The Scandalous Duchess

by Anne O'Brien

  John had done this for me.

  I vowed that whatever was waiting for me, I would prove an entirely suitable Duchess for him.

  We were expected, of course, so the chamber was thronged, and there were the women of the court who had vowed not to sully their feet on the same ground that I occupied. Well, here I was, for better or worse.

  Let us see what they would do. Let us see who would win this bout. I was ripe for battle.

  John took my hand and led me forward. And as the Duke smiled at me, I returned it with no need for pretence, for Queen Philippa’s training from all those years ago was surging strongly beneath my embroidered girdle with its golden wheels as I walked slowly, smoothly forward, the skirts of my houppelande brushing against the floor with a soft elegance, my hair caught up in a sapphire-jewelled caul. I would not be hurried. I allowed my lips to curve into a faint smile as if certain of my worth as Duchess of Lancaster. Whatever happened here today would not hang on my incompetence or clumsiness in a formal situation. Court procedure ran in my blood, and where I might be unsure I could mimic insouciance to perfection.

  Did I not have the master of such court ceremonial at my side?

  I was sufficiently at ease to take in my surroundings. The Rose Chamber was as extravagant as I recalled, and much to the King’s taste, where the decorations in blue, green and vermilion paint together with a quantity of gold leaf, defied any attempt to choose a gown that did not clash horribly. Notwithstanding I wore figured damask, glorious in blue with rioting leaves and flowers.

  Ahead, seated on the dais, King Richard awaited us.

  ‘There, you see. They have not cast you out,’ John murmured, lips barely moving as we made our way between the ranks of courtiers.

  I allowed my smile to widen. John might be pre-eminent but I knew which of us claimed every eye today. I had felt the weight of them, from the moment we were announced by Richard’s emblazoned official. The high blood of England might be here, breathing the same air, but that did not mean they had any intention of enfolding me to their collective bosom.

  ‘But they hate me, you know. Look at them,’ I murmured back. ‘They are sharpening their daggers already.’

  John shook his head, with no time to answer for he was turning to bow to his brother Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, who bowed briefly in reply, even more briefly to me. At least he had not cut me dead. My expression schooled immaculately to one of cool pleasure at being returned to court, I surveyed the throng as we approached the King, registering all, giving no acknowledgement to any.

  ‘You are magnificent.’ John’s final encouragement before we reached the dais.

  ‘I know.’

  But my heart quaked a little.

  I knew who was there at the King’s side. John’s brother, Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, together with his Duchess who had vowed to have nothing to do with me. And there was the Countess of Arundel on my left, a Mortimer descendent of King Edward the Third, the royal blood in her veins heartily dosed with venom. The Countess of Hereford, once my friend, whose presence here smacked of bitter treachery. Others too.

  I encompassed them all in a gaze of serene affability.

  Then I was curtsying to Richard, gracefully sweeping the skirts of my court finery. All would hang on this reception. If he proved cold towards me, if he mocked me or showed any disdain for my antecedents, he would point the way for every one of his court to follow suit. I rose to my full height and lifted my chin a little.

  But Richard was looking at John. ‘You have returned at last, my lord uncle.’ At twenty-nine years of age, he had all the Plantagenet arrogance, and was smiling, smoothly welcoming. The gleam in his eye reminded me of a cat perusing a tasty mouse. ‘I have been in great need of your advice of late.’ Suddenly he was frowning. ‘And you were not here to give it.’

  ‘I am here to give it now, Sire.’ John’s expression was a study in benign regret, ignoring the royal frown as he had probably done for the last decade. ‘I know you will understand my absence, and excuse it, when I present my wife to you.’

  ‘Your wife! And who is this fortunate lady?’

  Which Richard knew very well. His bright gaze moved slowly and fastened on my face with spritely mockery. They were too bright, too full of mischief, as was the brilliance of surprise in his voice.

  ‘My lady of Lancaster. We welcome you.’

  ‘My thanks, Sire.’

