My thoughts flitted on.

His acknowledged guilt of fornication. My mind flinched from it, but I forced myself to consider. All the months we had been apart during the years of our love. So many of them. What man, what vibrant man, could live with chastity for so long? Weakness of the flesh indeed, but I could not change what had been done. Was my love for him strong enough to resist such knowledge, to set it aside as a disturbing element of the past but one that need no longer trouble me?

There was more to read.

If you ask me: Do I love you? My answer must be: Too much. My heart is yours. My soul is an echo of yours. I have never questioned your love for me, nor must you ever question mine, despite my sins of the flesh. All I can ask is the gift of your forgiveness.

So I could no longer thrust this decision aside: could I accept his infidelity? I must. What choice had I? This was the man I loved unto death. This was the vigorous, powerful prince who had called to my heart all those years ago, with all his faults and iniquities. Was I without sin? My life was as blemished as his, tainted with temper and intolerance and that greatest of sins that I could not renounce.

Yes, I decided, in my new balanced maturity, I could and must accept in my lover such sins of the flesh. My love was strong enough to forgive.

I have granted land and money for the foundation of a chapel dedicated to St Katherine and the Blessed Virgin Mary at Roecliffe in Yorkshire. Prayers will be offered up to the saint of your heart to guard and watch over you, since I cannot.

My heart warmed in my chest, and tears were not far behind.

We must be apart but my heart lies with you, my thoughts too.

My tears flowed like a cataract in spate.

I did not use the vicious words that have been accredited to me. I never would make you the subject of such ignominy. If I wept, it was not in self-indulgent penance for my own sins but in grief for the anguish I knew my actions would inflict on you. Walsingham and his minions saw it of value to put the phrases into my mouth. If you were an enchantress, as perhaps you are, I would only see it as good. The intricate web of your love remains woven around me, and will remain inviolable until I am laid in my grave.

I am your servant. And will remain so for this day and for ever.

And there was his signature. His name, not his title.

John

So there it was. The necessity for the quitclaim. Loving, not vindictive. Caring, not callous. A release, not a rejection. And what had I done at Rochford? I had believed the worst because I had not thought beyond my own pain.

Now my hurt was sharper than ever, and the guilt too, jostling with renewed anguish. He loved me, as he had always loved me, and yet we must of necessity remain apart. Any suspicion that we were not living distantly, and Walsingham would descend on us with sword and fire, like St Michael on the evil power of the dragon.

My isolation was even greater than it had been.

And yet perhaps not, I decided as I dried my tears, for now I knew beyond doubt that the Duke’s love for me was a precious thing, far more valuable than gold or silver hanaps, and I brought to mind that moment when he had left Rochford Hall. When he had looked across the room at me. I had thought him ruthless and unfeeling. He was not. I denied that he had felt any wretchedness comparable to mine. How wrong I had been. His sorrow had been equal to mine, if not greater.

I had thought he had grown weary of me, that he no longer wished to touch me even in a formal farewell. That I was nothing to him. Now I knew. To draw attention to us would be far too dangerous. He had been aware of every potentially prurient eye upon us at Rochford Hall, despite Countess Joan’s careful presence. He had had to do it for me, and for himself.

His final lines, each one scrawled, one after another, written with such a sense of loss, near broke my heart anew.

It is an agony that I must accept that I will never touch you again when all I need is to hold you in my arms and know your lips against mine. To do so would be too dangerous. Even to acknowledge you in the public eye would draw unfavourable comment. Rochford was a torment for me, as it must have been for you. For the sake of England I made this painful bed. Now I must sleep for ever on it.

I have condemned you to sleep alone too. Forgive me, my very dear and most loved companion.

England must thrive. I must make amends to Constanza if I can.

And I must reassure you of my love, for now and all time.

I cannot hope that you will have the generosity to forgive me.

