Katherine

by Anya Seton

“Ay - dear heart. You’re coming with me. There’s nothing now to keep us apart.” Lifting his arms, John took a step towards her as she stood mute and still by the bed.

  “You dare not touch her!” shouted Ellis, his wits clearing. “You dare not touch my lady!” Lunging suddenly, his great hamlike fist shot out and blundered harmlessly past John’s shoulder. The Duke stepped sideways, then with swift negligent motion hit Ellis squarely on the chin. The squire reeled, tottered over backward and lay gasping on the floor. Katherine gave a cry and would have run to the squire, but John forestalled her with another swift movement. He picked her up in his arms and held her so cruelly tight that she could not move. He laughed exultantly and kissed her on the mouth until she ceased to struggle; still holding her pinioned, he walked downstairs with her and, mounting Palamon, placed her in front of him on the saddle, half covered by the folds of his cloak. The horse jumped forward at the spur.

  The saddle, which had been built for a man in full armour, easily held them both, and Katherine made no further protest. Her head fell on John’s chest, where she heard the beating of his heart.

  The horse cantered for many miles before it slackened, then John, looking down at the head on his breast, shifted her weight a little on his arm and said with a gentle laugh, “And do you sleep, Katrine?”

  “No, my lord,” she said looking up at him in the darkness. “I think I am happy. It’s very strange.”

  He bent and kissed her. “You will be happy, and always.”

  A cool salt-laden wind sprang up, she felt it on her face,. and at the same time Palamon slowed to a walk while the sound of his great hooves grew dull and plodding. She roused herself and hearing the shrill cry of a gull said, “Are we near the sea, my lord?”

  “Ay,” he said, “we’re in Les Landes, Katrine. We go to the captal’s Chateau la Teste. Do you know where that is?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I only know that from wherever it is that we’re going there can be no turning back.”

  He tightened his arm around her, they rode on in silence.

  Les Landes was the weirdest and most desert portion of France. On its sand and tufa wastes nothing grew except the stunted furze or bracken, and reeds in the salt marshes. Here the airs were thick with mist and the ever-encroaching ocean pushed the sand dunes back and back over the undetermined land.

  There was one track marked by white stones across these marshes. It was maintained by the Captal de Buch, whose ancestors, centuries ago, had built themselves a secluded fortress on the Gulf of Arcachon. It was but thirty miles from Bordeaux, yet deep in an isolation desirable to a tribe of sea barons.

  As they neared the castle, two of the captal’s retainers, mounted men-at-arms holding torches, came down the road to meet them and guided them the rest of the way. They went beneath the raised portcullis through massive walk and stopped by the door of a round donjon tower. Katherine was so cramped and chilled that she could scarcely stand. John put his arm around her waist and they ascended the rough winding stairs to the Hall.

  Here, though no servants were visible, the captal’s varlets had ably followed his orders, as relayed from the Duke. An enormous driftwood fire blazed on the hearth, in the iron brackets a dozen perfumed candles burned. The mouldering stone walls had been covered with painted silk hangings and arras brought from Bordeaux, the floor was strewn with sweet rushes and rose petals, while the single small damask-covered table was banked with jasmine.

  John, watching Katherine tenderly, saw the deep breath with which she drew in the delicious fragrances, and he smiled. He had created beauty for her here, in this dank old fortress, and he had forgotten nothing which would add to the sensuous enhancement of their joy.

  “Take off your black robe, Katrine,” he said, “and refresh yourself, my dear heart. You’ll find everything needful here.” He led her to a small room adjacent to the Hall. Here too a fire blazed, and the bed which had been brought by wagon from Bordeaux was furnished with silk sheets and pillows and hung with gold taffeta powdered with tiny jewelled ostrich feathers and crowns.

  A fat tiring-woman curtsied as they entered, and, holding out a basin of warm water to Katherine, waited with dull incurious eyes. The Duke withdrew saying, “Hurry!” on an eager laugh.

  While the girl washed, the tiring-woman brought her a gown from the garderobe. “For you to wear - le captal wants,” she said. Actually the Duke himself had ordered the gown made for Katherine, but the tiring-woman had never left La Teste and knew of no lord but the captal.

