by Anya Seton
“Le bon Dieu vous bemisse” said Nirac, still looking at Katherine, who was faintly surprised at this solemnity, but ever a creature of quick moods, the Gascon then grinned, executed a sweeping flourish of farewell, and trotted out of the door with his usual nimbleness.
“Strange little man,” said Katherine, straightening up the table and rubbing off the wine stains with a cloth. “He’s always been kind and pleasant to me, yet much as I’ve seen him, I feel I know him hardly at all.”
“Bosh - these Gascons!” said Hugh. “There’s naught in them worth knowing. Damn the man - he should have thought to wait and help me to bed. I grow weary.”
“Ellis’ll be back soon,” she said soothingly, “or maybe I can manage if you lean on my shoulder. Nay, but there is Ellis.”
The young squire clumped in and flung a basket on the table. He too had been enjoying himself, he had tilted at the quintain with a group of other squires on the outskirts of town, and then seen a most wondrous bull-baiting - no scurvy little sport such as it was in England but a pulse-stirring contest in which three bulls had been stabbed and four men gored. Ellis was full of it, and Hugh asked interested questions, while Katherine unpacked the basket. Ellis had brought them peaches and figs and a loaf of flat white bread imbued with garlic. Later she would get hot pork sausage up from the kitchen of the wineshop and refill the flagon for their supper. Soon this day will have passed, she thought, and the next will pass too. She would forget this morning in the garden of the inn - seal it over with wax as the bees sealed over frightening intruders in their hive. As she thought thus sensibly, grey misery enveloped her, and her lips formed words that were pushed up from the place where her mind had no control. “My dear love,” she whispered, and going to the pitcher where she had placed the crumpled, withering but still fragrant sprays of jasmine, she buried her face in them.
Katherine prepared the supper. She intended to get a serving-maid to help her in a day or so, but in the meantime increased leisure for thought would be no boon.
When the vesper bells chimed out from the cathedral, they all listened for a moment and Katherine said to her husband, “Our meal is ready, Hugh - can you relish it? See what fine fruit Ellis has brought us, there’s naught like that in England.”
“Ay,” said Hugh. “I’ve appetite. Give me the wine, my dear. ‘Tis not so good as honest ale, but it serves.”
She started to pour for him, then stopped. “Your potion, Hugh,” she smiled and shook her head, “first you must have your draught.”
She gave him the day cup. He took it grumbling but swallowed nearly all the contents. “Phaw!” he said with a wry face, “filthy stuff. I’ll take no more of it.”
“Oh, come,” she said as she would have said to Blanchette,
“it’s not so bad-” She took the cup and gazed into it idly, wondering as women always have, that men who delighted in blood and slaughter should be so finicking in little things. She sniffed it, thinking the smell of camphor not unpleasant, and out of curiosity would have tasted it, but seeing that there was little left and there was no knowing exactly when Brother William would return with more, she put it down, and she and Ellis served their supper.
Shortly after they had blown the candles out and Katherine still lay sleepless on her pallet, she heard Hugh give a heavy groan; then he cried out sharply. She started up and stumbled to him in the darkness. “What is it, Hugh, what’s the matter?”
“I had a dream,” he muttered in a thick hoarse voice. “I dreamed the pooka hound was baying for me - ‘twas at Kettlethorpe - the pooka hound with fire-red eyes, it’s baying near Kettlethorpe - I heard it -“
She put her hand on his forehead, which was clammy, and said, “Hugh dear - ‘twas naught but bad dream, and the pooka hound does not bay for Swynfords, don’t you remember? It was of the old days - -“
He groaned, “Sweet Christ, but I’ve a fearful pain - the gripes again.”
She called to Ellis, and when he woke, told him to fetch a light from the kitchen fire. Hugh writhed and moaned. When Ellis came back and lit a candle, she saw that Hugh’s cheeks had gone hollow, there was slime on his lips and his glistening face was greenish. Then he began to vomit and purge. She and Ellis worked frantically trying to ease him.
“What can have happened, lady?” whispered the squire.
