The Scandalous Duchess

Chapter Eighteen

It was three years since the Duke had kissed me farewell in Lincoln.

Could a heart remain the same, unaltered?

Mine shivered with anticipation.

There was no need for anxiety, I told myself. We were friends. Once lovers but now friends with a host of memories between us. I had been invited here to Hertford as a friend, summoned indeed, as he used to do in another life.

Lady Katherine de Swynford is requested to attend on Monseigneur de Guienne at Hertford for the celebration of the Birth of the Christ Child and the New Year. The Earl and Countess of Derby will be pleased to welcome her in my name.

I smiled thinly at the new title. A sign of Richard’s good graces, if they could be relied on, John was now Duke of Aquitaine, addressed as Monseigneur de Guienne. He would always be the Duke of Lancaster to me.

Duly received by Henry and Mary, during all the days before the celebrations began in earnest I waited for him, my senses alert at the arrival of every new guest, searching every new face that appeared at dinner in the Great Hall, chiding myself for foolishness. As if he would slip in quietly and without undue fuss to take his place on the dais. Unless he had changed greatly in three years, Monseigneur de Guienne would arrive with as much ceremony and fanfare as he had always done.

And then he was there in our midst, and I hung back until Mary, chivvying the rest of the family whether they liked it or not, found entirely spurious things to do elsewhere, as clumsy a ruse as ever I had experienced, but it left the Duke alone with me in the Great Hall. It also left me nervous. It did not suit me to be uncomfortable in my own actions and thoughts after years of ordering my life to my own liking.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

I was right about the ostentatious impression. The Duke’s herald had announced his arrival and his tunic was a thigh-length creation in silk damask, furred and gold-stitched, enhanced by an embroidered sash that crossed his breast from left to right. It was a pure expression of wealth and power and authority, for prominent in the embroidery was the sleek white hart, emblem of King Richard himself.

But that was not important.

He was here, he was alive.

‘I am come home, Katherine,’ he said.

So simple a statement. So lightly announced, so uncomplicated after all those years when we had said nothing to each other. How portentous it was, but I was too wary these days to grasp it without due care.

‘And I am come to welcome you, my lord,’ I remarked dutifully. My hands were lightly clasped too. I tilted my head a little, recalling us using similar greetings in the heat of denial at Pontefract, when all was black and full of pain. But now winter sun shone through the windows and gilded us, although the warmth that flushed my face with colour had nothing to do with the elements.

The Duke was exhibiting nothing but unimpaired urbanity. He bowed with infinite grace.

‘Well, Lady de Swynford? What do you see?’

I flushed even more brightly. I had been very obvious. ‘Forgive me…’

‘Look your fill.’ He raised his hands, palms upwards, in invitation.

So I did as invited.

The Duke had aged. At first my heart tripped a little in its normal beat, for the three years had taken their toll. Pared down, I decided. That was it. Pared down to the fine essentials by grief and strain and a good dose of poison. Lines I did not recall marked his face, between his brows, scoring the flesh between nose and mouth. They had never been so deeply engraved as they were now, and having lost flesh, his nose was blade thin. And for a moment the austere expression, coupled with all the old glamour and the magnificence of his clothing, particularly the glossy fur and those resplendent sleeves, distanced him from me. He was as superb as the peacock in full plumage, scarred with age and battle, but still triumphantly majestic. I could imagine him no other way.

Yet still I looked.

He was not wearing a pinchbeck pilgrim’s badge. Of course he would not.

‘Do I horrify you?’

He had lapsed into a familiar stance with hands clasped around his belt, chin raised, and it came to me that his energy was as great as ever. There was a hint of grey in his dark hair but it still sprang from his brow with all its old virility. His hands still had all their old grace and beauty. He was as confident as I had ever known him.

He was, I acknowledged, still the most handsome man I had ever seen. I was not too old to admire a beautiful man whom I had once known better than I had known myself. But that was many years ago. Eight years we had been adrift, unknowing of each other in any intimate manner. Such passion that we had enjoyed must surely have died. It could not be resurrected, nor would it be good for either of us if it were.

I frowned at the thought.

Which he took note of. ‘I see that I make a grievous impression,’ he remarked. ‘I must apologise.’