  The robe was of cream-white sendal trimmed only by an embroidered gold and green cipher on the low-cut bosom. The cipher was a J and K intertwined with leaves and set in a heart. Katherine looked at the cipher and her eyes filled with bitter-sweet tears. She slipped the gown over her head and the woman girded it, then, unbinding Katherine’s hair, she began to comb out the long shimmering auburn strands.

  John came back to the door as Katherine started to replait her hair. “Nay” he cried, “don’t bind it, my love! Leave it loose!”

  “Like a bride?” she whispered, half smiling, yet troubled. He came to her and seizing a handful of the gleaming hair carried it to his lips. The tiring-woman backed away, John made a quick gesture, and she turned and waddled off to the stairs.

  They supped together at the table near the fire in the Hall. Nirac would have waited on them, but as he bent over to fill the gold hanaps with pale delicate wine from the captal’s cellars, a shrinking repulsion penetrated Katherine’s enchantment. When the little Gascon had retired to the serving table she said softly, “My dear lord, could we not be alone? I can serve you.”

  “Of course,” he said instantly, and dismissed Nirac, though John was faintly surprised. He had thought that his choice of servitor was the precise one which would save her all embarrassment. “You don’t dislike Nirac, do you?” he asked when they were alone.

  She shook her head, not knowing herself what had caused the shrinking. “A whim, my dearest lord,” she said. “Women have them-” Suddenly across the table she gave him her tenderly wistful and seductive smile. “Will you be gentle with my whims?”

  She was all beauty as she sat there in her white dress. Her hair fell nearly to the rushes and glistened like the carnelians he had once compared it to, her red lips were parted, her grey eyes dark with love. He trembled, and going to her knelt beside her.

  “I shall not always be gentle, Katrine,” he said looking up into her face. “But by the soul of my mother, I shall love you until I die.”

  She bent over and opening her arms drew his head against her breasts. A gull mewed again outside the fortress, the fresh tang of the sea crept through the windows to mingle with the warmth of jasmine.

  He raised his head from her breast and they looked without fear or striving, but quietly; deep into each other’s eyes.

  They stayed three days at the captal’s old fortress in Les Landes and during that time they never left the Hall and the bedchamber.

  The ecstasy of their union brought to each of them a wondering awe. Katherine had nothing but dreams with which to compare this sweet agony of passion, unslaked even by the bliss of fulfilment, and the total merging of herself into another, so that even for the moments they were away from each other’s arms she felt him as much part of her flesh as its throbbing veins.

  John had known love before, but not like this. How palely gentle and courteous now seemed that far-off time with Blanche! Then there had been reticences and dignity, and quietly maternal indulgence, and always, on his part, gratitude.

  Now there was no need for reticence or gratitude. Here in the sea-scented bedchamber were a man and a woman who came together naked and unashamed, proudly bestowing on each other the beauty of their bodies and thereby finding ineffable joy.

  On the third evening they sat on piled cushions before the fire, drinking wine from a single cup, laughing at nothing and whispering little words such as lovers have always used.

  Then John reached
out his arm for the lute which hung by a red velvet ribbon from a hearth peg and said, “Lovedy, listen. Now I think I have the tune for the song I wished to sing you - -“

  She drew a little from his arms that he might play unencumbered, and they smiled at each other as he rippled his fingers tentatively across the strings. “You, my Katrine, are all love-some things,” he said softly, “and I am the man who says -

  She is coral of goodness, ruby of tightness.

  She is crystal of cleanness, and banner of beauty.

  Site is lily of largesse, periwinkle of prowess.

  She is marigold of sweetness, and lady of loyalty.

  For her love I cork and care,

  For her love I droop and dare,

  For her love my bliss is bare

  And I wax all wan. For her love in sleep I slake,

  For her love all night I wake,

  For her love I’d mourning make

  More than any man.”

  He sang the old English words to a haunting melody that had come to him, and when he repeated the chorus she joined him, changing only the pronoun to, “For his love I cark and care, for his love I droop and dare,” singing in her rich golden voice.

