‘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.

‘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.