Authors: Anya Seton
But as Katherine watched, the Lady Blanche responded to some remark from the Earl of Pembroke and she smiled a smile of piercing sweetness, while inclining her shining head in a gesture both humble and gracious. Katherine was suddenly awed. She is like the painting at Sheppey of the Blessed Virgin, she thought.
"Yes," said Geoffrey, who had been watching the girl's face, "she is a very great lady. The greatest in the land, not excepting the Queen."
"Can she have - has she children?" asked Katherine timidly, for it did not seem possible that this exalted lady might have known the dark urgings of the body, the stir of blood Katherine felt dimly in herself.
Geoffrey nodded slowly. "She has had three - Philippa, who is six, a baby John, who died at birth, and Elizabeth, who is two years old, I believe."
Katherine considered this and was led on to another question. "Is there true love between the Duke and Duchess, do you think?" she whispered, not unaware of naivety and boldness but knowing instinctively that she dared ask anything of this wise young man.
A shadow crossed his face, but then he smiled. "Ay, I believe there is, and you don't yet know, child, how rare a thing love is at court, and in a royal marriage."
Katherine would have asked more but was diverted by a commotion of running feet outside the entrance to the Hall, and the blare of trumpets, followed by a herald's voice shouting a gabbled string of titles, "John, Duke of Lancaster, Earl of Richmond and Derby, of Lincoln and Leicester, enters here!"
All the company in the Hall, including those at the royal table except the King and Lionel, rose to their feet. "The noble Duke arrives," said Chaucer somewhat dryly, "with, of course, due ceremony and recognition."
Seven or eight young men strode into the Hall together but nobody could have had difficulty in identifying the Duke.
He was magnificent in a red and azure tunic quartered with the lilies of France and the Leopards of England. A gold girdle, fastened by the ruby rose of Lancaster, hung on his narrow hips and around his wide muscular shoulders lay the SS golden collar of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, who had just turned twenty-six last month, was the best made of all the King's sons. He was tall, though not so uncouthly large as Lionel, and he was slender, but not with the meagre delicacy of Edmund. In John's face the Plantagenet stamp of long nose, narrow cheeks and deep eye-sockets had been softened but not coarsened by the Flemish heritage. His eyes were as bright blue as his father's once had been, his thick hair was tawny yellow, as a lion's pelt. His beard was clipped short and his face shaven to disclose a full and passionate mouth.
As he strode down the Hall between the kneeling varlets and the bowing courtiers, Katherine felt the impact of a ruthless vitality and pride. He is more king than the King himself, she thought, staring fascinated. And many others thought so too, though not with her uncritical adjuration. It was the Lady Blanche's vast inheritance which had raised the King's third son to such power and there were some who thought him dangerously edging towards royal prerogatives and negligent of the proper respect due to his elder brothers, the Prince of Wales and Lionel.
The King had turned from Alice Perrers when his son's advent was announced and waited, frowning a little, until the Duke came up to the royal table and, kneeling, quickly kissed his father's hand and whispered something at which the King's face grew grim; he banged his fist upon the table, nodding slowly.
The Duke stood up again and raised his hand towards the minstrels, who hushed their instruments. He threw back his shoulders and though addressing the royal table, spoke in ringing tones designed to reach everyone throughout the Great Hall.
"A message has just come from our royal brother, the Prince of Wales. There is monstrous news. Henry Trastamare the Bastard has foully usurped the throne of Castile and was crowned on Easter Day!"
A shocked murmur ran around the Hall; it swelled to a chorus of dismay.
The Duke waited for the sensation to subside, then went on, "King Pedro, the rightful, most Christian and unhappy monarch, has applied to us for aid against the shameful traitor!"
Now many Knights jumped forward and there were exultant shouts. Katherine, who understood nothing of this but was gazing entranced at the handsome Duke, heard Chaucer say, "Welladay, so here we go again, poor England."
"What do you mean?" she asked, peering around at him.
He shrugged. "That the King and my Lord Duke will be on fire to right so grievous a wrong, particularly a wrong backed by France, and we shall fight again."
"Don't you want to fight?" said Katherine with some disapproval.
He chuckled in his throat.
