The Scandalous Duchess (33 page)

Her eyes glistened with anxiety. I gave up on the smile.

‘Where is he?' I could not call him by name. The castle buzzed with gossip, mostly accurate, except that I had not drawn a blade against him. I had behaved with perfect propriety,
principally because there had not been a dagger to hand in my chamber of choice. The sharp blades had only been those stitched in the folded tapestries.

Now I would leave with the same cold composure that had governed my every public action since I had heard what he had done.

I did not wish to meet him. Not again, while my heart was so sore. And after what had passed between us, it would be best if it were never again. I slammed the door closed on all my unsettled emotions, turning my thoughts to the practicalities of packing my belongings into the wagons, settling the children into the vast horse-drawn litter. All the necessities for my return to Kettlethorpe. How had we managed to acquire so much since our flight to Pontefract, reassured that the Duke held my safety close in his heart? No matter. I belonged to the house of Lancaster no longer.

‘I don't know where my father is.' Philippa cast a glance at the windows of his apartments above our heads. There was no sign of movement there.

I took a breath to swallow what might have been a twinge of regret if I had allowed it. We had slept apart in cold, lonely beds. He had not come to break his fast with me. He had not come to bid me adieu.

He does not know you are leaving
, honesty murmured in my ear.

Well, he should know. He should have known that I would not stay. And unless he is deaf he will have heard the racket of departure…

The lively voices of John and Henry, the chatter of Joan and the cries of Thomas, could hardly be ignored.

I mounted and rode out through the gateway. I would never return to one of Lancaster's castles.

The moisture on my cheeks was, of course, caused by the brisk wind.

I rode in silence for the first half-hour beside the sergeant-at-arms, aware of nothing around me, not even the clamour of children's voices and Agnes's occasional sharp rejoinder, as my emotions swung wilfully into a well-worn track. I would live alone. I would take a vow of chastity and, although not shunning society, I would order my days with piety and seemliness, wrapping myself in the ordered emotions of a nun, as many grieving widows were drawn to do. I would beg God's forgiveness for my life of unspeakable sin. All the fire in me that the Duke had once admired would be quenched. Cold ash, grey and insubstantial, would replace bright flame. I would devote myself to being Lady of Kettlethorpe, supremely gracious. Completely unresponsive to excess of feeling.

John of Lancaster would hold no part in my life, in my thoughts. Not even in my dreams. Now that all his perfidy was laid bare, beyond question, it would be a simple matter to close and lock the lid on this coffer of memories. What's more, I would drop the key into the well at Kettlethorpe.

Surreptitiously I blotted the persistent tears.

And meanwhile I would draw on my reserves and converse with the sergeant as any sensible well-mannered woman would do.

I asked about the villages through which we were passing.

‘Quiet enough,' he said, showing the direction of his
thoughts. ‘They're my lord's own lands, of course. It's only the bloody Percys who've turned traitor.'

‘What of the Percys?' I asked, momentarily distracted. I knew the Percy family, the powerful Earls of Northumberland who ruled their territory in the north as autocratically as any prince.

‘They only snubbed him, didn't they? A bloody insult. And all my lord could say was that he understood their divided loyalties. I'd have ordered a sharp punitive attack against one of their bloody castles, but of course, my lord would have none of it.'

‘Tell me,' I said.

‘When we were coming south from Berwick. My lord would have stopped off at Bamborough. The big fortress on the coast, you know? So what did Harry Percy do? Only send a message that my lord would receive no welcome there. He closed the gates. And Harry Percy supposed to be an ally. Lancaster was not welcome to stay in any of his castles, he said, until King Richard informed him—personally, mind—that the Duke could be trusted. A bloody insult, I say.'

He had not told me of that. That the Duke of Lancaster, the most powerful and experienced of all English nobles, had been treated as if he were an outcast.

The fire was not quenched, not quenched at all, nor were the memories locked away in their box. The flames danced and flickered as the lid on my memories flew open, and tears for the humiliation he must have faced slipped silently down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my glove and raised my chin. I would not be swayed by tales of his suffering.

