by Anne O'Brien
‘How old is she now?’ Lady Alice asked, pursuing her own role in softening the charged atmosphere.
‘Old enough to be married.’ He smiled at some memory. ‘And she is as lovely and gifted as her mother.’
The moment had passed, any tension subsumed under reminiscences of Marie and her daughter. If Constanza had hoped to embarrass the Duke, and draw me into an unpleasant situation, she had failed. I glanced across at her. There was no disappointment on her sharp features, and seeing this I realised that she had not yet reached the core of her planning. My muscled tensed again. What would she ask next? I thought I knew. I deliberately set another row of stitches that were woefully uneven.
Constanza smiled. ‘Sire. The Queen wishes to know. Does the King keep a mistress now?’
‘No,’ said Lady Alice, closing her book with a snap.
‘But yes,’ said Constanza. ‘The Queen desires to hear the truth.’
Silence fell on the room, like a woollen blanket, hot and stifling.
My breath backed up in my lungs. I looked at no one and stitched on, and then decided that such disinterest in itself would stir suspicion. I dropped my stitching to my lap and waited for the answer. The truth? Would the Duke tell the truth? The truth would damn us both in public.
He did not hesitate. With deliberation, every action controlled, his demeanour the epitome of chivalrous rectitude, the Duke knelt on one knee and took both Constanza’s slender hands in his, saluting one then the other.
‘Are you so uncertain of my loyalty to you and your cause? You are bound to me by the rite of Holy Mother Church, Constanza. You are my wife and mistress in the eye of God and Man. That cannot be changed. Your supremacy as Duchess of Lancaster and as Queen of Castile is under no threat from anyone here present. There is no need for such games. Your place at my side is sacrosanct.’
Constanza flushed. ‘Do you promise that?’ she whispered.
I felt cold and pale as the Duke’s affirmation sank in.
‘You will always be my wife, treated with every respect. We will have a son, if it is God’s will. I commit myself to restoring you to Castile. I promised that when I first wed you. I will not break that promise, made in God’s presence as we were wed. You must trust me. You must tell me that you trust me.’
‘Do you speak the truth?’ she asked, a lustrous softness in her face, all her earlier temper smoothed over.
‘There is no guile in my promises.’
‘Then I believe you.’
She smiled as the Duke leaned to salute her cheeks.
For a moment my heart fluttered with relief. He had done it. Clever, ambiguous, saving everyone’s face, the Duke had stated the plain legality of Constanza’s position, without putting me in danger. I dared not look at him, and throughout the whole of that masterly performance to comfort Constanza, he had drawn no attention to me. I knew him to have a reputation at the negotiation table for clever dealings. Tonight I had seen his skills in full flow, to rescue us all from rabid scandal.
But then, as I exhaled, the knowledge bit with sharp teeth. In spite of all the Duke’s professed need for me to return to his household, reality struck hard, as it had once before, in that one question:
Who is of greater importance to the Duke? You, Katherine de Swynford, or the Castilian Queen?
There was only one answer in my mind. Unworthy it might be, thoroughly selfish, but there before me was the evidence of the Duke kneeling at Constanza’s feet, his lips saluting her cheeks, then her lips.
There was no doubting the reply.
Had the Duke’s skilful exoneration been to draw attention from me or had it been to put Constanza’s jealousies to rest? She was everything to his ambitions, to his hopes, to the lasting inheritance of his family. What could I give him in comparison? She could give him all, and I nothing. The Duke was not protecting me but Constanza because she was central to his life.
My blood cold, all my hopes foundering under this blast of bleak truth, I turned my face away from both of them in that private little tableau. I had thought that my lover had leaped to my defence, but he had assuredly protected his wife, far more effectively than he had protected me.
The Duke had risen now, taking control of the situation simply by his stance, beckoning to the page who came to kneel at the Duchess’s feet as any smitten troubadour, launching into a rendering of a fashionable love-ballad that was lively but far less dangerous than Constanza’s spiteful intrigue. Keen to see her reaction, I looked across to find her eye on me, and in its gleam I detected what could only be a challenge. I held it for a moment, then calmly folded my stitching as if there were nothing amiss. The Duke had made it impossible for her to say more, nor would she wish to. The Duchess had emerged triumphant.
