The Scandalous Duchess

Chapter Twelve

July 1376: The Savoy Palace, London

I sat at Blanche’s bedside. How had I not realised how small she was despite the passage of years? Philippa and Elizabeth, particularly Philippa, were now grown to be young women, but Blanche was still my little girl. She was twelve years old. The hangings of the bed dwarfed her, the pillows seemed far too large to support her frail neck.

She had the dreaded sweating sickness.

I remembered Henry with similar symptoms, here at The Savoy as we were now, how he had responded with all the vigour of youth to the powerful mix of leaves and potions I had administered. It should have soothed me to recall his fast recovery, but anxiety over my daughter’s health built, stone upon stone, until it presented a rampart against any comfort. I had been here at her side for five days now but saw no improvement in her condition as she lurched from frenzied delirium to fractious mutterings, the bed linens soaked with the heat of her poor body.

Administering another dose, I settled a little as Blanche fell into a more restful sleep. Perhaps this time the fever would not return. Her forehead was cooler, her breathing less laboured. I thought it was evening, but I could not tell. Nor did it matter. Nothing mattered but Blanche’s ability to recognise me again. To sit up and laugh and demand her singing finches to keep her company.

Brother William Appleton, the Duke’s own physician, entered quietly, hands tucked in his sleeves, to stand at my shoulder.

‘How is she?’

‘Better, I think.’

‘I’ll watch her for you. You need to rest.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You can. You will, if you desire to bear this child safely, my lady.’

For I was breeding again. My ankles were swollen and my back ached. Very near my time, I was burdened with this third Beaufort child as I had been burdened with no other.

I went to my room but I could not rest, and was back at Blanche’s side within the hour.

‘I will sit,’ I promised. ‘I won’t exert myself.’

‘Only worry yourself to death.’ Brother William pressed a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘You are exhausted. The Duke will not thank me if I do not take care of you too.’

I tried to smile. ‘I’ll take no harm. Pray for me. Pray for Blanche.’

‘I will, of course.’

He brought me a cup of wine and left me, with dire warnings, to my night watch.

Where are you, John?

It was a silent cry from my heart.

I knew where he was, dealing with a recalcitrant Parliament and a failing King. Despite the much-vaunted peace policy between England and France, unsteady as it was, England had once more a need for an army, and Parliament, faced with a demand to consent to high taxes, was flexing its muscles under its ambitious new Speaker. This man, Peter de la Mare, had the Duke in his sights for all the ills of England. A scapegoat was needed and who better to target? The Duke was considered to be too high-handed, too powerful, too intolerant, usurping the royal power that should have been wielded by the King, even though King Edward, his mind afflicted, was incapable of wielding any such power.

So the Duke would be striving to keep his temper, or perhaps not even striving at all in the face of such outspoken opposition. A man renowned for his ability to negotiate between hostile parties, he would not always choose his words with discretion. All I knew for certain was that he was not here with me, when I most had need of him.

Never had I felt so alone, for Agnes was at Kettlethorpe and the Duke so terribly preoccupied. He had not returned to The Savoy since the day before Blanche had slid from her knees in the chapel into a miserable little heap of flushed face, aching limbs and raging fever.

‘Hush now.’

The effect of the henbane, to cool a fever, was beginning to wear off, so that Blanche became restless again, struggling against the bed linen. My holding her hand and speaking to her, trying to calm her, had no effect. Although her eyes were open, they held no recognition for either my face or my voice.

‘Hush now. Drink this. You will be well. Philippa and Elizabeth miss you and ask for you. They are waiting for you to be well.’

She drank the potion but her expression was wild, her face and chest mottled with heat as I bathed her tortured limbs, the cool, sharp scent of lavender pervading the room.

‘Sleep now.’

It calmed her, but Blanche seemed to be fading away before my eyes, her skin translucent in the light of the single candle beside the bed. My fingers moved over the coral beads of my rosary as I petitioned the compassion of the Blessed Virgin who knew all the travails of motherhood.

In the end I fell asleep, my body awkward, my cheek turned on the coverlet beside her. My rosary fell to the floor.

Hours later I woke in a state of confusion, unsure of my surroundings, before it all swept back to squeeze my heart dry. I looked around, thinking that the physician had returned. And then at the bed.

Blanche lay still. Impossibly still.

I stood, abruptly, clumsily, my hands in the small of my back where my muscles were taut and stiff. Had the fever broken at last?

And then the absolute breathless silence pressed down on me, filling the room, filling me. Blanche lay unmoving, all the heated anguish of past days now gone, her face pale, eyelids closed, her lashes spiked and fragile on her cheeks. She might have been asleep, so perfect, so beautiful her features. I touched her cheek with the back of my fingers to prove my fears.

She was not asleep.

I had lost her. I had lost my daughter.

Holy Mother. What do I do now?

My mind cried out with the agony of any woman losing her first-born child. There was nothing I could do. I sat on the bed so that I could lift her gently into my arms, as if she might still wake and fling her arms around me, telling me what she had done that day that had given her joy. She did not stir. How light she was after the days of fever. What a beautiful young woman she would have been. Blanche Swynford, much-loved damsel to the ducal daughters. Incomparable daughter of Hugh and Katherine de Swynford.

‘I am so very sorry, Hugh,’ I murmured against her hair. ‘I could do nothing for her. I could not save her.’

My Blanche, my lovely Blanche was dead.

I laid her back on her pillows, combing her hair, straightening the neck of her shift so that it lay in a seemly fashion on her chest. And then I sat, my hands clasped, my eyes fixed on Blanche’s face. I could not weep. It was as if all my tears were frozen in an endless sea of ice. If I had stayed awake, could I have saved her? Could I have anchored her to this life, until the fever had worn itself out? But I had not, and she had been taken from me when I had been unaware.

The hours stretched emptily, wearily before me. I had lost my daughter and the man I needed could not be with me, and therefore I must bear my grief alone. Was I not capable of that? I dried my tears and went to arrange for my daughter’s body to be carried to the chapel.

I was desolate. I was beyond desolation. I would carry my grief with fortitude.

It was two days before the Duke returned to The Savoy.

‘Before God, I’ll not have it! Do they think I’ll bow the knee to their demands?’ he blazed, exhibiting a royal temper in vituperative flow. ‘Do they think they are kings of this realm, in their pride and arrogance?’

He flourished a document like a war banner.

He did not know about Blanche. No one had told him.

‘Do they not know my lineage?’ he continued, casting the offending missive into the fire. ‘Would they dare to take it into their heads to curb royal power? The effrontery of it. I’ll have de la Mare’s balls stuffed with rosemary on a platter. Our Parliament complains when our army fails, yet will not grant the funds to make a campaign across the sea viable. You can’t have one without the other, as they well know. It’s merely a damned ruse to attack me and bolster their own authority.’

