Once I had thought that there was nothing more of joy for me to look forward to, nothing that could ever again fill the corners of my heart with an expression of pure happiness. I had been so very wrong. On this day, beneath the stone ribs and austere beauty of such grace and power, my blood sparkled with it. What’s more, I had every right to be here. It would be expected of me. This was a matter of family loyalty, and would bring down criticism on neither my head nor the Duke’s. I raised my head and let the pride of the moment fill me from head to foot.

‘Look.’ Joan, at nine years, had acquired the self-control to whisper. ‘There’s Robert.’

Still her voice rose a little in excitement.

‘Hush!’ Agnes admonished, yet stroked the sumptuously embroidered shoulder of Joan’s best gown.

‘Doesn’t he look grand?’

‘He is very smart,’ I whispered back.

Sir Robert Ferrers was fourteen years old, very serious and now the betrothed of my little daughter Joan. Sir Robert was in direct line to the considerable Boteler inheritance in the west, an excellent alliance, arranged by the Duke, and since the young man’s spirit of mischief and quick smile had taken Joan’s eye, I could be no other than grateful.

‘He’s a good lad,’ Agnes murmured, her eye on Henry and Thomas who stood with us, warned of the necessity of good behaviour.

And I smiled again. I could have listed any number of proud noble families who made no provision for their illegitimate offspring. The Duke could never be accused of that.

I folded my hand over my girdle, where that innocuous bill of lading was tucked, as precious as a talisman. I knew the words by heart. I did not need the evidence and yet still I kept it.

Come to Lincoln on the 19th day of February in this year of 1386 for the admittance of various persons of some interest to you into the Confraternity of the Cathedral. It is not possible for you to make excuses on this occasion.

When the Duke had last visited Lincoln, in the year after our clash of opinion at Rochford Hall, I had fled back to Kettlethorpe in distress, refusing to be there in the same town as the ducal party, afraid of meeting him. Now he had made it so that I had no choice but to present myself, for there was a list of five names, of those who would be received into the Confraternity of Lincoln, the prestigious order of the brotherhood. The Duke himself had been received when he was a mere three years old. I too had been given that honour. But now he had arranged so much more.

It is right that you should be there, he had added. If you do not, I will send an escort.

Although I had bristled at his presumption to order my movements, as would any woman of independence, yet here I was, for below his command he had inscribed the names. Tantalisingly personal. Impossible to refuse.

Henry, Earl of Derby

John Beaufort

Sir Thomas Swynford

Mistress Philippa Chaucer

Sir Robert Ferrers

There they were now, standing in the magnificence of the Chapter House that I knew so well, members of my family who meant more to me than I could express, all awarded this signal honour, the whole ceremony encompassed without any suggestion of scandal between us. This was no deliberate ruse on the Duke’s part to put the once-ducal mistress in England’s eye. It was a solemn affair of family and God and life after death.

‘And there’s John,’ Joan spoke out, refusing to be quelled. I had not the heart to stop her. She was as proud of her eldest brother as I was.

And there he was, tall and lean like his father, a year younger than Sir Robert, newly knighted at the Duke’s bequest. The Duke had been very busy on behalf of the Beauforts.

My two sons. My daughter’s betrothed. Even my own irascible sister who for once appeared astonished at the honour bestowed upon her for her service to Constanza, as they were received into the prestigious Confraternity of the Cathedral.

I knew that he had done it to honour me as much as to honour them, awarding them God’s blessing, a daily offering of prayers in their name at the Cathedral. A signal honour indeed.

Yet as I rejoiced, still there was that slide of fear that would spoil the day if I allowed it, for it was known to everyone that the Duke was putting his affairs in order before embarking on the new campaign to Castile.

I refused to allow it to trouble me. That was for the future.

I watched and marvelled at the maturity of my sons. I enjoyed Philippa’s ceremonial admittance to the Confraternity as if it were my own, recalling my own initiation. And I allowed my gaze to rest occasionally on the Duke who stood in his place some distance in front of me. Tall, lean, upright. He looked little different from the man who had lived in my mind’s eye throughout all the years of our parting, even when I told myself daily that I despised him.

My letter had not been in vain.

My heart began to sing a little, like a bird catching the first light of dawn. Even if we did not speak, it was enough for us to be here under the same roof.

‘When will you go?’ I asked my sister Philippa, in the little interval between the wine and comfits served to guests and new members of the Confraternity alike, and the general movement to the castle where a ceremonial feast would be held.

I had already offered congratulations to my offspring and Sir Robert, restraining my maternal affection, resisting the urge to hug them. Earl Henry had kissed my cheek. I had not spoken with the Duke whose attention was commandeered by the bishop. Perhaps it was better so, I acknowledged, hiding my irrational disappointment beneath the dramatic fall of sable as I questioned Philippa. She had decided to accompany the Duchess when Constanza travelled with the Duke to Castile.

‘In summer, I expect,’ she replied.

‘Are you sure you wish to?’

‘What’s to keep me here in England? My daughter is settled in a convent. My son is now part of the Duke’s retinue. Geoffrey is nothing to me—nor I to him.’ Her smile was not regretful. I thought she was looking forward to it.

‘I will miss you.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Her smile became a little wry.

‘Where’s Constanza?’

