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‘What do I do?’ I asked aloud, then winced at the crack of despair in my voice.
There was no one to give me advice.
I imagined what Queen Philippa might have said to me. Raised by her, educated by her at the English court, the wife of King Edward the Third had been my model of perfect womanhood: a woman without physical comeliness, but with a beauty of soul that outmatched any I knew.
‘Duty, Katherine!’ she would have said. ‘It is for you to carry the burdens. You are twenty-two years old and Lady of Kettlethorpe. When you wed Sir Hugh Swynford you took on the responsibility of your position. You will not abandon it when your feet are wet and rats scurry around your ankles. That is not how I raised you. You have the tenacity to make something of Kettlethorpe, and you will.’
I sighed, the tenacity at a low ebb, even though I admitted the truth of her knowledge of me. No, of course I would not abandon it. That was not my way, for the Queen’s principles had been lodged firmly in my heart. What I did not have was the financial resource to improve my lot.
Despondent, I stepped to the centre of my hall where a fire burned with smouldering reluctance, and turned slowly round, pushing my hood back to my shoulders. The walls were running wet in places. The haze of smoke that never cleared tainted everything with acrid stench, for which there was no remedy that I could afford. I could not even think of installing a wall chimney.
‘God will give you his grace, and the Virgin her compassion. Go to your prie-dieu, Katherine.’ Queen Philippa again, framing my face with her hands as she imparted to me her own rigorous strength.
Certainly I would go to my knees before this day was out—was not the Blessed Virgin my solace in all adversity? But on this occasion I needed coin as much as the Virgin’s blessings. I rubbed my hands together, regretting the abrasions, the ugly burn on my wrist where one of the torches, flaring, had caught me unawares. Once my hands had been soft, my nails perfectly pared. Once my gown pleased me with the soft rustle of silk damask rather than the roughness of this coarse wool, the only cloth fit for the tasks that fell to me. Silk skirts did not sit well with wringing the neck of a scrawny fowl for dinner.
I sighed a little.
Once I had been honoured, chosen as a damsel in Duchess Blanche of Lancaster’s household. I covered my face with my hands, shutting out the images of that pampered life of luxury at The Savoy Palace, for here, around me, was the reality of my present existence. At The Savoy I never had to sweep up the evidence left by a pair of doves roosting in the rafters overnight and now shuffling into wakefulness. Now I clapped my hands, frightening them into flight and further fouling of the floor.
There was one remedy, of course, to all this destitution. Duchess Blanche was dead these past three years, but the Duke had a new wife. Would there not be a place for me there, where I might earn enough to put all to rights? Where I might, in ducal employ once again, acquire sufficient money to ensure a better home for my son to inherit?
Why not? Why should I not return to the world I knew and loved? Surely, given my previous experience, there was some role that I could fulfil. Queen Philippa would have sanctioned it as an eminently practical decision for me to make in the circumstances.
I flapped my hands to disperse the smoke and a few downy feathers that still hung in the air and marched across to the stairs, to climb to my private chamber where I cast aside the heavy cloak. Lifting the lid of my coffer, I sifted through the layers of court dress, the fragile cloth sadly marked with moth and mildew however careful my attention with lavender and sage leaves, and lifted out a much treasured mirror. Opening the ivory case, dull with disuse, I wiped the moisture from the glass on my bodice and looked.
I pursed my lips.
‘Who are you, Katherine de Roet?’ I asked.
Katherine de Swynford now, of course, married and widowed. Suddenly distracted, I turned my head. Children’s voices, raised in sharp complaint, sliced through the silence, but then dissolved into laughter, and I returned to my critical survey. I considered my hair, tightly braided and pinned, dark gold with damp, and dishevelled where the pins had come adrift under my hood. Darker brows took my eye. Once I might have plucked them into perfection, but no more. A rounded face, with soft cheeks and soft lips, a little indented at the corners with my present excess of emotion. A generous mouth, quick to smile, yet any softness there was belied by a direct stare. I raised my brows a little. No one would accuse me of shyness nor, brought up as I was in the strictest canons of propriety, of frivolity, yet I enjoyed all the comfort that wealth and consequence could bring, and to which I no longer had access.
