My first thought: I had been away from this household for well nigh a year, in which time things had changed. I had been gone too long. Relationships moved on, could be made or unmade.

And my second: how strikingly beautiful the Duchess was, with motherhood softening her angular features. How fluently she was now able to express herself. How comfortable she looked in this setting. There was a happiness to her, a contentment, a willingness to smile, that I could not recall. When the Duke handed his wife a cup of wine with a smile and a little courtly bow, the Duchess accepted and sipped with a laugh at something he said.

How alike they were. Both handsome, both driven by ambition, both assured in wielding authority. Another impression, even less pleasant, was forced on me. How at ease they were in each other’s company, as if they had at last come to some understanding. It was as if I was suddenly cast under a shadow in the face of their brightness.

Constanza could bring the Duke power and a legitimate son.

I could do neither.

These thoughts raced through my mind in the blink of an eye, but hurtful none the less. Why would the Duke not warm to his wife? What might have begun as a political marriage of necessity for both of them, why might it not become more intimate as they grew to know each other? Why should Constanza not be seduced by this embodiment of Plantagenet mystique and power?

Was this the first blossoming of love?

A hard nugget of jealousy settled beneath my heart, when I had been so assured of the rightness of my return. Now, suddenly, I was not so sure.

The Chamberlain stepped beside me. ‘Lady Katherine de Swynford, my lord. My lady.’

At last I was announced, bringing to an end the private conversation. I worked at a smile and curtsied, before walking slowly forward.

‘We are pleased to see you returned to our household, Lady Katherine.’ Constanza smiled thinly. ‘We hope that you will stay longer this time.’

‘It is my intention, my lady,’ I responded carefully, not looking at the Duke.

‘It seems that I am not to have the benefit of your company. Unfortunately I am to be relieved of your experience with young children.’

A cold finger drew a line along my spine. I was no longer one of her immediate household. I looked into her lovely face, expecting disgust, horror, hatred even, knowing that I would react with fury if I, the legitimate wife, was forced to face the brazen mistress in her own chamber. Had she dismissed me? What was I doing here, if she had refused to take me back?

But Constanza’s face was smoothly expressionless within the border of her severe crispinette and barbette, as she waved me towards the Duke.

All movement, all expression on his face stilled as I curtsied again, then he was holding out his hand to take mine and draw me into their company.

‘As my wife says, we are pleased to see you returned to our household, Lady Katherine, now that your estate matters allow.’

Slowly, not to draw attention, I withdrew my hand from his.

‘It is my wish,’ the Duke announced with unquestionable propriety, ‘that you to take up the post of magistra to my children.’

I tried not to allow my face to express my astonishment, and since no one showed any surprise, I must have been successful. Magistra. A position of authority, of very public recognition of my talents. I sank into a curtsy, head bowed to hide my glowing cheeks, that little moment of panic dispelled.

Why had he not told me of this plan? Because it was not in his nature to do so, I reminded myself. I must never forget that. The Duke decided and carried out his wishes with recourse to no one. Sometimes I still forgot that he was a man who never questioned the absolute authority instilled in his royal blood. He had decided; thus it would be.

‘Such a position is entirely appropriate for one of your standing,’ he was explaining. ‘You were educated under my mother’s aegis. I can think of no one better to take on the responsibility. You will oversee the education of my daughters, and also my son Henry until he is of age to have a tutor and take up military skills. I expect them to read and to write, to master languages, literature. To behave with courtesy as becomes my children. To sing and dance with grace…’

He paused, perhaps expecting a response from me. ‘What do you think, Lady Katherine?’ he enquired gently when he received none.

‘I have no words, my lord,’ I managed.

All I could think of was that the Duke had done this for me. He had cushioned my return in every possible way, seeing for himself, the false posturing that my service to Constanza would engender. He had done this, to remove me from the close-knit atmosphere of the solar with all its household politics and gossip and female disparagements. I had been mistaken in thinking that I had no place in this household. Instead, at the Duke’s behest, I had been honoured beyond all my hopes and knew that I was made welcome.

‘You are unusually lacking in comment, Katherine,’ Lady Alice remarked with spiked humour, coming to my side to plant a warm kiss on my cheek.

‘I am overcome with the position I have been given,’ I responded quickly, nudging myself from astonishment into good manners. ‘My thanks, my lord. It will please me to serve you well.’