I, the mistress, had been put firmly in my place.
For she knew. Constanza knew. She had won this battle for his attention, whereas I had been cast adrift in the chilly margins of this relationship, my only consolation that I had not been held up to public disapprobation. My reputation was safe for a little while, but as Lady Alice and I took charge of the children she tilted her head in my direction to murmur:
‘Is it worth it, Katherine?’
My breath caught as her hand brushed imperceptibly against my shoulder, in the lightest of warnings.
‘Who is to know?’ I replied lightly, deliberately obscure. By now I was beyond denying what was clearly the talk of the household. It had been an exhausting evening of disturbing revelation, leaving me with no wish to defend myself yet again; the condemnation of my sister had been quite enough, and now wounded by this new injury, I was beyond explanation.
‘I’ll not decry true love, if that is what it is between you,’ Lady Alice pursued without demur. ‘But you must know the risk is great. What will she say when she finds out?’ The lady’s gaze slid to Constanza, much as mine had done. ‘Which she will. In fact, after that dramatic performance, I think we can safely assume that she has more than an inkling. You must be wary.’
Oh, I was wary. And I was afraid. Even though I knew it would deepen my hurt, I forced myself to watch as the Duke took Constanza’s hand and led her from the chamber in the direction of their own accommodations.
‘As I live and breathe, Katherine, all I see is doom and gloom in this marriage,’ Lady Alice remarked before we parted for the night. ‘As well as heartbreak for you.’ She looked as if she might have said more, but closed her lips with purpose, for which I was grateful.
My heart shivered as if I felt a grinning manifestation of ruin that loomed at the head of the bed in which it was clear that I must sleep alone that night. How tender the Duke had been towards his wife at the end, how gentle, while she had responded with an affection we rarely saw. As she drew him closer towards her, I was left to acknowledge the increasing vulnerability of my position. The steely challenge in Constanza’s cleverly constructed campaign informed me that she knew exactly what she was doing.
My future was suddenly all clouded.
Who was to know what steps the victorious Constanza would demand from the Duke in return for the promised crown of Castile? My banishment could be the first of the coins the Duchess would see fit to demand. A chill breath whispered along my skin as I combed and braided my hair that night. It was not in the character of the Queen of Castile to remain silent and unresponsive for long, and the Duke, in gratitude, might bow in acquiescence.
A choice between me, a woman who provided a brief slaking of lust, and the royal claimant to the might of Castile? Of course the Duke would cleave to his wife. Even if he did love me, such a superficial emotion could hardly weigh in the balance. In the depths of my heart I acknowledged it. How could I blame the Duke for pursuing a prince’s ambition? A mistress was transitory, easily discarded.
Was the Duke’s decision to appoint me magistra to shield me from humiliation in service to Constanza? Or was it to shield Constanza? Was it marital respect that she roused in him, or had it indeed become a more fervent emo
tion?
My mind tripped over the lines sung so aptly by the Duke’s squire:
‘Love like heat and cold pierces and then is gone;
Jealousy when it strikes sticks in the marrowbone.’
Jealousy infused my bones. Constanza, I accepted during that long night, was a foe of merit. My decision to leave my son and return to my lover, that choice with all its heart-searching, was transformed into dross. I should never have allowed myself to dream of a future with the Duke of Lancaster. What fools love can make of us. How blind it can make us. All I had done was drag closer the promise of ultimate degradation.
Of course I blamed the Duke—what woman would not, faced with such evidence of disaffection? And like all women struck with jealousy, I took my revenge in the only manner open to a mistress in so public a place as The Savoy.
With all my seeds of doubt blossoming into bitter fruit I determined that I would not share his bed.
‘I cannot. I am unwell.’
I felt that my smile was brittle enough to scratch the surface of my looking glass as I made the excuse of all womanhood.
