Roet.

I should have seen the destruction of all I had lived by. I was no ignorant girl, seduced into the Duke’s bed. How could I have been so very blind?

What would Queen Philippa say to you now?

I dared not even contemplate it. She would address me with the same lash of contempt as my sister had wielded.

I turned my mirror face down on my lap. I could look at it no longer. I did not like the woman I saw looking back at me.

I slept badly.

‘We will play a game.’

Constanza’s announcement brought a little silence to the room. And then a ripple of laughter. The Duchess was surprisingly fond of games. Perhaps she had not played much as a child in Castile, and certainly there would have been little opportunity in her days of perilous exile. Lady Alice smiled encouragingly at her. The Duchess had been tense and preoccupied all day. Some merriment would bring a smile to her pale features.

We were a family gathering, with Constanza’s sister Isabella and her new husband, Edmund of York, making up a convivial group with one of the Duke’s young pages singing and another playing the lute. I stitched, as did my sister. Lady Alice had a Book of Hours open on her lap. The Castilian damsels sat in chilly silence. The Duke relaxed at ease, a pile of scrolls which he had readily abandoned beside him.

‘Do you wish to dance, my lady?’ he asked.

We were enough to make a good showing.

Constanza glanced round her damsels, then caught us all up in a limpid gaze. Did I detect a hint of mischief? Her eyes swept over me to rest on her husband.

‘No. Not dancing.’

She rose smoothly to her feet and raised her hand in imperious summons, whereupon the Duke, smiling to see his wife so animated, strolled over to where she waited for him.

‘Your wish is my command, my lady. What is it to be?’ He led her into the centre of the room.

‘I wish to play The King Who Does Not Lie.’

Well, now. I felt the muscles along my spine tense a little. A courtly love game, known to all of us, much played under Queen Philippa’s aegis, but generally accepted as not one to entertain an audience of children. The questions could become unseemly, the answers even more so. I had not thought its bawdy nature would be to Constanza’s refined taste.

Frowning, Lady Alice responded with some force. ‘It is inappropriate, my lady.’

‘Why is that?’ The Duchess smiled round at us. Why did I imagine that she was not quite as innocent as she seemed? Did her eye, in this traversing over her guests, rest longer on me than was comfortable? ‘We used to play it in Castile,’ she announced.

‘So you might, my lady.’ In no manner flustered, Lady Alice addressed the problem. ‘We do not when there are young people in the gathering.’

Constanza raised her chin. ‘I do not see it. All it needs is for the truth to be told. The Queen asks questions of the King, who is honour-bound not to lie. Is that not so?’

‘I see no harm,’ added Isabella. ‘Let us play.’

The Duke lifted a shoulder in acceptance although I thought the fine skin at his temples was tight-drawn as he addressed Constanza. ‘And are we two to play the roles?’

‘Of course. Who else?’ There was a challenge in her eye.

My heart began to quicken. I did not like this. I did not like it one little bit. I looked round the family group, praying silently that the presence of the children would keep the questions in line. Or that of William de Burgh, our chaplain, so far silent, but with a hunch of his shoulders much like a moulting hawk.

Constanza had some scheme in mind, of that I was in no doubt. I continued with my stitching. Lady Alice continued to frown. Philippa, thoughts elsewhere—probably with her absent husband—remained aloof. Isabella and Edmund were too interested in each other to pay much attention. The Duke relaxed once more in his chair. If he were as anxious as I, there was no sign of it.

I set another careful stitch.

Constanza stood before the Duke and curtsied to him, playing the game.

‘Sire. The Queen wishes to know whether your preference is for a dark lady or a fair one?’

Innocent enough, I supposed, breathing out slowly. Except that Constanza was dark and I was very fair. But it could be answered without causing any real upset. Perhaps my own conscience was making me search for problems where they did not exist. This was merely Constanza playing a foolish game.

The Duke was standing at centre stage, completely at ease, hands loosely latched on his belt.

