The Scandalous Duchess (17 page)

Nothing unexpected here.

But here was the Duke in the company of Constanza who was seated in the window, with the light flattering
the iridescence of her dark hair beneath her light veil. As I stepped across the threshold she was smiling up at the Duke who was expounding in familiar fashion on some idea that took his interest and hers. I heard her reply, the mention of Castile, and his response in the affirmative.

My first thought: I had been away from this household for well nigh a year, in which time things had changed. I had been gone too long. Relationships moved on, could be made or unmade.

And my second: how strikingly beautiful the Duchess was, with motherhood softening her angular features. How fluently she was now able to express herself. How comfortable she looked in this setting. There was a happiness to her, a contentment, a willingness to smile, that I could not recall. When the Duke handed his wife a cup of wine with a smile and a little courtly bow, the Duchess accepted and sipped with a laugh at something he said.

How alike they were. Both handsome, both driven by ambition, both assured in wielding authority. Another impression, even less pleasant, was forced on me. How at ease they were in each other's company, as if they had at last come to some understanding. It was as if I was suddenly cast under a shadow in the face of their brightness.

Constanza could bring the Duke power and a legitimate son.

I could do neither.

These thoughts raced through my mind in the blink of an eye, but hurtful none the less. Why would the Duke not warm to his wife? What might have begun as a political marriage of necessity for both of them, why might it not become more intimate as they grew to know each other?
Why should Constanza not be seduced by this embodiment of Plantagenet mystique and power?

Was this the first blossoming of love?

A hard nugget of jealousy settled beneath my heart, when I had been so assured of the rightness of my return. Now, suddenly, I was not so sure.

The Chamberlain stepped beside me. ‘Lady Katherine de Swynford, my lord. My lady.'

At last I was announced, bringing to an end the private conversation. I worked at a smile and curtsied, before walking slowly forward.

‘We are pleased to see you returned to our household, Lady Katherine.' Constanza smiled thinly. ‘We hope that you will stay longer this time.'

‘It is my intention, my lady,' I responded carefully, not looking at the Duke.

‘It seems that I am not to have the benefit of your company. Unfortunately I am to be relieved of your experience with young children.'

A cold finger drew a line along my spine. I was no longer one of her immediate household. I looked into her lovely face, expecting disgust, horror, hatred even, knowing that I would react with fury if I, the legitimate wife, was forced to face the brazen mistress in her own chamber. Had she dismissed me? What was I doing here, if she had refused to take me back?

But Constanza's face was smoothly expressionless within the border of her severe crispinette and barbette, as she waved me towards the Duke.

All movement, all expression on his face stilled as I curtsied
again, then he was holding out his hand to take mine and draw me into their company.

‘As my wife says, we are pleased to see you returned to our household, Lady Katherine, now that your estate matters allow.'

Slowly, not to draw attention, I withdrew my hand from his.

‘It is my wish,' the Duke announced with unquestionable propriety, ‘that you to take up the post of
magistra
to my children.'

I tried not to allow my face to express my astonishment, and since no one showed any surprise, I must have been successful.
Magistra
. A position of authority, of very public recognition of my talents. I sank into a curtsy, head bowed to hide my glowing cheeks, that little moment of panic dispelled.

Why had he not told me of this plan? Because it was not in his nature to do so, I reminded myself. I must never forget that. The Duke decided and carried out his wishes with recourse to no one. Sometimes I still forgot that he was a man who never questioned the absolute authority instilled in his royal blood. He had decided; thus it would be.

‘Such a position is entirely appropriate for one of your standing,' he was explaining. ‘You were educated under my mother's aegis. I can think of no one better to take on the responsibility. You will oversee the education of my daughters, and also my son Henry until he is of age to have a tutor and take up military skills. I expect them to read and to write, to master languages, literature. To behave with courtesy as becomes my children. To sing and dance with grace…'

He paused, perhaps expecting a response from me. ‘What
do you think, Lady Katherine?' he enquired gently when he received none.

