The Scandalous Duchess. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘Exactly. I could not possibly mistake your sentiments, could I?’ He seized my hand again, and before I could stop him, saluted my fingers with a perfect propriety, at the same time as he executed a courtly bow.

      ‘I will have to make do with that after all,’ he observed, running his thumb across my fingertips.

      ‘And that is all I will offer you, my lord,’ I responded. That my hand tingled was not to be considered.

      The Duke laughed again, but briefly. Whatever humour he had discovered in my predicament, or his own, had fled.

      ‘It seems that I have been too previous in my request. Now it is my turn to ask pardon. Forgive my insensitivity.’ He paused, his expression grave, the tendons of his jaw stark. And then a gleam appeared in his eye as he added: ‘But I should warn you, Lady Katherine. I will not be denied. It is not in my nature to accept so determined a rebuttal.’

      And as he strode from the audience chamber, as his footsteps faded, as he crossed the antechamber beyond and took the stairs to the upper floor, I was left to wonder if I had imagined the whole unnerving incident. But when I heard his final parting shot, delivered to me and echoing from the well of the stairs, there could be no denying his meaning. There was no misinterpretation on my part of the whole of that inexplicable episode. His final words, which had floated back to me as clearly as if he had been standing in the room, had been quite as unambiguous as all the rest.

      I sank down where he had left me, onto a stool that had been pushed with its companion against one of the walls. Hands clasped together, so tightly that my knuckles showed white against my dark skirts, I stared at the tapestry on the facing wall, a masterpiece in silk and wool.

      Of all the tapestries in the superbly appointed Savoy palace, why did it have to be this one, with its frivolous portrayal of courtly love, a lady and her lover languishing in a field of blossoms beneath a flowering tree, while silky rabbits frolicked at their feet. He held a hawk on his fist; her arms were entwined around his neck, her hair mingling with his as he reclined in her arms. His stitched eyes were admiring; her red lips were full of longing. I imagined they were not wed, or in any way concerned about the sinfulness of their relationship. They looked untrammelled by any pious demands on their virtuous behaviour.

      ‘I wager you would share your lover’s bed without any holy water sprinkled over you,’ I informed the red-haired wanton, crossly.

      I thought that she smirked as I imagined her reply. ‘And would you be prepared to languish in the arms of a lover, Katherine de Swynford?’

      I most certainly would not. I was no Alice Perrers, infamous royal mistress, who shared the King’s bed with bold impunity, careless of the vilification. My behaviour must be beyond criticism. I must be able to kneel at my prie-dieu or before my priest with a clean heart. How could the Duke have so demeaned himself, and me, to offer me such an outrageous position? I was no wanton.

      I want to kiss you.

      He had had the temerity to make such a request of me, clad as I was in full widow’s weeds from chin to toe to indicate my deepest mourning. If my dark robes had not heralded my state to the whole world, the all-enclosing wimple and long veil should have been as obvious as a slap in the face to any man with ulterior motives. I was no loose harlot, willing to accept any position offered at court to secure my future comforts.

      Flexing my fingers, I smoothed the black cloth over my knees. Hugh had been dead so short a time, struck down in the Duke’s own service in Aquitaine. Did the Duke think I would soil my husband’s memory by leaping into his bed—or that of any man—at the first opportunity? I could not comprehend any action of mine in the past to give him the opinion that I would care so little for my reputation, or for God’s judgement on what would be a blatant act of adultery.

      Adultery.

      The harsh judgement shivered over me and as my outrage built, I pondered all I knew of the Duke. A prince with a reputation for high-minded courtesy and chivalry, he had adored his first wife, Blanche, and was plunged into desolation by her untimely death three years before. He would never have strayed from her side. And now he had a new wife, a marriage of three months’ standing, and the prospect of a new child and a new kingdom to rule if he could enforce Constanza’s claim to Castile in his own right. A man of ambition, the Duke would do nothing to jeopardise the authority in that distant kingdom if he wore its crown. He would not take a mistress within three months of bedding a new wife.

      It was all beyond sense. The Duke of Lancaster was not the mindlessly pretty, disreputable young man of the tapestry whose sole concern was dalliance.

      And yet, at the same time I was forced to acknowledge that the puissant Duke of Lancaster, raised in royal indulgence from his cradle, was the possessor of a will as strong as cold steel. I will not be denied, he had said. It is not in my nature to accept so determined a rebuttal.

      It was an uncomfortable thought.

      And my next proved to be an even more disconcerting companion.

      Was the fault mine? Had I, however inadvertently, however cleverly cautious I had considered myself to be, encouraged the Duke to think that I would welcome so impious a request? I could not imagine that I had dropped so careless a word, made so flirtatious a gesture, just as I was certain that I had never led him to believe that I would step so far beyond seemly behaviour. Inappropriate desires and longings, even if I had them, were to be held under restraint and confessed only before the priest.

      I cast my mind back over the three years since I had left the household on Duchess Blanche’s death, when we had all been deluged in mourning black, overwrought with grief. The only occasion on which I had seen the Duke was two years ago at the interment of Queen Philippa in Westminster Abbey, when he had pinned a mourning brooch to my bodice. Hardly an occasion for unseemly flirtation.

      So perhaps I had misconstrued the whole of the past hour, making my present tumbling concerns entirely irrelevant. But of course, I had not misconstrued it. I would have been witless to put a wrong interpretation on his parting shot

      And I don’t like you in widow’s weeds, he had informed me from a distance. They don’t become you. If I were your lover I would clothe you in silk and cloth of gold.

      No, I was under no delusion about that: so intimate, so personal a comment on how I looked, what I wore and how he would remedy it. What right had he, when custom demanded that I wear mourning for a year? Vanity—assuredly a sin—lit a little flame of anger, as I spread out my skirts, disliking the weight of them in the voluminous amount of material, fretting that my wimple and veils leached colour from my skin. I knew I did not look my best, and was woman enough to regret it.

      But how dare he remark on it?

      And why had he laughed at my refusal?

      I was furiously unsettled, for my future was still dependent on the Duke. He had not yet made an answer to my request. Had he changed his mind entirely in the face of my flat rejection?

      With a swish of my hated widow’s weeds I turned my back on the couple deliriously in love, wishing the smug lover buried under his blossoms, and strode off to return to normality and the company of those I knew, a household for whom I had a deep affection. A good bout of common sense and feminine gossip would do the trick. As for the lovers, the cunning rabbits would soon eat up the blossoms—and then where would they be?

      I made my way to the royal nurseries.

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