by Anne O'Brien
‘I would say that you, for your part, have been remarkably invisible, Lady de Swynford.’
His tone was as dry as dust. I ignored it. And, with a surprising spurt of temper, I also ignored the threatening rumble of thunder beneath it.
‘I am surprised that you have noticed, my lord.’
It was like casting a torch onto a stack of timber at the end of a summer drought. His face blazed. So did his words, a blast from the fires of hell. How had I ever thought him to be unmoved by our close confinement? They were delivered with the precise exactitude of an arrow loosed from a bow. The arrow was aimed at me.
‘Do you think I have found it easy to preserve a distance between us, when you are in my line of sight day after day?’ He was approaching me slowly, inexorably, with the graceful step of a hunting cat, and his words cut me to the quick. ‘Do you think it was a matter of no moment for me, to make so public a confession of my sins? Do you think it gave me any satisfaction, having grovelled in the dust of Berwick, to have Walsingham pawing through the grubby corners of my life to extract what he would consider a mortal sin? And then to have him smile on me, on me, a royal prince, and grant me absolution so that England might once again rest in God’s good grace? Do you think these last months have had no impact on my soul? By God, they have, Lady de Swynford! There has been no self-satisfaction in any of this for me.’
I blinked at the sheer glitter of fury in his face. I had seen the Duke in the grip of such passion before but never aimed at me, only at a recalcitrant Parliament, or overambitious courtiers who questioned his right to exert power. Never had I been the object of such rage, and because my patience was a finite thing, I retaliated in kind, deliberately to hurt. As he had hurt me.
‘Oh, no, I’ll never accuse you of self-satisfaction, John,’ deliberately using his name when I had vowed that I never would. ‘How could a man as proud of his Plantagenet blood as you appreciate having to bare your suffering soul before the masses of England? I know that your arrogance has no rival anywhere in England.’
‘Arrogance?’ His nostrils narrowed on a fast intake of breath.
‘I remember your one and only communication to me at Pontefract,’ I reminded him. ‘You must not leave until I can come to you, you said. Not forgive me. Not I have done you a great wrong. Katherine de Swynford is a vile temptress, you said—’
‘I did not say that.’
‘They say you did. A vile temptress, amongst other epithets that I choose not to recall.’ I recalled every one of them, as if engraved on my heart. ‘What I do recall is that I was no enchantress. It was you who demanded that I share your bed.’
‘I did not demand.’
‘You hunted me remorselessly.’
His temper flared again, bright as the sun on a dagger blade at dawn. I think I had hoped that it would. Experiencing far too much of his cold dignity, it would please me to stir him into wrath. A blast of emotion would be no bad thing.
‘Before God, woman!’
‘As I see it, you should be eminently satisfied, John. Restored to the bosom of God’s grace, and Walsingham’s, of course. Reunited in marital happiness with your Duchess. How could you have tolerated me for so long, when all the advantages for you were to deny me and return to the moral fold of legal matrimony? I hear that Castile is once more on your horizon, with Constanza’s blessing. How magnanimous she is in her victory. Was it worth her kneeling in the dust to beg your forgiveness?’
Oh, how my rancour leached out, to coat us both.
His shoulders became rigid, his whole body poised to repel my attack. ‘Cynicism does not become you, Katherine.’
‘I have learned that it becomes me very well.’
‘And you misjudge me.’
‘I think not. I judge what I see and hear. I have heard no regrets from you. Two tuns of wine delivered to my door do not buy you a dispensation. And then, of course, the quitclaim.’ I had to take a breath. Even the thought of it stirred me to immoderate speech. ‘Did you really have to do that? You had already beaten me to my knees. There was no need to batter me about the head with a legal denunciation and formal separation.’
That brought him to a halt.
‘That was never my intention.’
‘No? To issue me with a legal binding that I have no further claim on you or your heirs, nor you on me. Did you expect me to come begging?’ I saw him raise his hand, and spoke to stop him. ‘No, I am not in a forgiving mood. Perhaps God is more forgiving than I. How could you do it? How could you?’