And I wished with all my heart that I enjoyed that consequence again.
It was not a plain face that looked back at me. True, such enhancements as I might have worn at court were entirely absent. Indeed, it could have been, I decided, the face of one of my kitchen maids with that suspicion of dust along the edge of my jaw where I had rubbed at it with my sleeve. The mirror was misted again, and I polished it on my hip. They said I was beautiful. That I had the look of my late mother whom I had never known. Perhaps I was, although I thought my sister had more claims to beauty than I.
What was I looking for? What had driven me to resort to my mirror? Not the symmetry of my features, but to discover the woman behind them. I tilted my chin, considering what I might see.
Honesty, I hoped. Courage, to seize the opportunity to make more of my life. Not least a determination to live as I had been raised, with integrity and good judgement. That was what I hoped to see.
And perhaps I did see it, as well as the duty to my family name and honour to the Blessed Virgin that had marked every step of my life.
So I would go to The Savoy. I would petition the Duke in the name of my previous service to Duchess Blanche, accepting that I must relinquish my pride for I had a goodly measure of it—but I would do it, for my own sake as well as that of my children. If honesty was strong in me, I must accept that life in a desolate fastness, stretching out changelessly to the end of my days, filled me with dismay, whereas life within the royal court and ducal household with friends from the past beckoned with seductive fingers.
I smiled at the prospect, yet felt my pleasure fade. Replacing the mirror in my coffer, sifting through the words that had slipped through my mind, my heart fell a little at the sheer weight of them. Integrity. Restraint. Respectability. That was to be my life. That was what I knew. I would conduct myself as a respectable widow, unless I was fortunate, one day, to wed again. Queen Philippa would be proud of my strength of will to accomplish it.
My hands, in the act of closing my coffer, paused on the open lid of it, as if reluctant to shut away that reflection of the woman behind the familiar features. How dull, how colourless my chosen life sounded, as even-textured and familiarly unexciting as a line of plainchant. And how prim and prudish the woman who would live it. Was this me? Was this really what I wanted? It was as if I had decided to exist in shades of black and grey and religious observance, when energy, with sly enthusiasm, was surging though my whole body, opening up pictures in my mind of how it would be to sing and dance again, to be courted, to flirt, to exchange kisses in the company of a handsome man who desired me.
Perhaps this was the real Katherine de Swynford, lively and frivolous, thoroughly pleasure-loving, rather than a staid widow who looked for nothing in life but allowing the beads of her rosary to slide through her fingers as she petitioned the Virgin’s grace for herself and her children. The sheer thrill of returning to The Savoy, to a position in the Lancaster household, glowed even brighter in my mind.
And then, as if summoned by my delight, there was the image of the Duke of Lancaster himself, standing in my chamber with the light behind him, as clear as if he were really there, as the sun creates a fantasy when shining through raindrops.
Impressively tall. Impressively proud. Impressively everything.
I considered him in my mind’s eye: Duke John of Lancaster, a man I had known all my life, a man whom I admired. Admired. Yes—that was it, for was it not admiration? A man of wealth and power and striking appearance, the Duke attracted high regard and vilification in equal measure from those who crossed his path. Would I wish to live once again within his forceful presence? Well, why should I not? I might be overawed, overwhelmed by the extent of his authority and the sheer magnetism of his charisma, but I knew him for a man of unfailing chivalry too. He would not cast me adrift. Returning to The Savoy held no fears for me.
Opening my eyes, finding the bright image dispelled, I closed the coffer and locked it, before walking to my open door with a light heart despite my wet stockings, and called down the stairs to my steward.
‘Master Ingoldsby! A moment of your time, if you will.’
