The Scandalous Duchess

Chapter Seventeen

The slender columns in the circular space of the Chapter House of Lincoln Cathedral rose powerfully around me as my sable-lined cloak fell in sumptuous folds to the floor, and I thought that my pride must have shone around me like the gilded haloes painted on the saints on the wall. My gratitude, my immeasurable gratitude, could not be expressed in mere words. Maternal tears trickled into my smile, no matter how hard I tried to present a dignified composure on this most auspicious of days.

But perhaps no one would blame me for it. I took the square of linen silently handed to me by Agnes, acknowledging the brush of her fingers against mine. She felt it too.

Once I had thought that there was nothing more of joy for me to look forward to, nothing that could ever again fill the corners of my heart with an expression of pure happiness. I had been so very wrong. On this day, beneath the stone ribs and austere beauty of such grace and power, my blood sparkled with it. What’s more, I had every right to be here. It would be expected of me. This was a matter of family loyalty, and would bring down criticism on neither my head nor the Duke’s. I raised my head and let the pride of the moment fill me from head to foot.

‘Look.’ Joan, at nine years, had acquired the self-control to whisper. ‘There’s Robert.’

Still her voice rose a little in excitement.

‘Hush!’ Agnes admonished, yet stroked the sumptuously embroidered shoulder of Joan’s best gown.

‘Doesn’t he look grand?’

‘He is very smart,’ I whispered back.

Sir Robert Ferrers was fourteen years old, very serious and now the betrothed of my little daughter Joan. Sir Robert was in direct line to the considerable Boteler inheritance in the west, an excellent alliance, arranged by the Duke, and since the young man’s spirit of mischief and quick smile had taken Joan’s eye, I could be no other than grateful.

‘He’s a good lad,’ Agnes murmured, her eye on Henry and Thomas who stood with us, warned of the necessity of good behaviour.

And I smiled again. I could have listed any number of proud noble families who made no provision for their illegitimate offspring. The Duke could never be accused of that.

I folded my hand over my girdle, where that innocuous bill of lading was tucked, as precious as a talisman. I knew the words by heart. I did not need the evidence and yet still I kept it.

Come to Lincoln on the 19th day of February in this year of 1386 for the admittance of various persons of some interest to you into the Confraternity of the Cathedral. It is not possible for you to make excuses on this occasion.

When the Duke had last visited Lincoln, in the year after our clash of opinion at Rochford Hall, I had fled back to Kettlethorpe in distress, refusing to be there in the same town as the ducal party, afraid of meeting him. Now he had made it so that I had no choice but to present myself, for there was a list of five names, of those who would be received into the Confraternity of Lincoln, the prestigious order of the brotherhood. The Duke himself had been received when he was a mere three years old. I too had been given that honour. But now he had arranged so much more.

It is right that you should be there, he had added. If you do not, I will send an escort.

Although I had bristled at his presumption to order my movements, as would any woman of independence, yet here I was, for below his command he had inscribed the names. Tantalisingly personal. Impossible to refuse.

Henry, Earl of Derby

John Beaufort

Sir Thomas Swynford

Mistress Philippa Chaucer

Sir Robert Ferrers

There they were now, standing in the magnificence of the Chapter House that I knew so well, members of my family who meant more to me than I could express, all awarded this signal honour, the whole ceremony encompassed without any suggestion of scandal between us. This was no deliberate ruse on the Duke’s part to put the once-ducal mistress in England’s eye. It was a solemn affair of family and God and life after death.

‘And there’s John,’ Joan spoke out, refusing to be quelled. I had not the heart to stop her. She was as proud of her eldest brother as I was.

And there he was, tall and lean like his father, a year younger than Sir Robert, newly knighted at the Duke’s bequest. The Duke had been very busy on behalf of the Beauforts.

My two sons. My daughter’s betrothed. Even my own irascible sister who for once appeared astonished at the honour bestowed upon her for her service to Constanza, as they were received into the prestigious Confraternity of the Cathedral.

I knew that he had done it to honour me as much as to honour them, awarding them God’s blessing, a daily offering of prayers in their name at the Cathedral. A signal honour indeed.

