by Anne O'Brien
I knew that he had done it to honour me as much as to honour them, awarding them God’s blessing, a daily offering of prayers in their name at the Cathedral. A signal honour indeed.
Yet as I rejoiced, still there was that slide of fear that would spoil the day if I allowed it, for it was known to everyone that the Duke was putting his affairs in order before embarking on the new campaign to Castile.
I refused to allow it to trouble me. That was for the future.
I watched and marvelled at the maturity of my sons. I enjoyed Philippa’s ceremonial admittance to the Confraternity as if it were my own, recalling my own initiation. And I allowed my gaze to rest occasionally on the Duke who stood in his place some distance in front of me. Tall, lean, upright. He looked little different from the man who had lived in my mind’s eye throughout all the years of our parting, even when I told myself daily that I despised him.
My letter had not been in vain.
My heart began to sing a little, like a bird catching the first light of dawn. Even if we did not speak, it was enough for us to be here under the same roof.
‘When will you go?’ I asked my sister Philippa, in the little interval between the wine and comfits served to guests and new members of the Confraternity alike, and the general movement to the castle where a ceremonial feast would be held.
I had already offered congratulations to my offspring and Sir Robert, restraining my maternal affection, resisting the urge to hug them. Earl Henry had kissed my cheek. I had not spoken with the Duke whose attention was commandeered by the bishop. Perhaps it was better so, I acknowledged, hiding my irrational disappointment beneath the dramatic fall of sable as I questioned Philippa. She had decided to accompany the Duchess when Constanza travelled with the Duke to Castile.
‘In summer, I expect,’ she replied.
‘Are you sure you wish to?’
‘What’s to keep me here in England? My daughter is settled in a convent. My son is now part of the Duke’s retinue. Geoffrey is nothing to me—nor I to him.’ Her smile was not regretful. I thought she was looking forward to it.
‘I will miss you.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Her smile became a little wry.
‘Where’s Constanza?’
‘On pilgrimage to visit her favourite shrines to solicit an heir. Did you expect her to be here?’
‘No. We are both sufficiently women of the world to keep our distance.’
‘You may not have to, if the Duke can claim Castile at last for her. She’ll live there. The question is…’
‘I know what the question is. What will the Duke do?’
There was, of course, every chance that he would live in Castile for the rest of his life.
Don’t think about that. Not now. Not yet.
I spoke with Thomas—Sir Thomas Swynford now, of course, and in service to Henry of Derby—who glowed with as much pride as I, although he was better at hiding it under an air of insouciance. After more restrained maternal admiration, I discussed a little matter with him that was on my mind. It was something I needed to do, and yet the ultimate decision would be his. I gripped his hands at his response and allowed myself to kiss his cheek. He blushed furiously but did not object. Hugh would have been full of admiration for his splendid son.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘When will you tell him?’
‘I have no idea.’
Nor had I.
‘I will deal with it for you,’ he suggested.
‘You may have to,’ I agreed sadly.
There could be no disappointments, could there? But there were, because the demand on the Duke’s time was a heavy one in his role of host. As an occasion of official leave-taking, there were many guests of importance, and self-importance, who requested speech with him so that he was quickly swallowed up again into the crowd. At the castle it would be even worse, and as the noise rose and those who wished to commandeer a portion of the ducal attention seemed to double in number, I knew what I would do.
I would not stay. I would go back to the Chancery.
I allowed Joan to remain, because of Robert, under Agnes’s strict eye as an amused chaperone, while I shepherded Henry and Thomas, too young for such festivities, back to the Chancery with me. And once there I would hold fast to my delight, to my pride in my sons and in what I had demonstrated to myself in that brief interlude. Being able to step away without distress was of such great importance, showing me that life without the Duke was not impossible. It had been a ceremony of supreme achievement for me, but now it was over and a woman of sense would see the need to make herself scarce. It would be good practice for the time when he and Constanza were crowned King and Queen of Castile.
I used Agnes’s square of linen again. How easily tears came.
The evening was quiet here in the Cathedral Close, being too far from the castle to hear music and singing from the celebrations. I sat at ease, confident in the rightness of what I had done. I smiled at the thought of Joan, enjoying the importance of her young betrothed.
My attention was caught, my smile vanished, for there was a stirring in the garden beyond the parlour window. I listened.
Nothing untoward. A prowling cat mayhap.
Henry and Thomas were put to bed with a maid to keep an eye on them. I sat with a candle and a Book of Hours but the book did not keep my attention, not even the glorious colour and gilding of the illustrations. It had been a gift from the Duke, many years ago.
How strange that I should still refer to him in my mind as the Duke. It was how I had known him from the very beginning when I was a young wife. He was still the Duke, and I suspected always would be. Except when we came together, and then he was John. Or when I was angry with him.
I smiled.
The candle burned low as I found a quill and parchment and wrote the note I had discussed with Thomas.
My pen hovered at the end as I signed my name. My ears pricked.
