The Scandalous Duchess (30 page)

‘I have not heard.'

‘You have not spoken to them.'

No, I had not, yet still…and I knew that I had not heard the worst of it.

‘Very well.' I tried for calm. ‘So the Duke has repented. Do we not all repent?'

They shared glances again.

‘My father has admitted that he is to blame,' Philippa continued. ‘That God has chastised him, and because of his wickedness, God has chastised England too, by causing bloodshed and rebellion.' I watched as she bit her lip. ‘He has…' She looked to Agnes, a look of such anguish that my belly clenched.

‘I think you should sit down, Katherine,' Agnes said, abandoning all formality, as if she were my nurse once more.

‘I will not.' By now terror had its cruel hand around my heart.

‘Then hear this. My lord of Lancaster has confessed openly to the sin of lechery,' Agnes said.

Lechery. Sins of the flesh. Cold hit me, spreading from my belly as realisation hit hard. If he had confessed to such a sin, it could only be with me.

‘Is this true?' It was no longer a denial, but a plea. ‘The Duke wept that he had a relationship with me?'

‘So it is said.'

I dragged off the padded roll that secured my hair and veil. Suddenly it seemed too heavy to tolerate. Casting the abused material aside, I released my hair from its pins. My head throbbed with pain.

‘I don't think that I can bear this after all.'

I must have looked shattered. They pulled me to sit down on the bed, one sitting on either side of me. I refused to let them hold my hands, clasping them hard together in my lap instead.

‘Tell me the rest.'

So they did because they must. All the cruel, hurtful details of the Duke's public repudiation of me, which reduced me to wordless despair.

‘Do I believe this?' I asked at last, when between them they had destroyed all that made my life worth living. All the joy that had welcomed me on waking to each new day, all the contentment that accompanied me to my bed. The delight in my knowledge of his love for me that had kept
me company through the hours of work and family duties. All was laid waste at my feet.

‘It must be true,' Philippa urged. ‘For your own good you must believe, Katherine. Walsingham has praised my father for turning away the wrath of God so it must be true.'

I was stunned, hardly able to breathe for the solid rock that seemed to have lodged in my chest. ‘Where did all this happen?'

‘In Berwick. But now we think my father has taken refuge in Edinburgh. We are told…' Philippa paused.

It was Agnes who continued, smoothing a large hand over my disordered hair, as if I were five-year-old Joan. ‘They say that my lord the Duke has summoned the Duchess to travel north to meet him. He wishes to be reconciled with her.'

I think I sobbed.

I covered my face with my hands.

‘He has renounced you, Katherine,' Agnes said softly. ‘The blame is his for taking you in sin, and he must make amends. He has renounced you.'

Once I had thought we would never part. Even an hour ago, I was so secure in the passion that kept us strong against any divisive attack. Was our love not as unbreakable as the interlocking links in a gold chain? We would never part until death claimed one of us.

Yet now…How could I ever envisage that the Duke, my beloved John, would be the brutal instrument of that parting? Suddenly I did not want Agnes's soothing. I pushed her compassionate hand aside and stood, putting distance between us, then whirling to face them. I would make recompense if he were safe, I had vowed. And all the time I was pledging gold candlesticks for Kettlethorpe, he was engaged
in casting me aside. When I was offering up prayers and reparation, promises of an endowment in return for his safety, he was throwing me to the wolves.
I will protect you
, he had once sworn on my crucifix.

He had destroyed me.

I stared at the pair of them. ‘And when were you going to tell me?'

There was the glance of collusion between young and old.

‘When we thought you would be strong enough to accept it,' Philippa said softly.

‘I will never be strong enough. Give me a woman strong enough to accept that the man she loves has damned her as the cause of his adultery.'

John
, I called out in my mind, in an anguish of pain.
What have you done to me?

There was no answer. Only my dire knowledge that he, my life, my love, had rejected me as the cause of his lechery.

In the days that followed, I read every nuance in the expressions of those with whom I lived in the garrison at Pontefract: censure, pity, sometimes malicious enjoyment. Expressions that I would have to learn to confront for the rest of my life.