He bowed again with impeccable gravity and a tightening of his lips. He had changed very little in one respect at least: his arrogance was as vital as ever. I shook my head, delighted that I had given him cause to reflect. But I did not smile: all was too uncertain here.

‘You misread my expression, my lord.’ And I added with some mischief. ‘And do you look at me too?’

‘I do, my lady.’

What would he see in me? Childbearing had, I feared, taken its toll on my hips, but I could wear the soft folds and high neck of the houppelande with fashionable elegance. My hair was not untouched by the passage of time, but I was vain enough to take pride in it when well covered with a crispinette and jewelled fillet. I was no longer young, but I did not yet abjure my looking glass. Nor was I a dowdy peahen. The rich cloth of green and blue, sumptuous with stitched flowers at neck and sleeve, would defy anyone to label me widow. Yet who knew how many young Castilian women, dark haired and dark eyed with flawless skin, had taken the eye of the Duke?

‘You are still beautiful,’ he said. ‘Even when you frown.’

I had been frowning again.

‘If I pour you a cup of wine,’ he offered, ‘and lead you to sit beside me on that cushioned seat by the fire, will that perhaps enable you to smile at me at last? You have been staring at me since I first entered this room as if I had committed even more misdeeds than those that separate us. I would make amends.’

‘I don’t need wine,’ I said. ‘Nor do I need to sit. But I will judge your misdeeds, if that is what you wish. Have you accepted the loss of Castile?’ I found myself asking, as I might in the past.

And wished I hadn’t, for his expression acquired the blandness of controlled disinterest, and his reply was bleak.

‘I had no choice. It was the best solution, to disengage from an impossible situation.’ He hesitated as if he might say more and then he deftly turned the conversation. Or not deftly at all. It was brusque and deliberate. ‘You look well. As dignified as I ever recall.’

Here in his brusqueness but still clear to my eye at least was a draining sense of disappointment. All those wasted years, wasted lives, ending in failure. Yet I followed his lead, since he would not speak of it.

‘My thanks, my lord. I am in good health.’ I could adopt dignity very well after all these years of maintaining it in the face of public denigration.

‘Are the children well?’

‘Yes. When it comes to rude health, the Beauforts are touched with magic.’

‘Constanza and I mourned the death of Mistress Chaucer. As you must have done.’

‘Yes.’ I did not know what else to say about this loss that still gnawed on my heart.

‘I thought I would lose my daughter Philippa.’

‘It was tragic,’ I agreed. ‘And the loss of the child.’

‘She is recovered now.’

Was this why he had asked me to Hertford, to exchange family histories? Our conversation had become formally courteous, as flavourless as a junket, as we steered around intimate matters. Would he talk to me of Constanza, who had, on her return to England, shut herself away in her own household, as chaste as a nun?

He did not. So, with a similar bland smile, I would continue in the same vein.

‘I hear you brought home great wealth.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that the King smiles on you.’ I indicated the chain around his neck. Although the familiar Lancastrian livery collar I had known all my life, it had the addition of King Richard’s white hart to match the embroidered figures. ‘A lord of the Council, in fact.’

‘Indeed.’ He looked taken aback at my diversion into the political, but did not demur. ‘Your interest in politics is as keen as ever I see. Today the King smiles on me. He rode out two miles from Reading to show the warmth of his welcome home, and took my collar of Lancaster to wear around his own neck.’ The Duke’s expression was wry as his hand rested on the royal symbol. ‘Richard proclaims his love for me. Thus I was duty bound to follow suit and wear the white hart.’

This was better. Not personal, but with a cutting edge that I recognised.

‘So what does Richard want from you?’

‘He needs me to mend the bridges between himself and his other uncles, of course.’

‘Can it be done?’

‘It remains to be seen. We will work on it, to try to bring reconciliation.’

And that was as much as he would say. I sought for another less contentious path to go down. Unfortunately my mind was a blank.

‘Now what shall we discuss, Lady de Swynford?’ There was a glint in his eye.

Snatching at an innocuous subject: ‘Henry and Mary are content,’ I said.

‘They are as smitten as two ring doves. She is carrying another child.’

‘I know.’

