Authors: Anya Seton
"Kill - kill - kill-" Like the senseless repetitions of a nightmare, a thousand voices bawled the word. There was a sharp crack of wood from the rood screen as the mob heaved against it. The tapers rocked in their holders. A woman screamed.
"Quick!" cried Robin, "we'll try for that door." He scooped Katherine off her perch and holding her tight in his left arm edged backward along the wall to a small recessed door. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he found that it was open. He pushed Katherine through. They were in the cloisters. From there a gate led to the churchyard and through the gravestones on to Watling Street.
Katherine had obeyed her squire blindly, so frightened by that roaring mob that she could not think. But in the street she clutched Robin's arm and cried, "What will happen to him? Jesu, we can't leave here like this."
"No harm can befall our Duke," cried Robin fiercely, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "I must get you to safety - 'twere madness to stay in there, 'twould do no good-"
"Yes, yes," she cried, "then take me to the Pessoners in Billingsgate - 'tis near. Hurry, Robin, hurry - so you may go back - -"
He nodded instantly and they ran together through the streets towards the Bridge until they came to the fishmonger's half-timbered house on Thames Street.
"Lady Katherine!" cried Dame Emma in amazement as she opened to their frantic knocks.
"Let me stay here," panted Katherine. "Robin, run back and see - then tell me-" She sank on to the settle by the bright fire and struggled to catch her breath.
Dame Emma was alone, the children were working on the fish wharf, the maids all in the brewhouse grinding malt. The dame let Katherine recover on the settle while she went to the still-room for a bunch of dried sage, prime remedy for nervous upsets. When the brew was cool enough, she brought it to Katherine and made her drink it with the same kind firmness that Hawise had inherited.
"Cock's bones, m'lady, what's ado?" she said then, her smile as warming as her applewood fire. "Is't some trouble at Paul's?" she added, and her smile faded, for her husband Guy, and Jack Maudelyn too, had gone to see the trial.
Katherine explained quickly and Dame Emma shook her head. "There'll be cracked pates and brasted bones if no worse, the City's been heaving like a pot o' porridge these past months. This'll boil it over. I pray me goodman keeps his wits, though I've scant hope o' Hawise's Jack - sore as a bear on a chain is Jack."
Katherine did not answer; she twisted her hands together and looked continually towards the window hoping for Robin's return. She sipped the sage brew, she wandered about the cheerful low-ceilinged room, presently she sat down by Dame Emma and despite the good dame's protests helped her with the cracking and picking out of hazel nuts. Dame Emma thought how those white soft hands had once been rough and red with chilblains, and of the frightened fifteen-year-old bride who had so touched her heart and Hawise's.
"Lady Katherine, how does my wench?" she asked suddenly. "Does she serve you well?"
"Oh, Dame Emma, I cannot
tell
you how well! She's my sister, my friend - indeed I - I-" Her eyes, though shadowed by worry, shone with wistful gratitude.
Katherine threw down the cracker and pick amongst the tray of rattling nuts and wandering to the window peered out again. "Robin's coming, he's past St. Magnus' church!" She opened the door and flew out to the street.
They came back together and Katherine cried to Dame Emma, "All's well with the Duke! Thanks be to God and His Holy Mother - tell - tell what happened, Robin."
The young squire laughed and picking up some hazel meats crunched them in his strong teeth. "When I got back, His Grace and Lord Percy had already left the church with Wyclif. I talked to one of Percy's squires, he thought it all a rare good joke. With the turmoil and the shouting, and a score of bishops darting here and there, the folk got confused; and then the rood screen tumbled down and frightened them so they rushed back into the nave."
"And then?" cried Katherine.
"Why, then, the Duke and my lord Percy simply walked out through the Dean's door, mounted and rode off towards Cornhill, where they are to sup with Sir John d'Ypres. Percy's squire said my lords were cool as spring water and very tickled at the breakdown of the trial."
"There's a-many won't be," said Dame Emma, frowning. "God's nails, 'tsounds a disgraceful brawling all around."
