The Scandalous Duchess

Chapter Thirteen

June 1381: The Manor of Kettlethorpe, Lincolnshire

‘It’s bloody insurrection, m’lady,’ Jonas, my blacksmith, informed me with lugubrious self-importance before going about his business.

‘No it’s not,’ I replied firmly to his back.

Jonas regarded me over his shoulder, scratching his nose with a black-nailed finger.

‘You mark my words, m’lady. Bloody insurrection!’

‘Well, don’t tell the diary maids,’ I called after him. ‘They’ve enough to gossip about without this. Cheese is the last thing on their minds as it is.’

The foundations of the world I knew had begun to shake.

My sister Philippa had ultimately left me to return to Duchess Constanza’s service, with some relief on both sides. Constanza had decided that she approved Philippa’s companionship more than she detested her as the sister of the ducal whore. I wished Philippa well. She would be far happier at Tutbury or Hertford—or anywhere the Duchess chose to live apart from the Duke—than at Kettlethorpe. Their estrangement continued, meeting only for ceremonial and family purposes.

Yet I was not lonely for female companionship, for I had the other Philippa, the Duke’s lovely daughter now grown to adulthood, for company. Usually a confident young woman, self-possessed behind the facade of her striking features, she had decided to put distance between herself and her sister Elizabeth, who although the younger daughter, had recently engaged in a dynastic marriage with the youthful Earl of Pembroke. It had made Philippa restless for her own future.

And then the rumours began to reach us. At least they took our collective mind off Elizabeth’s crowing, Philippa’s disappointment and the loud demands of my new son, Thomas, born in the depths of a wintry January with a voice fit to raise the dead.

At first we listened in disbelief, strengthening into sheer denial.

Surely the stories were mere fabrications, magnifying out of all proportion a spark of disgruntled opposition over a tax demand that would be quickly stamped on by local magistrates. I would not give the rumours credence.

Yet the news continued to be carried by every group of travellers passing our door, of trouble-making peasants massing in Kent and Essex. I listened and worried but in a mild way. Kent was far from us in Lincolnshire, where the days passed in unrelenting monotony with no unrest other than a squabble over the slaughter of chickens by an unleashed hound. What had this uprising to do with me? What damage could they do to us? We were safe, isolated and unnoticed, as we always were. No need for us to jump at every shadow.

Besides which, I informed my household, the defences of London were strong enough to stop a parcel of peasants even if their complaints sounded horribly familiar. Had they not been voiced at any time over the past dozen years? Hatred of the poll tax, failure to win battles in France, restrictions on wages when labour was in demand after the Pestilence. What was so different now?

My reassurances had their effect, leaving my mind free to follow the Duke. It was a month since I had parted from him at Leicester. He was going to Scotland. With the Scottish truce about to expire, Richard had sent the Duke to open negotiations. He would probably now be at Knaresborough or Pontefract or even at Berwick, so he would be in no danger.

The distant clatter of hooves on the road took my attention.

I sighed, handing sleeping Thomas over to Agnes, taking Joan by the hand. ‘Another party to spread fears of death and destruction, if Jonas has not done enough…’

I walked slowly, through the door into the courtyard, shielding my eyes from the sun, keeping Joan firmly anchored, to her annoyance, and any complacency vanished. A small escort of soldiers had muscled their animals, dusty and well-lathered from hard riding, into the confined space before me. I stiffened, pushing Joan behind my skirts, for there was no identifying mark on them. Had I been careless in believing us to be safe in the depths of Lincolnshire? Then as the leader, obvious by the quality of his half-armour and weaponry, dismounted and strode up to me, I recognised the face beneath the shadow of his helmet.

One of the Duke’s captains.

I exhaled my relief, retrieving Joan to lift her up into my arms, but my relief was short lived when the man gave the briefest of bows and barely paused for breath.

‘An order from my lord of Lancaster, my lady.’

An order? I smiled and extended my hand. ‘Come within. There will be ale for you and your men. You look as if you need it—’

‘No!’ He shook his head as if to deny his abruptness, and I realised that he had kept his troop mounted. ‘No, my lady. You are to pack up what you need—only enough to be carried on horseback—and come with me.’ He cast an eye on Joan who, unexpectedly shy, hid her face against my neck. ‘All of you. You need to take refuge. The country’s in the hands of rebels and your safety cannot be ensured here.’

‘Tell me—’ I gripped his sleeve as the warnings of the past days rushed back in full vigour, yet still I would not believe that I stood in any real danger. I needed proof if I was to agree to a full-scale upheaval.

‘No time,’ he replied, and as if he had read my mind: ‘My orders are to be gone from here within the hour. You are in danger.’

It did not make sense. The countryside lay about us, basking at peace in the June heat. All I could hear was the usual clamour of a household at work and Thomas’s lusty yells.

‘But why? Why am I in danger?’

‘It’s the Duke who’s in danger,’ the captain responded with an impatient exhalation at women who would not obey a simple order. Then even more brusquely: ‘And all who belong to him. My lord says he cannot risk your staying here if the rebels’ accusations turn into actions.’

So the rebels were flinging their accusations at the Duke. I frowned at the captain. Had the Duke not weathered all the past storms with Parliament, despite the nagging problems of taxation and failure to win any notable victory in France? Would he not mend the toppling fences once again? I saw no need for my own household, including all the children, to be uprooted.

‘But why can I not stay here? We are isolated enough. Or if you consider us too vulnerable, we could go to Lincoln.’

Now the captain grunted in frustration. ‘Have you had no word of the uprising, my lady? You’re a marked woman. You are known here for your…your closeness to my lord.’ His skin flushed but his gaze remained direct. ‘And in Lincoln too I warrant. You are to come with me to Pontefract.’ Then he added, as if this made all beyond argument: ‘By my lord’s orders. You must lie low at Pontefract, until things change.’