There! What was left? Nothing, except appertaining to the two of us, which was apparently forbidden since we had commented on each other’s ageing grandeur. Had he not kissed me on our last meeting, as if passion was not dead between us? Entirely frustrated, I raised my brows in polite but stricken query.

The Duke gestured towards a pair of stools set in a window embrasure and, because it would give me breathing space, I sat. Once he would have taken my hand and escorted me there but now he led the way, gesturing to a distant servant for refreshment. Receiving it, I took a sip of wine that I did not want.

I turned a level glance on him. I would dance to this staid tune no longer.

‘You invited me here, John. Was there a purpose in it?’

‘Yes. I never do anything without purpose.’

Which was true enough. Was he laughing at me? But there was no laughter in his face. Frustration at last got the better of my good intentions.

‘Have we anything else to talk about? Your horses? The health of your hawks and hounds? I could fill in half an hour on the new building at Kettlethorpe if it pleases you.’

I half rose, but his hand on my arm stilled me. A fleeting moment only, but it touched my heart, and I wanted more, except that every vestige of common sense told me that I could not have it.

‘I have lost the knack of reading your mind, Katherine.’

‘I have been unable to read yours for years.’ My reply was sharper than I intended. ‘Perhaps it is more comfortable for you without knowing what I think.’

There was no change in his expression. ‘I expect it is. When your thoughts are ill-disposed towards me.’

‘But I am not ill-disposed.’

‘Then what are you, Katherine?’

His eyes held mine. All my possible answers raced through my mind like clouds scudding before a storm-wind.

I am afraid. All you have to do is touch my arm and I am tumbled back into the past when my whole life was governed by my love for you. You are not my friend. You are embedded in my mind, my heart, my soul. You never will be my friend, and I am afraid of new rejections. I am afraid of renewed pain. I don’t know what is expected of me. To be close to you is sometimes too much to bear. I cannot see my future in your orbit, even though I am flooded with desire.

I love you so very much…

I said nothing of this, of course.

‘What are you to me, Katherine, if not ill-disposed?’ he repeated gently.

I wished I had not come. I wished I had not embarked on this conversation. And I stood deliberately, to escape his gaze that saw too much of the turmoil within me, and this time he allowed it, standing with me, taking the barely tasted wine and placing the cups side by side on the stone window ledge. From the breast of his tunic he produced a slim document, and handed it to me.

‘What is it?’

‘A part repayment of the loan you gave me for my campaign in Castile.’

My fingers closed round it. ‘So now all your debts to me are paid.’

‘No. Not all my debts. Only one hundred marks, so you cannot close the door against me. Besides, some debts can never be repaid.’

I would not be seduced by soft words. I hardened my heart and my reply. ‘So this is why you invited me here. You could have sent it by courier.’

‘No, that is not why I invited you. I invited you to ask you…’

My gaze lifted from the repaid debt to his face.

‘I invited you here to request, in all humility, knowing how you have suffered at my hands, that you return to my side as my loving companion.’

‘Humility?’ I queried, barely able to breathe.

The Duke smiled but if he considered rising to the bait, he rejected it. Instead:

‘I want you to return to me, Katherine. I want you to live with me again as mistress of my heart.’

I simply stood and stared.

‘I love you. I want you.’ And then in the interests of the humility he had claimed: ‘Will you consider my request, Katherine?’

I marched off in the direction of the private accommodations, my thoughts as unstable as the current in a whirlpool. Desire had exploded through me with his simple invitation, but cold reason held me with a grip of iron.

He did not follow me.

The Duke was never humble.

Did he know what he was asking of me?

New Year at Hertford came and went, with all the pleasure of the annual gift giving. Soon, after Twelfth Night, I would be free to make my farewells. I sat in the nursery for a little while with Countess Joan. I thought she had deliberately sought me out there, perhaps for a final exchange of opinion before our parting. Lady Mary was busy organising the final festivities for her demanding guests. I sat with the newest baby, another Thomas, on my lap as he slept.

‘Will you go to Kettlethorpe?’ Countess Joan asked.

‘No, to Lincoln for a few weeks.’

‘You are welcome to remain here with Mary,’ she replied comfortably. Then added after a pause. ‘But perhaps you do not wish to. I think you have not been happy.’

