by Anne O'Brien
It was as if I had stepped into the ceremony already underway with prayers said and promises made. With the appropriate words, the priest lifted the infant from me, allowing the linen covering to fall to the floor, before lowering her into the font where the shock of the cold water caused her to drag in a breath and expel it in a cry of pure anguish. Her hands beat on the water, her dark eyes wide and staring with distress, and I, new mother as I was, was stricken.
It was the Duke, standing as my child’s godfather—was I not highly favoured in the household in those days?—who lifted the baby from the font, wrapping her slippery body with astonishing deftness, in a pearl-encrusted chrysom robe handed to him by Duchess Blanche herself, for whom my baby was called. His cradling of her was sure, confident. I could not imagine Hugh doing as much with his soldier’s hands, rough with old scars and abrasions even though the two men were of an age.
‘Hush then,’ the Duchess murmured, touching her name-sake’s cheek while, cupping her head with his hand, the Duke smiled ruefully.
‘There’s no need for all this, Mistress Blanche Swynford,’ he said. ‘You are named in the sight of God and much loved. Look at all here-present, who will care for you. Why would you weep?’
The unexpected words struck hard at my heart, the unbelievable tenderness of them, and my infant’s cries instantly subsided to whimpers, before ceasing on a sob and a hiccup. Everyone laughed, the domestic replacing, for that one instant, the sacred. As if entranced, little Blanche’s myopic gaze fixed on the face above her.
Entranced? If my daughter was caught up in the Duke’s glamour, then so was I.
It is his hands, I thought, trying to swallow against the lump in my throat. Broad palmed, long fingered, eminently capable, whether lifting a child or wielding a sword. Fine boned and beautiful, they transfixed me.
‘Will you take her, Hugh? The first of your line?’
‘I’m more likely to drop her,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Katherine has a safer pair of hands.’
‘You have a comely daughter, and I foresee a clutch of strong sons.’ The Duke stepped to hand her to me, and in doing so his fingers brushed against mine. The rock in my throat hardened and my breath shuddered between my lips, catching a little as it never did when Hugh touched me far more intimately. When I felt my heart tremble, I clutched little Blanche so tightly that she whimpered again.
‘Gently,’ Duchess Blanche advised, as if it was my inexperience that was the problem.
I loosed my grip, turning my face away, as the priest offered his blessing on the little gathering.
What had happened here? It was the only question in my mind as my daughter settled to sleep against my breast.
I looked at the priest who was smiling benignly. At Hugh, who was every inch the proud husband and father, hoping that indeed next time it would be a son. At Duchess Blanche who, already mother of two fine daughters and despite the loss of her baby son, John, was carrying another ducal child high beneath her jewelled girdle.
And the Duke?
I had known him for ever. What was different today? I had seen him in full royal splendour, all gold and jewels and Plantagenet lions. In gleaming armour, the sun illuminating his tall stature as if resplendent with God’s heavenly blessing. I had seen him walk into the Hall at Kenilworth, at Hertford, at Tutbury, hot and sweaty with effort in the tilt-yard, dishevelled and dust-ridden but his face alive with the expending of energy. I had heard him in furious argument with his brothers. In flirtatious laughter and tender mood with Duchess Blanche. Had seen him short-tempered with a clumsy servant, furious as a youth when his will was thwarted, repentant when taken to task by Queen Philippa.
This was nothing more than a domestic scene, the Duke and Duchess seeing fit to lavish an unexpected honour on two of their dependents, and it should not have moved my heart in this manner. His tunic and hose were plain for a prince, his sleeves wet from the font, the breast of his tunic dark with water. No jewels, no weapons, no armour. No heraldic motif to advertise his power. Nothing here to force a reaction from my nerves that continued to ripple beneath my skin.
And then as I raised my eyes from his hands to his face, I saw the Duke look over at his wife, a glance of such heartfelt compassion, of such gentle understanding for her, for the recent loss of their son. He too longed for a son to be heir to the Lancaster inheritance. The Duke’s love for his wife was a thing of wonder. Such utter devotion, equally returned by his Duchess. A blinding love that I wished was for me.
