Yet still my mind would not accept. This was not real. This rioting was merely a stirring-up by this man Wat Tyler. King Richard’s advisers would take the right steps. Tyler and his cohorts would be pacified with promises and sent back to their villages. All would be well.

Would it not?

Of course it would, I reassured myself, as we flew through the night, and were refused entry by the Duke’s cautious Constable at Pontefract until our credentials were vouchsafed. We were safe until better times.

Yet ensconced in Pontefract, I could allow my anxieties about the Duke to escape my control. Thank God he was safe behind the stout walls at Berwick.

Oh, how I raged when the news first reached me. And then, in private, I wept. A sign of a shallow mind, some would say, to waste such emotion on the works of man, the dross of earthly wealth. Why would I weep over the destruction of gold and silver, of fine jewels and even finer tapestries, when men and women ran in fear of their lives? And some lost them.

The guards at The Savoy had lost theirs.

I wept because these elements of wealth and power, the beauty and grandeur of The Savoy, were an integral part of my memories of the Duke and the bonds that pinioned us. And with their destruction, my memories, of such inestimable value, had become tainted with horror. With terror of what was to come.

‘How is it possible? Could no one stop it?’ Philippa asked, eyes dark with dismay.

The Savoy Palace, John’s glorious, magnificent, luxurious home on the banks of the Thames, that superb masterpiece of craftsmen’s art where we had first expressed our love, was no more. Laid waste; utterly ruined. All destroyed, stamped on, brutally razed to the ground by Wat Tyler and his rebels, the contents flung in the river or burned in vast glowing pyres as the great swathe of rioters breached the gateways and walls, invading the public audience chambers, the chapel, the Great Hall, the private parlours. The intimate bedchambers.

All I could do was sit and stare in shocked disbelief, to the unease of the itinerant friar, allowed through the gates after close questioning, who had revelled with what seemed to me an unholy enthusiasm in its telling. At first I had refused to believe it, that the King’s own uncle, a royal duke, should be so despised, that his property should be the subject of such vitriol, but now, as the details flowed on and on, I must. As I must accept the scarcely credible events in London where the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Treasurer had been hauled out for execution on Tower Hill.

Even Brother William Appleton who had given me his strength when Blanche died had paid for his allegiance with his head. I could not comprehend it.

Oh, John. My love, my dear one. How will you deal with this?

My flesh crept at the image that I could not erase from my mind. Men I had known, men I had conversed with, sat at supper with. Men whom the Duke had known and respected.

The friar’s voice trailed off, his tale told, and I dispatched him for food and ale, accompanying him briefly to the kitchens, handing him over to Hugh, the cook, who was avid for news. Here was no place for ungoverned emotions. There was far more of horror and destruction for me to face than the looting of The Savoy. Slowly I returned to my chamber.

‘It is vile.’ Waiting for me there, at my side throughout the telling of desperate events and destruction, Philippa sniffed and wiped her eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Will our household at The Savoy be safe?’

‘I expect they will have taken refuge in the city.’ I would not tell her what I knew of the fate of the guards.

Philippa wept again, but I was in control, as cold and restrained as I had ever been. I would not tell her. Or not yet. Perhaps when affairs became clearer and her own emotions were less overthrown. The destruction of stone and timber, gold and jewels was not the worst of it. Yes, they could be replaced by any man of great wealth such as her father. The Duke could rebuild and refashion as magnificently as before. But why had such a vengeful attack been launched against him, even in his absence? Why were even his servants reviled? I knew the answer to that.

On our journey to the kitchens, I had pulled the friar to a halt in the buttery where we would not be overheard. ‘Why was it done?’ I held his eyes when they threatened to slide away. ‘What do the rebels say when they set fire to tapestries? When they fling precious vessels into the Thames? Why of all the buildings in London do they disfigure The Savoy?’

The friar’s eyes still managed to evade mine.

‘Tell me!’ I tightened my grip. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know.’ Finally I sought in the purse at my belt and extracted a coin. ‘This might jog your memory.’ I tried not to sneer.