Yet as I rejoiced, still there was that slide of fear that would spoil the day if I allowed it, for it was known to everyone that the Duke was putting his affairs in order before embarking on the new campaign to Castile.

I refused to allow it to trouble me. That was for the future.

I watched and marvelled at the maturity of my sons. I enjoyed Philippa’s ceremonial admittance to the Confraternity as if it were my own, recalling my own initiation. And I allowed my gaze to rest occasionally on the Duke who stood in his place some distance in front of me. Tall, lean, upright. He looked little different from the man who had lived in my mind’s eye throughout all the years of our parting, even when I told myself daily that I despised him.

My letter had not been in vain.

My heart began to sing a little, like a bird catching the first light of dawn. Even if we did not speak, it was enough for us to be here under the same roof.

‘When will you go?’ I asked my sister Philippa, in the little interval between the wine and comfits served to guests and new members of the Confraternity alike, and the general movement to the castle where a ceremonial feast would be held.

I had already offered congratulations to my offspring and Sir Robert, restraining my maternal affection, resisting the urge to hug them. Earl Henry had kissed my cheek. I had not spoken with the Duke whose attention was commandeered by the bishop. Perhaps it was better so, I acknowledged, hiding my irrational disappointment beneath the dramatic fall of sable as I questioned Philippa. She had decided to accompany the Duchess when Constanza travelled with the Duke to Castile.

‘In summer, I expect,’ she replied.

‘Are you sure you wish to?’

‘What’s to keep me here in England? My daughter is settled in a convent. My son is now part of the Duke’s retinue. Geoffrey is nothing to me—nor I to him.’ Her smile was not regretful. I thought she was looking forward to it.

‘I will miss you.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Her smile became a little wry.

‘Where’s Constanza?’

‘On pilgrimage to visit her favourite shrines to solicit an heir. Did you expect her to be here?’

‘No. We are both sufficiently women of the world to keep our distance.’

‘You may not have to, if the Duke can claim Castile at last for her. She’ll live there. The question is…’

‘I know what the question is. What will the Duke do?’

There was, of course, every chance that he would live in Castile for the rest of his life.

Don’t think about that. Not now. Not yet.

I spoke with Thomas—Sir Thomas Swynford now, of course, and in service to Henry of Derby—who glowed with as much pride as I, although he was better at hiding it under an air of insouciance. After more restrained maternal admiration, I discussed a little matter with him that was on my mind. It was something I needed to do, and yet the ultimate decision would be his. I gripped his hands at his response and allowed myself to kiss his cheek. He blushed furiously but did not object. Hugh would have been full of admiration for his splendid son.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘When will you tell him?’

‘I have no idea.’

Nor had I.

‘I will deal with it for you,’ he suggested.

‘You may have to,’ I agreed sadly.

There could be no disappointments, could there? But there were, because the demand on the Duke’s time was a heavy one in his role of host. As an occasion of official leave-taking, there were many guests of importance, and self-importance, who requested speech with him so that he was quickly swallowed up again into the crowd. At the castle it would be even worse, and as the noise rose and those who wished to commandeer a portion of the ducal attention seemed to double in number, I knew what I would do.

I would not stay. I would go back to the Chancery.

I allowed Joan to remain, because of Robert, under Agnes’s strict eye as an amused chaperone, while I shepherded Henry and Thomas, too young for such festivities, back to the Chancery with me. And once there I would hold fast to my delight, to my pride in my sons and in what I had demonstrated to myself in that brief interlude. Being able to step away without distress was of such great importance, showing me that life without the Duke was not impossible. It had been a ceremony of supreme achievement for me, but now it was over and a woman of sense would see the need to make herself scarce. It would be good practice for the time when he and Constanza were crowned King and Queen of Castile.

I used Agnes’s square of linen again. How easily tears came.

The evening was quiet here in the Cathedral Close, being too far from the castle to hear music and singing from the celebrations. I sat at ease, confident in the rightness of what I had done. I smiled at the thought of Joan, enjoying the importance of her young betrothed.