I was saved from the moral discomfort of rubbing shoulders with Constanza every day. I was protected from my sister Philippa’s frequent inquisitions, which would surely follow my reinstatement here.

I had returned and my heart rejoiced.

When the Duke came to me that night, in the room that I, in my new advancement, no longer had to share with anyone, it was in the spirit of celebration. Within seconds of his closing the door I was swept into his arms, held tight, and my face and lips covered with kisses.

‘Do I presume that you are pleased to see me returned?’ I asked, when I could.

‘How can you doubt it?’ the Duke replied, his hands closing around my waist, lifting me to my toes to plant another kiss on my lips. ‘I have missed you, Katherine, as a man in a desert misses a draught of ale. I am no more than a dried husk.’

‘You look very healthy to me,’ I observed.

‘You did not see me yesterday!’

‘I wish I had. I have been gone too long from you.’

At which the Duke nibbled along my collarbone. ‘You are as delicious as a platter of French strawberries. I’ll sing to you, my lady fair and woo you back to me with rich sentiments.’

And he did, but it was a strange choice he made. At supper the minstrels had sung, a song of longing with plangent chords and wistful words. Picking up my lute, the Duke sang the words to me again, beautiful, certainly, but entirely ambiguous is their meaning. Did he know? Or was it merely a song that was in his mind? I listened to the words I knew well.

‘I will tell you what inordinate love is:

Insanity and frenzy of mind,

Inextinguishable burning, devoid of happiness,

Great hunger that can never be satisfied.

A dulcet sickness, sweetness evil and blind,

A most wonderful sugared sweet error,

Without respite…’

Abruptly he stopped singing as if the mood of the song touched him, head bent to watch his soft fingering on the strings. When he made no comment, I was moved to ask, but keeping my tone light: ‘Inordinate love? Is that what it is, John? Is that what afflicts us?’

Slowly, frowning slightly, he put aside the lute, choosing his words with care. ‘I know not. All I know is that I lack the will to step away from you. If it is insanity,’ he picked up the sentiments of the song, ‘it binds me to you.’

But do you love me? Do you not love me as I love you?

I almost asked it, breaking the vow I had made on that first day at The Savoy. But did not, because I feared the answer. Instead, keeping lightly the Duke’s theme: ‘And if it is a frenzy of mind, then I am frenzied. But I am not blind to the pain it can cause others.’

‘Nor am I blind.’ His eyes rested on my face and I returned the regard. The regret I read there touched me with sorrow, for it might be a regret that he could not truly love me as I loved him. Always careful with my choice of words, I never burdened him with the depth of my feelings for him. Would not placing such an obligation at his feet undermine the foundations of what we had together? The Duke needed me, and that must be enough. I would play the role allotted to me with grace.

‘It is a great hunger,’ I offered, returning to the song, and was instantly soothed by the answering smile.

‘Agreed. And a sugared sweetness.’

‘And there is much inextinguishable burning—that is also true,’ I urged, allowing him with a shiver of anticipation to alight kisses on my wrists.

‘I am on fire,’ the Duke said, and lunged.

Only after the kisses had worked their way to my elbow, to my shoulder and then my throat, was I abandoned, and the Duke, with a glitter of pure male gallantry, took up the lute again and with a troubadour swagger coupled with a provocative leer broke into a quite different refrain, obliterating any memory of regret:

‘Your mouth provokes me,

“Kiss me, kiss sweet!”

Each time I see you so it seems to me.

Give me a sweet kiss or two or three!’

‘John!’ I remonstrated, as he snatched the requisite kisses between each line of the song.

‘Katherine!’ the Duke responded with a crow of laughter before he tossed the lute aside and seized my hands in his. ‘Whatever the emotion that touches us, it is not devoid of happiness. You are all my happiness.’ He lifted my hands in quick succession to his lips. ‘Ah, Katherine. Don’t repine, dear heart. They’re only words after all, troubadour’s fripperies. Let us celebrate your return. Come and show me with your kisses that this is no sweet error.’

Only empty words? They were not empty for me, but I placed my hands in his and returned his salute.

‘There is no error,’ I assured.

‘Then come and show me, for I have sorely missed you.’

Our reunion of the flesh, and of spirit, was sweet indeed. Passionate, possessive, demanding, deliciously seductive, the Duke was all of these and I would refuse none of it.




Chapter Nine

There was only one rule to be followed to the exclusion of all else. Reticence must command with an iron hand. Discretion must guide my every action.