The Duke had entered one of his private chambers at The Savoy—where I was sitting in discomfort, in spite of cushions and a footstool—with the force of a winter storm. Now he prowled the length of the room, much like one of his hunting dogs, out for blood. This was not the man who had wooed and beguiled me. This was the Duke, hard-eyed and driven, plotting revenge against those who questioned his right to use the power invested in him with the decline of the King. I remained silent for he was in no mood to accept advice.

‘Those mealy-mouthed members of Parliament have no authority other than that given to them. God rot the lot of them!’

I abandoned the embroidered panel on my cumbersome lap. What matter that the girdle was incomplete? I would not be wearing it for some weeks yet.

‘They dare to accuse me of corruption! Parliament is dissolved. I’ll have no more of it. And God save us from sanctimonious prating priests,’ the Duke continued, with no apparent recognition of my silence.

And I knew all about this too. Thomas Walsingham, a priest with a gimlet eye and a vicious pen. A man seeing himself as an upholder of God’s morality on earth, intent on bringing the Duke down. Were not England’s losses in France to be piled at the Duke’s door? Walsingham did not mince his words either.

Setting aside my embroidery, I reached to the coffer at my side and poured a cup of ale and held it out.

‘John…’

Without thanks the Duke took it as he strode past me and continued to prowl. ‘Do you know what he’s done?’ The Duke’s eyes were alight with fury. ‘He’s stirred up the old slander all over again.’

I had not the energy to ask which one, but listlessly picked up my stitchery again. He told me anyway.

‘I only arranged the murder of Blanche’s sister Matilda. I poisoned Matilda of Lancaster, by the Rood. So that the whole of the Lancaster lands fell to Blanche and so to me. Would I do that?’ he growled, coming at last to a halt in front of me. ‘Would Blanche have agreed to wed me if I had done away with her sister?’ he demanded.

It was all too much.

I took a deep breath and, tossed the fine cloth to the floor at my side.

‘John, I need to tell you—’

‘They are saying that I already have my eye on the throne since my father is sinking fast by the day,’ he stated, full of ire. ‘When the King dies I’ll snatch it from my nephew, they say. Did I not give my solemn oath to my dying brother that I would be loyal to his son as king? That I would serve Richard as his friend and counsellor?’

I was so weary. ‘Richard is only nine years old,’ I observed. ‘No older than Henry. Is it surprising that they will suspect you of naked ambition if you stand beside him?’

‘Richard is the heir. Would I oust him?’ Heated emotion had him in its thrall again. ‘Do you of all people believe such rumours too?’

And it was as if the emotion poured over me as well. ‘No! I of all people do not. I of all people at this precise moment do not care overmuch!’

He stared at me. ‘I would like to think that I had your support.’

I could not force Blanche’s name past my teeth. ‘You don’t need my support,’ I snapped back. ‘You have enough confidence for both of us!’

Uncontrollable tears welled up again in my throat from what seemed a bottomless source. My mind was too sore to be compassionate. My bright, loving Blanche was dead, and all the Duke could think about was Parliamentary disobedience. My breath caught. Blanche, my darling Blanche, lost to me. All that sparkling promise wiped out by some nameless fever that would not respond to common henbane or doses of wood sorrel. There was no room in my mind for politics and power-brokering when my daughter lay cold and still in the chapel. I stood in the middle of the room, my mind in turmoil, any pleasure I might expect to feel that he had at last come to me refusing to settle, flitting round the edges of my thoughts so that I could not grasp it.

I knew that I must be strong enough to contain my grief, not allowing it to encroach on this moment, but I could not. It threatened to overwhelm me. Perhaps it was due punishment for my great sin. Had Blanche been taken in penance for my immorality? I shivered in the upheaval of my despair.

‘And of course, our august members of Parliament claim to believe every word if it,’ he continued. ‘And that I wed Blanche only for her inheritance. Next they’ll be arguing over that old dispute that I am not my father’s son. A changeling, by God! Who would dare accuse my lady mother of infidelity! Do I not have more than a resemblance to the King? But it has its uses as an arrow to loose at me. As a royal bastard, was I not doubly disloyal to Blanche, not fit to wed her? So I duped Blanche into…’

Blanche…

I burst into tears.

‘Katherine…?’ For the first time I thought that he truly noticed me.

‘Blanche is dead. My daughter is gone from me and nothing will bring her back.’

Pressing my fingers against my lips I ran as well as I was able from the room.

I took refuge on the wall-walk, even though the effort to climb the steps took my breath, where the wind from the Thames would cool my cheeks. Could such a loss ever be overcome? I knew that I must learn to be thankful for her life, and not weep whenever the name Blanche was mentioned. When I heard footsteps loping after me and recognised the ownership, I braced my shoulders but did not turn.

‘Forgive me, Katherine. I did not know.’

His voice was even, with none of his earlier anger.

‘There is nothing to forgive. You have your own loss to mourn,’ I sniffed.

For Prince Edward had succumbed at last to his endless sufferings. We had all been in mourning robes in that year. Even worse, the Duke going to Bruges to attend peace negotiations had taken Constanza with him where she had given birth to their much-longed-for and prayed-over son, only to have him die within a few short weeks.

A unbearable time of death and loss, but for me Blanche outweighed all.

The Duke kept a discreet distance at my side in so public a place.

‘I can’t comfort you. Not with every eye on us.’

‘I don’t expect you to,’ I replied, drying my tears. My mood was as fragile as my waist was thick.

‘I am so very sorry, my dearest love.’ And abandoning all decorum, he pulled me into the corner of the wall-walk where the steps led down, pushing me to sit on the top one. Disturbingly, he chose to sit below, his back against the wall, holding my hands. If any of his household saw us, he ignored it as his eyes searched my face.

‘I feel your anguish, and I am so sorry. For the death of your daughter. For my own concerns that I cannot push aside,’ he said with some difficulty, before lowering his forehead to rest against our clasped hands. His face might be hidden from me, but his compassion was as soft as a new snowfall, wrapping around me. ‘I regret the comfort I can’t give you. I regret my own anger that drives me, even when I know that your loss is even greater than mine in that it is new and raw. I knew my brother Edward was dying. Forgive me, Katherine.’

I rested my cheek against his hair. How complex was this man I was privileged to love. From hot temper to infinite tenderness; from stormy pride to deliberate abasement.

‘Blanche was my godchild, and I mourn her with you.’

The Duke stood and lifted me, his lips warm against my forehead, his gaze full of all the grief that lay as hard as granite within me. When I began to weep again, he drew me into his arms and at last I rested there for they were a defence against the world. I luxuriated in them. He was mine again, for those few moments, and he gave me the comfort I needed. The rock inside me began to melt.