Had I not hidden the growing turbulence in my mind? I thought I had, and now I did not know what to say. I would not wish to appear ungrateful. I valued her friendship far too much.

‘Perhaps it is that you miss your sister,’ she suggested helpfully.

‘Yes.’

For I did. Sometimes her absence had the sting of a new-grown nettle, making me catch my breath.

‘The children enjoyed themselves,’ she observed. ‘I see Joan preening in the gown the Duke gave her.’

‘Yes. She is quite the great lady.’

‘And the sword for Thomas.’

‘An excellent gift,’ I observed drily. ‘I shall confiscate it when we go home.’ Thomas Beaufort was nine years old and lacked discretion.

The Countess folded her arms across her silk-clad bosom, much as Agnes did when about to take me to task, and stared at me. I would have escaped if I had not had a sleeping infant on my knee.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘Not a thing.’

‘Katherine!’

I shook my head.

She leaned a little towards me. ‘Anything you tell me will be in utmost confidence. We have known each other a long time. We’ve lived through difficult times and supported each other. If it’s about John, tell me. You know I’ll be sympathetic and you can weep on my shoulder if you have to.’ She stared at me as I remained obdurately silent. ‘Do you not love him any more?’

‘I don’t think my feelings towards him have any importance.’

‘Then is it that you think that he does not love you?’

Which effectively breached the dam that kept my thoughts under control. For that was the crux of the matter, was it not? He had invited me to return to his bed, and since that request—nothing.

Had I expect a wooing? Yes I had, and was thoroughly ruffled when I did not get one.

Perhaps he had changed his mind after all. Perhaps my sour lack of response had made him reconsider. Perhaps the dark clouds looming over royal government had given him more important things to think about, or warned him that to dally in my company might bring the return of Walsingham’s disfavour in another terrible dissection of his character and ambitions. Yes, that was it. The Duke was a man of political acumen who would not act foolishly. If he wanted a mistress there were younger, fairer girls to invite to his bed. A girl without past scandal attached to her name.

And yet my foolish heart yearned, such is the nature of a woman spurned.

Not once did he dance with me. No troubadours sang my praises. He did not choose my company when we went out hawking but rode beside Mary or the self-satisfied Duchess of Gloucester.

I had given myself more than one hearty lecture. I had been summoned to give my expertise to the fast expanding nursery. That is why I was at Hertford, and that is what I would do. Had I not desired to remain alone, acknowledging the comfort of keeping my distance from all emotional shackles? What right did I have to complain? Nothing must occur to rouse the old spectre of the Duke and his mistress. I must not on any account tell Countess Joan why my thoughts were tangled in a morass of sensible acceptance and heartfelt dismay.

But: ‘Tell me,’ Countess Joan urged.

‘He gave me nothing,’ I replied against all my good intentions.

‘Ah!’

I stood, to place the baby in his cradle with the little carved birds, ever watchful, on their wooden supports.

‘He gave every guest a New Year gift. But not me.’ I felt my face flush with shame, and knelt beside the cradle to hide it, but it had hurt. I had been surprised how much it had hurt. ‘There now! Was there ever such a show of selfish ingratitude?’ Briefly, I managed to smile at her across the sleeping child. ‘And I think you tricked me into a confession of which I am sorely ashamed.’

‘Then tell me this.’ The Countess’s face was a masterpiece of gravity. ‘What did Henry give you?’

I looked up again in some surprise. ‘A gold ring with a diamond set in it. It is beautiful.’ I was wearing it and lifted my hand for the light to set a flame in its depths.

‘And?’

‘A length of white damask for a robe.’

‘And did you not think that such gifts were unusually generous?’

‘Yes.’ More than generous, certainly, but then Henry has always been very kind.

‘Did it not surprise you?’ Countess Joan continued.

‘I thought it was in recognition of my care for Mary and this little one.’ I put a hand to the cradle to set it rocking.

‘I’m sure it was. He has a great affection for you. But a ring with a diamond? Consider it, Kate.’

I stilled the cradle and stared at her.