“I know not,” she whispered back, distracted. “It’s the flux again, but worse than I’ve ever seen it - dear God - Ellis, can you find the Grey Friar?”
The squire stumbled downstairs and ran out through the court. The violent bloody vomiting and purging eased a little, Hugh lay back exhausted. She wiped the sweat from him and murmured gentle sounds while her heart beat fast with fear. Could it be the fruit that had loosened his bowels? Hugh had eaten several of the luscious figs and peaches. Oh Blessed Mother, she thought, I should not have let him eat the fruit.
She put her arm under his head and raised it a little. “Hugh dear - finish Brother William’s draught - it must help you - would to God there were more of it.” She held the cup to his lips and he swallowed mechanically, then he fell back crying, “Water!” There was a little in the washing pitcher, she mixed it with wine to make it wholesome and gave it to him in the clay cup.
Suddenly he started up and looked at her wildly. “Don’t you hear it?” he cried. “It’s across the Trent in the forest. Listen! It comes nearer. It scents me now - it scents death.”
“Hugh, my dear husband-” She put her arms around him, trying to hold him down, while he twisted and turned, regardless of his injured leg, unknowing of her.
Soon he gave a great cry of pain, and, doubling over with spasm, began again to vomit. When the Grey Friar came running in with Ellis, he stood by the bed and shook his head. “God pity him!” he murmured sadly, feeling Hugh’s pulse, which was so feeble and lagging, and the wrist so clammy-cold that the physician knew there was no time to be lost in giving him the last rites.
Katherine knelt in the other room, while the friar’s voice intoned the prayer for the dying. She could not pray, she could not think. She was held in a great dazed disbelief.
The friar called her and they stood together by the bedside. Hugh’s eyelids fluttered, he said quite clearly, “Tis a bloody struggle, the pooka hound and the bull - the hound has him by the throat.” His eyes opened wider and he looked up at Katherine. “A bloody struggle, Katherine-” he said.
“Christ have mercy -“
She bent and kissed the grey forehead. He was quiet for a few more minutes while Ellis kneeling on the other side of the bed wept with dry racking sobs.
Then Hugh gave a long shudder and his breathing stopped. The friar crossed himself, and Katherine followed suit. She felt nothing but the vast disbelief.
CHAPTER XV
Brother William stayed the night in the Swynford lodgings. After summoning the old crones who laid out the corpse, he took pitying charge of Katherine and Ellis. To the former he gave a sleeping draught, but the young squire, who could not stop blubbering and moaning, he kept busy with many necessary tasks.
The Grey Friar was accustomed to the sad procedures attendant upon the death of an English knight abroad. In the morning he started to make arrangements for the Requiem Mass, temporary disposition of the coffin and passage for it on a homebound ship, when the friar bethought him that perhaps the Duke should be notified first. To be sure, His Grace had for some time shown no interest in Sir Hugh’s welfare and also was of so impatient and puzzling a humour lately that the friar hesitated to bother him. Still, there was poor Lady Swynford to be considered, and her now undetermined position.
Having left Katherine sleeping under the opiate and Ellis hunched in a corner and drinking himself into oblivion, the friar set out for the palace.
The Duke was in Council. He sat listlessly on the gilded throne of Aquitaine, beneath the embossed lilies and leopards of the blazon. He had none of his usual alertness nor held his long body with the decorum he normally showed to the office h
is brother had bequeathed him. His legs crossed, his fingers worrying a loose fringe on the crimson velvet armrest, he listened moodily to the propositions and wrangles of his councillors.
Sir Guichard d’Angle, reporting on his most recent trip to Bayonne, informed them all wryly that the Castilian court there, sure now of England’s eagerness for the marriage, was acting with ridiculous pride and greed. “One would think ‘twere the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor His Grace would wed! They demand yet another jointure settled on the Queen. They demand that she may bring twelve of her ladies with her and as many courtiers. They refuse to let her near Bordeaux until after the ceremony.”
The Captal de Buch twirled the cup of wine that stood ever at his elbow and gave a great laugh. “Bluster, mon vieux,” he said to Sir Guichard, “nothing but bluster. The Castilians can haggle as well as the Jews, you know.”
