by Anne O'Brien
‘You are right welcome, my lady.’
When the Duke held out his hand, she placed hers there, her stark gaze at last come to rest. He smiled, saluted her fingers and then her cheek, her lips. I noticed that although there was no reticence in her response, she did not return the smile. Perhaps she was overawed by the splendour of her new home. Compared with the hovel rumour said she had been reduced to occupying in a village in Bayonne—even worse than Kettlethorpe, Lady Alice had informed me with a wry smile—this palace in the very heart of London must seem to her like paradise.
‘You will never be in danger again,’ the Duke assured her. ‘Nor will you ever again live in poverty. This is your home.’ Then turning to the ranks of his household: ‘I would introduce to you my wife. Queen Constanza of Castile.’
We bowed, curtsied.
The Queen of Castile sneezed.
The Duke was immediately solicitous, for though it was undetectable, we all knew that beneath those voluminous robes the lady carried his child. ‘Your hands are cold. Forgive my thoughtlessness.’ He beckoned to Lady Alice: ‘My wife needs our consideration. The English winter has not been kind today. I’ll leave her in your efficient hands.’
The welcome was thus cut short out of concern for her health and that of her child, and she was handed over to her new household. To me. I found myself directed by Lady Alice, since I had not yet settled into any routine of duties for my new mistress, to conduct the lady to her accommodations, help her disrobe, organise her bathing and then put her to bed with a pan of hot coals and a cup of warm spiced wine. And to instruct her handful of Castilian ladies who were looking apprehensive and as wet as she.
‘You know how we go about things here. None better,’ Lady Alice murmured. ‘And next week, God willing, your sister can take over when she has wished her husband farewell. She can soothe the Castilian fears, and you can concentrate on the welfare of the coming child—as well as giving me a hand with the clutch of growing children in my care.’ She sighed as she observed the Castilian retinue and clicked her tongue. ‘They look frightened to death. Do they think we will eat them?’
I curtsied to the new Duchess, who glanced rather wildly at the Duke, but she followed as I led the way, lingering in every antechamber, every room, to take in the furnishings, the painted ceilings, the glowing tapestries. Even though she shivered with cold, she found a need to take in every aspect of her new home, until I decided that enough was enough when she sneezed again.
‘To take a chill, my lady, would not be good for your child,’ I advised firmly. Subtle deference, I sensed, would not pay with this young woman. ‘It would be better for you and the baby if you were out of those clothes immediately.’
She blinked as if she had not expected me to speak, or did not understand. Perhaps that was it, I realised. How good was her understanding of the French that we habitually spoke at court?
‘You are cold,’ I said clearly, slowly. ‘You need to be dry and warm.’
She nodded and quickened her steps.
‘Ah! Good!’ she said at last. For as we arrived at her private chamber, a wooden bath, the staves held in place by brass mounts carved with fish and dragons, had been manoeuvred before the fire to accommodate the water, steaming and fragrant with herbs. It was, I realised, the first word she had spoken since her arrival.
I stood back to allow her to enter, then, closing the door on the last empty bucket, followed her as the Castilian ladies stood around helplessly.
‘Find your mistress’s garments,’ I chivvied, seeing that some of her coffers had already been placed in the room. ‘A shift, a robe. Some soft shoes…’ I pointed at the bath. ‘Now you must bathe, my lady.’
And under my eye the maidservant I had brought with me began to strip the fur and matted velvet from the Castilian queen’s slight body, releasing her hair from its confinement so that it snaked, damp and tangled, over her shoulders. The Duchess simply stood and allowed it to happen.
‘Clothes for your mistress,’ I snapped again at the damsels, thinking that my sister Philippa, with all her experience in Duchess Blanche’s household, would find it a hard task to help me beat these women into some sort of order. They had clearly not served in a noble household before. Then I addressed the Duchess, who was standing shivering in her embroidered under-gown. ‘How do I address you, my lady?’
