The Scandalous Duchess

by Anne O'Brien

  Parting was difficult.

  ‘Keep in good health,’ I said, with an arm’s length between us. ‘I will pray for you.’

  ‘And I for you. God keep you, dearest Katherine.’

  The Duke in his ineffable wisdom understood that I could not bear an emotional parting. He was going to Aquitaine. His life would be in danger, so there was always that lurking fear beneath my heart: would death on a distant battlefield take him from me? But we would not part in sorrow. After he had kissed my lips and my brow, abjuring me that our child, which would undoubtedly be a son, should be given the name John, making me laugh with his cool certainty about the matter, I set myself to endure the loneliness with fortitude.

  I screamed in agony.

  ‘Holy Virgin,’ I panted when I could. ‘I don’t remember such travail as this!’

  ‘You never do, once the pain is past and the child born,’ Agnes observed as she pressed a damp cloth to my forehead.

  My pains started in January, on a day of winter cold and frost, the usual ripple of discomfort that deepened and lengthened fast becoming a claw of agony. I drank the wine mixed with Agnes’s tried-and-tested potion and looked for completion within the day, but this child was different, when nothing seemed to progress except a monstrous pain that gripped my body and held it in thrall. I lost count of the hours, barely noting the change from light to dark beyond my window, conscious of nothing but what seemed to be the tearing apart of my flesh and bone for the sake of this creature that refused to be born.

  ‘I was worried about this,’ Agnes muttered as she allowed me to grip her hands, nails digging deep.

  ‘Well, now you’re proved right!’ I groaned as the appalling clenching ebbed.

  As if she had some premonition of my birthing difficulties, Agnes had been careful of me in recent weeks, insisting on a diet of eggs and fowl, broths of fish. She had rubbed my belly with hot goose-grease. All to no avail.

  Was this punishment for my sin? For our sin?

  ‘Will I lose this child?’ I cried out in another fleeting lull. ‘Is this God’s will?’

  ‘It may be.’ Even in my extremity I heard the worry in her voice. ‘But we’ll fight for him.’

  She pulled me from my bed.

  ‘I cannot walk…’ The muscles in my legs would hardly carry me.

  ‘You will, my lady, if you wish to see this child alive. But slowly…’

  She led me up and down my hall, up and down the stairs. And then such tortures as Agnes inflicted on me. Frankincense wafted under my nose to make me sneeze again and again. A bitter tincture of mint and wormwood forced on me, even though I resisted.

  Finally she looped the coral beads of my rosary round my neck.

  ‘Fetch the snakeskin from my coffer,’ Agnes growled at my diary maid. ‘We’ll need it if this child is born dead.’

  ‘No!’ I resisted such a thought, my hand fastening like a claw on Agnes’s wrist.

  That must not be. The child—living and breathing—might cut my reputation to shreds and beyond all mending, but I would not see it dead.

  I struggled to my feet and began to walk again, using the bed hangings, the tapestries, anything for support, as well as Agnes’s stalwart shoulder. Conscious only of pain and exhaustion, the cloying fumes that filled the chamber, I wept in my terror. Surely no child could withstand such a process of birth.

  What was it that tipped the balance? When all seemed lost, when I could walk no more, when I could withstand no more hurt, the child, my son, was eased from my body by Agnes, her hands slick with linseed and fenugreek. She picked him up and wrapped him in linen as if he were a fine prince, not some small, wizened creature, mewling like a weak kitten.

  Then silence.

  I looked at her face, from where I had sunk down on the floor beside my bed.

  ‘Agnes…?’ Her features were tight.

  ‘Rest awhile…’

  ‘I wish to see him.’

  And as she pushed the matted tendrils of hair back from my face, I reached up to take my child in my arms. Here was no fine prince. His face was suffused, eyes screwed tight, lips flaccid and scant black hair plastered to his skull. It seemed that he gasped for air. Despite the sweat and blood that covered both of us, I held him close to my breast.

  ‘He is so small.’

  ‘We should baptise him, my lady.’

  She was frowning and I caught the fear, the urgency.