When, the household sleeping, he came to my chamber, it was to find my door barred. Tense with dismay that I had been thrown to the wolves, with Constanza’s star in the ascendant, it was the only action I could take. That I was standing within, palms flat against the wood, my heart torn with longing as he knocked lightly, he would never know.
How unworthy my thoughts were, how heavy my regret as his footsteps receded.
My conduct from day to day, hour to hour, remained impeccable. I curtsied. I spoke calmly when addressed. I sat at table. I fulfilled my duties to the ducal children. I laughed and sang and played games. I reverted to the epitome of the dignified, composed and dutiful widow, the Lady of Kettlethorpe.
And all the time I shivered with apprehension.
What are you trying to prove? I asked myself more than once as I made very sure that I was never alone in proximity to the Duke, who was beginning to wear the vexed restlessness of King Edward’s caged lion at the Tower.
I knew the answer. I wanted to know that the Duke’s desire for me was still as vitally alive as when I had given birth to his son. I needed to know from his own lips. If my star was in decline, I must know it, for my own self-respect. How demeaning to remain the ducal mistress in the face of the Duke’s flagging interest—for I had been forced to accept that, for him, love was never an issue. I admitted, with clear-eyed despair, that I was pushing our strained relationship to a shattering climax.
Would I regret it? Would it not be better to cling to the crumbs of the Duke’s need for me in his life rather than reject the whole banquet?
I did not think so. My deliberate isolation was as much a challenge to the Duke as Constanza’s malicious little game had been to me. It was the only manner in which I could express my fear, for to shout it from The Savoy gatehouse might give satisfaction, but was not seemly. I knew full well, as I had always done, that whereas I offered the Duke love’s coin of shining gold, his return to me was of a lesser value.
Duchess Constanza smiled often and kept the Duke frequent company.
‘Madame de Swynford! A moment of your time!’
The Duke hunted me down in the Great Hall, and stopped me by the simple strategy of announcing my name, giving me no alternative—other than discourteous flight— but to await his approach with the loping stride akin to one of the fit hunting dogs at his side.
‘So that we can hold a conversation without undue emotion,’ he announced as he halted within feet of me. ‘Are we not in the public eye here?’ He smiled, but I was not deceived. This might just be the termination that I had precipitated.
‘Yes, my lord?’ I curtsied neatly, every muscle braced. There would be no hiding for me here, as he well knew.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he returned with languid grace as he handed me a fine leather-bound volume, as if that might be the reason for our meeting. I tried to read his expression, and failed, but the tightly pressed lips were not friendly.
‘Let us talk siege warfare, Lady Katherine,’ he suggested, launching into an unnervingly smooth discourse. ‘Tell me what it is that has lowered the portcullis between us. I get the impression that I must lay siege to encourage you to raise it. I did not think that I was the enemy.’
‘You are not my enemy, my lord.’
All my senses told me that I must keep my wits keen. In this mood, the sardonic Duke was unpredictable. What’s more, he was confident. I could see it in the flare of his nostrils, the glitter in his eyes. He expected to win this encounter. I raised my chin, prepared to resist. There would be no easy victory here for either of us.
‘So why, madam, have you built your defences against me?’ the Duke pursued, showing his teeth in a smile that was not a smile, for the sake of a passing servant.
‘Because I am uncertain of my position, sir.’
‘I thought I had made your position clear.’ His brows rose, his tone was acerbic. He knew I was fencing with him, while I, knowing full well that I was crossing swords with an expert, would not cry defeat. Nor would the Duke: ‘You have a place in my household. I am your lover. You share my bed to our mutual enjoyment.’
How cold, how flat the statement of our relationship, yet there was fire in his eye. Assuring myself that we had no audience:
‘I am afraid,’ I announced baldly.
‘Afraid? Of what?’
‘Rejection.’
‘God’s Blood, Katherine!’
‘I see your affection for the Duchess growing stronger. I fear I am superfluous,’ I said. ‘I expect it is the penalty a mistress must pay if she is absent for the months of childbirth.’
