her hair was a monstrosity.
‘Castilian fashion!’ Lady Alice murmured. ‘I doubt it will catch on.’
The Duke bowed low. We all made appropriate obeisance.
‘You are right welcome, my lady.’
When the Duke held out his hand, she placed hers there, her stark gaze at last come to rest. He smiled, saluted her fingers and then her cheek, her lips. I noticed that although there was no reticence in her response, she did not return the smile. Perhaps she was overawed by the splendour of her new home. Compared with the hovel rumour said she had been reduced to occupying in a village in Bayonne—even worse than Kettlethorpe, Lady Alice had informed me with a wry smile—this palace in the very heart of London must seem to her like paradise.
‘You will never be in danger again,’ the Duke assured her. ‘Nor will you ever again live in poverty. This is your home.’ Then turning to the ranks of his household: ‘I would introduce to you my wife. Queen Constanza of Castile.’
We bowed, curtsied.
The Queen of Castile sneezed.
The Duke was immediately solicitous, for though it was undetectable, we all knew that beneath those voluminous robes the lady carried his child. ‘Your hands are cold. Forgive my thoughtlessness.’ He beckoned to Lady Alice: ‘My wife needs our consideration. The English winter has not been kind today. I’ll leave her in your efficient hands.’
The welcome was thus cut short out of concern for her health and that of her child, and she was handed over to her new household. To me. I found myself directed by Lady Alice, since I had not yet settled into any routine of duties for my new mistress, to conduct the lady to her accommodations, help her disrobe, organise her bathing and then put her to bed with a pan of hot coals and a cup of warm spiced wine. And to instruct her handful of Castilian ladies who were looking apprehensive and as wet as she.
‘You know how we go about things here. None better,’ Lady Alice murmured. ‘And next week, God willing, your sister can take over when she has wished her husband farewell. She can soothe the Castilian fears, and you can concentrate on the welfare of the coming child—as well as giving me a hand with the clutch of growing children in my care.’ She sighed as she observed the Castilian retinue and clicked her tongue. ‘They look frightened to death. Do they think we will eat them?’
I curtsied to the new Duchess, who glanced rather wildly at the Duke, but she followed as I led the way, lingering in every antechamber, every room, to take in the furnishings, the painted ceilings, the glowing tapestries. Even though she shivered with cold, she found a need to take in every aspect of her new home, until I decided that enough was enough when she sneezed again.
‘To take a chill, my lady, would not be good for your child,’ I advised firmly. Subtle deference, I sensed, would not pay with this young woman. ‘It would be better for you and the baby if you were out of those clothes immediately.’
She blinked as if she had not expected me to speak, or did not understand. Perhaps that was it, I realised. How good was her understanding of the French that we habitually spoke at court?
‘You are cold,’ I said clearly, slowly. ‘You need to be dry and warm.’
She nodded and quickened her steps.
‘Ah! Good!’ she said at last. For as we arrived at her private chamber, a wooden bath, the staves held in place by brass mounts carved with fish and dragons, had been manoeuvred before the fire to accommodate the water, steaming and fragrant with herbs. It was, I realised, the first word she had spoken since her arrival.
I stood back to allow her to enter, then, closing the door on the last empty bucket, followed her as the Castilian ladies stood around helplessly.
‘Find your mistress’s garments,’ I chivvied, seeing that some of her coffers had already been placed in the room. ‘A shift, a robe. Some soft shoes…’ I pointed at the bath. ‘Now you must bathe, my lady.’
And under my eye the maidservant I had brought with me began to strip the fur and matted velvet from the Castilian queen’s slight body, releasing her hair from its confinement so that it snaked, damp and tangled, over her shoulders. The Duchess simply stood and allowed it to happen.
‘Clothes for your mistress,’ I snapped again at the damsels, thinking that my sister Philippa, with all her experience in Duchess Blanche’s household, would find it a hard task to help me beat these women into some sort of order. They had clearly not served in a noble household before. Then I addressed the Duchess, who was standing shivering in her embroidered under-gown. ‘How do I address you, my lady?’
She regarded me steadily, looking far younger than her seventeen years. ‘I am Queen of Castile,’ she pronounced carefully.
Which did not help. She was also Duchess of Lancaster. Since she had not objected, I continued as I had called her.
‘A poor welcome for you, my lady.’
‘Yes. This is my sister, the Lady Isabella.’
She gestured casually with her hand towards the young unsmiling woman at her side, before handing to me, without looking at it, the brooch that had been pinned to the bosom of her gown. Making the requisite curtsy to the Lady Isabella, I placed the brooch on the coffer beside me. It was heavy with gold, depicting St George and a flamboyant dragon, all picked out in sapphires, diamonds and pearls. The dragon’s eyes were ruby-red. Much discussed, it was a gift from Prince Edward to acknowledge the Queen of Castile’s arrival, and was indeed worthy of royalty. I was surprised that she treated it with such indifference, for it was a remarkable jewel. Perhaps she was merely tired, yet I did not think so, despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the obvious strain on her aquiline features. I did not think it meant anything to her, and wondered what would move her to true emotion. As I turned back to her, she spoke, carefully:
‘Who are you?’
‘Katherine de Swynford, my lady.’
‘You are part of this…?’ She sought for the word. I had been right. Her French, heavily accented, was not good.
‘Household,’ I supplied. ‘I am part of the Duke’s household. And of yours. I am appointed to be one of your damsels.’
She stared at me. ‘One of my ladies?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Do you also care for the Duke’s children?’
‘Yes, my lady. When it is necessary.’
‘I have not met the children yet.’ She frowned. ‘My lord has told me of them.’
‘Tomorrow you will see them.’
She lifted her arms to allow her under-gown to be removed, then stood in her shift as the maid unrolled her stockings, obediently lifting one foot, then the other. ‘I will have a son of my own,’ she announced. ‘You served Duchess Blanche?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
The shift removed, I saw how undeveloped her body was at hip and breast. Childbearing would not be easy for her. The pregnancy showed barely a roundness of her belly. I offered my hand to help her step into the tub and lower herself into the water, where she sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes.
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘A widow, my lady.’
‘What is that?’
‘Una viuda,’ murmured one of the women who seemed to have more French than her mistress.
‘I understand. Your husband is dead. Do you have children?’
She had so many questions.
‘Yes. I have three. My daughter Blanche is the Duke’s godchild. What is that?’ I looked at the woman who had replied before.
‘Un ahijado,’ she supplied.
The