Katherine

by Anya Seton

  “Not yet,” said Hugh, refusing the helmet and shield. “Where’s the Duke?”

  “Over there, sir,” said Ellis, pointing. “But it’s time to buckle your helmet,” he added anxiously, for the twenty knights who were to contend on this side of the general melee were starting to line up, while each squire hauled at the bridle of his master’s destrier.

  Hugh did not answer; he spurred his horse and cantered between the tents until he reached the Duke, who was drinking a last stirrup cup of spiced malmsey. John was magnificent in full tournament regalia. His helmet was topped by a crowned gold lion guardant, and around the lion was draped Blanche’s scarf of silver tissue. His engraved brass armour shone like a mirror, and the gold lilies and leopards blazed against vermilion and azure on his jupon. Palamon, his great charger, was restive and two squires clung to the red-tasselled bridle as Hugh came up crying “My Lord Duke!”

  John tossed his cup to a squire and looked at his knight in surprise. “What is it, Swynford? You’re not ready? The melee’s starting.”

  “I wish permission to fight on the other side, my lord.”

  “You what!” John cried, half laughing, staring at the square angry face surmounted by the skull-cap of brown cloth which would cushion the great helmet. “What foolishness is this?”

  “I wish,” cried Hugh furiously, “to tilt against Roger de Cheyne in a deed of arms.”

  The Duke was both amused and annoyed. The twenty rival contenders at the other end of the lists had been a fairly arbitrary choice. His brother the Duke Lionel headed that side, and there were Lancaster knights there as well as Frenchmen and a Scot. But these arrangements had been made for days, and a sudden change transgressed proper tournament procedure.

  “If you wished a private joust with de Cheyne, why didn’t you challenge him earlier?” said John, frowning and stroking his prancing horse.

  “I did not know in time, my lord, and the tourney ends today.” Hugh’s eyes slid from the Duke’s face and rested on his own helmet. Ellis de Thoresby, who had run after his master, held it cradled in his arms. John followed the glance and saw the green tippet. “Is that Katherine de Roet’s?” he asked, enlightened.

  Hugh nodded grimly. “And de Cheyne wears the flower she gave him.”

  “Oh,” said the Duke, and he thought, with sudden anger, that maudite girl again. She’s a nuisance and a troublemaker, and has certainly bewitched this poor knight. “Go then,” he said impatiently, anxious to be rid of the whole episode. “Explain to the Duke Lionel and have him send one of his men here to replace you - but remember,” he raised his voice sternly as Hugh turned with muttered thanks, “this is no jousting a l’outrance - there’ll be real fighting enough for all in Castile. This is but knightly sport today.”

  Hugh’s lips tightened. He made no reply, but galloped around behind the lists and the galleries to the opposite end of the field while Ellis jumped on his own horse and hurried as best he could after him.

  In the loges the spectators had become impatient at the delay. Even the Lady Blanche’s long fingers fidgeted nervously with the sapphire clasp of her girdle, and she strained her eyes down the field to try to make out the helmet with the golden lion while her lips moved in prayer to St. John the Baptist, her husband’s patron.

  But at last the trumpets brayed, the marshals advanced brandishing their white sticks and followed by the heralds and pursuivants at arms. The crowd hushed and listened avidly to the announcement. It was to be a general tournament melee with twenty of the bravest knights on each side, and fought for the honour of St. George and the King. The prize was to be a gold noble to each knight on the winning side, and an additional prize of one of the King’s best falcons to the knight adjudged most worthy.

  The combat was to start on horseback with the breaking of spears, but might then be pursued on foot with the flat of the sword as the only weapon. The lances must have coronal heads to cull them, and the swords were blunted by heavy lead foils. A knight would be adjudged hors de combat if he were unhelmeted, lost hold of his weapon or if any part of his body touched the stockades around the lists.

  The marshals finished shouting the rules, while the heralds yelled, “Laissez al-l-le-e-r-,” and scampered for safety over the barricades as the gates were raised at either end.