‘What penalty? There is none, except of your own making. You have closed your door against me!’
‘And you defended the Duchess quite superbly,’ I retaliated. ‘I recall perfectly. She is your wife and mistress in the eye of God and Man.’
‘Ah, so that’s it! Constanza’s childish game-playing!’ His brows continued to express disbelief. ‘What would you have me do? Open you both to scandal through some malicious game?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Constanza is my wife.’
‘I know she is.’
‘She deserves my respect.’
‘I have always known that too,’ I said, withdrawing behind my bulwarks in the face of such obvious statements.
‘And I have always been honest about my marriage to Constanza. What do you want from me, Katherine?’
There was the direct attack I had expected. I thought about this. How difficult to explain, but I did so with all the self-possession I had held to in past days.
‘I share your bed, my lord. I have carried your child. I think I need to know that you still need me in your life, that I am not here as some passing pleasure when the mood takes you.’
‘Reassurance?’ The attack was still dynamic, his jaw taut with annoyance at his inability to wear me down as he had hoped. ‘Is that what you want? You have it, Katherine. I never promised you more than what I give you now.’
‘You did not promise me anything.’ Oh, I was calm, if perhaps not altogether fair.
‘There is no more that I can promise you. What do you ask of me?’
‘Nothing that is not of your own volition,’ I replied bleakly, as I held out the book. ‘Take it. I am in no mood for love poetry.’
‘I never do anything not of my own volition.’ His arrogance was truly impressive.
‘I know. Nor do I question your authority.’ I lifted my eyes to his and held his dark stare and spoke the words that had lived with me for so long. ‘I also know, my lord, that not once in all the time we have been together have you ever said that you love me. You speak of need and desire. Of passion. But not of love.’ I touched my tongue to dry lips, appalled at my courage, yet I repeated the fear at the centre of my heart. ‘You lavish words of romance and yearning on me. You kiss me and cherish me, but never have you spoken o
f what is in your heart. I have never asked it of you, but never have you offered me love.’
The Duke looked as if I had doused him in icy water, the planes of his face flattening under the unexpected. He was certainly stuck dumb.
‘I expect that is because, for you, it does not exist.’
Then, when he took the book, frowning, rather than have me drop it onto the beautifully patterned tiles at his feet, I walked away, more despairing than I had ever been since I stood in my courtyard with flood-water lapping round my ankles. Nothing was settled between us. The emotion that I took to bed with me that night was one of raw distress that I had compromised my principles for nothing in the end, because he would send me away.
He has given his son into your keeping. He trusts you to educate his daughters and the heir to the great Lancaster inheritance. His physical desire for you is as strong as it ever was. You cannot doubt him.
But I did. He did not love me. I waited for formal dismissal: it might suit the ducal pair very well. My deliberate challenge to the Duke’s legendary sangfroid might just tip the balance.
Chapter Ten
What an occasion it was, here at Kenilworth, celebratory and formal, announced by a fanfare which caused a rich undulation of Castilian and Plantagenet banners along the walls with the movement of air through the great chamber. With its huge traceried windows and soaring hammerbeamed roof, it provided the perfect setting for this event. Sir Robert Swillington, our Chamberlain, grandly formal in his tabard with staff of office to the fore, paced along the length of the hall before the Duke who led his wife by the hand, both of them magnificent in fur and cloth of gold. This was Constanza’s occasion as she took her place on the dais. Receiving the grace cup from Sir Robert, the Duke raised it and surveyed the assembled party, addressing us in a voice that carried with its superb modulation to every guest present.
‘To my fair wife who had given me an equally beautiful daughter. Today we celebrate them both, particularly Katalina on this first commemoration of the day of her birth a year ago.’ He smiled down at Constanza who had her eyes trained on her clasped hands. ‘We hope for a restoration of Castile for our daughter’s future dowry when we look for a husband for her.’ He smiled, as did the guests. ‘A little young as yet but one day…’