‘Well, Lady, the King has to admit to having been known to have a preference for both,’ the Duke responded. ‘Duchess Blanche had hair the colour of sun-kissed wheat—much like her two daughters.’ He bowed, elegantly and chivalrously playful towards the two girls who giggled. ‘And Mistress Blanche here is passing fair.’ He raised his cup to my own daughter who beamed with pleasure. ‘Now Lady Alice has a pale russet cast and I dare not ignore her. She would make my life a misery if she thought I had slighted her. How could I not love them all? But then my wife’s hair, sadly covered, is as dark as jet. And she is very beautiful too…So sometimes I have a preference for dark ladies too, Lady.’

There was a general murmur of appreciation for the clever reply. I ran my tongue over dry lips and kept stitching, the leafy tendrils growing rapidly under my needle.

The Duchess swept her skirts. ‘Sire. The Queen wishes to know. Have you ever given a lady not your wife a lacs d’amour? A love knot?’

My heart bumped a little against my ribs. I was wearing one. A simple interlacing of silver threads to form a knot in the shape of a heart. Little more than a simple fairing bought from a pedlar, a mere trifle lacking any fervent inscription, but it was a gift from John on my recent return, chosen because it was innocuous. I deliberately smoothed the girdle I was stitching beneath my fingers.

‘Indeed I have, Lady.’ John’s laughter was supremely confident as he set himself to entertain the group. ‘I must have given a score or more in my lifetime. And some here present. To Mistress Chaucer and Lady de Swynford. For services to my late Duchess.’

‘Indeed?’ Constanza’s gaze roved over me and Philippa with sharpened interest.

‘Yes, my lady.’ I touched my fingers to the little badge.

‘And I think Lady Alice might have one in her treasure coffer amongst all the other gems she has amassed over the years at my grateful hand.’

‘I think I have three…’ Lady Alice smiled despite her misgivings at the whole tenor of the conversation.

‘So many…’ John expressed admirable surprise. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘I’ve been in your household many years, John.’

‘I have never had a lover’s knot,’ proclaimed Elizabeth.

‘You are too young for such fripperies,’ I said gently, ‘but perhaps for your next New Year’s gift someone might buy you one.’

‘And I suppose that might be me,’ the Duke said. ‘So to answer your question, as you see, Lady, I have given far too many, and will doubtless give more.’

‘The Queen seems to have been neglected!’ Constanza raised an arch brow.

‘Then it is shame on me. The King will remedy it instantly. But you asked if the King had so awarded a love knot to a lady not his wife,’ he reproved.

Constanza flushed but continued with a distinct toss of her head.

‘Sire. The Queen wishes to know. Have you ever taken a lady as your mistress?’

The echo of the question hung in the room, like dust motes suspended in a sunbeam. I swallowed silently, mouth dry. There was no denying the direction of this line of questioning. I could only presume that the gossip had finally reached Constanza’s ears and she was intent on retribution. But would she blatantly hold her husband up for public condemnation? My flesh shivered a little.

The Duke’s brows had risen marginally, but he replied readily enough, and with enough circumspection. ‘Yes. With regret, the King must admit that he has.’

‘Then he must tell!’ Constanza was avid for detail, her eyes glowing with an unpleasant species of triumph.

‘The King was unwise in his youth,’ the Duke responded without hesitation. ‘The lady was young and beautiful, and I was young and wilful and drawn by the sins of the flesh.’

‘Oh!’ Constanza appeared shocked. Then more so when she realised that there was no outcry at such a statement.

Lady Alice on my left was nodding. ‘Marie. I remember her. She was a lovely girl and you were but seventeen.’

‘And I remember you made due recompense, my lord,’ the priest added.

It was no surprise to any one of the English adults present. If it had been a ruse to unnerve the Duke and me, it had failed utterly. We all knew of Marie, one of Queen Philippa’s damsels when John had been a young prince and had taken her to his enthusiastic bed.

Constanza looked askance. ‘My lord appears to have no remorse.’