  Katherine gave a frightened cry when the forty opposing horses thundered down the field towards her centre loge with the roar of an earthquake. The long lances streaked like light while from many of the knightly throats came bloodcurdling battle-cries. The shock of their meeting shook the loges, there was a tremendous crash of steel, the cracks of splintering wood and the wild high whinnies of the stallions.

  “Oh, Blessed Sainte Marie,” whispered Katherine, shrinking and clenching her hands. “They’ll all kill each other!”

  Some of the knights were at once unhorsed, more unhelmeted. The field became a threshing mass of shields and broken lances, armoured bodies and armoured horses. She could recognise nobody, but after a moment she heard the Duchess say with quiet pride, “He’s still in the saddle, and his helmet untouched.”

  Then Katherine distinguished a tall knight with golden lion crest and knew by the emblems on his shield that it must be the Duke. He had broken a lance with his brother Lionel, who was a gigantic figure in armour as black and shining as that often worn by his older brother, Edward.

  The two dukes, both furnished with fresh lances by darting squires, had drawn to the far side of the field and separated for a second course. They ran this course fast and decorously and again at the shock of impact on the shields their lances splintered fairly. But Lionel’s horse had twisted a tendon and one of the girths on his saddle had parted. He moved to the rear for a fresh mount while John pulled to one side of the lists and waited.

  Suddenly Blanche laid her hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “Look, child, your two knights are fighting each other! See, over there near the Duke.”

  Katherine saw then the helmets, one with her green streamer on it, and the other with the stag’s head, though the iris she had given de Cheyne had long since been knocked off. The two men were afoot, having both been unhorsed in the first violent collision. They were fighting with swords and de Cheyne seemed to be giving inch by inch under the furious onslaughts of the shorter, stockier figure.

  Before the melee the Duke had had time to warn Roger of Hugh’s intent, and Roger had been amused. “So the little ram is fuming? By Saint Valentine, I’ll be pleased to give him satisfaction, my lord!”

  But now Roger was no longer amused. This was no chivalrous contest for a lady’s smile in which he found himself engaged. The blows from the flat of the sword rained on his helmet and hauberk with stunning force. Swynford handled his sword as his ancestors had used the battle-axe. Through the slit in the visor Roger could see the glint of murderous eyes and hear a panting drone of fury.

  Roger parried the blows as best he could, but the blood was bursting in his ears and nose; he stumbled and fell to one knee while the crashing shocks of steel redoubled on his helmet and shoulders. He struggled to his feet and made a desperate lunge, and at the same moment he felt a flash of fire in his neck. The lead foil had come off Hugh’s sword.

  Hugh, berserk with blood lust, did not know it, the marshals, watchful as they were of each separate combat, had not seen it - but the Duke saw.

  Lionel had not yet signalled for the beginning of the third course, and John had been watching Swynford and de Cheyne uneasily. He saw the younger knight stagger and a spray of crimson spurt through the joint between the helmet and gorget, he saw the naked sword-tip flash, and he galloped up, shouting, “Halt, Swynford!”

  But Hugh did not hear. He knew only that his quarry was weakened at last, and he beat down harder.

  John might have stopped Hugh with a blow from his lance except for the rule that a mounted man must not touch one afoot, so he flung himself out of the saddle and ran up, drawing his sword; then, lifting it high, sliced it down between the two kni
ghts as barrier. Hugh staggered back for a moment, and Roger slumped prone on the ground. His squire darted over with a pursuivant, and the two men carried his limp body off the field.

  But Hugh could see little through the visor slit, and his eyes were half blinded with sweat. He knew only that here in the moment of victory over de Cheyne there was somehow new battle. And he turned on the Duke.

  There was a rumble of astonishment from those spectators who had noticed this particular engagement, whispers of “Lancaster’s unhorsed! Who’s he fighting? What happened?”

  One of the marshals galloped up and then paused uncertainly. By the rules of combat any knight on the one side might singly engage any one of the opponents, but in actual practice nowadays this was unusual, and the two princely leaders were tacitly reserved for each other.