My attention was caught, my smile vanished, for there was a stirring in the garden beyond the parlour window. I listened.

Nothing untoward. A prowling cat mayhap.

Henry and Thomas were put to bed with a maid to keep an eye on them. I sat with a candle and a Book of Hours but the book did not keep my attention, not even the glorious colour and gilding of the illustrations. It had been a gift from the Duke, many years ago.

How strange that I should still refer to him in my mind as the Duke. It was how I had known him from the very beginning when I was a young wife. He was still the Duke, and I suspected always would be. Except when we came together, and then he was John. Or when I was angry with him.

I smiled.

The candle burned low as I found a quill and parchment and wrote the note I had discussed with Thomas.

My pen hovered at the end as I signed my name. My ears pricked.

There was someone outside. I rose quickly, to summon a servant to investigate, then sighed as youthful voices reached me. Here was no attacker, unless it was on the ear. My heart steadied as I walked from parlour to hall, to open the door to Agnes and Joan and my son John. Swaggering Sir Thomas was there at the rear, still laughing at some joke between him and Sir Robert. And there was Philippa, sleekly glorious in her damask and gold-thread houppelande.

I hugged Joan because she was the only one of them who would not mind.

‘Go in,’ I said. ‘There is a fire in the parlour. I will send in ale. You’ve probably eaten enough for a se’enight.’

Their voices were shrill with lingering excitement. Philippa appeared radiant, some of the years of unhappiness fallen away, looking as I recalled her in our youth when she would laugh and dance.

I made to close the door and follow, then, abruptly, stopped, my hand on the latch. Of course they had been sent with an armed escort from the castle. I stretched out a hand to invite the man in for ale.

I allowed my hand to drop.

‘Would you like to let me in?’ he said. ‘Or do I wait out here to take Thomas and Robert back to the Castle?’ There was the slightest pause, as if he fought against laughter. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

He could have sent a servant. An armed body of his retinue. He could have called out Oliver Barton, the Constable of Lincoln, with the local militia. Instead, had come himself with the young ones. This was not discretion. This was not good sense. This was Plantagenet self-assurance in action. In spite of my desire to take him to task, a surge of protectiveness almost choked me. I could imagine Walsingham’s eyes gleaming.

‘You should not have come here,’ I remonstrated, as if addressing young Henry.

‘As I am aware, if I had any sense,’ the Duke replied. ‘And I might wish I hadn’t. If you don’t let me in I’ll have to take refuge in the stable.’

I opened the door wide. Still he stood unmoving in the fitful light that shone out from the windows of the cathedral where some priest was going about his final observances. Beneath the dark folds of his cloak I saw the shimmer of blue and silver, the garments he had worn for the ceremony. More than that in the soft light I could not see, but I knew every line in his face, knew that his hair was still unmarked by grey. Knew that he was a hand-span taller than I and his shoulders were unbowed. The years of battles, both abroad and at home against pen and Parliament, had dealt with him with kindness.

How I loved him. I could never not love him.

I sighed softly, silently.

‘Then come in and I can close this door,’ I remarked.

He hesitated.

‘On second thoughts, it might be better if you came out,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I imagine your stable will at least offer us privacy.’

‘You said it was cold,’ I objected in contrary mood.

He swung the cloak from his shoulders, a magnificent sweep, and offered it.

‘Unless you will reject this—as I thought you had rejected my sables. But did I not see you wearing them today? Perhaps it was simply because of the cold in the Chapter House that made you change your mind.’ His speech was uncomplicated, his tone amused. He was making this easy for me. ‘Is there somewhere private for us to talk?’

‘You could join us in the parlour where there is ale and a fire.’

How hard it was to breathe. The cloak rested in my hands. He had seen me, noted what I wore. My mind hopped and flitted.

‘Your parlour is full of Agnes and Mistress Philippa and the young ones, and will be so for the next hour. Do they never stop talking?’

‘No. The Beauforts are very vocal.’