‘Oh, he has. But he was granted absolution and he has tried to make amends. My lord granted a pension,’ William de Burgh explained. ‘The lady lacks for nothing and is treated with great respect.’

Constanza, drawing herself tall as if addressing the Royal Council, immediately directed another question.

‘I wish to know, Sire. Have you ever fathered a child outside of marriage?’

Now here was a far less innocent question, no longer addressed to the King of the game by the Queen, but to the Duke himself. The frivolity of the courtly silliness had been abandoned, yet the Duke’s face did not change from its amiable, well-mannered courtesy, although I could sense his anger at such an impertinent question. Lady Alice clicked her tongue against her teeth. The chaplain grunted over his wine.

‘That also is true,’ John replied, parrying with skill what was an obvious attack. ‘And the King will answer it since the Queen sees fit to ask.’ A clever return to the structure of the game. ‘It is not a matter for comment or scandal. There is no secrecy here. Yes, the King has a daughter. Her name is Blanche. The King will support her and will arrange a good marriage for her. She is Marie’s daughter.’

‘How old is she now?’ Lady Alice asked, pursuing her own role in softening the charged atmosphere.

‘Old enough to be married.’ He smiled at some memory. ‘And she is as lovely and gifted as her mother.’

The moment had passed, any tension subsumed under reminiscences of Marie and her daughter. If Constanza had hoped to embarrass the Duke, and draw me into an unpleasant situation, she had failed. I glanced across at her. There was no disappointment on her sharp features, and seeing this I realised that she had not yet reached the core of her planning. My muscled tensed again. What would she ask next? I thought I knew. I deliberately set another row of stitches that were woefully uneven.

Constanza smiled. ‘Sire. The Queen wishes to know. Does the King keep a mistress now?’

‘No,’ said Lady Alice, closing her book with a snap.

‘But yes,’ said Constanza. ‘The Queen desires to hear the truth.’

Silence fell on the room, like a woollen blanket, hot and stifling.

My breath backed up in my lungs. I looked at no one and stitched on, and then decided that such disinterest in itself would stir suspicion. I dropped my stitching to my lap and waited for the answer. The truth? Would the Duke tell the truth? The truth would damn us both in public.

He did not hesitate. With deliberation, every action controlled, his demeanour the epitome of chivalrous rectitude, the Duke knelt on one knee and took both Constanza’s slender hands in his, saluting one then the other.

‘Are you so uncertain of my loyalty to you and your cause? You are bound to me by the rite of Holy Mother Church, Constanza. You are my wife and mistress in the eye of God and Man. That cannot be changed. Your supremacy as Duchess of Lancaster and as Queen of Castile is under no threat from anyone here present. There is no need for such games. Your place at my side is sacrosanct.’

Constanza flushed. ‘Do you promise that?’ she whispered.

I felt cold and pale as the Duke’s affirmation sank in.

‘You will always be my wife, treated with every respect. We will have a son, if it is God’s will. I commit myself to restoring you to Castile. I promised that when I first wed you. I will not break that promise, made in God’s presence as we were wed. You must trust me. You must tell me that you trust me.’

‘Do you speak the truth?’ she asked, a lustrous softness in her face, all her earlier temper smoothed over.

‘There is no guile in my promises.’

‘Then I believe you.’

She smiled as the Duke leaned to salute her cheeks.

For a moment my heart fluttered with relief. He had done it. Clever, ambiguous, saving everyone’s face, the Duke had stated the plain legality of Constanza’s position, without putting me in danger. I dared not look at him, and throughout the whole of that masterly performance to comfort Constanza, he had drawn no attention to me. I knew him to have a reputation at the negotiation table for clever dealings. Tonight I had seen his skills in full flow, to rescue us all from rabid scandal.

But then, as I exhaled, the knowledge bit with sharp teeth. In spite of all the Duke’s professed need for me to return to his household, reality struck hard, as it had once before, in that one question:

Who is of greater importance to the Duke? You, Katherine de Swynford, or the Castilian Queen?

