by Anya Seton
“Oh no! no!” cried Katherine violently, forgetting propriety in her horror.
The prioress frowned. “Mademoiselle de Roet will of course do as the Queen wishes-” She paused, wondering if she was to be asked to receive Katherine without dowry.
The squire smiled at Katherine, and her heart jumped. He was so fresh and young, his skin fine like a girl’s and barely shadowed with a golden down. His short chestnut curls clustered about his ears, his surcote of blue wool was embroidered in, gold around the Lancaster red rose badge, he had a jewelled dagger and elegant pointed red shoes, but despite his elegance, his neck was thick-muscled and his shoulders broad. Totally innocent though she was, Katherine felt in him a virility lying beneath the courtly manner, as a tough branch supports the blossoms on a cherry tree.
“I cannot speak for the Queen,” he said in his soft, wooing voice. “I’ve not seen her for months. She suffers much with the dropsy and keeps at Woodstock, but I understood your sister to mean that whether you choose marriage or the cloister, she would endeavour, in time” - he paused, knowing well how long such matters often took - “to suggest your wishes to our sovereign lady, God give her health.”
“Oh,” said Katherine faintly. So after all she must continue at the convent and await the Queen’s pleasure, as before. She turned, biting her lips, to stare through the tiny unglazed window towards the sea.
The squire walked over beside her and touched her bare arm, so light and quick a caress that the prioress did not see it. “Ma belle,” he whispered in rapid French, “hast thou yet felt Cupid’s arrows that pierce the heart with honey fire?” At Katherine’s quick indrawn breath and startled eyes, he went on louder in English, “I may tell your sister, then, that you wish to be wed?”
Katherine blushed scarlet and bowed her head. She knew nothing of the stylised game of courtly love and the young man’s question about Cupid and honey fire was gibberish, but a shiver raced through her veins when he touched her and spoke in the almost forgotten accents of her childhood.
“Are you not English, Sir Squire?” she asked breathlessly.
Roger de Cheyne laughed. “English enough since my grandfather came here from Artois with Isabella of France and I was born at our manor in Oxfordshire; but my mother still has lands in France, so I’ve spent much time there.”
“And your father?” asked the prioress. She, too, was interested in this springtime breath from the great world.
“Killed at Crecy, by his own French kinsman, as it turned out,” said Roger cheerfully. “My father, of course, was in King Edward’s company, but he had many relatives on the other side. Well, that’s war. I was born, by the way, on the same day as the battle, so I never saw my father - God rest his soul.”
Katherine was counting back. The English victory at Crecy had been in late August of 1346, so the young squire was nearly twenty and born under the sign of Virgo. That meant for a man high ideals of chastity and nobility; often the natives of that sign went into holy orders, like the blessed St. Cuthbert.
She stole an anxious glance at Roger through her long lashes. He did not look like a young man inclined towards the priesthood, but then what did she know of young men and their inclinations, she thought, depressed. Nor would she find out anything now, it seemed, for the prioress had risen, holding out her hand for the squire to kiss her ring.
“It was good of you to come with your message, young sir,” said the prioress far less cordially. She had suddenly realised that, charming as young de Cheyne might be, his visit had proved nothing. Katherine was apparently to remain on here as a charity boarder, her future still unsettled; besides Godeleva did not like the languishing glances the youth’s bold eyes cast on her charge. There had been no seductions or scandal during her rule at the convent and there would not be - even of a secular. So the prioress herded Katherine back to the mistress of novices and personally supervised the serving of bread and ale to the squire before Godspeeding him under the gatehouse.
Katherine did not see him again, but as she lay that night amongst the novices she had heard trumpets blaring from the castle, and fancied that she could also hear the voices of men singing and laughing. The Duke of Lancaster and his meinie would be revelling, and Roger de Cheyne playing perhaps on the lute that she had seen strapped to his saddle. And Katherine had cried softly for a time, stifling the sound with her hair so as not to disturb the sleeping novices.