I looked round at those who, alerted by the voices and crush of soldiery, had followed me out into the courtyard. Philippa standing anxiously at my shoulder, holding tightly to Henry. Agnes carrying the baby Thomas whose cries had subsided. John who had emerged from the stable, smudged with charcoal. Were we truly in danger?

And then there was my other family. Thomas would be well protected in the Duke’s own retinue. Margaret would be safe enough surely, within the convent at Barking.

Still I was reluctant to accept that my life was in any real danger. Was not the Duke the most powerful man in the country? No one would dare to lay his hands on me. The rabble, stirred up by Walsingham, might deplore my lack of morality as a royal mistress, but I could never accept that they would attack me or my family. I said as much.

‘Do you say?’ responded the captain with laconic patience fast running out. ‘They are at this moment murdering Flemings in London—and elsewhere. You are labelled foreigner. Will your fate be any better, lady?’

‘I am not a Fleming. I am from Hainault. It is no secret.’

‘They’ll not stop to ask the difference, as I see it. Fleming or Hainaulter, you will be a target for their hatred.’ He shook his head. ‘All I’ll say—look to yourself and your own family, lady.’

I stared at him. ‘You are not wearing Lancaster livery,’ I accused.

His reply was immediate, his hand clenching on his sword hilt. ‘No. Nor will I. And if you want to waste even more time knowing why, I’ll tell you—you’ll not be seeing the young squire Henry Warde again. It’s death to those marked as Lancaster’s men who fall into rebel hands.’

‘What?’ It came out as a whisper. I knew Henry well, a stolid lad with dark hair and a quick turn of foot.

‘Picked out by the mob in Essex, he was, as one of Lancaster’s men, and done to death, for my lord’s mark on him.’ He must have seen my shock, for his voice gentled. ‘But I will serve my lord well, with or without livery, to the day of my death. Which might be sooner rather than later if you don’t make haste, my lady! And my lord sends you this as a sign of his regard.’ He cleared his throat roughly. ‘In case you should consider ignoring his advice.’

He gestured to one of his men at arms who, with a sly grin, unstrapped from his own saddle a wool-lined pannier. A perfect size for carrying a six-month-old child on a long journey over difficult terrain. And I smiled too despite the rumble of fear in my belly. The Duke might shower his dependents with silver hanaps but he gave me what he knew I needed.

‘Well, my lady?’

‘We will come.’

The Duke knew me very well, the pannier tipping the balance, and I was persuaded, acknowledging in that moment of shining clarity that I must protect his children. The Duke had enough to contend with, without my intransigence.

Within the hour we were packed with the little that we would need, and incongruously, foolishly, a little silver chafing dish, a new gift from the Duke, elegant with its three legs and handle, chased with a pattern of ivy, that I could not bear to leave behind. And then we were gone, a flight through the night. An unnerving ride when dangers seemed to lurk behind every bush. Agnes and the children and Philippa, Thomas packed snugly into the pannier, the other children passed between us. We stopped briefly to take a cup of wine, a snatched mouth of bread, but the captain urged us on. And through it all my thoughts were with Duchess Constanza and Elizabeth and my sister. Safe, I prayed, in Hertford. As I and my companions would soon be in Pontefract, the Duke’s headquarters in the north, strong enough to repel any attack with its towers and walls and great barbican.

Yet still my mind would not accept. This was not real. This rioting was merely a stirring-up by this man Wat Tyler. King Richard’s advisers would take the right steps. Tyler and his cohorts would be pacified with promises and sent back to their villages. All would be well.

Would it not?

Of course it would, I reassured myself, as we flew through the night, and were refused entry by the Duke’s cautious Constable at Pontefract until our credentials were vouchsafed. We were safe until better times.

Yet ensconced in Pontefract, I could allow my anxieties about the Duke to escape my control. Thank God he was safe behind the stout walls at Berwick.

Oh, how I raged when the news first reached me. And then, in private, I wept. A sign of a shallow mind, some would say, to waste such emotion on the works of man, the dross of earthly wealth. Why would I weep over the destruction of gold and silver, of fine jewels and even finer tapestries, when men and women ran in fear of their lives? And some lost them.

The guards at The Savoy had lost theirs.

I wept because these elements of wealth and power, the beauty and grandeur of The Savoy, were an integral part of my memories of the Duke and the bonds that pinioned us. And with their destruction, my memories, of such inestimable value, had become tainted with horror. With terror of what was to come.

‘How is it possible? Could no one stop it?’ Philippa asked, eyes dark with dismay.

The Savoy Palace, John’s glorious, magnificent, luxurious home on the banks of the Thames, that superb masterpiece of craftsmen’s art where we had first expressed our love, was no more. Laid waste; utterly ruined. All destroyed, stamped on, brutally razed to the ground by Wat Tyler and his rebels, the contents flung in the river or burned in vast glowing pyres as the great swathe of rioters breached the gateways and walls, invading the public audience chambers, the chapel, the Great Hall, the private parlours. The intimate bedchambers.

All I could do was sit and stare in shocked disbelief, to the unease of the itinerant friar, allowed through the gates after close questioning, who had revelled with what seemed to me an unholy enthusiasm in its telling. At first I had refused to believe it, that the King’s own uncle, a royal duke, should be so despised, that his property should be the subject of such vitriol, but now, as the details flowed on and on, I must. As I must accept the scarcely credible events in London where the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Treasurer had been hauled out for execution on Tower Hill.

Even Brother William Appleton who had given me his strength when Blanche died had paid for his allegiance with his head. I could not comprehend it.

