"Come, child," said Katherine more gently, "why must you always act as though I'd harm you? I love you, and wish you nothing but good. It hurts me when you act like this."
The girl stood motionless on the tiles, her sombre eyes fixed on Katherine.
A tiny green linnet hopped and twittered in a wooden cage though the cage door had been opened. The lute lay on the window-seat next to a quill pen, wet with ink, and a piece of parchment on which there were some straggling characters. Katherine moved to examine them, thinking to please Blanchette with praise for practising her writing. She read the childish letters at a glance.
I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see
Robin is gone
And thinks naught of me.
Blanchette with a muffled cry rushed over and swooped up the parchment. She crumpled it in her shaking hand, while fury flashed in her eyes. She turned on her mother and gasped, "What d-do you w-want of me, my lady?"
Katherine sat down on the window-seat and shook her head. "You mustn't blame me, darling, for things I can't help," she said quietly. "You must believe that all sorrows pass, and what you feel today you won't in a year. And you must believe that I know what's best for you."
The girl said nothing. Her eyes moved from her mother's pleading face to the green linnet, her mouth set in an ugly line. Her fingers clenched the crumpled ball of parchment, and she flung it on the tiles.
She that was the sweetest and the gentlest of children - Katherine thought - dear Lord, why is she like this now? Ay, it must be I've spoiled her. She sighed, then spoke with decision. "Blanchette, Sir Ralph has come. He's in the garden with my lord. Your betrothal shall take place tomorrow."
Blanchette raised her eyes. "I'll n-not," she said through her teeth. "I'll - run away. You'll n-never find me - -" Her voice shrilled and the stammer left her speech. "I'll not do what he says, ever - I swear it by my father's soul!" She crossed herself and her face went white as clay.
"This is wicked folly!" cried Katherine. " 'Tis not what the Duke says, 'tis what I say - -"
She gasped, for Blanchette flung out her arms and shouted, "You lie! And I hate you! You are naught but his creature, you and the scurvy pack of bastards that you bear him!" She turned wildly and stumbling across the room flung herself on her bed.
"Jesu," whispered Katherine. She sat rigid on the window-seat. A black wave submerged her and at length retreated, leaving behind a jutting rock of anger as refuge. She rose and stood by the bed. Blanchette's face was buried in her arms, her shoulders shook but she made no sound.
"This Blanchette, is too much!" Katherine said in a voice of icy control. "God knows if I can ever find it in my heart to forgive you."
Blanchette quivered. She twisted her face slowly around and stared up at her mother, and seeing there anger for the first time in her life, she gave a frightened moan. "Mama," she whispered.
Katherine moved away. Ay, she thought, my patience is at an end. I've put up with her humours, with the hatred she shows to John and me, and her jealousies of my babies. She blames me too that Robin did not love her, and now she speaks to me like that.
"Since you are lost to decency and make wicked threats, Blanchette," she said, "I shall see that you are strictly guarded night and day. One of my serving-maids shall stay here with you, and a man-at-arms remain outside the door. Tomorrow at noon there will be your betrothal to Sir Ralph, and after that I'll send you to a convent until your marriage. You may be thankful that I don't beat you as you deserve." She picked up the hand-bell and rang.
"Mama - -" whispered Blanchette again. She slid off the bed. Her eyes were dark with fear. "I d-didn't m-mean - -"
Katherine answered frigidly, "Think not to wheedle me into softness as you have so often. I've been soft with you too long."
Blanchette drew back a step. She turned her head from side to side, her eyes moved from the green linnet to the window, then back to her mother's face. But Katherine did not look at her.
One by one Katherine took the measures for Blanchette's imprisonment. She summoned a serving-wench, a taciturn Lancashire lass called Mab, and told her not to leave the girl alone a moment. She stationed a man-at-arms outside the door, telling him to enter if the servant should call. She herself bolted the door on the outside as she left. Then she went back to the gardens and told Sir Ralph that he would see Blanchette on the morrow at the betrothal, but that the girl was indisposed at present. The knight was not pleased.
In the Avalon Chamber Katherine tossed and turned that night until John anxiously asked her what ailed her and suggested that a warm sleeping posset be sent for. She reassured him and kissed him. But she did not tell him of what had passed with Blanchette, for never did she disquiet him if she could help it. He held her close in his arms and after a while she slept, soothed by the familiar comfort of his love; but her sleep was filled with confused bitterness.
Blanchette acted throughout the morning of her betrothal like one of the jointed puppets that she played with in her chamber. She let the Lancashire wench and Hawise array her in a gown of myrtle-green satin and embellish her with jewels, her own and Katherine's. She raised her arms and lowered them when they told her to. They twined flowers in her flowing hair and garlanded her with lilies. She never spoke at all or seemed to know what they were doing, but once, when Hawise stood back admiringly and said, "God's blood, my poppet, I vow you're near as fair as your mother was on her bridal day!"
Then a strange look came into Blanchette's eyes - of pain, of fear, of revulsion, Hawise could not tell, but it was a relief to see some awareness there, for the girl seemed as thick-witted as though she had been drugged with poppy juice, for all that her eyes glittered glassy bright and her cheeks were crimson.
When Blanchette was dressed, Hawise went to fetch Katherine who had stayed inflexibly away from her daughter.
"She's ready, my lady," said Hawise, "but I fear she's sickening with something. Her skin's hot as fire to touch, and she do seem strange even for Blanchette."
"Bah!" said Katherine, "there's no more wrong with her than ill temper that she's being made to obey at last. 'Tis not the first time she's acted illness when she wanted her own way."
Hawise knew that this was true, but still she was uneasy and she said hesitatingly, "I hear there's some sickness in t'Outer Ward."
Katherine, who was examining her face in the mirror, preparatory to descending to the garden for the betrothal ceremony, looked up and caught her breath. "Not plague!" she whispered sharply.
"Nay, nay," Hawise crossed herself. "Saint Roch protect us! Some pink-spotted fever 'mongst the children."
"Oh, measles, no doubt," said Katherine returning to the mirror. "I think Blanchette had them long ago, nor has she seen anyone to catch them from. Hawise, you croak like an old raven today."
" 'Tis the toothache," said Hawise gloomily, exploring a jumping molar with her tongue. "I've said all the charms, I prayed to Saint Apollonia, but 'twon't stop. The barber'll have to pull it, like the others, God help me." An agonising prospect sufficient to cause Hawise's general apprehensions, but she had not told Katherine all that she knew of the sickness. It might be measles, but not like cases she had nursed. A little spit-boy had died in the night, screaming with head pain and scarlet as a boiled crawfish, and the page who waited on Blanchette was said to have come down with the fever this morning.
The chapel bell began to ring, in the Outer Ward the clock manikins clanged out the first of twelve strokes.