"Lancaster! Lancaster!" yelled a hundred voices, and John flushed. "Lancaster's the worthiest knight!"
It was the first time he had heard himself acclaimed by the mob, and he found it unexpectedly sweet. The King, his father, was immensely popular, of course, and Edward, Prince of Wales, was an idol. Even Lionel, the great blond giant who now sat good-naturedly grinning at his brother, had always, except in Ireland, enjoyed public admiration.
But John was a third son, and the most reserved of all Edward and Philippa's brood. He could inspire deep devotion amongst his intimates, but he had not the gift of easy camaraderie. He knew that most people, and certainly the common folk, thought him haughty and cold. He had been quite indifferent to their opinion, but now at the continuing shouts he felt a pleasant warmth.
He rode over to Blanche's loge and looked up at her smiling. "Well, my dearest lady," he said, "did you enjoy the tournament?" He looked very boyish with his ruddy gold hair tousled by the helmet, streaks of dirt on his cheeks and a happy look in his brilliant blue eyes, which gazed only at Blanche. He had not seen Katherine down on the platform, and he ignored the other admiring ladies around his wife.
"You were wonderful, my lord," said Blanche softly, leaning over the parapet towards him. "Listen how they shout for you. Grand merci to the Blessed Saint John who protected you from harm."
Oh, yes, thought Katherine fervently, gazing at the Duke. A strange pain twisted her heart, and she looked away quickly.
Blanche caught the motion of Katherine's head. "Is young de Cheyne all right?" she asked, leaning closer to her husband whose tired horse now stood quiet next to the parapet. "I couldn't understand just what happened, but Sir Hugh-"
"- is a dangerous fool," snapped John, his face darkening. "I shall deal with him. Though it's that wretched girl's fault."
"Hush, my lord," cried Blanche, glancing swiftly at Katherine. "The poor child's not to blame."
It was then that John saw her sitting below his wife's chair. Her grey eyes with their long shadowing lashes were gazing out over the lists towards the distant oaks. In one quick angry glance he saw the change her new clothes had made in her, the long creamy neck exposed and the velvet flesh in the cleft of her breasts, which were outlined by the tight green bodice. He saw the dimple in her chin and the voluptuous curve of her red lips, he saw the tiny black mole high on her cheek where the rose faded into the gleaming white of her innocent forehead. He saw the rough, reddened little hand, the great beryl ring on the middle finger. She was sensuous, provocative, glowing with colour like a peasant, and it seemed to him an outrage that she should be ensconced here next to his Duchess.
"Apparently you have no interest in the fate of your chevaliers, madamoiselle de Roet," he called in a tone of stinging rebuke.
Fresh dismay washed over Katherine. The unkindness of his voice did not hurt her so much as the stab of her own conscience. For it was true, she had been thinking not of her betrothed or the charming young man to whom at the convent she had given so much thought. She had been immersed in a sudden fog of loneliness, unable to look at the soft expression of the Duke's eyes as they gazed up at his lovely wife. What's the matter with me? she thought, and she turned her head with her own peculiar grace and said quietly, "I am indeed concerned for Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, my lord. How may I best show it?"
John was silenced. The girl's poise showed almost aristocratic breeding, though she came of yeoman stock. And it was true that she could not run down to the leech's tent amongst all the disrobing men and find out for herself. He beckoned to one of his hovering squires, but the young man already had the required information, having just come from the pavilions.
He said that Roger de Cheyne, though faint from loss of blood, would recover, the stars being propitious. The King's leech, Master John Bray, had poulticed the neck wound. Sir Hugh Swynford was uninjured except for a twisted wrist and a bone or two broken in his hand, as a result of the Duke's blow. He had refused the services of the surgeon and gone at once to his tent.
John and all those near enough to hear the squire listened attentively and nodded approval. A gratifying tournament, few casualties and probably no deaths. At least today. Everyone knew that injuries bred fever and putrefaction later, but the outcome would depend on a man's strength, the skill of the physician and his ability to read the astrological aspects aright.
"Farewell, my sweet lady," said the Duke to his Blanche. "I'll see you at the banquet." Ignoring Katherine and the rest of the Duchess's entourage, he trotted his horse off towards the pavilions. It was necessary to punish Hugh in some way for flagrant transgression of the rules, but the heat of John's anger had passed. Poor Swynford was bewitched and doubtless couldn't help his behaviour. Besides, a fierce and vengeful fighter was invaluable in war, however improper at a tourney.
And war was now John's great preoccupation. War with Castile. A deed of arms so chivalrous as to reduce these little jousts and melees to the pale counterfeits they were.
That very morning four knights, Lord Delaware, Sir Neil Loring and the two de Pommiers had arrived at Windsor from Bordeaux bearing official letters from Edward the Prince. There had been no time for the King to digest these letters yet, but John had read them. They contained an impassioned plea from his brother, asking for help in righting a great wrong. All of England must help, all of Christendom should help, in restoring King Pedro to his throne and driving out the odious usurping bastard, Henry Trastamare. King Pedro and his young daughters had been reduced to ignominious flight, and had to throw themselves on Edward's mercy at Bordeaux and beg for help, reminding him most pitifully of England's long-time alliance with Castile. That rightful anointed kings should find themselves in such desperate plight must move every royal heart to valorous response and to arms! That was the gist of the Prince's letters, and certainly John's own heart had responded at once.
He burned to distinguish himself in battle as his elder brothers did. His military role, so far had been unimpressive, through no fault of his own, but he chafed under the memories.
At fifteen he had gone to France with his father, full of hope that he might find glory in another Crecy as his brother Edward had done nine years before. But this French campaign bogged down into a welter of plots and counter-plots. King Jean of France blockaded himself behind the walls of Amiens and would not fight; it was all anticlimax and disappointment. King Edward knighted young John anyway, but there was no glorious deed of arms to give the ceremony savour, and the King, moreover, was preoccupied with trouble in Scotland.
The English returned home in a hurry, prepared to subdue the impudent Scots who had, as usual, seized any opportunity to capture Berwick. John was jubilant again. The Scots would do as well as the French as a means to prove his courage and new knighthood. Again he was disappointed. Berwick, unprepared for a siege, gave up at once, and then the infamous Scottish king, Baliol, surrendered his country to King Edward for two thousand pounds, and the English marched unchecked to Edinburgh, burning and looting as they went.
There was nothing in this moment of Scotland's abasement to thrill a boyish heart, fed on the legends of King Arthur's days, and fretting to prove himself the perfect knight. But in Edinburgh he at least had a glimpse of chivalry. His father, the King, had intended to burn Edinburgh as a final and conclusive punishment for the Scots. But the lovely Countess of Douglas flung herself weeping before the angry conquerors, imploring him to spare the city.
And the King had listened, had raised the sobbing beauty and kissed her on the forehead in token of gallant submission. Young John himself had been one of those sent to check the soldiers and their flaming torches. That day he had conceived affection for the city they had spared, and surprised admiration for the Scots, whom he had previously thought to be uncouth monsters.