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‘Love is soft and love is sweet, and speaks in accents fair;
Love is mighty agony, and love is mighty care:
Love is utmost ecstasy and love is keen to dare,
Love is wretched misery: to live with, it’s despair…’
She leaned to nudge me with a knowing elbow.
‘But to live without it is even worse,’ she added in an aside accompanied by an arch look.
I was sorry to see her go at Lincoln.
‘I need to offer a prayer for inflammation of the knees,’ she said with a roguish wink. ‘And other bits of me. I’ll not be able to go on pilgrimages for ever.’ The badges on her cloak glinted in the cold light. ‘Make the most of your youth, my girl. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’ With broad fingers, surprisingly agile, she unpinned one of her badges showing the Virgin seated in Majesty under a canopy, with the Christ child in her arms. ‘Take this. One of my better ones—pewter rather than lead—can’t afford the silver. From Our Lady’s Shrine at Walsingham. She’ll keep you safe.’
Mistress Saxby patted my hand as her face grew sombre. ‘If you do take this man, what I would say is: beware of the wife. It’s easy to be carried away by the glamour of stolen kisses, but a wife can make your life a misery. Take my word for it.’
‘I have no intention of crossing the path of his wife.’
Mistress Saxby’s sharply cynical smile returned.
‘As you wish, mistress, as you wish. Depends how fervent his kisses are, I’d say. Or how bottomless his purse!’
A hitch of her broad shoulders and she was gone, but her advice occupied my mind, all the way to Kettlethorpe. And then I abandoned it, because what Mistress Saxby might choose to do with her life was not for the Lady of Kettlethorpe. Besides, there was no choice for me to make. The Duke, in typical Plantagenet manner, had swept me aside as if I were no more than a young hound under his feet. Something much desired in one instance could become a matter for boredom in the blink of an eye.
Chapter Three (#ulink_07340b78-63c3-535b-86d9-9ff9468191a4)
The rank poverty of Kettlethorpe settled over me in a desolation, as thick and dark as one of the boiled blood puddings that my cook was too keen on stirring up. Three thousand acres my son held here, and all of it either sand or stone or thick forest. Of good soil there was none; the land was incapable of producing anything other than a poor yield of hay, flax or hemp, and the meadows flooded regularly. Ruinous was the only word to come to mind as the mean houses came into view. The village looked run down, grim with deprivation, and so did my manor.
No surprise then that Hugh had sold his soldiering skills. Not that life as a soldier was anything but his first preference. If it was a choice of riding off to war or tilling the land, farming came a long way second, even if it meant being absent from me for most of our short married life. I considered, not for the first time, how I had managed to conceive three children. But I had, and they were my blessing.
For a moment the hall was silent except from the drip of water into a wooden bucket and the distant irritable bark of a dog. Then a rush of feet, followed by an authoritarian voice. I opened my arms, and into them fell Margaret, growing awkwardly at six years, and Thomas who at four had more noisy energy than he could control. I kissed Margaret, as self-contained as Blanche, and hugged Thomas until he squirmed for release. Hugh’s heir. Hugh’s pride and joy and hope for the future.
And there was Agnes Bonsergeant, my own nurse, who had come with me to Kettlethorpe, and did not mince her words as she clasped her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheeks.
‘I thought we might not see you for a little while yet. You were not offered a position with the new Duchess then?’
‘No.’ Stripping off my gloves enabled me to hide my expression.
‘Why not?’
I sighed silently, hoping she did not notice. ‘The Duke was busy. The Prince is ill, the King fading.’
‘Nothing new in that. I thought that he might have valued your service—his wife carrying a child and all. Nothing like a mother with healthy children to give good advice. I’d have snapped you up.’
‘So I hoped. Her own childhood nurse attends her. And her sister travels with her. Why would she need more?’
I did not want to answer any more questions.
‘Still…you look pale, Katherine.’
‘Tired, that’s all,’ I admitted, allowing Margaret to pull me into the private chamber.
‘And Blanche? How is my little Blanche?’ Agnes asked, collecting up Thomas with an experienced arm.
‘Well. They are all well. Lady Alice sends her best wishes to you and wishes a fine husband on you.’ I sank onto a settle by the fire. ‘It’s good to be home.’
Agnes grunted at the suggestion of a husband, fine or otherwise. ‘We have some problems.’
I raised my brows. ‘Some wine first, I think. Then the bad news.’
And while I drank, Agnes told me of the leaking roof, the pest that had affected the chickens, the poor quality wood, and lack of it, set aside for burning. We were short of ale, the last delivery being sour. A request that the road over towards Coleby should be improved at my expense—the list went on.
‘It’s not good,’ I said.
‘Nor is this place good for your health. Or the children’s. You could go into Lincoln. Hire a house there for the winter.’
