by Anya Seton
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 c
oquetry, 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.”
“It’s disgusting” snapped Philippa. “We must get her married at once. I think Symkyn-at-Woode, you know that sergeant, he wants a wife and - - “
“I think not, m’amie” said Geoffrey. “I think she may look higher than Symkyn. This Sir Hugh is not married and he devours her with his eyes. If Katherine is careful and chaste -“
“Oh, no,” interrupted Philippa, “that’s impossible! She has no dowry and the Swynfords are of old lineage, great landowners in Lincolnshire. Katherine wouldn’t presume.”
Geoffrey smiled a bit sadly to himself. He patted Philippa’s plump little hand and said nothing, but he had heard the unconscious note of jealousy in the protesting voice. Ay, he thought, it would be hard to marry a simple squire, a tradesman’s son and a scribbler, while one’s little sister captured a landed knight. This had not happened yet, of course, but with Katherine, he thought, looking at the graceful violet figure moving ahead between the two knights, anything might happen. There was a mark of destiny on her, quite apart from her beauty. He wondered what her horoscope foretold, perhaps a conjunction of Venus and Neptune that explained the rare and subtle quality she emanated.
She made one think of hot, tumbling love and sensual sport, but she made one think of spiritual matters, too, like the mystic rose of tinted glass in St. Paul’s window. A strangely fascinating young creature but not for him. His heart was laid at the feet of the lovely white Duchess and his practical future lay with Philippa, who suited him well enough.
CHAPTER III
During the next two days at Windsor, Hugh Swynford afforded much amusement to certain of the Duke’s men. Roger de Cheyne had hastened to share the joke with his friends that Swynford, whom they privily called the Battling Saxon Ram, had at last been touched by a softer passion than hunting or fighting; that he had become infatuated with Philippa la Picarde’s little sister from the convent.
Katherine herself was almost unaware of Sir Hugh. She saw him occasionally and knew that he stared at her a great deal, but so did other young men, and she was so much absorbed in the excitements presented to her that she had thought for nothing else.
Philippa kept strict watch over her sister and saw to it that she herself or another of the Queen’s women should always be with the girl, but even Philippa had relaxed into the general atmosphere of gaiety.
She discharged her duties every morning at six when she marshalled the pantry maids: tallied loaves of bread, unlocked and portioned out the day’s allotment of the precious spices which would be used in the Queen’s apartments, but after that, the Queen being still abed, Philippa was free. She noted that Katherine behaved modestly in public, that Roger de Cheyne did not press his attentions and that Hugh Swynford made no further attempt to speak to Katherine. So she felt that her fears had been unjustified and decided to wait until after the holiday to broach the girl’s marriage to Symkyn-at-Woode.
Hugh, however, was awaiting opportunity. He was obsessed by Katherine, and dismally confused by this new sensation. Heretofore his occasional quick lusts had been as quickly satisfied, by whore or peasant, and had certainly never disturbed the tenor of his life.
But this girl, though she had no strong male protector, was yet a knight’s daughter and attached, however nebulously, to the Queen. She might not be tumbled in a haymow or tavern, and in the face of her obvious indifference he did not know how to approach her. He watched for chances to see her alone, but there were none, and for the first time in his life he felt diffidence and regret that he was ugly.
On Wednesday evening his fate relented. There had been showers all afternoon, but after vespers the dying sun sprayed crimson light along the western battlements. In the Queen’s ladies’ solar there was the usual bustle of preparation for appearance at supper and the clack of women’s tongues.
Alice Perrers these last nights had no longer bothered to appear in the solar at all, and the gossip was mostly of her. Katherine was quick to learn, and she now quite understood the reason for Alice’s unpopularity. But it did not concern her. The royal family were still only glittering figures to be glimpsed at the High Table, and the Queen only a name. Katherine had nothing to wear except the violet gown borrowed from Matilda and no finery to put on, so she sat idly for a while on the bed that she shared with Philippa and Johanna Cosin, listening to the excited female gabble and longing to be out in the spring dusk. Then she heard the sound of singing outside, a gay lilting air newly come from France.
He dame de Vaillance!
Vostre douce semblance,
M’a pris sans defiance -
Katherine jumped up and, murmuring something to Philippa about a necessary trip to the garderobe, instead ran down the stone stairs and out into the courtyard. There Hugh, who had been waiting, saw her, but she did not see him. She breathed deep of the soft air and followed the singing voices to the walled pleasaunce behind the eastern state apartments. The postern gate was open and she wandered through. The garden smelled of violets and rosemary, and the yew hedges, some as high as her head, had been clipped at the corners of the paths into peacock and lion shapes. There was no one in that part of the garden. The voices, now changed to a sadder tune, came from farther in by the
fountain, whose splashing mingled with the plinking of a gittern.
Katherine loved flowers and was particularly sensitive to odours. She stooped to pick a daffodil and pressing the blossom to her nose, inhaled the sweet scent, when she heard the clanking of a sword and dropped the flower guiltily, suspecting that she had no right to be in the royal pleasaunce.
It was Hugh who strode around the corner of the hedge. He still wore his hauberk of chain-mail, his sword and his spun, for he bad been jousting that afternoon, and had caught sight of Katherine in the courtyard before he had had time to divest himself of all his armour.
“Good evening, damoiselle,” he said in so harsh a voice that she was more puzzled than frightened.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be here, but the music was so lovely - and the garden.” She smiled, a slow radiant smile, its wistfulness belied by the cleft in her chin and a dimple at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll go back now,” she said nervously, for the knight was blocking her way as he had on the first evening, scowling at her beneath his bushy crinkled eyebrows, the scar suddenly livid on his cheek. He breathed like a winded stag and his chunky thick-set body seemed to be trembling.
“Don’t stare at me so, Sir Hugh,” she cried, trying to laugh. “I’m not a witch or a ghost.”
“Witch,” he repeated thickly. “Ay, that’s it. Witchcraft. You’ve cast a spell on me.”
She saw his mouth working, heard the rasp of his breath, and before she could move, he lunged for her. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm while his other hand tore down the shoulder of her dress. The worn velvet ripped like gauze, exposing her arm and one breast. He crushed her furiously against him and the sharp links of his chain-mail ground into her flesh. He bent her backward until her spine cracked. She struggled for breath, then fought him with frantic terror. She beat him in the face with her fists and clawed with her nails until one of her frenzied blows hit his left eye. He tossed his head and loosed her just enough so that she could let out one long agonised scream.