She regarded me steadily, looking far younger than her seventeen years. ‘I am Queen of Castile,’ she pronounced carefully.
Which did not help. She was also Duchess of Lancaster. Since she had not objected, I continued as I had called her.
‘A poor welcome for you, my lady.’
‘Yes. This is my sister, the Lady Isabella.’
She gestured casually with her hand towards the young unsmiling woman at her side, before handing to me, without looking at it, the brooch that had been pinned to the bosom of her gown. Making the requisite curtsy to the Lady Isabella, I placed the brooch on the coffer beside me. It was heavy with gold, depicting St George and a flamboyant dragon, all picked out in sapphires, diamonds and pearls. The dragon’s eyes were ruby-red. Much discussed, it was a gift from Prince Edward to acknowledge the Queen of Castile’s arrival, and was indeed worthy of royalty. I was surprised that she treated it with such indifference, for it was a remarkable jewel. Perhaps she was merely tired, yet I did not think so, despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the obvious strain on her aquiline features. I did not think it meant anything to her, and wondered what would move her to true emotion. As I turned back to her, she spoke, carefully:
‘Who are you?’
‘Katherine de Swynford, my lady.’
‘You are part of this…?’ She sought for the word. I had been right. Her French, heavily accented, was not good.
‘Household,’ I supplied. ‘I am part of the Duke’s household. And of yours. I am appointed to be one of your damsels.’
She stared at me. ‘One of my ladies?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Do you also care for the Duke’s children?’
‘Yes, my lady. When it is necessary.’
‘I have not met the children yet.’ She frowned. ‘My lord has told me of them.’
‘Tomorrow you will see them.’
She lifted her arms to allow her under-gown to be removed, then stood in her shift as the maid unrolled her stockings, obediently lifting one foot, then the other. ‘I will have a son of my own,’ she announced. ‘You served Duchess Blanche?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
The shift removed, I saw how undeveloped her body was at hip and breast. Childbearing would not be easy for her. The pregnancy showed barely a roundness of her belly. I offered my hand to help her step into the tub and lower herself into the water, where she sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes.
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘A widow, my lady.’
‘What is that?’
‘Una viuda,’ murmured one of the women who seemed to have more French than her mistress.
‘I understand. Your husband is dead. Do you have children?’
She had so many questions.
‘Yes. I have three. My daughter Blanche is the Duke’s godchild. What is that?’ I looked at the woman who had replied before.
‘Un ahijado,’ she supplied.
The Duchess’s eyes opened, focused on me, then narrowed. ‘He—the Duke—has a regard for you.’ There was no friendliness there and I sensed a jealousy in what was obviously a question. Who should recognise it better than I?
‘For me, a little, for the service I gave to his wife. And for my husband, much more,’ I explained. ‘He died in Aquitaine last year, in the Duke’s employ. Sir Hugh was a soldier in his retinue.’
‘I see.’ She understood enough, and what was most pertinent. The resentment in her eyes cooled. ‘Your husband was a man of title.’
‘Yes. He was a knight.’
‘Ah!’ She smiled, her face suddenly lit with an
inner beauty. ‘So you are Lady Katherine de Swynford.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Status also meant something to her. I wondered how fluent the Duke was in Castilian. He would need to be, to pick his way through all these conflicting impulses.
‘Then I have decided. I want you to be my damsel,’ she stated with all the imperiousness of the house of Castile.
‘As I will be. The Duke has appointed me.’ I explained, slowly: ‘My sister, Mistress Chaucer, will also come to care for you.’
‘Is she like you?’
‘She is very capable. She knows about children.’
The new wife stretched out her arm for the maid to wash with a soft cloth. Her glance to me was suddenly sharp. ‘I fear this…’ She spread her free hand over her belly. ‘It makes me feel ill.’
‘There is no need to fear, my lady. You are young and strong.’