Sainte Marie, what a baby I was, thought this older Katherine lying on the strange hostel pallet, for now that release had come at last, all past disappointments seemed trivial. I will be good and please Philippa and the Queen, she thought vaguely, quite unable to visualise either of them. Of the husband who would be allotted to her she scarcely thought at all, except that it would be delightful if he were young and handsome like Roger de Cheyne.
CHAPTER II
It took them four more days to reach Windsor, and only for Katherine were the small mishaps and adventures of the road consistently interesting. The two nuns grew weary of strange beds and food, their middle-aged bones ached, their muscles cramped from all this riding. Moreover, Dame Cicily had caught a cold after her ducking in the Swale, and her doleful sneezes grew as monotonous as the slow clop of the horses, or Long Will’s increasingly exasperated oaths. He was on fire to get back to Windsor where the festivities would be already under way; the preliminary jousting in the lists, bull-baitings and cockfights by the river, while fair Alison of Egham had promised to give her old husband the slip and be waiting at the alehouse to join Will in merry dalliance. Yet by Sunday the party from Sheppey had travelled no farther than Southwark, and there was no means of hurrying them. Dame Cicily’s nag limped, the prioress’s cob shied and then baulked at anything which annoyed it, which meant pedlars, dogs, puddles, geese and particularly the sound of bagpipes, which they encountered with frequency while they were on the Pilgrims’ Way, since most groups bound for Canterbury included amateur musicians.
So Long Will chafed and endured a journey of nearly six days, though it had taken him less than three alone. And at Southwark he would not allow his charges to cross the Bridge and enter London, which would have meant more delay.
The tired nuns did not care. The prioress had twice been to London before this, once as a girl with her family, and once on pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor at Westminster; as for Dame Cicily, she had reached a stage of snivelling apathy, longing only for the safe quiet of Sheppey and the ministrations of the infirmaress.
But for Katherine it was different. To be here at last by London town, which lay across the river with its teeming traffic of wherries, wine-laden galleys from Gascony and gorgeously painted private barges; to glimpse the shining walls and the stately four-turreted White Tower, the bustling Bridge hung with banners; to hear the hum and rhythm of the city below the jangling of a hundred different church bells - and to be allowed no nearer, that was a bitter disappointment. Still, she was by temperament reasonable and by training obedient, so she contented herself with a few timid questions.
That tremendous high spire to the left, so strong and up-thrust above the city? Why, St. Paul’s Cathedral of course, said the prioress. And that great pile of masonry down by the water’s edge? The prioress did not know, but Long Will took pity on the girl. That’s Baynard’s Castle, damoiselle; it belongs to the Earls of Clare. Nearly all the nobles have city houses, but the finest of all is the Duke of Lancaster’s Savoy. Look -“
He swung his horse around and directed Katherine’s gaze upriver, a mile or so beyond the city walls. “Can you see it?”
She squinted into the noon light and made out a huge mass of cream-coloured stone and many crenellated turrets from which fluttered tiny splashes of red and gold, and one sharp-pointed gilt spire which marked the private chapel, but she could see few details, and no premonition seized her that the great Duke’s palace might ever be more to her than an object of curiosity and awe. Indeed, she passed on quickly to strain her eyes farthe
r in the direction of Westminster, but she could not see it because of the bend in the river, and Long Will, though usually tolerant of Katherine, was hurrying them on again. They turned south to pick up the Richmond road, and tall oaks hid all the north bank from sight.
“Yes,” said Will, riding beside Bayard to keep a minatory eye on the horse, and having pursued his own train of thought, “John o’ Gaunt’s a lucky man - lucky in bed, that is. He’s naught but the King’s third son, yet I vow he has more lands and castles than his father.”
“How is that?” asked the prioress, sighing. It had begun to drizzle and there was still much road ahead before they reached the convent where she intended to stop that night.
“By the marriage-bed, madam,” said Long Will, laughing, “and by deathbeds, too. The Lady Blanche of Lancaster, bless her sweet face, brought him the greatest inheritance in the kingdom, once her father and sister were dead, may their souls rest in peace. They died of plague five years ago, both of ‘em, and so the Lady Blanche got all.” Katherine, mildly interested, would have questioned further, but the prioress, who had just developed a crick in her back, sharply told her not to talk so much, and Katherine subsided.