I had been pilloried.

I had been held up as the cause of the Duke of Lancaster's great sin.

It would not go away. It would never go away.

At first, as with any foolishly self-indulgent woman faced with unpalatable truth, I refused to believe it, remaining fervently, dogmatically, adamant. The travellers were misguided, devious mischief-making trouble-stirrers. I could
not believe that the Duke would be guilty of a step so outrageously cruel. It was just not possible that the man who had owned my heart, had shared my bed, had fathered my children, had been the creator of all my joy, would lock me out of his life and his household. And what's more, if the Duke had fallen out of love with me, he was the last man to reject me by public proclamation so that the whole world would know it before I did. As for weeping in repentance, on his knees before any gawping onlooker…

I laughed at the enormity of it, but he had become the Duke again in my mind.

I could accept that the Duke might make reparation if he thought some guilt was attached to his arrogance, as many saw it, in wielding power in England in young Richard's name, but not that he would reject me in this manner. Never that.

As for his reconciliation with Constanza. Had his words of love for me been no more than the rattling of a pebble in an empty pot? Never. I would never accept it.

Frustrated, eventually irritated with me, Philippa and Agnes left me to my furious denials.

But now the rumours flew thick and fast, like wasps around the sticky sweetness of wild plums, demanding that I listen, accept. Bloody tales of fire and looting and destruction along the wharves and streets of London, that made me fear for the country I knew, the life I had taken for granted. Flemish merchants in London, dragged out of the church where they had taken refuge, to be beheaded in the street. As a Hainaulter I had indeed been in danger. They would not stop to test the difference.

And then there was the praise for Duchess Constanza.
Her goodness, her tolerance, her love for her lord. The perfection of her beauty. Her courage in bearing the humiliation heaped on her by Lancaster and his whore. The whole country had take Constanza to their hearts.

I looked for word in writing or by Lancastrian courier from the north, from the Duke himself, an explanation setting all to rights, and one that I could believe. There was nothing. Had he returned from Edinburgh to England? Perhaps he was even now moving south from Berwick and he would come to me. Of course he would. And when he did he would enfold me in his arms, chastising me for my lack of faith and all would be well. He would take me to his bed and show me that his love was greater than my fears. His adoration would be no rattling pebble but a velvet assertion.

I watched the road. I was not proud. Philippa stood at my side, stern with disapproval, shivering with fears that matched my own despite the heat of the days.

‘Will he come?' she asked as another day drew to its close.

‘When he can.'

Don't leave me here in ignorance, John. The pain of not knowing is too great. My heart is torn in two
.

The days were endless.

As one June evening sank into late dusk: ‘There's an approaching force, my lady. More than travellers.'

The Constable, severe and gruff, stood at my shoulder. In the past week scouts had been sent out for the first time that I could ever recall, as if we might come under attack. In the face of such unrest, coupled with the uncertainty over the Duke's state of mind, our garrison was taking no chances.

‘Who? Do we know?' Automatically I strained my eyes to the north for a glimpse of Lancaster banners.

‘No, my lady. But they're from the south.'

My hopes, so quickly stirred into life, were quashed.

‘And riding fast with outriders,' he advised. ‘If they have livery, then it's hidden.'

I forced my thoughts into practical channels of hospitality. ‘Do we open the gates?' It would be hard to leave someone benighted in these troubled times.

‘We wait and see, my lady. I'll do nothing to put your life in danger. My lord would have my skin if I did.'

‘Even if he has spurned me?' I heard myself ask bitterly, the words escaping before I could stop them. Too late: besides, the Constable would know everything there was to know by now.

‘Even then, my lady. You were sent here for your protection. And the lady.' He nodded his chin towards Philippa who had emerged from the shadows to join us. She rarely left me alone for long, as if she feared for my sanity. There was nothing wrong with my mind. It was my emotions that were raw and ragged. ‘I will do my duty now, and answer questions later.'

We waited, looking south, but not for long before a small force, well mounted, well armed and in close formation, drew rein outside the gate. And no, there was no badge of livery to identify friend from foe.