And enjoyed a shiver of excitement, such as I had not experienced for too long. I had more important tasks for my steward to supervise than sweeping up after my doves. I was going to The Savoy.
I realised that I was smiling again.
Chapter One (#ulink_6d54c86b-14a1-594c-9840-81c75a108f24)
January 1372: The Savoy Palace, London
It was like a proclamation of royal decree. A command complete with banners, heralds and fanfare. Every muscle in my body tightened, my breath whistled in my throat on a sharp inhalation, and I was no longer smiling. I was not smiling at all.
His voice was impeccably courteous, but the words he uttered sliced through all the bother that had occupied my mind for the past two months with the precision of a rapier. I could not believe what he had just said to me. This Plantagenet prince, so unconsciously dramatic on this winter’s morning, had just carelessly shaken the ground on which I stood.
Yet was he carelessly unthinking? I looked at his face, to find his gaze direct and deliberate, enough to cause an awareness to run along my spine. No, he was not thoughtless at all. He had uttered exactly the notion that had come into his mind.
For my part, I had not foreseen any outcome of this nature. How would I?
And no, it was not like a rapier thrust at all, which would be clean and sharp and precise. This was more like a blast of hellfire. All my previous worries, trivial and domestic as they were now presented to me, all my confidence in my ability to cloak my thoughts in careful restraint, paled into insignificance beside the inherent danger in those chosen words, cast at my feet like a handful of baleful gems.
Cast there by John Plantagenet, royal prince, Duke of Lancaster.
My audience with the Duke, until this verbal cataclysm, had been much as I expected, as I had hoped. He welcomed me with all his customary grace. Had we not been acquainted for many years, since I had been raised from my days as a very youthful Katherine de Roet in the household of Queen Philippa, his lady mother? Our paths had crossed; we had shared meals and festivities. I had been a member of the royal household, held in high regard and affection, both as a child and as damsel to the Duke’s wife, Duchess Blanche. I was assured that whatever the outcome of my plea, the Duke would put me at my ease.
I rose from that first deeply formal curtsy when he had entered his audience chamber. Eyes downcast, breath shallow with nerves—for however well regarded I might be, if he refused I did not know where I would apply for succour—I made my request. It was hard to ask for charity, however gracious and generous the reputation of the benefactor.
‘Lady Katherine.’
‘Yes, my lord. I am grateful.’
His soft boots, the edge, gold-embroidered and exquisitely dagged, of his thigh-length robe, appropriate for some court function in heavily figured damask, came within the range of my vision, and I glanced up, momentarily alerted by a rough timbre in his speaking my name. Nor was the Duke’s expression any more encouraging. His straight brows were level, hinting at a frown, his lips tight-pressed, causing my heart to flutter against my ribs. He was going to refuse me after all. There was no position for me here. By tomorrow I would be back on the road to the fasts of Lincolnshire with nothing to show for my long journey. He would tell me kindly, but he would refuse me.
But then, as he caught some anxiety in my expression, he was smiling.
‘Don’t look so anxious, Lady Katherine. You never used to. Did you think I would turn you from my door?’
The roughness was smoothed away as he touched my arm, a fleeting pressure. My heart’s flutter became a thud.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I murmured.
‘I cannot express my sadness for your husband’s death.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I repeated.
There was nothing else for me to say that would not overwhelm me with one difficult emotion or another. My husband was dead a mere two months, somewhere in the battlefields of Aquitaine.
‘I valued Sir Hugh’s services greatly.’ The Duke paused. ‘And yours have been inestimable. For you, Katherine,’ he lapsed into the more familiar, abandoning the title that had come with my marriage, ‘there will always be a position here.’ And then, with gentleness: ‘Your place in the Duchess Blanche’s household earned you great merit. You must come to us again.’
