I blinked at the sheer glitter of fury in his face. I had seen the Duke in the grip of such passion before but never aimed at me, only at a recalcitrant Parliament, or overambitious courtiers who questioned his right to exert power. Never had I been the object of such rage, and because my patience was a finite thing, I retaliated in kind, deliberately to hurt. As he had hurt me.

‘Oh, no, I’ll never accuse you of self-satisfaction, John,’ deliberately using his name when I had vowed that I never would. ‘How could a man as proud of his Plantagenet blood as you appreciate having to bare your suffering soul before the masses of England? I know that your arrogance has no rival anywhere in England.’

‘Arrogance?’ His nostrils narrowed on a fast intake of breath.

‘I remember your one and only communication to me at Pontefract,’ I reminded him. ‘You must not leave until I can come to you, you said. Not forgive me. Not I have done you a great wrong. Katherine de Swynford is a vile temptress, you said—’

‘I did not say that.’

‘They say you did. A vile temptress, amongst other epithets that I choose not to recall.’ I recalled every one of them, as if engraved on my heart. ‘What I do recall is that I was no enchantress. It was you who demanded that I share your bed.’

‘I did not demand.’

‘You hunted me remorselessly.’

His temper flared again, bright as the sun on a dagger blade at dawn. I think I had hoped that it would. Experiencing far too much of his cold dignity, it would please me to stir him into wrath. A blast of emotion would be no bad thing.

‘Before God, woman!’

‘As I see it, you should be eminently satisfied, John. Restored to the bosom of God’s grace, and Walsingham’s, of course. Reunited in marital happiness with your Duchess. How could you have tolerated me for so long, when all the advantages for you were to deny me and return to the moral fold of legal matrimony? I hear that Castile is once more on your horizon, with Constanza’s blessing. How magnanimous she is in her victory. Was it worth her kneeling in the dust to beg your forgiveness?’

Oh, how my rancour leached out, to coat us both.

His shoulders became rigid, his whole body poised to repel my attack. ‘Cynicism does not become you, Katherine.’

‘I have learned that it becomes me very well.’

‘And you misjudge me.’

‘I think not. I judge what I see and hear. I have heard no regrets from you. Two tuns of wine delivered to my door do not buy you a dispensation. And then, of course, the quitclaim.’ I had to take a breath. Even the thought of it stirred me to immoderate speech. ‘Did you really have to do that? You had already beaten me to my knees. There was no need to batter me about the head with a legal denunciation and formal separation.’

That brought him to a halt.

‘That was never my intention.’

‘No? To issue me with a legal binding that I have no further claim on you or your heirs, nor you on me. Did you expect me to come begging?’ I saw him raise his hand, and spoke to stop him. ‘No, I am not in a forgiving mood. Perhaps God is more forgiving than I. How could you do it? How could you?’

Which failed to quench his anger but instead goaded him once more into action. With three strides he was in front of me, his hands gripping my wrists without mercy. The bowl of potpourri that I had been carrying, that I had been gripping through all this brutal exchange, fell to the floor, shattering, the cloud of dried herbs scattering over my skirts and the floor. Over him too.

‘What would you have me do?’ he demanded. ‘Do I allow England to suffer God’s anger for the sake of my personal happiness? Or yours? Do I? You know as well as I the problems the King faces. Failure to hold onto England’s possessions abroad. Rebellion and unrest at home with peasants raising their hands against Church and State. A young king who has neither the age at fifteen years nor the experience to take it in hand? Richard needs me. England needs me.’ Colour had risen to mantle his cheekbones. ‘Richard needs me, without blame, to be strong for him to offset the influence of men such as Robert de Vere who would seduce him from his duty. He will not listen to me if my soul is black with sin, or if the country turns against me. I had to repent. Would you blame me for that? Would you have Richard fall even further under de Vere’s control, or some other unworthy favourite who will snatch power from his stupidly generous hands?’

Even though my wrists ached with the strength of his fingers banded around them, I considered his impassioned plea. Honesty, reluctant but necessary, coloured my reply, but there was no warmth in it.

‘You have every justification in doing what you did. My own happiness, as you say, is nothing compared with the glory of England. How could I have thought that it might be? I consider it unfortunate that I should be cast in the role of the sacrificial lamb.’