‘I am afraid,’ I said, ‘of your enemies who use every means to attack you.’ I had never admitted it before, even to myself. ‘Of the wedge it drives between us, because you are taken up with Peter de la Mare and I am too irritable to accept that…’ My breath hitched.

And so he finished the thought for me. ‘That private grief must step back in the face of England’s demands. We mourn the ones we love, but sometimes we cannot choose the time or place.’

‘Yes. That’s it.’ It was a heavy burden. ‘I am afraid I will forget my daughter. That I will not mourn her as I should.’

Which made him kiss away the tears. ‘You will never forget Blanche. Nor need you be afraid for me. I will win the day against de la Mare.’ He pressed my head gently against his shoulder. ‘You are too tired for this, my dear love. What you need to do is to rest.’

‘But what if…?’

‘We will not talk of it. I will deal with Walsingham and de la Mare. I’ve a mind to show de la Mare the interior of one of my dungeons.’ He smiled fiercely as if enjoying the prospect of a lengthy incarceration until, when I sighed, he fixed his mellowing eye on me once more. ‘You will go to your chamber. You will order your maid to pack what you need.’ And when I shook my head against his restraining hand: ‘It will be better if I don’t have to worry about you too. Sometimes, my love, we both know that it is better if we are apart. This is one of those times.’

Which I had to accept. We could not be together, but our love would never be dashed against the rocks of volatile politics.

‘I’ll go to Kettlethorpe.’ I surrendered, reluctantly, to good sense. ‘I need to take Blanche home.’

I did not wish to. I did not wish to be separate from him. My spirits had never been as low.

‘No, this is what you will do.’ The note of command was unsparing beneath the gentleness. ‘I need to know you are somewhere safe, away from the politics and the threats of riots in the city. I don’t want you where you cannot defend yourself, and Kettlethorpe has no defences. You will go to The Countess of Hereford at Pleshey Castle.’

I had an acquaintance with the Countess of Hereford, but had no wish to take up residence with her. ‘I don’t wish to go to Pleshey. I’d rather go to Kettlethorpe.’

The Duke remained unswerving, even as he dried my tears with my oversleeve and kissed my sullen mouth.

‘What you want has no bearing on the matter. You will go to Pleshey because I say it shall be, and you will give birth to this child in comfort and safety. Countess Joan will welcome you in my name, and you, my dear love, will be pleased to be there. I will arrange for Blanche’s burial beside her father at Kettlethorpe. It is decided.’

I went to Pleshey Castle. The Duke kissed me and dispatched me with a substantial retinue, arranging high-handedly for Agnes in the company of John and Henry to join me there, as he arranged for Blanche to go home for the last time, where she would lie in peace beside the heart of her father. The Countess, as a close friend of long standing and blood relative of the Duke, opened her doors to me with a quizzical expression as she took stock of my figure.

‘When are you planning to give birth to this child?’

‘Two months ago, I think,’ I replied, heaving myself from the litter.

Countess Joan smiled at me. ‘Come and be at ease. I will look after you.’

It was there that I gave birth to a daughter, who emerged into the world with placid acceptance of her change of surroundings and predictably dark russet hair. I called her Joan in honour of the Countess who allowed me to mourn Blanche on her broad shoulder and kept me abreast of affairs beyond our walls when John could not, for King Edward had died, sinking the court into mourning and keeping the Duke fixed in London.

‘When you return, all will be well,’ Countess Joan announced with all her years of experience of court affairs. She set the cradle containing Joan rocking with one practised foot as we sat together in the nursery. She had two daughters of her own. ‘It’s a new reign and everyone’s of a mind to rejoice and look for new beginnings with a handsome young king at the helm. John’s being astute in his dealings with his enemies, and they’re of a mood to come to terms with the man who stands at the side of the new King.’

It was a good omen. Had the Duke not knelt at the opening of the new Parliament at Westminster to swear his allegiance to King Richard, denying any charge of treason or cowardice on his part? Had not the peers of the realm and Parliament received the Duke with honour and begged him to be comforter and councillor to King Richard? Even the City of London asked pardon from the Duke for their past criticisms. The Duke was safe, restored to favour, no longer threatened by vicious Walsingham or self-seeking de la Mare.

My mind steadied into serenity with the birth of my new child, my world tilting back so that my thoughts steadied and I was comfortable again. Blanche would always remain a scar on my heart but I would learn to bear my grief with gratitude for the loving child she had been. I would never forget her. All my fears for the Duke were unfounded. How foolish I had been. Even knowing that he had imprisoned Speaker de la Mare in Leicester Castle with no hope of a trial did not disturb me to any degree.

And when the Duke wrote: Come to me at Kenilworth, I went.

April 1378: Leicester

It was one of those soft spring days that only April can produce, as if by magic, after the bleakness of a cold March. Shower-clouds had just cleared and the pale sun turned all the drops on thatch and wood and budding leaf to crystal. Even the rubies sewn into the Duke’s gauntlets and pinned to his cap were dulled in comparison.

We were in Leicester together, one of the precious moments we would snatch before the Duke must turn his mind once more to English policy abroad and the continuing education of the young King Richard, and I to the building chaos that was Kettlethorpe and my trio of Beaufort children once more ensconced there.

I had never been as content as I was that day in Leicester, for were we not together? My happiness was so intense that I could taste it, sweet as a new honeycomb on my tongue. Since my enforced sojourn at Pleshey I had learned to live from day to day, to savour every moment, and today it was enough to be with him. He would be away at war in France before the end of the summer, and there would be no more idylls for us to linger in. The English fleet had already sailed from England a week ago with the purpose of crushing the fleets of France and Castile, and the Duke must follow.

But for now, I could be with him, confident in my position at his side even as I acknowledged the undercurrent of desolation that was always present, and always would be. I knew I could never experience true happiness, simply because of the life I had chosen for myself. There would always be that piercing grief that I could never have a permanence in his life.

I found myself smiling, if a little sadly. How remarkably innocent I had been when I had thought that I could simply step into the role of mistress, enjoy the glory of being with him, and not have to pay any price of merit. How irresponsible. I had thought I could bask in our love without penalty. Now I was worldly-wise enough to see that there would always be a cost, and I accepted it, even the rank disapproval of the Duchess of Gloucester who turned a very obvious cold shoulder against me, making no effort to hide that she despised me. Did she not have royal blood in her aristocratic veins? I, of course, was nothing but a commoner in her eyes. I had become used to her superior condescension by now. I was no longer wounded.

‘My Lady of Swynford?’

I blinked in the sunshine, recalled to my immediate surroundings. It was the Duke, regarding me across a motley of merchant hoods and felt caps and stalwart wool-clad shoulders.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ I replied formally as I gathered up my reins, which I had allowed to slacken dangerously, and rearranged the voluminous folds of my skirt. We must be preparing to move off. I sighed a little at the prospect of more business.

