The Scandalous Duchess (29 page)

Oh, John. My love, my dear one. How will you deal with this?

My flesh crept at the image that I could not erase from my mind. Men I had known, men I had conversed with, sat at supper with. Men whom the Duke had known and respected.

The friar's voice trailed off, his tale told, and I dispatched him for food and ale, accompanying him briefly to the kitchens, handing him over to Hugh, the cook, who was avid for news. Here was no place for ungoverned emotions. There was far more of horror and destruction for me to face than the looting of The Savoy. Slowly I returned to my chamber.

‘It is vile.' Waiting for me there, at my side throughout the telling of desperate events and destruction, Philippa sniffed and wiped her eyes.

‘Yes.'

‘Will our household at The Savoy be safe?'

‘I expect they will have taken refuge in the city.' I would not tell her what I knew of the fate of the guards.

Philippa wept again, but I was in control, as cold and restrained as I had ever been. I would not tell her. Or not yet. Perhaps when affairs became clearer and her own emotions were less overthrown. The destruction of stone and timber, gold and jewels was not the worst of it. Yes, they could be replaced by any man of great wealth such as her father. The Duke could rebuild and refashion as magnificently as before. But why had such a vengeful attack been launched against him, even in his absence? Why were even his servants reviled? I knew the answer to that.

On our journey to the kitchens, I had pulled the friar to a halt in the buttery where we would not be overheard. ‘Why was it done?' I held his eyes when they threatened to slide away. ‘What do the rebels say when they set fire to tapestries? When they fling precious vessels into the Thames? Why of all the buildings in London do they disfigure The Savoy?'

The friar's eyes still managed to evade mine.

‘Tell me!' I tightened my grip. ‘I can't believe you don't know.' Finally I sought in the purse at my belt and extracted a coin. ‘This might jog your memory.' I tried not to sneer.

‘Because they fear him. They despise him.' The accusations made my blood run cold. ‘They say he would usurp
the King's throne. “We will have no king named John,” they bellowed as they…'

So simple. And what I had feared. There could be no other reason, could there? The home I had known and loved was destroyed as the ultimate symbol of the Duke himself. Lancaster's home, Lancaster's base in London, from which all his power as royal duke and uncle to the King emanated. And thus it had become the target for all their hatred, as if it were the Duke himself, bruised and battered and destroyed beyond recognition.

‘But why single him out?' Although I knew the answer.

‘They won't blame a fourteen-year-old youth who has barely hair on his cheeks, mistress.'

Of course. They needed a scapegoat, as they had always done. Who better than the man at the young King's right hand? How could they hate him so much?

‘They blame him for their ills,' the monk repeated, as if able to pick up my thoughts. ‘The poll tax is a heavy burden. The lords refuse to pay more for the labour on their estates.' He shrugged, the worn cloth releasing a sour smell. ‘Who to blame but the man whose hand is on the reins of government?'

And the thought crept into my mind. What would they have done to the Duke, if he had been at The Savoy? Would they have treated him with the same lack of respect as they did the contents of his private chapel?

‘What are they saying about the Duke?' My final question before I released the monk to his bread and ale. He did not hesitate. Perhaps he felt the determination in my grip.

‘They demand his head as the worst of all traitors. They've
sent a petition to the young King. They want revenge for their sufferings. The Duke's head will do it.'

Still the questions hammered at my thoughts. Could they not see the Duke's sense of justice, his dedication to England's greatness? Perhaps when the air cooled they would be satisfied with their revenge on property and possessions. What would the Duke do? Would he gather his forces and ride south to put down the rebels in the King's name?

In all the years that I had loved him, I had learned to accept his absences, to govern my own desires to be with him every moment of every day, but in those days at Pontefract I wished I could have been there in Berwick with him. I would have gone to him if I could. Instead, I lived on the edge of an anxiety so sharp that it drove me to my knees in the chapel.

‘Holy Virgin, turn your face towards John of Lancaster. Preserve him from his enemies. Keep him safe from harm. I will offer up a novena if you have mercy on him.'