‘Because they fear him. They despise him.’ The accusations made my blood run cold. ‘They say he would usurp the King’s throne. “We will have no king named John,” they bellowed as they…’

So simple. And what I had feared. There could be no other reason, could there? The home I had known and loved was destroyed as the ultimate symbol of the Duke himself. Lancaster’s home, Lancaster’s base in London, from which all his power as royal duke and uncle to the King emanated. And thus it had become the target for all their hatred, as if it were the Duke himself, bruised and battered and destroyed beyond recognition.

‘But why single him out?’ Although I knew the answer.

‘They won’t blame a fourteen-year-old youth who has barely hair on his cheeks, mistress.’

Of course. They needed a scapegoat, as they had always done. Who better than the man at the young King’s right hand? How could they hate him so much?

‘They blame him for their ills,’ the monk repeated, as if able to pick up my thoughts. ‘The poll tax is a heavy burden. The lords refuse to pay more for the labour on their estates.’ He shrugged, the worn cloth releasing a sour smell. ‘Who to blame but the man whose hand is on the reins of government?’

And the thought crept into my mind. What would they have done to the Duke, if he had been at The Savoy? Would they have treated him with the same lack of respect as they did the contents of his private chapel?

‘What are they saying about the Duke?’ My final question before I released the monk to his bread and ale. He did not hesitate. Perhaps he felt the determination in my grip.

‘They demand his head as the worst of all traitors. They’ve sent a petition to the young King. They want revenge for their sufferings. The Duke’s head will do it.’

Still the questions hammered at my thoughts. Could they not see the Duke’s sense of justice, his dedication to England’s greatness? Perhaps when the air cooled they would be satisfied with their revenge on property and possessions. What would the Duke do? Would he gather his forces and ride south to put down the rebels in the King’s name?

In all the years that I had loved him, I had learned to accept his absences, to govern my own desires to be with him every moment of every day, but in those days at Pontefract I wished I could have been there in Berwick with him. I would have gone to him if I could. Instead, I lived on the edge of an anxiety so sharp that it drove me to my knees in the chapel.

‘Holy Virgin, turn your face towards John of Lancaster. Preserve him from his enemies. Keep him safe from harm. I will offer up a novena if you have mercy on him.’

I lit a candle at the foot of the statue.

If John was spared, I would make recompense. If John was spared I would have candlesticks made in gold for the altar at Kettlethorpe. I smiled as I realised I had called him John in my mind, which I never did. A token of my anxiety.

‘Holy Virgin, have mercy on us both.’

I was reassured by the calm stillness around me. The Blessed Mother would not allow my prayers to go unanswered. The Duke would be safe.

Every day I stood on the battlements at Pontefract and allowed my mind to seek him out. I knew he was alive. I knew he was in health and spirits. Soon we would be together and the ravages of these days would be put right. He would stand at Richard’s side and deal with the rebels with justice and clemency. He would rebuild The Savoy. He would return to me and kiss away my fear. Perhaps I would bear him another Beaufort son. I spread my fingers over the folds of my gown and I smiled.

The sense of him settled on my shoulders, around my heart, as a goose-down quilt on a winter’s morn.

There was something wrong. I could not fathom it. All I knew was that there was something out of kilter, something I could not quite see in my mind’s eye, or hear; merely the whisper of it in my head when I caught it unawares. The whole castle seemed to be redolent of a sense of unease.

It was not the dire news we had received from the south where events leaped from bad to worse, attacks unbelievably launched against the Duke’s castles in Hertford and Leicester. We had thought the Duchess and her household to be safe. Pray God that they had fled, forewarned, perhaps to Kenilworth whose massive walls would hold an entire army at bay.

No, it was not that, although prayer filled our days and fear our nights.

Nor was it the desperate tale from Leicester where the furnishings and ducal possessions, five cart loads of them, were hidden in the churchyard in Newark by a terrified Keeper of the Wardrobe who could find no other refuge, in spite of the Mayor of Leicester calling out the militia to keep order. Even the Abbot had turned him away.

No, it was not that.

We doubled the guards on the walls at Pontefract and watched the road, to north and south. We did not expect the Duke who was still, as far as we knew, tied up in Scottish negotiations. We would have to stand in our own defence if the rebellion spread its net to encompass us so far north.