Before I could be observed, I gave my attention to my child, ordering my thoughts into acceptability. Much, I decided, like pounding herbs and spices through a sieve in a stillroom. This is an infatuation, I remonstrated, from a young girl for her lord who has the glamour and handsome features that a troubadour might sing of, a foolish longing that would fade and die within the time it took for my little Blanche to find her feet and walk unaided.
But it was not. It was a longing that would not leave me.
Why Lord John of Lancaster? I demanded. Why him? It was not his position, his wealth, or his power. It was not his royal blood. As part of Duchess Blanche’s household my path had crossed those of the other royal sons. I did not shiver at the splendid proximity of Prince Edward. Nor was I seduced by the easy charm of the tragically dead Lionel. Or enjoy the easy wit of my lord of Gloucester. It was John of Lancaster who made my blood race. It was that dangerous indefinable allure that moved my heart.
Did I try to douse that flare of desire?
Yes, I tried. Of course I did. Did I not know that the Duke of Lancaster was not for such as I? His royal blood placed him so far above me, while he, oblivious to my youthful yearnings, had eyes only for his beautiful wife, which was as it should be. And so I learned to live with the terrifying discomfort. I was free to admire his glamour and worship silently at his feet. That he had no feelings for me other than honour and duty and a light affection was in some sense a safety net, for he would never look at me and suspect the tenor of the feelings that stalked me.
And Hugh? Did that make me a disloyal wife to my husband? As an arranged marriage between a girl of good birth but no substance and a young man from a solid knightly family, it was a perfect arrangement to suit us both. On a personal level I seemed to please him well enough, for he was briskly considerate and I was of a practical turn of mind. I gave him my loyalty and the duty of my body. I was to bear him another daughter, Margaret, and his precious son and heir, Thomas.
I did not think that I was disloyal.
Except when my mind evaded my conscience.
The scene from the past winked out as a movement, perhaps the hopping of one of the finches from one perch to another, brought my mind back to the here and now so that I once more stood beside my marriage bed, the bed curtain clenched tight in my right hand. As I released it, smoothing out the creases I had made, my thoughts turned inwards. I had been a gracious and well-mannered wife who served the Duchess and administered the Kettlethorpe estates if need arose.
Duty, honour, loyalty. Hard words to cling to when my thoughts were with a man who could wield the power, with the faintest smile, the most innocuous of requests, to make my heart lurch. But I swore that I would go to my death without his knowing how the hand of desire touched me that day with such fervour that the need still growled in my belly. Nor would Duchess Blanche ever guess, for my disloyalty to her was unthinkable.
And yet sometimes when the Duke laced his fingers with Blanche’s, kissed her lips with his, the longing was a raging fire in my veins.
I had never spoken of it, nor would I. Some sins were best kept between the sinner and God. I had been the perfect damsel, and I learned to keep my distance, to hide my thoughts. I was not without intelligence or the ability to dissemble when the need arose and I saw the right sense of it. It was a relief when the Duke went to France to fight at the side of his brother Prince Edward.
But what now?
I sank to the edge of the bed.
As a widow
, as a mother with a duty to her children, duty and honour still guided my steps. Acting on the stark awareness that beat beneath my bodice was still not a choice I could ever contemplate. My respectability was assured and inviolable. It was bearable for had I not been the perfect mistress of self-command for more years than I wished to count? I knew what was expected of me and what was due to me and to my family name. I would never follow my chosen path in life with anything but propriety and courtly dignity.
Easy to say. I found that once again I had clutched the hangings, for now all was changed. The Duke’s statement of intent had made it unbearable, and if he would trifle with my emotions, it would undermine all I had done to keep my thoughts under strict discipline. I did not understand how a man of such erstwhile integrity could place this burden at my feet. I did not need this complication. I did not want it.
But he wanted me.
I want you. I want you for my own.
