by Anya Seton
“Katherine,” he said abruptly, “I cannot rid me of my grief. Each day it worsens, and yet I must rid me of it and take up my heavy duties.”
She looked at him mutely. She could find no words of comfort, she did not know what he wanted of her; but she felt a closeness between them that had never been before.
“Put off your cloak and sit down,” he said, smiling faintly. “You stand there like a hart that scents the hunter. I think you need not fear me.”
She flushed. “I know, my lord.” She walked across the room and hung her cloak on a silver perch that projected from the inner wall. It was a room of beauty and luxury such as she had never imagined. Two of the plaster walls were powdered with a pattern of gold stars and tiny flowerets like forget-me-nots. The hooded fireplace was of green marble deeply carved into medallions and foliage. The elaborate gilded furniture had been made by master craftsmen in Italy, the canopied bed was hung with ruby velvet embroidered with seed pearls, and ruby glowed again with amber and azure in the blazons of the leaded windowpanes. On the east wall hung the great Avalon tapestry in dark and mysterious greens. Deep in the woven forest, the Blessed Isle of Avalon rose palely, shining through a mist, and the figures of King Arthur and his queen lay bathed in a moony light. Tall and fateful in his druid’s robes the wizard Merlin stood below the royal dead and pointed to far-distant hills on which there was a fairy castle floating.
“Ay-that tapestry pleases me much,” John said, following her gaze. “Merlin’s castle puts me in mind of one I saw in Spain, after our victory at Najera.” His sombre look lightened for an instant. Always at the thought of Castile he heard the shouts of triumph and rejoicing from his men and saw the face of the messenger who had brought him news of his son’s birth to augment the thrill of victory.
“You were happy in Castile?” Katherine ventured. “You and the Prince of Wales righted the great wrong done the Castilian king.”
“But, God’s wounds, it didn’t last!” he cried with sudden anger. “Don’t you know what happened at Montiel last March? King Pedro foully murdered by his brother the bastard, who sits again upon the throne he had no right to!”
“Who has right then, since the poor king is dead?” she asked after a minute, thinking that it might be anger was better for him than brooding grief and that this coil about far-off kings could not touch him too nearly.
“The heiress is the king’s daughter, the Infanta Costanza,” he answered more quietly.” ‘Tis she who is the true Queen of Castile.” He thought of the times he had seen the exiled princesses at Bordeaux. Costanza was a skinny black-haired wench who must be about fifteen now: two years ago he had been amused at the haughtiness of her bearing and the vehemence of her Spanish as she had thanked him for the aid given to her father. “Pedro was often a cruel and crooked man,” John said. “His promises were writ on water, but what matters that, for he was also the true-born anointed king - King of Castile.”
He spoke the last three words with a solemnity that puzzled Katherine, as though they were a charm or incantation, and yet she thought he scarcely realised this himself or that for a moment he had forgotten his grief. He sighed and turned from the tapestry. “Merlin had many prophecies about my house,” he said listlessly. “They’ve come down by word of mouth throughout the centuries - Blanche cared naught for such things - she cared only for the things that came from Holy Writ.” He flung himself down in a chair by the fire and leaned his forehead on his hand.
“My lord,” said Katherine softly, “do you remember how she looked on the day of the Great Tournament at Windsor three years ago - so golden fair and laughing when you rode up to the loge? For sure, she will look thus in heaven while she waits for you.”
He raised his head and said, “Ah, Katherine, you know how to comfort! So few know that I long to talk of her that’s gone. Instead they start and look away and speak of foolish things to distract me - yet here is one other that understands.”
He got up and went to the table, which was littered with vellum books and official missives which he had not glanced at. He picked up a folded parchment on which the seal and cords had been broken and opened the letter. “Listen,” he said, and read very slowly:
“I have of sorrow so great wound
That joy get I never none,
Now that I see my lady bright,
That I have loved with all my might,
Is from me dead, and is agone.
“Alas, Death, what aileth thee
That thou should’st not have taken me,
When thou took my lady sweet,
That was so fair, so fresh, so free.