‘I have no words, my lord,' I managed.

All I could think of was that the Duke had done this for me. He had cushioned my return in every possible way, seeing for himself, the false posturing that my service to Constanza would engender. He had done this, to remove me from the close-knit atmosphere of the solar with all its household politics and gossip and female disparagements. I had been mistaken in thinking that I had no place in this household. Instead, at the Duke's behest, I had been honoured beyond all my hopes and knew that I was made welcome.

‘You are unusually lacking in comment, Katherine,' Lady Alice remarked with spiked humour, coming to my side to plant a warm kiss on my cheek.

‘I am overcome with the position I have been given,' I responded quickly, nudging myself from astonishment into good manners. ‘My thanks, my lord. It will please me to serve you well.'

I was saved from the moral discomfort of rubbing shoulders with Constanza every day. I was protected from my sister Philippa's frequent inquisitions, which would surely follow my reinstatement here.

I had returned and my heart rejoiced.

When the Duke came to me that night, in the room that I, in my new advancement, no longer had to share with anyone, it was in the spirit of celebration. Within seconds of his closing the door I was swept into his arms, held tight, and my face and lips covered with kisses.

‘Do I presume that you are pleased to see me returned?' I asked, when I could.

‘How can you doubt it?' the Duke replied, his hands closing around my waist, lifting me to my toes to plant another kiss on my lips. ‘I have missed you, Katherine, as a man in a desert misses a draught of ale. I am no more than a dried husk.'

‘You look very healthy to me,' I observed.

‘You did not see me yesterday!'

‘I wish I had. I have been gone too long from you.'

At which the Duke nibbled along my collarbone. ‘You are as delicious as a platter of French strawberries. I'll sing to you, my lady fair and woo you back to me with rich sentiments.'

And he did, but it was a strange choice he made. At supper the minstrels had sung, a song of longing with plangent chords and wistful words. Picking up my lute, the Duke sang the words to me again, beautiful, certainly, but entirely ambiguous is their meaning. Did he know? Or was it merely a song that was in his mind? I listened to the words I knew well.

Abruptly he stopped singing as if the mood of the song touched him, head bent to watch his soft fingering on the
strings. When he made no comment, I was moved to ask, but keeping my tone light: ‘Inordinate love? Is that what it is, John? Is that what afflicts us?'

Slowly, frowning slightly, he put aside the lute, choosing his words with care. ‘I know not. All I know is that I lack the will to step away from you. If it is insanity,' he picked up the sentiments of the song, ‘it binds me to you.'

But do you love me? Do you not love me as I love you?

I almost asked it, breaking the vow I had made on that first day at The Savoy. But did not, because I feared the answer. Instead, keeping lightly the Duke's theme: ‘And if it is a frenzy of mind, then I am frenzied. But I am not blind to the pain it can cause others.'

‘Nor am I blind.' His eyes rested on my face and I returned the regard. The regret I read there touched me with sorrow, for it might be a regret that he could not truly love me as I loved him. Always careful with my choice of words, I never burdened him with the depth of my feelings for him. Would not placing such an obligation at his feet undermine the foundations of what we had together? The Duke needed me, and that must be enough. I would play the role allotted to me with grace.

‘It is a great hunger,' I offered, returning to the song, and was instantly soothed by the answering smile.

‘Agreed. And a sugared sweetness.'

‘And there is much inextinguishable burning—that is also true,' I urged, allowing him with a shiver of anticipation to alight kisses on my wrists.

‘I am on fire,' the Duke said, and lunged.

Only after the kisses had worked their way to my elbow, to my shoulder and then my throat, was I abandoned, and
the Duke, with a glitter of pure male gallantry, took up the lute again and with a troubadour swagger coupled with a provocative leer broke into a quite different refrain, obliterating any memory of regret:

‘John!' I remonstrated, as he snatched the requisite kisses between each line of the song.

