Yet was he carelessly unthinking? I looked at his face, to find his gaze direct and deliberate, enough to cause an awareness to run along my spine. No, he was not thoughtless at all. He had uttered exactly the notion that had come into his mind.

For my part, I had not foreseen any outcome of this nature. How would I?

And no, it was not like a rapier thrust at all, which would be clean and sharp and precise. This was more like a blast of hellfire. All my previous worries, trivial and domestic as they were now presented to me, all my confidence in my ability to cloak my thoughts in careful restraint, paled into insignificance beside the inherent danger in those chosen words, cast at my feet like a handful of baleful gems.

Cast there by John Plantagenet, royal prince, Duke of Lancaster.

My audience with the Duke, until this verbal cataclysm, had been much as I expected, as I had hoped. He welcomed me with all his customary grace. Had we not been acquainted for many years, since I had been raised from my days as a very youthful Katherine de Roet in the household of Queen Philippa, his lady mother? Our paths had crossed; we had shared meals and festivities. I had been a member of the royal household, held in high regard and affection, both as a child and as damsel to the Duke’s wife, Duchess Blanche. I was assured that whatever the outcome of my plea, the Duke would put me at my ease.

I rose from that first deeply formal curtsy when he had entered his audience chamber. Eyes downcast, breath shallow with nerves—for however well regarded I might be, if he refused I did not know where I would apply for succour—I made my request. It was hard to ask for charity, however gracious and generous the reputation of the benefactor.

‘Lady Katherine.’

‘Yes, my lord. I am grateful.’

His soft boots, the edge, gold-embroidered and exquisitely dagged, of his thigh-length robe, appropriate for some court function in heavily figured damask, came within the range of my vision, and I glanced up, momentarily alerted by a rough timbre in his speaking my name. Nor was the Duke’s expression any more encouraging. His straight brows were level, hinting at a frown, his lips tight-pressed, causing my heart to flutter against my ribs. He was going to refuse me after all. There was no position for me here. By tomorrow I would be back on the road to the fasts of Lincolnshire with nothing to show for my long journey. He would tell me kindly, but he would refuse me.

But then, as he caught some anxiety in my expression, he was smiling.

‘Don’t look so anxious, Lady Katherine. You never used to. Did you think I would turn you from my door?’

The roughness was smoothed away as he touched my arm, a fleeting pressure. My heart’s flutter became a thud.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I murmured.

‘I cannot express my sadness for your husband’s death.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I repeated.

There was nothing else for me to say that would not overwhelm me with one difficult emotion or another. My husband was dead a mere two months, somewhere in the battlefields of Aquitaine.

‘I valued Sir Hugh’s services greatly.’ The Duke paused. ‘And yours have been inestimable. For you, Katherine,’ he lapsed into the more familiar, abandoning the title that had come with my marriage, ‘there will always be a position here.’ And then, with gentleness: ‘Your place in the Duchess Blanche’s household earned you great merit. You must come to us again.’

Relief spread through me, sweet as honey. I sighed imperceptibly. All the fears that had pinioned my mind in recent weeks so that I could not think, could not plan, could not envisage the future, fell away. I would no longer be dependent on the limited revenues from the Swynford estates at Kettlethorpe and Coleby. I would have money to spend on critical refurbishments. My children would lack for nothing.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said for the third time in as many minutes. I seemed to have lost the capacity to form any other response, and for a moment I was touched with a pale amusement. I had not been known for lack of conversation. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I cannot tell you how much that will mean to me.’

‘Is Kettlethorpe very bad?’ he asked. He knew my situation.

‘You have no idea, my lord.’

And with the relief I raised my eyes to his, to discover that he was watching me closely, so that I felt the blood rise to heat my cheeks, and my relief became overlaid with a layer of uncertainty. Perhaps he was waiting for a more effusive sign of my gratitude. After all, I had no claim on him, no tie of duty or blood. Some would say he had done quite enough for me and my family.