Oh, John. My love, my dear one. How will you deal with this?

My flesh crept at the image that I could not erase from my mind. Men I had known, men I had conversed with, sat at supper with. Men whom the Duke had known and respected.

The friar’s voice trailed off, his tale told, and I dispatched him for food and ale, accompanying him briefly to the kitchens, handing him over to Hugh, the cook, who was avid for news. Here was no place for ungoverned emotions. There was far more of horror and destruction for me to face than the looting of The Savoy. Slowly I returned to my chamber.

‘It is vile.’ Waiting for me there, at my side throughout the telling of desperate events and destruction, Philippa sniffed and wiped her eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Will our household at The Savoy be safe?’

‘I expect they will have taken refuge in the city.’ I would not tell her what I knew of the fate of the guards.

Philippa wept again, but I was in control, as cold and restrained as I had ever been. I would not tell her. Or not yet. Perhaps when affairs became clearer and her own emotions were less overthrown. The destruction of stone and timber, gold and jewels was not the worst of it. Yes, they could be replaced by any man of great wealth such as her father. The Duke could rebuild and refashion as magnificently as before. But why had such a vengeful attack been launched against him, even in his absence? Why were even his servants reviled? I knew the answer to that.

On our journey to the kitchens, I had pulled the friar to a halt in the buttery where we would not be overheard. ‘Why was it done?’ I held his eyes when they threatened to slide away. ‘What do the rebels say when they set fire to tapestries? When they fling precious vessels into the Thames? Why of all the buildings in London do they disfigure The Savoy?’

The friar’s eyes still managed to evade mine.

‘Tell me!’ I tightened my grip. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know.’ Finally I sought in the purse at my belt and extracted a coin. ‘This might jog your memory.’ I tried not to sneer.

‘Because they fear him. They despise him.’ The accusations made my blood run cold. ‘They say he would usurp the King’s throne. “We will have no king named John,” they bellowed as they…’

So simple. And what I had feared. There could be no other reason, could there? The home I had known and loved was destroyed as the ultimate symbol of the Duke himself. Lancaster’s home, Lancaster’s base in London, from which all his power as royal duke and uncle to the King emanated. And thus it had become the target for all their hatred, as if it were the Duke himself, bruised and battered and destroyed beyond recognition.

‘But why single him out?’ Although I knew the answer.

‘They won’t blame a fourteen-year-old youth who has barely hair on his cheeks, mistress.’

Of course. They needed a scapegoat, as they had always done. Who better than the man at the young King’s right hand? How could they hate him so much?

‘They blame him for their ills,’ the monk repeated, as if able to pick up my thoughts. ‘The poll tax is a heavy burden. The lords refuse to pay more for the labour on their estates.’ He shrugged, the worn cloth releasing a sour smell. ‘Who to blame but the man whose hand is on the reins of government?’

And the thought crept into my mind. What would they have done to the Duke, if he had been at The Savoy? Would they have treated him with the same lack of respect as they did the contents of his private chapel?

‘What are they saying about the Duke?’ My final question before I released the monk to his bread and ale. He did not hesitate. Perhaps he felt the determination in my grip.

‘They demand his head as the worst of all traitors. They’ve sent a petition to the young King. They want revenge for their sufferings. The Duke’s head will do it.’

Still the questions hammered at my thoughts. Could they not see the Duke’s sense of justice, his dedication to England’s greatness? Perhaps when the air cooled they would be satisfied with their revenge on property and possessions. What would the Duke do? Would he gather his forces and ride south to put down the rebels in the King’s name?

In all the years that I had loved him, I had learned to accept his absences, to govern my own desires to be with him every moment of every day, but in those days at Pontefract I wished I could have been there in Berwick with him. I would have gone to him if I could. Instead, I lived on the edge of an anxiety so sharp that it drove me to my knees in the chapel.

‘Holy Virgin, turn your face towards John of Lancaster. Preserve him from his enemies. Keep him safe from harm. I will offer up a novena if you have mercy on him.’

I lit a candle at the foot of the statue.

If John was spared, I would make recompense. If John was spared I would have candlesticks made in gold for the altar at Kettlethorpe. I smiled as I realised I had called him John in my mind, which I never did. A token of my anxiety.

‘Holy Virgin, have mercy on us both.’

I was reassured by the calm stillness around me. The Blessed Mother would not allow my prayers to go unanswered. The Duke would be safe.

Every day I stood on the battlements at Pontefract and allowed my mind to seek him out. I knew he was alive. I knew he was in health and spirits. Soon we would be together and the ravages of these days would be put right. He would stand at Richard’s side and deal with the rebels with justice and clemency. He would rebuild The Savoy. He would return to me and kiss away my fear. Perhaps I would bear him another Beaufort son. I spread my fingers over the folds of my gown and I smiled.

The sense of him settled on my shoulders, around my heart, as a goose-down quilt on a winter’s morn.

There was something wrong. I could not fathom it. All I knew was that there was something out of kilter, something I could not quite see in my mind’s eye, or hear; merely the whisper of it in my head when I caught it unawares. The whole castle seemed to be redolent of a sense of unease.

It was not the dire news we had received from the south where events leaped from bad to worse, attacks unbelievably launched against the Duke’s castles in Hertford and Leicester. We had thought the Duchess and her household to be safe. Pray God that they had fled, forewarned, perhaps to Kenilworth whose massive walls would hold an entire army at bay.

No, it was not that, although prayer filled our days and fear our nights.

Nor was it the desperate tale from Leicester where the furnishings and ducal possessions, five cart loads of them, were hidden in the churchyard in Newark by a terrified Keeper of the Wardrobe who could find no other refuge, in spite of the Mayor of Leicester calling out the militia to keep order. Even the Abbot had turned him away.