Instead, he pushed his mount towards me until we sat side by side, and he lowered his voice, eyes appreciative on my face. ‘Where were you?’

‘Far away, I’m afraid.’ In fact, with my daughter Margaret, who, to her own satisfaction, had taken the veil at Barking Abbey. It was an honour and I was proud for her.

‘But not so far that I cannot reach you. Can we escape from this endless discussion of town rules and regulations, do you suppose?’ There was a jaunty air to the Duke’s manner, and his less than discreet comment surprised me. Impeccable as his courtesy usually was in company, he had grown weary of the merchants’ demands and the Mayor’s persistence over the contentious issue of taxes. Indeed, he waved them aside with casual indifference, blind to their annoyance, careless of the official disfavour of his high-handed rejection of their pleas to pay less. ‘I am finished here,’ he said, and turning from them to me: ‘Unless you, my lady, are of a mind to purchase a basket of oysters?’

As he gestured towards the woman who advertised her wares with a voice worthy of a royal herald, I saw the gleam in his eye.

‘I might,’ I replied lightly, not averse to a flirtatious exchange since he was obviously of a mind to respond, even as I was uncomfortable with his ability to make enemies when the mood was on him.

‘Can I persuade you not to?’ Now the gleam was accompanied by a grin.

My heart melted, my discomfort evaporated. The Duke was his own man and would order his affairs with the same nerveless assurance that he always did. As for me, what other woman in the length and breadth of the country could claim to own the total love and adoration of the one man who filled her own heart? Was there any woman as fortunate as I? I thought longingly of the island of peace, isolated behind the formidable walls of the castle. We would eat together—probably not oysters. Walk in the gardens. Talk of whatever came into our minds. The Duke would read to me, if I asked him, weaving the enchantments of the old legends in his beautiful voice, which he now used to my persuasion.

‘I say we should make our apologies, before the Mayor can find some other matter to claim my attention. Such as the state of the town midden.’

He turned his horse towards the castle, saluting a farewell to the Mayor and aldermen who still sat in a knot of frustrated corporate business, and I kicked my mare to follow him. Recalcitrant animal that she was, she promptly balked at a cur that snarled round her legs, and planted her feet. The ducal retinue came to a chaotic stop behind me.

‘Will you move, you foolish animal!’ I demanded, aware of my flushed cheeks as I used my heels to no effect.

Without a word, the Duke turned his horse about to come to my aid. He grasped my bridle near the bit and hauled the mare into a spritely gait to keep up with him.

‘I’ll give you an animal with more spirit,’ he offered. ‘This one goes to sleep on every possible occasion.’

He kept the bridle in his hand, forcing her to keep pace with her companion, as we wound through the streets, through the townsfolk busy about their own affairs, towards the castle; the Mayor, aldermen, cleric and our own retinue followed behind.

‘Have you decided where you will go next week?’ the Duke asked as we manoeuvred around a woman with her baskets of apples, small and wizened from the previous year’s harvest.

‘Yes, to Kettlethorpe. To see how the rebuilding is progressing. I may have a hall fit to receive visitors by the end of the summer. And to see the children, of course.’

The Beaufort children. For a moment I felt the weight of his regard full of compassion for me, the brief pressure of his fingers on my hand, acknowledging that my Swynford children were no longer all under my care. But John and Henry and Joan waited for me at Kettlethorpe with Thomas Swynford. I smiled, to reassure him that Blanche’s death was not about to reduce me to a bout of tears as it could still sometimes do.

‘You’ll not see me in Kettlethorpe,’ the Duke gave solemn warning. ‘The fleet’s sailed and I must follow without more delay.’ He led me round a stall selling pans and cooking pots. One of the pans fell to the floor, dislodged by a climbing child, the clang and roll making my mare skitter again, and John laughed. ‘I’ll send you a gift.’

I caught his glance. ‘An iron pan?’

‘Do you want an iron pan? I cannot imagine why. But if that is what you want…Why give a woman something she will not make use of?’

‘Like a chain of rubies.’ I nodded at the chain around his neck. ‘Your daughter Philippa once told me that you only give valuable gifts to people you don’t particularly care for.’

‘Did she?’ His eyes registered bafflement.

‘Like silver cups with lids.’

‘Have I ever given you one?’

‘Yes. But I think she’s right.’ I laughed. ‘So I’ll have the iron pan and the wagon-loads of wood or the prime venison or the tun of wine…’

‘Well, it must prove something if I’m concerned for the roof over your head and your sustenance,’ John admitted, still amused, still holding tight to my bridle, for the mare, scenting her stable now that we were in the environs of the castle, was keen to have her head and continue through the gateway. ‘I was not aware that Philippa was so observant.’

What was it that made me look up, away from him? Something caught at my senses in that moment, like the threatening drone of a hornet before it stings. Except that it was no wasp. It was no sound that alerted me. I looked around at those who rode with us. The Mayor was occupied only with the list of complaints clutched in his fist, the merchants merely jostling for position. The priest might have drunk sour ale from the downturn of his mouth, but I had rarely seen him smile. I glanced at the Duke who had turned to cast an eye over an altercation between two men over the sale of a horse, and seemed entirely unaware.

There was nothing for my concern here. We continued on our way, until the street became uneven and I took control of my own creature again, falling behind at the parting of the ways when the conversation once more ranged over rents and tenancies, and then the ducal party was alone.

‘What is it?’ John murmured, once more riding beside me on the final stretch, quick to pick up my unease.

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps nothing.’

There was nothing here to give me cause for worry, to spoil these last days. Once in the castle courtyard, as I slid from saddle to ground, Simon Pakenham, our Leicester steward, approached and bowed as he took the mare’s reins from me.

‘I trust you enjoyed your day, my lady.’ His voice and face were sombre, but then when were they not? Few of the Duke’s officials were quick to approve of me.

And there was the Duke walking beside me.

‘Are you anxious over something?’

‘No. Not a thing. Except that you will leave me.’

Our leave-taking was passionate and bittersweet in private.

Don’t leave me.

Once I would have said it. Once I did. I no longer shamed myself or him by putting my longing into words. It was not the life we led, to be together, to be able to map out the pattern of our days for month after month. What purpose in my dreaming over an existence where our days together could be enjoyed without interruption? What I knew was that wherever duty called him, he would return to me.

In private we allowed emotion to rule. In public he handed me over to my escort, formally putting me under their protection with a bow and acceptable words of farewell.

My journey to Kettlethorpe was without incident, my reunion with Agnes and the children one of noisy delight. Not even a pair of squabbling storm-crows on the new roof of my manor gave me pause for thought.