There was only one answer in my mind. Unworthy it might be, thoroughly selfish, but there before me was the evidence of the Duke kneeling at Constanza’s feet, his lips saluting her cheeks, then her lips.

There was no doubting the reply.

Had the Duke’s skilful exoneration been to draw attention from me or had it been to put Constanza’s jealousies to rest? She was everything to his ambitions, to his hopes, to the lasting inheritance of his family. What could I give him in comparison? She could give him all, and I nothing. The Duke was not protecting me but Constanza because she was central to his life.

My blood cold, all my hopes foundering under this blast of bleak truth, I turned my face away from both of them in that private little tableau. I had thought that my lover had leaped to my defence, but he had assuredly protected his wife, far more effectively than he had protected me.

The Duke had risen now, taking control of the situation simply by his stance, beckoning to the page who came to kneel at the Duchess’s feet as any smitten troubadour, launching into a rendering of a fashionable love-ballad that was lively but far less dangerous than Constanza’s spiteful intrigue. Keen to see her reaction, I looked across to find her eye on me, and in its gleam I detected what could only be a challenge. I held it for a moment, then calmly folded my stitching as if there were nothing amiss. The Duke had made it impossible for her to say more, nor would she wish to. The Duchess had emerged triumphant.

I, the mistress, had been put firmly in my place.

For she knew. Constanza knew. She had won this battle for his attention, whereas I had been cast adrift in the chilly margins of this relationship, my only consolation that I had not been held up to public disapprobation. My reputation was safe for a little while, but as Lady Alice and I took charge of the children she tilted her head in my direction to murmur:

‘Is it worth it, Katherine?’

My breath caught as her hand brushed imperceptibly against my shoulder, in the lightest of warnings.

‘Who is to know?’ I replied lightly, deliberately obscure. By now I was beyond denying what was clearly the talk of the household. It had been an exhausting evening of disturbing revelation, leaving me with no wish to defend myself yet again; the condemnation of my sister had been quite enough, and now wounded by this new injury, I was beyond explanation.

‘I’ll not decry true love, if that is what it is between you,’ Lady Alice pursued without demur. ‘But you must know the risk is great. What will she say when she finds out?’ The lady’s gaze slid to Constanza, much as mine had done. ‘Which she will. In fact, after that dramatic performance, I think we can safely assume that she has more than an inkling. You must be wary.’

Oh, I was wary. And I was afraid. Even though I knew it would deepen my hurt, I forced myself to watch as the Duke took Constanza’s hand and led her from the chamber in the direction of their own accommodations.

‘As I live and breathe, Katherine, all I see is doom and gloom in this marriage,’ Lady Alice remarked before we parted for the night. ‘As well as heartbreak for you.’ She looked as if she might have said more, but closed her lips with purpose, for which I was grateful.

My heart shivered as if I felt a grinning manifestation of ruin that loomed at the head of the bed in which it was clear that I must sleep alone that night. How tender the Duke had been towards his wife at the end, how gentle, while she had responded with an affection we rarely saw. As she drew him closer towards her, I was left to acknowledge the increasing vulnerability of my position. The steely challenge in Constanza’s cleverly constructed campaign informed me that she knew exactly what she was doing.

My future was suddenly all clouded.

Who was to know what steps the victorious Constanza would demand from the Duke in return for the promised crown of Castile? My banishment could be the first of the coins the Duchess would see fit to demand. A chill breath whispered along my skin as I combed and braided my hair that night. It was not in the character of the Queen of Castile to remain silent and unresponsive for long, and the Duke, in gratitude, might bow in acquiescence.

A choice between me, a woman who provided a brief slaking of lust, and the royal claimant to the might of Castile? Of course the Duke would cleave to his wife. Even if he did love me, such a superficial emotion could hardly weigh in the balance. In the depths of my heart I acknowledged it. How could I blame the Duke for pursuing a prince’s ambition? A mistress was transitory, easily discarded.