“Then,” broke in de la Pole hotly, “we must use a firm hand.”
The Duke leaned forward. “Nay,” he said in a tone of angry command. “Give them what they want. And the marriage may take place at Roquefort.”
The captal, shrugging, buried his formidable beak in his cup. Sir Guichard bowed to the Duke and, beckoning to the clerks who waited with parchment spread at a smaller table, said, “Then we will draft a letter, my lord.”
This business was proceeding when they were interrupted by a commotion near the door. The yeoman-on-guard expostulated with someone, until a shrill determined voice cried, “But it is vairy important, le duc will agree!”
John frowned and again raised his heavy lids. “By Our Lady, Nirac!” he called irritably, “what is it?”
The little Gascon slithered past the door and ran to his master. He knelt on the dais and gabbled very low, in the langue d’oc, “Brother William Appleton is here, ‘e has something to tell you.”
“In God’s name - you little fool - do you burst in here to tell me that! - ah?” John stared down with startled question into Nirac’s unwinking black eyes. The Gascon raised his brows slowly - with meaning.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” John said, rising. “A matter I must attend to.”
“But Your Grace,” cried Sir Thomas Felton, “there’s grave trouble in the north, Bertrand du Guesclin-“
“I’ll return shortly, Sir Thomas, but I think you forget I resigned full power here. ‘Tis now in your hands to administer Aquitaine, you and the captal. No doubt you’ll do far better than I have.” He gave the two men a cold nod and, followed by Nirac, walked out of the Council room. The men stood up and bowed as he passed them, then reseated themselves in some consternation.
“Mauvaise humeur” said the captal, chuckling. “His temper grows as thorny as the poor Prince of Wales’. Norn de Dieu - these Plantagenets! They should laugh more - enjoy life. What that one needs,” he jerked his plump chins towards the door, “is a woman!”
“So you keep saying,” growled de la Pole. “He’s getting one, isn’t he?”
“A warm complaisant wench,” said the captal imperturbably, “not a yellow bag of bones who thinks of naught but avenging her dead papa. I could find him a woman; - I know a little dancer, a Navarrese - round thighs - -breasts like pillows - lips juicy as mulberries.” The captal, ticking off these attractions on stubby fingers, would have continued, but the Englishman snorted impatiently, and Sir Guichard interrupted with a smile.
“Enfin, captal - no doubt she’s superb, your little Navarrese. But to a determined man, all cats are grey at night.
Also Costanza is proud - mon Dieu, how proud! And jealous too, I’ll warrant. If the Castilians got wind of dalliance now, it might wreck the marriage.”
“A plague on the marriage!” cried Sir Thomas Felton. “The question is what are we to do about du Guesclin?”
John stood by the empty fireplace in the antechamber of his private suite and heard the Grey Friar speak in a calm and sorrowful voice the incredible words, “And so, my lord, the poor knight is dead, God absolve his soul!”
“What-” said the Duke so low that it was scarcely a whisper. “What did you say?”
“I said, my lord, that Sir Hugh Swynford suffered a violent attack of dysentery and is dead.”
“But he can’t be - he was getting well. He can’t be!”
This cry was uttered on so strange a note and the Duke turned his back on the friar so violently that Brother William took it for anger and said humbly, “Your Grace, forgive me. I did my best. I applied all the skill God has granted me, but it was not His Will that the knight should live.”
Nirac stood unnoticed near the door, his arms crossed on his chest, now he hugged them tight around himself, for he could see his master’s face though the friar could not. He saw the look of dazed incredulity give way to awe, and then the blue eyes blazed wide open. The Duke repeated, slowly and in a shaking voice, “It was not His Will that the knight should live!”
“The funeral arrangements, Your Grace-” persisted the friar, puzzled by the Duke’s averted back and choked speech. “I can attend to all that, but ‘tis a melancholy situation for the widow, and the squire. I thought perhaps you might wish to direct your chamberlain or some other of your household officers to call?”
“The widow,” said the Duke. “Aye, the widow, you said, Brother. I shall attend to that myself,” and now as the Duke turned, the astounded Grey Friar saw what Nirac had seen - the face of joy - the young, eager, tremulous face of joy.
