The Scandalous Duchess. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ stood by the head of my bed, in the shadow of the thick damask hangings, once a lustrous blue, worn and faded now into a uniform greyness. I stood as if I were an onlooker, for the walls of my chamber grew dim in my sight, to be replaced with the rich severity of the chapel at The Savoy where I had been wed to Hugh.

      How powerful memory could be. Instead of the dusty silence of my chamber, broken only by occasional rustles and cheeps from the singing finches in their cage, bright little birds that I had bought for Margaret’s amusement, the scene was peopled with faces and figures from the past that I knew well, a little gathering to celebrate an old and sacred rite. The candles were bright, the high quality wax perfumed with incense, the altar heavy with gold, but it was a quiet, intimate scene, without display as was fitting. I, fourteen years old and newly delivered of my daughter, stood with the child in my arms.

      It was as if I had stepped into the ceremony already underway with prayers said and promises made. With the appropriate words, the priest lifted the infant from me, allowing the linen covering to fall to the floor, before lowering her into the font where the shock of the cold water caused her to drag in a breath and expel it in a cry of pure anguish. Her hands beat on the water, her dark eyes wide and staring with distress, and I, new mother as I was, was stricken.

      It was the Duke, standing as my child’s godfather—was I not highly favoured in the household in those days?—who lifted the baby from the font, wrapping her slippery body with astonishing deftness, in a pearl-encrusted chrysom robe handed to him by Duchess Blanche herself, for whom my baby was called. His cradling of her was sure, confident. I could not imagine Hugh doing as much with his soldier’s hands, rough with old scars and abrasions even though the two men were of an age.

      ‘Hush then,’ the Duchess murmured, touching her name-sake’s cheek while, cupping her head with his hand, the Duke smiled ruefully.

      ‘There’s no need for all this, Mistress Blanche Swynford,’ he said. ‘You are named in the sight of God and much loved. Look at all here-present, who will care for you. Why would you weep?’

      The unexpected words struck hard at my heart, the unbelievable tenderness of them, and my infant’s cries instantly subsided to whimpers, before ceasing on a sob and a hiccup. Everyone laughed, the domestic replacing, for that one instant, the sacred. As if entranced, little Blanche’s myopic gaze fixed on the face above her.

      Entranced? If my daughter was caught up in the Duke’s glamour, then so was I.

      It is his hands, I thought, trying to swallow against the lump in my throat. Broad palmed, long fingered, eminently capable, whether lifting a child or wielding a sword. Fine boned and beautiful, they transfixed me.

      ‘Will you take her, Hugh? The first of your line?’

      ‘I’m more likely to drop her,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Katherine has a safer pair of hands.’

      ‘You have a comely daughter, and I foresee a clutch of strong sons.’ The Duke stepped to hand her to me, and in doing so his fingers brushed against mine. The rock in my throat hardened and my breath shuddered between my lips, catching a little as it never did when Hugh touched me far more intimately. When I felt my heart tremble, I clutched little Blanche so tightly that she whimpered again.

      ‘Gently,’ Duchess Blanche advised, as if it was my inexperience that was the problem.

      I loosed my grip, turning my face away, as the priest offered his blessing on the little gathering.

      What had happened here? It was the only question in my mind as my daughter settled to sleep against my breast.

      I looked at the priest who was smiling benignly. At Hugh, who was every inch the proud husband and father, hoping that indeed next time it would be a son. At Duchess Blanche who, already mother of two fine daughters and despite the loss of her baby son, John, was carrying another ducal child high beneath her jewelled girdle.

      And the Duke?

      I had known him for ever. What was different today? I had seen him in full royal splendour, all gold and jewels and Plantagenet lions. In gleaming armour, the sun illuminating his tall stature as if resplendent with God’s heavenly blessing. I had seen him walk into the Hall at Kenilworth, at Hertford, at Tutbury, hot and sweaty with effort in the tilt-yard, dishevelled and dust-ridden but his face alive with the expending of energy. I had heard him in furious argument with his brothers. In flirtatious laughter and tender mood with Duchess Blanche. Had seen him short-tempered with a clumsy servant, furious as a youth when his will was thwarted, repentant when taken to task by Queen Philippa.

      This was nothing more than a domestic scene, the Duke and Duchess seeing fit to lavish an unexpected honour on two of their dependents, and it should not have moved my heart in this manner. His tunic and hose were plain for a prince, his sleeves wet from the font, the breast of his tunic dark with water. No jewels, no weapons, no armour. No heraldic motif to advertise his power. Nothing here to force a reaction from my nerves that continued to ripple beneath my skin.

      And then as I raised my eyes from his hands to his face, I saw the Duke look over at his wife, a glance of such heartfelt compassion, of such gentle understanding for her, for the recent loss of their son. He too longed for a son to be heir to the Lancaster inheritance. The Duke’s love for his wife was a thing of wonder. Such utter devotion, equally returned by his Duchess. A blinding love that I wished was for me.

      Before I could be observed, I gave my attention to my child, ordering my thoughts into acceptability. Much, I decided, like pounding herbs and spices through a sieve in a stillroom. This is an infatuation, I remonstrated, from a young girl for her lord who has the glamour and handsome features that a troubadour might sing of, a foolish longing that would fade and die within the time it took for my little Blanche to find her feet and walk unaided.

      But it was not. It was a longing that would not leave me.

      Why Lord John of Lancaster? I demanded. Why him? It was not his position, his wealth, or his power. It was not his royal blood. As part of Duchess Blanche’s household my path had crossed those of the other royal sons. I did not shiver at the splendid proximity of Prince Edward. Nor was I seduced by the easy charm of the tragically dead Lionel. Or enjoy the easy wit of my lord of Gloucester. It was John of Lancaster who made my blood race. It was that dangerous indefinable allure that moved my heart.

      Did I try to douse that flare of desire?

      Yes, I tried. Of course I did. Did I not know that the Duke of Lancaster was not for such as I? His royal blood placed him so far above me, while he, oblivious to my youthful yearnings, had eyes only for his beautiful wife, which was as it should be. And so I learned to live with the terrifying discomfort. I was free to admire his glamour and worship silently at his feet. That he had no feelings for me other than honour and duty and a light affection was in some sense a safety net, for he would never look at me and suspect the tenor of the feelings that stalked me.

      And Hugh? Did that make me a disloyal wife to my husband? As an arranged marriage between a girl of good birth but no substance and a young man from a solid knightly family, it was a perfect arrangement to suit us both. On a personal level I seemed to please him well enough, for he was briskly considerate and I was of a practical turn of mind. I gave him my loyalty and the duty of my body. I was to bear him another daughter, Margaret, and his precious son and heir, Thomas.

      I did not think that I was disloyal.

      Except when my mind evaded my conscience.

      The scene from the past winked out as a movement, perhaps the hopping of one of the finches from СКАЧАТЬ