I had seen the little cavalcade of three horses and single baggage wagon from my chamber and idly watched it draw nearer. After two weeks at Kettlethorpe I had decided that Master Burton, Master Ingoldsby’s young and enthusiastic replacement, had my new hall well in hand. It had no need of my supervision, leaving me free to return to my position at Hertford. I would take Agnes and the children with me. The days of hiding my Beaufort children were long gone. They would join the nursery at Hertford.

If I was not waylaid by chance visitors.

I held Joan in my arms, pointing out the newcomers. Master Burton would offer them ale and bread and chivvy them on their way. The need to return to Hertford had begun to lay an urgent hand on me, even though the Duke would not be there.

The travellers pulled into the courtyard, but not before, Joan still clutched hard against me, I was down the stairs and standing beside the leading rider. They had barely drawn to a standstill.

‘What is heaven’s name are you doing here?’

Not the most unctuous of welcomes but, as I very well knew, this visitor had no taste for Lincolnshire seclusion. She slid down to stand before me and it was only then that I saw the expression on her face behind the weariness of travel.

‘Philippa! What is it?’

I could not imagine what had brought my sister all this way from Hertford. And then when she simply looked at me without replying, terror rose in me, filling me to the brim like a winter storm drain.

‘Is it Margaret?’

‘No.’ Briefly her expression softened. Blanche’s death had touched us all. ‘Margaret is well. And my children too.’

‘Then the Duke—’

‘It nothing to do with the children or the Duke. No one’s dead,’ she interrupted. There was no mistaking the emotion in her eye, and it seemed to me that she had ridden the whole distance with some gnawing worry as her constant companion, a burr beneath her saddle that gave her no peace.

‘What has happened?’

‘The sky has fallen on your head, Katherine.’

‘What?’

Pale of face, jaw clenched, she was making no sense.

‘And all things considered, on my head too. I thought it better if I was not part of Duchess Constanza’s household just at this moment.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is not something that I will discuss out here.’

‘There’s no one out here to hear!’

Her servants had gone, Master Burton directing the horses to my smartly renovated stables. There was no one to eavesdrop apart from Joan who was more intent on watching the ducks marching across the grass behind me.

‘I would still prefer to say what I have to say in the privacy of four walls. The words are not ones I normally find a use for.’

I thought for a moment through the complicated weaving of my sister’s thoughts, still unable to imagine the cause of her distress. There was only one possibility.

‘Is it Geoffrey?’ I asked finally.

And she burst into tears.

Five minutes later we were in my chamber, my sister divested of her outer garments, seated on my bed with a cup of wine in one hand and a square of linen in the other. Her sobs had become mere hitches of breath although her eyes were still bright with tears and undoubtedly hostile. I sat beside her, Joan on the floor at my feet.

‘What has he done?’

‘Who?’

‘Geoffrey!’

‘It’s not Geoffrey I’ve come about. It’s you!’ Philippa dragged a breath into her lungs and expelled it. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

It was as if she had struck me, a sharp open-handed slap.

‘What have I done?’

‘Only destroyed you reputation!’

‘No…’ This must be some mistake.

‘Do you want me to tell you what is said and written about you?’

Not waiting for a reply, she told me. The words used against me filled my room with such vile hatred that I could barely stay enclosed within it, but as I stood, my sister’s hand shot out to drag me back and anchor me next to her on my bed.

‘Listen to it, Katherine. See what you have done. This is what you have created. A monster. A whore.’ Philippa did not spare me. ‘An unspeakable concubine. A foreign woman who lured the Duke into shameless fornication and adultery. A prostitute who seduced the Duke from his lawful wedlock.’

At first I was disbelieving. Of course the Lancaster household knew of the duality of my position, but never had I heard such a string of vicious epithets and I knew it would not be from Constanza’s lips. To remain silent and circumspect would shield us all from widespread disgrace. Of course there would be talk outside the Lancaster walls, but from where had this diatribe been born?

‘Where has this come from?’ I asked. ‘Surely no one would believe such nonsense.’

‘They would when it’s from the mouth and pen of Walsingham!’

The name sent a shiver down my spine. Thomas Walsingham again, bitter priest and vile writer of letters. He had been silent since the mending of relations between the Duke and Parliament a year ago at the start of the new reign.

‘Walsingham? But why would he turn his wrath on me?’

‘You don’t know?’ Philippa’s venom continued to pour out, her mouth ugly with her anger. ‘As I understand it, it was your stupid, stupid ride through the streets of Leicester. And don’t tell me you didn’t do it. I’m quite certain you did.’

‘Leicester?’ What on earth had I done in Leicester to warrant such ignominy?

‘Yes, Leicester. Where you rode with the Duke!’

‘Of course I rode with him. But I don’t see that it makes me a whore.’ It was hard to make my tongue form the denunciation.

‘How could you have been so careless, Kate?’

‘Were we? We have always been careful not to draw attention—’

‘And I suppose his taking your reins and leading you back to the castle was the height of discretion. Is that what happened?’

And I saw it now in my mind’s eye. My mannerless mare. The Duke’s solution to an immediate problem. And I saw the intimacy of such an action between a man and a woman.

‘Is it?’ Philippa repeated.

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

‘Katherine, you fool.’

‘I did not think. The Duke did not think.’

‘And look where that has got you. You knew it would happen one day if you could not keep your lust in check.’

‘It was hardly lust to let the Duke curb a difficult horse.’

‘It was the height of stupidity to show the world that there is a deplorable intimacy between you.’

‘No! I don’t accept that! Let me think.’ I stood, pulling away from her now, to stand before my prie-dieu, but I could not kneel. This was no time for prayer. This was time for some cold hard facts and I allowed my mind to return to that day of such happiness in Leicester, when I had thought I had sensed an air of disapproval, and rejected it as my own imagination, looking for shadows where there were none. I had allowed the Duke to seduce me with the bittersweet emotions of parting. I had refused to see.

But there had been shadows after all. Oh, I had not been mistaken, for I had sensed the atmosphere in that little group with conspicuous accuracy, as well as the disfavour in the eyes of the steward. But how had it grown from that minor shimmer of disapproval in the streets of Leicester to a thundering diatribe under the pen of the Duke’s greatest enemy? Becoming too complacent in our love, we had forgotten the need for discretion and thus we had fallen into his hands. Our ride through the streets had offered him the opportunity for a vicious onslaught. But here was the surprise that caught at my throat…

‘But why would he cover my name with such filth?’ I asked, looking over my shoulder to where Philippa still sat, folding and refolding the damp linen.

‘Because he is a hater of women as daughters of Eve. And what a weapon you put into his hand, the pair of you. Besides, it does not matter why he does it. The damage is done.’

We had become reckless in our love. Bold even. Careless of how the world would see us. Intense dismay washed over me, to destroy all my assurance and complacency. I could never be complacent again. I had become notorious.

