Anne O'Brien - The Scandalous Duchess

‘I am tired,’ she announced. ‘I will go to bed.’

We dried her with soft linen, combed her hair. Wrapped in an embroidered chamber robe, feet in fur-lined slippers, she was soon propped against the pillows on her bed.

‘Do you think the Duke cares for me?’ she asked.

How could he not love her? She was beautiful and wellborn, an heiress with a kingdom for the taking by a courageous man. Obvious to all, the Duke was chivalrous and caring in his first meeting with her. Of course he loved her.

‘The Duke chose you before all other ladies who wished to wed a Plantagenet prince,’ I replied, for was that not the truth? ‘How could he not care for you?’

‘Bien! I hope it is so.’ She nodded, seeming to understand.

Do you care for him? I felt an urge to ask. I had no idea. She gave nothing away. She was shrewd and sharp, and I knew it was my duty to hope that the Duke would be happy with her and she with him.

Jealousy, bitter as aloes, coated my mouth as I left her to sleep, but then the erratic leap of my thoughts forced me into a wry smile.

Beware of the wife , Mistress Saxby had warned. It’s easy to be carried away by the glamour of stolen kisses, but a wife can make your life a misery. Take my word for it .

I would indeed beware, if ever such kisses came my way. It seemed, on my first steps as a damsel to Duchess Constanza, an unlikely eventuality.

So this marriage to the Queen of Castile was of vast importance to the Duke. It was brought home to me just how critical a step it was for him when a messenger arrived from the King as the household, without the new Duchess, sat at supper in the sumptuous splendour of the Great Hall. He bowed and handed over a sealed document.

‘His Grace the King asks that you consider the contents, Monseigneur d’Espaigne . He would value Monseigneur’s advice at the earliest possible moment.’

The Duke took the packet, inviting the messenger to sit with us while he read.

Monseigneur d’Espaigne .

Already he was recognised as King of Castile in his wife’s name. I would never see him as that—to me he would always be the Duke—even if courtesy and etiquette determined that I comply, but without doubt it would colour the direction of his future life. Would Monseigneur d’Espaigne not forget everything but the road to the throne of Castile, paved with gold and bloodshed, which lay stretching in a glittering seam before him, with the bride at his side? He would take an army and begin a re-conquest of the kingdom—and then he would live there, far from England, far from me, with his wife and new family.

An excellent outcome for all concerned. All my concerns should be allayed.

But they were not.

I offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness as the Duke perused the King’s letter, and my spoon congealed in a rich dish of mammenye ryal , the minced poultry redolent of almond milk and sweet wine, while I listed my sins in silent petition before the Blessed Virgin. Lust for a man who was bound to another. Avarice, the sin of deadly excess, as evidenced by my uncontrolled emotion. Greed that made me wish for an affection that was not mine to take. Envy against the Duchess, beautiful and regal, in her rightful place at the Duke’s side and in his bed. Pride that blinded me to my own unworthiness.

All of those. The tally of them horrified me.

Can you not find evidence of Sloth, Wrath and Gluttony as well? I asked bitterly.

I was sure I could. I put my spoon down, determined to eat no more that night. I should never have come back. It was an unforgivable mistake. I should not have allowed myself to be drawn into dreams of what could never be. I had allowed myself to live, however briefly, in a magical scene in which my love was no longer unrequited. One day spent at The Savoy, absorbing the high politics of the occasion and the determination of the new Duchess, had shown me the futility of it all. The Duke would assuredly have other fish to fry.

‘Has my wife found her chamber to her liking?’ the Duke asked Lady Alice as we rose at last at the end of the meal.

‘Yes, my lord, so I understand. Lady Katherine waited on her.’

Since I was standing within earshot, he could do no other than look to me for clarification.

‘I trust she has suffered no ill effects from the journey, Lady Katherine?’

‘None, my lord,’ I replied, coolly informative and nothing more. ‘The Duchess is weary, of course. She will be strong again by the morning. I am honoured to be appointed as her damsel, my lord,’ I added.

‘I can think of none better.’

He moved on beside Lady Alice, head bent, absorbed in some household problem.

Well, that had been entirely impersonal, completely centred on the well-being of the Castilian Queen, as it should be. His smile was such that he would bestow on any one of his retinue from his most eminent physician to Nichol, the gardener at The Savoy. That briefest of conversations had made everything crystal clear. All my worrying had been futile.

Now it must be for me to put it right in my mind, to return to the calm existence of my previous service at The Savoy. It would be just like before. It would be like stepping back into my old skin, before all the upheaval. Before the Duke had said what he said, and torn my world apart.

Why did he have to do that, when it was obviously an aberration? Why were men sometimes as insensitive as a wild boar’s charge when faced with a huntsman’s lance? And there he was, entirely oblivious to the disturbance he had created, presumably concerned for nothing more than the perfect lie of the damask along his shoulders, the dramatic gleam of the gold chain against the red and black and gold of the cloth.

A little bubble of anger in my belly made me wish I had not eaten those final spoonfuls of the highly spiced dish. I regretted it even more when the Duke abandoned Lady Alice and awaited me by the door. My heart leaped, then plummeted as he raised a hand to stop my progress.

‘Lady Katherine.’

‘My lord?’

‘Are you angry?’ he asked abruptly.

We were, for that one moment, alone.

‘No, my lord,’ I reassured him quickly, smiling lightly, as I smoothed what I thought must be a particularly unyielding expression from my face. How well Queen Philippa had schooled me. ‘There is nothing to disturb me except gratitude for your kindness.’

‘I will send for you,’ he said with a shadow of a frown.

I was not to be allowed to slip into my old skin after all. His appraisal, agate-bright, was direct and uncompromising. I met it the same way, until he gestured for me to precede him from the hall, adding imperiously:

‘You will come to me.’

I opened my mouth, to refuse, or so I thought, until, fleetingly, he touched my arm. My adroitly composed refusal promptly fled, my willpower compromised by the slightest pressure of his fingers against my tight-buttoned sleeve. I think I looked at him in horror.

‘You give me no peace. Why should that be?’ he demanded.

I could find no reply at all to that.

I walked on, conscious that the Duke’s footsteps did not follow me, until a prickle of awareness snatched at my attention. I was being observed from the little knot of newcomers just arrived at the outer door.

There, muffled in furs, eyes cool and searching on my face, a cage of singing finches much like my own in her hand, was Philippa. My sister. I smiled, and kept my smile lively, even though I did not enjoy the judgemental quality of her expression. Philippa was not smiling.

In my own chamber, before she could descend on me, I put the rosary away in my coffer. Caught between sister Philippa and the Duke, I must tread carefully.