‘Young men are not noted for their thoughtfulness, unless they have been kicked on the shin to engage their mind away from tournaments and such like.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I’d say that Henry was persuaded. I’d suggest that John is a master of discretion these days. I don’t know what he hopes for—that is between the pair of you—but without doubt he is being very careful.’

My thoughts were instantly engaged. Careful. We had not been careful in the past.

‘Is this a wooing in disguise?’ I asked plainly, disconcerted that I had not recognised it for what it was. ‘If it is, it’s too discreet for my appreciation.’

‘Who am I to judge?’ she replied.

‘And if it is,’ I continued, still to be convinced, ‘I am being very unhelpful.’

‘It is possible.’ She paused. ‘What do you want, Kate? What do you want from him?’

‘I don’t know.’

A question that I had been closing my mind to for so long was now being asked of me. Would I put my trust in him again? Would I be willing to give my happiness into his keeping again?

‘Do you not trust him? Do you love him still?’ Countess Joan urged me to consider.

‘Yes.’

‘Would you be with him if he asked you?’

The difficult question, the impossible question, that I was avoiding.

‘How can that be? We know the public scandal it would cause. John is still wed. We cannot step back into adultery and think we can do it without recrimination.’

‘I don’t suggest you announce it from the battlements. All I ask is: do you love him enough to give thought to it?’

‘Yes.’ I covered my face. ‘I have never stopped loving him. Not even when I thought he was my enemy. I’m just not sure…’

‘Of course you are sure.’ She could be formidably bracing. ‘And you must tell him. Before he crowds out the stables with even more horses for your use.’

I lowered my hands, much taken with the surprising comment.

‘Have you ever thought about it?’ the Countess asked with a crow of laughter. ‘Why is it that you ride a different horse almost every time you ride out? And all of them animals of superior breeding?’

I had not considered it to any degree. ‘I thought it was whatever animal was left after everyone else was mounted.’

‘Go and look in the stables, Kate. And I’ll come with you, just to see your face.’

I went immediately. So did the Countess. The stables were quiet apart from the satisfying chomp of horses in their stalls and the occasional clatter of shod feet, the work here having been done for the day, the animals fed and watered. As we entered, stepping carefully, Hertford’s master of horse approached with a smile.

‘I think my lord has a horse kept here for my use,’ I said, ignoring the Countess’s bark of laughter behind me.

There was a guffaw from the groom lounging on a stool in one of the empty stalls.

‘Come with me, my lady.’ The master led me down one line of stalls, stopping beside a little grey that I had ridden the previous day. ‘There’s this one.’

‘I’ve ridden her.’

With a hand beneath my elbow to help me over the straw-strewn cobbles, he led me on. ‘Then there’s this one. And this one…’

I counted a half-dozen altogether.

‘There’s another six or so, my lady. At Kenilworth. You’ll not be short if you’ve a mind to ride out, anywhere in England.’

The master remained remarkably straight-faced as I turned to look at the Countess and joined her in laughter. It seemed to be the first time I had laughed with such carefree amusement for days, and my heart was light.

‘See what I mean?’ Countess Joan asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

And I did. He had wooed me after all in his own inimitable way. And, to my shame, I had not realised it.

It coloured the final days of the festivities and the joyous rompings of the younger people over Twelfth Night, yet even though the Duke’s demeanour towards me in public was no different from before, now I saw it as a discreet lovemaking. No, he did not ride out hawking at my side, still choosing to entertain the Duchess of Gloucester with lively wit, but the tercel I was given was new to the mews and very beautiful. My mount was a lively bay gelding I had not seen before. The gauntlets handed to me by the master of horse for my particular use were stitched in gold, entirely inappropriate to my mind for the stress of a hawk’s talons, but a considerate gift that would attract no real attention.

A master of discretion indeed.

But time was running out before my departure. Was Countess Joan misguided? Had she misread the gift-giving after all? All I could do was keep myself busy, all the time failing to force my thoughts from their familiar distressing path.

‘When do you leave?’

My nerves jumped. I dropped the spoon I was using to measure out the tiniest amount of ambergris into a bowl. I was in Hertford’s well-stocked stillroom with Joan who had expressed a wish to be shown how to make a perfume for her own use. Intent as I was on persuading my determined daughter to lean towards the lighter scents of rose and cinnamon, he had crept up on me.

