But I had written nothing like this present knowledge, which wrenched my heart from my breast and caused my blood to run like a sluggish stream under winter ice.

I forced myself to read, trying to recapture the joy.

I had written of the Duke’s departure to Corunna, but briefly, for it was not a time of rejoicing, even though I kept his words in my mind.

Remember this: where I am, there you will be also.

They comforted me when nothing else could.

Then began the list of marriages and of births, of the achievements of my own children as they grew and made their mark on the world. Of my dear Philippa of Lancaster’s marriage to King Joao of Portugal in the magnificence of Oporto Cathedral, to cement an alliance. I had rejoiced over the birth of a healthy son at last, Henry of Monmouth, to Henry of Derby and his beloved Mary. And then of my own recognition by King Richard as one of the prestigious Ladies of the Garter.

All to be savoured and enjoyed.

But I could not smile as I picked up the pen again.

Some things I had not written because they were too painful. Of Constanza’s loss of her longed-for child; another daughter born dead in Corunna. Nor had I recorded those days of intense dread when an attempt had been made to poison both the Duke and Constanza. Philippa’s tragic miscarriage of an heir for Portugal too was absent. I did not need to write them. I would never forget.

Nor had I written of the failure in the war. The Duke would never win Castile by force of arms. His own ambitions and those of Constanza were at an end. All that could be salvaged, through wise negotiations with Castile, was a marriage alliance for Katalina, now fifteen years old, with King Juan of Castile’s son Enrique. Constanza would never rule in Castile, but her daughter would share the throne, which seemed to me to be the best outcome possible.

But this—this—I must record this, despite the heartbreak, because without it there would be no evidence of a well-lived life.

So I wrote, grief heavy on my hand.

In this month of August in the year 1387 the death of Philippa Chaucer, born Philippa de Roet. Died of dysentery in the service of Constanza, Duchess of Lancaster, Queen of Castile. The place of her burial is not known.

Having done it in my best hand, I laid the pen down with quiet precision.

Thus the end of my sharp-tongued, difficult, restless, loving sister.

I knew so little of her final days, and tried hard to remember her as I had known her, not as I imagined her, racked by pain. There was no body to return, no heart to inter in England, as I had marked the death of Hugh. Her earthly remains were gone from me. But she would live in my heart. And in her children.

I bowed my head.

It was not real.

I drew a line beneath my recording. I would write no more in this missal. What could compare with this loss for me?




Chapter Eighteen

Could a heart remain the same, unaltered?

Mine shivered with anticipation.

There was no need for anxiety, I told myself. We were friends. Once lovers but now friends with a host of memories between us. I had been invited here to Hertford as a friend, summoned indeed, as he used to do in another life.

Lady Katherine de Swynford is requested to attend on Monseigneur de Guienne at Hertford for the celebration of the Birth of the Christ Child and the New Year. The Earl and Countess of Derby will be pleased to welcome her in my name.

I smiled thinly at the new title. A sign of Richard’s good graces, if they could be relied on, John was now Duke of Aquitaine, addressed as Monseigneur de Guienne. He would always be the Duke of Lancaster to me.

Duly received by Henry and Mary, during all the days before the celebrations began in earnest I waited for him, my senses alert at the arrival of every new guest, searching every new face that appeared at dinner in the Great Hall, chiding myself for foolishness. As if he would slip in quietly and without undue fuss to take his place on the dais. Unless he had changed greatly in three years, Monseigneur de Guienne would arrive with as much ceremony and fanfare as he had always done.

And then he was there in our midst, and I hung back until Mary, chivvying the rest of the family whether they liked it or not, found entirely spurious things to do elsewhere, as clumsy a ruse as ever I had experienced, but it left the Duke alone with me in the Great Hall. It also left me nervous. It did not suit me to be uncomfortable in my own actions and thoughts after years of ordering my life to my own liking.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

I was right about the ostentatious impression. The Duke’s herald had announced his arrival and his tunic was a thigh-length creation in silk damask, furred and gold-stitched, enhanced by an embroidered sash that crossed his breast from left to right. It was a pure expression of wealth and power and authority, for prominent in the embroidery was the sleek white hart, emblem of King Richard himself.

But that was not important.

He was here, he was alive.

‘I am come home, Katherine,’ he said.

So simple a statement. So lightly announced, so uncomplicated after all those years when we had said nothing to each other. How portentous it was, but I was too wary these days to grasp it without due care.

‘And I am come to welcome you, my lord,’ I remarked dutifully. My hands were lightly clasped too. I tilted my head a little, recalling us using similar greetings in the heat of denial at Pontefract, when all was black and full of pain. But now winter sun shone through the windows and gilded us, although the warmth that flushed my face with colour had nothing to do with the elements.

The Duke was exhibiting nothing but unimpaired urbanity. He bowed with infinite grace.

‘Well, Lady de Swynford? What do you see?’

I flushed even more brightly. I had been very obvious. ‘Forgive me…’

‘Look your fill.’ He raised his hands, palms upwards, in invitation.

So I did as invited.

The Duke had aged. At first my heart tripped a little in its normal beat, for the three years had taken their toll. Pared down, I decided. That was it. Pared down to the fine essentials by grief and strain and a good dose of poison. Lines I did not recall marked his face, between his brows, scoring the flesh between nose and mouth. They had never been so deeply engraved as they were now, and having lost flesh, his nose was blade thin. And for a moment the austere expression, coupled with all the old glamour and the magnificence of his clothing, particularly the glossy fur and those resplendent sleeves, distanced him from me. He was as superb as the peacock in full plumage, scarred with age and battle, but still triumphantly majestic. I could imagine him no other way.

Yet still I looked.

He was not wearing a pinchbeck pilgrim’s badge. Of course he would not.

‘Do I horrify you?’

He had lapsed into a familiar stance with hands clasped around his belt, chin raised, and it came to me that his energy was as great as ever. There was a hint of grey in his dark hair but it still sprang from his brow with all its old virility. His hands still had all their old grace and beauty. He was as confident as I had ever known him.