If I was to live alone for the rest of my life I would need fortitude, and best start now.

‘Halt!'

At the sudden command from the sergeant, startling me into tightening my hands on the reins, my mount tossed her head as our little entourage came to a ragged halt, the litter swaying on its supports.

‘What is it?'

I could see no problem. Was one of the horses lame? We had travelled no distance, since we made slow progress with the cumbersome litter.

‘Horses approaching…Behind us.'

As the sergeant gestured to his three men to draw arms and move to the rear, so shielding us from any direct assault, I picked up the faint beat of hooves. It did not do to be complacent even in the Duke's lands, not as matters stood, despite the sergeant's confidence. We were approaching the crossroads where I would turn east for Lincoln, a spot with a bad reputation for ambush and bloodshed. Fear mounting with every second, I drew my mare to the side of the litter where John and Henry had pulled back the leather curtain to investigate, unaware of any danger. I said nothing as I loosed the dagger I kept in my sleeve when I travelled.

The sergeant rode to my side.

‘Is it robbers?' I asked.

‘No. Too many. Too well organised.'

The beat of hooves grew louder to echo the thud of my heart. They were travelling fast, a sizeable body.

‘Perhaps some knight and his retinue, my lady,' the sergeant said, yet I saw the apprehension in his grip on his sword, which he had drawn from its scabbard. Then his face
cleared and he grunted. ‘Nothing to concern you, lady.' He nodded to the body of horsemen that had emerged through the trees on the bend in the road. ‘It's my lord.'

I momentarily closed my eyes, for in that moment of foolish embarrassment I thought I might truly have preferred a rabble of cutpurses and footpads. On top of all my ungovernable feelings, beyond all reason, fury filled me to the brim, that he had given me cause for such fear.

How close I was to anger in those days.

Decidedly unfriendly, I sat and watched as they approached at a smart canter, the splash of colour on tabard and banner so vivid that I absorbed every detail of it, as if I were not involved. Here was no effort to hide incriminating livery. The Duke was travelling in full glory of red and gold and blue, royal colours, splashed with emblems of Lancaster and Castile, sun glinting on the half-armour, his gauntlets, on the blood-red jewels in his cap. Beside him his herald rode with tabard, staff and horn. Behind him an escort of a dozen men emblazoned with the quarters of Lancaster and Plantagenet, two of them leading pack horses.

Oh, it was a magnificent impression, deliberately made by a man who knew how to squeeze every drop of splendour from personal appearance, as I well knew. The sun blazed on the profusion of gold thread and costly jewels. This was not the Duke of Lancaster, penitent and downcast at the enormity of his sin. This was a royal Plantagenet in full fettle.

But why? Was it pure coincidence that the demands on his time would bring him on this road, at this exact moment? It might, of course. Even their slackening of speed proved nothing. He could hardly ride on past me as if he had no
knowledge of me when everyone in his company and mine knew that we had shared a bed, frequently and scandalously.

I watched as he drew his horse into a sedate walk towards where my mount still stood. What if he had come to reclaim me, to take me home? Was it possible that he had, after all our vicissitudes, made the choice, of me as his mistress, his love, over the demands of a vengeful God and a neglected wife? Had he come to put all right?

No. That could never be.

They drew rein in a jingle of horse-harness and a stamp of hooves on the road. The Duke swept off his splendidly glittering hat and bowed low.

I sat and stared.

What are you doing? Why have you followed me? To heighten the pain of my grief?

‘I am here to mark your departure, Lady de Swynford, since you left Pontefract betimes.'

‘There is no need, my lord,' I replied quickly, hoping to bring this to a fast end, my throat as arid as a summer riverbed. I did not want this mark of consideration. I hoped that my tears had dried without incriminating marks. I was in no mood to retract any of the things I had said the previous night. ‘We said all that needed to be said yesterday.'

‘Do you say?' he responded. ‘I think not. There are things that need to be done before any man or woman leaves my service.'