  ‘John. We will call him John.’ It was not difficult to decide.

  Tears threatened, through weakness and regret, but I swallowed against them. How light he was, and I barely had the strength to hold him close. His eyes, opened now, were blue and without focus, as all babies. His features had no resemblance to John or, I thought, to myself. I spread his hands. So weak. So small. My heart, so full of hope at his birth, fell into a void as black as the wisps of hair that clung to his head.

  ‘Agnes…’

  ‘What is it, my lady?’ So full of compassion was her voice that my efforts to quell my tears failed.

  ‘You must tell him.’ It was all I could think of. ‘You must send a message to the Duke.’

  ‘And say what?’

  Tell him to come to me. Tell him I am in despair and in need.

  ‘Tell him that he has a son.’ I would say no more.

  ‘And I’ll tell him more than that,’ she muttered. ‘We may not be troubled by this one long. He’d better hurry if he wants to see his son this side of the grave.’

  I tried not to listen as the wet nurse, a young woman from the village who had her own healthy babe, took my son from me.

  Chapter Eight

  It was nearer another month before the Duke rode up to my door. Was it not to be the pattern of our days? I met him in the hall, as I had before when I had first fled Hertford, waiting until he entered even though it was my first thought to run out to the courtyard so that he might hold me in his arms and tell me that all was well. It was six months and more since I had seen him. An endless length of impossible longing, so that I could not imagine what my first words to him would be.

  I retreated to courtly formality. I curtsied.

  ‘You are welcome, my lord.’

  ‘I came when I could, my lady.’

  ‘I have sent for refreshment, my lord. If you would come to my parlour—’

  All formality was abandoned. The Duke was striding across the room to grip his hands around mine as if we had only parted a matter of days ago.

  ‘My lord!’

  I cast a glance at his squire, who stood impassive at the door. This was hardly ducal behaviour but the Duke simply gestured for him to go, his eyes never leaving my face. Presumably the squire knew all there was to be known.

  ‘Are you well, Katherine? I see that you are.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Formality still clung to me like droplets of mist, refusing to be shaken off as I held tightly to his hands, taking in the familiar features that were suddenly far from familiar. I noted the changes, subtle yet clear to my eyes, for the campaign had foundered, the fleet tossed at sea by storms and gales for two whole months, until the remnant struggled home. Those two months at sea with an ageing father and an ailing brother had taken their toll. It was like greeting a distant acquaintance whom I had once known, but whose absence had snipped at the bonds, still so fragile, that had held us.

  Then the emotion that touched his eyes smote me hard and shook loose my emotional shackles.

  ‘The child, Katherine. The child. I am so sorry. And that you should have to bear his loss alone…’

  My strangely rigid heart instantly melted.

  ‘No, John…’ For I had heard the door opening, although he had not. Now I beckoned to Agnes who marched forward with her burden, unable to contain my smile of pure joy.

  ‘He proved us all wrong, John. I would introduce you to your son.’

  Every muscle in the Duke’s body braced as he looked from me to the animated wrapping. Then gave a bark of startled laughter.
/>
  ‘By God, Katherine! I thought he was too weak to survive.’

  ‘So did we. We feared for him for many days. But see how he thrives.’

  ‘You have called him John.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, delight bubbling up inside me. ‘Did you not leave your royal command? Already I have a sword ordered for him from my blacksmith.’

  The Duke took his child in his arms, staring at the baby, who stared back with eyes of similar hue. The blue of babyhood existed no longer.

  And I? I watched my lover’s expression with a level of concern, that increased as he remained silent. In spite of all his assertions, what did this child mean to him against the legitimacy of Philippa and Elizabeth, the value of his heir Henry, the vital Castilian blood of Katalina? Where would my little son stand in his estimation?

  Perhaps he would have no importance. A bastard child of a woman who had no influence.

  I found myself skewered with a level stare.

  ‘I see you are troubled by something. What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  I stared back. ‘That I don’t know how important this child is to you.’

  His brows arched as if my question was not worth the asking. ‘He is my son.’

