The Scandalous Duchess (34 page)

‘Why are you doing this?'

Without replying, the Duke walked to the litter where, leaning an arm on the support, he stooped to peer in. For the first time since he had drawn rein, his features softened a little. He ruffled John's hair, restored a little armed knight to Henry after lifting him back onto the cushions, spoke
softly to Joan and straightened her bonnet, and touched the cheek of Thomas.

I could not look. I could not watch without my heart being torn in two. They were as much his as mine. Did he not care? He was abandoning them too. I would not look.

But I did. The children said not a word, in awe of him in this gleaming splendour. And then John grabbed his sleeve.

‘Do you come with us, sir?'

‘No. Not today.' His smile was forced, his reply ragged. ‘But my men will keep you safe. You will ride with an escort, as a young prince should. What do you think?'

‘I think I will be a knight one day,' John replied.

‘So do I think it. You will be a great knight.'

He turned and again nodded an unspoken instruction to the squire who, with a polite request, took my arm and helped me into my new saddle. The Duke remounted too, and bowed, hat in hand.

‘I commend you and your children to God's care, Lady de Swynford. To his forgiveness for what has been between us. I will make restitution for the wrong I have done to you. You will want for nothing.' His authority, in the centre of a road in the depths of the country, was formidable, his diction pitched for all to hear. ‘I accept your reluctance to receive anything from my hand, but I hope that time will heal, and that you will not refuse my gifts. My sons and daughter should not be allowed to suffer.'

While through it all I sat angry and silent and hard-eyed. Did he think I would let pride stand in the way of his support for the children? Did he truly think I would let my humiliation guide my future decisions for their well-being? I would not!

‘I will know that you have reached Kettlethorpe safely.'

‘My thanks, my lord.' It was all I could say.

‘If you are ever in need, my lady, in any danger, you will send word.'

It was not a request. I did not respond.

‘I will keep you in my thoughts, Katherine.'

I turned away. I made no reply. I rode away from him, cloaked, caparisoned, as superbly mounted as if I were of royal blood. Dry-eyed and stern faced, I vowed to fulfil my promise to the Virgin to clothe the altar at Kettlethorpe in gold. The Duke was safe, alive. It behoved me to do what I had vowed before the altar, even though he had broken my heart.

Well, everyone in our joint retinues now knew the truth about us. And the need to gossip being what it was, it would spread like an unpleasant rash.

I did not know what to make of it. It stunned me, such overt recognition of me and what I had been to him, for all to hear. Another public confession, in effect. An admission of guilt and responsibility, risking the wrath of God one more time, risking the wrath of the Church in the nasty guise of Walsingham if he got to hear of it. As he would.

And yet this had been a very intimate recognition of my place in his life, and of his children.

Why had he done it? Was it to win my forgiveness? Was it to assuage his own guilt that had made him follow and award me such astonishing recognition?

Well, if that's so, he's failed
.

I would not forgive him. He had pilloried me just as harshly as Walsingham had, so plainly that I was known to every man and woman in England as Lancaster's whore who had dragged him into a life of sin.

I rode away from him, with no inclination to look back. I would not. I rode on a new horse with a new cloak and all the ducal panoply around me, and a gift of great value in my pannier, the confirmation of my pension almost burning a hole through the leather. Two hundred marks a year: a vast sum, which, for the sake of our four children, I could not refuse.

But in my chest was a hole large enough to encompass the heavens.

It would be better when I had returned to Kettlethorpe, I assured myself. There I could forget and set my feet firmly on a different path.

The magnificent cloak proved to be far too heavy for the clement weather but in sheer defiance I wore it all the way home.

It was not better. It was not better at all. Why would this love not let me go? Why did it continue to yearn, hopelessly, helplessly for reconciliation?

There was no hope, yet it would not let me be.

I wished my love for him dead, but it would not die.

Kettlethorpe became a place of sorrow to me. Since I was no longer part of his life and his household, what right did the Duke have to prowl through my thoughts and dreams, reminding me at every turn of what I had lost? I could not accept, I could not sufficiently grasp all that had happened, all we had been to each other, now destroyed. My heart shivered in its desolation, its absolute aloneness.

In its total bafflement.

Were we still not held captive in that grand passion that allowed us no freedom to exist apart from each other, like silver carp from my fishpond trapped in a net? Even when
I hated him I longed to see him ride through the arch of my newly constructed gateway into the courtyard as he had done so many times. How could we deny all that we had said and done together? All those words of love and honour, torn up and scattered.

The silver carp might wish to escape the net; in my heart of hearts, I had no such desire.

