by Anne O'Brien
Yes, I decided, in my new balanced maturity, I could and must accept in my lover such sins of the flesh. My love was strong enough to forgive.
I have granted land and money for the foundation of a chapel dedicated to St Katherine and the Blessed Virgin Mary at Roecliffe in Yorkshire. Prayers will be offered up to the saint of your heart to guard and watch over you, since I cannot.
My heart warmed in my chest, and tears were not far behind.
We must be apart but my heart lies with you, my thoughts too.
My tears flowed like a cataract in spate.
I did not use the vicious words that have been accredited to me. I never would make you the subject of such ignominy. If I wept, it was not in self-indulgent penance for my own sins but in grief for the anguish I knew my actions would inflict on you. Walsingham and his minions saw it of value to put the phrases into my mouth. If you were an enchantress, as perhaps you are, I would only see it as good. The intricate web of your love remains woven around me, and will remain inviolable until I am laid in my grave.
I am your servant. And will remain so for this day and for ever.
And there was his signature. His name, not his title.
John
So there it was. The necessity for the quitclaim. Loving, not vindictive. Caring, not callous. A release, not a rejection. And what had I done at Rochford? I had believed the worst because I had not thought beyond my own pain.
Now my hurt was sharper than ever, and the guilt too, jostling with renewed anguish. He loved me, as he had always loved me, and yet we must of necessity remain apart. Any suspicion that we were not living distantly, and Walsingham would descend on us with sword and fire, like St Michael on the evil power of the dragon.
My isolation was even greater than it had been.
And yet perhaps not, I decided as I dried my tears, for now I knew beyond doubt that the Duke’s love for me was a precious thing, far more valuable than gold or silver hanaps, and I brought to mind that moment when he had left Rochford Hall. When he had looked across the room at me. I had thought him ruthless and unfeeling. He was not. I denied that he had felt any wretchedness comparable to mine. How wrong I had been. His sorrow had been equal to mine, if not greater.
I had thought he had grown weary of me, that he no longer wished to touch me even in a formal farewell. That I was nothing to him. Now I knew. To draw attention to us would be far too dangerous. He had been aware of every potentially prurient eye upon us at Rochford Hall, despite Countess Joan’s careful presence. He had had to do it for me, and for himself.
His final lines, each one scrawled, one after another, written with such a sense of loss, near broke my heart anew.
It is an agony that I must accept that I will never touch you again when all I need is to hold you in my arms and know your lips against mine. To do so would be too dangerous. Even to acknowledge you in the public eye would draw unfavourable comment. Rochford was a torment for me, as it must have been for you. For the sake of England I made this painful bed. Now I must sleep for ever on it.
I have condemned you to sleep alone too. Forgive me, my very dear and most loved companion.
England must thrive. I must make amends to Constanza if I can.
And I must reassure you of my love, for now and all time.
I cannot hope that you will have the generosity to forgive me.
He loved me. He still loved me. And now I knew why he had been so very angry. I had been cold, shunning him, with no understanding of what it was he had done for me. I had been intolerant, unbending, because I had not, in my hurt and my anger, seen the true value of what he had accomplished. Now, older, and I hoped wiser, with my sister’s trenchant advice hammering in my head, I knew I had to let go of my perceived wrongs so that I might once more live in peace with myself. And with the man I would always love, even though I could never live with him again. I must acknowledge the unbreakable ties of heart and soul and mind that bound us still, and simply forgive.
I had wronged him. Now I too must make amends.
I knew what I must do. I thought about it, ruining the nib of one pen, frowning at Philippa when she intruded so that she withdrew. She was still with me at Kettlethorpe on her journey back to the Duchess. She would take the letter for me.