Which failed to quench his anger but instead goaded him once more into action. With three strides he was in front of me, his hands gripping my wrists without mercy. The bowl of potpourri that I had been carrying, that I had been gripping through all this brutal exchange, fell to the floor, shattering, the cloud of dried herbs scattering over my skirts and the floor. Over him too.
‘What would you have me do?’ he demanded. ‘Do I allow England to suffer God’s anger for the sake of my personal happiness? Or yours? Do I? You know as well as I the problems the King faces. Failure to hold onto England’s possessions abroad. Rebellion and unrest at home with peasants raising their hands against Church and State. A young king who has neither the age at fifteen years nor the experience to take it in hand? Richard needs me. England needs me.’ Colour had risen to mantle his cheekbones. ‘Richard needs me, without blame, to be strong for him to offset the influence of men such as Robert de Vere who would seduce him from his duty. He will not listen to me if my soul is black with sin, or if the country turns against me. I had to repent. Would you blame me for that? Would you have Richard fall even further under de Vere’s control, or some other unworthy favourite who will snatch power from his stupidly generous hands?’
Even though my wrists ached with the strength of his fingers banded around them, I considered his impassioned plea. Honesty, reluctant but necessary, coloured my reply, but there was no warmth in it.
‘You have every justification in doing what you did. My own happiness, as you say, is nothing compared with the glory of England. How could I have thought that it might be? I consider it unfortunate that I should be cast in the role of the sacrificial lamb.’
For a moment he looked away from me, towards the far door, where footsteps sounded. Then when they faded, his eyes bored into mine again.
‘Do you think that I do not rail against God? Against the unfairness of it? Do you believe that my love for you was a mere charade? Do you not know that it still burns within me, every minute, every hour? Would you have me do nothing to protect you from those who attack me? Am I really so selfish as to place my own desires before your safety?’
As one question followed another, each driven home with the strength of a sword thrust, I held his gaze, all thought suspended, this new idea intruding like the point of a needle into fine linen, to add another, more complex stitch to overlay the first. Yet still I replied bleakly, holding onto my sense of ill-usage because it was the only familiar emotion in the whole of this morass that threatened to drag me down and suffocate me. ‘I have no idea. I no longer know what you think or do. It is no longer any concern of mine, of course. You are quit of me.’
He looked as if would like to shake me, only to be rejected.
‘No. I regret that you no longer see it as your concern.’ The fires of temper were banked, the chill of frost reappearing. ‘I have constructed a magnificent fortification between us, have I not?’
‘Yes. It is a formidable structure. You should be proud of it.’
‘It serves its purpose. It achieves what it was intended to achieve.’
I did not understand his meaning.
‘You are bruising my wrists, my lord.’
Immediately his hands fell away. ‘Forgive me. I have hurt you too much already.’ His expression was stony, his restraint palpable, and with the briefest of inclinations of his head, the Duke left me to stand alone, but not before I had glimpsed what could only be raw emotion in his eyes.
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br /> I watched him go, thoroughly unhappy, thoroughly unsettled, all my resolution to withstand the power of the man I had loved—still loved—undermined. If nothing else was clear to me, this one fact was. The Duke was as unhappy as I.
In pure reflex, to offer comfort, in spite of everything, I stretched out my hand to him, but his back was turned. He did not see me.
‘John!’
Nor did he hear me.
Thus ended our only conversation at Rochford Hall. Angry, accusatory, trenchant in its tone, before retreating into frigid withdrawal. Perhaps I deserved no better. Perhaps it was time I stepped back, away from him, allowing both of us to continue our lives in calmer waters.
Beyond weariness, I knelt to collect the pieces of the dish, which seemed a meaningless task when the floor was strewn with the dried herbs, so I simply sat back on my heels and surveyed the results of our discussion. Why had he been so very angry? He so rarely in my experience allowed emotion to rule to this degree, and yet his temper had bubbled like an untended cauldron, blistering me with its power. Grief at the child’s death? It would have touched him deeply, but not for him to blast me with such venom, and hold me as if he had no sense of the fragility of my flesh within his grip. The marks were faint, but I could see them. I could still feel his power as he had heaped his anger on my head.