Yes, it is so, Katherine thought bitterly. She sank down on a little three-legged stool within the hearth and rested her forehead on her cold hand. She closed her eyes and saw John as he had stood beneath the amber light of Paul's great window, when she had thought him a god. Now she knew that he had never been less godlike. Hot temper he had always had and arrogance, but not like this. She thought of the furious shoutings and the clash of a sword next to Blanche's quiet tomb.
The squire and Dame Emma looked at the brooding, desolate figure on the stool within the hearth. Firelight shimmered on the burnished head, on the lovely lines of the brow and straight nose and round cleft chin, and they glanced at each other.
Robin yearned to kiss the little hand that plaited and un-plaited a fold of the grey skirt, to implore her to smile.
The goodwife's impulse was more practical. "Sir Squire," she said, "since me men folk're out, do ye go down cellar t'far corner behind a keg o' malmsey. Ye must move the keg to reach a stone crock o' peach brandy wine I put down last Lammas. Fetch the crock an ye'll be so kind, 'tis prime cure for low sperrits."
When Robin had made off into the courtyard, bound for the passage that led to the cellars, Dame Emma reached up to a shelf and taking down her two engraved silver cups began to polish them; for she never served her famed liquor in ordinary mugs. Dame Emma had but dipped her cloth into the powdered pumice when she heard the pound of running feet outside and a banging on the door. In the excited shouts she recognised Jack Maudelyn's voice.
Dame Emma jumped up and yanked the settle around so that it hid Katherine. "Stay there," she whispered, and pulled the bolt. Her son-in-law shot in.
"Out of me way, old mother," he cried, dancing with impatience. "I want me headpiece and bow and quiver, Master Guy too, get down his pike and sword." He flung open the door to the passage where the Pessoner weapons were kept and began to pull them feverishly off the wall pegs.
"Not so hot, not so hot, me lad!" cried Dame Emma, grabbing his arm. "What's all this coil? Where's Master Guy?"
"He's coming." He shook her off as he grabbed a handful of arrows from his quiver. "Where's Longshot? Where's me best goose-tipped shaft? The devil take it - who's been meddling here! - and this pike's dull as wood - no matter, 'twill serve-" He thrust his sandy shock-head into the helmet and slung the quiver over his shoulder.
"Serve for what, Jack Maudelyn?" cried Dame Emma in a great voice.
"Why, to pierce the Duke's black heart, if God gi' me that honour!" He was fumbling with the leather lacings of his headpiece and did not hear Katherine's gasp from behind the settle, but Dame Emma ran to the hearth as though to mend the fire. She held her finger to her lips and shook her head violently.
Katherine had started up but she sank back on to the stool. The dame returned to the passage and said sternly, "What d'ye mean by that wicked speech, ye rascallion!"
Jack seized his longbow, shouldered his pike and cried exultantly, "I mean that John o' Gaunt and that whoreson Percy'll never see another sunrise! Men o' London're roused at last! They've gone off to Percy's now - then we're on to the Savoy after Lancaster!"
"Jack, Jack!" cried Dame Emma, starting back, "ye couldna do this fearful thing an' ye would, the Duke's own guards - -"
Jack broke in contemptuously. "The Duke's own guards'll not stand against two thousand men! Hush your blab, old 'oman, I'm off, tell Master Guy to hurry after - -" He dashed through the kitchen and the slam of the front door shook the house.
Katherine stood up. Her face had gone pale as the plaster wall. "Call Robin, quick!"
The dame obeyed.
The squire had been tugging at the malmsey keg but he heard the frightened voice, ran up to the court and into the kitchen. Katherine stood in the centre of the rush-strewn flags, her looks so white and strange that Robin cried out in alarm. She shook her head impatiently to still him and spoke with tense restraint.
"Listen - a mob two thousand strong is after the Duke. They would kill him - but they think him at the Savoy. You know where he
is
?"
Robin gaped, but the control with which she spoke conveyed urgency quicker than if she had shouted. "At Sir John d'Ypres' in Cornhill," he whispered. "But Lady, how know you this
"No matter. Hurry, Robin, warn him - my God - -" Her voice rose suddenly. "But where can he go - tell him west out of the city!"