So good, that men may well say
Of all goodness she had no meet.
“Right on this same, as I have said
Was wholly all my love laid
For certes she was, that sweet wife,
My suffisaunce, my lust, my life,
Mine hap, mine health and all my bless,
My world’s welfare and my goddess,
And I wholly hers, and everydel.”
He sighed and put the parchment on his lap. “The maker has said it for me and with true English words. The maker is your brother-in-law, Katherine.”
“Geoffrey!” she cried.
“Ay, I too was amazed for I had thought him a shrewd nimble little man, apt on King’s service but not of temper or feeling to write like this.”
“Geoffrey is deep of feeling, I believe,” she said, and thought that the verses had been written perhaps to soothe his own sorrow as well as the Duke’s, for she remembered the look in his eyes when he beheld the Lady Blanche. “Is he back then?” she asked wondering that she had not seen him.
“Nay, at Calais on a mission. He says that he is writing more of this poem and with my permission will call it ‘The Book of the Duchess,’ which I’ve most readily granted. Katherine, you see new reason why I’m grateful to you and your kin.”
“It is joy to serve you, my lord.” She lifted her face and smiled at him. For John it was as though a shutter had been flung open, and the noon light had rushed in. He had never truly seen her beauty before nor had he ever seen a smile like that, compounded of a luminous tenderness in the grey eyes, and yet in the lift of her red lips, the short perfect teeth and the dimple near her voluptuous mouth there was a hint of seduction. His nostrils flared on a sharp breath and his thoughts darted hither and yon in confusion. Why had he summoned her today, who had he forgot that she had angered him back at Windsor, forgot that her eyes had once reminded him of anguish and betrayal? Why had he let her share in his grief now and kept her with him in this warm intimacy when a purse of gold would have amply repaid? Why must she sit there now in her clinging black gown that showed the outline of each round breast and the curve of the long supple waist? His eye fell on the pouch she carried at her girdle. It was of painted leather blazoned with the Swynford arms. He stared at the three little yellow boars’ heads and said angrily, “Have you no blazon of your own, Katherine?”
Her tender smile faded. She was puzzled by the sudden harshness of his tone though well aware the question covered something else. “My father had no blazon,” she said slowly. “He was King-of-Arms for Guienne, you know - he was knighted only just before his death.”
He heard the quiver in her voice, and his anger vanished under the impulse to protect that she alone of all women had ever roused in him. He had indeed forgotten her low birth and the consciousness of the great gulf between them brought a subtle relief.
“But you may rightfully bear arms,” he said in a light tone. “Come, what shall they be?” He motioned her over to the table where he sat down and picked up a quill pen and smoothed out a blank parchment. “You are too fair and rare a woman to be lost beneath those Swynford boars’ heads,” he added with a certain grimness. “You name was Roet, was it not?” She nodded. “Well, that means a wheel,” and he drew one on the parchment. They both stared down at it. Then John said, “But stay - it must be a Catherine wheel, o
f course, since it is yours!” And he added small jagged breaks to the wheel, as it always was in St. Catherine’s symbol.
Katherine watched as he started afresh and drew the shield, then placed three Catherine wheels inside it, for three, he thought, made better balance and he had much feeling for all things in art. He drew with bold vigorous strokes and took pleasure in this small creation, which made a neater play on her name than many another of the nobles’ canting arms - Lucy with his luce’s heads, or that fool of an Arundel with his hopping hirondelles, or martlets. For like this most blazons had been chosen, and in making an individual badge for Katherine he felt that he bestowed on her a special gift and one far more lasting than the money he intended to give her.
“The field shall be gules,” he said, touching the shield lightly with his pen, “the wheels or, for those colours suit you. Lancaster Herald shall enter this in the Roll of Arms tomorrow.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she cried, truly delighted, as much for the interest that he had shown as for her own promotion to armiger, and as she leaned over to look more closely at the little shield, the warm flowery scent of her body assailed him. He glanced sideways, at her unconscious face so near his that he could see the separate black lashes on her lowered lids and the down on her cheeks. She moved a little, and he felt her soft fragrant breath.