No, it was not that.

We doubled the guards on the walls at Pontefract and watched the road, to north and south. We did not expect the Duke who was still, as far as we knew, tied up in Scottish negotiations. We would have to stand in our own defence if the rebellion spread its net to encompass us so far north.

But it was not that either. Pontefract was strong and well provisioned. We too could withstand a siege of a major army.

Yet there was something that stirred the atmosphere.

Philippa had become sprightly, displaying an artificial high spirits unlike her usual solemnity, as if she were attempting to obliterate some image too noxious to contemplate. It was as if, in my presence at least, she had set herself to charm and entertain. It had an air of a jester’s role about it.

‘Is something troubling you?’ I asked, finding her cheerfulness unnerving.

‘Not a thing,’ she pronounced. ‘Why?’

‘I just thought…’ I did not know what I thought.

Her eye did not quite meet mine. ‘I am in excellent health,’ she announced.

‘It’s not the prospects for your future marriage?’

‘Certainly not!’

I let the exchange die a natural death, unconvinced.

As for the Duke’s officials, Sir William Fincheden, the steward, obeyed my every order with efficiency and a face of stone, while the Constable was encouraging with brisk goodwill and frequent exhortations that all would turn out well, just wait and see.

Agnes had developed a habit of watching me, eyes fluid.

‘What’s wrong?’ I demanded.

Denials showered me from all sides.

It was as if there has been a death in the family, a death of which I was not aware, and they were keeping the bad news from me. At least the children were the same boisterous quartet that they ever were, Joan shadowing me with her poppet, the two older boys pestering the soldiers with demands for tales of gore, and Thomas beginning to crawl with lightning speed.

I tried to pin it down, when had it exactly begun? Since a party of benighted travellers, heading south from Richmond, had asked for hospitality and been given food and overnight lodging. I had not seen them, leaving the good offices to the steward since Thomas was letting his sufferings be loudly known as a tooth began to appear, but perhaps their visit had lit the smouldering embers of unease. Some hideous violence discovered on their route, perhaps.

At the hour for Compline the household joined with me to kneel in the chapel to hear the priest say prayers for our comfort in troubled times. To ask for succour and peace of mind. For holy protection. He addressed the Almighty with assurance.

Then his voice wavered.

‘We pray for Lord John, Duke of Lancaster. That he might have strength to uphold what is right under the pressure of this day. Grant him acceptance of his sins, O God, and Your blessing on his desire to do what is right and good.’

‘Amen,’ we intoned.

I frowned behind my closed eyes. Acceptance of his sins?

‘Grant him, Almighty God, your succour in his courageous battle against the evil that has pervaded his life.’

‘Amen.’

To my left, Agnes sighed heavily.

‘We pray, Almighty God, that You will grant him comfort for his soul in these dark days.’

Evil? Comfort for his soul?

‘Amen.’

‘We pray that he will make recompense for all the offences he has committed, whether privately or publicaly, against King Richard and the realm of England. We pray that Lord John might mend his reputation.’ I heard the priest draw in a breath, and swallow heavily. ‘We pray that he will no longer be blinded by earthly desire.’

‘Amen.’

What was this? My eyes snapped open but could not look at the priest. I dared not. I felt Philippa’s glance slide across to me, alighting on me with heavy concern. Over by the wall, Steward Fincheden, spine rigid, stared ahead as if carved of wood.

Was the Duke dead! Was that it? For that single moment I could not breathe, but then I immediately thrust it aside, taking myself to task for such foolish imaginings. If he was dead, brutally done to death in Edinburgh, or on the road south, we would be holding a requiem Mass, not the evening service of Compline. This was merely the product of too many long days of no news and too many fears.

If he was dead, would I not know? I could not imagine his passing from this world without my awareness.

But the priest’s words had the cutting edge of a newly honed dagger. Sin. Evil. Succour during dark days. The priest continued, voice stronger into the final blessing, but when I turned my head at last to look at her, Philippa was flushed, her expression anguished before she schooled her features.

I stood abruptly.

‘Come with me,’ I said without preamble and strode out.

She did not demur, although I thought that she might have liked to. Agnes took it upon herself to accompany us to my chamber.

‘Close the door,’ I ordered Agnes who was hovering. I faced them, keeping my voice light and steady despite the lively fear.

‘What is it? What is troubling you that you are not telling me? And why are you not telling me? Why did we have a need to pray for the Duke’s strength in destroying the evil in his life? I am not aware of there being any evil in his life.’ I felt a worm of hysteria curling in my belly. ‘Tell me what you know, Philippa.’

And as if she were still a child in the school room facing her governess, with head bowed, she replied: ‘Nothing, my lady.’ She could not look at me.

I changed the object of my attack. ‘What prompted the priest to call for God’s strength against evil and sin?’ I demanded of Agnes.

‘Ah…’

Fear grew inordinately, and leaped in my throat. ‘Tell me!’ My voice was no longer light or steady. ‘Am I too weak to carry the weight of it?’

Agnes and Philippa exchanged glances.

‘It is obviously about the Duke. And he’s not dead. Is he in danger?’

Agnes lifted her hands in what could only have been despair. ‘Tell her.’

So Philippa, in her honesty, her clear-sighted affection for me, her inability to lie, did exactly that. Her words were plain and brutally frank.

‘My father has made a public declaration. It was when he heard of the rebellion and the destruction of The Savoy. He has repented of…’ She paused, then rushed on. ‘He has repented of the misdeeds of his evil life. The sin that has forced God to turn his face from him and from England. And he made his repentance in public so there could be no doubt, and no false rumour.’

‘In public? A confession in public? He would not!’

