over my shoulder, and his, when I leaned against him. ‘The sun’s burnish…’ He buried his face in it as I rested my head against his breast. It was good to rest against a man taller than I.
There was little rest. He needed no help from me to disrobe, even though I offered to be his squire for the occasion. Nor did he need help to remove my shift.
No restraint, now, he turned my limbs to flame, my heart to breathless excitement, my blood to molten gold. He wakened my body to a sensual pleasure where there were no past shades keep us company.
I adored him.
I no longer cared what doubts the heavenly creatures harboured. It did not trouble me that the Duke never spoke of love. It was enough that he treated me as if, for him, I was the most precious creature in the universe.
An hour was too short to encompass all we wished to say, every emotion that demanded expression.
‘It is a taste of a banquet that will last us a lifetime,’ he whispered against my throat.
‘I must go, my lord,’ I said when the minutes fled, as if winged.
‘And you must call me John.’
‘It is not easy.’
‘But you will practise. Soon it will come readily to your lips.’
His assurance never failed to move me. How could I even contemplate the future with fear when the Duke of Lancaster held me in his arms and looked ahead with such confidence? He helped me to dress and hide my hair, he retied my laces. He wrapped a plain cloak around me to hide my inexplicable finery until it could be put to rights. How fast we learned the need for ultimate prudence.
‘The rose has fallen into pieces,’ I said, seeing it on the coffer with my rosary.
‘It is a transient thing. But my desire for you is not.’ He tucked the tell-tale gold of my veil into the neck of the cloak. ‘Do you have regrets?’
‘None.’
‘Nor I. You are of my Life and Death the Queen…’
I sighed as I recognised the beautiful sentiment, the expression of utmost poetic devotion from the Lover to his Lady.
‘Your brother-in-law, Master Chaucer, has a masterful way with words.’ The Duke kissed me as if he would linger still, although we both knew that good sense dictated that we could not. ‘Keep me in your mind, until we can be together again. Promise me that.’
‘Yes, John. I will keep you in my mind.’
Collecting up the rosary into the palm of my hand, I walked slowly back to my room.
I was John of Lancaster’s mistress.
Back in my chamber I removed my finery, recalling with a smile it being removed with much more alacrity and much less care.
I loved him, I adored him. I would never not love him.
Why had I done it? Why had I turned my back on every rule I had lived by? It shocked me that I had done so, laying aside my principles because a man had asked it of me, as I would lay aside an old gown that I no longer had use for. Now I had a new garment. A glittering cloak made of love, a magical cloak that in my naïve mind would protect me from the slights and condemnations of the society in which I lived. I was wrapped about by happiness. Pickled in it, I decided fancifully with a smile, as I would store beans in brine to last me through the winter.
Why had I done it? Because I loved the Duke and he had offered me the moon and the stars and the sun in one magnificent gesture. The firmament was mine in all its glory.
I searched for a comb beneath Philippa’s haphazardly strewn belongings and addressed the tangles in my hair, allowing other truths to step into my mind.
The end is inevitable, as night will follow this bright day. As grey will streak the gold of your hair and a web of lines mar your skin. One day you will be parted.
I was no blind fool. I could see it so clearly. All the insurmountable obstacles to what for many lovers would be a permanent happiness, whatever words of commitment the Duke and I might choose to exchange. Whatever he might vow to me and I to him. Whatever lasting passion our bodies might promise when they fused with desire.
Did the Duke see those obstacles as clearly as I, an impossible bulwark of walls and ditches, not to mention the stalwart portcullis that would one day bring about our separation and stand between. I did not think he did. When did a Plantagenet prince ever have need to question his own worth? His needs and desires were there to be satisfied.
What would it be that intervened, to destroy this idyll—for that is surely what it was—I mused. Family. Political battles. The demands of England’s policy abroad. He might desire me but his life was not his own to direct as he chose.
Nor was I his first mistress. Would I be his last? In all honesty I did not think so. He wanted me now, but I might yet be a forgotten name on the list of women who took his appreciative eye. It might be that the Duke would simply fall out of need for me.
This day I had stepped beyond the acceptable. I had crossed a forbidden line, knowing that I would have consequences to face. At some point, on one day in the future, for some reason that I could not quite see, he would have to make a choice—and then what of me? What would be left for me but memories and a reputation that would destroy my good name for ever?
Momentarily I closed my eyes to hide the contempt that I would assuredly read in the eyes of many who knew me. Then opened them as I briskly coiled my hair into its netted confines.
I would not allow such thoughts to cloud my happiness. The memory of the Duke’s arms holding me, the heated demand of his kisses—they were more than enough. And indeed they would have to be, for the Duke had not said those stark, simple words: I love you. Not once. Desire and longing. Passion and need. But not love.
What did it matter? I would not allow it to matter. His need for me in his life was enough, and I was free to love him without restraint. But I would choose my words with care. The Duke did not talk of love, so I would not burden him with mine. Silently I vowed that he must never be compromised by my adoration, which he could not return.
June 1372: Hertford Castle
‘She’ll have a hard time of it, mark my words.’ Mistress Elyot, experienced midwife summoned by the Duke to attend his wife, was quick to give her opinion. We were all established at last at Hertford and the important event loomed.
‘Narrow hips. And she’s not strong. Comes of being Castilian, I expect.’
Tears filled Mistress Elyot’s eyes and she sniffed in doleful anticipation.
I did not see that Duchess Constanza being Castilian had any bearing on her ability to grit her teeth, hold onto the hand of one of her Castilian damsels and push hard when instructed to do so, but since Mistress Elyot had the reputation of a wise-woman, and her nature