He shoved the parchment, quill and sand pell-mell across the table and jumped to his feet. She turned in fear, thinking him angry again; and as she looked up into his eyes, her hands grew cold with sweat and her legs began to tremble.
“Jesu -” he whispered. “Jesu -” He pulled her slowly towards him and she came as one who walks through water, each step impeded, until she leaned against him and yielded him her mouth with a low sobbing moan.
They stood thus pressed together in a mindless wine-dark rapture while the last reflected light faded from the Thames outside and vesper bells rang faintly down the river. The fire died down. A log cracked in two, and flames leaped up again. She felt him lift her in his arms and her heart streamed into his. She had no strength to pit against his will and her own need, yet as he laid her on the ruby velvet bed her hand turned against his chest and she felt the sharp pressure of her betrothal ring.
She twisted from him wildly and flung herself off the bed, “My dearest lord, I cannot!” She sank to her knees by the bedpost and buried her face in her arms. He lay quiet as she had left him, and watched her, while his breathing slowed in time, and he said very low, “I want you, Katrine, and I believe you love me.” He spoke her name in the soft French way - as she had not heard it since her childhood and so piercing sweet it sounded to her that the meaning of his other words came slowly.
Then she raised her head and cried with bitterness, “Ay - I love you - though I knew it not till now. I think I’ve loved you since that time in Windsor pleasaunce you beat off Hugh, who would have raped me, and it’s for that, that I am married.”
The fire hissed in the silent room, and against the wall below water lapped from the wake of a passing boat. John stirred and put his hand on her arm. “I’ll not force you, Katrine - you shall come to me of yourself.”
“I cannot,” she repeated, though she dared not look at him. “Dear God, you know I cannot. Ay, I know adultery is so light a thing at court, but I’m of simple stock and to me ‘tis sin so vile that I would hate myself as much as God would.”
“And hate me?” He spoke low and gentle.
“Sainte Marie, I could never hate you - my dear lord, don’t torture me with these questions, ah let me go” - for his hand had tightened on her arm and he bent his face close to hers. She gathered all her strength and cried, “Have you forgot why we are both in black!”
He drew back sharply and got up off the bed. He went to the fire and twisting a rush lit the tapers on the table and in the silver wall scones. He came back to her and lifted her roughly to her feet. “I scarce know what to think,” he said, “except that I must forget you, it seems.” His hands dropped from her shoulders. His blue eyes had gone hard between the narrowed lids, and he spoke with chill precision. “You have yourself reminded me that there are ladies of the court will help me to forget all manner of grief, and who will not think it shame to be desired by the Duke of Lancaster.”
A spear-thrust of pain streaked through her breast, but she answered as steadily as he, “I’ve no doubt of that, Your Grace. As for me I must return to Kettlethorpe at once.”
“And if I refuse permission - what would you say?”
“That such a thing would ill befit a man reputed one of the most chivalrous knights in Christendom.”
They stared at each other in a struggle that racked them both, and she clung to the sudden enmity between them as a shield.
He turned first and walking from her to the window stood looking out at the night-darkened Thames. “Very well, Katherine, I shall arrange your escort back to Lincolnshire. You’ll receive word at the Beaufort Tower. You still shall have no cause to reproach me for ingratitude.”
She said nothing. Now that he no longer looked at her, her face grew anguished, she gazed at the tall black figure by the window, at the haughty set of his shoulders, the implacability she felt in his averted head. She ran to the perch and seized her cloak and was out of the door and had shut it behind her before he understood. He turned crying, “Katrine!” to the shut door. Then, staring at it, he sank down on the windowseat as she had found him. His eyes, still grim, travelled from the door to the hollow on the ruby velvet coverlet where they had lain together so briefly and where he had been shaken by a passion such as he had never known. “There’s a fire been lit that’s not so easy to put out,” he said aloud. He got up and going to the table picked up Chaucer’s poem. He gazed at it, and made a strange hoarse sound. He put the poem carefully to one side. After a moment he began to rip the seals and tear the cords on the neglected official missives, his ringers moving with sharp violent jerks.