Long Will kicked his roan, which leaped ahead. He hurried them on until they passed near the royal palace at Sheen, deserted now except for a few varlets, since King Edward seldom used it as a residence, preferring Windsor, Woodstock or Eltham when he was not at Westminster. But Sheen was a small, pretty castle floating like a swan on its broad shining moat, and it put Will in a fine humour for the gatekeeper’s daughter was a buxom lass, coy enough to make good sport, and she would doubtless be found at Windsor for the merrymaking.
On the following afternoon, Monday the twentieth of April, they finally reached Windsor, and during the last hour’s ride, the road was so thronged they could scarcely move at all. Long Will’s voice grew hoarse from shouting, “Make way! Make way for the Queen’s messenger!”
From all the nearby shires, from as far away as Northumberland and Devon and Lincolnshire, the people were flocking to celebrate St. George’s Day at Windsor. Weeks ago the King’s heralds had galloped throughout the country proclaiming the great tournament and inviting all valorous knights to come and participate. There would be tilting at the quintain and other knightly games; there would be jousts and challenges, and there would be a climaxing tourney, or melee, for all contenders. Most of the knights had arrived at Windsor some days ago, and the lesser ones who could not be accommodated in the castle were already encamped on the plain below the walls in a bivouac of multi-coloured tents; many had brought their ladies and all, of course, their squires.
But the common people, though not specifically invited, were welcome, too. For these, five hundred oxen were roasting at charcoal fires dotted around the fields, vats of beer had been . set up, and a thousand loaves of barley bread already baked for distribution.
While Long Will expertly wormed his way through the streets of Windsor towards the castle gate they were jostled by prosperous merchants, beggars, palmers with cockleshells in their broad hats, whores in hoods of scarlet ray, respectable goodwives with their children, mummers and gleemen, all clamorous with holiday mood.
Katherine was a little frightened by the noise and confusion, and Dame Cicily was in tears as usual. Her habit had been caught by the gold spur of a passing knight as he shoved his horse impatiently through the press and now a jagged rip divided the black wool and shamefully exposed her skinny leg, fumble as she might to hide it. Even Long Will was disconcerted as he manoeuvred his charges, and said, “God’s bones, ladies, I don’t know where they’ll lodge you for I swear there’ll not be a cranny vacant in the castle.”
Only the little prioress was imperturbable. “We will wait inside the gates,” she said majestically, “until you make known our arrival to the Damoiselle de Roet’s sister, who will doubtless have made provision for us.”
So they rode through the portcullis to the lower ward and huddled in a corner by the curfew tower near a black-gowned clerk who fidgeted impatiently while he also awaited answer to some message he had sent.
Long Will dismounted, threw his reins to a stable urchin and disappeared.
This great paved courtyard was as full of confusion as the streets. Mounted knights and squires continually came and went, servants ran panting from building to building, a noble lady arrived in a gilt and blazoned chariot, was received by a blowing chamberlain and vanished through one of the myriad doors. Suddenly there was a greater flurry and a flourish of trumpets. Two boys in white livery marched through the gate, one bearing a jewelled mitre and the other a crozier.
They were followed by a plump, red-faced man in gold-embroidered robes, riding on a large grey horse. The Prioress Godeleva uttered an exclamation. She slid down off Bayard, pulling Katherine with her. ” ‘Tis the Bishop of Lincoln,” she whispered and knelt on the paving-stones. Dame Cicily copied her prioress while tugging frantically at her torn habit.
Here and there throughout the courtyard others knelt too. John Buckingham, the bishop, smiled vaguely around, raising two fingers in blessing. Then his eye caught sight of the nuns and he looked startled. He rode over to them.
“Whence come you, Reverend Mother?” he asked Godeleva sharply, having noted her ring of office. “Are you of my flock?”
“No, my lord,” said Godeleva. “We come from Sheppey Priory in Kent.”
“Oh, the south-” said the bishop, losing interest. Had they come from his own diocese it would be necessary to inquire into the appearance of two nuns in such worldly surroundings, but he was relieved that no steps need be taken, for he was hungry and impatient to be housed.