‘Still I fear.’ She shrugged. ‘Were you with Duchess Blanche? When she was with child?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘She lost some of her babies, did she not?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ I could not lie, but I poured her a cup of warm wine and offered it, hoping to distract her. It would do no good to speak of the three little boys who had not seen the first anniversary of their birth. Or the girl, Isabella, who had barely breathed.
‘How many?’ the Duchess insisted.
‘Four,’ I admitted. ‘But she carried three who are now grown.’
She waved aside the wine. ‘Have you lost any babies?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘Then you will stay with me. You will give me your advice.’ A demand again, not a request. ‘It is…it is imperativo that I carry un heredero for Castile.’
I caught the gist. ‘Of course,’ I soothed. The Duchess Constanza needed an heir.
‘My lord will get my kingdom back for me. I will not live in England long. My lord will drive my vicioso uncle Enrique from Castile. He will kill him for me. And I will take back what is mine.’
It sounded as if she had learned the phrases. So confident. So driven. Her eyes were aflame, her hands fisted on the edge of the bath. Then she looked at me, gaze narrowed again on my face.
‘You are beautiful.’
Which surprised me. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘I am said to be beautiful too.’
‘Yes, my lady. The people of London filled the streets to look at you.’
Her frown deepened into a scowl. ‘Was Blanche beautiful?’
‘Yes, my lady. But fair. Not dark like you.’
‘My lord likes beautiful things.’
‘Yes, my lady. You will lack for nothing here at The Savoy.’
My soothing comment elicited a torrent of Castilian.
‘A excepción de la tierra de mi nacimiento—y la venganza.’
I looked helplessly at the Castilian damsel who had hovered at my side throughout.
‘The Duchess says: “Except for the land of my birth. And vengeance.”’
‘Vengeance for what, my lady?’
Which was answered by a flash of eye and another stream of invective, carefully translated for me:
‘My father—King Pedro—his murderers live on, unpunished. He was ambushed by assassins, paid for by my uncle Enrique. He was decapitated and left unburied to his great dishonour. His head was sent to Seville for public exhibition. Dios mio! It is my life’s ambition to have my father interred in Castilian soil with all honour and his murderers slain. That I will do before I die.’
‘Of course, my lady.’
Her flat chest heaving, extreme vexation in every gesture, Constanza surged to her feet, splashing water, the evidence of the forthcoming child clearer as she arched her body.
‘My lord will take Castile from the deplorable Enrique. We will rule it together as King and Queen. This child—this son—will rule in his own time. I will have fulfilled my destiny—and my new husband’s too. What more could he desire, than to be King of Castile?’
What more could the Duke desire? There was no path for his ambitions in England, but Castile might just provide them. A kingdom of his own, to rule in his own name, answerable to no one. For the first time I understood the importance of this marriage for him. This marriage, the promise of this kingdom, would give him his heart’s desire.
‘I am tired,’ she announced. ‘I will go to bed.’
We dried her with soft linen, combed her hair. Wrapped in an embroidered chamber robe, feet in fur-lined slippers, she was soon propped against the pillows on her bed.
‘Do you think the Duke cares for me?’ she asked.
How could he not love her? She was beautiful and wellborn, an heiress with a kingdom for the taking by a courageous man. Obvious to all, the Duke was chivalrous and caring in his first meeting with her. Of course he loved her.
‘The Duke chose you before all other ladies who wished to wed a Plantagenet prince,’ I replied, for was that not the truth? ‘How could he not care for you?’
‘Bien! I hope it is so.’ She nodded, seeming to understand.
Do you care for him? I felt an urge to ask. I had no idea. She gave nothing away. She was shrewd and sharp, and I knew it was my duty to hope that the Duke would be happy with her and she with him.
Jealousy, bitter as aloes, coated my mouth as I left her to sleep, but then the erratic leap of my thoughts forced me into a wry smile.
Beware of the wife, Mistress Saxby had warned. It’s easy to be carried away by the glamour of stolen kisses, but a wife can make your life a misery. Take my word for it.
I would indeed beware, if ever such kisses came my way. It seemed, on my first steps as a damsel to Duchess Constanza, an unlikely eventuality.