"He would not run from a rabble, lady." Robin, breathing fast, had now caught the full impact of her news. "Not our Duke, and with this reckless spirit he has shown."
She nodded, biting her lips, frowning with the force of her desperate concentration. "Then tell him little Richard is in danger too, that he must get across the river to Kennington and protect the boy.
Make him go!"
Robin turned with his hand on the latch, when Dame Emma ran up with a paring knife, "Best take this off," she cried and slicing the stitches, yanked the Duke's badge from Robin's shoulder.
The squire grunted and dashed out. While the door was opened both women heard the distant roars of the mob. "They must be at Ludgate," whispered Dame Emma. "Christ's blood, but they've gone mad - and you, too, Guy le Pessoner!" she shouted, for her husband came lumbering along the street, his moon face purple, his paunch heaving beneath his guildsman's tunic.
"No, you don't," she cried, pushing him down on the settle as he started for the armoury passage. "Ye'll not go out again to join those ribauds!" The dame, arms akimbo and eyes snapping like sparks, glared down at her panting husband.
"Emma, forbear," stammered the fishmonger. "Ye don't know what they're doing to us. They aim to make us serfs here, to take London's liberties. They've a bill at Westminster ready now, to put that stinking marshal over us. Already he's ta'en a prisoner he'd no right to, had 'im mewed up in a dungeon. We freed the knave and burned the stocks they'd put him in. We searched for Percy - -"
"And did ye find him? Nay, stay there," Dame Emma thrust the poker at her lord's belly and he sank back on the settle.
"Not yet - he'll be at the Savoy wi' t'other traitor - Peter - who's this?" The excited fishmonger had just caught sight of Katherine standing like a church statue beyond his angry wife.
Katherine walked forward around Dame Emma, and looked down at the fishmonger. "What has the Duke of Lancaster ever done to you, Master Guy, that you should requite him like this?" she said.
The fishmonger dropped his eyes. "What does Lady Swynford here?" he muttered, twisting his leather-shod feet beneath the settle.
"Fled here for shelter from ruffians like you," cried Dame Emma. "Would ye deny it to her?"
Master Guy swallowed, he waggled his head distractedly. At length he said, "Nay," and sighed. "Ye can put the poker down, Emma. Me blood's cooling. But wrong's been done us - great wrong. Would ye have us take these wrongs like gelded conies?" He reached to the hearth for a flagon of ale and his wife, putting down the poker, brought him a cup. He drank, then looked at Katherine. "Ay, poor lass, I've had bitter thoughts of ye, many a time, but now I've room for pity. Me blood's cooled down to be sure - but out there - I doubt they'll be slaked until they've slain your - -" The word he would have used was paramour, yet there was something in Katherine's face which checked him. "Until they've got Lancaster," he finished looking down into his cup.
Katherine shuddered, yet still she spoke with biting calm. "They'll not get him, Master Guy. For they say God is just, and will know that the Duke has suffered wrongs as much as you have."
"Brave words, my dear," said the fishmonger. "At least in this world he has
you
to speak for him."
"And cares not," she whispered, turning away.
Katherine slept that night of the riots at the fishmonger's. After a few hours of exhaustion, she awoke with a jump when St. Magnus' bells rang for Prime and, hurrying down to the kitchen, was received kindly by the Pessoners, who told her the latest tidings.
Little harm had been done after all, yester eve. The Duke and Percy both had somehow escaped, said Master Guy, and here Emma made a private signal to Katherine, for she had not disclosed Katherine's part in warning the Duke.
It seemed that Bishop Courtenay himself had finally appeared and berated the mob leaders, saying that they had carried their disorders too far and that he was ashamed of his flock. So one by one they had slunk off to their homes, contenting themselves with reversing the Duke's coat of arms wherever it hung outside a shop and then pelting the blazons with mud and excrement.
"And I'm glad enough now, no harm came to the Duke," said Guy, donning his leather apron which was plastered with fish scales, " 'Twas a good night's work as 'tis, in especial that we let loose the wrongfully held prisoner from Percy's Inn. The marshal'll not try those tricks again."