I lit a candle at the foot of the statue.

If John was spared, I would make recompense. If John was spared I would have candlesticks made in gold for the altar at Kettlethorpe. I smiled as I realised I had called him John in my mind, which I never did. A token of my anxiety.

‘Holy Virgin, have mercy on us both.'

I was reassured by the calm stillness around me. The Blessed Mother would not allow my prayers to go unanswered. The Duke would be safe.

Every day I stood on the battlements at Pontefract and allowed my mind to seek him out. I knew he was alive. I knew he was in health and spirits. Soon we would be together and the ravages of these days would be put right.
He would stand at Richard's side and deal with the rebels with justice and clemency. He would rebuild The Savoy. He would return to me and kiss away my fear. Perhaps I would bear him another Beaufort son. I spread my fingers over the folds of my gown and I smiled.

The sense of him settled on my shoulders, around my heart, as a goose-down quilt on a winter's morn.

There was something wrong. I could not fathom it. All I knew was that there was something out of kilter, something I could not quite see in my mind's eye, or hear; merely the whisper of it in my head when I caught it unawares. The whole castle seemed to be redolent of a sense of unease.

It was not the dire news we had received from the south where events leaped from bad to worse, attacks unbelievably launched against the Duke's castles in Hertford and Leicester. We had thought the Duchess and her household to be safe. Pray God that they had fled, forewarned, perhaps to Kenilworth whose massive walls would hold an entire army at bay.

No, it was not that, although prayer filled our days and fear our nights.

Nor was it the desperate tale from Leicester where the furnishings and ducal possessions, five cart loads of them, were hidden in the churchyard in Newark by a terrified Keeper of the Wardrobe who could find no other refuge, in spite of the Mayor of Leicester calling out the militia to keep order. Even the Abbot had turned him away.

No, it was not that.

We doubled the guards on the walls at Pontefract and watched the road, to north and south. We did not expect the
Duke who was still, as far as we knew, tied up in Scottish negotiations. We would have to stand in our own defence if the rebellion spread its net to encompass us so far north.

But it was not that either. Pontefract was strong and well provisioned. We too could withstand a siege of a major army.

Yet there was something that stirred the atmosphere.

Philippa had become sprightly, displaying an artificial high spirits unlike her usual solemnity, as if she were attempting to obliterate some image too noxious to contemplate. It was as if, in my presence at least, she had set herself to charm and entertain. It had an air of a jester's role about it.

‘Is something troubling you?' I asked, finding her cheerfulness unnerving.

‘Not a thing,' she pronounced. ‘Why?'

‘I just thought…' I did not know what I thought.

Her eye did not quite meet mine. ‘I am in excellent health,' she announced.

‘It's not the prospects for your future marriage?'

‘Certainly not!'

I let the exchange die a natural death, unconvinced.

As for the Duke's officials, Sir William Fincheden, the steward, obeyed my every order with efficiency and a face of stone, while the Constable was encouraging with brisk goodwill and frequent exhortations that all would turn out well, just wait and see.

Agnes had developed a habit of watching me, eyes fluid.

‘What's wrong?' I demanded.

Denials showered me from all sides.

It was as if there has been a death in the family, a death of which I was not aware, and they were keeping the bad news from me. At least the children were the same boisterous
quartet that they ever were, Joan shadowing me with her poppet, the two older boys pestering the soldiers with demands for tales of gore, and Thomas beginning to crawl with lightning speed.

I tried to pin it down, when had it exactly begun? Since a party of benighted travellers, heading south from Richmond, had asked for hospitality and been given food and overnight lodging. I had not seen them, leaving the good offices to the steward since Thomas was letting his sufferings be loudly known as a tooth began to appear, but perhaps their visit had lit the smouldering embers of unease. Some hideous violence discovered on their route, perhaps.

At the hour for Compline the household joined with me to kneel in the chapel to hear the priest say prayers for our comfort in troubled times. To ask for succour and peace of mind. For holy protection. He addressed the Almighty with assurance.