My feelings for him were so complex as to defy definition, my heart and mind in severe conflict: to take care, or to throw care and discretion to the wind. To refuse a priceless gift, or seize it with both hands. To condemn what was a gross sin, or claim it as my heart’s desire. How I wished that he had not spoken, yet when I closed my eyes, the words were written on the darkness of my vision, shimmering there in gold, and horribly seductive.
A light knock, the click of the latch that encouraged the finches to trill briefly, and there was Agnes at the door. ‘We have a problem, Katherine.’
‘Not another.’ I stood, banishing the Duke to where he properly belonged, waiting at The Savoy for the arrival of Duchess Constanza. I had enough to worry about without malingering in the past.
‘The reed thatch on the stable block has collapsed in the inner corner. It’s brought down a portion of the hay loft. Master Ingoldsby says the rest is sure to follow if this rain continues, so we must move the horses to dry accommodations. He says do we send to our neighbours? Then there’s the little matter of water seeping into the well in the court-yard…’
‘And I need the funds to put it all right. I know.’ I must have succumbed to dismay, for Agnes approached, eyes narrowed on my face, but I essayed a laugh to deflect her concern. ‘The Duke’s offer could not have come at a more opportune moment. Do you suppose that he foresaw our thatching difficulties?’
Agnes snorted at my levity. ‘A pretty thing.’ She nodded at the rosary clutched in my hand.
Lifting it, I allowed the light to play along its length, picking out the carving on the crucifix. ‘Yes. It’s beautiful.’
Beautiful, but the implications of its giving were dangerous.
‘A gift?’ Agnes probed.
She knew I could not afford to purchase an item of such value.
‘Yes.’ How easy it was to be drawn into deception. ‘From Lady Alice.’ And as if to hide my guilt I closed my hand over the beads.
‘Nice if you have the money,’ Agnes sniffed. ‘Did I see coral there? And gold?’
‘Yes.’ It was as I knew, too valuable even for Lady Alice’s giving.
‘I thought you said Lady Alice gave you nothing.’
‘Did I?’ Beware, those who lie. I tried a rueful smile. ‘I forgot.’
‘Heaven knows you could forget that!’ I squirmed with discomfort but just shook my head. ‘You could sell it and re-roof the stables. Unless you are absolutely fixed on joining the new Duchess?’
I returned her puzzled stare for a moment, suddenly calmly assured, quite certain in my own mind.
‘Yes, I am fixed on it. I will earn enough from my position with Duchess Constanza to re-roof the whole house,’ I said. ‘What possible reason would there be for me to refuse such open-handed generosity?’ I began to slide the paternosters into their leather pouch.
‘It’s a very costly gift,’ Agnes remarked, looking at me rather than at the beads.
‘Then I must be sure to be worthy of my hire.’
Tucking the rosary into a coffer, with unwarranted impatience I cast a cloth over the finches whose singing had picked up in volume.
‘And you’d better take those with you,’ Agnes continued in the same sceptical tone, as if she did not believe one word I had said, ‘or Margaret will never forgive us. I don’t suppose the Duke will mind.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he will,’ I responded briskly.
And since there was so much to organise, I extinguished the scene I had just conjured up as efficiently as if I had used a candle snuffer, yet there remained with me a complicated interweaving of thoughts, lingering like a final wisp of smoke.
What would I say to the Duke when our paths next crossed? Would it not be for me like stepping into a hornets’ nest? If he demanded again that I be more than a lady-in-waiting to his wife, as he surely would, what would I say?
So many questions. I knew the answer to none of them, but my mind was resolved to go to The Savoy, whatever fate might hold in store for me.
I refused to admit what was in my heart.
Chapter Four
My first impression, as she was helped to dismount from the gloriously swagged and curtained palanquin, was how young and insubstantial she was. Or perhaps it was just that she resembled nothing more than a drowned rat. The heavens had inconveniently deposited a torrential downpour of sleety rain on the crowds of gawping bystanders as she was welcomed into the city of London by Prince Edward of Woodstock, struggling from sick-bed to horseback for the occasion. She was not so very young for a royal bride. The noble lady, Constanza of Castile, was after all only five years younger than I, and hardly some protected, pampered child with no mind of her own.