"What prisoner was that?" asked Dame Emma, coaxingly pushing a dish of fried eggs towards the silent Katherine.
"Some fellow from Norwich. I didna see him. 'Twas said he was in mortal fear o' the Duke. Th' instant he was freed, he hared it off for sanctuary in St. Paul's."
Dame Emma sighed. "And think ye, chucklehead, that this is the end o' London's trouble? Can ye get it through your numskull that violence but breeds violence? D'ye think the Duke will smile and thank ye for this night's work?"
The fishmonger thrust his lip out and said stubbornly, "He should not a tampered wi' our liberties, he should not a set hisself against the Commons."
The goodwife sighed again. "Ay, Commons've no friend at court these days." She bustled over to pat Katherine's shoulder. "Ye don't eat, my lady?"
"No," said Katherine rising, "forgive me but I can't. I must get to the Savoy. God be thanked the Lady Philippa and Hawise seem to've suffered no harm. I had forgot them last night."
Ay, poor lass, you forgot all else but one man's danger, Emma thought as she said, "Ye canna go alone. Go wi' her, Guy, she'll be safe wi' you."
The fishmonger grumbled that a load of herring awaited him at the wharf, that his prentices must be chivvied to work, that there was a mess of cod to be delivered to the Guildhall, but finally he took off his apron and mounted Katherine behind him on his great bay gelding. He was a good-hearted man, and he admired Katherine's fair face, but he was increasingly convinced that Hawise's devotion to this woman was unfortunate, even dangerous. The mortal hatred aimed at the Duke might well glance off and hit those near him, as indeed it already had; and though no coward, Guy did not like certain remarks he had heard last night which reflected on his own connection with the Duke through that of his obstinate daughter.
He rode along in gloomy silence until they had crossed the Fleet bridge, then he said, "How long d'ye look to be down here, m'lady?" For he thought that since Hawise could not legally be forced to break her service indenture to Lady Swynford, and would not if she could, at least the farther away they went, the better.
"Not long," said Katherine with a cold vehemence that astonished the fishmonger. "I shall see to
that,
Master Guy."
"To Kenilworth, then, or Leicester?"
"No," she said, "to Lincolnshire, to my own home."
"By Saints Simon and Jude!" Guy twisted his fat neck around to stare at her. "Will the Duke allow it? Are ye not contracted to him as governess to his little ladies, as well as by other - other ties?"
"I believe the Duke will not hold me," she said, sitting stiff and straight on the pillion. "And by the Blessed Virgin, I am no serf, to be bound against my will!"
"Well-a-day!" cried Guy, thinking that the riot had very properly frightened her into caution. " 'Tis a sensible plan."
Katherine did not answer.
The gelding jogged along the Strand past St. Clement's little church. Katherine had passed the church fifty times without special notice; today as she glanced at it, eleven years slid away. She saw in the porch a priest and a knight with crinkled hair, and a girl with a wreath of garden flowers on her head. Handfasted, they stood, the girl and the knight, while the priest intoned, "To have and to hold from this day forward to love... and to cherish... till death..."
She turned away from the church and stared down the Strand ahead, then Master Guy started and cried, "By God, see what they did here!"
Katherine looked up at the gatehouse. They had wrenched off the Duke's great five-foot painted shield and hammered it back again upside down.
"'Tis what they do to traitors!" said Master Guy and chuckled suddenly. "Them leopards look mortal silly a-standing on their little heads a-waving their little legs." His chuckles grew into a rumble.
"For the love of Christ - stop it!" Katherine cried, shaking his arm. "Can't you see what you're doing to him? What man could stand the vile lies - the hatred - you
know
he's not a traitor. Oh, God curse the lot of you!" She jumped down off the horse.
That afternoon, unable to come to rest anywhere, Katherine went out into the Savoy gardens. It was chilly, the clipped yew hedges and the shrouded rosebushes were drenched in grey mist, but she had flung a warm squirrel-lined cloak over the grey woolsey. Nor would she have felt the cold in any case, while she paced the deserted brick paths and thought of her new-found decision.