‘Walsingham says you are a witch.’ Philippa was not done with me yet.

My eyes snapped to hers.

Witchcraft? Here was a deluge of dangerous invective falling down on my head. What damage could Walsingham make in my life?

‘I am no witch.’

‘That’s as may be. He says you are a promiscuous adulterer, not fit to be the governess of the Lancastrian princesses. Flaunting yourself, humiliating the beautiful and loyal Duchess who should be secure in her marriage…’

Anger began to burn, replacing fear.

‘He says that you are blatantly unashamed. And what’s worse, you are of low birth. Can he find anything worse to say than that? I’ll tell you if you think not. He says that—’

‘Be silent!’

Philippa subsided a little before my anger. ‘I thought you would wish to know.’

‘When you have finished lashing at me. Tell me what he says of the Duke.’

My guilt could not be measured. All my thoughts had been centred on what Walsingham had said about me, but what calumnies had he levelled at the Duke? If he saw me to be a worthy target, what fuel did our behaviour provide for Walsingham to use against the Duke of Lancaster? I shivered as Philippa delivered them in the same flat tone that she had used against me.

‘He has deserted his military duties in France for the sake of a sinful union. Any failure in England’s campaigns will be placed at his door. And at yours.’

‘That is not true.’

So I was to blame for that too.

‘He had made himself abominable in the sight of God. He is a fornicator and adulterer. A pursuer of luxury and lechery. He is not fit to have authority in England. He is not fit to have the ear of the young king.’

It was worse, far worse than I could possibly have imagined.

‘He says the Duchess was with you at Leicester. That she was riding with you when you publically slighted and humiliated her.’

‘Which is not true. By the Virgin! Would the Duke have paid court to me with his wife riding at his side?’

‘I don’t know,’ she muttered. ‘I no longer know what is and is not beyond you.’

I ignored her taunt as well as I could. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘What is the Duchess saying?’

‘Do you really want me to tell you? It is loud and in Castilian for the most part.’

‘Has she seen the Duke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then there is a lot you are not telling me.’

‘I don’t think I need to.’ Philippa tilted her head. ‘I thought to see more reaction from you.’

‘What would you wish me to do?’ I was cold, imagining the confrontation between the Duke and Duchess: Constanza’s fury, John’s pride when under attack. But there my imagination came up against the usual formidable barrier. Would he defend me? Or would he ask forgiveness for Constanza’s mortification when the adultery of her husband was picked over by the vultures in the English Parliament? Would he allow me to carry the burden of guilt?

‘What is it that you wish me to do, to vent my spleen?’ I repeated, as I picked up a precious glass vessel, one of the many gifts from the Duke, from the coffer beside my bed. ‘Destroy something of value?’ I held it as if I might allow it to drop and destroy itself. Then replaced it as carefully as I had held it. I would not allow Walsingham or my sister to drive me to wanton destruction or despair. I would put my trust in the Duke’s love for me. And thus I harnessed every ounce of willpower to answer calmly.

‘Do I weep and moan my sins? Cast myself on my knees before the priest? I will do none of that, Philippa. I think I have been waiting for this moment since the day that the Duke told me that he desired me above all things. One day, if I became his mistress, I must be discovered and held up for shame. I just did not think it would be quite yet. How easy it is to turn a blind eye to how the world will view our union, when happiness beckons. I just did not think that it would be quite so vicious. But no—I will not weep.’

I could not weep as fury flooded through me that the cruellest accusations were directed at me. The woman. The daughter of Eve, guilty of seduction as she had been since the beginning of time. The one guilty of enticing the powerful man to her bed so that he would abandon the invading army, leaving it without leadership to fend for itself against hostile forces. It was my fault.

And now the price of that supposed seduction might be demanded from me. How high could that price be? Would the Duke be able to keep Parliament’s teeth from my throat?

Not if he is fighting for his own political life.

Fear gripped hard. But I would not bow weakly before it.

‘Well, you have delivered your good news,’ I announced with brittle humour. ‘Do you wish to remain here for the night, or is sharing the bed and board with a sinner such as I am become too much for your conscience to withstand?’ And then I remembered. ‘But you have come to stay, haven’t you?’

My sister had arrived with her servants and a wagon full of her belongings.

‘Yes.’ There were tears on her face again.

‘Why? Is it just the Duchess who has cast you out? Or is it…?’

And then she was weeping again. ‘Geoffrey and I have decided to live apart.’

I went to her and, with a sigh, took her in my arms, two stricken women.

‘We barely lived together through the whole of our marriage. I don’t suppose I will notice…’

But she was hurt. I rocked her in my arms, murmuring words of comfort, while all the time in my heart was no comfort at all, and to my shame, my concerns were not with my sister’s predicament. The true span of the price Walsingham demanded might colossal. What might he ask from the Duke as reparation for our sin? Or, in the face of this unexpected attack, how much might the Duke be prepared to pay to silence the vicious priest?

For here was the thought that preyed on my mind as I held Philippa close. Would I be the price demanded for the Duke’s reinstatement in the eyes of England? Would I, the vile daughter of Eve, be the one singled out as the sacrificial lamb? I had of late been so secure in our love, so mindless of dangers from without. Nor did I question the strength of the Duke’s commitment to me even now, but in truth Walsingham was a powerful enemy, with a voice loud enough to swing opinion in England.

What of my own turbulent conscience, since Walsingham had called me harlot the length and breadth of the country? That night, with Philippa fallen into fitful sleep, I lifted my mirror, recalling how, under the attack of Constanza’s damsels, I had scrutinised the face of the newly branded whore, questioning what I saw there, despairing that I would see the marks of shame on my soul. Dismay had been a heavy cloak, that I had failed to see my ruin as the Duke’s beloved.

I had not seen the half of it then, cushioned as I was by the Duke’s care. But who in England would not now regard me with utter contempt?

I placed my mirror face down. On the ivory cover a lady crowned her lover with a chaplet in stiff perpetuity. I could not contemplate my reflection, to see this object of sin, as fear returned, more lively than ever with cruel claws. I had always known that, one day, I would be separated from my lover. Had I not known it from the very beginning when I had given him a faded rose and my respectability? The cloud was always there, hanging over us like an ever-present sword of Damocles to divide and destroy.

Was this to be the moment, when the Duke must choose between me and England’s glory? My mind was filled with trepidation, knowing that the choice was his to make; I would be unable to sway him. With his duty to England, as the puissant counsellor of the new untried King Richard at the forefront of his mind, I must not even try.

‘I have come.’

It was all he said. It was enough.

‘I knew you would,’ I replied.

He stood in the refurbished splendour of my Great Hall, clad in wool and leather for travel but, as I would always expect, still with the gleam of jewels beneath the film of dust on hat and tunic. The flamboyance of his acknowledgement was as gracious as if Philippa and I were two high-born foreign dignitaries, rather than two unhappy women garbed plainly for domestic work.