Relief spread through me, sweet as honey. I sighed imperceptibly. All the fears that had pinioned my mind in recent weeks so that I could not think, could not plan, could not envisage the future, fell away. I would no longer be dependent on the limited revenues from the Swynford estates at Kettlethorpe and Coleby. I would have money to spend on critical refurbishments. My children would lack for nothing.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said for the third time in as many minutes. I seemed to have lost the capacity to form any other response, and for a moment I was touched with a pale amusement. I had not been known for lack of conversation. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I cannot tell you how much that will mean to me.’
‘Is Kettlethorpe very bad?’ he asked. He knew my situation.
‘You have no idea, my lord.’
And with the relief I raised my eyes to his, to discover that he was watching me closely, so that I felt the blood rise to heat my cheeks, and my relief became overlaid with a layer of uncertainty. Perhaps he was waiting for a more effusive sign of my gratitude. After all, I had no claim on him, no tie of duty or blood. Some would say he had done quite enough for me and my family.
Could it be that he thought me unfit for the position I sought? Damsels in royal households were chosen for their elegance and beauty as much as for their practical skills, women worthy in appearance and demeanour to serve the lady. I had done my best. My dark robes were as fine as I could make them, with no remnant of Lincolnshire mud. As for my hands and face, all that could be seen in the all-enveloping shrouding, I had applied the contents of my stillroom with fervour to remedy the effect of Kettlethorpe’s demands. I did not think the Duke would judge me too harshly, knowing my circumstances. And yet his eye had the fierce focus of a raptor.
To deflect the appraisal I launched into what I thought he wanted from me.
‘I cannot express my thanks enough, my lord. I feared for my children, living in hardship. I thought I should not come to you, because although I no longer have a claim on your generosity, Hugh was in your service, and you were good enough to stand godfather to my daughter Blanche. I knew that you would want Hugh’s son, Thomas, to do well in the world, and before God, there is little to give him anything but the most slender of incomes from the Swynford estates. Thomas is still so young and I have not the experience to manage the land well—or the money to do it, of course…’
My words dried. A minute ago I had been impossibly tongue-tied: now I was ridiculously garrulous. Had he not said that he would employ me? My problems were at an end and I could be at peace, but my heart continued to bound like a squirrel caught in a trap as the huntsman approached with a predatory gleam in his eye.
I thought that there might be such a gleam in the royal Duke’s eye, then chided myself. Most likely it was nothing but a shaft of light through the glazed windows, or simply amusement at my lapse into trivialities.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ I found myself saying yet again. His reply was plain. ‘You have asked pardon enough, my lady. You did right to come to me. I will arrange that you take up a position as damsel in my wife’s household.’
He hesitated, the pause drawing out to fill the room. There was no doubt that he was frowning. Apprehension built again, a wad of sheep’s wool to dry my throat.
‘No,’ he said. The harshness of his tone unnerved me. ‘That is not what I want…’ And stretching out a hand towards me, he added: ‘I had forgotten how very beautiful you are. Your face has a grace, a translucent loveliness beyond my recall. And if you deigned to smile at me once in a while, it would illuminate every corner of the room.’
Which robbed me of the ability either to smile or to make any coherent response at all. Not understanding why the Duke should flatter me so highly—or was it flattery?—simply hearing the denial of what he had offered barely a minute ago, I took an uneasy step back, rejecting the thought that he might actually expect me to place my hand in his, and replied to the least shocking part of his speech.
‘Forgive me for being importunate, my lord.’ I forced my voice to remain uninflected. ‘I should leave. Until you have decided where I might be of service. Perhaps at some point in the future. I am sure that with the coming of drier weather in spring the problems of Kettlethorpe will not seem so overwhelming.’
I closed my lips, angry that I had been drawn into such a show of weakness. I would not beg. I would not make more excuses. It not being in my nature to ask again where I had been refused, I curtsied, a brisk farewell. ‘I am grateful that you received me, my lord.’ I turned to walk towards the door, pondering at this strange outcome. The Duke did not have the name for being a man who played fast and loose with the sensibilities of his dependents.
‘Don’t leave, Katherine.’
It was not a request. Suddenly it was very personal, and I halted.