She would leave here tomorrow. She and Hawise and the Kenilworth servants who had come down with them would return there at once. She would pick up her children and hasten to Lincolnshire - to Kettlethorpe.
John might be momentarily annoyed at her taking their two babies from the luxury of Kenilworth, but since they obviously no longer interested him any more than she did herself, his protest would be a formality. He should have no cause to reproach her for negligence in her duties to Philippa and Elizabeth either. Until he should appoint a new governess, Lady Dacre here at the Savoy would be delighted to wait upon Philippa - and delighted to get rid of me, Katherine thought. Well she knew that most of the ladies treated her with contempt when the Duke was not around. Secure in his love and protection she had always ignored these slights.
Now this was changed.
Back and forth she walked between the frosty yews and thought harsh practical thoughts. She would keep the wardships and annuity he had already given her if he allowed her to, for she owed it to his children, that Kettlethorpe might be made habitable for them. But she needed nothing more. She would be invulnerable again and alone, .with this wicked unwanted love walled out of her heart.
Suddenly she looked down at the ring he had put on her finger in the ruined chapel in the Pyrenees. Betrothal ring. She stared at the round translucent sapphire, the stone of constancy.
Her lips tightened as she twisted the ring from her finger and walked to the river-bank. She stood on the marble pier and holding the ring outstretched in her hand, gazed down at the lapping waters.
"Nay - I cannot," she said, after a moment, turning from the river. She slipped the ring into her scarlet purse that was embroidered with her arms, Swynford boars impaling the Catherine wheels; the blazon he had made for her.
Am I then nothing of
myself?
she thought with anguish. Can I not live apart from memories of him - -
She sank down on a stone bench, and stared out across the river to the barren stony hummocks of Lambethmoor. The mists grew thicker and downstream the pale lemon light faded over London. One by one from its churches the bells rang out for vespers; near at hand the Savoy chapel gave forth its sprinkle of silvery chimes. She stirred restlessly on the bench.
The bells drowned out the sound of approaching oars on the river until a barge appeared out of the mists quite near the pier. Katherine started for the steps, unwilling to be gaped at, when an eager voice called out, "My Lady Swynford, is it you?"
She turned and recognised Robin's feathered cap and rusty tunic as the squire waved from the barge's prow. She came down the steps and waited while the oarsmen steered up to the pier. "So you've returned," she said quietly. "Your errand last night, Robin, was well done, I've heard."
The youth jumped to the pier and cried, "I've been sent for you, my lady, to come to Kennington. You're to come back with me at once!"
"No - -" said Katherine, unsmiling. In the shadow of her hood her face gleamed hard as pearl, her eyes were cooler than the mists.
Robin was dismayed that the lovely laughing girl who had been his most precious charge was transformed into a stern woman with a stranger's eyes. He stammered, "But, my lady - 'tis a command - you are
summoned
to Kennington Palace."
" 'Tis kind of His Grace," she said. "You may tell him that I know he has never been lacking in courtesy when he thinks there's cause for it, but in sending you to warn him I did nothing that his lowliest varlet would not have done."
Robin blinked, and looking down at the toe of his leather shoe, said unhappily, "It is not His Grace who summons you."
The bells ceased their ringing and there was silence on the pier. "Who does then?" said Katherine.
"The Princess Joan, my lady - she commands in the name of Prince Richard that you shall come at once."
"Whyfor?" said Katherine, in a less sure tone. "I've never met the Princess, what could she want of me? Robin, is His Grace not at Kennington too?"
"Ay - he
was
- locked in a chamber with Percy, I believe. I've not seen him since we crossed the river last night. Lady dear - I beg of you to hurry, the Princess was most anxious."
Since there was now no queen in England, Princess Joan was sovereign lady and must be obeyed. Katherine reluctantly let Robin help her into the waiting barge. The oarsmen bent their backs and pulling sturdily against the current moved their craft upstream. They passed Westminster and crossing to the Lambeth bank landed at the Kennington pier.
