by Anya Seton
After a time, he came down and stood beside her. “Katrine,” he said touching her shoulder, “it is necessary that we be married first, you know. I trust this is not too great a hindrance. Have you any thought for me - as well as the children?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, staring at the rushes. “I can’t realise. My lord - the Duke of Lancaster does not wed his paramour, and one of common stock - how could the King countenance this?”
“Well, he has,” said John dryly. Richard at present would countenance far more than that to please his eldest uncle and annoy his youngest one.
“I thought you hated me,” she said. “Your love was over long ago.”
“You yourself decreed our parting. I hated for a while. Then I saw that you were right. I made Costanza as happy as it was in her nature to be happy, but you’ve never been far from my deepest thoughts. I swore once that I’d love you till I die, it seems that I’m so made, that I must keep my vow - Katrine, can you doubt this? My dear, I have had other mistresses, other bastards too, years ago - so has every noble in the land. I am offering you marriage, and the true birth of our children.”
She rose slowly from the chair and looked up into his face, into the sad, questioning, eyes.
Katherine and John were married, very quietly, on January 13, beneath the stone carvings of the angels in the retro-choir of Lincoln Cathedral. A January thaw had set in during the days of waiting since the Duke had come to Katherine at Kettlethorpe, but on the marriage morning snow blew again over the fens from the North Sea and slapped softly against the cathedral’s tinted windows while four junior vicars clustered around a lectern and chanted the office.
The subdean, John Carleton, celebrated the Nuptial Mass. The Duke had requested that the bishop should perform the marriage, and the bishop had refused. “For which,” the Duke said with the old glinting icy look, “he will soon be exceeding sorry.” His gaze rested speculatively on Harry. “Old Buckingham shall see how unchristian have been his many insults to my lady. It’s high time Lincoln had a young and intelligent bishop, don’t you think so, Harry?”
Harry’s rapturous agreement was but one more note in the combined Beaufort joy. They lived now in bewildered glamour. A sorcery as marvellous as any of Merlin’s was transforming all four of their young lives. During the ceremony while they knelt on velvet faldstools behind their parents, they were giddy with exultation. That very morning a letter had arrived from the King, who sent his blessings and said that, as soon as the legitimations were confirmed by the Pope, John Beaufort was to be created Earl of Somerset, Harry to be appointed Dean of Wells Cathedral in transit to a bishopric, Tamkin to be knighted; and as for Joan - - Already her father, upon discovering her despairing love, had opened negotiations with young Neville, the Lord of Westmorland - an excellent alliance. Without a doubt there would be another wedding soon. Joan had been ill from joy and as she watched the tall figures of her parents at the altar, there was such a shaking in her chest that she could not follow the service.
At noon the nuptial bells pealed out over Lincoln, and Katherine arose from her knees to find herself the Duchess of Lancaster. Her children, unable to contain themselves, were surging around St. Hugh’s shrine, while Joan sobbed hysterically. Katherine saw the awed face of Mayor Robert Sutton, who hovered in the aisle with an alderman. She saw Hawise’s massive shoulders quivering, her face buried in a new scarlet silk skirt, and as realisation came to Katherine, she swayed and caught at the altar rail. Blessed Christ, she thought, in terror. Against the triptych behind the crucifix she saw the lovely face of the Lady Blanche - and the enigmatic dark look of Costanza.
The Duke’s strong hand closed on her arm. “Kiss me, Katrine,” he said. She raised her mouth blindly. He brushed her lips with his and whispered, “Don’t look back. We must be happy for the little time that’s left.”
He pulled her hand through his arm and they turned from the altar. They walked together down the steps, stood on a cloth-of-gold rug, while their children ran to them weeping, kissing their hands and their cheeks. Emotion almost too great to be borne and fortunately broken by a small, hoarse, crowing cheer.
Everyone looked around for the source of the cheer, which was Cob o’ Fenton. He ran out from behind a pillar, flung himself to his knees while clutching a fold of Katherine’s gown.