I heard the disbelief shrill in my voice. It was impossible. Risible. The Plantagenet pride would never prompt the Duke to make confession of his sins before an audience. Before a priest, of course. But in some public declaration? Yet here was Philippa, ignoring my dissent.

‘It is said that he wept…That his face was awash with tears as he admitted the…the sins he had committed.’

‘He would not!’ I repeated. ‘Where does this calumny arise?’

‘From the mouth of a traveller who has passed our gates. And those from Richmond,’ Agnes stated, the dismay that I was rejecting lively in her eyes.

‘I have not heard.’

‘You have not spoken to them.’

No, I had not, yet still…and I knew that I had not heard the worst of it.

‘Very well.’ I tried for calm. ‘So the Duke has repented. Do we not all repent?’

They shared glances again.

‘My father has admitted that he is to blame,’ Philippa continued. ‘That God has chastised him, and because of his wickedness, God has chastised England too, by causing bloodshed and rebellion.’ I watched as she bit her lip. ‘He has…’ She looked to Agnes, a look of such anguish that my belly clenched.

‘I think you should sit down, Katherine,’ Agnes said, abandoning all formality, as if she were my nurse once more.

‘I will not.’ By now terror had its cruel hand around my heart.

‘Then hear this. My lord of Lancaster has confessed openly to the sin of lechery,’ Agnes said.

Lechery. Sins of the flesh. Cold hit me, spreading from my belly as realisation hit hard. If he had confessed to such a sin, it could only be with me.

‘Is this true?’ It was no longer a denial, but a plea. ‘The Duke wept that he had a relationship with me?’

‘So it is said.’

I dragged off the padded roll that secured my hair and veil. Suddenly it seemed too heavy to tolerate. Casting the abused material aside, I released my hair from its pins. My head throbbed with pain.

‘I don’t think that I can bear this after all.’

I must have looked shattered. They pulled me to sit down on the bed, one sitting on either side of me. I refused to let them hold my hands, clasping them hard together in my lap instead.

‘Tell me the rest.’

So they did because they must. All the cruel, hurtful details of the Duke’s public repudiation of me, which reduced me to wordless despair.

‘Do I believe this?’ I asked at last, when between them they had destroyed all that made my life worth living. All the joy that had welcomed me on waking to each new day, all the contentment that accompanied me to my bed. The delight in my knowledge of his love for me that had kept me company through the hours of work and family duties. All was laid waste at my feet.

‘It must be true,’ Philippa urged. ‘For your own good you must believe, Katherine. Walsingham has praised my father for turning away the wrath of God so it must be true.’

I was stunned, hardly able to breathe for the solid rock that seemed to have lodged in my chest. ‘Where did all this happen?’

‘In Berwick. But now we think my father has taken refuge in Edinburgh. We are told…’ Philippa paused.

It was Agnes who continued, smoothing a large hand over my disordered hair, as if I were five-year-old Joan. ‘They say that my lord the Duke has summoned the Duchess to travel north to meet him. He wishes to be reconciled with her.’

I think I sobbed.

I covered my face with my hands.

‘He has renounced you, Katherine,’ Agnes said softly. ‘The blame is his for taking you in sin, and he must make amends. He has renounced you.’

Once I had thought we would never part. Even an hour ago, I was so secure in the passion that kept us strong against any divisive attack. Was our love not as unbreakable as the interlocking links in a gold chain? We would never part until death claimed one of us.

Yet now…How could I ever envisage that the Duke, my beloved John, would be the brutal instrument of that parting? Suddenly I did not want Agnes’s soothing. I pushed her compassionate hand aside and stood, putting distance between us, then whirling to face them. I would make recompense if he were safe, I had vowed. And all the time I was pledging gold candlesticks for Kettlethorpe, he was engaged in casting me aside. When I was offering up prayers and reparation, promises of an endowment in return for his safety, he was throwing me to the wolves. I will protect you, he had once sworn on my crucifix.

He had destroyed me.

I stared at the pair of them. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’

There was the glance of collusion between young and old.

‘When we thought you would be strong enough to accept it,’ Philippa said softly.

‘I will never be strong enough. Give me a woman strong enough to accept that the man she loves has damned her as the cause of his adultery.’

John, I called out in my mind, in an anguish of pain. What have you done to me?

There was no answer. Only my dire knowledge that he, my life, my love, had rejected me as the cause of his lechery.

In the days that followed, I read every nuance in the expressions of those with whom I lived in the garrison at Pontefract: censure, pity, sometimes malicious enjoyment. Expressions that I would have to learn to confront for the rest of my life.

I had been pilloried.

I had been held up as the cause of the Duke of Lancaster’s great sin.

It would not go away. It would never go away.

At first, as with any foolishly self-indulgent woman faced with unpalatable truth, I refused to believe it, remaining fervently, dogmatically, adamant. The travellers were misguided, devious mischief-making trouble-stirrers. I could not believe that the Duke would be guilty of a step so outrageously cruel. It was just not possible that the man who had owned my heart, had shared my bed, had fathered my children, had been the creator of all my joy, would lock me out of his life and his household. And what’s more, if the Duke had fallen out of love with me, he was the last man to reject me by public proclamation so that the whole world would know it before I did. As for weeping in repentance, on his knees before any gawping onlooker…

I laughed at the enormity of it, but he had become the Duke again in my mind.

I could accept that the Duke might make reparation if he thought some guilt was attached to his arrogance, as many saw it, in wielding power in England in young Richard’s name, but not that he would reject me in this manner. Never that.

As for his reconciliation with Constanza. Had his words of love for me been no more than the rattling of a pebble in an empty pot? Never. I would never accept it.

Frustrated, eventually irritated with me, Philippa and Agnes left me to my furious denials.