They went up a terraced path to the fair small country palace where the Prince of Wales had died. Robin led the way through a courtyard and upstairs to the Princess Joan's bower, where a waiting-woman admitted Katherine at once, then left her alone.
The room was gaudy as a jewel box; the walls hung with painted silks, the floor covered with bright woven flowers in a Persian carpet. The furniture was gilded, and in a gold cage studded with crystals two white birds twittered.
As Katherine looked at the birds the Princess entered hurriedly, in a rush of pink velvet and a wave of heavy scent, crying with warm impetuosity, "Welcome, Lady Swynford, I've been awaiting you!" She held out a fat dimpled hand so loaded with diamonds that Katherine, as she curtsied, could scarce find space to kiss.
"I have come, madam, as you commanded," said Katherine distantly, and rising, she waited.
"Take off your mantle and sit down, my dear," said the Princess, while she settled her billowing hips into a canopied chair. Katherine obeyed, wondering what was wanted of her, and her pride hardened still further, for she thought that she could guess.
The Princess was like a large blowzy rose. Katherine noted the dyed hair, the excessive plumpness of the rouged cheeks, the charcoal blackening the scanty lashes, and thought how the nuns of Sheppey Convent had admired this fair maid of Kent, and of how she had once heard a knight say that when Joan had married the Prince of Wales she was
"la plus belle femme d'Angleterre - et la plus amoureuse."
Perhaps his brother thought so still.
The Princess cleared her throat and leaning forward said, "My dear, you're not at all as I expected. I see now why - yes - I'm glad I summoned you." The girl looked high-born and well-bred, Joan thought in surprise, with most lovely features. The firm cleft chin showed character too. She was relieved at this new view of Lancaster's mistress, for gossip had it that the little Swynford was an upstart strumpet, and some said that she kept him from the Duchess by the use of black arts.
Joan smiled, the gay confiding smile which had won many a heart, and said, "I have something to ask of you, Lady Swynford - 'tis a delicate matter."
"Perhaps I may save you embarrassment, madam, by telling you that I intend to leave the Duke's service tomorrow, and shall go to live permanently in my own manor in Lincolnshire," said Katherine. "Is that far enough away?"
The Princess' eyes grew round as turquoise discs. "Blessed Saint Mary!" she cried. "Did you think I asked you here to beg you to give up the Duke? Great heaven, child, it is quite the opposite!"
"What!" cried Katherine sharply. "Madam, you are jesting." For the Princess was laughing in small muffled spurts.
"Nay, listen," said Joan wiping her eyes on her pink velvet sleeve. "Forgive me, I don't know whether I laugh or weep, for I am frightened - -frightened - don't stare at me with those great angry eyes - my dear, I need your help." The Princess rose and walking to Katherine cupped the girl's chin in her hand and gazed down earnestly. "Do you really love my brother of Lancaster?" Katherine looked away, and her colour rose. "Ay, I see you do."
"He loves
me
no longer," said Katherine very low. "He's had no thought of me in months - there are many signs - it is finished."
The Princess sighed and wandering to the carved mantel absently traced the pattern of acanthus leaves with her finger. "I believe you're wrong," she said, "and for two reasons. I lived fifteen years with his brother and in many ways they are like as two cockleshells. Edward never ceased to love me and come back to me, and yet when the dark violent fits were on him."
She shook her head. Her hand dropped from the mantel and she sat down again. "And the other reason is this. Three weeks ago we held a Christmas mumming here for my Richard. John came, of course, with many others to do Richard honour, and late that night when we had all retired I could not sleep for missing my own dear lord and fearing for the future of my little son. Then I heard a strange noise in the State Chamber which is next to mine, and where John slept. It was a sound of outcry and struggle. I opened the door between and listened fearfully, meaning to shout for the guard, and then I knew that he was in the grip of some frightful dream. He choked and panted and cried out your name. 'Katrine! Katrine!' He cried it with a frenzy that would wring your heart. I went to him and woke him, and he was angry with me and bade me get out. We did not speak of it again."