‘You are right welcome, John,’ I said, as I had on so many previous occasions. My voice felt compromised to my ear, a little rough with all the underlying anxieties that had cavorted incessantly through my days.

With one glance at the Duke’s expression, a brisk curtsy and a warning glance in my direction—as if to say: ‘and don’t do anything to worsen to what is already an appalling situation’—Philippa made herself scarce.

And there we stood, contemplating the destruction of the life we had made together. How many times had we stood like this, some chasm of guilt or duty or conscience separating us? How often had we stepped over that chasm to be together? But perhaps this one was too deep for our courage; too critical with the swarming mass of Walsingham’s diabolical accusations.

I waited for the Duke to speak.

And while I did, I refused to relive the sleepless night-hours when I had been all but wrenched apart by the fear that he might, for the sake of his reputation and his marriage, for the sake of his authority in England, even for the sake of England’s success in the foreign field, renounce me, putting me quietly aside as a thing of danger. Once I had lived in dread that Constanza would be the one to call on his honour. Walsingham, I acknowledged, was a far more dangerous foe.

And if the Duke asked me to free him, so that he might restore his good name and his place at the young king’s side, what would I say? Could I step back and let him go? Would I have the strength to do that?

I trembled at it.

As I stepped towards him, the Duke raised his hands a little, palms turned out, his gesture as disciplined as his face. His cheekbones were sharp, the skin pulled taut, as if he had ridden far and fast. The familiar lines that I knew so well, that I had frequently traced in the aftermath of passion, were engraved more deeply than usual.

The words, yet unsaid, hung in the air between us with the smoke from the fire.

‘Are you going to invite me somewhere more comfortable than this hall? Have you a room where, just at this moment, I don’t have to face your scowling sister?’ He spoke with something that might once have passed for a brush of humour, but not today.

What was he thinking? No matter how carefully I searched his face, his eyes that were dark agates, I could not tell. I never could unless he wished me to know. He would not talk about the effect Walsingham’s attack had had on him. That was not why he was here. But what then did he have to say to me, which had brought him this great distance to Kettlethorpe when his whole concentration had been engaged by the invasion? I was full of fear as I opened the door into the inner chamber.

One inside, I faced him and said, ‘My sister says the sky has fallen on our heads.’

‘So it would seem,’ he replied with a lift of a shoulder.

Here was tension. I asked: ‘What did we do that was so very bad?’

‘We drew attention to ourselves.’

‘I am so sorry.’

‘It was my fault, not yours.’

‘That’s not what Walsingham says.’ How the words had hurt, and did so again as I repeated them. ‘He says I am a seductive whore.’

The Duke’s mouth tightened. ‘I should have been aware. I took your bridle and led you through the streets of Leicester, under the eye of every merchant, tradesman and gutter urchin.’ His hands had clenched into fists, but his voice was without inflexion. ‘For those who would make trouble for me—and for you—it was translated as a symbol of our disgrace, that I have control over you. That I have possession of your body. It was no better than shouting it from the rooftops. It might be one thing for me to take you to bed privately at The Savoy or Kenilworth or Leicester Castle, but to show ownership of you in public could not be tolerated.’ He took a deep breath, as if he had not breathed deep for some time. ‘We forgot to be discreet, Katherine. We forgot.’

I could see all the damage we had done, so heedlessly, on that bright morning when I had daydreamed and he had prompted a flirtation over a barrel of oysters and an iron pan.

‘I had been warned,’ the Duke said. ‘I should have taken heed.’

‘Warned?’ I was startled, and not a little angry. ‘So I had already been singled out as a blight on your life.’

He did not reply. It did not need saying. His priest, his advisers, even Sir Thomas Hungerford in his role of steward of all the southern Lancaster estates would have warned him against me. How many jibes and slights could there be to wound me?

‘Why did you not tell me?’

‘It was not important.’

Taking cognisance of his shuttered expression I knew he would say no more.

‘Can Walsingham harm you?’ I asked.

‘There is nothing new in his firing arrows at me,’ he replied, again avoiding my question.

‘It seems to me that he has more and heavier ammunition now.’

‘Perhaps. I will look to my defences.’ All the pride of a Plantagenet prince rested on his brow like a glittering coronet. ‘But I am not here to talk about Walsingham.’

It was my turn to take a breath. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Why do you think, Katherine?’

And I read the sudden blaze of fire in his eye, the physical desire in his face. No, he was not here to talk about calumnies and reputations. He was here to see me, to show me that Walsingham could not sunder what existed between us. Whatever the future held, whether we lived together or apart, our love would remain inviolate.

In my bedchamber, where Philippa was not scowling, there was no place for a complex exchange of words, for soul-searching, for regrets. Here was no place for what the future would hold for us. I would not think that our parting on the following day might be our last, if the Duke decided to repair the damage to his own standing.

I would not consider that this was the tender precursor to his leaving me.

Of course he will sever your relationship, if he has any sense, Philippa opined in my ear.

I banished her.

You have degraded me. And still do, spat Constanza, lurking in the shadows beside the clothespress.

I banished her too.

You are an evil seductress, intoned Walsingham from the bed tester.

I turned my back on him.

I warned you, did I not? Even Agnes had a face of stone. My breath caught that she too would condemn.

‘What are you thinking?’ The Duke had quietly closed the door and was watching me as I walked a circuit of the room.

‘That this room has suddenly become entirely too crowded.’

‘It looks empty enough to me.’

He approached me for the first time.

‘Of course it does.’ I forced myself to rest, although it was not difficult with his arms enclosed around me, and I laughed a little as I leaned my forehead against his shoulder. ‘Even the mice have been cleared out in my rebuilding.’ My breathing was already shortened. ‘John, my life, my love. I have had such a need of you these past days.’

His heart leaped beneath my hands. ‘I love you. I adore you,’ he replied.

I held his hand in mine, as I took him under my dominion in a chamber where there were no shadows, only ours.

‘I think I should not be with you,’ I whispered, but despite all Walsingham could do to destroy us, desire thrummed through my blood, as if I were a new bride, united for the first time to the man she worshipped. I allowed him to lead me to the bed with no coy resistance.

‘What is it?’ he asked, detecting some nuance as he busied himself divesting himself of his own clothing and mine, impatient as ever over the buttons on my sleeves.

I would have denied what was in my mind. Instead: ‘I could not look at myself in my mirror,’ I confessed, the words tumbling out, even as my breath caught at the slide of his hand on my skin. ‘I was afraid of what I would see. I have committed a great sin, you see. I have always known it was, but I did not fully understand…’

Eyes fathomlessly dark, the planes of his face severe, the Duke looked at me as if discerning for the first time the essence of the sacrifice I had made. With one finger he traced the outline of my lips, before running his knuckles under the line of my jaw. Then finally framed my face with his fine hands and kissed my lips, soft as a promise.