‘I have no money to be spent on hiring houses. If I have no money to mend the roof, or pay to bring Hugh’s body home, I have no right to squander what I have where it is not necessary.’ I watched Thomas. We had given him a wooden sword for a New Year gift, which he wielded with dangerous vigour. Would he choose to be a soldier like Hugh? ‘How would I forgive myself if I had nothing to give Thomas but a worn-down inheritance, and me sitting in luxury in Lincoln?’
‘Hardly in luxury…’
‘We must do what we can. I suppose the roof is the first priority.’
‘A position at court would have solved the problem.’
‘But I haven’t got one,’ I snapped, then immediately regretted it when Agnes scowled as if I were an ill-mannered child. ‘I ask pardon, Agnes. I am more weary than I thought.’ Then on impulse: ‘Mistress Saxby said I should take a man to my bed.’
‘Did she now. And who is Mistress Saxby?’
‘A pilgrim with a practical turn of mind.’
‘A man would double your problems, some would say!’
And at last I laughed. She was doubtless right. Agnes had never married nor ever would. Her opinion of Hugh had not been high.
‘I have not come home empty-handed,’ I announced before Agnes could consider asking me if I had any particular man in mind. And from my saddle bag I brought sweetmeats for Margaret and Thomas, a length of fine wool of a serviceable dark blue, well wrapped in leather for Agnes.
‘From Lady Alice. She thinks we live in dire penury. I think she assessed the value of the clothes on my back and found them wanting.’
‘She would be right. Did she give you anything?’
‘No.’
I kept the pilgrim’s badge in my scrip, even when I had considered pinning it to Margaret’s bodice. I would keep it for myself, a memento of a very female heart-to-heart.
‘And how was Lord John?’ Agnes asked as, much later, we sat at supper, an unappetising array of pottage and beans and a brace of duck. ‘Apart from being busy.’
‘Why?’ I was immediately on guard.
‘Because he is the only member of the household you have not talked of.’
It was a jolt, but I forced myself to smile, my muscles to relax as I considered my reply, finding a need to dissemble. Agnes of the suspicious mind was watching me. With an arm around her shoulders, I hugged her close. She was very dear to me.
‘Conspicuous,’ I remarked. A word that barely did justice to the Duke’s eye-catching quality, but it would satisfy Agnes. ‘When is he ever not?’
And just as enigmatic, I could have added, but didn’t. Agnes’s eye would have become even more searching. Meanwhile, the Duke’s disturbing assertions continued to echo in my mind like the clang of the passing bell.
‘Visitors, my lady. And by the look of them, they’ve travelled far.’
‘It’s not the Duke of Lancaster, is it?’ I asked caustically.
Master Ingoldsby looked puzzled. ‘Why no, mistress. I’d not say so. Did we expect his lordship?’
I squeezed his arm, sorry to have taken advantage of his limitations. Grey of hair, his face deeply lined, Master Ingoldsby’s years were catching up with him. ‘No, we did not. I doubt he’ll find a path to my door.’
The Duke’s carnal desire for me had died a permanent death. It must be something of a relief to both of us.
I was in the cellars, bewailing the contaminated hams—the roofleaked here also—and assessing the barrels of inferior ale, when Master Ingoldsby came to hover at my shoulder. I left the hams and ale willingly, and went out into the courtyard, tucking the loose strands of my hair beneath my hood, considering whether it might be my sister Philippa. I did not think so. Life in the country did not suit my sister, a town mouse, born and bred.
And no it was not. The sound of horses’ hooves greeted me and the lumbering creak and groan of a heavy wagon on the road, and as I walked out past the gatehouse, I saw that the wagon had an escort of men, without armour or livery to help my identification, but well-mounted with an impressive array of weapons. As Lady of Kettlethorpe I would have to offer them hospitality. I wondered if my cook could stretch our supper of mutton collops and a dish of salt cod to accommodate another half-dozen mouths. Something, I supposed, could be achieved with bread, eggs and a hearty pottage, as I walked towards the man who had already dismounted and was pulling off his hood as he bowed. His expression was severe, his carriage upright, and I thought he had the look of a soldier despite his advancing years.
‘Lady Katherine de Swynford…’
‘Sir?’
The man inclined his head. ‘I am instructed to deliver this to you.’ He raised his chin in the direction of the wagon. ‘I am Nicholas Graves, my lady. A soldier by profession.’
The ever-present nerves in my belly settled, assuaged by his courtesy. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
Intrigued, I walked to the wagon, expecting I knew not what as he drew back the heavy canvas cover.
‘Oh!’
It took me a moment to acknowledge what I saw. A large linen-wrapped bundle of what would be pieces of armour and mail, another swathed roll of knightly weapons. A worn travelling coffer. A smaller box with a lock. And over all was draped a banner. A sea of silver, divided by the slash of a black chevron, three snarling boars heads in gold, teeth and tongues gleaming through the wear and tear of warfare.
The possessions and accoutrements of a knight on military service.