  But Blanche knew what was happening. She stood up, marble-still, her eyes fixed on the figures across the lists. And Katherine knew. She had held her breath while she watched the fight between Roger and Hugh, but the spectacle had not seemed very real; it was like the banging, slashing battles the mummers played, and there had been room in her heart for a primitive female thrill, since the two knights fought over her.

  But when she saw that the Duke had somehow taken Roger’s place her detachment fled and fear rushed in. She gasped at each of Hugh’s lunges and tightened as though to receive them on her own body; her lips moved incessantly. “Make him win, Blessed Mother, make him win,” and it was the Duke that she meant.

  It lasted only three minutes. Hugh’s crazy rage did not abate, but he was no match for John of Gaunt, whose cool head, lean, powerful body and chivalrous training from babyhood had made him the most accomplished knight at court. John parried the vicious blows and waited until Hugh’s right arm was raised, then he hit the gauntleted hand a tremendous blow. Hugh’s sword went spinning down the field.

  The Duke with studied deliberation lowered his own sword and thrust it into the ground, while thundering applause shook the loges, and the King, cupping his hands, shouted, “Well done, Lancaster! Well done, fair son!”

  It was then that Hugh realised who his opponent was. He staggered backwards, raising his visor. “My Lord Duke, I’m honoured.”

  John gazed at him with icy eyes. “You’re not honoured, Swynford, you’re disgraced. Look at your sword-” He pointed with his mailed shoe at the unguarded point of Hugh’s sword as it lay in the dust. “And you wounded young de Cheyne in unfair combat.”

  Hugh turned purple under the sweat-caked dust. “By God, sir, I didn’t know. I swear it.”

  “Get out of the lists,” said the Duke. “We’ll deal with you later.” Hugh turned and limped slowly off the field.

  John dismissed the problem of Hugh and, mounting his horse again, accepted the lance from his squire and rested it in the socket, preparatory to running the final course with Lionel. He saw that this course would be the end of the tournament, since the lists were cleared of all but two combatants, a French knight and Sir Michael de la Pole, his own man. He beckoned to the marshal. “How has it gone? What is the tally?” he asked.

  “It is a near thing, Your Grace. The Duke of Clarence was ahead until you bested that knight.” The marshal indicated Hugh’s retreating figure. “But now, I see, his forces are ahead again.” For even as they conferred, the French knight dexterously backed Sir Michael against the far stockade, and the Englishman raised his sword-hilt high in token of submission.

  “By Christ’s blood, then, we must try to even the contest,” cried the Duke and he waved his lance in signal to Lionel.

  The crowd, which had been restive, quietened and watched with delight as the two resplendent Plantagenets ran the final course against each other. Here was no blind unruly jousting, but an elegant deed of arms with each fine point of technique observed. The ceremonious bowing of the helmeted heads as the herald’s trumpet sounded, the simultaneous start from the lines drawn at either end of the lists, the lances held precisely horizontal, the control over the snorting destriers who were always liable to swerve, the shivering impact of the lances square on the opposing shields and the final neat thrust sideways of Lancaster’s lance, which dexterously knocked the helmet up and off Lionel’s head, where it dangled by the lacings from the gorget.

  “Splendid, splendid!” cried the King, proud of his sons.

  John and Lionel came riding up to their father’s loge and bowed to him while the heralds, once more taking the centre of the field, proclaimed that the great tournament in honour of St. George had ended in a draw. The crowd groaned with disappointment. But, continued the heralds, the prizes would be given anyway by lot tonight at the Feast of the Garter and the special prize for the knight adjudged to have been most worthy in the tournament would also be presented then.

  “Lancaster! Lancaster!” yelled a hundred voices, and John flushed. “Lancaster’s the worthiest knight!”

  It was the first time he had heard himself acclaimed by the mob, and he found it unexpectedly sweet. The King, his father, was immensely popular, of course, and Edward, Prince of Wales, was an idol. Even Lionel, the great blond giant who now sat goodnaturedly grinning at his brother, had always, except in Ireland, enjoyed public admiration.

  But John was a third son, and the most reserved of all Edward and Philippa’s brood. He could inspire deep devotion amongst his intimates, but he had not the gift of easy camaraderie. He knew that most people, and certainly the common folk, thought him haughty and cold. He had been quite indifferent to their opinion, but now at the continuing shouts he felt a pleasant warmth.