There we all stood in the Great Hall to receive our new mistress, with freedom for me to appreciate the impression the Duke intended to make, with his tunic blazing in red and black and gold, proclaiming his new status, the royal arms of Castile with its castle and lions quartered with those of England, the gold stitching shimmering as he moved restlessly from foot to foot. It sat well on his tall slenderness: not one of the Castilian entourage could question the presence of this royal duke. I tried to read his expression. Impatience, above all, for we had been waiting for three hours.
I smoothed my hand down the silk damask of my skirts. When the Duke’s stern eye swept over his assembled household, he had registered with the barest glance the quality and condition of my garments, taking note of my obedience to his demand that I clothe myself with appropriate richness in honour of my new position. So my trailing skirts were in Lancaster blue, the close-fitting bodice, exquisitely fur edged, patterned in blue and white. Out of some female caprice, I had chosen to wear the coral rosary, ostentatiously looped over my girdle.
Now, waywardly volatile, strangely defiant, I wished I had not.
He had not even found the time to speak to me. I was merely one of many in the household. How could I have expected more?
Duchess Constanza trod the shallow steps to the Great Hall, her furs trailing and spiked with wet, her robes plastered to her body. Her pleated hair clung to her head and neck beneath her sodden veiling, the ruffles on her cap sadly limp. I could only imagine her discomfort in spite of her being tucked back into her litter after the welcome. But in spite of it all, yes, I acknowledged, she was beautiful. Not like Blanche, fair and so very English, smooth and pale as a pearl. This young woman was as sharp as a pin. Magnificent eyes, dark and secretive as beryls, were turned on her new surroundings and were not uncritical, and there was a pride in the thin nose, the arched brows. Perhaps her pride was to be expected, given the difficulties of her birth and young life.
Lady Alice had sniffed her disgust of gossip but Alyne had answered my curiosity as we completed the stitching on that same altar cloth that would be used for the Mass to give thanks for Duchess Constanza’s safe arrival amongst us.
‘Constanza is illegitimate, to all intents and purposes…’ she whispered. ‘Her father got three daughters and a son on a whore whilst his wife was still alive.’
‘But
he claimed to have married her—the whore, that is,’ interposed Lady Alice who, in the end, could not resist the delectable lure of scandal.
And so, between them, I received the strangely horrifying history of my new mistress whose father King Pedro of Castile had imprisoned his rightfully wedded wife in a dungeon, while he continued his disreputable liaison with Maria de Padilla, whom he claimed to have wed before his marriage to the ill-fated legal wife Blanche of Bourbon. He was a man of persuasive tongue and his children by Maria had been recognised as legitimate by the Castilian Cortes, and so were heirs to the throne.
‘Pedro had his wife poisoned, so they say. Died in mysterious circumstances,’ Lady Alice stated with extravagantly raised brows.
Alyne added in counterpoint: ‘Constanza’s father is also dead, so she is Queen of Castile by right.’
‘Except that the Crown has been usurped by King Pedro’s bastard half-brother Enrique.’
‘Which means that Queen Constanza has no kingdom to rule over.’
‘Only a claim that Enrique will never honour.’
So there was the skeleton of Constanza’s lineage. It was an unenviable position for the young woman, whom I now assessed as, chin lifted, she approached the Duke. No wonder she held to her pride like a mouse to the last ear of corn during a bad harvest. She had little else. Owning the title of Queen of Castile certainly gave her a presence, despite the outmoded gown of red velvet with its strangely fashioned blue kirtle. The creation of veils and frills and buckram that covered her hair was a monstrosity.
‘Castilian fashion!’ Lady Alice murmured. ‘I doubt it will catch on.’
The Duke bowed low. We all made appropriate obeisance.