Whatever level of contact there was between myself and the Duke, it must be as discreet and quiet as a mouse raiding an apple-barrel in my cellar. I might express my grief at the past wrongs I had heaped on him, but our relationship must be that of the spirit, not of the flesh. The Duke had made his choice and I must respect it. Most specifically I could not undermine what he had done, so cruelly for both of us, however much my heart raged against it. All I could do was reassure him of my understanding, reassure him that his sacrifice had not been in vain. The fortifications he had built between us, for all of England to see, would not be demolished by any careless word from me. His reputation had been restored, and I was glad of it. There was no going back for either of us.
So now—how to write it?
I would write under cover of estate business, one landowner in gratitude to another despite our disparate rank. Why would I not write my thanks, in an entirely impersonal manner? Philippa would ensure that it reached his hands, not those of Sir Thomas Hungerford. But just in case it fell into other hands…
To Monseigneur of Lancaster.
In thanks for the recent delivery of trimmed oaks for use at Kettlethorpe. I am grateful for the timber as I plan an addition of rooms to the manor house.
I wrote fast and fluently, yet another paragraph of inconsequential detail on my rebuilding. And then I began, the first, the only personal letter I had ever written to him. How difficult it was. Another quill went the way of its predecessor. Now, knowing what I knew, I must say what was in my heart, yet hiding the joy that danced in my soul that he still loved me and I was free to love him, albeit from a distance.
As for the quitclaim…
That looked suitably legalistic, I decided.
You must have thought me unresponsive to the reality of that legal document at our last meeting at Rochford Hall. I confess to not understanding the essence of the quitclaim as I ought. Now I understand, and I have come to my senses at last.
Due to the explanation I have received, I am able to take this essential step in informing you of it.
There! Dry as dust! Would he understand? I thought that he would. I swallowed against the emotion that I dare not write, but that threatened to scatter the page with tears. There would be no cause for me to weep over a discussion of pasture enclosures. I continued with rigorous attention to my choice of words, written in the coldest of terms.
I understand what you did and why you did it. It has been a long and very painful road for me to get to this place. I know that I must accept what drove you to do what you did.
I ruined the quill with my fingernails. And then, against all good sense, I wrote:
You must know that my sentiments towards you remain as they have always been, unconditional and all-encompassing. I pray for your safekeeping and for God’s grace to protect and uphold you. I will listen for news of you.
I only ask that you will keep me, ever a loyal servant to the house of Lancaster, close in your mind.
Not one word of the love from which I would never be free.
Leaving a space, in bold script I cushioned my confession with an account of one of my local projects, to deflect any prying eye.
I am involved in much time and effort to enclose local pastures into the park at Kettlethorpe. It is troublesome and there is local opposition but I have the King’s permission and
I will prevail…
I laughed softly through my sorrow as I completed the final lines. He would think that I had lost my senses, until he realised what I was doing. But how to finish? I knew what I wanted to write.
I love you now, today, as I struggle to write this, as much if not more than I ever did. I will love you tomorrow and tomorrow. What strength c
omes to us under adversity. My heart remains yours even as the years pass. My soul rejoices in the knowledge that you love me. Keep safe, my dear love.
But it would be far too indiscreet. Instead, I wrote simply,
With thanks again for your generosity and concern for the management of my estate. I remain, and always will remain, your grateful servant,
Katherine de Swynford
I reread it with something of desolation. A poor attempt at contrition, a poor contrivance. It was the best I could do, and I handed it to Philippa with instructions. I hoped that he would understand all I had dared not put into words.
‘Well, I’ll deliver it, Kate. But don’t expect him to come to you,’ Philippa advised, perhaps seeing the hope in my face. But indeed she was wrong. I had no hope of that. There would be no physical reconciliation.
‘You have to learn to live without him,’ she continued. ‘He and Constanza are hand in glove. Or at least sharing the bed-linen. She is hopeful of carrying his child.’
‘Then I must wish her well.’
It was the only response that I could make against another dart that lodged in my heart.
I have handed the letter to the Duke.
Philippa wrote to me at length.
