The Scandalous Duchess. Anne O'Brien
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child. ‘I ask pardon, Agnes. I am more weary than I thought.’ Then on impulse: ‘Mistress Saxby said I should take a man to my bed.’
‘Did she now. And who is Mistress Saxby?’
‘A pilgrim with a practical turn of mind.’
‘A man would double your problems, some would say!’
And at last I laughed. She was doubtless right. Agnes had never married nor ever would. Her opinion of Hugh had not been high.
‘I have not come home empty-handed,’ I announced before Agnes could consider asking me if I had any particular man in mind. And from my saddle bag I brought sweetmeats for Margaret and Thomas, a length of fine wool of a serviceable dark blue, well wrapped in leather for Agnes.
‘From Lady Alice. She thinks we live in dire penury. I think she assessed the value of the clothes on my back and found them wanting.’
‘She would be right. Did she give you anything?’
‘No.’
I kept the pilgrim’s badge in my scrip, even when I had considered pinning it to Margaret’s bodice. I would keep it for myself, a memento of a very female heart-to-heart.
‘And how was Lord John?’ Agnes asked as, much later, we sat at supper, an unappetising array of pottage and beans and a brace of duck. ‘Apart from being busy.’
‘Why?’ I was immediately on guard.
‘Because he is the only member of the household you have not talked of.’
It was a jolt, but I forced myself to smile, my muscles to relax as I considered my reply, finding a need to dissemble. Agnes of the suspicious mind was watching me. With an arm around her shoulders, I hugged her close. She was very dear to me.
‘Conspicuous,’ I remarked. A word that barely did justice to the Duke’s eye-catching quality, but it would satisfy Agnes. ‘When is he ever not?’
And just as enigmatic, I could have added, but didn’t. Agnes’s eye would have become even more searching. Meanwhile, the Duke’s disturbing assertions continued to echo in my mind like the clang of the passing bell.
‘Visitors, my lady. And by the look of them, they’ve travelled far.’
‘It’s not the Duke of Lancaster, is it?’ I asked caustically.
Master Ingoldsby looked puzzled. ‘Why no, mistress. I’d not say so. Did we expect his lordship?’
I squeezed his arm, sorry to have taken advantage of his limitations. Grey of hair, his face deeply lined, Master Ingoldsby’s years were catching up with him. ‘No, we did not. I doubt he’ll find a path to my door.’
The Duke’s carnal desire for me had died a permanent death. It must be something of a relief to both of us.
I was in the cellars, bewailing the contaminated hams—the roofleaked here also—and assessing the barrels of inferior ale, when Master Ingoldsby came to hover at my shoulder. I left the hams and ale willingly, and went out into the courtyard, tucking the loose strands of my hair beneath my hood, considering whether it might be my sister Philippa. I did not think so. Life in the country did not suit my sister, a town mouse, born and bred.
And no it was not. The sound of horses’ hooves greeted me and the lumbering creak and groan of a heavy wagon on the road, and as I walked out past the gatehouse, I saw that the wagon had an escort of men, without armour or livery to help my identification, but well-mounted with an impressive array of weapons. As Lady of Kettlethorpe I would have to offer them hospitality. I wondered if my cook could stretch our supper of mutton collops and a dish of salt cod to accommodate another half-dozen mouths. Something, I supposed, could be achieved with bread, eggs and a hearty pottage, as I walked towards the man who had already dismounted and was pulling off his hood as he bowed. His expression was severe, his carriage upright, and I thought he had the look of a soldier despite his advancing years.
‘Lady Katherine de Swynford…’
‘Sir?’
The man inclined his head. ‘I am instructed to deliver this to you.’ He raised his chin in the direction of the wagon. ‘I am Nicholas Graves, my lady. A soldier by profession.’
The ever-present nerves in my belly settled, assuaged by his courtesy. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
Intrigued, I walked to the wagon, expecting I knew not what as he drew back the heavy canvas cover.
‘Oh!’
It took me a moment to acknowledge what I saw. A large linen-wrapped bundle of what would be pieces of armour and mail, another swathed roll of knightly weapons. A worn travelling coffer. A smaller box with a lock. And over all was draped a banner. A sea of silver, divided by the slash of a black chevron, three snarling boars heads in gold, teeth and tongues gleaming through the wear and tear of warfare.
The possessions and accoutrements of a knight on military service.
My attention was drawn back to the box with the locked lid. Someone had carved a chevron and three boars’ heads on it, rough but recognisable. It was the small size of it…and as truth struck home at last, my knees buckled and I found myself clinging to the side of the wagon. Then Agnes was beside me, an arm around my shoulder, and Master Ingoldsby had a grip of my arm.
‘I was ordered to arrange to conduct Sir Hugh’s possessions home, my lady,’ the soldier said.
‘Hugh…’ I whispered.
‘Yes, my lady.’ He looked at me as if he expected me to collapse at his feet, but I was made of sterner stuff than that.
‘How did he die?’ I asked as the driver climbed from his seat and began to unload the wrapped pieces of armour. My voice seemed faint to my ears and far away. I was shivering uncontrollably, but it was not the cold of the little wind that had picked up.
‘Dysentery, my lady,’ he replied laconically. ‘He was too ill to travel home in September. We thought he was growing stronger—but he failed. In November.’
‘Yes, I knew it was November. I was told.’ I frowned at the fiercely grinning boars’ heads, hating their vigour. ‘But I did not arrange this. I cannot pay.’ Now I heard the panic in my voice. I had visions of these sad remnants being taken away from me, because I did not have the coin to pay the driver of the wagon or the escort. Where would I find the money for this? I felt Agnes shift her grip and her hands closed tighter on my shoulders.
‘There is no need for your concern. It is all paid for, my lady.’
‘Who paid for it? Who arranged it?’
‘My lord arranged it.’
I shook my head. I could not seem to take my eyes from the battered gauntlet that had slid from its wrapping and lay, fingers curled upwards.
‘The Duke arranged it all. I serve him, my lady. The Duke of Lancaster.’ As if he was addressing a want-wit. ‘And I am instructed to give you these.’ He pushed into my hand two leather bags, one large and one small, and two folded letters.
I blinked as I exhaled slowly. So this was the Duke’s doing.
‘Sir Hugh’s body was too…’ Master Graves began, then bit off his words. ‘Given the circumstances—well, it was decided to bring only his heart back here to England.’
‘Yes…’
‘My lady…?’ I became aware of my steward looking to me for orders. I must think about the Duke of Lancaster’s gift to me, but not now. Not yet.
‘If one of your men could take the…the heart to the church, sir,’ I said, pointing to where the tower of the little church of St Peter and St Paul could be seen behind a stand of trees. And to Master Ingoldsby: ‘And these men need ale, if we can find any fit to drink. Then food.’
How superbly practical I had become