The Scandalous Duchess. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ cathedral at Lincoln, the two magnificent towers emerging out of the distance like a ship looming out of mist at sea.

      Not far now. I ought to be making a stop at Coleby but the depredations of winter made me keep to my track. Kettlethorpe would not be much better, but the state of Coleby would utterly depress my spirits. Suddenly I could not reach home quickly enough.

      On that final morning, before I turned north from Lincoln, I fell in with one of the pilgrims who urged her horse alongside mine. I had taken note of her, although she preferred to converse with the menfolk. Loud and lively, her good humour was infectious on the long days and she was quick to sing and laugh. Broad of hip and shoulder, broad of feature too, her colourful garments proclaimed her perennial optimism, as did her hat, round and large as a serving platter to shelter her from sun and rain. I envied her confidence, her high spirits.

      Mistress Saxby, a cheerful flirt and incorrigible gossip.

      She settled beside me, the pilgrim’s badges, mementoes of her many travels, jangling where they had been pinned to her cloak. I smiled warily. Her talk could be bawdy and she was not quick to take the hint to go away, but surprising me, her voice was low and respectful of my mood. She bent her head to look at me, her sharp eyes, grey as quartz, darting over my face. She made me uncommonly nervous.

      ‘You look sad, mistress.’

      It interested me that she had noticed. ‘Not inordinately,’ I replied. I did not want to converse about my worries with this worldly woman.

      ‘In fact, you have looked in poor humour since we left London,’ she remarked, in no manner put off. ‘Why is that?’

      And so, since I must: ‘I have just left my daughter—in London. It was hard to say farewell. She’s seven years old.’

      It had been hard indeed, but I had kept a smile in place, pinning memories of her farewell kisses in my mind.

      ‘It’s young to leave a child. A girl child…’

      I detected a hint of criticism, and was quick to respond. ‘She’s in the Lancaster household. A damsel to the two daughters. I was there too until the death of Duchess Blanche.’

      Mistress Saxby nodded comfortably. ‘Then she’ll not lack for aught. You should give thanks, mistress.’

      She made me feel ungrateful of the blessings that had fallen on me.

      ‘Are you a widow?’ she asked, gesturing to my black skirts.

      ‘Yes. Almost three months ago. He was fighting in Aquitaine for the Duke.’

      ‘Ah. A soldier.’

      ‘I don’t know whether he was killed in battle or brought low by disease.’ My companion did not need to know that he was a knight and a landowner.

      ‘Disease is a terrible thing,’ she mused solemnly. ‘Last year my own husband took sick and died within the week. Look at the Prince, God save him. He’s not long for this world, you mark my words. We’ll say a rosary for him at Lincoln.’ Her squirrel-gaze held mine. ‘You’re young to be a widow, mistress. How old did you say you were?’

      I hadn’t, but I recognised a practised talent for acquiring information. ‘Twenty-two years,’ I said, smiling at the success of the technique.

      ‘You’ll wed again. Or perhaps you have a sweetheart already? Unless it was a love match between the pair of you and you’re still in mourning.’ I flushed at the implication that my emotions were so flighty. Mistress Saxby chuckled. ‘I see you have!’

      ‘No. I have no time for such things. Nor will I.’ My reply was as sharp as her stare. ‘I have two children at home who need my care. And my husband’s estates…’

      Mistress Saxby tossed her head, the veil attached to her hat dislodged from its neat folds. ‘Your children will grow and move away. Your land will bring cold comfort. You need a man in your bed.’

      I took a breath. ‘That’s the last thing I need,’ I remarked.

      It was as if I had not spoken. ‘Your youth will be gone and forgotten before you know it. Without your pretty face, how will you attract a husband? You’ll be a lonely old woman.’

      ‘Do you speak from experience?’ I retorted, but she took no ill-humour from my sharpness.

      ‘Not so. I have had three husbands. And more than one…admirer, shall we say. I am a widow at present, but I have my eye on a likely man.’ Mistress Saxby pursed her lips at the prospect of the man in question. ‘Are you courted?’

      Was I?

       I would like to put the light back into your eyes…

      ‘Yes,’ I said, lured into indiscretion before I could stop myself.

      ‘Is he a worthy man?’

      ‘Too good for me.’

      ‘Nonsense. No man is too good for a good woman.’ She slid a glance over me, her smile widening. ‘Do I suppose it is not marriage he offers?’

      And I found myself replying to her catechism. ‘No.’

      ‘Is he wed?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Do they live together?’

      ‘They spent Christmas together in Dorset at Kingston Lacy.’ That much I knew. ‘She travels to London to join him. She carries their first child.’

      Mistress Saxby’s ample lips became a thin line as she contemplated. ‘It doesn’t sound too hopeful. I’d be wary of him, if I were you. Conflicting loyalties make for difficulties. But the question is: do you like him?’

      I shook my head, turned my face away.

      ‘If you wish to keep your own counsel, it’s your choice.’

      This made me feel churlish. ‘How do I know if I can trust him?’ I asked this worldly woman.

      ‘Has he given you a gift?’ I shook my head. ‘If he does it shows he has designs on your respectability.’

      ‘Oh.’ I thought about this. Not that any gift had been offered. ‘So I should refuse any such gift?’

      Her eye gleamed. ‘I’d not say that. I’d say accept any gift he makes you.’ The gleam brightened to a twinkle as if she had been the recipient of many gifts in her past life. ‘It may well be that it is the sign of a true regard, if he is willing to spend money on you and he matches the gift well to your inclination. And before you argue that it is too particular, the great Capellanus says—have you read Capellanus?—well, he says that a woman who is loved may freely accept from her lover a mirror or a girdle or a pair of gloves.’

      ‘So if he gives me a gift of a mirror he loves me true?’ I found myself smiling.

      ‘Of course.’ But her answering smile was sly. ‘Unless he merely wishes to lure you into his bed. Only you can tell. You need to balance the good against the bad in any relationship, mistress. But I’d say take him, СКАЧАТЬ