  It should have told me all I needed to know.

  ‘But he is illegitimate.’

  ‘He is mine, and he is precious to me. Does that satisfy you?’

  A wave of pure happiness washed through me, so vital that I had to blink against the emotion, all my anxieties laid to rest in that briefest of statements. He is mine.

  ‘I’ll not reject him. Did you fear it?’ When I grimaced, his smile became a grin. Then the Duke quickly sobered, leaning across the baby to plant a grave kiss on my lips. ‘He is mine, Katherine. He will lack for nothing. For now, I give him into your care, because I must, to raise him for me, until he is older and he can take his place in my household. As my son.’

  The tears slid down my cheeks. The baby stretched out a hand to grasp his father’s jewelled chain, pulling on it with his tiny strength.

  ‘He is a fine son and will grow up to be a fine knight. He needs a name of recognition.’ The Duke gently unfastened the baby’s fingers from his chain: they promptly re-curled around his finger, making him laugh. ‘Beaufort. He will be known as Beaufort. A castle I once owned in France.’

  I wiped the tears away.

  John Beaufort. The tenderness in the Duke’s face moved me beyond thought as he touched the child’s cheek with his finger.

  ‘And now John Beaufort’s mother must tell me what is in her heart.’

  He handed the child back to Agnes and took me in his arms and kissed me on each cheek.

  ‘Or perhaps we have spoken enough for one day.’

  We did speak, of course we did, but there were other ways to express the pleasure of our reunion, the miracle of it, the magnificent heartfelt gratitude of it, that required no words at all, and indeed we had little breath to express them. Engulfed by hunger, we rediscovered all those ways, and more besides, with some energy, to our greatest enjoyment. In recognition of my fragility, he was very gentle.

  And then, when all was seemly and we sat in my private chamber with a cup of wine and our garments put to rights to some degree: ‘I want you to return with me,’ the Duke said.

  Which did not seem to me to be as easily accomplished as the saying of it.

  ‘And what of Constanza?’ I asked.

  His reply was predictably brisk. ‘My marriage to Constanza is no different now from what it was a year ago. A political entity. I will fight to restore her kingdom and I will give her the son to inherit if it is God’s will. But you will return with me.’

  I tilted my chin in contemplation as my sensibilities smacked up against the rock of the Duke’s will.

  ‘Is it not what you wish?’ The Duke’s flat brows expressed a disbelief that I would not immediately issue orders to pack my clothing into my travelling coffers.

  ‘I am considering it.’

  ‘What is there to consider?’

  ‘My reputation,’ I stated solemnly, if it was possible to be solemn in my shift with my hair unloosed and my feet unshod. ‘If I return to your household, will it not be as a fallen woman?’

  ‘No, it will not!’

  ‘There are many who will be quick to call me whore.’

  ‘They would not do so in my hearing.’

  ‘They would in mine!’

  It was not entirely said in jest. If I returned to the Lancaster household I would eventually become the target of gossip as the fever of solar life began to bubble and boil. But, there again, if I returned I would be with the Duke, not marooned in this distant place.

  ‘How long does it take you to decide?’ The Duke scrubbed his hands over his unshaven cheeks. He was as ungroomed as I but the power of command sat on him like an ermine cloak. ‘I will make the decision for you. I order you to return with me. And we will continue to be circumspect, as we have always been. I will protect your highly prized reputation.’

  I smiled under the force of his reassurance. ‘I have missed you so very greatly.’

  ‘As I have missed you.’ For a moment, looking up at me from where he lay by my side, his gaze was pensive. ‘One morning—when we were at sea and the storm at its worst—I felt you with me. As if you had called to me. It was as if, for the length of a heartbeat only, your mind touched on mine. It was as real as you sitting here today. It was moment of great joy, when all around me was despair and defeat. I will never forget it.’

  And I looked at him in amazement, for in those days of isolated waiting, when fear for him had dogged my every step, I had sought for him, on the field of conflict, with sword in hand, as if I could sense the direction of his mind, the tenor of his thoughts. I had worn out the steps to the tower room where I could sit and look out over the flat lands of Lincolnshire and imagine what he might be doing, what his thoughts might be.