Was the Duke’s decision to appoint me magistra to shield me from humiliation in service to Constanza? Or was it to shield Constanza? Was it marital respect that she roused in him, or had it indeed become a more fervent emotion?

My mind tripped over the lines sung so aptly by the Duke’s squire:

‘Love like heat and cold pierces and then is gone;

Jealousy when it strikes sticks in the marrowbone.’

Jealousy infused my bones. Constanza, I accepted during that long night, was a foe of merit. My decision to leave my son and return to my lover, that choice with all its heart-searching, was transformed into dross. I should never have allowed myself to dream of a future with the Duke of Lancaster. What fools love can make of us. How blind it can make us. All I had done was drag closer the promise of ultimate degradation.

Of course I blamed the Duke—what woman would not, faced with such evidence of disaffection? And like all women struck with jealousy, I took my revenge in the only manner open to a mistress in so public a place as The Savoy.

With all my seeds of doubt blossoming into bitter fruit I determined that I would not share his bed.

‘I cannot. I am unwell.’

I felt that my smile was brittle enough to scratch the surface of my looking glass as I made the excuse of all womanhood.

When, the household sleeping, he came to my chamber, it was to find my door barred. Tense with dismay that I had been thrown to the wolves, with Constanza’s star in the ascendant, it was the only action I could take. That I was standing within, palms flat against the wood, my heart torn with longing as he knocked lightly, he would never know.

How unworthy my thoughts were, how heavy my regret as his footsteps receded.

My conduct from day to day, hour to hour, remained impeccable. I curtsied. I spoke calmly when addressed. I sat at table. I fulfilled my duties to the ducal children. I laughed and sang and played games. I reverted to the epitome of the dignified, composed and dutiful widow, the Lady of Kettlethorpe.

And all the time I shivered with apprehension.

What are you trying to prove? I asked myself more than once as I made very sure that I was never alone in proximity to the Duke, who was beginning to wear the vexed restlessness of King Edward’s caged lion at the Tower.

I knew the answer. I wanted to know that the Duke’s desire for me was still as vitally alive as when I had given birth to his son. I needed to know from his own lips. If my star was in decline, I must know it, for my own self-respect. How demeaning to remain the ducal mistress in the face of the Duke’s flagging interest—for I had been forced to accept that, for him, love was never an issue. I admitted, with clear-eyed despair, that I was pushing our strained relationship to a shattering climax.

Would I regret it? Would it not be better to cling to the crumbs of the Duke’s need for me in his life rather than reject the whole banquet?

I did not think so. My deliberate isolation was as much a challenge to the Duke as Constanza’s malicious little game had been to me. It was the only manner in which I could express my fear, for to shout it from The Savoy gatehouse might give satisfaction, but was not seemly. I knew full well, as I had always done, that whereas I offered the Duke love’s coin of shining gold, his return to me was of a lesser value.

Duchess Constanza smiled often and kept the Duke frequent company.

‘Madame de Swynford! A moment of your time!’

The Duke hunted me down in the Great Hall, and stopped me by the simple strategy of announcing my name, giving me no alternative—other than discourteous flight— but to await his approach with the loping stride akin to one of the fit hunting dogs at his side.

‘So that we can hold a conversation without undue emotion,’ he announced as he halted within feet of me. ‘Are we not in the public eye here?’ He smiled, but I was not deceived. This might just be the termination that I had precipitated.

‘Yes, my lord?’ I curtsied neatly, every muscle braced. There would be no hiding for me here, as he well knew.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he returned with languid grace as he handed me a fine leather-bound volume, as if that might be the reason for our meeting. I tried to read his expression, and failed, but the tightly pressed lips were not friendly.

‘Let us talk siege warfare, Lady Katherine,’ he suggested, launching into an unnervingly smooth discourse. ‘Tell me what it is that has lowered the portcullis between us. I get the impression that I must lay siege to encourage you to raise it. I did not think that I was the enemy.’

‘You are not my enemy, my lord.’

