Free The Scandalous Duchess by Anne O'Brien Page B

given the difficulties of her birth and young life.
    Lady Alice had sniffed her disgust of gossip but Alyne had answered my curiosity as we completed the stitching on that same altar cloth that would be used for the Mass to give thanks for Duchess Constanza’s safe arrival amongst us.
    â€˜Constanza is illegitimate, to all intents and purposes…’ she whispered. ‘Her father got three daughters and a son on a whore whilst his wife was still alive.’
    â€˜But he claimed to have married her—the whore, that is,’ interposed Lady Alice who, in the end, could not resist the delectable lure of scandal.
    And so, between them, I received the strangely horrifying history of my new mistress whose father King Pedro of Castile had imprisoned his rightfully wedded wife in a dungeon, while he continued his disreputable liaison with Maria de Padilla, whom he claimed to have wed before his marriage to the ill-fated legal wife Blanche of Bourbon. He was a man of persuasive tongue and his children by Maria had been recognised as legitimate by the Castilian Cortes, and so were heirs to the throne.
    â€˜Pedro had his wife poisoned, so they say. Died in mysterious circumstances,’ Lady Alice stated with extravagantly raised brows.
    Alyne added in counterpoint: ‘Constanza’s father is also dead, so she is Queen of Castile by right.’
    â€˜Except that the Crown has been usurped by King Pedro’s bastard half-brother Enrique.’
    â€˜Which means that Queen Constanza has no kingdom to rule over.’
    â€˜Only a claim that Enrique will never honour.’
    So there was the skeleton of Constanza’s lineage. It was an unenviable position for the young woman, whom I now assessed as, chin lifted, she approached the Duke. No wonder she held to her pride like a mouse to the last ear of corn during a bad harvest. She had little else. Owning the title of Queen of Castile certainly gave her a presence, despite the outmoded gown of red velvet with its strangely fashioned blue kirtle. The creation of veils and frills and buckram that covered her hair was a monstrosity.
    â€˜Castilian fashion!’ Lady Alice murmured. ‘I doubt it will catch on.’
    The Duke bowed low. We all made appropriate obeisance.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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