‘Katherine!' the Duke responded with a crow of laughter before he tossed the lute aside and seized my hands in his. ‘Whatever the emotion that touches us, it is not devoid of happiness. You are all my happiness.' He lifted my hands in quick succession to his lips. ‘Ah, Katherine. Don't repine, dear heart. They're only words after all, troubadour's fripperies. Let us celebrate your return. Come and show me with your kisses that this is no sweet error.'

Only empty words? They were not empty for me, but I placed my hands in his and returned his salute.

‘There is no error,' I assured.

‘Then come and show me, for I have sorely missed you.'

Our reunion of the flesh, and of spirit, was sweet indeed. Passionate, possessive, demanding, deliciously seductive, the Duke was all of these and I would refuse none of it.

Chapter Nine

M
y role as
magistra
was one into which I could slide effortlessly. As the Duke had observed, my own tuition at Court had been unstinting. The ducal children, and my own, would benefit from those rigorous demands, and from my own ability to engage in polite conversation, walk gracefully, hold a tune and entertain competently on the strings of a lute. I found myself able to apply my skills with confidence.

There was only one rule to be followed to the exclusion of all else. Reticence must command with an iron hand. Discretion must guide my every action.

I became used to seeing the Duke: at a distance, at close quarters in the midst of his family, but in public always with that careful separation between us. There must be no suspicion, no careless moment of intimacy to cause an in-drawing of breath from a casual observer. No indiscreet comment that presumed knowledge that should not exist. How it kept me on my toes, to dance to this complicated tune. And I learned to tolerate that void between us, knowing that it
would be bridged when he could. His awareness of me was a tangible thing, but handled with delicacy.

The pattern of my days was laid down when we went hawking in the marshes across the river: a family party on horseback, a noisy collection of children with servants to accompany and safeguard. Constanza too, who relished the exercise, and her damsels.

He was frequently with Constanza in those days.

Sister Philippa rode at my side as I kept an eye on Elizabeth who was headstrong. Henry and my son Thomas had their heads together in some plotting. Perhaps one day, I thought absently but with no real hope, my son John would participate in such an outing as this with his father. For there in the midst was the Duke, a keen owner of a new pair of goshawks.

We flew them at pigeons and wading water-birds.

When the Duke handed a little merlin to me, our gloved hands touched as they must. How was it possible to experience the heat of another's hand through two layers of stitched leather of the hawking gloves?

Neither of us exhibited any acknowledgement.

But afterwards, when the falconer returned the hawks to their perches, and the children were engaged in their afternoon occupations, when Constanza knelt at her prie-dieu to petition God for a son and Philippa cared for Katalina, he came to me in my chamber and all my yearnings were fulfilled. When he possessed me, I was a willing captive.

The rumours began, as they must. Did we think we could exist on our gilded cloud of secrecy for ever? Only a fool would give any weight to the possibility.

What was it that drew attention?

I knew not.

First the whispering started, the sibilance of words cut off, or almost smothered, when I entered the room. Constanza's damsels, like their mistress, had a better command of French now, and their vocabulary was not always that of gently reared women. Even when the consonants were hissed in pure Castilian, their meaning was clear. A minor inconvenience, I told myself. I was no naïve girl to believe that so physical an affair could remain a secret in the hotbed of the Duchess's household where gossip was the order of the day. They dared not be overtly discourteous, and they were careful not to express their opinions in the Duchess's company.

The observations were predictable, I supposed.

Who was ever to know the source of such rumours? What I did know was that it would only be a matter of time before the torrid Castilian details came to Constanza's ear. And then, would she insist on my dismissal to rid herself of my contaminating presence?

It worried me enough for me to consider: what would the Duke do if caught in a direct line of conflict between wife and mistress? As a man of honour, of known chivalry, he could hardly support his mistress before his royal wife. As a man of ambition, he could not ignore the wishes of a wife who could bring him the crown of Castile for his own.