How easy it was for him still to hurt me.
For a long time I simply sat, unmoving in that empty room, all our bitter words descending on me to swirl through my mind, to land finally on some that gave me pause.
Would you have me do nothing to protect you from those who attack me? Am I really so selfish as to place my own desires before your safety?
Had I been wrong? Had I misjudged him? Had he in truth been protecting me?
Suddenly my erstwhile certainties that the Duke had betrayed me were as scattered as the potpourri.
I left the pottery shards and the herbs where they were. The sleeves of my gown were long enough that there was no evidence on view to rouse comment.
The Duke left, taking Henry with him. Back to more exhibitions of jousting skills, I surmised in uncharitable spirit, for both of them. It took little to drag a man’s mind from grief. A thorough burst of male energy with sword or lance and all was put to rights, while Mary still wept for her loss, and I raged inwardly at my inability to overcome my grievances as I renewed the bowl of herbs that proved particularly ineffective in restoring either serenity or ease to anyone.
As they departed I stood in the Great Hall with the rest of the household to make our farewells. When the Duke spoke at length with Countess Joan, I turned to go, but at the end looked back over my shoulder. He was standing at the door, head turned. He might be engaged in pulling on his gloves, but he was watching me. Our eyes held, his arrested, but by an expression that I could not interpret. Unless it was a longing that could never be answered, by either of us. I was the first to turn away, thoroughly discomfited, thoroughly unsure.
‘Well, he has gone,’ Countess Joan observed as she caught up with me later in the morning. It was becoming time for me to leave also. ‘Was it very painful?’
‘No,’ I lied. I managed to smile. ‘Your chaperonage was wasted, I fear. Our desire to leap into each other’s arms is a thing of the past. There is no impropriety.’ I touched her hand in thanks. ‘The Duke’s infatuation is dead.’
She tilted her head.
‘Do you say? I saw a man on the edge of control. If you had stayed, you would have seen him spurring his horse away towards London as if the Devil was breathing fire on his heels. Did nothing pass between you?’
‘Nothing. What had I to say to him, or he to me?’ I forced my brows to rise in a magnificent imitation of disbelief at what she might imply. ‘I think the death of the child would light such a fire,’ I responded gravely. ‘He cares very much for Henry—and for Mary. I see no connection with me.’
Countess Joan eyed me for a long moment.
‘It’s not what I see—but perhaps you are right. Who’s to say? And what of your long infatuation, Kate? Is that too dead?’
But that was a question too far. I would not answer.
I could not.
I was no longer certain of anything.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Have you heard, Lady de Swynford?’
‘Heard what?’
My servant barely had time to open the door of my rented property in answer to the thud of an urgent fist. The Dean of Lincoln Cathedral stood on my doorstep, black-clad like a bird of ill-omen, a look of horror dragging at his thin features.
‘Come in, sir.’ Such was the hammering that I was at my servant’s shoulder. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, my lady. I mean, yes—I will come in.’ He stumbled on the paving. ‘It’s bad news.’
‘Then you must tell me.’ I took the Dean’s arm and led him through to the comfortable setting of one of the Chancery’s spacious parlours. ‘Sit there and tell me what troubles you.’
The Dean enjoyed being the purveyor of bad news, mostly no more than some wild behaviour in the town that had encroached on the Cathedral Close. Today I was aware of no such disturbance yet still was pleased to extend my hospitality.
Unable to settle at Kettlethorpe after my sojourn at Rochford Hall, I had taken Agnes and the children to Lincoln, renewing my renting of the Chancery from the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral.
Lincoln. My life in the very centre of that busy town over the years was as much of a pleasure as I could hope for.