Brother William started back, frowning. “My lord, what would you of her? She is in great grief, unprotected, and I believe a truly virtuous woman-“
“I know that. And I shall not forget. But there are things you do not know.” The Duke smiled with a tenderness that astonished the Grey Friar and added softly, “God has heard my prayers and given me blessing. Nay, good Brother, don’t look so sour, you’re not my confessor. You’ve done all you need. Wipe out this matter from your mind. Here, take this.” He opened the purse at his belt and thrust into the friar’s unwilling hand a dozen gold nobles. “For the poor, for the sick, for the lepers, for anything you like. Now leave me alone!”
For the next three days the court was mystified by their ruler’s behaviour, though the younger lords and ladies were delighted. Between one breath and the next, it seemed, the Duke had thrown off all the heavy brooding and ill temper he had shown for months.
Each day he rode out hawking by the river with a party of congenial courtiers and shouted triumph when his great white gerfalcon, Oriana, brought down wild duck and heron. Each day he took part in joustings and small deeds of arms with one or another of his knights. And there was dancing and singing in the Grande Salle at night.
Amongst the courtiers, only the Captal de Buch knew the reason for this volte-face on the part of the Duke, who had consulted him on a certain matter. The captal, of course, highly approved, chuckled often to himself, but kept his own counsel as he had been told to do.
On the fourth day after Hugh’s death, the Duke sent word to the Princess Isabel that he would be absent for a while and that she and Edmund were to preside over the High Table in his place.
At dusk the Duke and Nirac left the palace by the privy stair, both of them enveloped in dark grey cloaks and hoods without insignia, and though John rode his strongest and favourite charger, Palamon, the horse’s trappings were simple enough to befit a plain Bordelais burgher. They rode silently through the streets past the cathedral to the Swynford lodgings, where the frowsy courtyard was deserted except for a snuffling pig and some chickens that scratched at the manure pile.
Upstairs, Katherine sat by the empty bed, staring at the note from the Duke which she had received earlier that day. Nirac had brought it and waited for her answer. “I’ll be here at vesper time and will receive my Lord Duke,” she had said to Nirac. “But tell him that is all. It must be farewell.”
After Nirac had bowed and gone, she had sat on, scarcely moving, forgetting food and drink, as she had for days. It seemed as though someone else inhabited her bo
dy while the real Katherine still slept under the opiate the friar had given her. Her body, swathed and veiled in black, had attended the
Requiem Mass and the brief ceremony when the coffin was consigned to the cathedral crypt to await transportation home. Her eyes had even wept as her hands took off the clumsy Swynford betrothal ring and placed it in the coffin. Later she had tended Ellis, who had passed through roaring drunkenness into stupor. But no special thought had accompanied any of these things.
Even the Duke’s note had not awakened Katherine, though somewhere within her there had been a shivering. Like the distortions dimly heard and seen through that yellow plague fog at Bolingbroke, life came to her muffled.
When the noise of horses clattered up from the courtyard, Ellis had been burnishing Hugh’s armour, rubbing off every fleck of rust. At times when he was less drunk than others, this occupation gave him some comfort. ” ‘Twill do for little Tom,” he said to Katherine. “Little Tom’ll soon grow to it, now he must fill his father’s shoes.”
She nodded, but her babies seemed as remote as everything else.
The courtyard sounds augmented, and Ellis peered out of the window. “There’s two horsemen coming upstairs,” he said, putting down Hugh’s hauberk. “What can they want?” He opened the door, and Katherine stood up.
A tall man walked in, and threw back his hood.
“My Lord Duke!” cried Ellis, dropping to his knees. His bloodshot befuddled eyes squinted up uncertainly. Nirac hovered on the landing.
“I’ve come for you, Katrine,” said John quietly, ignoring Ellis and looking over his head at the girl.
“No, my lord,” she whispered, but some of the muffling veils around her dissolved, her breathing quickened. Ellis stumbled to his feet and stood, swaying a little, his jaw thrust out, peering from his lady to the Duke, who spoke again.