“Oh lady - I couldn’t help cheering. Ye said the manor folk could come. Lady - that is, Your Grace - we’re all here, down in the nave. Oh lady, this is a great day for Kettlethorpe!”
“A great day for Kettlethorpe?” cried Harry Beaufort, throwing back his head and gulping. “Oh in truth, by God, a great day for Kettlethorpe!” Suddenly they all dissolved in wild laughter. The Beaufort boys gasped and wheezed. They thumped little Cob on the back, who did not understand but grinned and chortled happily. The Duke and Katherine laughed.
Robert Sutton, watching from the aisle, was shocked, but the peculiarities of great folk must be tolerated. He smiled feebly and stared at Katherine as he had throughout the ceremony. A beautiful woman still, regal-looking in her green velvet and ermine and a silver-gilt veil covering her hair. “Christ’s wounds!” Robert muttered suddenly to his alderman. “Do you know what this day’s work makes of her? - until King Richard marries himself that little French maid in France - this makes her” - he nudged his fat chins towards Katherine - “first lady of England!” His jaw dropped while he assimilated his own discovery.
“So it does,” said the alderman thoughtfully. “Well, it’s small wonder she wouldn’t marry you, old trout, what a comedown that woulda been!”
Master Robert did not hear, he was walking ponderously towards the ducal party, whose laughter had died down. With some difficulty he heaved himself to his knees and kissed Katherine’s hand. “My homage, Your Grace,” he said in a toneless, deliberate voice. “Your liegeman, in life and limb - -” Under Katherine’s startled gaze he methodically completed his feudal oath due to the rulers of Lancaster.
By tacit consent, Katherine and John, for their wedding night, avoided all the places where they had previously been together. Until the snow started, they had thought to ride to his nearby castle of Tickhill, but since that was now impossible, he commandeered rooms in the constable’s quarters of Lincoln Castle. The flustered constable sent his men scurrying hither and yon around Lincoln to find furnishings worthy of this occupancy, but the result at such short notice was not impressive.
” ‘Tis not what I wanted for you, my Katrine,” said John looking around the two small rooms, with their hastily hung arras, crude rugs, squat oaken bed.
“What does it matter?” she said softly, smiling. “It’s true one should not look back too much - but I find now that I can’t help remembering the hundreds of nights we’ve spent together - and in so many different places.”
They sat at a small table before a rather smoky fire; neither had eaten of the food a squire had brought them, nor drunk of the claret.
Hawise had dressed Katherine in a plain blue chamber robe, to which John had fastened a brooch he had ordered from a Lincoln goldsmith. It was enamelled in full colours with her new blazon, the de Roet Catherine wheels impalling the royal lilies and leopards of England. Never shall I get used to that, she thought. She looked down at the brooch and shook her head. “I pray you’ll never regret giving me the right to wear it,” she whispered.
“I never will, lovedy.”
He knew what a furore this marriage would cause in England, and in all Europe. He had weighed the disadvantages coolly enough before he saw her again; now he did not care. Since Blanche’s death there had been no other woman for him - though he had tried hard enough to forget Katherine. And even Blanche - that had been different, to Blanche he owed his power, his enormous wealth, there had been loving gratitude. When he died, he would be buried beside her in St. Paul’s as she had long ago requested, but now, for what time was left, he would please his heart at last. He watched Katherine as she sat across the table from him, her g
raceful head a little bent, gazing into the fire as she so often did, and wondered if part of the enduring love he had for her sprang from the fact that she had given him nothing but herself. She had brought him no wealth, no power, no hope of foreign thrones. Always with her, he had been the donor.
A dreamy contentment came to him, an absence of strain. But I’m happy, he thought in amazement. When have I ever been happy before?
“Come here to me, darling,” he said. When she obeyed, he drew her down on to his lap, with her cheek in the old place against his shoulder. “How shocked our children would be, if they saw us,” he said smiling into her soft hair. “They think us too old for this - I’ve thought so myself. Now I don’t.” He kissed her hard on the lips. “It’s not like Chateau la Teste,” he said, “that it can’t be - there’s not youth - nor the fierce heat of passion - -“
“Thank God, it’s not Chateau la Teste,” she whispered. “We paid for that, John - both of us - and others - -“
He was silent, his arms tight around her. The snow hissed and slapped on the horn windows; distantly from the castle ramparts the night-watch called out some challenge.
