Anne O'Brien - The Scandalous Duchess

She regarded me steadily, looking far younger than her seventeen years. ‘I am Queen of Castile,’ she pronounced carefully.

Which did not help. She was also Duchess of Lancaster. Since she had not objected, I continued as I had called her.

‘A poor welcome for you, my lady.’

‘Yes. This is my sister, the Lady Isabella.’

She gestured casually with her hand towards the young unsmiling woman at her side, before handing to me, without looking at it, the brooch that had been pinned to the bosom of her gown. Making the requisite curtsy to the Lady Isabella, I placed the brooch on the coffer beside me. It was heavy with gold, depicting St George and a flamboyant dragon, all picked out in sapphires, diamonds and pearls. The dragon’s eyes were ruby-red. Much discussed, it was a gift from Prince Edward to acknowledge the Queen of Castile’s arrival, and was indeed worthy of royalty. I was surprised that she treated it with such indifference, for it was a remarkable jewel. Perhaps she was merely tired, yet I did not think so, despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the obvious strain on her aquiline features. I did not think it meant anything to her, and wondered what would move her to true emotion. As I turned back to her, she spoke, carefully:

‘Who are you?’

‘Katherine de Swynford, my lady.’

‘You are part of this…?’ She sought for the word. I had been right. Her French, heavily accented, was not good.

‘Household,’ I supplied. ‘I am part of the Duke’s household. And of yours. I am appointed to be one of your damsels.’

She stared at me. ‘One of my ladies?’ she repeated.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Do you also care for the Duke’s children?’

‘Yes, my lady. When it is necessary.’

‘I have not met the children yet.’ She frowned. ‘My lord has told me of them.’

‘Tomorrow you will see them.’

She lifted her arms to allow her under-gown to be removed, then stood in her shift as the maid unrolled her stockings, obediently lifting one foot, then the other. ‘I will have a son of my own,’ she announced. ‘You served Duchess Blanche?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

The shift removed, I saw how undeveloped her body was at hip and breast. Childbearing would not be easy for her. The pregnancy showed barely a roundness of her belly. I offered my hand to help her step into the tub and lower herself into the water, where she sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes.

‘Are you married?’ she asked.

‘A widow, my lady.’

‘What is that?’

‘Una viuda,’ murmured one of the women who seemed to have more French than her mistress.

‘I understand. Your husband is dead. Do you have children?’

She had so many questions.

‘Yes. I have three. My daughter Blanche is the Duke’s godchild. What is that?’ I looked at the woman who had replied before.

‘Un ahijado,’ she supplied.

The Duchess’s eyes opened, focused on me, then narrowed. ‘He—the Duke—has a regard for you.’ There was no friendliness there and I sensed a jealousy in what was obviously a question. Who should recognise it better than I?

‘For me, a little, for the service I gave to his wife. And for my husband, much more,’ I explained. ‘He died in Aquitaine last year, in the Duke’s employ. Sir Hugh was a soldier in his retinue.’

‘I see.’ She understood enough, and what was most pertinent. The resentment in her eyes cooled. ‘Your husband was a man of title.’

‘Yes. He was a knight.’

‘Ah!’ She smiled, her face suddenly lit with an inner beauty. ‘So you are Lady Katherine de Swynford.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Status also meant something to her. I wondered how fluent the Duke was in Castilian. He would need to be, to pick his way through all these Conflicting impulses.

‘Then I have decided. I want you to be my damsel,’ she stated with all the imperiousness of the house of Castile.

‘As I will be. The Duke has appointed me.’ I explained, slowly: ‘My sister, Mistress Chaucer, will also come to care for you.’

‘Is she like you?’

‘She is very capable. She knows about children.’

The new wife stretched out her arm for the maid to wash with a soft cloth. Her glance to me was suddenly sharp. ‘I fear this…’ She spread her free hand over her belly. ‘It makes me feel ill.’

‘There is no need to fear, my lady. You are young and strong.’

‘Still I fear.’ She shrugged. ‘Were you with Duchess Blanche? When she was with child?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘She lost some of her babies, did she not?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ I could not lie, but I poured her a cup of warm wine and offered it, hoping to distract her. It would do no good to speak of the three little boys who had not seen the first anniversary of their birth. Or the girl, Isabella, who had barely breathed.

‘How many?’ the Duchess insisted.

‘Four,’ I admitted. ‘But she carried three who are now grown.’

She waved aside the wine. ‘Have you lost any babies?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Then you will stay with me. You will give me your advice.’ A demand again, not a request. ‘It is…it is imperativo that I carry un heredero for Castile.’

I caught the gist. ‘Of course,’ I soothed. The Duchess Constanza needed an heir.

‘My lord will get my kingdom back for me. I will not live in England long. My lord will drive my vicioso uncle Enrique from Castile. He will kill him for me. And I will take back what is mine.’

It sounded as if she had learned the phrases. So confident. So driven. Her eyes were aflame, her hands fisted on the edge of the bath. Then she looked at me, gaze narrowed again on my face.

‘You are beautiful.’

Which surprised me. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘I am said to be beautiful too.’

‘Yes, my lady. The people of London filled the streets to look at you.’

Her frown deepened into a scowl. ‘Was Blanche beautiful?’

‘Yes, my lady. But fair. Not dark like you.’

‘My lord likes beautiful things.’

‘Yes, my lady. You will lack for nothing here at The Savoy.’

My soothing comment elicited a torrent of Castilian.

‘A excepción de la tierra de mi nacimiento—y la venganza.’

I looked helplessly at the Castilian damsel who had hovered at my side throughout.

‘The Duchess says: “Except for the land of my birth. And vengeance.”’

‘Vengeance for what, my lady?’

Which was answered by a flash of eye and another stream of invective, carefully translated for me:

‘My father—King Pedro—his murderers live on, unpunished. He was ambushed by assassins, paid for by my uncle Enrique. He was decapitated and left unburied to his great dishonour. His head was sent to Seville for public exhibition. Dios mio! It is my life’s ambition to have my father interred in Castilian soil with all honour and his murderers slain. That I will do before I die.’

‘Of course, my lady.’

Her flat chest heaving, extreme vexation in every gesture, Constanza surged to her feet, splashing water, the evidence of the forthcoming child clearer as she arched her body.

‘My lord will take Castile from the deplorable Enrique. We will rule it together as King and Queen. This child—this son—will rule in his own time. I will have fulfilled my destiny—and my new husband’s too. What more could he desire, than to be King of Castile?’

What more could the Duke desire? There was no path for his ambitions in England, but Castile might just provide them. A kingdom of his own, to rule in his own name, answerable to no one. For the first time I understood the importance of this marriage for him. This marriage, the promise of this kingdom, would give him his heart’s desire.