My mind had steadied again. I let him wrap the cloak around me, as impersonal as a servant, and because I could do no other, and because I wished to, I led him out, across the Close to the stable block. It should have been awkward between us at first, after so long with such a physical distance between us, but we were both possessed of enough grace to overcome it, and that little exchange on my doorstep had broken the threat of ice.

I was aware of his soft footsteps on the grass as he followed me, as we made tracks in the early layer of frost. And then we faced each other in the stable with the shuffling of hooves for company, enclosed by the familiar scents of horse and grain and hay. Before God, it was cold, but the thick folds were warm from his body, and the fur was close at my throat.

‘You have honoured my family today,’ I said hurriedly, because it was uppermost in my mind. ‘An honour beyond anything I could envisage.’

‘I had a debt to pay,’ he replied. ‘Your letter meant more to me than you will ever know.’

His voice was on a level and I was relieved. I could rely on him to keep all emotions at bay. Was that not what I needed, to part from him in calm acceptance of our new situation?

‘I was trying to be discreet,’ I said. ‘You understood what I was trying to say?’

‘Yes. Amongst the rabbits and land drainage.’

I shook my head, silence stretching between us, until broken by a stable cat slinking along the wall, probably with rodents in mind.

‘Forgive me,’ he said softly in the darkness. ‘Forgive me.’

And all the past emotions surged within me. ‘Yes. Yes, I forgive you.’

‘Katherine…’ It was a sigh from the heart.

‘Once I did not think it possible to forgive,’ I explained. ‘But that was long ago. Now I know full well that it is.’

The muscles in his jaw relaxed. You would have to know him well to note it, but of course I did. The tension had been there all along, superbly hidden by a master of dissimulation.

‘Katherine. Will you look at me?’

I realised I had been watching the gleam of light on his jewels as his breathing leaped with the old anguish in his words, but I looked up readily. And then my eyes dropped before the expression in his, as if I were a young girl again, afraid to acknowledge the fervour in a man’s appraisal, rather than a mature woman who had known this man as her lover.

‘No—let me look at you,’ he murmured. ‘Let me read your thoughts. Before God, Katherine, you are as beautiful as the day I first loved you. You still fill my vision.’

No, no. This was a mistake. I must talk about normal things. I could not withstand the emotion. Nor, I thought, could he. So for both our sakes…

I lifted my hands in despair. ‘I cannot speak of this.’

‘Then speak of what matters to you. Whatever words you say, I know what is in your heart.’

The compassion in his face almost destroyed me.

‘Are things well with you?’ I managed to ask.

And, as a ghostly barn owl flew in through a high window with a sweep of silent wings, he followed my lead into less contentious paths, responding to what I did not say, as he had always been able to do. How great was his love for me, how strong it still was in spite of all the strains we had placed on it. I thought there was relief in his face as he picked up the new simple strand, as I might in a particularly difficult piece of embroidery.

‘We are prepared, a fleet gathered at Plymouth,’ he told me. ‘The King is pleased to see me go. He’s praying for my success so that I’ll stay in Castile. He resents guidance unless it’s from the lips of Robert de Vere.’

‘I heard about the attempts on your life.’

‘They came to nothing,’ he replied lightly.

‘God keep you safe in Castile, John. Will I see you again before you go?’

‘No. I’ll not return to the north. I’m for London first, to persuade Richard to give me more ships. And then I go in June.’

We might have been two distant acquaintances, choosing subjects that were of political importance yet did not engage our senses. And that was good. There was no emotion here. I continued to step carefully, my voice politely interested.

‘How long will you be abroad?’

‘Impossible to say. It will not be a short campaign.’

‘I hear that Constanza goes with you. Philippa told me.’

‘Yes, she does. My daughters will also travel with us.’ And then I saw a moment of indecision on his face. ‘I have to tell you about my wife.’

I took a step forward, hands raised to stop the words before they could destroy the tentative, fragile bridge we had created between us. ‘There is no need. I know. Or at least I can guess.’

‘Then you see my way forward.’

I let my arm fall to my side. ‘Yes. Are we not adult? Have we not always seen this possibility?’