The empty space in my chest continued to grow until it all but swallowed me.

Nor were my thoughts stirred into liveliness when my sister Philippa appeared in my hall, informing me with infuriating lack of feeling that she considered me in need of her advice. The Duchess Constanza, in her reinvigorated marriage, could manage without her for a week or two.

‘Look at you, malingering and wasting away,' she announced.

‘I am neither malingering nor wasting,' I replied briskly, drawing her into my parlour, another new addition to my home. Even if I was, I would not exhibit such weakness to Philippa.

My sister, with narrowed eyes, taking in the evidence of my unfortunate pallor and the loose neckline of my gown, was not to be deflected.

‘If he means so much to you, are you going to accept this estrangement? If your love is as strong as you say it is, go to Kenilworth. Tell him that you will not accept your banishment from his life. Tell him that—'

‘How can I? How can I fight against England and God?'

‘I did not think that would stop you!'

It made me laugh. But without much humour.

‘He has hurt me. He has hurt me too much.'

‘You should remarry,' my sister remarked when we sat
together at the end of the day, her eye to my flushed cheeks as we stitched.

‘And why do you say that?' I asked, smiling brightly to hide my dismay. Was this to be the pattern of my days, those who knew me encouraging me to bury my disillusionment under some new relationship?

‘It will take your mind off Lancaster.'

Philippa, never less than forthright; Agnes, sitting comfortably at her side, nodding her agreement.

‘And who of status would be interested in taking on a woman with my notoriety?' I asked. I resented their matrimonial dabbling.

‘I can think of any number who would take on a woman with a guarantee of income from Lancaster.'

‘And four bastard Beaufort children?'

‘Why not? They will be well provided for.' Philippa shrugged as she stabbed with her needle. ‘Lancaster will not leave you bereft, even with a new husband.'

I bent my head over my sewing, noting that the stitches were awkwardly uneven but was not of a mind to unpick them. Marry again? Could I see myself, ensconced in a different manor house, or enjoying a town house in Lincoln? With another unknown man to share bed and board. To share thoughts and ideas at the end of a long day. To carry another child for.

‘I will not,' I said.

‘So it's to be a vow of chastity, is it? To live as a nun, without the cloister.' Philippa slapped her hand down on her lap. ‘In God's name, Kate, you are still young enough to have your own life. Will you flounder in misery because one man had turned his back on you?'

‘I am not floundering.'

‘I say you are. There is no reason why you should not visit friends. Even go to Court. The King has always had a high regard for you, and with the prospect of a new young wife, he would welcome you. And yet you shut yourself away here as if you have nothing to look forward to but death.'

I stared at the pair of them, rejecting their advice out of hand. The young King might welcome me to his new court with his beautiful young wife, Anne of Bohemia, but the Duke of Lancaster would also be there. And so would Constanza.

‘No, I will not go to Court. And it is not true—I have not shut myself away. I have merely taken up my duties to Kettlethorpe and Coleby for my son. I am content. I will not visit friends. I will not go to Court, even if King Richard invites me. I will not remarry. We will just have to survive here together, three abandoned females, without a man to add disruption to our lives.'

My smile had long since vanished.

Philippa, equally with no hope of a reconciliation with her much-travelled husband, cast her stitching onto the floor. ‘I can think of a better way of life.'

So could I, but I would not admit it. ‘Then if that is so you must return to the Duchess,' was all I would say. In my present mood, I wished that she would, whilst I lived like the nun the Duke had made me.

Chapter Fifteen

I
heard of the Duke's movements, his achievements, even when I would rather not. What a magnificent sacrifice he had made, how superb the outcome for him. I should have rejoiced that his rejection of me had brought about his glorious reinstatement. The Royal Council, once so hostile, received him with honour, praising him when he refused to be avenged against those who destroyed The Savoy. Walsingham smiled on him, praising his determination to undo a past life of debauchery. So did King Richard, who gave the Duke the office of welcoming the new Queen, escorting her through the streets of London.

I was right not to go. I could not have smiled on him.

Duchess Constanza was seen frequently at his side, enjoying their restored relationship. Arrangements were being made for a new campaign to conquer Castile.

The Duke and Duchess of Lancaster had been truly
blessed, but in the harvest it was I who was stripped bare of all my bloom.

I took all the jewellery the Duke had given me over the years, every single piece of it, and dropped it into the bottom of a coffer in which I kept garments I no longer wore. I turned two little brooches over in my hand, remembering when he had pinned them to my bodice, less than a year before. A little gold heart set with a diamond. A clasp with two hands interlocked around a ruby. I added them to the hoard in my coffer and turned the key, but not before placing the coral and gold rosary there.