"I have
fought, been captured and ransomed, too. I no longer need to prove myself the flower of chivalry, and I dare say I can serve my King better on missions."
"Missions," repeated Katherine, raising her chin and feeling a little sorry for Philippa. Her eyes flew back to the Duke of Lancaster. He had seated himself beside his wife and was talking animatedly across her to his father and brothers. She could no longer hear what was said but she saw that they were all in a buzz of excitement and indignation. Their royal blue eyes were flashing, and even little Thomas had lost his surly boredom and was hanging over the Duke asking eager questions.
How splendid they were, thought Katherine, and her heart swelled with hero-worship, directed towards the lovely Lady Blanche as much as towards the Duke. Of all the handsome people, those two were the best-looking, and a fairy enchantment surrounded them like a nimbus.
"Ah, yes," said Chaucer, watching her, "the Plantagenets dazzle like the noonday sun - but the Lancasters," he added on a lower note, glancing up at the Lady Blanche, "that one there doesn't dazzle, she glows, gentle as the Queen of Heaven. I think, my dear" - he interrupted himself abruptly - "that you are causing some interest across the Hall."
Katherine had been entirely unaware of herself during the last hour, now she followed Chaucer's gaze and reddened. Several of the Duke's retinue, after accompanying him into the Hall, had seated themselves at a table directly opposite.
Two of the young men were looking hard at Katherine and whispering.
;
For one who stared with such intentness that he seemed to be scowling at her, she felt an immediate antipathy. He had an ugly florid face, square as a box, and kinky hair, short and dusty, buff in colour like sheep's wool. His beard was of the same stubborn texture, so that it did not part neatly in the middle like that of other men, but jutted in a fringe. A jagged purple scar puckered his right cheek and contributed to the repulsion Katherine felt. The small scowling eyes were staring across at her with frank purpose, a look that even Katherine recognised as desire.
"Sir Hugh Swynford finds you appealing, it would seem," said Chaucer with grim amusement. "And so does the elegant young de Cheyne. Pica," he said on a lower note to his betrothed, "we shall have some ado to guard your little sister's maidenhead."
Now Katherine recognised the young man who sat beside Sir Hugh, for he smiled at her and kissed his hand when he at length caught her eye.
"Why, it's the squire who came last year with the message from you, Philippa," cried Katherine, delighted. She smiled and waved back. "He's changed a lot, his beard has grown."
"Katherine!" cried Philippa sharply. "Behave yourself! De Cheyne's no squire now, he's been knighted - and knights are no concern of yours. You'll get into trouble, my girl, if you encourage any of the courtiers, especially of the Duke's retinue. They're only after one thing. You should know that much, even at convent." Philippa gave an exasperated sigh, foreseeing many complications from Katherine's arrival which had not previously occurred to her. She herself did not think the girl's looks particularly striking, indeed she had not yet substituted this new Katherine for her memories of the scrawny, sickly child she had last seen. But Alice Perrers' detestable cooing voice had given one warning and it seemed now that Katherine was attracting an undue amount of attention for a humble little convent girl in an ill-fitting dress. Even Geoffrey, her own betrothed, had spent the whole supper-time answering the girl's silly questions and displaying undue warmth.
Philippa had no sentimental illusions about her betrothal, nor the temperament for sighings and moanings and courtly love games. Her marriage to Chaucer was eminently fitting. The Queen had suggested it, having in her maternal way considered various yeomen and squires in the royal entourage, picked out a handful of possibilities and given Philippa her choice of these and also the assurance of a dowry of ten marks yearly and continued patronage.
Philippa had preferred Geoffrey Chaucer to the other possibilities, though he was but the son of a vintner. Still, he had been attached to the royal family since childhood and was much liked by them. He was also educated as well as monk or clerk, and a sensible, good-humoured man, quite ready to marry and found a family, being already twenty-six. The betrothal pledge had been exchanged on Shrove Tuesday under the Queen's benign eye and the marriage planned for Whitsuntide.