  So lovely was their duet that the Captal de Buch who had paused, panting from the stairs, outside the door of the Hall, turned with startled emotion to Nirac who had followed him. “Norn de Vierge! Can that be the Duke? They sing like angels in there together. Are they then so happy?”

  Nirac shrugged and answered with harshness, “No doubt they are, captal. I’ve not seen them in three days. The tiring-woman waits on them.”

  The captal raised his bushy eyebrows and laughed. “Oh la belle chose, hein?” he said winking at Nirac. “One forgets all else!” He thumped with his fist on the door, but they were finishing their song and did not hear him, so he opened the door. Earthy libertine though he was, the captal’s roguish greeting died in his throat when he saw them.

  The two on the cushions seemed to be bathed in light. The girl was but half clothed yet so pure was the beauty of her arms and breasts gleaming like alabaster between strands of long auburn hair, and so adoring the expression on the Duke’s face, that the captal saw no lewdness, but felt instead a bitter stab of nostalgia. Thirty years ago there had been a moment almost like this for him too, but it had lasted only a little while, when the woman had died.

  “Your pardon, my lord - lady - -” he stammered, backing off. He saw the measure of the entrancement which held the Duke, in that he did not flash with fury at this interruption. Instead he put his arm around the girl and held her against him in a gesture so tender and protective that the captal swallowed hard.

  “What is it, my good de Grailly?” John said. “Have you come to be thanked for your wondrous hospitality?” He smiled and bending his head laid his cheek for a moment against Katherine’s hair. “We will not need paradise, I think, my Katrine, after Chateau la Teste.”

  The girl raised her brilliant eyes and moved in her lover’s arm, as though she nestled closer.

  The captal cleared his throat. “I came, my lord, because you told me to. It - it is now Thursday night. There are - are many urgent matters awaiting you at Bordeaux.” He saw the wincing that passed over the girl’s face and added uncomfortably, “May I have a few words with you, my lord?”

  The Duke started to refuse, but Katherine, clutching her white robe around her, slipped from his arm, and giving the captal a proud tremulous smile, walked back into the bedchamber.

  “She’s of a great beauty, your little Swynford, mon duc,” said the captal, recovering his aplomb now that Katherine was gone. “I congratulate you on a delicious interlude. I deeply regret to wrest you out of it.”

  The Duke looked at him strangely, and said, “She is my heart’s blood. My life. I want nothing but her.”

  “Doux Jesu!” murmured the captal He walked to the wine flagon and pouring himself a goblet full, drank it hastily. “The Castilian commissioners have returned with the signed contracts and ring, Your Grace. You are now formally betrothed to the Queen of Castile. The marriage is set for the Feast of Saint Matthew in the church at Roquefort as you commanded.”

  The Duke said nothing. Lines drew themselves around his mouth. His eyes grew harsh, the face which had been glowing and young as Katherine’s showed all of his thirty-one years.

  “Yesterday,” pursued the captal, “John Holland of Kent arrived from England with wedding presents and letters from the King’s Grace, your father, and the Prince of Wales. I have brought them to you - I had,” he added, “a bad time hiding your whereabouts. At last I told them you were fulfilling a secret vow. It is a vow to Saint Venus, pardieu!” He chuckled and slapped his thigh, then sobered at the look in the Duke’s eyes.

  The captal opened his pouch and extracting two folded parchments, each impressed with red ribbon and large royal seals, held them out to the Duke, who stared at them in silence without taking them.

  The man is bewitched, thought the captal, uneasily. “Be reasonable, my lord. One must never let one’s little pleasures interfere with the really important affairs of life. Nor have I ever known you do so before. John Holland says that in England they buzz with excitement about your marriage. The people seem much pleased at the alliance.”

  “The devil take the commons - what care I for them? And the devil take my marriage,” said the Duke. He looked towards the arras which covered the door of their bedchamber. “The thought of Costanza sickens me!”

  The captal was shocked. He gulped the rest of his wine while wishing passionately that some eloquent man like Guichard d’Angle or even de la Pole could deal with this dangerous frame of mind.