“We have permission, my lord,” said Godeleva. “I bring this girl here at the Queen’s command.”
“Ah.” The bishop glanced down at Katherine, of whom he could see nothing but a cheap green woollen hood, for her head was properly bowed. But he noted her hands, which were very dirty and ringless.
“Some charity wench of the good Queen’s no doubt,” he said with a condescending laugh, dismissing them all. He murmured “Benedicite,” and rode back to his waiting coterie.
Katherine flushed. There was enough truth in the bishop’s careless statement to sting. I’m not a charity wench; my father was knighted, she thought hotly and she rose from her knees, staring after the bishop with no proper Christian humility. There were lesser priests around him, all fluttering and fawning except one, who stood apart. This priest wore doctoral robes and a four-cornered hat, and his brooding eyes, deep-set above a huge, hooked nose, were fixed on the magnificent Lord Bishop of Lincoln with a certain irony, visible even to Katherine, who therefore felt sudden interest.
“I wonder who that is?” she said to Godeleva, pointing discreetly; but before the prioress, who did not know, could answer, the clerk behind them spoke.
” ‘Tis Master John Wyclif, that was King’s chaplain.”
“Blessed Virgin!” cried the prioress crossing herself. “Not that priest who’s dared defy His Holiness the Pope? Katherine, don’t look at him! He’s tainted with vile heresy. By Sainte Marie, I’ve even heard that he wishes to English the Gospels - is’t true, Sir Clerk?”
The clerk laughed. “I’ve heard so. His Lollards, the poor preachers, make all manner of shocking statements to the people.”
“Deus misereatur! ‘Tis no matter for laughing!” The prioress frowned at the clerk’s amused face. She drew Katherine and Dame Cicily away from him, and lectured Katherine apprehensively on the many dangers that must be guarded against in the world. And they continued to wait.
During the next half-hour the girl had ample time to compare her own appearance with that of court ladies who flitted by to become increasingly uncomfortable. The chambress at Sheppey had done the best she could for Katherine, considering that there was no money forthcoming, but the hood and cape were now deplorably travel-stained, and the girl’s brown serge kirtle hung loose and baggy like the nuns’ habits and wa
s unredeemed by lacings of fur or embroidery. Katherine’s courage ebbed very low as time went on. The great folk passed by without even a glance in their direction, and she began inwardly to echo Dame Cicily’s lamentations.
“Oh, Reverend Mother, they’ve forgotten us! Perhaps it was all a jest or a mistake! We were never meant to come! Would that we were safe back at Sheppey! O Merciful Blessed Lady and kind Saint Sexburga, don’t desert us!”
“Hush,” said the prioress sharply. “Here is Long Will now.”
Long Will loped down the ward and behind him there hurried a small .plump girl with a worried smile. She was dressed in a blue robe trimmed with squirrel and her dark hair was looped in tight braids on either side of her round earnest face.
She curtsied to the prioress, then peered at Katherine. “Est-ce vraiment toi, ma soeur?” she said uncertainly.
Katherine leaned down, threw her arms around her sister’s neck and burst into tears.
The two girls clung to each other murmuring little choked French endearments while Long Will looked on with sentimental approval, Dame Cicily sniffed in sympathy and even the prioress’ controlled face softened.
Philippa drew away first and returned to practical problems. “I fear we’ve no suitable accommodation up here for you, Reverend Mother,” she said apologetically, “but Long Will can guide you to respectable night’s lodgings in the town, unless you wish to ride on to Ankerwyck Priory, perhaps?”
Godeleva flushed. “But surely I was to see the Queen. I understood I might have audience with the Queen.” In spite of herself her voice trembled, for it was easy to read dismissal in the girl’s proposal, and then where were all the golden hopes of royal favour and tardy gratitude for the care of Katherine? Where hopes of picking up new novices?
“The Queen, Our Lady be merciful, is ill, Reverend Mother,” answered Philippa uncomfortably for she was used to supplicants at court and quite understood what the prioress wanted. “The dropsy which plagues her is very bad and she keeps to her bed, tended only by two of her ladies. I myself