Could it be that he thought me unfit for the position I sought? Damsels in royal households were chosen for their elegance and beauty as much as for their practical skills, women worthy in appearance and demeanour to serve the lady. I had done my best. My dark robes were as fine as I could make them, with no remnant of Lincolnshire mud. As for my hands and face, all that could be seen in the all-enveloping shrouding, I had applied the contents of my stillroom with fervour to remedy the effect of Kettlethorpe’s demands. I did not think the Duke would judge me too harshly, knowing my circumstances. And yet his eye had the fierce focus of a raptor.

To deflect the appraisal I launched into what I thought he wanted from me.

‘I cannot express my thanks enough, my lord. I feared for my children, living in hardship. I thought I should not come to you, because although I no longer have a claim on your generosity, Hugh was in your service, and you were good enough to stand godfather to my daughter Blanche. I knew that you would want Hugh’s son, Thomas, to do well in the world, and before God, there is little to give him anything but the most slender of incomes from the Swynford estates. Thomas is still so young and I have not the experience to manage the land well—or the money to do it, of course…’

My words dried. A minute ago I had been impossibly tongue-tied: now I was ridiculously garrulous. Had he not said that he would employ me? My problems were at an end and I could be at peace, but my heart continued to bound like a squirrel caught in a trap as the huntsman approached with a predatory gleam in his eye.

I thought that there might be such a gleam in the royal Duke’s eye, then chided myself. Most likely it was nothing but a shaft of light through the glazed windows, or simply amusement at my lapse into trivialities.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ I found myself saying yet again. His reply was plain. ‘You have asked pardon enough, my lady. You did right to come to me. I will arrange that you take up a position as damsel in my wife’s household.’

He hesitated, the pause drawing out to fill the room. There was no doubt that he was frowning. Apprehension built again, a wad of sheep’s wool to dry my throat.

‘No,’ he said. The harshness of his tone unnerved me. ‘That is not what I want…’ And stretching out a hand towards me, he added: ‘I had forgotten how very beautiful you are. Your face has a grace, a translucent loveliness beyond my recall. And if you deigned to smile at me once in a while, it would illuminate every corner of the room.’

Which robbed me of the ability either to smile or to make any coherent response at all. Not understanding why the Duke should flatter me so highly—or was it flattery?—simply hearing the denial of what he had offered barely a minute ago, I took an uneasy step back, rejecting the thought that he might actually expect me to place my hand in his, and replied to the least shocking part of his speech.

‘Forgive me for being importunate, my lord.’ I forced my voice to remain uninflected. ‘I should leave. Until you have decided where I might be of service. Perhaps at some point in the future. I am sure that with the coming of drier weather in spring the problems of Kettlethorpe will not seem so overwhelming.’

I closed my lips, angry that I had been drawn into such a show of weakness. I would not beg. I would not make more excuses. It not being in my nature to ask again where I had been refused, I curtsied, a brisk farewell. ‘I am grateful that you received me, my lord.’ I turned to walk towards the door, pondering at this strange outcome. The Duke did not have the name for being a man who played fast and loose with the sensibilities of his dependents.

‘Don’t leave, Katherine.’

It was not a request. Suddenly it was very personal, and I halted.

‘Don’t go.’

I looked back over my shoulder but did not turn, my sole thought to depart from that room and the humiliating refusal he had just handed to me.

‘But you said that you did not wish to arrange a position for me, my lord.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then what do you want, my lord?’

An inappropriately peremptory question perhaps, but by now I admitted to profound irritation. His dark hair might lay feathered against brow and cheek, curling immaculately against his neck; his elegant figure might express the epitome of earthly authority; he might be the proudest man I knew; yet he was still a man, prone to strange moments of inconsistency. And, as if to prove me right, he spoke the words that undermined every tenet I had been raised to honour.

‘I don’t want you as governess to my children. I don’t want you as damsel for my wife. I want you. I want you for my own.’

He did not attempt to moderate his voice to any degree, a voice used to issuing commands on a battlefield, in the cut and thrust of Parliament or in fiery debate with merchants over the extortionate level of taxes. The words reached me, with perfect clarity in their meaning.

‘I want you, Lady Katherine de Swynford.’

Now, slowly, every sense suspended in shock, I turned to face him, unable to lower my gaze from his.