I set my teeth and applied myself to the raising of my lover's children, trying not to allow my thoughts to linger with my own small son so far away. I had made my bed. Now I must lie in it, with all the confidence and composure I could muster. When the vile accusations reached me, I raised my chin and pretended that I was invulnerable.

But I could not lay claim to a thickness of skin for long. A constant irritant must soon cause an abrasion, like a stone in the heel of a shoe, and the abrasion showed signs of becoming an open wound when my sister heard the rumbling undercurrent from her solar companions. Nor was that the worst of it. For when our paths crossed, as they must in one of our sojourns at The Savoy, there deep in conversation with Philippa was a figure I could not mistake, and who I wished in that moment of recognition far from England's shores.

Short and stout, son of a London Vintner and so not of Philippa's social worth—which always rankled with her—Geoffrey Chaucer was the other half of her arranged marriage and a man of many things. Most dangerously, a man of clever mind and wicked pen. A shame, I thought, as I approached them, that he didn't love my sister as much as he loved his books. They were clearly, audibly arguing. I considered walking smartly past, but then slowed my steps. Argument was a frequent occurrence in that marriage and I was not without sympathy for Philippa. I might rescue her.

‘Where are you going?' my sister demanded of him.

‘You know better than to ask.' Geoffrey grinned. The world of cynical patience on his lips would have driven a better woman to harsh words.

‘So when will you be back? Can you tell me that?'

‘When the royal business is done.'

A writer of naughty verses but a sublime wit, a composer of poetry, of songs and ballads under the generous patronage of the Duke, Geoffrey looked ripe for escape.

Hearing me approach, he looked over his shoulder. ‘Katherine…'

Our eyes were not quite on a level, and so he had perforce to stretch to kiss my cheek, while his eyes gleamed, sharp as a hunting knife, with some unspoken idea that I thought I might not like.

‘Geoffrey,' I replied. I was always careful around him, what I said and did not say. Every mild, insubstantial implication could be caught up like a pike snapping up a summer mayfly in its maw for he had an unrivalled way with words. ‘So you are telling us nothing?'

‘As usual,' Philippa said, unable to risk rising to the bait.

‘Out and about on the King's secret affairs?' I suggested with a smile.

As well as a man of letters, Geoffrey was also a military man. A courier. A spy, some said. I could well believe it.

‘Of course.' He made a neat little bow. ‘It is my employment. Even if my wife still takes exception to it.'

‘I take exception because I am not considered important enough to know of your business dealings,' his wife retaliated.

‘What you don't know you can't gossip about. Do you lack for anything?'

‘Nothing that you are willing to give me!'

I sighed quietly. How they ever had children together when they spent so little time in each other's company and with so little charity between them I could not guess. Then Geoffrey's eyes slid to fix on mine. Bright as an acquisitive magpie locating something desirable.

‘And what of you, Katherine? I'm hearing astonishing things about you.'

‘Now what could they be?' My insouciance was marvellous considering the sudden beat of my heart. I had no wish to be portrayed in any manner, good or bad, by his greedy pen.

‘I'll not say…Or not yet. I'll consider it. Now I'm off.'

He saluted my cheek again, whispering, ‘There are many who will say. Watch your step, Lady de Swynford.' He landed a brief peck on Philippa's cheek and strolled out.

I would have followed.

‘Is it true?'

Philippa thrust out a hand to stop me, her brows climbing to her plucked hairline, mine tightening into a straight line that could quickly become a frown. I had anticipated this confrontation almost as much as I feared the one with Constanza.

‘Is what true?' I withdrew my sleeve from her clasp, praying that she had not uttered one word of her suspicions to her husband. Who knew where he might turn his agile mind next? Geoffrey, fervent admirer of Duchess Blanche that he was, had been pleased to portray the Duke as the grieving widower in his
Book of the Duchess
. He might equally well turn him into a pariah if he caught any whiff of scandal.

‘Whore? Harlot? Is it true?'

And here was Philippa, selecting the most common of the words, as she worked out her fury with Geoffrey on me. My earlier compassion drained fast away.