All my senses told me that I must keep my wits keen. In this mood, the sardonic Duke was unpredictable. What’s more, he was confident. I could see it in the flare of his nostrils, the glitter in his eyes. He expected to win this encounter. I raised my chin, prepared to resist. There would be no easy victory here for either of us.

‘So why, madam, have you built your defences against me?’ the Duke pursued, showing his teeth in a smile that was not a smile, for the sake of a passing servant.

‘Because I am uncertain of my position, sir.’

‘I thought I had made your position clear.’ His brows rose, his tone was acerbic. He knew I was fencing with him, while I, knowing full well that I was crossing swords with an expert, would not cry defeat. Nor would the Duke: ‘You have a place in my household. I am your lover. You share my bed to our mutual enjoyment.’

How cold, how flat the statement of our relationship, yet there was fire in his eye. Assuring myself that we had no audience:

‘I am afraid,’ I announced baldly.

‘Afraid? Of what?’

‘Rejection.’

‘God’s Blood, Katherine!’

‘I see your affection for the Duchess growing stronger. I fear I am superfluous,’ I said. ‘I expect it is the penalty a mistress must pay if she is absent for the months of childbirth.’

‘What penalty? There is none, except of your own making. You have closed your door against me!’

‘And you defended the Duchess quite superbly,’ I retaliated. ‘I recall perfectly. She is your wife and mistress in the eye of God and Man.’

‘Ah, so that’s it! Constanza’s childish game-playing!’ His brows continued to express disbelief. ‘What would you have me do? Open you both to scandal through some malicious game?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Constanza is my wife.’

‘I know she is.’

‘She deserves my respect.’

‘I have always known that too,’ I said, withdrawing behind my bulwarks in the face of such obvious statements.

‘And I have always been honest about my marriage to Constanza. What do you want from me, Katherine?’

There was the direct attack I had expected. I thought about this. How difficult to explain, but I did so with all the self-possession I had held to in past days.

‘I share your bed, my lord. I have carried your child. I think I need to know that you still need me in your life, that I am not here as some passing pleasure when the mood takes you.’

‘Reassurance?’ The attack was still dynamic, his jaw taut with annoyance at his inability to wear me down as he had hoped. ‘Is that what you want? You have it, Katherine. I never promised you more than what I give you now.’

‘You did not promise me anything.’ Oh, I was calm, if perhaps not altogether fair.

‘There is no more that I can promise you. What do you ask of me?’

‘Nothing that is not of your own volition,’ I replied bleakly, as I held out the book. ‘Take it. I am in no mood for love poetry.’

‘I never do anything not of my own volition.’ His arrogance was truly impressive.

‘I know. Nor do I question your authority.’ I lifted my eyes to his and held his dark stare and spoke the words that had lived with me for so long. ‘I also know, my lord, that not once in all the time we have been together have you ever said that you love me. You speak of need and desire. Of passion. But not of love.’ I touched my tongue to dry lips, appalled at my courage, yet I repeated the fear at the centre of my heart. ‘You lavish words of romance and yearning on me. You kiss me and cherish me, but never have you spoken of what is in your heart. I have never asked it of you, but never have you offered me love.’

The Duke looked as if I had doused him in icy water, the planes of his face flattening under the unexpected. He was certainly stuck dumb.

‘I expect that is because, for you, it does not exist.’

Then, when he took the book, frowning, rather than have me drop it onto the beautifully patterned tiles at his feet, I walked away, more despairing than I had ever been since I stood in my courtyard with flood-water lapping round my ankles. Nothing was settled between us. The emotion that I took to bed with me that night was one of raw distress that I had compromised my principles for nothing in the end, because he would send me away.

He has given his son into your keeping. He trusts you to educate his daughters and the heir to the great Lancaster inheritance. His physical desire for you is as strong as it ever was. You cannot doubt him.

But I did. He did not love me. I waited for formal dismissal: it might suit the ducal pair very well. My deliberate challenge to the Duke’s legendary sangfroid might just tip the balance.