There was someone outside. I rose quickly, to summon a servant to investigate, then sighed as youthful voices reached me. Here was no attacker, unless it was on the ear. My heart steadied as I walked from parlour to hall, to open the door to Agnes and Joan and my son John. Swaggering Sir Thomas was there at the rear, still laughing at some joke between him and Sir Robert. And there was Philippa, sleekly glorious in her damask and gold-thread houppelande.
I hugged Joan because she was the only one of them who would not mind.
‘Go in,’ I said. ‘There is a fire in the parlour. I will send in ale. You’ve probably eaten enough for a se’enight.’
Their voices were shrill with lingering excitement. Philippa appeared radiant, some of the years of unhappiness fallen away, looking as I recalled her in our youth when she would laugh and dance.
I made to close the door and follow, then, abruptly, stopped, my hand on the latch. Of course they had been sent with an armed escort from the castle. I stretched out a hand to invite the man in for ale.
I allowed my hand to drop.
‘Would you like to let me in?’ he said. ‘Or do I wait out here to take Thomas and Robert back to the Castle?’ There was the slightest pause, as if he fought against laughter. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
‘You shouldn’t even be here.’
He could have sent a servant. An armed body of his retinue. He could have called out Oliver Barton, the Constable of Lincoln, with the local militia. Instead, had come himself with the young ones. This was not discretion. This was not good sense. This was Plantagenet self-assurance in action. In spite of my desire to take him to task, a surge of protectiveness almost choked me. I could imagine Walsingham’s eyes gleaming.
‘You should not have come here,’ I remonstrated, as if addressing young Henry.
‘As I am aware, if I had any sense,’ the Duke replied. ‘And I might wish I hadn’t. If you don’t let me in I’ll have to take refuge in the stable.’
I opened the door wide. Still he stood unmoving in the fitful light that
shone out from the windows of the cathedral where some priest was going about his final observances. Beneath the dark folds of his cloak I saw the shimmer of blue and silver, the garments he had worn for the ceremony. More than that in the soft light I could not see, but I knew every line in his face, knew that his hair was still unmarked by grey. Knew that he was a hand-span taller than I and his shoulders were unbowed. The years of battles, both abroad and at home against pen and Parliament, had dealt with him with kindness.
How I loved him. I could never not love him.
I sighed softly, silently.
‘Then come in and I can close this door,’ I remarked.
He hesitated.
‘On second thoughts, it might be better if you came out,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I imagine your stable will at least offer us privacy.’
‘You said it was cold,’ I objected in contrary mood.
He swung the cloak from his shoulders, a magnificent sweep, and offered it.
‘Unless you will reject this—as I thought you had rejected my sables. But did I not see you wearing them today? Perhaps it was simply because of the cold in the Chapter House that made you change your mind.’ His speech was uncomplicated, his tone amused. He was making this easy for me. ‘Is there somewhere private for us to talk?’
‘You could join us in the parlour where there is ale and a fire.’
How hard it was to breathe. The cloak rested in my hands. He had seen me, noted what I wore. My mind hopped and flitted.
‘Your parlour is full of Agnes and Mistress Philippa and the young ones, and will be so for the next hour. Do they never stop talking?’
‘No. The Beauforts are very vocal.’
My mind had steadied again. I let him wrap the cloak around me, as impersonal as a servant, and because I could do no other, and because I wished to, I led him out, across the Close to the stable block. It should have been awkward between us at first, after so long with such a physical distance between us, but we were both possessed of enough grace to overcome it, and that little exchange on my doorstep had broken the threat of ice.
I was aware of his soft footsteps on the grass as he followed me, as we made tracks in the early layer of frost. And then we faced each other in the stable with the shuffling of hooves for company, enclosed by the familiar scents of horse and grain and hay. Before God, it was cold, but the thick folds were warm from his body, and the fur was close at my throat.
‘You have honoured my family today,’ I said hurriedly, because it was uppermost in my mind. ‘An honour beyond anything I could envisage.’
‘I had a debt to pay,’ he replied. ‘Your letter meant more to me than you will ever know.’
His voice was on a level and I was relieved. I could rely on him to keep all emotions at bay. Was that not what I needed, to part from him in calm acceptance of our new situation?
‘I was trying to be discreet,’ I said. ‘You understood what I was trying to say?’
‘Yes. Amongst the rabbits and land drainage.’
I shook my head, silence stretching between us, until broken by a stable cat slinking along the wall, probably with rodents in mind.
‘Forgive me,’ he said softly in the darkness. ‘Forgive me.’
And all the past emotions surged within me. ‘Yes. Yes, I forgive you.’
‘Katherine…’ It was a sigh from the heart.
‘Once I did not think it possible to forgive,’ I explained. ‘But that was long ago. Now I know full well that it is.’
The muscles in his jaw relaxed. You would have to know him well to note it, but of course I did. The tension had been there all along, superbly hidden by a master of dissimulation.
‘Katherine. Will you look at me?’
I realised I had been watching the gleam of light on his jewels as his breathing leaped with the old anguish in his words, but I looked up readily. And then my eyes dropped before the expression in his, as if I were a young girl again, afraid to acknowledge the fervour in a man’s appraisal, rather than a mature woman who had known this man as her lover.