“Yet I believe you were no less my wife then, than you are tonight, Katrine,” he said in a wondering voice.
CHAPTER XXXII
Katherine dined in the Great Hall at Windsor on the July night of the banquet to the French envoys who had come over to arrange final details of the meeting between the French and English kings.
In October, Richard would take formal possession of his eight-year-old bride, Princess Isabelle of France, and ratify the treaty of alliance at long last to be sealed with the ancient enemy - much to the fury of Gloucester and his warmongers.
Katherine sat on the dais to the right of the King’s throne. She was encased in stiff cloth of gold so burdened with necklaces, bracelets, clasps, rings and the heavy jewelled coronet of Lancaster, that natural movement was impossible, even if the meticulous ceremony which Richard exacted had not made any impulsive action unwise. Richard reserved the right of impulse for himself.
The King was dressed in a new tunic of white brocade peppered with diamonds. His yellow hair was tightly curled and scented, his little tufted beard did not quite conceal the softness of his small pointed chin. At the moment he was idly toying with a jade butterfly the French nobles had brought as a gift from their King. The butterfly had originally come from the mysterious dragon land of Cathay, and as Richard’s plump almond-white fingers caressed the soft jade and his polished pink fingernails ran along the exquisite lines of the carving, he smiled at the butterfly as though it were a loved child. He ignored a dish of roast larks and ginger fritters which a kneeling squire presented to him. The squire continued to kneel, and the King to caress his bauble.
On Katherine’s other side sat her Duke, imperturbably, frigidly courteous, while he made small talk with Eleanor de Bohun, his sister-in-law. But the Duchess of Gloucester was far too angry to be civil in return, though from fear - of the King, whose sparkling malicious eyes darted her way now and then, of Lancaster who had that very morning corrected her behaviour towards Katherine with a controlled but menacing wrath - she managed to grunt, and say “Ay so” and “No doubt” occasionally.
When news of the Duke of Lancaster’s extraordinary marriage had burst on England, it had caused a furore as great as John had expected, though the outcry was not all hostile. From cot to castle the news had been mouthed voluptuously, but many of the commons and middle class had been amused, even pleased. Their hatred of the Duke had gradually given place to hatred of Richard and his favourites. They had come to consider Lancaster as the only sage restraining hand on his nephew’s headlong rush into mad extravagance and contempt for his people. Moreover, the Duke’s elevation of a woman who was born a commoner appealed to popular sentiment, while most feminine hearts were touched by the romantic apotheosis of a fallen sister.
The noble ladies at court were not so tolerant; while Eleanor, upon realising the magnitude and implications of the news, had gone into an actual frenzy, beating her breast, tearing her hair and shouting for all to hear that her heart would burst with grief and shame if she were asked to give precedence to such a lewd baseborn Duchess! Which had delighted Richard, who detested his aunt nearly as much as he hated and feared his domineering Uncle Thomas. By all means, let Eleanor’s heart burst, he said, and so much the better, but until it did she would have to witness the exaltation of the new Duchess of Lancaster. Not only here in England, either, but in France, where Katherine was soon to travel with the King and court and, as first lady of England, take official charge of the new little Queen.
The night was warm, the banquet tedious, the minstrels played listlessly. Richard yawned, put down the jade butterfly, and said to the quiet gold-clad figure on his right, “Why do you continually glance down the Hall towards that table near the door?”
Katherine started, then smiled. She answered frankly in her low sweet voice. “I am seeing there, Your Grace, a dazzled little convent girl of fifteen who wears an ill-fitting borrowed gown, and stares up at this High Table and its line of glittering Plantagenets as though they were the Holy Angels ranged beside God’s throne.”
“Ah yes,” Richard smiled, after a puzzled moment. “And now you’re one of them. It must be very strange.”