The Chancery offered me a comfortable property well suited to my standing, providing me with a great chamber, perfect for entertaining visitors, my own private chapel and a solar on the first floor, a well-proportioned room where I slept and lived out my private life. With its carved doorways, immaculate stabling, courtyard and gardens full of fruit trees, its sophistication suited my state of mind. I had made a new life for myself in Lincoln. I was not without resources.
Three years had passed since the Duke’s blistering temper at Rochford Hall and my stiff-necked intransigence. Three years in which I was free to reconsider the Duke’s motives. If he had wished, by the quitclaim, to deflect Walsingham and his ilk, he had succeeded, for I was left alone, but of course, I would never know. There was no longer communication between us.
Perhaps for me the pain of living alone had grown numb. I liked to think so and gave a fair imitation of tolerance of our parting. My love for the Duke, my memories of our life together, had faded as all things fade with the passage of time.
‘Tell me, sir,’ I encouraged now. The Dean gulped the wine I poured and handed to him. ‘You said it was bad news,’ I prompted.
‘Yes, my lady. The worst.’ He leaned forward, his voice tinged with awe. ‘The assassination of the Duke of Lancaster.’
My lips parted.
My fingers gripped my own cup.
My mind was frozen.
Misinterpreting my silence: ‘Perhaps you already knew, my lady?’
I shook my head, utterly speechless.
He was dead. The Duke was dead.
My face felt clammy and pale.
Oblivious, the Dean launched into the facts of the plot to rid the King of his overbearing uncle, while I struggled not to be submerged in absolute despair. What would the Dean think if I fell to my knees before him and buried my face in my hands? Instead, I sat upright. It was a surprise to no one, the Dean observed, relations between the Duke and King Richard being as they were at a perilously low ebb—they had been for many months, since Richard fell under the influence of Robert de Vere. The royal favourite desired control of royal power, did he not? Nor was the King averse to escaping permanently the severity of the lectures on good government from his royal uncle. De Vere’s plot was to have the Duke killed at a tournament.
I could no longer still the trembling in my body, my thoughts cavorted without pattern. Holy Virgin sustain me! Killed at a tournament. He was dead, his dear body was cold clay. He no longer lived and
breathed and laughed and raged. My mind could not encompass it.
‘Fortunately, it went awry—’ I heard.
‘Wait.’ I gripped the Dean’s arm, coming to my senses at last.
‘Yes, my lady?’
I swallowed the rock in my throat. ‘Is he dead?’
‘No, no, my lady. Did I not say?’
‘No. No, you did not.’ I exhaled but the shock of relief gripped me with cold nausea.
‘The plot failed,’ the Dean continued busily, unaware of my distress. ‘But it was a near-run thing. The Duke’s living on borrowed time, I’d say. When the King and the favourite are against him. But for now the Duke has made his peace with the King…’
I thanked the Dean, barely listening to his tale of reconciliation between Richard and the Duke, and finally made my excuses, leaving my servant to usher him and his unwanted observations out.
In my chamber, all I could do was to wrap my arms around myself, to still the shaking. Borrowed time, the Dean had said. And had Richard concurred with this despicable plot? It could only be presumed that he had.
I found myself overcome with an urgent need to speak with the Duke, to simply see him in the flesh, yet at the same time I knew that it could not be. What would we say to each other now? Nothing. Nothing.
Did ever a woman miss a man like this? There was no tolerance here. I was bereft, hopelessly alone. I adored him. I always had. I always would because it was not a choice for me. He had drawn me into his heart and I was entrapped there for ever, manacled with steel.
I brought him into my thoughts so that he stood before me, as he had at Rochford Hall three years before, full of anger, yet as gloriously Plantagenet as I had ever seen him, full of vital life. And he was alive now. I must hold onto that one vital thought.
But I could not. Fear gave me no respite. How long could such a reconciliation between King and Duke last? It was one thing for me to step away from the Duke, learning to live without him as I had for three long years, but what if he were dead and I did not know? Could I remain in ignorance if his life was snuffed out by an assassin’s dagger? Or by some malpractice at a tournament?