‘On pilgrimage to visit her favourite shrines to solicit an heir. Did you expect her to be here?’

‘No. We are both sufficiently women of the world to keep our distance.’

‘You may not have to, if the Duke can claim Castile at last for her. She’ll live there. The question is…’

‘I know what the question is. What will the Duke do?’

There was, of course, every chance that he would live in Castile for the rest of his life.

Don’t think about that. Not now. Not yet.

I spoke with Thomas—Sir Thomas Swynford now, of course, and in service to Henry of Derby—who glowed with as much pride as I, although he was better at hiding it under an air of insouciance. After more restrained maternal admiration, I discussed a little matter with him that was on my mind. It was something I needed to do, and yet the ultimate decision would be his. I gripped his hands at his response and allowed myself to kiss his cheek. He blushed furiously but did not object. Hugh would have been full of admiration for his splendid son.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘When will you tell him?’

‘I have no idea.’

Nor had I.

‘I will deal with it for you,’ he suggested.

‘You may have to,’ I agreed sadly.

There could be no disappointments, could there? But there were, because the demand on the Duke’s time was a heavy one in his role of host. As an occasion of official leave-taking, there were many guests of importance, and self-importance, who requested speech with him so that he was quickly swallowed up again into the crowd. At the castle it would be even worse, and as the noise rose and those who wished to commandeer a portion of the ducal attention seemed to double in number, I knew what I would do.

I would not stay. I would go back to the Chancery.

I allowed Joan to remain, because of Robert, under Agnes’s strict eye as an amused chaperone, while I shepherded Henry and Thomas, too young for such festivities, back to the Chancery with me. And once there I would hold fast to my delight, to my pride in my sons and in what I had demonstrated to myself in that brief interlude. Being able to step away without distress was of such great importance, showing me that life without the Duke was not impossible. It had been a ceremony of supreme achievement for me, but now it was over and a woman of sense would see the need to make herself scarce. It would be good practice for the time when he and Constanza were crowned King and Queen of Castile.

I used Agnes’s square of linen again. How easily tears came.

The evening was quiet here in the Cathedral Close, being too far from the castle to hear music and singing from the celebrations. I sat at ease, confident in the rightness of what I had done. I smiled at the thought of Joan, enjoying the importance of her young betrothed.

My attention was caught, my smile vanished, for there was a stirring in the garden beyond the parlour window. I listened.

Nothing untoward. A prowling cat mayhap.

Henry and Thomas were put to bed with a maid to keep an eye on them. I sat with a candle and a Book of Hours but the book did not keep my attention, not even the glorious colour and gilding of the illustrations. It had been a gift from the Duke, many years ago.

How strange that I should still refer to him in my mind as the Duke. It was how I had known him from the very beginning when I was a young wife. He was still the Duke, and I suspected always would be. Except when we came together, and then he was John. Or when I was angry with him.

I smiled.

The candle burned low as I found a quill and parchment and wrote the note I had discussed with Thomas.

My pen hovered at the end as I signed my name. My ears pricked.

There was someone outside. I rose quickly, to summon a servant to investigate, then sighed as youthful voices reached me. Here was no attacker, unless it was on the ear. My heart steadied as I walked from parlour to hall, to open the door to Agnes and Joan and my son John. Swaggering Sir Thomas was there at the rear, still laughing at some joke between him and Sir Robert. And there was Philippa, sleekly glorious in her damask and gold-thread houppelande.

I hugged Joan because she was the only one of them who would not mind.

‘Go in,’ I said. ‘There is a fire in the parlour. I will send in ale. You’ve probably eaten enough for a se’enight.’

Their voices were shrill with lingering excitement. Philippa appeared radiant, some of the years of unhappiness fallen away, looking as I recalled her in our youth when she would laugh and dance.

I made to close the door and follow, then, abruptly, stopped, my hand on the latch. Of course they had been sent with an armed escort from the castle. I stretched out a hand to invite the man in for ale.

I allowed my hand to drop.

‘Would you like to let me in?’ he said. ‘Or do I wait out here to take Thomas and Robert back to the Castle?’ There was the slightest pause, as if he fought against laughter. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

He could have sent a servant. An armed body of his retinue. He could have called out Oliver Barton, the Constable of Lincoln, with the local militia. Instead, had come himself with the young ones. This was not discretion. This was not good sense. This was Plantagenet self-assurance in action. In spite of my desire to take him to task, a surge of protectiveness almost choked me. I could imagine Walsingham’s eyes gleaming.

‘You should not have come here,’ I remonstrated, as if addressing young Henry.

‘As I am aware, if I had any sense,’ the Duke replied. ‘And I might wish I hadn’t. If you don’t let me in I’ll have to take refuge in the stable.’

I opened the door wide. Still he stood unmoving in the fitful light that shone out from the windows of the cathedral where some priest was going about his final observances. Beneath the dark folds of his cloak I saw the shimmer of blue and silver, the garments he had worn for the ceremony. More than that in the soft light I could not see, but I knew every line in his face, knew that his hair was still unmarked by grey. Knew that he was a hand-span taller than I and his shoulders were unbowed. The years of battles, both abroad and at home against pen and Parliament, had dealt with him with kindness.

How I loved him. I could never not love him.