He loved me. He still loved me. And now I knew why he had been so very angry. I had been cold, shunning him, with no understanding of what it was he had done for me. I had been intolerant, unbending, because I had not, in my hurt and my anger, seen the true value of what he had accomplished. Now, older, and I hoped wiser, with my sister’s trenchant advice hammering in my head, I knew I had to let go of my perceived wrongs so that I might once more live in peace with myself. And with the man I would always love, even though I could never live with him again. I must acknowledge the unbreakable ties of heart and soul and mind that bound us still, and simply forgive.

I had wronged him. Now I too must make amends.

I knew what I must do. I thought about it, ruining the nib of one pen, frowning at Philippa when she intruded so that she withdrew. She was still with me at Kettlethorpe on her journey back to the Duchess. She would take the letter for me.

Whatever level of contact there was between myself and the Duke, it must be as discreet and quiet as a mouse raiding an apple-barrel in my cellar. I might express my grief at the past wrongs I had heaped on him, but our relationship must be that of the spirit, not of the flesh. The Duke had made his choice and I must respect it. Most specifically I could not undermine what he had done, so cruelly for both of us, however much my heart raged against it. All I could do was reassure him of my understanding, reassure him that his sacrifice had not been in vain. The fortifications he had built between us, for all of England to see, would not be demolished by any careless word from me. His reputation had been restored, and I was glad of it. There was no going back for either of us.

So now—how to write it?

I would write under cover of estate business, one landowner in gratitude to another despite our disparate rank. Why would I not write my thanks, in an entirely impersonal manner? Philippa would ensure that it reached his hands, not those of Sir Thomas Hungerford. But just in case it fell into other hands…

To Monseigneur of Lancaster.

In thanks for the recent delivery of trimmed oaks for use at Kettlethorpe. I am grateful for the timber as I plan an addition of rooms to the manor house.

I wrote fast and fluently, yet another paragraph of inconsequential detail on my rebuilding. And then I began, the first, the only personal letter I had ever written to him. How difficult it was. Another quill went the way of its predecessor. Now, knowing what I knew, I must say what was in my heart, yet hiding the joy that danced in my soul that he still loved me and I was free to love him, albeit from a distance.

As for the quitclaim…

That looked suitably legalistic, I decided.

You must have thought me unresponsive to the reality of that legal document at our last meeting at Rochford Hall. I confess to not understanding the essence of the quitclaim as I ought. Now I understand, and I have come to my senses at last.

Due to the explanation I have received, I am able to take this essential step in informing you of it.

There! Dry as dust! Would he understand? I thought that he would. I swallowed against the emotion that I dare not write, but that threatened to scatter the page with tears. There would be no cause for me to weep over a discussion of pasture enclosures. I continued with rigorous attention to my choice of words, written in the coldest of terms.

I understand what you did and why you did it. It has been a long and very painful road for me to get to this place. I know that I must accept what drove you to do what you did.

I ruined the quill with my fingernails. And then, against all good sense, I wrote:

You must know that my sentiments towards you remain as they have always been, unconditional and all-encompassing. I pray for your safekeeping and for God’s grace to protect and uphold you. I will listen for news of you.

I only ask that you will keep me, ever a loyal servant to the house of Lancaster, close in your mind.

Not one word of the love from which I would never be free.

Leaving a space, in bold script I cushioned my confession with an account of one of my local projects, to deflect any prying eye.

I am involved in much time and effort to enclose local pastures into the park at Kettlethorpe. It is troublesome and there is local opposition but I have the King’s permission and

I will prevail…

I laughed softly through my sorrow as I completed the final lines. He would think that I had lost my senses, until he realised what I was doing. But how to finish? I knew what I wanted to write.

I love you now, today, as I struggle to write this, as much if not more than I ever did. I will love you tomorrow and tomorrow. What strength comes to us under adversity. My heart remains yours even as the years pass. My soul rejoices in the knowledge that you love me. Keep safe, my dear love.