  One morning I could almost see him. He lifted his head as if I had called to him, and perhaps his mind touched mine. A soft warmth, a sharp knowing, an edge of recognition. It lasted only as long as a slow intake of breath: I did not experience it again, and persuaded myself that it was merely my overworked imagination, nothing more than the bright glitter of the sun on the duck pond.

  But the Duke had sought me too, and found me. It filled me full of impossible love, and I bent to kiss his lips. I forgave his spending the New Year with Constanza.

  The Duke’s gaze sharpened. ‘So? What’s your answer?’

  ‘Do you need to ask it? I will come.’

  As plainly said as that.

  But not plain at all, in truth. It was not merely my reputation, but what would I do, in the household of the Duke of Lancaster? What role would I have? I could not, in all honesty, return as a damsel to Constanza, the mistress serving the wife. The degradation in such a relationship for her would be beyond forgiveness. But I was sure that I could not live apart from him, even at a very personal cost for me, which transpired fast enough as I made my preparations to follow him to Tutbury.

  ‘You were not planning to take that baby, were you? Have you looked at that child recently?’ Agnes demanded a month later when all was arranged.

  ‘Or course I have.’ I folded a pair of newly stitched sleeves in anticipation of my return to my lover. ‘He is quite strong enough to travel and can join the nursery.’

  ‘And what do you see?’ She gestured towards the cradle, rocked gently by the young wet nurse. ‘Look at him, Katherine.’

  So I did. The baby clenched and unclenched his fists, making me laugh.

  ‘Look at him!’ Agnes repeated. ‘When you are asked who fathered this child, who will you say?’

  The child had changed since his stressful birth. His features might be still rounded and soft but blue eyes had darkened to bright hazel. His skin was fair and his hair was dark…I exhaled slowly. Agnes had seen what I had not. Sunlight flooding the room illuminated my son so that the feathered cur
ls carried a sheen of rich auburn, like the plumage of the pheasants in the orchard. As a cloud scudded past and the sun brightened, the vibrant colour leaped into life.

  If I took him to the ducal household, if the sun shone then, as it did now, the gossip would be on every tongue as soon as I lifted him from the travelling litter. My baby’s colouring was too pronounced to deny.

  ‘No,’ I said sadly, lifting him into my arms. Had I ever truly believed that I could introduce this child into the ducal nursery? If my cherished reputation as a respectable woman meant so much to me, how could I paint myself as the mother of a bastard child when his father’s identity was so patently obvious? I had been fooling myself in thinking it possible. ‘No, I cannot, can I? But I don’t want to leave him.’

  ‘But you will. And I will care for him.’ Agnes was bracing. ‘I’ll love him like my own. And you can have him with you when…’

  Her mouth snapped shut like a trap.

  ‘When the truth is out? Is that what you were going to say? But when the truth is out I’ll be summarily dismissed and be back here in Kettlethorpe.’

  ‘Then that will solve all your problems. Or you could, of course, decide not to go. To remain here…’

  I kissed my baby’s cheek, conscious that tears were not far away. Here was another choice to be made. To go to my lover, to leave my child and hide the circumstances of his birth, or to remain here to raise this Beaufort son who tugged at all my maternal urges with his tiny hands.

  I looked up, conscious of Agnes’s critical gaze on my face, conscious that for her there was no dilemma. How could any woman abandon her child to be with a man in a relationship cloaked in sin? A woman’s duty was to her children and her good name. No woman of integrity would willingly earn the title whore.

  But for me there was no choice.

  I handed my child to Agnes before I wept openly. He was flesh of my flesh, but his father owned my heart and I would be with him.

  There was no frisson of scandal to greet me when I made my return to the household now established in the solid fortress of Tutbury, bringing me respite as I trod the familiar chambers, but when I was announced into one of the more intimate chambers, into what was a scene of family harmony, it took me aback, striking hard at all my newfound strength.