‘Tomorrow, my lord.’

‘What are you doing, Mistress Beaufort?’ he asked Joan, who laughed at being so formally addressed and held up the phial.

‘Making this,’ she announced enigmatically.

‘This looks very interesting,’ the Duke replied with commendable gravity. ‘Would you allow me five minutes of conversation with your mother? I would be very grateful. Grateful enough to exchange those five minutes for this.’

He extracted a silver penny from the purse at his belt, which Joan took without a second thought. It disappeared with alacrity into her own purse.

And we were alone, the door closed on the small space, with the heady scents of ambergris and musk and rose petals with the heat of summer on them. And as if the perfume worked its magic, there was no dissimulation between us, no words that were not direct and lethally potent.

‘That was bribery,’ I accused.

‘It certainly was. Don’t go, Katherine. Stay with me.’

Command or request? The Duke took my hands in his and I did not draw back.

‘Do you know what you are asking?’

‘I know very well. I have paid my debt to England and to Constanza.’

‘But Walsingham would not see it in such a light. If we are seen to be together, he will raise the old storm and condemn you. Are you willing to risk your immortal soul?’

‘My soul is in God’s keeping, not Walsingham’s.’

It was an unexpected flippancy that troubled me.

‘John…’

But he was not flippant at all. He touched his lips to my fingers, first one hand and then the other.

‘Before God, Katherine, I have lived apart from you too long. I have done my duty by my country and by my family. Since I have failed Constanza over Castile she no longer has need of me. We have agreed to live apart except for the occasions when we must stand together for public show. We will separate our households.’

‘I am so sorry,’ I said. And I was.

‘Now I must make my peace with you. Will you forgive me for the wrong I have done you? Will you accept what I can give you now? I am no longer young. I do not have the strength I once had. But the fervour of my love remains the same. Will you, dearest Katherine, be again my very dear companion?’

I never replied in words, but took one step. My lips pressed against his expressed all my love, whilst his returned the unspoken promise with a fervour I had forgotten. Glittering strands of disbelief and delight interwove to dance through my blood.

And then the stillroom did not give us what we needed. Taking my hand in his, he led me from the heady scents and sharp aromas. Led me to his own chamber.

‘How long have we been apart?’ he asked as he closed the door.

‘Altogether?’

‘Altogether.’

‘Eight years, at the last count since Rochford Hall.’

‘A lifetime. I have wooed you for two weeks. Is it enough?’

I did not question the wooing, since now I knew it for what it was. ‘Enough for what?’

He released my hand to allow me to stand alone in that opulent room with its tapestries and polished coffers. With its vast bed, hung with gold and blue.

‘Enough to keep us together for the rest of our lives. We have wasted such a very long time. We’ll waste no more.’

I took a breath, moved by his determination, and equally by his desire to allow me to set the pace, when he looked hungry enough to devour me. His eyes were alight with all their old passion.

‘Will you let me love you again?’ He held out his hand. ‘I have never stopped loving you, but will you allow me the right to show you?’

I did not reply straight away. ‘You asked me what I saw when I looked at you,’ I said instead.

‘So I did. And you did not respond.’ There was latent humour in his eye behind the heat. ‘Perhaps to shield me from the truth.’

But I remained solemn. ‘Now I will tell you, in truth. I see a man of honour. A man of integrity and a wise knowledge of how to use the power that he has. I see a man whose heart and mind speak to mine.’ How strongly I needed to say these words. ‘We have both made mistakes. We have both hurt each other, but my love for you has never changed. It is yours now as it has always been.’

The jewelled chain that lay on the Duke’s chest rose, gleaming, on a deep breath, and his lips firmed as if anticipating rejection. ‘So what do you say?’

What indeed? The days of my youth and foolish dreams of courtly love as hailed by the troubadours were long gone. Since then I had travelled far, both with the Duke and alone, along roads that had been joyous and full of heartache. I feared that the evidence of age that put its mark on the Duke’s still-handsome features was regretfully replicated on my own. Marks of experience and tolerance and acceptance. I was a different woman from the one who read the poetry of the troubadours and thought the world well lost for love. Not a better woman perhaps, but one more seasoned in life’s battles, and more honest in my judgements. I knew full well that love was no easy burden, with all its depths and intricate twists and turns for those who are caught up in its toils. But who, being loved as I had been, was able to turn away from it?