Face stern, voice laconic, words clipped, he was enjoying this as little as I, as I could tell by his gloved hands planted one on top of the other on the pommel and the manner in which he addressed me, as if I were a troublesome petitioner for his charity. He saw this as a duty, unpleasant,
tedious even, but one that could not, in his cold and chivalrous heart, be ignored.

‘What are you going to do, my lord? Offer me another pretty silver chafing dish? Or should I return the one I already have to you. Constanza would value it. I have it here with me.'

His lack of reaction was commendable under such a jibe, but I knew I had hurt him when he inclined his head, acknowledging the hit. His manners were better than mine.

‘I can do better than that, my lady.'

‘I need nothing from you, my lord.' My features felt stiff, frozen in my desire to rebuff. I found it difficult to choose the words I wanted, but I did so and they were not kind. ‘You owe me nothing and I have no claim on you.'

Ignoring my lack of grace, the Duke gestured to the herald who urged his mount to my side to present me with a folded document, which I took it with my gloved finger tips, but did not open it.

‘This is my recognition of your service, principally to my two daughters, but also my son, my lady.' How formal he was, unperturbed by my lack of decorum. ‘I could not have chosen better. My daughters will for ever be in your debt. It is a pension of two hundred marks a year for the term of your life for your exemplary attention to their education and happiness.'

‘No!' The ignominy of being paid for my services. I let the folded sheet with its seal fall to the floor.

‘Have you not earned it?' he continued. ‘Would you decry the benefit of your care for my daughters? Shame on you, Lady de Swynford, to deny me the opportunity to reward your service in my household.'

I felt my face heat with embarrassment. How clever he was at making me see the unworthiness of my response. When the herald patiently dismounted and retrieved the smeared document, I took it, as if it had been dropped by a moment's carelessness.

‘I am unable to express my thanks, my lord. I ask pardon for my unwarrantable demeanour.' There were still no fair words in my acceptance, but I had been shown the error of my ways. Pray God that that was the end of it, that I would be free to continue my journey. Pray God that this arrogant man would make no more claim on me. I gathered up my reins, but was stilled by the herald, still standing at my horse's withers. He took hold of my bridle, even when I frowned down at him.

Touching his horse with his heel, the Duke rode closer.

‘It is not to be permitted that you leave my employ and my household without my marking the occasion. It is not fitting that you flee like a thief in the night.' He raised his hand to summon the little group of servants from the rear of his escort. They rode forward, leading two horses laden with luggage and a richly caparisoned riding horse. ‘If you will honour me by dismounting, Lady de Swynford…'

I balked.

He dismounted, to stand looking up into my face. His might have been engraved in stone.

‘If it please you, my lady.'

He took my bridle from his herald's hand, his fingers clamped around the leather, and I read in his eyes that if it did not please me he would drag me from my mare. Clutching the document—I would not drop it again—I dismounted in cold dignity.

A snap of his fingers and his squire approached. Without
any word being needed from the Duke, the young man took the document from my nerveless fingers, unfastened the brooch that pinned my cloak—a fine cloak, I had thought—and with a flamboyant swing of costly material, replaced it around my shoulders with one of fine woven wool lined with sable. The riding horse was led up and the squire tucked the document into one of the panniers, my old cloak folded away into the other.

Throughout the whole procedure, the Duke stood in silence. Within the travelling litter, Agnes looked on with a mix of astonishment and baffled amusement. I was furiously compliant.

‘I do not need a new cloak,' I informed the squire who was neatly fastening the pin that gleamed with gold and the splash of blood-red. So I was to be bought off with sables and jewels, was I?

‘It is my lord's wish,' the squire said with a bow.

‘I have a horse.'

‘And now you have a better one, my lady,' the Duke remarked, with more than a hint of warning. He would not be gainsaid. ‘The packhorses carry meat and wine. The escort will accompany you to Kettlethorpe. For your peace of mind.' His eyes were direct. ‘And mine.'

So I was to travel in full ducal splendour as well. What level of recognition was this from the Duke of Lancaster, for all to see and comment on?