  His hair as darkly gold as the gilding around him, Richard was now of an age to make an impressive figure. The houppelande he wore, so they said, was worth all of thirty thousand marks. Swamping his slight figure in its heavy folds, the encrusted gems blinded in their quantity and brilliance. Fair and smiling, he was the epitome of a young king intent on making his mark on his realm and on European events. But what was his intent? How soon before the unmistakable air of mischief would turn to malice? Richard sparkled with it, wearing a false smile as easily as he wore his robes.

  ‘We are pleased that you have joined our august circle, at last. After so many years of flirting on the periphery.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’ The little barb did not quite glance off my skin, and I felt a flush creep past my embroidered collar, but I smiled as if it were wholly a compliment. ‘I too am honoured to be received here at court as Duchess of Lancaster.’

  His eyes flashed for a moment. Then gleamed. Had I earned myself a royal reprimand? But no.

  ‘I think you know everyone here present? You ought to do.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He rubbed his hands together with a flash of jewels. ‘You arrival is most timely. I have ordered garter robes to be made for you for the ceremony next week.’

  I had forgotten. Or not given it a thought. Now I felt my face flush, knowing exactly why Richard had mentioned it. The royal kitten, full grown into a stately cat, was flexing its claws. He allowed his glance to pass over those who stood as audience around us, inviting them to respond to his magnanimity towards me. Then, when faced with a tense silence that spoke volumes, he raised his hand in a wide gesture.

  ‘I have need to speak with my lord uncle of Lancaster about the French truce. And my proposed marriage to the Valois lady.’ His glance at Gloucester and York, neither of whom supported the proposal, was supremely innocent. ‘And you too my uncles of Gloucester and York. Perhaps Lancaster can persuade you of the value of this union.’ Then to me: ‘I will leave you, my lady, to renew your acquaintance with the ladies of my court.’ Richard stood and bowed to me, before snatching up my hand to bring it to his lips, murmuring wickedly: ‘They have all come here to meet you with you, you know.’

  As I knew only too well. As John walked away in Richard’s wake, I faced the little cluster of court women, Richard’s playful malice a hard knot in my belly. And waited. Etiquette demanded that they curtsy to me. What a strange turning of the world on its head, where I could command their respect. But would they honour my new status? I looked directly at the Duchess of Gloucester, every one of her fine-boned fingers heavy with precious rings, knowing that her response would be watched by all. Boldly I kept my gaze—level and cool—on her face.

  Eleanor de Bohun returned it, all expression governed, her lips a slash of anger.

  I raised my chin infinitesimally. But it was enough.

  Her curtsy was made, as an essay in brevity, but she bent the knee.

  I shifted my regard to the Countess of Arundel, who copied the welcome to an inch but had the grace to say in the tightest of tones: ‘My lady.’

  Well, that was a step forward.

  And then the Countess of Hereford, whose disaffection had given me sorrow. It took much on my part to anticipate the rejection in her taut stance. After all we had lived through together, at Mary’s bedside in childbirth, at her tragic death.

  ‘You are right welcome, my lady,’ she said softly.

  And after the briefest of obeisances, she stepped neatly across the floor and folded me into her arms.

&
nbsp; For a moment I stood rigid in incomprehension, and then I knew what she had done, and allowed her to pull me a little distance away from the rest, where I gripped her hands, relief sweeping through me.

  ‘We have been looking for you for the last month, Katherine. I have missed you. And such a shock when we heard.’ I saw the loss of her daughter in her face, but nothing would silence her obvious delight. ‘You look happy. I don’t need to ask…although how you can be so, surrounded by this sour flock of vultures. As for the King’s mischief, who knows what he’s at these days?’ And then, as emotion robbed me of speech: ‘Have you nothing to say? Or has your marriage robbed you of your tongue—and your sense of the ridiculous?’

  And at last I laughed. ‘Are you sure you should do this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Welcome the black sheep into the pure white of the royal fold?’

  ‘Why ever would I not?’