‘It is what she wants. I could not deny her.’

All my calm good sense fled.

‘Oh, my love…’ I whispered against all my better judgement.

‘My most dear Katherine…’

I would swear my tears gleamed as brightly as his jewels. There was one thing I needed to do, before I wept on his breast, which would destroy his control as well as mine. It would give both of us a breathing space.

‘Wait here.’

I left him to run to the house. To the parlour to collect the note I had written that very evening, then up the staircase to my own chamber. And then I was back in the garden, in the stables, my breathing harsh with more than the effort.

There he was, exactly where I had left him.

‘I thought you had left me,’ he said gently.

‘No. I would not do that.’ I held the folded sheet out to him. ‘It is all I can do to show my love for you. It is too dangerous to speak of it, for both our sakes, but this will show you.’

He opened it. A promise of five hundred marks. A loan to help to fund the expedition to Castile.

‘It is given with Thomas Swynford’s agreement.’

He studied the gift for so long that I thought he would refuse. When he refolded the page his voice was raw: ‘I will repay you. It is more than generous.’

‘I know you will.’

And I knew that he understood the depth of my gift.

The silence stretched out between us.

‘I must collect Robert and Thomas and go,’ he said at last.

For the first time a frisson of fear crept into the spaces in my breast and, longing submerging good sense, I said what I had promised myself that I would never ask because it would compromise us both.

‘Will you kiss me in farewell?’

The jewels gleamed flatly. ‘No.’

I took a breath at the starkness of his reply for I had not expected such a denial. And perhaps I flinched for he spoke again, quickly.

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I will not kiss you. For if I did I fear I would never let you go.’ His lips curved. ‘I recall saying something similar once long ago. I was right then, I am right now. It would be wrong of me to turn a flame into a conflagration beyond control. Neither of us would enjoy that, I think.’

His eyes rested on mine. I returned his gaze, in despair and in gratitude. I might never see him again, but I had been thoughtlessly weak, and he had rescued me.

‘I knew you would understand,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Farewell, my love. I think God will forgive me seeking you out this final time.’

‘I think He will. I will think of you.’

‘And I of you.’ Someone had lit a lantern outside in the Close. In its wayward light he looked stricken. ‘Remember this: where I am, there you will be also.’ I saw his sigh rather than heard it, as I felt the weight of his gaze. ‘You will never know how very hard it was for me to send you away. I don’t think I ever did anything so difficult in the whole of my life.’

With a sudden rush of tears in my throat I could not reply to so tormented an admission, understanding that he would not wish it. Some memories of the past were far too painful. Stepping quickly, before he could make a retreat, I reached out to pin the pinchbeck Virgin to his tunic. The little pilgrim’s badge given to me so long ago by Mistress Saxby with all her worldly wisdom on the road to Kettlethorpe. Worth so little but now it carried all my hopes.

‘The Virgin will keep you safe.’ Although my hands trembled, I was careful not to touch him, only the cloth. ‘I seem to have spent all my life in saying farewell to you.’ I buffed it with my sleeve but the pewter would never shine.

‘I have always returned.’

But would he this time?

He bowed low, as if we were at court rather than in a stable with straw and oats underfoot, and then left me as I sank into a deep curtsy.

Yet he didn’t leave. Before I had regained my balance I was caught up in his arms, and at the familiarity of his touch, every emotion I remembered swept back to engulf me. An expression of despair at our parting it might be, but his mouth against mine was enough to set a light to all the old passions, and I gloried in it. It was as if the past years had never been.

‘Katherine,’ he murmured against my lips, against my hair as he held me, so briefly. ‘I’ll risk the conflagration…’

‘My beloved John,’ I responded, fingers tight in his sleeves as if I would hold him here in that stable in Lincoln for ever.

‘How can I leave you?’

Then I was released, the Duke’s retreating footsteps clipped and rapid as if he wished to put a distance between us, as perhaps he did in the reawakened desire that threatened to break his control. Whereas I waited, listening, my heart thundering in my ears, my blood hot beneath my skin until the final sound had died away, leaving me to hold onto the essence of his body hard against mine, his lips a brand on mine.