Then his voice wavered.

‘We pray for Lord John, Duke of Lancaster. That he might have strength to uphold what is right under the pressure of this day. Grant him acceptance of his sins, O God, and Your blessing on his desire to do what is right and good.'

‘Amen,' we intoned.

I frowned behind my closed eyes.
Acceptance of his sins?

‘Grant him, Almighty God, your succour in his courageous battle against the evil that has pervaded his life.'

‘Amen.'

To my left, Agnes sighed heavily.

‘We pray, Almighty God, that You will grant him comfort for his soul in these dark days.'

Evil? Comfort for his soul?

‘Amen.'

‘We pray that he will make recompense for all the offences he has committed, whether privately or publicaly, against King Richard and the realm of England. We pray that Lord John might mend his reputation.' I heard the priest draw in a breath, and swallow heavily. ‘We pray that he will no longer be blinded by earthly desire.'

‘Amen.'

What was this? My eyes snapped open but could not look at the priest. I dared not. I felt Philippa's glance slide across to me, alighting on me with heavy concern. Over by the wall, Steward Fincheden, spine rigid, stared ahead as if carved of wood.

Was the Duke dead! Was that it? For that single moment I could not breathe, but then I immediately thrust it aside, taking myself to task for such foolish imaginings. If he was dead, brutally done to death in Edinburgh, or on the road south, we would be holding a requiem Mass, not the evening service of Compline. This was merely the product of too many long days of no news and too many fears.

If he was dead, would I not know? I could not imagine his passing from this world without my awareness.

But the priest's words had the cutting edge of a newly honed dagger. Sin. Evil. Succour during dark days. The priest continued, voice stronger into the final blessing, but when I turned my head at last to look at her, Philippa was flushed, her expression anguished before she schooled her features.

I stood abruptly.

‘Come with me,' I said without preamble and strode out.

She did not demur, although I thought that she might
have liked to. Agnes took it upon herself to accompany us to my chamber.

‘Close the door,' I ordered Agnes who was hovering. I faced them, keeping my voice light and steady despite the lively fear.

‘What is it? What is troubling you that you are not telling me? And why are you not telling me? Why did we have a need to pray for the Duke's strength in destroying the evil in his life? I am not aware of there being any evil in his life.' I felt a worm of hysteria curling in my belly. ‘Tell me what you know, Philippa.'

And as if she were still a child in the school room facing her governess, with head bowed, she replied: ‘Nothing, my lady.' She could not look at me.

I changed the object of my attack. ‘What prompted the priest to call for God's strength against evil and sin?' I demanded of Agnes.

‘Ah…'

Fear grew inordinately, and leaped in my throat. ‘Tell me!' My voice was no longer light or steady. ‘Am I too weak to carry the weight of it?'

Agnes and Philippa exchanged glances.

‘It is obviously about the Duke. And he's not dead. Is he in danger?'

Agnes lifted her hands in what could only have been despair. ‘Tell her.'

So Philippa, in her honesty, her clear-sighted affection for me, her inability to lie, did exactly that. Her words were plain and brutally frank.

‘My father has made a public declaration. It was when he heard of the rebellion and the destruction of The Savoy.
He has repented of…' She paused, then rushed on. ‘He has repented of the misdeeds of his evil life. The sin that has forced God to turn his face from him and from England. And he made his repentance in public so there could be no doubt, and no false rumour.'

‘In public? A confession in public? He would not!'

I heard the disbelief shrill in my voice. It was impossible. Risible. The Plantagenet pride would never prompt the Duke to make confession of his sins before an audience. Before a priest, of course. But in some public declaration? Yet here was Philippa, ignoring my dissent.

‘It is said that he wept…That his face was awash with tears as he admitted the…the sins he had committed.'

‘He would not!' I repeated. ‘Where does this calumny arise?'

‘From the mouth of a traveller who has passed our gates. And those from Richmond,' Agnes stated, the dismay that I was rejecting lively in her eyes.