I would never wear them again.

In a week at the beginning of February, when it was possible to travel the roads again because of a hard frost that froze the mire into something passable, a courier beat his way to my door, bright with Lancastrian livery.

‘Now what? Does he plan to win my good graces with ale and venison this week? I swear he will not do it.'

I had no patience with anyone in those dark days after the new year. I took the package with bad grace.

We had been apart a matter of weeks, but to my mind I was living in the depths of a black well. Every day was a struggle to remain calmly courteous to those amongst whom I lived. I accomplished it, because it behoved me to be courteous, by encasing my emotions in cold apathy, like a suit of armour that would let nothing come close and hurt me. I repelled all friendly overtures. I refused to ride the new mare despite her confiding manner and satin hide. The sable-lined cloak I consigned to the coffer along with
the jewels. I was a
femme sole
and would espouse my title as Lady of Kettlethorpe as I had never done in the past.

I carried the packet into the nursery, picking up the baby from the floor as I sat. Thomas was a year old now and sturdy of limb. I hugged his solid little body, my eye on the document. It was very official, surprisingly so. I thought it might be some form of financial security for the children. Yes, that would be it. Setting Thomas squarely on my lap, I ran my hands over the bulk of it. I could feel a seal.

‘Are you going to open it?' Agnes was hovering, sensing my reluctance, but overcome with curiosity. ‘It won't improve for being ignored. It can't harm you, can it? I'll take the child.'

‘No.' For some reason I felt the need to keep Thomas close, and smiled at Joan as she came to stand at my knee, dropping a kiss on her forehead where her russet hair had escaped from her little cap.

‘Shall we see what your father has to say to us? Yesterday two barrels of fine Gascon wine. What will it be today?'

Breaking the seal I took off the protective cover, letting Joan take it from me, as I unfolded the two enclosed sheets, one more legal than the other, which took my attention first.

Yes it was formal, a legal document, written in a clerkly hand. I let my eye travel to the bottom, to the impress in the seal. And yes, this was from the Duke. My heart began to trip a little faster. I held Thomas firmly around his middle as he began to squirm. Why would the Duke need to send me so legal a document? It had nothing, on first scan, to do with my annuity or the children.

I started to read, crooning to Thomas.

My crooning stopped abruptly.

My eye swerved back, to fix on that one word.

Quitclaimed
.

I could not prevent a little cry of distress.

I read on again, line after line.

What was this?

This was a quitclaim. I knew what a quitclaim was.

I rubbed my cheek softly against Thomas's hair, as if for the comfort of his warmth, for my heart was as brittle as a shard of ice as I read between the legalistic lines.

This was the Duke of Lancaster, relinquishing all his rights and interests in me, and, what was worse to my mind, mine in him. We were severed, by law. He had no future claim on me, nor I on him. Our relationship was irrevocably at an end, signed and sealed.

If I had ever clutched at a forlorn hope that one day our estrangement might be healed, that one day in some distant
point in the future we might once more stand together, this quitclaim had crushed it into dust.

At the end, when the words ran out, I simply sat and stared, unseeing, as humiliation trickled through my body, as honey would drip from a honeycomb.

Did he actually think I would pester him for money? For support for his children? Did he think I would arrive at the door of Hertford or Kenilworth, my children and household packed into travelling wagons, demanding his recognition? His hospitality and his charity?

Pride stoked my temper. I would not, even without this cold legality. But now he had made sure that I could not, as if I were an importunate beggar who needed to be manacled by the law. Neither I nor my children would have any claim on him ever again. He had severed the connection between us as assuredly with this red wax imprint as with a sword.

…from all actions let us be totally excluded…

I sat and looked at it, horror growing strongly through my shame as I acknowledged what it was that the Duke had done. I was legally banished from his life. Was he not satisfied with simply sending me away and denouncing me as an enchantress, with its overtones of witchcraft, so that all the world could point and pry? I would never take advantage of our past, and yet he suspected that I might take an action against him in law to demand my rights. What rights? I had never claimed any rights, except those of love.

Did he know so little of me, after all I had been to him?

Dismay churned in my belly. This legal separation was unnecessary, as was the cruelty in sending it with a courier. The crevasse he had excavated by this deliberate action
lay dark and deep between us. How could my love for him survive this?

I let the quitclaim drop to the floor. I could not vindicate him from this despicable act towards me and his children. Nor could I weep over this cruel blow. My desolation was too intense to allow the luxury of tears. Instead, anger burned as I recalled our meeting on the road from Pontefract.