But now the rumours flew thick and fast, like wasps around the sticky sweetness of wild plums, demanding that I listen, accept. Bloody tales of fire and looting and destruction along the wharves and streets of London, that made me fear for the country I knew, the life I had taken for granted. Flemish merchants in London, dragged out of the church where they had taken refuge, to be beheaded in the street. As a Hainaulter I had indeed been in danger. They would not stop to test the difference.

And then there was the praise for Duchess Constanza. Her goodness, her tolerance, her love for her lord. The perfection of her beauty. Her courage in bearing the humiliation heaped on her by Lancaster and his whore. The whole country had take Constanza to their hearts.

I looked for word in writing or by Lancastrian courier from the north, from the Duke himself, an explanation setting all to rights, and one that I could believe. There was nothing. Had he returned from Edinburgh to England? Perhaps he was even now moving south from Berwick and he would come to me. Of course he would. And when he did he would enfold me in his arms, chastising me for my lack of faith and all would be well. He would take me to his bed and show me that his love was greater than my fears. His adoration would be no rattling pebble but a velvet assertion.

I watched the road. I was not proud. Philippa stood at my side, stern with disapproval, shivering with fears that matched my own despite the heat of the days.

‘Will he come?’ she asked as another day drew to its close.

‘When he can.’

Don’t leave me here in ignorance, John. The pain of not knowing is too great. My heart is torn in two.

The days were endless.

As one June evening sank into late dusk: ‘There’s an approaching force, my lady. More than travellers.’

The Constable, severe and gruff, stood at my shoulder. In the past week scouts had been sent out for the first time that I could ever recall, as if we might come under attack. In the face of such unrest, coupled with the uncertainty over the Duke’s state of mind, our garrison was taking no chances.

‘Who? Do we know?’ Automatically I strained my eyes to the north for a glimpse of Lancaster banners.

‘No, my lady. But they’re from the south.’

My hopes, so quickly stirred into life, were quashed.

‘And riding fast with outriders,’ he advised. ‘If they have livery, then it’s hidden.’

I forced my thoughts into practical channels of hospitality. ‘Do we open the gates?’ It would be hard to leave someone benighted in these troubled times.

‘We wait and see, my lady. I’ll do nothing to put your life in danger. My lord would have my skin if I did.’

‘Even if he has spurned me?’ I heard myself ask bitterly, the words escaping before I could stop them. Too late: besides, the Constable would know everything there was to know by now.

‘Even then, my lady. You were sent here for your protection. And the lady.’ He nodded his chin towards Philippa who had emerged from the shadows to join us. She rarely left me alone for long, as if she feared for my sanity. There was nothing wrong with my mind. It was my emotions that were raw and ragged. ‘I will do my duty now, and answer questions later.’

We waited, looking south, but not for long before a small force, well mounted, well armed and in close formation, drew rein outside the gate. And no, there was no badge of livery to identify friend from foe.

‘Who are you?’ bellowed the Constable. ‘Make yourself known.’

Immediately at a gesture from the leader of the cavalcade, a pennon was unfurled. Even in the deepening shadows the lions of Lancaster, worked in gold, glimmered as the breeze shook out the folds. Lancaster. But this was not the Duke. A second pennon told its tale. The gilded castles of Castile. My heart leaped with a jolt, then settled to a heavy thudding against my ribs as I leaned against the parapet to peer down.

‘Open the gates!’ The voice of authority from below was clear enough.

‘Who demands it?’

‘I speak for my lady the Duchess of Lancaster, Queen Constanza of Castile.’

And the full Lancastrian standard was unfurled, gold-fringed, to hang and lift with languid power. Constanza was here. Constanza was travelling north to meet with the Duke.

Shock. It was shock rather than misery that swarmed through me from head to foot, my fingers clinging onto the hard stone coping. All my attempts at self-delusion had been destroyed in this one hideous, unforeseen arrival, which could only confirm what I had denied, as the lions and the castles on the banner entwined themselves sinuously together. The Duke had sent for her. And as my brain finally accepted that here was Constanza at my door, surrounded by symbols of Lancastrian power, I saw a figure, swathed in a heavy cloak despite the heat, ride forward from the centre of her escort. She pushed the hood back so that, face pale, she looked up to where the voices reached her from our vantage point above the barbican. Beside her I now recognised the captain of her force from the garrison at Hertford. It was his voice that was pitched to us now.

‘My lord the Duke of Lancaster has requested that the Duchess come to join him, as he travels south from Edinburgh. It is her wish to stay here at Pontefract until my lord comes to greet her.’

So it was all true. This simply added an even heavier layer of confirmation. The Duke had summoned Constanza to meet with him. I sought her features, expressionless in the distant shadows, but I imagined her lips tight-closed in determination, her eyes bright with the courage it would have taken for her to make this journey. The Duke had asked her to come north, and in her eagerness to be with him she had agreed, riding the length of England, on horseback, risking any dangers. When the Duke had requested her company to travel to the Low Countries it had taken nothing less than a ducal command to dislodge her from the comforts of the palaces and castles she knew. Now her husband had held out his hand to offer her reconciliation, and she had leaped to accept it.

Desolation dragged down on me, mingling with the misery, and out of its coupling, an even deeper emotion leaped into life, and one of which I was not proud. Dry-eyed and furiously cold, I continued to watch, aware of the Constable standing at my side, Philippa silent and watchful at my shoulder. There was a decision to be made here. A lamentable conversation, spiked with fury, played out in my head.

Do I order the gate to be opened for her? Can I bear to spend hours, let alone days, in Constanza’s company?

She was constrained to spend days in yours, when you were the favoured one!