‘No—let me look at you,’ he murmured. ‘Let me read your thoughts. Before God, Katherine, you are as beautiful as the day I first loved you. You still fill my vision.’
No, no. This was a mistake. I must talk about normal things. I could not withstand the emotion. Nor, I thought, could he. So for both our sakes…
I lifted my hands in despair. ‘I cannot speak of this.’
‘Then speak of what matters to you. Whatever words you say, I know what is in your heart.’
The compassion in his face almost destroyed me.
‘Are things well with you?’ I managed to ask.
And, as a ghostly barn owl flew in through a high window with a sweep of silent wings, he followed my lead into less contentious paths, responding to what I did not say, as he had always been able to do. How great was his love for me, how strong it still was in spite of all the strains we had placed on it. I thought there was relief in his face as he picked up the new simple strand, as I might in a particularly difficult piece of embroidery.
‘We are prepared, a fleet gathered at Plymouth,’ he told me. ‘The King is pleased to see me go. He’s praying for my success so that I’ll stay in Castile. He resents guidance unless it’s from the lips of Robert de Vere.’
‘I heard about the attempts on your life.’
‘They came to nothing,’ he replied lightly.
‘God keep you safe in Castile, John. Will I see you again before you go?’
‘No. I’ll not return to the north. I’m for London first, to persuade Richard to give me more ships. And then I go in June.’
We might have been two distant acquaintances, choosing subjects that were of political importance yet did not engage our senses. And that was good. There was no emotion here. I continued to step carefully, my voice politely interested.
‘How long will you be abroad?’
‘Impossible to say. It will not be a short campaign.’
‘I hear that Constanza goes with you. Philippa told me.’
‘Yes, she does. My daughters will also travel with us.’ And then I saw a moment of indecision on his face. ‘I have to tell you about my wife.’
I took a step forward, hands raised to stop the words before they could destroy the tentative, fragile bridge we had created between us. ‘There is no need. I know. Or at least I can guess.’
‘Then you see my way forward.’
I let my arm fall to my side. ‘Yes. Are we not adult? Have we not always seen this possibility?’
‘It is what she wants. I could not deny her.’
All my calm good sense fled.
‘Oh, my love…’ I whispered against all my better judgement.
‘My most dear Katherine…’
I would swear my tears gleamed as brightly as his jewels. There was one thing I needed to do, before I wept on his breast, which would destroy his control as well as mine. It would give both of us a breathing space.
‘Wait here.’
I left him to run to the house. To the parlour to collect the note I had written that very evening, then up the staircase to my own chamber. And then I was back in the garden, in the stables, my breathing harsh with more than the effort.
There he was, exactly where I had left him.
‘I thought you had left me,’ he said gently.
‘No. I would not do that.’ I held the folded sheet out to him. ‘It is all I can do to show my love for you. It is too dangerous to speak of it, for both our sakes, but this will show you.’
He opened it. A promise of five hundred marks. A loan to help to fund the expedition to Castile.
‘It is given with Thomas Swynford’s agreement.’
He studied the gift for so long that I thought he would refuse. When he refolded the page his voice was raw: ‘I will repay you. It is more than generous.’
‘I know you will.’
And I knew that he un
derstood the depth of my gift.
The silence stretched out between us.
‘I must collect Robert and Thomas and go,’ he said at last.
For the first time a frisson of fear crept into the spaces in my breast and, longing submerging good sense, I said what I had promised myself that I would never ask because it would compromise us both.
‘Will you kiss me in farewell?’
The jewels gleamed flatly. ‘No.’
I took a breath at the starkness of his reply for I had not expected such a denial. And perhaps I flinched for he spoke again, quickly.
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I will not kiss you. For if I did I fear I would never let you go.’ His lips curved. ‘I recall saying something similar once long ago. I was right then, I am right now. It would be wrong of me to turn a flame into a conflagration beyond control. Neither of us would enjoy that, I think.’
His eyes rested on mine. I returned his gaze, in despair and in gratitude. I might never see him again, but I had been thoughtlessly weak, and he had rescued me.
‘I knew you would understand,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Farewell, my love. I think God will forgive me seeking you out this final time.’
‘I think He will. I will think of you.’
‘And I of you.’ Someone had lit a lantern outside in the Close. In its wayward light he looked stricken. ‘Remember this: where I am, there you will be also.’ I saw his sigh rather than heard it, as I felt the weight of his gaze. ‘You will never know how very hard it was for me to send you away. I don’t think I ever did anything so difficult in the whole of my life.’
With a sudden rush of tears in my throat I could not reply to so tormented an admission, understanding that he would not wish it. Some memories of the past were far too painful. Stepping quickly, before he could make a retreat, I reached out to pin the pinchbeck Virgin to his tunic. The little pilgrim’s badge given to me so long ago by Mistress Saxby with all her worldly wisdom on the road to Kettlethorpe. Worth so little but now it carried all my hopes.
