But it would be far too indiscreet. Instead, I wrote simply,

With thanks again for your generosity and concern for the management of my estate. I remain, and always will remain, your grateful servant,

Katherine de Swynford

I reread it with something of desolation. A poor attempt at contrition, a poor contrivance. It was the best I could do, and I handed it to Philippa with instructions. I hoped that he would understand all I had dared not put into words.

‘Well, I’ll deliver it, Kate. But don’t expect him to come to you,’ Philippa advised, perhaps seeing the hope in my face. But indeed she was wrong. I had no hope of that. There would be no physical reconciliation.

‘You have to learn to live without him,’ she continued. ‘He and Constanza are hand in glove. Or at least sharing the bed-linen. She is hopeful of carrying his child.’

‘Then I must wish her well.’

It was the only response that I could make against another dart that lodged in my heart.

I have handed the letter to the Duke.

Philippa wrote to me at length.

It hurts me to tell you, but the Duchess is much restored in spirits, praying fervently that she will carry another child at last. The Duke is very attentive. He is planning another assault on Castile, to be preached as a Crusade. There is much optimism and happiness here. The Duke and Duchess are in accord. If a new child were to be born in Castile, it would be a marvellous coup for them. My thoughts are with you, Kate, if, whatever your denials, you hoped for any reconciliation from your letter.

I understood. Of course I did. I expected no reply. It was enough that he should know of the direction of my thoughts. The days of bitter heartbreak were long gone.

But there were nights when I mourned my lost love who must continue to bolster the fortifications between us in the interests of reputation and England’s glory.

‘Agnes! Agnes! You’ll never believe what he has done!’

All dignity as Lady of Kettlethorpe was forgotten. I hitched my skirts and ran into my beautifully refurbished hall with no thought at all for the improvements or the bright display of newly purchased tapestries.

Agnes emerged through a door on the floor above me, drawn to the top of the staircase by my strident tones.

‘What is it? What who has done?’

‘I can’t believe it!’ I was already taking the stairs two at a time.

‘What?’ Agnes demanded, now scowling fiercely.

But I couldn’t say. Not yet. I hadn’t the breath for it. I had been in the courtyard, in desultory conversation with one of Lancaster’s waggoners. I was surprised by this wagon-load of timber and wine that had struggled through the slush and mire of January in the New Year. Not the usual time of year for such inessential journeying. The waggoner handed me the bill of lading as he climbed stiffly down and, taking it, I let my eye travel down it. There was also a basket of rabbits somewhere in there and a bolt of fine cloth.

But there was a postscript added to the short list of items.

And then a list. A list of five names at the very bottom. I knew every name on the list intimately.

It had the power to drain all colour from my face.

‘I say you should go inside, mistress,’ the waggoner advised. ‘A cup of ale will do you good. Me too…’

But I was already running up the stair, the waggoner, wood and rabbits forgotten.

‘Agnes!’

I could not believe what I had read.

I pushed past Agnes and Joan, who followed me to my chamber in some bafflement. Where I cast myself on my knees beside my coffer.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘This!’

I lifted out my sable cloak, letting Joan take it from me, smiling when she began to stroke its folds, picking out twigs of mugwort and lavender. The heavy perfume filled the room. It was easy to smile that day.

‘And there! I was thinking that we were being invaded,’ Agnes muttered. ‘All this fuss about nothing but a fur cloak you’ve never worn.’

‘You said you would never wear it again,’ Joan observed, female enough to hope that I would give it to her.

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘God be praised. It’s too good to be kept locked in a box.’ Agnes’s eyes narrowed on my ingenuous expression. ‘Why?’

‘I’m going to Lincoln.’

‘I don’t see that a visit to Lincoln would make you willing to flaunt this evidence of past sin.’

‘Did I call it that?’ I looked up with a laugh, as if I were a girl again. I could not recall when I last felt so foolishly happy. ‘I am going to see the Duke.’

Agnes grunted, taking the weight first of the fur and wool from Joan, and then from her own feet as she sank onto a stool. ‘And not before time, some would say!’

It was a shock to hear her concurrence. ‘I didn’t think you would approve.’

‘Well, I do—and I don’t. Which makes no sense, mistress. But when a woman’s blessed with a love such as you have been given, it’s a sin to waste it. That’s what I say.’ Her face was as flushed as mine. ‘I’d best make preparations. How fortunate that I kept the moth from my lord’s precious gift.’




Chapter Seventeen

But perhaps no one would blame me for it. I took the square of linen silently handed to me by Agnes, acknowledging the brush of her fingers against mine. She felt it too.