‘Yes.' What use in denying it? The words still echoed in my head from the breaking of our fast, murmured over the ale and bread so that I would hear. ‘Although I would not have put it in quite those terms.'

The damsels had, more fluently.
Puta. Hija de Puta
.
Mujerzuela
. Even in their own tongue, the meaning was ugly. Whore. Slut. Harlot.

‘And when were you going to tell me?' Philippa demanded, hard-eyed. ‘Or is your sister no longer in your confidence?'

‘I'm sorry. I should have told you.' I would apologise for a sin of omission but nothing else. I held her stare as we stepped aside when a maid from the dairy came between us bearing a round of cheese. Philippa picked up her weapons as soon as the cheese was gone.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself. But I don't suppose you are, or you would not be back here. You would be holed up at Kettlethorpe.'

I stiffened. I took up the challenge immediately.

‘No. I am not ashamed. I love him, and I'll not ask your permission, your approval or your forgiveness. It is not your affair, Philippa.' Yes, it was a curt reply but I could see from her face that there would be no understanding from her. ‘Now, if you will let me pass…' The damsels' words had ruffled me more than I had cared to admit.

Philippa stepped again to bar my way.

‘And I suppose you do have a son, as the Castilian bitches say?' she murmured. At least she kept her voice down. ‘Would you not have found the opportunity to tell me that either? That I have a bastard nephew by the Duke of Lancaster?'

No, I had never told her. I had told no one. And as I sensed a gloss of hurt running over her accusations, I felt a little flicker of regret that my sister should have discovered the truth from cruel gossip. Why had I not told her?
Because I did not want to hear those crude words on the lips of my own sister.

‘Yes. I do have a son,' I replied, keeping my voice quiet in the confined space as unlooked for emotion struck at me. ‘He is called John. He is almost three months old, and bears too much resemblance to the Duke for me to bring him with me. I love him with all my heart. And I miss him.'

Philippa was unmoved. ‘And you are a hypocrite, sister Kate. You are here under false pretenses. In her household—or as near as—and she does not know. I pity her, and I condemn you for your cruelty.'

This is what I had dreaded. Philippa's marriage to Geoffrey Chaucer had brought her no joy and had hardened her spirit.

‘Oh, Philippa!' Suddenly overwhelmed with remorse for her loveless state, I touched her arm. ‘I am sorry for your own squabbles with Geoffrey, but what I do or do not do has no bearing on it. Nor did I steal the Duke's love from Constanza.'

‘You don't know that! Is that what he tells you?'

‘Yes, he does.'

‘Well, he would, wouldn't he?'

‘He would not lie to me, I know that. Their marriage was one of political expediency, as she would be the first to admit. I cannot bear guilt for her dissatisfaction, just as I cannot live my life to please you. I am not responsible for the lack of satisfaction in your own marriage.'

Philippa visibly flinched as if I had struck her cheek. We never talked of her unhappiness.

‘I do not expect you to live your life to please me.'

‘Yet you think I should repudiate the man I love.'

‘Yes, I do, when we all live cheek by jowl…'

‘Would you?' I asked.

‘Would I what?'

‘If you loved your husband so much that he occupies your every thought, would you not follow him to the ends of the earth?' She flushed. ‘I know there is little between you. But if there were…'

‘We are not talking about me.'

‘No. You are picking apart my emotions, my morals. My private life.'

‘You have no private life.'

‘But you do not have the right to hang it out to dry for the damsels to gloat over.'

It silenced her.

‘All I ask is that you do not add your own voice to the gossip. And,' I added, trying a smile, ‘that you do not entertain Geoffrey with the details. I don't wish to be pilloried in some fashionable song. Will you do that for me?'

‘Oh, I'll not talk about it to anyone,' Philippa responded, rejecting my olive branch. ‘I am not proud of what my sister is doing, even if she claims to be lost in love. Is that why you received such an astonishing annuity from the Duke? For your offices in his bed?'