It hurts me to tell you, but the Duchess is much restored in spirits, praying fervently that she will carry another child at last. The Duke is very attentive. He is planning another assault on Castile, to be preached as a Crusade. There is much optimism and happiness here. The Duke and Duchess are in accord. If a new child were to be born in Castile, it would be a marvellous coup for them. My thoughts are with you, Kate, if, whatever your denials, you hoped for any reconciliation from your letter.
I understood. Of course I did. I expected no reply. It was enough that he should know of the direction of my thoughts. The days of bitter heartbreak were long gone.
But there were nights when I mourned my lost love who must continue to bolster the fortifications between us in the interests of reputation and England’s glory.
‘Agnes! Agnes! You’ll never believe what he has done!’
All dignity as Lady of Kettlethorpe was forgotten. I hitched my skirts and ran into my beautifully refurbished hall with no thought at all for the improvements or the bright display of newly purchased tapestries.
Agnes emerged through a door on the floor above me, drawn to the top of the staircase by my strident tones.
‘What is it? What who has done?’
‘I can’t believe it!’ I was already taking the stairs two at a time.
‘What?’ Agnes demanded, now scowling fiercely.
But I couldn’t say. Not yet. I hadn’t the breath for it. I had been in the courtyard, in desultory conversation with one of Lancaster’s waggoners. I was surprised by this wagon-load of timber and wine that had struggled through the slush and mire of January in the New Year. Not the usual time of year for such inessential journeying. The waggoner handed me the bill of lading as he climbed stiffly down and, taking it, I let my eye travel down it. There was also a basket of rabbits somewhere in there and a bolt of fine cloth.
But there was a postscript added to the short list of items.
And then a list. A list of five names at the very bottom. I knew every name on the list intimately.
It had the power to drain all colour from my face.
‘I say you should go inside, mistress,’ the waggoner advised. ‘A cup of ale will do you good. Me too…’
But I was already running up the stair, the waggoner, wood and rabbits forgotten.
‘Agnes!’
I could not believe what I had read.
I pushed past Agnes and Joan, who followed me to my chamber in some bafflement. Where I cast myself on my knees beside my coffer.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘This!’
I lifted out my sable cloak, letting Joan take it from me, smiling when she began to stroke its folds, picking out twigs of mugwort and lavender. The heavy perfume filled the room. It was easy to smile that day.
‘And there! I was thinking that we were being invaded,’ Agnes muttered. ‘All this fuss about nothing but a fur cloak you’ve never worn.’
‘You said you would never wear it again,’ Joan observed, female enough to hope that I would give it to her.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘God be praised. It’s too good to be kept locked in a box.’ Agnes’s eyes narrowed on my ingenuous expression. ‘Why?’
‘I’m going to Lincoln.’
‘I don’t see that a visit to Lincoln would make you willing to flaunt this evidence of past sin.’
‘Did I call it that?’ I looked up with a laugh, as if I were a girl again. I could not recall when I last felt so foolishly happy. ‘I am going to see the Duke.’
Agnes grunted, taking the weight first of the fur and wool from Joan, and then from her own feet as she sank onto a stool. ‘And not before time, some would say!’
It was a shock to hear her concurrence. ‘I didn’t think you would approve.’
‘Well, I do—and I don’t. Which makes no sense, mistress. But when a woman’s blessed with a love such as you have been given, it’s a sin to waste it. That’s what I say.’ Her face was as flushed as mine. ‘I’d best make preparations. How fortunate that I kept the moth from my lord’s precious gift.’
Chapter Seventeen
The slender columns in the circular space of the Chapter House of Lincoln Cathedral rose powerfully around me as my sable-lined cloak fell in sumptuous folds to the floor, and I thought that my pride must have shone around me like the gilded haloes painted on the saints on the wall. My gratitude, my immeasurable gratitude, could not be expressed in mere words. Maternal tears trickled into my smile, no matter how hard I tried to present a dignified composure on this most auspicious of days.
But perhaps no one would blame me for it. I took the square of linen silently handed to me by Agnes, acknowledging the brush of her fingers against mine. She felt it too.
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 yea
r 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.