The parting had been raw. It was not to be spoken of, the silent anguish that hung in the air as John embraced his son, the lingering fear in the lines on his face, in the words that were not spoken. This might, as we all feared, be the final meeting between them.
‘Go to Paris,’ John advised. ‘Travel is easy if Richard summons you back.’
Richard’s malevolence loomed like a black raven, wings spread over us all. We knew he would never rescind Henry’s banishment.
‘He would not let me help him,’ I raged in Agnes’s initially sympathetic ear. ‘I would have petitioned Richard. It may have done no good but…’
For in a final wilful, gleeful gesture, Henry of Monmouth, John’s grandson, still young and vulnerable at ten years, had been summoned to live in Richard’s household as hostage for his father Henry of Derby’s good behaviour in exile. The chains about the House of Lancaster were being tightened to a stranglehold with every day that passed.
‘Petitioning King Richard was more like to cause harm,’ Agnes admonished. The years might strip colour from her hair and bend her back, her fingers might be less nimble, but Agnes’s mind retained an uncomfortable needle-sharpness. ‘The Duke saw it. Why did you not?’
‘Saw what?’ I rubbed hard at my temples, which ached.
‘Would you trust the King?’ Agnes asked. ‘If Richard grew weary of the petitioning, might he not forget the debt he owed to the Duke and reimpose the full ten years? Or even longer? Best to take what’s given, I’d say. You could have done so much damage, Katherine.’
I had not seen it in that light. All I had thought to do was to ease John’s pain. I sank onto a stool, closing my eyes, acknowledging that in matters of high policy, and in knowledge of the King, John was more astute than I. Without doubt, Richard had his eye on the Lancaster land and wealth.
‘I was wrong.’
‘Not for the first time. And probably not the last.’
Her bracing words brought me back to my senses.
‘But now he won’t see me or talk to me.’
‘Any clever woman can find a way round that. Come with me.’
I spent a profitable and enlightening hour in the stillroom with Agnes whose swollen fingers could still concoct a powerful remedy. Then, cup in hand, I walked to John’s chamber and lifted a hand to rap smartly on the door, which belied the contrition in my heart. I had an apology to offer.
The door opened before I made contact.
‘It is my wish to speak with—’ I was already stepping forward, intent on forcing an entry.
It was no apologetic squire or uncomfortable body servant, but John who stood on the threshold, groomed and impressively clad in a damask houppelande despite the excessive pallor. It made me conscious of my own dishevelled state after an hour of pounding and stirring.
‘Katherine. Did you want me?’ The grief of Henry’s leave-taking was absent and his smile was all welcome.
‘I always want you. I was about to enter with or without leave,’ I admitted.
‘I have an apology to make,’ he said gently.
‘Yes. So have I.’
Relief at seeing him restored to his old authority was a balm to my soul, as I followed him back into his chamber, which was as fastidiously neat and thoroughly organised as it ever was. The bed curtains hung in good order, the disposition of the coffer, the chair, the prie-dieu, the open book of what looked like poetry, offered no evidence of the personal anguish of a powerful man that those four walls had witnessed. But it was written on his face for all time.
‘I forgive you, whatever it is,’ I said. ‘Drink this.’ I proffered the cup.
‘A penance?’
‘You might say that. It’s hot and biting,’ I warned.
He drank off the tincture in warm wine, shuddering with a grimace. ‘Should I ask what it will do for me?’
‘It’s oil of black mustard. It strengthens the heart.’
‘By God, it needs strengthening.’ His smile warmed my own heart.
‘And wards off poison,’ I added for good measure.
We sat together in a sunny window embrasure. I made reparation in a kiss for my wilful behaviour at the tournament. He expressed his regret that he had closed his door against me.
‘You were right,’ I said. ‘Richard is a predator and we have no redress.’ Then, when he was silent: ‘Are we at one?’ I asked.
His fingers laced with mine. ‘What can divide us?’ And then as an afterthought: ‘Richard must never be allowed to stand between us.’
‘He will not. But don’t shut me out again.’
‘I will not. I have need of you as never before.’
I recognised it for what it was: the final rejection of Plantagenet arrogance, the ultimate acceptance of my position in his life. After all the years, some turbulent, some exquisitely happy, John knew that he needed me, and would allow me into his mind as he never truly had before. He would not hide the pattern of his thoughts, his desires or his fears from me again, and I would bear them. The naïve, youthful Katherine de Swynford could never have envisaged how powerful that first attraction to the old allure could become. John’s glamour still stirred me, but the depth of our love had the power to shake me. Now I stood beside him and faced the world, bearing silent witness to his cares. I would nurture and succour him, adding no burden of my own. I would be a beacon for him against a dark sky. My love would be a strength and a salvation.
And John would love me and instinctively know my joys and woes. It was all I asked.
Silently, I rejoiced for this measure of closeness we had achieved, even as I grieved his great loss and the shortening of our days together.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What I had seen when I stepped into the Great Hall and manoeuvred around the haphazard piles of baggage and equipment appropriate for a long journey had chilled my blood. There in the middle of it all was one of the great travelling beds.
No! He could not!
I had turned on my heel to run him to ground in the steward’s room, where I became coated with ice from head to foot that for a moment robbed me of what would have been hot words. How weary he looked, his eyelids dark and fine drawn. His skin almost translucent, his nose as fine as a blade. But there was nothing amiss with his spirit or his temper.
‘I am, as you see, organising a journey.’ There was the old undercurrent of impatience that I recognised.
‘Is it imminent?’
He sighed. ‘Not so imminent that I cannot give you a moment of my time.’
He gestured for the steward to leave us. The steward beat a fast retreat, sped on his way by the expression on my face.
‘And is this a good idea?’ At least I tempered my tone.
‘Probably not.’
The slant of light delineated the increasingly sharp line of his cheekbones, yet it was not caused by the unseasonal cold, the days of cloud and rain. To my mind the culprit was Richard. His banishing of Henry had drained the blood from John’s heart but although grief and loss held him prisoner, still our marriage held. Our love was as strong as it had ever been. As we had vowed, not even Richard could shake that.
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