My attention was drawn back to the box with the locked lid. Someone had carved a chevron and three boars’ heads on it, rough but recognisable. It was the small size of it…and as truth struck home at last, my knees buckled and I found myself clinging to the side of the wagon. Then Agnes was beside me, an arm around my shoulder, and Master Ingoldsby had a grip of my arm.
‘I was ordered to arrange to conduct Sir Hugh’s possessions home, my lady,’ the soldier said.
‘Hugh…’ I whispered.
‘Yes, my lady.’ He looked at me as if he expected me to collapse at his feet, but I was made of sterner stuff than that.
‘How did he die?’ I asked as the driver climbed from his seat and began to unload the wrapped pieces of armour. My voice seemed faint to my ears and far away. I was shivering uncontrollably, but it was not the cold of the little wind that had picked up.
‘Dysentery, my lady,’ he replied laconically. ‘He was too ill to travel home in September. We thought he was growing stronger—but he failed. In November.’
‘Yes, I knew it was November. I was told.’ I frowned at the fiercely grinning boars’ heads, hating their vigour. ‘But I did not arrange this. I cannot pay.’ Now I heard the panic in my voice. I had visions of these sad remnants being taken away from me, because I did not have the coin to pay the driver of the wagon or the escort. Where would I find the money for this? I felt Agnes shift her grip and her hands closed tighter on my shoulders.
‘There is no need for your concern. It is all paid for, my lady.’
‘Who paid for it? Who arranged it?’
‘My lord arranged it.’
I shook my head. I could not seem to take my eyes from the battered gauntlet that had slid from its wrapping and lay, fingers curled upwards.
‘The Duke arranged it all. I serve him, my lady. The Duke of Lancaster.’ As if he was addressing a want-wit. ‘And I am instructed to give you these.’ He pushed into my hand two leather bags, one large and one small, and two folded letters.
I blinked as I exhaled slowly. So this was the Duke’s doing.
‘Sir Hugh’s body was too…’ Master Graves began, then bit off his words. ‘Given the circumstances—well, it was decided to bring only his heart back here to England.’
‘Yes…’
‘My lady…?’ I became aware of my steward looking to me for orders. I must think about the Duke of Lancaster’s gift to me, but not now. Not yet.
‘If one of your men could take the…the heart to the church, sir,’ I said, pointing to where the tower of the little church of St Peter and St Paul could be seen behind a stand of trees. And to Master Ingoldsby: ‘And these men need ale, if we can find any fit to drink. Then food.’
How superbly practical I had become as a warmth bloomed in my belly that Hugh’s heart had been brought home. It was enough, and what he would have wanted. Later I would open the other packages brought by Master Graves. Later I would read the two letters. Then I would supervise the cleaning, repair and storing of Hugh’s armour, which would one day belong to Thomas.
And I would, of necessity, consider the implications of such generosity from the Duke, for it was no light matter. Such open-handedness would put me under an obligation.
For no reason that I could fathom, Mistress Saxby of the wide hips and wider hat swayed flirtatiously into my mind. A lady might accept a mirror or a girdle from her lover. Or even a pair of gloves, for they were symbols of a true affection.
What if the impatient lover gave the gift of the husband’s heart? The Duke had restored the only remnant of my dead husband to me, with the money to assure a tomb of some magnificence. The Duke had given far more than a passing thought to what I would most desire. Where did a dead husband’s heart weigh in Mistress Saxby’s assessment?
I had no idea. For a moment I wished she was there in her jingling pilgrim’s garb to advise me.
I knew that would not serve. Any decision I made must be on my own conscience.
The larger leather purse hardly needed investigation. I could tell by its weight that it contained a sum of money sufficient to inter Hugh with honour. I pushed it aside. It meant much to me to be able to pay for an effigy on Hugh’s tomb at the hand of a true craftsman, but it was the demands of the living, not the dead, that drew my eye. Lingering in the hall, I addressed the letter that I considered to be the more innocent of the pair, carrying it to a cresset, my nose wrinkling at the stench of hot fat. The wick needed trimming. It was all a far cry from the fine wax candles of The Savoy.
And there it was. What I had hoped for.
To Lady Katherine de Swynford,
Monseigneur de Lancaster has expressed a wish for your attendance and future service at The Savoy. It is expected that the Duchess of Lancaster, Constanza, Queen of Castile, will make her entry into London in the second week in February. As a valued member of Duchess Blanche’s household, and in recognition of Sir Hugh Swynford’s valuable contribution in
Aquitaine as Monseigneur de Lancaster’s retainer, a place is offered to you in the household of the Duchess Constanza.
Your remuneration will be generous.
We expect to see you forthwith.
It had the pompous tone of a demand rather than a request, much as I would expect from Sir Thomas Hungerford, the Lancaster steward who exercised his authority over all the ducal properties in the south, but my heart leaped, and I was smiling as my eye ran down to the less formal hand, added at the bottom. Lady Alice had applied her own brand of entreaty.