  ‘I was under the strongest impression that I would be taught a sharp lesson.’ I looked back over my shoulder, at the expressions of those who intended to do exactly that. ‘I was told that you were one of them…’ I admitted.

  ‘And you believed it? Nonsense, Katherine! My name was attached where it should not have been.’

  ‘And I am grateful. I have missed you too.’

  ‘Good. We will talk later.’

  For Richard, his discussion apparently at an end, was at my side, beaming indiscriminately on all.

  ‘It is my intention to travel to France, to complete the negotiations for my new wife, the French Princess Isabella.’ He continued to smile. ‘I would invite you, my lady of Lancaster, and your daughter Joan, to accompany me. I can think of no one more fitting.’

  My surprise masked, my courtly graces back in play, I curtsied my thanks. ‘I am honoured, Sire.’

  ‘My intended bride is very young—no more than six years. She will value your knowledge of life at the English court, and your friendship. I will wed her in Calais,’ he was continuing, despite knowing that most of his audience were listening to his plans with strong disapproval. ‘I know that as her primary lady in waiting for the ceremony—with my lady of Gloucester, of course,’—he bowed to the stiff-backed Duchess—‘my wife will be made most welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, Sire,’ I murmured. ‘I will do all in my power.’

  ‘I know you will. I rely on you.’

  And then with a bow he had walked on, while I took advantage of this situation deliberately created by Richard.

  ‘So we work together to welcome our new queen,’ I observed to the Duchess.

  She managed a bleak curve of the lips. ‘So it seems, my lady.’

  ‘We will meet after supper,’ I said, matching John’s effortless supremacy.

  ‘Of course, my lady.’

  The Duchess of Gloucester would never call me sister. I saw no softening in her face, but it had been made as clear as day that it would be unwise for her to shut me out of the hen-roost. As I turned away I caught John’s stare from where he conversed with his brother of Gloucester. It was full of pride for me, and of satisfaction which matched my own, yet there was no smile on his face, which conveyed a stark warning. Richard’s games were obvious, even risible, but infinitely dangerous. I must never allow myself to be seduced.

  Richard, watchful, brimful of devilry, beckoned to me. ‘I would be honoured if you would accompany me, Lady Katherine—to give me your opinion of the apartments that I will have refurbished for my little bride. I know your taste in such matters to be beyond question.’

  And I moved to walk at his side out of the Painted Chamber, my hand resting in his, which of course opened for me every door in the palace.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ Richard whispered, the sibilants loud as we walked so that all must know that he exchanged confidences with me.

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘It gave me inordinate pleasure,’ he chuckled, ‘to stir the waters a little.’

  And I nodded. We understood each other very well. He had put himself out to smooth my path, and done so with considerable skill. From that moment, no lady of the court who valued either her position or the King’s goodwill for herself or her husband could afford to brush me aside.

  ‘Well?’ John asked when it was all done and we could escape to our rooms.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘It was Richard who came to my rescue.’

  ‘It was your own good sense.’ John was at his most sardonic. ‘And I know you have enough of it not to trust our mischievous king too much. He is guided purely by his own wishes. Today it pleased him to twitch the tails of the tabbies. Tomorrow—who knows?’

  I cared not. My acceptance was assured, my role at court for the welcoming of the little queen made plain. I stared into my mirror, admiring the jewelled net that anchored my hair, thoroughly enjoying the prospect of my future role. I would travel to France and welcome the child bride. Joan would accompany me and might find a position in the royal household. John too had taken his rightful place at Richard’s side. None of my fears had been realised.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ John asked.

  ‘Because I have persuaded Richard to take down the Halidon Hill tapestry from the new bride’s chambers.’

  ‘I always liked that one.’

  ‘You were never a six-year-old girl. At this moment a pretty scene of a lady with flowers and a hawk on her fist is being hung.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Not to me. It might be to his little wife who would have nightmares if faced nightly with scenes of death and mutilation. But Richard paid attention to me.’