Katherine fled through the rooms behind the Avalon Chamber as she had come, passing Raulin as he sat in a recess waiting for summons. He cried “M’lady!” but she did not hear him and he was left to his own startled thoughts.
Through the Duchess’s dressing-room and down the stairs and out behind the falcon mew, Katherine ran, until in the Outer Ward she forced herself to slower steps and pulled her hood far down over her face. She went to the stables and ordered Doucette saddled. She flung herself on the mare and set forth through the great gate and down the Strand to London. The Savoy was hateful to her, nothing would induce her to return to the Beaufort Tower, and from instinct she fled back to the only warm unstressful affection she had ever known.
Hawise herself opened the door to Katherine’s knock and her glad cry of welcome faltered as she got a good look at the girl’s face.
“May I stay here tonight?” whispered Katherine, clutching Hawise. “Just tonight. I must leave for home at dawn.”
“For sure, love, in my bed, and longer than that. Here, Mother, gi’ me the wine” - for Katherine had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Hawise flung her strong young arm around Katherine’s waist and held a cup to the girl’s lips.
The Pessoners crowded around, kindly, murmuring. Master Guy rocking on his heels by the fireplace boomed out, “Hast seen some goblin, my little lady, that has ‘frighted you? You’re safe enough here, for the smell o’ good fresh herrings affrights goblins!” and he chuckled.
“Hush, clattermouth,” snapped his wife, and beneath her breath she said, “God’s nails, mayhap ‘tis some breeding cramp, poor little lass,” for she had seen that dazed glassy-white look on the face of many a woman that was to miscarry of a child.
“Come to bed, sweeting,” said Hawise with firm authority. “You look fit to drop and soaked through too.” She marshalled Katherine up the loft stairs to the sleeping-room over the fish-shop and sharply quieted two of the younger children who poked their heads up from bed. She undressed Katherine and wrapped her in a blanket and put her in her own bed,
where little Jackie slept on the far side.
Katherine sighed, and her shivering stopped. “Thank you,” she whispered. Hawise sat on the bed and held the candle near.
“Can you tell me, dear?” she said, her shrewd eyes scanning the upturned face, the bruised trembling lips. ” ‘Tis a man?” she said. “Ay, I see it is. And he has used ye ill?” she added fiercely.
“Nay -” Katherine turned her face into the pillow. “I don’t know. Blessed Virgin, give me strength - I love him - I must get home - to my babies, to Hugh - I cannot stay so near - -“
“Whist, poppet!” Hawise stroked the girl’s arm. “You shall get home. Has’t been arranged?”
“Nay, I’ll go alone - I want no arrangements. I want nothing from him. I’ll sleep in abbey hostels - they’ll give me food - I must go as soon as it’s light.”
“And so you shall, but not alone, for I’ll come wi’ ye.”
Katherine, distracted, beset by fear and desperate yearning, did not understand at first, then she drew herself back and looked into Hawise’s face. “God’s love, and would you come with me, in truth?”
“Methinks ye’ve need of a good serving-maid, m’lady,” said Hawise twinkling.
“But I’ve no money, until I get to Kettlethorpe!”
“So I’ve guessed. I’ve silver enow put by to get us there, ye can pay me later, so ye needna look high-nosed about it.”
“May Christ bless you!” Katherine whispered.
The Pessoners were all up to see the girls start out. After the first protests against their daughter leaving them, the good-hearted couple had given in, and last night Master Guy had hired a horse from the livery stable down the street and routed out one Jankin, his best prentice, telling him to make ready to escort my Lady Swynford and Hawise at least until they might catch up with some safe company that was also Lincoln-bound. Dame Emma packed a hamper full of cheese; new-baked loaves and a leg of mutton, then crammed the corners with saffron cakes before she helped Hawise make up a bundle of her own belongings. “And what o’ Lady Swynford’s gear?” asked the good dame, knowing that Katherine had fled to them with nothing but her cloak.
