"Madam," put in Philippa anxiously, seeing that the Queen's thoughts were beginning to wander again, "Katherine is leaving Windsor tomorrow. She's to be married soon, if it please Your Grace."
"Ah yes," said the Queen. "She must have a little marriage gift, in memory of her brave father. What would you like, child?"
Philippa sighed with relief. She nudged Katherine. "Ask for a purse," she whispered, "money."
But Katherine had yet to learn the importance of money, and besides she still had the silver the Duchess had given her. At this long-awaited audience with the Queen, she thought only of her promise to the prioress, and the moment in the courtyard when the stern mentor of her childhood had looked at her with appeal.
"Your Grace is very kind," she said quickly, not knowing how to express herself. "Could you, would you help Sheppey? The little convent where Your Grace placed me five years ago. They were good to me and they are in need."
"You little fool," hissed Philippa.
The Queen looked startled. "Has Sheppey had no benefices? Did I send nothing for your keep?"
"Not since the day I came there, madam, and I fear I ate a great deal," said Katherine apologetically. "The convent is very poor."
The Queen sat up straighter and spoke with something of her old energy. "You show gratitude and loyalty, child. I'm pleased. Froissart, write an order. We will send Sheppey a tun of Gascon wine and" - she hesitated -"a gift of two marks. Also we will send them" - she thought a moment -"the d'Aubricourt girl as novice. She'll bring a dowry of near a hundred pounds sterling."
Froissart wrote industriously.
"Oh, dearest madam, thank you!" cried Katherine, thinking of the joy these generous gifts would bring to Sheppey. Gascon wine, when they had never been able to afford anything but home-brewed ale! While with two marks they could repair the dangerous minster steeple, buy cloth for new habits, perhaps enough gilt to freshen all the shabby saints' statues.
"And for yourself, my dear," said the Queen, warmed by the girl's unselfishness, but also mindful of the perennial skimpiness of her privy purse, "you shall have something to wear on your wedding day. Matilda," she called, "bring me the little coffer."
Her waiting-woman rose and fetched a small iron-bound casket from one of the great oak chests along the wall. In this were kept the Queen's second-best jewels, chiefly the ones she had brought with her from Hainault. Matilda put the casket on the bed and unlocked it with a key she carried at her belt, then she held a candle down so that the Queen might see. The Queen poked in the casket, turning over buckles and clasps, and little tablets enamelled with pictures of the saints. Several times she fished up a piece of jewellery and hesitated, reluctant to part with any of these souvenirs of her early life, and her interest was ebbing as her bodily discomforts increased. She needed the privacy of the drawn curtains again, and the ministration of her ladies.
"Here then, fillette," she said hurriedly, plucking out a small silver brooch of crudely wrought leaves and vines entwining a motto. "What does the raison say? I've forgotten. Can you read?"
"Yes, madam," said Katherine proudly. She peered at the lettering. "It says, Foi vainquera, I think."
"Ah yes," murmured the Queen, "a good saying. The best. Faith will conquer. Live by it, petite, and take my blessing
Katherine would have kissed the swollen hand once more, but the Queen gave a moan and cried, "Matilda, quick!" The waiting-woman ran to the bed and drew together the heavy brocade curtains.
Once back in their own solar, which was empty for the moment, Philippa began to scold. "Really, Katherine, you might have had a decent present instead of that trumpery little nouche. It isn't worth ten pence."
"But I helped Sheppey," said the girl dispiritedly, "as I promised."
"Oh, no doubt," Philippa shrugged. "Very noble, but you might have done both if you'd had any sense. One must know how to deal with great folk. Now the Queen gave me ten marks for my wedding. Geoffrey'll be delighted." Philippa, pleased by this thought and having rebuked her feckless sister, now' turned briskly to her coffer and began to pack it in readiness for the move to London tomorrow.
Katherine watched her sister's efficient hands folding and stowing linen shifts, veils, hose and towels. She herself had nothing to pack, and her eyes wandered to the window where she could see the tilting field, barren now of gaudy tents and pennants. She sighed. "I wish I were marrying someone like your Geoffrey, or - or, dear God, not marrying at all."
"What rubbish!" Philippa rolled a pair of scarlet wool stockings and stuffed them in a corner of the chest. "Don't start all that again! You wanted to get married. That's why you came to court, instead of taking the veil. And you've had the luck of the angels."
"I suppose so," said Katherine, gazing at her betrothal ring, "but - but - oh, Philippa - aren't you - aren't you ever afraid?" Quick rose stained her skin, and her head bent lower.
"Of what?" Philippa raised her face from the chest to examine her sister. "Oh, you mean the wedding night? They say it isn't bad. Agnes de Saxilby says she just shut her eyes and thought of something else. One gets used to it quickly."
It occurred to Philippa then that her convent-bred sister might well be ignorant of certain pertinent facts, though no one at court could be. She got up from her knees and put her arm around Katherine's shoulders. "You know what happens, of course?" she asked more gently.
Katherine winced. There had been bitches and dogs at the convent, there had been Philo, the manor bull, bellowing in a stockade to which the village cows were brought one by one. And there had been Fat Mab, the convent cook, who swilled ale all day long and loved nothing better than to bawl out hoarse descriptions of the bed-sport of her younger years.
So Katherine was not entirely ignorant, though there was much she did not know and found that she did not wish to know. She said "Yes" hastily, and though grateful for her sister's caress, slid off the bed and made pretence of poking the fire. Philippa did not understand; the unknown held for her no fears that she could not vanquish by common sense. She was handicapped neither by imagination nor a restless yearning for beauty and fulfilment. The image of Hugh's face rose before Katherine, softened now by distance, but bringing with it the familiar repulsion and a faint tinge of pity. Holy Blessed Mother, help me to be a good wife, she thought, but the words were empty.
Katherine and Philippa set out for London on the last day of April with Ellis de Thoresby as escort, and a pack-horse to carry Philippa's coffers. Despite occasional showers, the morning was soft and sweet as honey. The roadside bloomed yellow with buttercups and primroses, pale blue with forget-me-nots.
In many of the villages through which they rode the young lads had stolen time from work and were setting up Maypoles for the morrow. In the larger towns where they had a permanent Maypole, the gilded wheel with its streaming coloured ribbons had already been set on top of the stout oak shaft, and children were practising at twining ribbons while they danced and sang May carols.
How beautiful the world is, thought Katherine, forgetting what lay before her. There had been little beauty and no frolic at Sheppey. High on a bleak hill continually swept by the North Sea winds, neither the convent nor its dependent hamlet had had the spirit for merrymaking.
Much of Katherine's pleasure, too, came from the horse she was riding. It was only a hired one, to be sure, like Philippa's, but it was a stout little brown mare and the first decent horseflesh she had ever mounted. When they passed through the village of Hammersmith and came up with a band of minstrels bound for Westminster Palace and singing to the tinkle of their gitterns, Katherine began to hum with them until she caught the tune and could not help joining in with her fresh, lovely voice.