But I cannot. I don’t have her fortitude. Not when the foundation of my life has been ripped from beneath my feet.

She has the right to demand admittance.

Do I not have the right to refuse her?

No, you don’t.

But I have the right not to be present at her reunion with the Duke.

Then go back to Kettlethorpe so you won’t have to bear witness…

And then the thought, the despicable thought, slid into my mind that I would indeed refuse her. I would turn her away. Too far distant as we were from each other for our eyes to meet, yet the air between us was stretched, tense and haunted. Was she aware that I was there, on the gatehouse parapet, deciding on her future? Motionless, she sat upright in her saddle, without doubt weary to the bone but determined not to show it.

Philippa stirred beside me, a hand to my arm. ‘We have to let her in.’

‘Yes. I suppose we do,’ I said tightly.

The Constable looked at me. He knew that too. But as our eyes met, I sensed a curious level of understanding pass between us, as if he absorbed the depths of all my selfish concerns in denying the Duke’s wife the right to come under the same roof as I. Constanza had won. The Duke had chosen her over me, his wife over his mistress. I did not think I could tolerate it, watching her take precedence over me in all the trivial matters of day-to-day living. I had withstood it well enough in past years, because I had been sure in the Duke’s love. But no longer. No longer. He might not love Constanza but he had surely proved in these desperate days that he did not love me either.

How could I possibly be present at their reunion, knowing that she was his choice?

Oh, John! What have you done to me?

For a long moment the Constable waited for my response. Then, receiving no instruction, he leaned over the parapet and informed those who waited below: ‘Lady de Swynford is in residence here.’

My breath leached out between my clenched teeth. What had he indeed read in my face? I felt Philippa clutch at my arm. Below me it was possible that Constanza stiffened on her mount, for it sidled restlessly as if her hands had clenched on the reins.

‘I don’t care if the Devil himself ’s in residence,’ the caustic reply came back from Constanza’s captain. ‘There’s room for any number of households here. What’s stopping you opening the gates, man? We need admittance.’

I felt the Constable’s glance again before he replied. ‘It might be better if you take the Duchess on to Knaresborough.’

‘Do you dare to refuse entry to the Duchess?’

The Constable answered without hesitation. Perhaps only I noticed his knuckles, clenched as white as mine against the stone coping.

‘I do refuse you. My lord placed Lady de Swynford here for her safety. The castle is in my charge. The Lady Philippa is also here. In the circumstances it is not fitting that the Duchess reside under the same roof. It is better if you go on.’

The refusal swirled in my head. A specious argument, there was no logic to it, only perhaps a desire to protect me from humiliation. From Constanza’s biting tongue. The Constable’s support was a strange comfort when all around me was black with despair.

Below a laconic conversation occurred between Constanza and her Captain, resulting in: ‘The Duchess is afraid to ride on. Notwithstanding the circumstances, she begs that you will give us accommodations for the night.’

Philippa’s fingers tightened even more.

‘I will not,’ our Constable rejoined with astonishing calm. ‘Make haste to Knaresborough before the light fails totally.’

‘Lady Swynford.’ It was Constanza, her voice thin but perfectly audible. ‘Lady de Swynford. I beg of you.’

So she had known I was there all the time. I stepped back, as if to hide from her would make my refusal more acceptable, even as I knew that nothing could. It was a deplorable act, lacking in Christian charity, yet although guilt might aim a punch at my heart, I could not do it. It was the Constable who settled it for me.

‘The decision has to be mine, my lady. Go on to Knaresborough. You will be safe enough. We have had no disturbances hereabouts.’

Without another word Constanza and her retinue, banners and pennons refurled, turned and rode off towards Knaresborough.

And I?

Could I really allow this? I found that I had taken that step forward again to the parapet. If I raised my hand now, speaking out before one more moment passed, I could halt this debacle. I could call to Constanza, claiming a misunderstanding. I could send a scout riding fast after them to bring them back. If I gave the order the gates would open and she would ride in, the Duchess of Lancaster, in authority in her husband’s name. I would curtsy before her and stand aside. My conscience would be clear.

I lifted my hand.

I let it fall. I said nothing, made no attempt to recall them to safety.

‘Katherine…!’ Philippa’s whisper was harsh, her hand on my arm a grip of steel. She had long ago abandoned calling me formally. At twenty-one she had acquired the maturity of years, and of judgement which at this moment was unsparing. ‘This is wrong. You can’t let it happen. If harm comes to her the blame will be yours to shoulder.’

I shook her off, already riven as I was with that guilt, walking the length of the battlements to watch the vanishing cavalcade, identification once more hidden. Today I had rejected compassion, good manners, duty. Obedience to those who employed me. Had I not in effect, disobeyed the Duke also? Would he not have expected me to offer shelter and safety to his wife?

I was horrified at what I had done. But I could not admit her. I could not.

‘We should not have done that.’ Philippa, relentless, had followed me. It did not help at all that she had acknowledged the joint decision.

‘It is better so, in the circumstances,’ I replied flatly. ‘It is not far to Knaresborough.’

‘But if any harm comes to her—’

The echo of my own words. How devastating they were, stitching in bright colours what I had done.

‘Then I will take the blame,’ I said. ‘You had no part in it. I will answer to the Duke.’

And to God.

Refusing her company I went to the chapel where I prayed to the Virgin, for her intercession, for forgiveness, my thoughts all the time flitting away from my prayers to scenes invisible to me. My self-justification was like the constant and ineffectual pecking of a bird.

Constanza would be safe. She would be reunited with the Duke. The country held her in its heart, in the highest of esteem. Constanza would not be seized and done to death as a detested foreigner. No one would wish harm to her. I was the evil one. If anyone dared attack her she had only to reveal her name, and she would be revered, whereas I was the one who would be torn to pieces. She would place her hand once more in that of the Duke and, his reputation salvaged, all would be put right. For her. For him, in the eyes of England.

