The Scandalous Duchess (39 page)

His final lines, each one scrawled, one after another, written with such a sense of loss, near broke my heart anew.

He loved me. He still loved me. And now I knew why he had been so very angry. I had been cold, shunning him, with no understanding of what it was he had done for me.
I had been intolerant, unbending, because I had not, in my hurt and my anger, seen the true value of what he had accomplished. Now, older, and I hoped wiser, with my sister's trenchant advice hammering in my head, I knew I had to let go of my perceived wrongs so that I might once more live in peace with myself. And with the man I would always love, even though I could never live with him again. I must acknowledge the unbreakable ties of heart and soul and mind that bound us still, and simply forgive.

I had wronged him. Now I too must make amends.

I knew what I must do. I thought about it, ruining the nib of one pen, frowning at Philippa when she intruded so that she withdrew. She was still with me at Kettlethorpe on her journey back to the Duchess. She would take the letter for me.

Whatever level of contact there was between myself and the Duke, it must be as discreet and quiet as a mouse raiding an apple-barrel in my cellar. I might express my grief at the past wrongs I had heaped on him, but our relationship must be that of the spirit, not of the flesh. The Duke had made his choice and I must respect it. Most specifically I could not undermine what he had done, so cruelly for both of us, however much my heart raged against it. All I could do was reassure him of my understanding, reassure him that his sacrifice had not been in vain. The fortifications he had built between us, for all of England to see, would not be demolished by any careless word from me. His reputation had been restored, and I was glad of it. There was no going back for either of us.

So now—how to write it?

I would write under cover of estate business, one landowner in gratitude to another despite our disparate rank. Why would I not write my thanks, in an entirely impersonal manner? Philippa would ensure that it reached his hands, not those of Sir Thomas Hungerford. But just in case it fell into other hands…

I wrote fast and fluently, yet another paragraph of inconsequential detail on my rebuilding. And then I began, the first, the only personal letter I had ever written to him. How difficult it was. Another quill went the way of its predecessor. Now, knowing what I knew, I must say what was in my heart, yet hiding the joy that danced in my soul that he still loved me and I was free to love him, albeit from a distance.

That looked suitably legalistic, I decided.

There! Dry as dust! Would he understand? I thought that he would. I swallowed against the emotion that I dare not write, but that threatened to scatter the page with tears. There would be no cause for me to weep over a discussion of pasture enclosures. I continued with rigorous attention to my choice of words, written in the coldest of terms.

I ruined the quill with my fingernails. And then, against all good sense, I wrote:

Not one word of the love from which I would never be free.

Leaving a space, in bold script I cushioned my confession with an account of one of my local projects, to deflect any prying eye.

I laughed softly through my sorrow as I completed the final lines. He would think that I had lost my senses, until he realised what I was doing. But how to finish? I knew what I wanted to write.

But it would be far too indiscreet. Instead, I wrote simply,

I reread it with something of desolation. A poor attempt at contrition, a poor contrivance. It was the best I could do, and I handed it to Philippa with instructions. I hoped that he would understand all I had dared not put into words.

‘Well, I'll deliver it, Kate. But don't expect him to come to you,' Philippa advised, perhaps seeing the hope in my face. But indeed she was wrong. I had no hope of that. There would be no physical reconciliation.

‘You have to learn to live without him,' she continued. ‘He and Constanza are hand in glove. Or at least sharing the bed-linen. She is hopeful of carrying his child.'

‘Then I must wish her well.'

It was the only response that I could make against another dart that lodged in my heart.

Philippa wrote to me at length.

I understood. Of course I did. I expected no reply. It was enough that he should know of the direction of my thoughts. The days of bitter heartbreak were long gone.

But there were nights when I mourned my lost love who must continue to bolster the fortifications between us in the interests of reputation and England's glory.

‘Agnes! Agnes! You'll never believe what he has done!'

All dignity as Lady of Kettlethorpe was forgotten. I hitched my skirts and ran into my beautifully refurbished hall with no thought at all for the improvements or the bright display of newly purchased tapestries.

Agnes emerged through a door on the floor above me, drawn to the top of the staircase by my strident tones.

‘What is it? What who has done?'

‘I can't believe it!' I was already taking the stairs two at a time.

‘What?' Agnes demanded, now scowling fiercely.

But I couldn't say. Not yet. I hadn't the breath for it. I had been in the courtyard, in desultory conversation with one of Lancaster's waggoners. I was surprised by this wagon-load of timber and wine that had struggled through the slush and mire of January in the New Year. Not the usual time of year for such inessential journeying. The waggoner handed me the bill of lading as he climbed stiffly down and, taking it, I let my eye travel down it. There was also a basket of rabbits somewhere in there and a bolt of fine cloth.

But there was a postscript added to the short list of items.

And then a list. A list of five names at the very bottom. I knew every name on the list intimately.

It had the power to drain all colour from my face.

‘I say you should go inside, mistress,' the waggoner advised. ‘A cup of ale will do you good. Me too…'

But I was already running up the stair, the waggoner, wood and rabbits forgotten.

‘Agnes!'

I could not believe what I had read.

