Both these ladies were women of mature years with a nice appreciation of their own consequence. As Katherine squeezed herself down beside them they received her flustered apologies with cold astonishment.
"Who in the world-" said Lady de Houghton to her friend, not bothering to lower her voice. Dame Pernelle shrugged, and both stout ladies, breathing heavily, for it was warm under the canopy, looked down their noses at Katherine and waited.
"Katherine de Roet, sister to Philippa la Picarde, Queen's panterer. I've - I've just come to court, my ladies," said Katherine nervously, trying to shrink into the smallest possible bulk.
"Ah-" said Dame Pernelle in a tone of enlightenment.
"The Guienne Herald's daughter, ah yes - one has heard something." She raised her eyebrows significantly and glanced down towards the dais where the Duchess sat in a carved gold armchair.
Katherine, quite aware of the disparaging emphasis on "Herald", said quickly, "My father was knighted on the field at Bretigny, my lady. Shall I move to the end of the bench - it won't crowd you so?"
Suddenly she was rescued, and in a way that silenced the ladies, though in no way decreasing their resentment. The Duchess, turning her chair to accept a cup of wine from a page, caught sight of Katherine, smiled at the girl and, seeing that she looked uncomfortable, raised her pale, bejewelled hand and beckoned.
Katherine, blushing hotly, for those on all the nearest benches craned round to see, most thankfully obeyed the summons and, clambering past the ample knees beside her, ran down the steps to the velvet-coloured platform at the front of the loge.
"Your first tournament, my dear, isn't it?" asked Blanche gently. "Sit here where you can see well." She indicated a cushion on the corner of the platform near her chair.
Katherine's heart melted with gratitude.
The Duchess was today dazzling as the southern May, having dressed to please her husband's taste, in full magnificence of jewels and ermine. Her silver-gilt hair was twined with pearls and she wore her gold and diamond coronet. She smelt of jasmine and Katherine adored her.
Blanche was accustomed to adoration, but she had the warmth of a great lady and she was drawn to the girl. She glanced at the boar-crested betrothal ring on Katherine's childish hand, saw where the tippet had been ripped from the sleeve of her gift, and reconstructed what must have happened.
She leaned down saying, "I wish you happiness, my dear," then turned quickly, her blue eyes focusing on the field as two heralds with trumpets marched solemnly towards each other. Blanche, whose famous father, Henry, Duke of Lancaster, had been the foremost knight in the kingdom, had witnessed many tournaments and appreciated each point of ceremony and honour. She listened intently to the heralds who announced a preliminary joust between John, Baron de Mowbray, and a Gascon knight, the Sieur de Pavignac.
These names meant nothing to Katherine and during the ceremonious exchange between the heralds and pursuivants on each side she had time to look around her.
The lists here at Windsor were very large, with stockades enclosing the hundred-and-fifty-yard field, and permanent loges built in tiers on either side for the spectators. The royal loge, canopied in gold and red striped silk, was in dead centre of the southern side, so that the sun might not bother the royal eyes. The King being present today, the lily and leopard flag fluttered over the canopy.
The Lancastrian loge adjoined the royal one, and Katherine had a good view of the King, who seemed in high spirits, laughing, calling out jests and drinking frequently from a gold and ruby cup presented by one of his squires.
Geoffrey Chaucer was not in evidence because, as Katherine found out later, he had not been able to attend the tournament at all. William of Wykeham, the King's architect, had heartlessly sent Geoffrey on a quick trip to London after the precious pieces of stained glass needed to finish the west window of Henry the Third's renovated chapel in time for the high ceremonial Mass tomorrow.
Nor was Alice Perrers to be seen. The Queen's chair was occupied by the King's daughter, the Princess Isabel de Coucy, and all the surrounding lords and ladies were of the highest rank.
The Queen's waiting-women were huddled together on the last bench of an adjoining loge and Katherine could not have distinguished Philippa at all except that her sister got up and waved at her, accurately expressing by means of the wave her astonishment and approval at seeing her.
Katherine's interest was jerked abruptly back to the lists as there came a roar from the crowd, a fanfare of trumpets from the heralds and a marshal waving his white baton, who shouted, "In the name of God and Saint George, come forth to do battle!" At either end of the lists the squires loosed bridles, and two great destriers thundered towards each other down the field. Clods flew from the hoofs while the riders, with lances poised to aim at the opposing shields, lowered their helmeted heads and braced themselves for the shock.
The crash of wood and metal was deafening, sparks flew from the armour, the crowd shouted approval, which soon changed to a groan of disappointment. At the moment of collision the Baron de Mowbray's charger had veered too far left, the Gascon knight's lance had thus glanced off Mowbray's shield on to his hauberk and, lodging in the joint of the iron roundel which protected his shoulder, prised him out of the saddle, while the stallion was thrown back on its haunches. The baron lay on the ground, a helpless mass of armour. The Gascon knight raised his visor and grinned complacently towards the royal loge.
"Well done!" cried the King, tossing a jewelled medal of St. George towards the victor. "A noble course."
But the crowd of peasants, servants and villeins who had hoisted themselves around the edges of the stockade were not so chivalrous. They booed the foreigner who had unseated their English baron and they booed the discomfited Mowbray, too, as his squires hoisted him on to his feet and he walked angrily off the field.
"That was bad luck for Mowbray - -his destrier is not worthy," said the Lady Blanche judicially. "The beast was frightened." Several of her entourage crowded around agreeing and discussing the best strains for chargers. Katherine listened and learned. She had wondered where the Duke was, and now she heard that he was making ready in the tents. For he was to take part in the final melee.
"I begged him not to," said Blanche, smiling, "and the King nearly forbade it, since the Duke must not risk injury at this time when the Prince of Wales has such need of him, but my lord will not listen. He so loves deeds of arms." She smiled and spoke with a rueful pride, but her eyes were anxious.
"Is it dangerous my lady?*' asked Katherine timidly. "I - I thought the lances were blunted."
Blanche looked down at the girl and thought the concern was for her betrothed. "So they are," she said, "nowadays, but the melee is a mimic battle and there is always danger - when men fight, I suppose. Look, what's this- -"
A knight in brightly polished armour and a covering jupon of blue silk embroidered with tiny deer had ridden up to the barrier in front of the Lady Blanche's loge. His tournament heaume was crested with a stag's head, and he raised the visor as he bowed, disclosing the gay teasing face of Roger de Cheyne. "God's greetings, my Lady Duchess," he called. "I crave a gage from the Damoiselle de Roet to bring me luck in the melee."
Katherine turned as red as fire. She had ignored Roger since the night she had found that he was married, nor indeed had he made any further overtures. His action now sprang as much from a spirit of mischief, and desire to tease Hugh Swynford, as it did from his admiration of Katherine.
"She has a knight to wear her colours already, Sir Roger," said Blanche, seeing that Katherine did not know what to do.