‘I owe you every apology, Katherine de Swynford, from the depths of my soul. I took you for my own pleasure, without thought, as I have taken everything in life. Who has ever thwarted me? Who would gainsay me? We are both guilty of sin, but I did not consider how vastly a woman of such integrity would suffer. I regret that. I wonder that you can ever forgive me for my placing your feet on this particular path that many would say leads to the fires of hell. I did not consider how the world’s condemnation would wound you. I should have. You should have been my first concern.’

The contrition in his eyes, bleak and cold, took my breath, and in the face of so brutal a confession I could do no other than raise my hands to his cheeks, to return the kiss.

‘I’ll tell you what you would see in your mirror,’ he said when our kiss was ended, ‘because I have the true image here before me. You would see a woman with the courage to accept what is between us, whatever the world says. A woman with the fortitude to love me. A woman with the spirit to allow me to love her. I can only honour you for the choice you made to link your life with mine. Nothing I can do or say can ever express the love that is in my heart for you.’

‘My love. My dear love…’ Never had I thought to hear the Duke place himself at my feet. Emotion threatened, but I would not weep, for an inner joy was unfolding. ‘I thought Walsingham had destroyed our happiness,’ I said, kissing him again. ‘I thought that when we came together, his words would taint what we have.’

‘No. He cannot. You are lodged in my heart. Are we not complete in each other?’

As so often before, we shut out the world, even Walsingham. I even succeeded in banishing the fearful anguish, although our lovemaking had a strange quality of despair about it, as if we should snatch all the fulfilment we could before storm clouds threatened. And yet there was such an exultation, such a sense of triumph that we were untouchable, that there was no possible room for regret.

I was awake when he rose at dawn. I had been awake for some time, taking note of each beautiful feature as the daylight strengthened, committing all to memory. Then I kissed him and allowed him to dress without comment. What was there to say about our love that had not been said throughout the dark hours? That had not been proved by the drift of his hands, the power of his body as he took ownership of mine in earnest.

As for what still had to be said between us, I would not pre-empt it.

Hosed and shod with fine, elegant lines, his tunic laced and belted, he came to sit on the bed beside me, to wind his fingers into the turmoil of my hair.

‘I always forget the magnificence of your hair. Its richness takes my breath.’ He barely paused. ‘I cannot stay. Not even for a day.’ He released my hair, as if it seared his flesh.

‘I know. I would not ask it of you.’

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, his lips against mine.

‘For what?’ My heart thundered against my ribs. Surely he would hear it, or feel the vibration of it as he cupped my face and placed a succession of soft kisses on my lips.

‘For not asking. I can see the question circling in your head.’

‘There is only one for which I need an answer. And which I will not ask.’

‘You do not need to ask it. You know the answer. The answer is no. It is too late for that. Far too late. Do we not both know it?’

No, I did not have to ask it after all. I held tightly to his hand, raising his palm to press a reciprocal salute there.

‘Will you stay here?’ he asked.

‘Where else would I go?’

I doubted I would be welcome with Constanza. How could she turn a politic blind eye, now that the whole country knew of the depth of sin between her husband and his daughters’ governess? What had been a brave tolerance could no longer be preserved under the condemning eye of every man and woman in England. My role in the Lancaster household was at an end.

‘And you?’ I asked, thinking that he would tell me which port he would make for.

Instead: ‘Constanza and I are estranged.’

That was all he would say. Such a momentous step explained in so few words. I imagined the blow to his pride, and to hers, but I made no comment. He never would discuss her with me and I honoured him for it.

‘I will pray for you,’ I promised.

He kissed me. ‘God keep you.’

He walked to the door, then returned, surprising me by lifting my rosary from my prie-dieu before coming to kneel beside the bed.

‘Did I not promise that I would protect you? I swear that I will. I will never again allow you to suffer from the choice you made to join your life with mine.’ He sighed, an infinitesimal exhalation that I noted because I knew him so well as he pressed the crucifix to his lips, then folded the coral and jet and silver into my hand. ‘Remember me. And God keep you.’

And I carried it to my own lips in acknowledgement of his vow.

Bundled into a chamber gown, my hair roughly braided and lightly veiled, I was watching the Duke ride out when Philippa came to join me, in no better mood than on previous days.

‘Where is he going?’

‘To The Savoy and then Southampton.’

‘So he has left you,’ she observed with a cruel complacency.

I was fretful. Whatever the Duke might say to reassure me, I knew that Walsingham’s attack could do nothing but harm to John’s already unstable reputation. Parliament would take every opportunity to sharpen its claws since Walsingham had accused me of being the cause of the Duke’s failure to accompany his fleet. The Duke of Lancaster had been so weak as to allow me to seduce him from his duty. I knew it was all lies. He did not sail with them because he was commandeering extra ships, but there were many who would give credence to Walsingham.

‘He has left me because he must,’ I replied, swallowing my anxieties in front of Philippa. ‘I do not hold him back from going to war.’

‘I did not mean that.’

‘I know you didn’t. But I felt that it needed saying. It was an unfair assertion, on both of us.’ My eye remained fixed on the distant Lancaster colours until the last possible moment when distance enclosed him. Walsingham had had the temerity to accuse the Duke of cowardice in not sailing with his men.

‘I meant,’ Philippa persisted, ‘that he has cast you off. Has he given you an annuity for past services and wished you well for the future?’

Since the Duke was out of sight, I turned to look at her.

‘Sometimes I wish there was more charity in your soul, Philippa.’

‘What have I said that is not the truth? He did not even kiss you when he left.’

I would say no more. I did not have to. All our kisses had been exchanged in private. And the question that I had not asked, and had not, in the end, needed to:

‘Do we part for ever, to put you and England right with God?’

And his answer: ‘No. It is too late for that.’

The Duke had not left me. He had not cast me off. How could we be parted, when our love was indestructible, resilient enough to withstand the brutality of Walsingham’s particular brand of warfare. Our love could never be denied.

Eyes narrowed as if I might still catch a final glimpse of Lancaster banners, I recalled comparing my long-ago existence to a line of plainchant, predictably moving along familiar paths, without highs or lows. How different was this love with which we had been blessed. This love, breathtaking, unsettling, held the complex interweaving of the glorious polyphony from St Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Unpredictable, extreme in its ability to move to joy or tears, superbly glorious, the power of this music of our hearts overwhelmed us both.

Whenever the Duke came home, from war, from Parliamentary debate, from negotiation, he would come to me because I was at the very centre of the intricate harmony of his life, as he was of mine. I would stand at the last before God’s throne and proclaim my love for him. As I knew he would for me.