War was a chancy thing, and so was peace. It might be that if the Duke was victorious he would be King of Castile in more than name and a golden diadem. It might be that we would never see each other again. As King of Castile, accepted and crowned, he would never return to England, and with my gift I was helping him to achieve this. Or his own death on some foreign battlefield. Love demanded a huge sacrifice.

Yet I felt renewed, at one with him. I was alone, but not alone. I could not be with him, but our estrangement was healed, and I would hold him in my heart against all the horrors of foreign campaigns.

And as I returned to the darkened buildings of the Chancery, my heart leaped for joy that he had not had the power to leave without embracing me after all. I pressed my palm against my lips as if I could still feel the imprint of his. I too would willingly withstand the conflagration.

What had he not told me? What had I guessed?

That Constanza was carrying his child. For a moment I pressed my hand against my flat belly, remembering. I must be thankful for her, and I was. The days of my jealousy were long gone, for which I thanked God.

I did not want to do this.

I mixed the ink and mended my pen with a sharp knife, but because my hand shook it was not the best I could manage. Nevertheless, lacking another quill to hand, I forced myself to open the cover of my missal to the first page that had once been blank. Now it recorded moments in my life over the past year since the Duke had sailed from England.

I did not want to record this moment.

I dipped the pen and prepared to write, but the ink fell in an unseemly blot on the page, like a single dark tear. This was impossible. I could not write it.

I mopped up the ink, abandoned the pen, and let my eye travel down the milestones I had chosen to make note of. Moments of joy. Personal moments of delight. A record of the celebrations of those I knew and loved.

But I had written nothing like this present knowledge, which wrenched my heart from my breast and caused my blood to run like a sluggish stream under winter ice.

I forced myself to read, trying to recapture the joy.

I had written of the Duke’s departure to Corunna, but briefly, for it was not a time of rejoicing, even though I kept his words in my mind.

Remember this: where I am, there you will be also.

They comforted me when nothing else could.

Then began the list of marriages and of births, of the achievements of my own children as they grew and made their mark on the world. Of my dear Philippa of Lancaster’s marriage to King Joao of Portugal in the magnificence of Oporto Cathedral, to cement an alliance. I had rejoiced over the birth of a healthy son at last, Henry of Monmouth, to Henry of Derby and his beloved Mary. And then of my own recognition by King Richard as one of the prestigious Ladies of the Garter.

All to be savoured and enjoyed.

But I could not smile as I picked up the pen again.

Some things I had not written because they were too painful. Of Constanza’s loss of her longed-for child; another daughter born dead in Corunna. Nor had I recorded those days of intense dread when an attempt had been made to poison both the Duke and Constanza. Philippa’s tragic miscarriage of an heir for Portugal too was absent. I did not need to write them. I would never forget.

Nor had I written of the failure in the war. The Duke would never win Castile by force of arms. His own ambitions and those of Constanza were at an end. All that could be salvaged, through wise negotiations with Castile, was a marriage alliance for Katalina, now fifteen years old, with King Juan of Castile’s son Enrique. Constanza would never rule in Castile, but her daughter would share the throne, which seemed to me to be the best outcome possible.

But this—this—I must record this, despite the heartbreak, because without it there would be no evidence of a well-lived life.

So I wrote, grief heavy on my hand.

In this month of August in the year 1387 the death of Philippa Chaucer, born Philippa de Roet. Died of dysentery in the service of Constanza, Duchess of Lancaster, Queen of Castile. The place of her burial is not known.

Having done it in my best hand, I laid the pen down with quiet precision.

Thus the end of my sharp-tongued, difficult, restless, loving sister.

I knew so little of her final days, and tried hard to remember her as I had known her, not as I imagined her, racked by pain. There was no body to return, no heart to inter in England, as I had marked the death of Hugh. Her earthly remains were gone from me. But she would live in my heart. And in her children.

I bowed my head.

It was not real.

I drew a line beneath my recording. I would write no more in this missal. What could compare with this loss for me?