For a moment he looked away from me, towards the far door, where footsteps sounded. Then when they faded, his eyes bored into mine again.

‘Do you think that I do not rail against God? Against the unfairness of it? Do you believe that my love for you was a mere charade? Do you not know that it still burns within me, every minute, every hour? Would you have me do nothing to protect you from those who attack me? Am I really so selfish as to place my own desires before your safety?’

As one question followed another, each driven home with the strength of a sword thrust, I held his gaze, all thought suspended, this new idea intruding like the point of a needle into fine linen, to add another, more complex stitch to overlay the first. Yet still I replied bleakly, holding onto my sense of ill-usage because it was the only familiar emotion in the whole of this morass that threatened to drag me down and suffocate me. ‘I have no idea. I no longer know what you think or do. It is no longer any concern of mine, of course. You are quit of me.’

He looked as if would like to shake me, only to be rejected.

‘No. I regret that you no longer see it as your concern.’ The fires of temper were banked, the chill of frost reappearing. ‘I have constructed a magnificent fortification between us, have I not?’

‘Yes. It is a formidable structure. You should be proud of it.’

‘It serves its purpose. It achieves what it was intended to achieve.’

I did not understand his meaning.

‘You are bruising my wrists, my lord.’

Immediately his hands fell away. ‘Forgive me. I have hurt you too much already.’ His expression was stony, his restraint palpable, and with the briefest of inclinations of his head, the Duke left me to stand alone, but not before I had glimpsed what could only be raw emotion in his eyes.

I watched him go, thoroughly unhappy, thoroughly unsettled, all my resolution to withstand the power of the man I had loved—still loved—undermined. If nothing else was clear to me, this one fact was. The Duke was as unhappy as I.

In pure reflex, to offer comfort, in spite of everything, I stretched out my hand to him, but his back was turned. He did not see me.

‘John!’

Nor did he hear me.

Thus ended our only conversation at Rochford Hall. Angry, accusatory, trenchant in its tone, before retreating into frigid withdrawal. Perhaps I deserved no better. Perhaps it was time I stepped back, away from him, allowing both of us to continue our lives in calmer waters.

Beyond weariness, I knelt to collect the pieces of the dish, which seemed a meaningless task when the floor was strewn with the dried herbs, so I simply sat back on my heels and surveyed the results of our discussion. Why had he been so very angry? He so rarely in my experience allowed emotion to rule to this degree, and yet his temper had bubbled like an untended cauldron, blistering me with its power. Grief at the child’s death? It would have touched him deeply, but not for him to blast me with such venom, and hold me as if he had no sense of the fragility of my flesh within his grip. The marks were faint, but I could see them. I could still feel his power as he had heaped his anger on my head.

How easy it was for him still to hurt me.

For a long time I simply sat, unmoving in that empty room, all our bitter words descending on me to swirl through my mind, to land finally on some that gave me pause.

Would you have me do nothing to protect you from those who attack me? Am I really so selfish as to place my own desires before your safety?

Had I been wrong? Had I misjudged him? Had he in truth been protecting me?

Suddenly my erstwhile certainties that the Duke had betrayed me were as scattered as the potpourri.

I left the pottery shards and the herbs where they were. The sleeves of my gown were long enough that there was no evidence on view to rouse comment.

The Duke left, taking Henry with him. Back to more exhibitions of jousting skills, I surmised in uncharitable spirit, for both of them. It took little to drag a man’s mind from grief. A thorough burst of male energy with sword or lance and all was put to rights, while Mary still wept for her loss, and I raged inwardly at my inability to overcome my grievances as I renewed the bowl of herbs that proved particularly ineffective in restoring either serenity or ease to anyone.

As they departed I stood in the Great Hall with the rest of the household to make our farewells. When the Duke spoke at length with Countess Joan, I turned to go, but at the end looked back over my shoulder. He was standing at the door, head turned. He might be engaged in pulling on his gloves, but he was watching me. Our eyes held, his arrested, but by an expression that I could not interpret. Unless it was a longing that could never be answered, by either of us. I was the first to turn away, thoroughly discomfited, thoroughly unsure.