  He rode over to Blanche’s loge and looked up at her smiling. “Well, my dearest lady,” he said, “did you enjoy the tournament?” He looked very boyish with his ruddy gold hair tousled by the helmet, streaks of dirt on his cheeks and a happy look in his brilliant blue eyes, which gazed only at Blanche. He had not seen Katherine down on the platform, and he ignored the other admiring ladies around his wife.

  “You were wonderful, my lord,” said Blanche softly, leaning over the parapet towards him. “Listen how they shout for you. Grand merci to the Blessed Saint John who protected you from harm.”

  Oh, yes, thought Katherine fervently, gazing at the Duke. A strange pain twisted her heart, and she looked away quickly.

  Blanche caught the motion of Katherine’s head. “Is young de Cheyne all right?” she asked, leaning closer to her husband whose tired horse now stood quiet next to the parapet. “I couldn’t understand just what happened, but Sir Hugh-“

  “- is a dangerous fool,” snapped John, his face darkening. “I shall deal with him. Though it’s that wretched girl’s fault.”

  “Hush, my lord,” cried Blanche, glancing swiftly at Katherine. “The poor child’s not to blame.”

  It was then that John saw her sitting below his wife’s chair. Her grey eyes with their long shadowing lashes were gazing out over the lists towards the distant oaks. In one quick angry glance he saw the change her new clothes had made in her, the long creamy neck exposed and the velvet flesh in the cleft of her breasts, which were outlined by the tight green bodice. He saw the dimple in her chin and the voluptuous curve of her red lips, he saw the tiny black mole high on her cheek where the rose faded into the gleaming white of her innocent forehead. He saw the rough, reddened little hand, the great beryl ring on the middle finger. She was sensuous, provocative, glowing with colour like a peasant, and it seemed to him an outrage that she should be ensconced here next to his Duchess.

  “Apparently you have no interest in the fate of your chevaliers, madamoiselle de Roet,” he called in a tone of stinging rebuke.

  Fresh dismay washed over Katherine. The unkindness of his voice did not hurt her so much as the stab of her own conscience. For it was true, she had been thinking not of her betrothed or the charming young man to whom at the convent she had given so much thought. She had been immersed in a sudden fog of loneliness, unable to look at the soft expression of the Duke’s eyes as they gazed up at his lovel
y wife. What’s the matter with me? she thought, and she turned her head with her own peculiar grace and said quietly, “I am indeed concerned for Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, my lord. How may I best show it?”

  John was silenced. The girl’s poise showed almost aristocratic breeding, though she came of yeoman stock. And it was true that she could not run down to the leech’s tent amongst all the disrobing men and find out for herself. He beckoned to one of his hovering squires, but the young man already had the required information, having just come from the pavilions.

  He said that Roger de Cheyne, though faint from loss of blood, would recover, the stars being propitious. The King’s leech, Master John Bray, had poulticed the neck wound. Sir Hugh Swynford was uninjured except for a twisted wrist and a bone or two broken in his hand, as a result of the Duke’s blow. He had refused the services of the surgeon and gone at once to his tent.

  John and all those near enough to hear the squire listened attentively and nodded approval. A gratifying tournament, few casualties and probably no deaths. At least today. Everyone knew that injuries bred fever and putrefaction later, but the outcome would depend on a man’s strength, the skill of the physician and his ability to read the astrological aspects aright.

  “Farewell, my sweet lady,” said the Duke to his Blanche. “I’ll see you at the banquet.” Ignoring Katherine and the rest of the Duchess’s entourage, he trotted his horse off towards the pavilions. It was necessary to punish Hugh in some way for flagrant transgression of the rules, but the heat of John’s anger had passed. Poor Swynford was bewitched and doubtless couldn’t help his behaviour. Besides, a fierce and vengeful fighter was invaluable in war, however improper at a tourney.

  And war was now John’s great preoccupation. War with Castile. A deed of arms so chivalrous as to reduce these little jousts and melees to the pale counterfeits they were.