‘Who are you?' bellowed the Constable. ‘Make yourself known.'

Immediately at a gesture from the leader of the cavalcade, a pennon was unfurled. Even in the deepening shadows the lions of Lancaster, worked in gold, glimmered as the breeze
shook out the folds. Lancaster. But this was not the Duke. A second pennon told its tale. The gilded castles of Castile. My heart leaped with a jolt, then settled to a heavy thudding against my ribs as I leaned against the parapet to peer down.

‘Open the gates!' The voice of authority from below was clear enough.

‘Who demands it?'

‘I speak for my lady the Duchess of Lancaster, Queen Constanza of Castile.'

And the full Lancastrian standard was unfurled, gold-fringed, to hang and lift with languid power. Constanza was here. Constanza was travelling north to meet with the Duke.

Shock. It was shock rather than misery that swarmed through me from head to foot, my fingers clinging onto the hard stone coping. All my attempts at self-delusion had been destroyed in this one hideous, unforeseen arrival, which could only confirm what I had denied, as the lions and the castles on the banner entwined themselves sinuously together. The Duke had sent for her. And as my brain finally accepted that here was Constanza at my door, surrounded by symbols of Lancastrian power, I saw a figure, swathed in a heavy cloak despite the heat, ride forward from the centre of her escort. She pushed the hood back so that, face pale, she looked up to where the voices reached her from our vantage point above the barbican. Beside her I now recognised the captain of her force from the garrison at Hertford. It was his voice that was pitched to us now.

‘My lord the Duke of Lancaster has requested that the Duchess come to join him, as he travels south from Edinburgh. It is her wish to stay here at Pontefract until my lord comes to greet her.'

So it was all true. This simply added an even heavier layer of confirmation. The Duke had summoned Constanza to meet with him. I sought her features, expressionless in the distant shadows, but I imagined her lips tight-closed in determination, her eyes bright with the courage it would have taken for her to make this journey. The Duke had asked her to come north, and in her eagerness to be with him she had agreed, riding the length of England, on horseback, risking any dangers. When the Duke had requested her company to travel to the Low Countries it had taken nothing less than a ducal command to dislodge her from the comforts of the palaces and castles she knew. Now her husband had held out his hand to offer her reconciliation, and she had leaped to accept it.

Desolation dragged down on me, mingling with the misery, and out of its coupling, an even deeper emotion leaped into life, and one of which I was not proud. Dry-eyed and furiously cold, I continued to watch, aware of the Constable standing at my side, Philippa silent and watchful at my shoulder. There was a decision to be made here. A lamentable conversation, spiked with fury, played out in my head.

Do I order the gate to be opened for her? Can I bear to spend hours, let alone days, in Constanza's company?

She was constrained to spend days in yours, when you were the favoured one!

But I cannot. I don't have her fortitude. Not when the foundation of my life has been ripped from beneath my feet
.

She has the right to demand admittance
.

Do I not have the right to refuse her?

No, you don't
.

But I have the right not to be present at her reunion with the Duke
.

Then go back to Kettlethorpe so you won't have to bear witness…

And then the thought, the despicable thought, slid into my mind that I would indeed refuse her. I would turn her away. Too far distant as we were from each other for our eyes to meet, yet the air between us was stretched, tense and haunted. Was she aware that I was there, on the gatehouse parapet, deciding on her future? Motionless, she sat upright in her saddle, without doubt weary to the bone but determined not to show it.

Philippa stirred beside me, a hand to my arm. ‘We have to let her in.'

‘Yes. I suppose we do,' I said tightly.

The Constable looked at me. He knew that too. But as our eyes met, I sensed a curious level of understanding pass between us, as if he absorbed the depths of all my selfish concerns in denying the Duke's wife the right to come under the same roof as I. Constanza had won. The Duke had chosen her over me, his wife over his mistress. I did not think I could tolerate it, watching her take precedence over me in all the trivial matters of day-to-day living. I had withstood it well enough in past years, because I had been sure in the Duke's love. But no longer. No longer. He might not love Constanza but he had surely proved in these desperate days that he did not love me either.