I smiled at the thought.

‘By the Rood!’ He gathered up my hands in his. ‘Are you going to keep me waiting again, Madame de Swynford?’ And I laughed a little. Not much tolerance here. ‘I seem to have been waiting on your decisions all my life.’

‘No, John,’ I spoke at last. ‘No more waiting. If I had intended to say no to you, I would not have come to your chamber and made myself the gossip of choice of the whole household here at Hertford. Take me to bed, John. Take me to bed, my dear love, and heal all my wounds.’

No, we were not as young as we were, but neither were we old. Less supple perhaps, less beautiful to the eye, so many new wounds and abrasions for John, whereas my hips and waist bore witness to the passing years. But here were so many caresses and responses to revisit, so much to recall and renew to bring us back to the pleasure we had once known in each other’s arms. I had never forgotten how the Duke could make my blood run hot, and I was not disappointed, for there was no reticence between us. How could there be? We were confident and demanding in our passion, devouring each other with infinite and exquisite slowness, before naked desire destroyed all self-control. My lack of breath had nothing to do with age. Nor for him. Until finally lack of stamina dictated that we rest, my head cushioned on his breast.

‘Would you not look for a younger woman in your bed?’ I sighed with happiness, daring him to agree.

‘You are my younger woman.’

Still that last little seed of fear remained. He was not his own man. Would England claim him again and snatch him from me?

‘John—if you regret this, if you turn away from me again, I don’t think I can live with it.’

‘I have no regrets. I will never let you go.’

His kisses made me weep.

‘Must we confess?’ I remembered the heart-wrenching confessions. How could I confess a sin when I would repeat it again within the day?

‘If you wish it.’ He smoothed the tears away. ‘But you are my true love. I cannot believe that God will punish us for this. We harm no one. We love in true spirit.’

I sniffed, and smiled, still disbelieving that we shared the same small space, breathed the same air and would never be parted again.

The Duke leaned forward, and sniffed my hair. ‘It smells of…?’

‘Of ambergris. Joan’s perfume.’ I laughed as I realised. ‘It is an aphrodisiac, so it is said.’

‘Shall we prove it?’

And, oh, it was. It worked its magic on all our senses. Or perhaps we did not really need it. I would have loved him on a bed of straw in my stable at Kettlethorpe.

‘You will be my love. But circumspectly,’ he said when he could. ‘We will not be reckless again. We will not ride through the streets together.’

There was nothing circumspect in our behaviour for the next hour.

We were renewed. Reborn. We gave permission for our minds to touch, to slide, to enmesh one into the other when we were parted, as we gave sanction for our bodies to become one again when time and duty smiled on us. It was a strange moment of transition from estrangement to reconciliation, marked by tentative steps at first.

We had hurt each other. How cruel the wounds we had inflicted on each other. Now we had to learn to step together again, in trust, in renewed loyalty. In harmony, picking out the same notes from the troubadours’ songs of requited love.

‘I regret our time apart with every drop of blood in my body,’ the Duke said.

‘It was a living death,’ I replied. ‘Without hope. Without happiness.’

But now, grasping our permission to bloom, our love would not be gainsaid. Soft as a blessing, fervent as a nun’s prayer, it healed our wounds.

‘You are the music that stirs my heart to weep at the beauty of it,’ he said.

‘And you are the succulent coney that enlivens my winter frumenty.’ I would not allow him to be solemn for long.

‘And there was I thinking that you preferred venison,’ he growled, lips against my throat.

‘Only when I have a rich patron to provide it.’

‘Patron?’ His brows lifted splendidly.

‘Or lover.’

‘So I should hope. Now why is it that you remind me of a plump roast partridge?’ And there was the gleam that I had once thought never to see again.

As his brows winged at my culinary flight of fancy, and his hand slid over my hip, my blood warmed and my heart beat hard. I relented, and gave him kind for kind. ‘You, my dear man, are the sweet verse that awakens my mind to love’s glory.’

Our souls were replete in each other, as smoothly close-knit as the feathers on the breast of a collared dove.