I pushed past Agnes and Joan, who followed me to my chamber in some bafflement. Where I cast myself on my knees beside my coffer.

‘What are you looking for?'

‘This!'

I lifted out my sable cloak, letting Joan take it from me, smiling when she began to stroke its folds, picking out twigs of mugwort and lavender. The heavy perfume filled the room. It was easy to smile that day.

‘And there! I was thinking that we were being invaded,' Agnes muttered. ‘All this fuss about nothing but a fur cloak you've never worn.'

‘You said you would never wear it again,' Joan observed, female enough to hope that I would give it to her.

‘I've changed my mind.'

‘God be praised. It's too good to be kept locked in a box.' Agnes's eyes narrowed on my ingenuous expression. ‘Why?'

‘I'm going to Lincoln.'

‘I don't see that a visit to Lincoln would make you willing to flaunt this evidence of past sin.'

‘Did I call it that?' I looked up with a laugh, as if I were a girl again. I could not recall when I last felt so foolishly happy. ‘I am going to see the Duke.'

Agnes grunted, taking the weight first of the fur and wool from Joan, and then from her own feet as she sank onto a stool. ‘And not before time, some would say!'

It was a shock to hear her concurrence. ‘I didn't think you would approve.'

‘Well, I do—and I don't. Which makes no sense, mistress. But when a woman's blessed with a love such as you have been given, it's a sin to waste it. That's what I say.' Her face was as flushed as mine. ‘I'd best make preparations. How fortunate that I kept the moth from my lord's precious gift.'

Chapter Seventeen

T
he slender columns in the circular space of the Chapter House of Lincoln Cathedral rose powerfully around me as my sable-lined cloak fell in sumptuous folds to the floor, and I thought that my pride must have shone around me like the gilded haloes painted on the saints on the wall. My gratitude, my immeasurable gratitude, could not be expressed in mere words. Maternal tears trickled into my smile, no matter how hard I tried to present a dignified composure on this most auspicious of days.

But perhaps no one would blame me for it. I took the square of linen silently handed to me by Agnes, acknowledging the brush of her fingers against mine. She felt it too.

Once I had thought that there was nothing more of joy for me to look forward to, nothing that could ever again fill the corners of my heart with an expression of pure happiness. I had been so very wrong. On this day, beneath the stone ribs and austere beauty of such grace and power, my
blood sparkled with it. What's more, I had every right to be here. It would be expected of me. This was a matter of family loyalty, and would bring down criticism on neither my head nor the Duke's. I raised my head and let the pride of the moment fill me from head to foot.

‘Look.' Joan, at nine years, had acquired the self-control to whisper. ‘There's Robert.'

Still her voice rose a little in excitement.

‘Hush!' Agnes admonished, yet stroked the sumptuously embroidered shoulder of Joan's best gown.

‘Doesn't he look grand?'

‘He is very smart,' I whispered back.

Sir Robert Ferrers was fourteen years old, very serious and now the betrothed of my little daughter Joan. Sir Robert was in direct line to the considerable Boteler inheritance in the west, an excellent alliance, arranged by the Duke, and since the young man's spirit of mischief and quick smile had taken Joan's eye, I could be no other than grateful.

‘He's a good lad,' Agnes murmured, her eye on Henry and Thomas who stood with us, warned of the necessity of good behaviour.

And I smiled again. I could have listed any number of proud noble families who made no provision for their illegitimate offspring. The Duke could never be accused of that.

I folded my hand over my girdle, where that innocuous bill of lading was tucked, as precious as a talisman. I knew the words by heart. I did not need the evidence and yet still I kept it.

When the Duke had last visited Lincoln, in the year after our clash of opinion at Rochford Hall, I had fled back to Kettlethorpe in distress, refusing to be there in the same town as the ducal party, afraid of meeting him. Now he had made it so that I had no choice but to present myself, for there was a list of five names, of those who would be received into the Confraternity of Lincoln, the prestigious order of the brotherhood. The Duke himself had been received when he was a mere three years old. I too had been given that honour. But now he had arranged so much more.

It is right that you should be there
, he had added.
If you do not, I will send an escort
.

Although I had bristled at his presumption to order my movements, as would any woman of independence, yet here I was, for below his command he had inscribed the names. Tantalisingly personal. Impossible to refuse.

There they were now, standing in the magnificence of the Chapter House that I knew so well, members of my family who meant more to me than I could express, all awarded this signal honour, the whole ceremony encompassed without any suggestion of scandal between us. This was no deliberate
ruse on the Duke's part to put the once-ducal mistress in England's eye. It was a solemn affair of family and God and life after death.

‘And there's John,' Joan spoke out, refusing to be quelled. I had not the heart to stop her. She was as proud of her eldest brother as I was.

And there he was, tall and lean like his father, a year younger than Sir Robert, newly knighted at the Duke's bequest. The Duke had been very busy on behalf of the Beauforts.

My two sons. My daughter's betrothed. Even my own irascible sister who for once appeared astonished at the honour bestowed upon her for her service to Constanza, as they were received into the prestigious Confraternity of the Cathedral.

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.