  “Costanza is but means to an end, mon duc” he said at last. “She means Castile. You will be King.” Aha touche, thought the captal as he saw the blue eyes flicker. He belched with relief, settled his girdle over his paunch and continued. “Once married and in England, you may naturally do as you please. The little Swynford need not leave you. It isn’t as though she were someone you might marry.”

  The Duke’s tall body slumped. He flung himself in a chair and gazed down at the fresh jasmine petals which were strewn amongst the rushes. “You speak twofold truth, captal,” he said after a silence. “I could never marry her and she must never leave me.”

  “Ah bon, so all will arrange itself,” laughed the captal. He tore the leg off a raisin-stuffed capon that stood untouched on the table, amused to see that little of the excellent food his cook had sent up to the lovers had been eaten. “We’ll set out for Bordeaux, then, at daybreak? Your Council will be waiting you at nine.”

  “No,” said the Duke. “I’ll not go to Bordeaux tomorrow. Nor for a fortnight.”

  The captal put down his capon leg. “But my lord-“

  “For two more weeks, Katrine and I shall be alone together. I’m going to take her to the Pyrenees.”

  “Pitie de Dieu! But you can’t!” stammered the captal. “What would people say? And there’s no time, the wedding arrangements - this is folly!”

  John got up from the chair and lifted his eyebrows. “You forget, de Grailly, whom you are addressing!”

  The captal flushed and murmured apology while he thought, These English - they are mad. Sentimental, stiff-necked fools, God pity them. He cannot go running around the country with his harlot just now, it’s imbecile. Fraught with clanger too, political and personal.

  But the captal found there was no help for it. The Duke gave him minute instructions and ended the interview by calling “Katrine” in a voice of intense longing.

  The lovers left Chateau la Teste the next noon, headed for the south, and dressed as a nondescript couple of pilgrims, John in the brown sackcloth he had used earlier when he found Katherine at the cathedral, and she in a short green kirtle and cape which had come from a chest in the keep. Green was the colour of true love and they were delighted with the find. With them on the journey went two of the captal’s men, a shepherd and a blacksmith,
both sturdy fellows well acquainted with the nearly trackless wastelands they must traverse, but of wits too dull to question this expedition or the couple they escorted.

  Nirac did not accompany his master, as he had expected to do when he heard of the plan. Even had Katherine’s lightest request not been law to John at that time, he himself felt less affection for Nirac than he used to. The little Gascon had lost his charm and impudent smile, he had received the Duke’s orders to return to Bordeaux in heavy silence. His eyes were bloodshot, his sallow skin had a grey tinge, so that John had said kindly, “Have you a fever, Nirac? You don’t look well. You must rest till I return. Here,” and he gave him a gold noble, “a little reward for your many services.”

  “For my services, mon duc” Nirac repeated in a peculiar tone. The Duke glanced at him, but though he heard something like “You know not what service I’ve rendered you,” he dismissed it as a vagary.

  When they left the courtyard of La Teste, Katherine rode pillion behind John on Palamon. As she glanced back in farewell towards the round tower where she had known rapture, she saw Nirac standing against the wall apart from the stableboys who had gathered in the court.

  Nirac’s little monkey face was twisted as though he were crying. It was turned up towards the oblivious Duke, but when the Gascon felt Katherine’s gaze, his glance shifted to her and she waved to him in sympathy, feeling something of Nirac’s miserable jealousy. He did not wave back and at that distance she could not be sure, but it seemed as though his eyes glinted at her with sudden bleak hatred.

  This distressed her for only a second, then she forgot him. Her arms tightened around John’s waist and she leaned her cheek on his shoulder. Beneath the musty harsh sackcloth she sensed the warmth of his skin and its cleanly male tang of bergamot.

  He raised one of her hands from his girdle and kissed the palm, then turned and smiled at her. “You are happy, sweet heart?”

  “Happy, my dearest lord.”

  “Nay, Katrine, for these-” He could not bear to put a term to the time they would be like this together, nor had she asked. They spoke of nothing but each other and their love. “For this journey I am not your ‘Lord,’ we are but John and Katherine, a respectable couple bound like many another on pilgrimage to Compostela. We are nothing else.”