It was all orderly and seemly as Philippa liked it, though during the last weeks of greater intimacy she had come to know some unexpected things about her betrothed. He spent a ridiculous amount of money on buying books and time on reading them and also on scribbling verses - these traits she intended to regulate after marriage. And she had discovered that he had a romantic attachment for the Duchess of Lancaster, which troubled Philippa not at all, though she thought it silly. Some great ladies might amuse themselves by dalliance with humble squires but not Lady Blanche, who had never spoken more than a dozen words to Geoffrey, for all that he had translated a devotional poem to the Holy Blessed Virgin and presented it to the Duchess. There was nothing disquieting in that to a sensible woman, which, thought Philippa, reverting to her worry, Katherine apparently was not. There was but one obvious course. Philippa decisively mopped up a dab of honey paste with the last morsel of her bread, and decided to approach the Queen tomorrow on the matter of Katherine's marriage, no matter how ill the poor lady might be. Symkyn-at-Woode, one of the sergeants-at-arms, would do. He was a bluff, hearty soul, widowered twice over, so would have experience enough to keep a giddy young wife in line.
Philippa's plans for Katherine were destined to be thwarted. No sooner had the royal family arisen and filed out to their own apartments, thus releasing the rest of the company, than the two young men from across the Hall darted over to present themselves. Geoffrey performed the introductions. "Sir Hugh Swynford, Sir Roger de Cheyne - the Damoiselle de Roet."
"Those beautiful eyes that slay me with cruel arrows I have seen once before," said Roger softly in French to Katherine. "More enchanting now even than in the little convent parlour. I've longed to see you again,
ma tout belle"
Katherine felt a sharp pinch on her arm and heard Philippa give a warning cough, so that, though she flushed and her heart beat fast with pleasure, she lowered her lids and did not answer. He was more charming than ever, she thought, with his red lips and warm brown eyes. She contrived to look up at him through her lashes with an artless coquetry, seductive enough to the experienced Roger but entirely devastating to the other man, the florid, scowling Sir Hugh, at whom she had not even glanced.
Geoffrey had drawn back a little and was watching them all with a cocked eyebrow and his air of quiet amusement, but Philippa, aware of turgid currents that were quite out of place, was not amused at all.
"You speak gallantly to my sister, Sir Roger," she said, stonily. "You must not tease her, she's very ignorant." As Roger paid no attention to Philippa but continued to gaze amorously at Katherine, Philippa threw her betrothed a beseeching lock.
Geoffrey came to her rescue. "You have recently married, I think, Sir Knight," he said, bowing to Roger. "How do you leave your lady wife?"
"Oh," whispered Katherine involuntarily. She twisted her fingers tight in a fold of her velvet gown, feeling that her disappointment burned on her face like a brand.
"Why, she's well enough," said Roger lightly. "She stays on the manor, of course, since she is
enceinte.
Ma damoiselle" - he smiled at Katherine - ''will you not come out in the pleasaunce with me? There's a troupe of jugglers and a performing bear you might like to see."
Before Philippa could voice her sharp interdiction, Katherine raised her eyes and said quietly, "No, thank you, Sir Roger. I'm journey-tired. I've been travelling for days."
There was a sudden mature dignity in her low voice that startled all of them. Roger, who was accustomed to over-easy conquests, laughed good-humouredly and his melting eyes caressed her with added interest. Geoffrey thought, Good, the beautiful country mouse is not so simple after all. Philippa gave a relieved grunt and said briskly, "Well, then, let's go to bed. By your leave, sirs, may we pass."
But it was not Roger who blocked the way. It was the other knight, Hugh Swynford. "Damoiselle," he said, swaying a little and frowning at Katherine, "I shall escort you safely across the courtyard, by God."
His speech was thick, with a heavy pause between each word, and Katherine, despite her dismay over Roger and the repulsion she felt for this other knight, had a momentary desire to giggle. He must be drunk, she thought, this scowling lout with the ram's-wool hair.
"By all means, Sir Hugh," said Geoffrey. "Let's all see the ladies to their staircase."
"And sing as we go," laughed Roger.
"Ma belle amie, que voit la rose"
he carolled, taking Katherine's arm, while Hugh strode silently on the other side.
Chaucer and his betrothed followed behind, since the knight's rank must precede them from the Hall. "This is most interesting," he said to Philippa, watching the three figures ahead as they crossed the courtyard, which was illumined by both moon and torchlight. "Your little Katherine has
le diable au corps.
Both these noble knights wish to bed her."