I was the one who would be punished.

What a formidable, vengeful mistress England was.

I tore my thoughts away, back to the chapel with its candles and the reminiscence of incense. Even the kindly face of the Virgin was closed against me, stern and unsmiling, as I undoubtedly deserved. It seemed that her downcast eyes deliberately turned away from me. I pressed my clasped hands against my lips, begging for her compassion. Shame was a heavy cloak.

I felt a movement at my side where Philippa was sinking to her knees.

‘I will pray with you,’ she said. ‘The Virgin will listen.’

‘I think she will not,’ I replied.

‘But she will. She will not condemn you for a broken heart. For loving too much.’

Oh, Philippa! Tears welled in my eyes but this was no time for tears. ‘I was wrong.’

‘You had your reasons.’

‘Not such that God would forgive. I was vindictive beyond measure.’

Philippa did not reply but bent her head to her task, her fingers moving over the beads of her rosary. I made to follow her example, then realised as I saw the beads of coral and gold that it was the rosary that the Duke had given me. I closed my fist over the beads. I could not use it. It would make me more of a hypocrite than I already was.

Philippa eventually raised her head, making the sign of the cross.

‘It must be true, then,’ she said, addressing the altar. ‘What my father has done.’

‘Yes, it must.’

I saw a long dark road stretching ahead of me, leading me to I knew not what. For the first time in my life I felt frightened and vulnerable. I felt beyond hope.

From the chapel I refused Philippa’s companionship and climbed to the battlements once more, despite the darkness, to look north. How often had I done this? Once I would have sensed him. The direction of his thoughts. Sometimes a brush of his emotions. His love.

Tonight there was nothing.

It was as if I faced a stone revetment or a wall of shields. A fortified bastion, I decided fancifully, although I was in no mood to be fanciful.

The Duke had shut me out.

I lifted my hands in silent plea, in despair, then allowed them to fall as a patter of approaching footsteps grew louder. I knew who they belonged to before he raced up the steps.

‘John.’ I took his hand in mine, letting my hand rest on his head. ‘You should be in bed.’

‘I escaped from Agnes.’

‘I expect you did.’

And then, predictably, Henry. I lifted him into my arms so that he could see over the wall.

‘Where is my father?’ asked John.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Will he come soon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Does he know we are here?’

‘Yes he does.’ I lowered Henry to his feet. ‘And now we will go down, or you two will face Agnes’s wrath.’

They ran in front of me, surprisingly agile on the turn of the stair. I could imagine them both excelling at military skills as they grew older.

Life would have to go on, for my sake and theirs. I did not know how I could.

What should I do now? Frightened and vulnerable, I never expected to experience such draining emotions, but the sturdy confidence that had built within me over the years now drained away, no matter how often I told myself that I was not without resources. I had Kettlethorpe and Coleby in my son Thomas’s name, my annuities, my connections in Lincoln. Margaret and Thomas were provided for. My Beaufort children would never lack. I knew the Duke well enough that whatever might stand between the two of us, his sense of honour was far too strong for him to neglect these children of his blood.

Had I no strength of character to withstand this terrible blow?

Go back to Kettlethorpe.

But I couldn’t. I could not yet cut the cord. Caught up in a maelstrom, I remained at Pontefract, wrought with indecision. Until the decision was made for me.

I was in pointed communication with the cook who was overseeing the messy task of dismemberment of a carcass with an eye to making brawn with the brain and offal. I would have retreated long before this, except that his complaints about the quality of the meat and the lack of it were legion, and so it was there that I received a letter. The courier had been directed to the kitchens.

‘I was instructed to deliver this to your hand, my lady.’

I took it, and the opportunity to turn my back on the chitterlings, except that they no longer seemed to matter. The letter took all my attention for the inscription was in the Duke’s own even script. I opened the cover to find a single page. It was strikingly brief, as if written under duress with haste a necessity. It lacked even a superscription, such as my name.

Do not leave Pontefract. I command it. You must not leave until I can come to you.

And, below, a scrawled signature.

The Duke was coming. He was coming to me.

Rereading it took no time at all. Nor did my decision-making on the strength of this imperious command. I had no intention of leaving. There were things that I needed to say.

A movement at my side made me look up to see the cook, cleaver gripped firmly, watching me. So was the courier, if less overtly. It would be far easier to slink away, back to Kettlethorpe, where I might lick my wounds in private without too many prurient eyes watching my every move. Eyes that, as now, were keen to strip the flesh from my bones.

‘Will you sit, my lady?’

What emotions had the cook read chasing across my features? I shook my head but I took the cup of ale he proffered and sipped, feeling the blood flow back beneath my skin at cheek and temple. No, I would not run away to Kettlethorpe. I had been Lancaster’s lover for nine years, I had borne him four children. I would wait and hear what he had to say. I would not weep at his feet as, the rumours said, Constanza had done when they met on the road. The emotionally vivid account of their passionate reconciliation had reduced me to unutterable fury.

It swept through me again now, and I cast the letter into the fire in a fit of pique, noting with satisfaction that the wax image of John of Lancaster, King of Castile, surrounded by all the accoutrements of his authority, melted away to nothing in the flames.

What could he say to me that would reinstate him in my good graces? Could I ever forgive him for what he had done?

‘Was it important, my lady?’ The cook, abandoning his cleaver, nudged me to sit. I must appear to be more fragile than I thought.

‘No. Not important at all,’ I said with an attempt at a smile. And I did sit, for my legs seemed to have no strength.

But I would wait. I would be here when he arrived. And I might listen.