‘Don’t go.’
I looked back over my shoulder but did not turn, my soul thought to depart from that room and the humiliating refusal he had just handed to me.
‘But you said that you did not wish to arrange a position for me, my lord.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then what do you want, my lord?’
An inappropriately peremptory question perhaps, but by now I admitted to profound irritation. His dark hair might lay feathered against brow and cheek, curling immaculately against his neck; his elegant figure might express the epitome of earthly authority; he might be the proudest man I knew; yet he was still a man, prone to strange moments of inconsistency. And, as if to prove me right, he spoke the words that undermined every tenet I had been raised to honour.
‘I don’t want you as governess to my children. I don’t want you as damsel for my wife. I want you. I want you for my own.’
He did not attempt to moderate his voice to any degree, a voice used to issuing commands on a battlefield, in the cut and thrust of Parliament or in fiery debate with merchants over the extortionate level of taxes. The words reached me, with perfect clarity in their meaning.
‘I want you, Lady Katherine de Swynford.’
Now, slowly, every sense suspended in shock, I turned to face him, unable to lower my gaze from his.
‘I want you.’ He strode forward, and before I could thrust them behind my back he had clasped my hands in his. ‘Do you understand what I am saying? I want to kiss you, and I don’t mean a formal salute to your undoubtedly pretty fingertips.’ Which he instantly executed with neat precision. ‘I want to take you to my bed.’
Those fingertips lay nerveless in his clasp, my lips parted, but no words issued. Every sense, every feeling, seemed to be frozen in shock. In outrage when he raised one hand as if he would touch my cheek. I stiffened, anticipating what must surely be a caress. Then he simply ran his fingers along the edge of my veil, putting to rights its elegant fall. And I exhaled slowly, until he demanded:
‘I think you are not averse to me?’ He made of it a question. ‘Katherine…’ There was the exhalation, the familiar impatience that I recognised so well, but his voice and face were as smooth as the silk I had once worn, as I had hoped to wear again. ‘Will you come to me? You are a widow, owing loyalty to no man. You are without a protector. Will you give yourself into my keeping and allow me the honour of being your lover?’
Now I looked at him in sheer disbelief. John of Lancaster, the perfect knight, the most honourable and chivalrous of King Edward the Third’s sons, newly wed to Constanza of Castile a matter of months ago. And I, at twenty-two years widowed and of good repute, raised by his royal mother to uphold all the precepts of piety and virtuous dignity. And he was asking me if I would be his leman.
‘You stir my loins, Katherine de Swynford.’
Well, that pronouncement I could not mistake. The words slammed into my understanding. Was the Duke exerting some droit de seigneur, demanding my compliance? I did not wait the length of a breath to consider and select a reply; there was only one word I could say.
‘No.’ It was as flat a denial as I could summon.
‘Is that a considered refusal?’
‘Yes. My answer is no.’
‘Why not?’
I flushed. His brows indicated that he was surprised. ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘I don’t need to consider it.’ And bracing myself, for John of Lancaster had a chancy temper, I added, in case he had not taken my meaning: ‘My answer is without qualification. No, my lord, I will not. How could you ask it of me?’ I tugged my hands from his, thinking that perhaps I should escape before the torrent was released.
It was too late.
The Plantagenet prince lifted his chin as if he could not envisage a refusal, and then as I tensed against the verbal assault that would assuredly fall on my head, he gave a shout of laughter that reverberated from the walls.
Which was inexplicable. Was he mocking me? I bridled.
‘I see nothing to laugh at,’ I remarked coldly.
On which he stopped to draw in a breath, his eyes still gleaming with whatever it was that had moved him to a show of mirth.
‘You have a way with words, Lady Katherine.’
‘Because I said no?’
‘Exactly. I could not possibly mistake your sentiments, could I?’ He seized my hand again, and before I could stop him, saluted my fingers with a perfect propriety, at the same time as he executed a courtly bow.