You owe me nothing and I have no claim on you
, I had said.

How right I was. We were parted for ever with the weight of the law between us. Perhaps in my most wretched moments I had been hoping for a reprieve. Perhaps I had thought he would not be able to live without me. I had been so wrong.

‘How could you turn the blade in my heart like this?' I cried out. ‘I despise you for it.' I bent my head over Thomas, struggling against tears that finally threatened to fall as the emotion grew too great to contain.

‘My lady.' I felt Agnes's hand on my shoulder, her voice soft and steady, everything that mine was not. ‘He would not hurt you in this manner.'

‘I know what he has written,' I cried out in sudden agony. ‘I know what he has had written for him by John Crowe, his clerk. Why would he write it himself when he has a minion to do it for him?'

All I could see was the damning words of the quitclaim, as if they were written in blood.

…from all actions let us be totally excluded…

I was unaware of my sister coming in, until she removed Thomas who had begun to fuss, and leaned to look over
Agnes's shoulder at the quitclaim. She took it from me, out of Thomas's reach.

‘Ha! Well, there's a man's hand in that, for certain. Why do you weep, Kate? What did you expect from him now that he is back in Constanza's grateful bosom? She probably put him up to it, and since his eye's on Castile again, with full Papal blessing for all who accompany him, he'll have no compunction in obeying her. What man puts the woman who has warmed his sheets for a dozen years before his ambitions? None that I know.'

‘He is not Geoffrey,' I remonstrated, still torn asunder by disbelief. ‘I never doubted his love. I never had cause to. After that day when he faced Constanza and stood as a shield for me, how could I have ever doubted him?'

‘More fool you, then. I learned my lesson, didn't I? Men have no loyalty where their loins are concerned or their ambitions. You should know better than to cast your honour and your reputation under Lancaster's heel. But you did it against all my advice because you thought that love would prove stronger than ambition or public disgrace. He had no loyalty to Constanza, and he has none to you. He deserves every criticism. Any reputation for chivalry has been torn to shreds. Men have no chivalry when their own interests are in the balance.'

Her vehemence, against the Duke and men in general, shocked me, although perhaps it should not have. Philippa shrugged, tight-lipped with disapproval as she ran her eye once more over the document. Then gave a harsh bark of a laugh.

‘I see nothing to laugh at.' I snatched the letter back.

‘That's because you don't see what is in front of your nose. That's because you are still besotted with him.'

It was too much. Gripping the two letters, one still unread, I strode from her, from the nursery, her accusations against me and the Duke still ringing in my ears. He was untrustworthy. Lacking in honour. Not worthy of the epithet chivalrous. Whereas I was blind and wilful and deserved my present heartbreak.

Forget him. Banish him from your thoughts
.

Was this the final ending of our love? Destroyed by the Duke himself, not by Walsingham? When Walsingham had called me whore, the Duke had raised me up from the depths of my anguish. Now I was alone to weather the storm.

Had I not known that our love would one day meet some impossible obstacle?

But not like this. Never like this.

I spent the rest of the day supervising the cleaning of the few tapestries of which Kettlethorpe could boast. Then when I was exhausted, cobwebbed and coated with dust, but my thoughts settled to some semblance of steadiness, I retired to my parlour and, with a sigh to see that it was unoccupied for the fire was unlit and the room cold—I unfolded the second sheet that I had not yet read, from where I had kept it in my sleeve. It could hardly be of any great importance compared with the rest and I was weary of official documents. Fortunately it was brief enough to be taken in at a glance, sealed with the Duke's own seal but in the recognisable script of Sir Thomas Hungerford.

I stared at it for some time, able to feel, despite my own woes, some sympathy for the child bride, Mary de Bohun, barely out of her first decade. Married to Henry of Lancaster, now Earl of Derby, the young couple were both considered too young for the physical demands of matrimony. It had been agreed that they should not live together until Mary was of an age to welcome childbirth.

Who can pronounce on such matters with confidence? The attraction between the two ran deep, Mary was smitten and Henry lacked the willpower to hold back. A sweet girl, here she was at thirteen years and carrying the ducal heir. Such a young child to give birth, younger than I had been when I had carried Blanche. It was no surprise to me that the Countess of Hereford, Mary's concerned mother, had solicited my aid in this immature pregnancy.

Except that it did surprise me. Barred from the Lancaster household, why would the Countess open her august doors at Rochford Hall to me as she had once accepted me at Pleshey Castle?

Considering, I folded the invitation, sharpening the creases with my thumbnail.