The Scandalous Duchess. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ As if he was addressing a want-wit. ‘And I am instructed to give you these.’ He pushed into my hand two leather bags, one large and one small, and two folded letters.

      I blinked as I exhaled slowly. So this was the Duke’s doing.

      ‘Sir Hugh’s body was too…’ Master Graves began, then bit off his words. ‘Given the circumstances—well, it was decided to bring only his heart back here to England.’

      ‘Yes…’

      ‘My lady…?’ I became aware of my steward looking to me for orders. I must think about the Duke of Lancaster’s gift to me, but not now. Not yet.

      ‘If one of your men could take the…the heart to the church, sir,’ I said, pointing to where the tower of the little church of St Peter and St Paul could be seen behind a stand of trees. And to Master Ingoldsby: ‘And these men need ale, if we can find any fit to drink. Then food.’

      How superbly practical I had become as a warmth bloomed in my belly that Hugh’s heart had been brought home. It was enough, and what he would have wanted. Later I would open the other packages brought by Master Graves. Later I would read the two letters. Then I would supervise the cleaning, repair and storing of Hugh’s armour, which would one day belong to Thomas.

      And I would, of necessity, consider the implications of such generosity from the Duke, for it was no light matter. Such open-handedness would put me under an obligation.

      For no reason that I could fathom, Mistress Saxby of the wide hips and wider hat swayed flirtatiously into my mind. A lady might accept a mirror or a girdle from her lover. Or even a pair of gloves, for they were symbols of a true affection.

      What if the impatient lover gave the gift of the husband’s heart? The Duke had restored the only remnant of my dead husband to me, with the money to assure a tomb of some magnificence. The Duke had given far more than a passing thought to what I would most desire. Where did a dead husband’s heart weigh in Mistress Saxby’s assessment?

      I had no idea. For a moment I wished she was there in her jingling pilgrim’s garb to advise me.

      I knew that would not serve. Any decision I made must be on my own conscience.

      The larger leather purse hardly needed investigation. I could tell by its weight that it contained a sum of money sufficient to inter Hugh with honour. I pushed it aside. It meant much to me to be able to pay for an effigy on Hugh’s tomb at the hand of a true craftsman, but it was the demands of the living, not the dead, that drew my eye. Lingering in the hall, I addressed the letter that I considered to be the more innocent of the pair, carrying it to a cresset, my nose wrinkling at the stench of hot fat. The wick needed trimming. It was all a far cry from the fine wax candles of The Savoy.

      And there it was. What I had hoped for.

      To Lady Katherine de Swynford,

       Monseigneur de Lancaster has expressed a wish for your attendance and future service at The Savoy. It is expected that the Duchess of Lancaster, Constanza, Queen of Castile, will make her entry into London in the second week in February. As a valued member of Duchess Blanche’s household, and in recognition of Sir Hugh Swynford’s valuable contribution in

      Aquitaine as Monseigneur de Lancaster’s retainer, a place is offered to you in the household of the Duchess Constanza.

      Your remuneration will be generous.

      We expect to see you forthwith.

      It had the pompous tone of a demand rather than a request, much as I would expect from Sir Thomas Hungerford, the Lancaster steward who exercised his authority over all the ducal properties in the south, but my heart leaped, and I was smiling as my eye ran down to the less formal hand, added at the bottom. Lady Alice had applied her own brand of entreaty.

      Do come, Katherine. With your knowledge of the dangers of childbirth and your experience in the rearing of young children, you will be invaluable to the new Duchess who seems to be fragile in her pregnancy. Her journey from Dorset has been uncommonly slow. We will judge her calibre when she arrives.

      It is expected that your sister Philippa will also return as part of the household since her husband has been dispatched abroad.

      It is anticipated that you will bring your children with you.

      We expect to be settled at Hertford.

       I look to you and your sister to support me against the influx of Castilians. Do you by any chance speak Castilian?

       Quite like old times, I think. I look forward to your coming…

      Alice had signed her name.

      I folded the page and pushed it into the bodice of my overgown, my face warm with pleasure. A position again. A welcome. A generous income to bolster the rents from Kettlethorpe. Perhaps the ever-flooding Fossdyke would be put to rights at last and my neighbours would not glower as I rode past.

      I would see Blanche, reunite all my children, install myself with Alyne and Lady Alice. I swept Thomas up into my arms, already on my way to my inner chamber, but then my steps slowed and reality checked my delight. Here was danger. I had made my refusal of the Duke’s demand succinctly clear, but if I returned to The Savoy, into Duchess Constanza’s household, was that not my being complicit in placing myself back within the Duke’s power? Was I not opening myself to a situation that would be a moral insult to both myself and his new wife?

      I had wanted this position so badly, yet now all was changed, all my initial naïve pleasure dimmed. I came to a halt halfway up the stairs, furious with the absent Duke, who, I suspected, had answered to no one since the day of his birth. I was not responsible for his arrogant invitation. I was the innocent party, I was not complicit. I had said no. The Duke was under no illusions about my thoughts on this. He might have a claim on my loyalty, he might pay me for service to his wife, but there it would end.

      I was perfectly entitled to make my dignified return to The Savoy, on my own terms.

      But there was the other folded page and a soft leather bag, small enough to fit into my palm, with a seal on the parchment that was the Duke’s own with the leopards of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France.

      Open it! I ordered. You are making more of this than need be. It cannot possibly make your obligation to him greater than it already is. Read it!

      Instead, I tucked both items into my bodice, where the letter proceeded to burn a hole against my breast and the pouch nestled until it seemed to be a weight on my soul. I could barely resist opening it, even though I knew with certainty that if I did, if I read what must be a personal missive from the Duke, then it would be opening a dangerous window. Better that I consign them both to the flames in my bedchamber.

      But I destroyed neither. Instead, dispatching Thomas to Agnes’s care, I wrapped a cloak around me, strapped on a pair of patterns and made my way to the church, squelching through the puddles and wondering if I had lost my senses. Once there I walked down the aisle towards the final resting place of the earthly remains of Hugh Swynford.

      Replenishing the candles, re-lighting them, I knelt by the little casket, where one day a fine effigy would stand, and prayed first for the repose of Hugh’s soul. He would have been thirty-two years old, the same age as the Duke.

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