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godfather—was I not highly favoured in the household in those days?—who lifted the baby from the font, wrapping her slippery body with astonishing deftness, in a pearl-encrusted chrysom robe handed to him by Duchess Blanche herself, for whom my baby was called. His cradling of her was sure, confident. I could not imagine Hugh doing as much with his soldier’s hands, rough with old scars and abrasions even though the two men were of an age.
    â€˜Hush then,’ the Duchess murmured, touching her name-sake’s cheek while, cupping her head with his hand, the Duke smiled ruefully.
    â€˜There’s no need for all this, Mistress Blanche Swynford,’ he said. ‘You are named in the sight of God and much loved.Look at all here-present, who will care for you. Why would you weep?’
    The unexpected words struck hard at my heart, the unbelievable tenderness of them, and my infant’s cries instantly subsided to whimpers, before ceasing on a sob and a hiccup. Everyone laughed, the domestic replacing, for that one instant, the sacred. As if entranced, little Blanche’s myopic gaze fixed on the face above her.
    Entranced? If my daughter was caught up in the Duke’s glamour, then so was I.
    It is his hands
, I thought, trying to swallow against the lump in my throat. Broad palmed, long fingered, eminently capable, whether lifting a child or wielding a sword. Fine boned and beautiful, they transfixed me.
    â€˜Will you take her, Hugh? The first of your line?’
    â€˜I’m more likely to drop her,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Katherine has a safer pair of hands.’
    â€˜You have a comely daughter, and I foresee a clutch of strong sons.’ The Duke stepped to hand her to me, and in doing so his fingers brushed against mine. The rock in my throat hardened and my breath shuddered between my lips, catching a little as it never did when Hugh touched me far more intimately. When I felt my heart tremble, I clutched little Blanche so tightly that she whimpered again.
    â€˜Gently,’ Duchess Blanche advised, as if it was my inexperience that was the problem.
    I loosed my grip, turning my face away, as the priest offered his blessing on the little gathering.
    What had happened here? It was the only question in my mind as my daughter settled to sleep against my breast.
    I looked at the priest who was smiling benignly. At Hugh,who was every inch the proud husband and father, hoping that indeed next time it would be a son. At Duchess Blanche who, already mother of two fine daughters and despite the loss of her baby son, John, was carrying another ducal child high beneath her jewelled girdle.
    And the Duke?
    I had known him for ever. What was different today? I had seen him in full royal splendour, all gold and jewels and Plantagenet lions. In gleaming armour, the sun illuminating his tall stature as if resplendent with God’s heavenly blessing. I had seen him walk into the Hall at Kenilworth, at Hertford, at Tutbury, hot and sweaty with effort in the tilt-yard, dishevelled and dust-ridden but his face alive with the expending of energy. I had heard him in furious argument with his brothers. In flirtatious laughter and tender mood with Duchess Blanche. Had seen him short-tempered with a clumsy servant, furious as a youth when his will was thwarted, repentant when taken to task by Queen Philippa.
    This was nothing more than a domestic scene, the Duke and Duchess seeing fit to lavish an unexpected honour on two of their dependents, and it should not have moved my heart in this manner. His tunic and hose were plain for a prince, his sleeves wet from the font, the breast of his tunic dark with water. No jewels, no weapons, no armour. No heraldic motif to advertise his power. Nothing here to force a reaction from my nerves that continued to ripple beneath my skin.
    And then as I raised my eyes from his hands to his face, I saw the Duke look over at his wife, a glance of such heartfelt