  ‘Now what?’ For I had laughed.

  ‘It’s even more important that you pay attention to me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This.’ I cast my mirror onto the bed and kissed him. ‘The Duchess of Lancaster demands your attention.’

  He gave it willingly. And yet as I lay in his arms in the aftermath of our lovemaking I could not help but agree with the Duke’s assessment. Why did I think that Richard was playing games with us all? And that he had not finished? It might be that he had not even started.

  But that was a matter to be pushed aside as I fell into sleep, for John, in his ultimate wisdom, had promised me one final step in eradicating the transgressions of our past and awarding me glorious recognition as the Duchess of Lancaster.

  ‘What of our children?’ I had asked. ‘Will their legitimacy always be questioned?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he had replied.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pride filled my breast so strongly that I could barely take a breath. The antechamber at Westminster was broodingly cool and for once empty. Usually it seethed with hopeful petitioners but today it was ours, this Beaufort gathering that seemed to fill it from wall to wall. My Beaufort family was a force to be reckoned with, and today was our day. Today a final seal would be placed on my life with John, in this most public recognition of our children.

  There we stood. John and I and the four children that I had born him out of wedlock, all clad in white and blue. Lancaster colours, for that was what they were, bastards no longer. Fair of colouring, dark of hair, with a red burnishing when lit by the sun, they were without question their father’s children, and never had I see four young people so comfortably at ease with what life had handed them. Bastard or legitimate child, their confidence was a mirror image of John’s. It never failed to astonish me. Perhaps it was the care and love I had lavished on them for their own sakes as well as that of their father. Perhaps it was that they had never had need to question their place in the world. John had been openhandedly generous to them, cherishing them since the day they were born, even when we two were estranged and I could not speak of him without heaping curses on his head. If ever a family had felt loved, here it was, fully legitimised since His Holiness had finally been persuaded to sanction our offspring. I had not asked if John’s purse of gold had been necessary.

  Today the final jewel was to be set i
n their combined diadem.

  The official awaiting us at the door cleared his throat loudly. Joan smiled complacently. Young John—with all the dignity and importance of being a knight as well as a new husband to royally connected Margaret Holland—firmed his shoulders. Henry looked for a moment uncomfortable out of clerical garb, before grinning at me with a little shrug. Thomas was simply Thomas, irreverent and still growing into his limbs with all the adolescent grace of an autumn crane fly.

  The pride in John’s face echoed mine. He took my hand, bowed and led me forward.

  The Lords, fully assembled in the Parliament chamber, were waiting for us, every seat occupied, the whole assembly gleaming with a patchwork of colour beneath the boldness of the arches. Forcing my fingers to lie lightly in John’s hand, I inclined my head left and right, acknowledging the faces I knew. And there Thomas Arundel, the Archbishop of Canterbury, waited to receive us, ushering us into the centre of the chamber where we made our obeisance to the Lords. The silence of solemnity fell on us as four lords approached at a signal from the cleric, one of them holding the folds of a mantle over his arm.

  ‘We are here this day to perform this heavy and age-old ceremony granting legitimacy to these mantle-children.’

  The mantle, of white damask to signal purity, gold fringed and banded with ermine to speak of royal authority, was spread, a corner to be taken by each of the four lords, who lifted it high above our heads on gilded poles, until we were entirely covered by its shadow.

  ‘Richard by the grace of God, King of England and France to our most dear cousins…’

  John was looking at me. The Archbishop, his voice suitably sonorous, was using the words from the King’s own Letter Patent. There would never be any doubting the authority of this ceremony. Our children would be fixed into the legal structure of England for all time.

  ‘We think it proper and fit that we should enrich you…’

  For here was the case. His Holiness’s recognition ultimately in writing, might have removed the taint of bastardy from our Beaufort children, but that was insufficient to give them any position under the laws of inheritance. If they were ever to have the right to inherit land or title, to establish their own families with provision for their own children, they needed this ceremony under the spread of this mantle.