So this marriage to the Queen of Castile was of vast importance to the Duke. It was brought home to me just how critical a step it was for him when a messenger arrived from the King as the household, without the new Duchess, sat at supper in the sumptuous splendour of the Great Hall. He bowed and handed over a sealed document.
‘His Grace the King asks that you consider the contents, Monseigneur d’Espaigne. He would value Monseigneur’s advice at the earliest possible moment.’
The Duke took the packet, inviting the messenger to sit with us while he read.
Monseigneur d’Espaigne.
Already he was recognised as King of Castile in his wife’s name. I would never see him as that—to me he would always be the Duke—even if courtesy and etiquette determined that I comply, but without doubt it would colour the direction of his future life. Would Monseigneur d’Espaigne not forget everything but the road to the throne of Castile, paved with gold and bloodshed, which lay stretching in a glittering seam before him, with the bride at his side? He would take an army and begin a re-conquest of the kingdom—and then he would live there, far from England, far from me, with his wife and new family.
An excellent outcome for all concerned. All my concerns should be allayed.
But they were not.
I offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness as the Duke perused the King’s letter, and my spoon congealed in a rich dish of mammenye ryal, the minced poultry redolent of almond milk and sweet wine, while I listed my sins in silent petition before the Blessed Virgin. Lust for a man who was bound to another. Avarice, the sin of deadly excess, as evidenced by my uncontrolled emotion. Greed that made me wish for an affection that was not mine to take. Envy against the Duchess, beautiful and regal, in her rightful place at the Duke’s side and in his bed. Pride that blinded me to my own unworthiness.
All of those. The tally of them horrified me.
Can you not find evidence of Sloth, Wrath and Gluttony as well? I asked bitterly.
I was sure I could. I put my spoon down, determined to eat no more that night. I should never have come back. It was an unforgivable mistake. I should not have allowed myself to be drawn into dreams of what could never be. I had allowed myself to live, however briefly, in a magical scene in which my love was no longer unrequited. One d
ay spent at The Savoy, absorbing the high politics of the occasion and the determination of the new Duchess, had shown me the futility of it all. The Duke would assuredly have other fish to fry.
‘Has my wife found her chamber to her liking?’ the Duke asked Lady Alice as we rose at last at the end of the meal.
‘Yes, my lord, so I understand. Lady Katherine waited on her.’
Since I was standing within earshot, he could do no other than look to me for clarification.
‘I trust she has suffered no ill effects from the journey, Lady Katherine?’
‘None, my lord,’ I replied, coolly informative and nothing more. ‘The Duchess is weary, of course. She will be strong again by the morning. I am honoured to be appointed as her damsel, my lord,’ I added.
‘I can think of none better.’
He moved on beside Lady Alice, head bent, absorbed in some household problem.
Well, that had been entirely impersonal, completely centred on the well-being of the Castilian Queen, as it should be. His smile was such that he would bestow on any one of his retinue from his most eminent physician to Nichol, the gardener at The Savoy. That briefest of conversations had made everything crystal clear. All my worrying had been futile.
Now it must be for me to put it right in my mind, to return to the calm existence of my previous service at The Savoy. It would be just like before. It would be like stepping back into my old skin, before all the upheaval. Before the Duke had said what he said, and torn my world apart.
Why did he have to do that, when it was obviously an aberration? Why were men sometimes as insensitive as a wild boar’s charge when faced with a huntsman’s lance? And there he was, entirely oblivious to the disturbance he had created, presumably concerned for nothing more than the perfect lie of the damask along his shoulders, the dramatic gleam of the gold chain against the red and black and gold of the cloth.
A little bubble of anger in my belly made me wish I had not eaten those final spoonfuls of the highly spiced dish. I regretted it even more when the Duke abandoned Lady Alice and awaited me by the door. My heart leaped, then plummeted as he raised a hand to stop my progress.
‘Lady Katherine.’
‘My lord?’