“I pinch myself and still can’t believe it! ‘Tis thanks to you, Your Grace, and to my dear lord - -” She looked at John’s averted head, seeing that he had given up struggling with Eleanor and was talking around her stiff back to Mowbray, the Earl Marshal, who was an enemy. Or had been. Mowbray had lately made his peace with John, whom he had consistently denounced during John’s absence in Aquitaine.
With the exception of Gloucester, who had refused to come to this banquet and remained at his castle of Plashy, pleading ill health, the court had taken its tone from Richard and welcomed Lancaster with ostensible rejoicing. But beneath the scent of costly perfumes and strewn flowers in this Hall, the air was thick with hidden enmity. One had but to look at the King’s ever-present bodyguard ranged along the walls, enormous armed ruffians imported from Cheshire, whose white hart badges apparently gave them unlimited licence to rape, steal and murder, unchecked. All England was afraid of them, and no King before Richard had thought such protection necessary. God shield us, Katherine thought.
But in time the banquet would finish, and she and John would be alone. She anticipated each night when they were freed from court duties as eagerly as she had long ago. Now it was not for bodily passion that she yearned, though they were still tenderly responsive to each other. A different bond had become more satisfying. He might be discouraged, irritable, tired - and sometimes she thought with fear that he seemed to be losing strength, sudden lassitude would overpower him - but yet, when the door of the great Lancastrian state suite was closed at last, a warm deep content came to them. There was no need for talk or love-making, they were at rest.
Richard, while he played with his golden fork and nibbled a slice of porcupine seethed in almond milk, had been considering Katherine’s explanation of her glances down the Hall. It was charming as a variant of the old tale of the prince and the beggar maid; and pleasing as an example of the omnipotence of anointed kings.
And those who dared challenge that divine power would bitterly repent their folly! His lids drooped as he glanced down the Hall towards the ranks of helmeted heads - his Cheshire archers. Two thousand of them in here and outside in the court, waiting, always ready. Had I had them sooner, he thought - his hand trembled on his fork, the two tines rattled on the golden plate.
Now and again fears swooped down like vampires in the night, especially since Anne had died. She had held them at bay. The vampires must be fought alone now and exterminated cunningly, one by one, Gloucester, Arundel, and there were others - who had thought themselves strong enough to defy a king. And had succeeded for a time. They had exiled the one beloved friend, de Vere, who died over there alone in France; they had exil
ed good old Michael de la Pole, who also died; they had actually murdered Simon Burley, the kind tutor of his childhood. By the Blood of Christ, who was to know for sure that they had not murdered Anne? Plague could be caused by witchcraft, poison could counterfeit plague - -
Be careful, said a voice in Richard’s mind. Don’t let them guess what you are thinking. Remember those suave watchful Frenchmen over there. Wait until after the marriage with little Isabelle, until we are at peace with France - and then - -
He turned suddenly to Katherine, mustering all his eager boyish charm. “I’m much interested in what you said of that night here thirty, it is, years ago. Ay - a year before I was born. Whom were you sitting with?”
Katherine was startled, unpredictable as a cat, one never knew where he would pounce next. “Why,” she said, “it was with my sister Philippa, Your Grace, and her betrothed, Geoffrey Chaucer.”
“Chaucer?” said the King raising his plucked golden brows, and twirling the stem of his goblet. “Have you seen the scurrilous verses he dared to write to me?”
Katherine had seen them. Geoffrey had imprudently taken it upon himself to chide the King for “lack of steadfastness” and it was no wonder that he had been reduced to a penury that she had immediately relieved, with John’s help, when she became Duchess.
“Geoffrey’s getting old,” she said uncomfortably, “and is in poor health. He served His Grace, your grandfather, most loyally.”
Richard laughed and took a sip of iced wine. “Oh, I forgive him, because of the pleasure some of his poems have brought me.” And he shrugged, dismissing Chaucer. “Tell me,” he said smoothly, “that day in Essex when I was putting down the revolt and you were on pilgrimage, what was the vow you made?”
