Katherine heard a commotion in the nave, the sound of footsteps on the stone floor, the clink of metal, the rustle of garments. The priest faltered and paused, he swallowed nervously, staring into the back of the church, then he went on hastily with the Mass. Katherine did not turn her head; she felt no curiosity; she fixed her eyes on the gilded dove above the tabernacle, and her lips moved mechanically.
But Hugh turned to see, and she heard him make an exultant sound under his breath. She wondered vaguely why. The Mass went on, the bridal couple communicated. It was over. The priest spread his hands and said, "Benedicite. Go in peace, my children," then surreptitiously cuffed the altar boy who had forgotten his duties and stood staring open-mouthed into the nave.
Hugh should have kissed her then, but he did not. He still held her hand as the priest had joined them, and his grasp tightened as he pulled her sharply around and after him down the aisle.
It was the Duke and Duchess of Lancaster who stood there by the west door. They were most splendidly apparelled in crimsons and gold and jewels, and they each wore their ducal coronets, for they were going to a state banquet later. They lit up the grey church like torches.
"We're deeply honoured, my lord and lady," stammered Hugh, dragging Katherine after him. She pulled her hand from his and curtsied low.
The Duchess smiled. "We thought to wish you well at your wedding.'' It had been by chance that she had heard of it, through the gossip of one of her ladies who knew Ellis de Thoresby, but then her interest in Katherine had revived. She had asked the Duke to accompany her to the church, since it would be a matter of a few minutes only, and been a trifle surprised that he consented so readily, but thought he had decided to reinstate Hugh as a wedding boon. Yet now he did not look at Hugh, nor return his greeting. Instead he stood staring fixedly at Katherine.
"You've not kissed your wife, Swynford," said the Duke in a deep mocking voice. "It seems you need example." He leaned over, with a certain swift grace peculiar to him. He drew Katherine into his arms and kissed her slowly, deliberately, on the mouth. Fire shot through her, and as she gasped, her lips opened under his. In mat instant she felt the hardness of his body under the velvet surcote and melting sweetness flowed through her bones, depriving her of strength. The Duke, feeling her yield, tightened his arms to support her. Then he released her, and laughed. "Her mouth tastes of honey, Swynford. Fortunate you are that you may drink your fill."
He spoke thus tauntingly, and gazed at Hugh with careless arrogance, to hide a perplexing emotion he had felt as the girl's lips opened under his. Not desire, nor surprise that her body should be so tender, though both these thoughts had come to him, but a strange new impulse to protect.
Hugh's face was flushed with anger, knots stood out on his jaw, but he dared say nothing. He grabbed Katherine and gave her a rough, clumsy kiss. She scarcely noticed it. Her whole mind was bent on recovery, on controlling the trembling of her knees, and hiding tears that had stung her eyes as the Duke released her. For shame she could not raise her eyes towards the Duchess. But the Lady Blanche saw nothing out of the way. There were always kissings and sport at a wedding.
And now that they had honoured the couple, the Duchess was anxious to hasten on to the banquet which could not start until they arrived. She held her long white hand out to Katherine, kissed her on the cheek and said, "May God bless your marriage-bed, my dear, and make it fruitful. I'll see you again, no doubt, later this year in Lincolnshire, for I intend going to Bolingbroke when my Lord Duke sails for Aquitaine." Her gracious smile drifted from Hugh and Katherine over the rest of the wedding guests, who stood silently respectful farther up the nave. She slipped her hand through the Duke's arm.
The Duke said "Farewell," and bowing slightly, turned on his heel, his gold spur clinking against a stone column. He found that the thought of Katherine's marriage-bed disgusted him. Nor did he feel as tolerant of Swynford as he had. Were it not for the need of good fighters in Castile-He snapped off these confused thoughts, and with Blanche joined their mounted retinue which awaited them on the street.
In the church porch, the others clustered around the bridal pair and offered awed congratulations. Philippa was delighted at the honour done her sister, and said so repeatedly. "Nearly as grand as though the Queen herself had come! I couldn't believe my eyes!"
Hawise was much excited at having seen these great folk so near. "Was there ever so stalwart and fair a man as the Duke!" she cried to Jack, who did not share her enthusiasm, but scowled, and grumbled that gold, jewels and coronets would make any man look handsome to a foolish woman.
Hawise paid no attention to this and turning to Katherine cried, giggling, "Cock's bones, I just wish it'd been me he kissed on the mouth so - so masterful - like he did you, my lady!"
My lady. Katherine heard her new title with shock. I'm the Lady Katherine Swynford, the wife of a knight. This is my husband. She stole a frightened glance at Hugh but he had turned his back and was conferring acidly with Ellis about a loose girth on his saddle.
Only Geoffrey made no comment on the unexpected appearance of the Lancasters. Perceptive as always, he had seen more in the Duke's kiss and Katherine's reaction to it than a careless gesture, and his eyes had flown in loyal anger to the Lady Blanche's lovely unconscious face.
No, she would never suspect evil. Remote and shining as the moon, no grosser passions touched her. Yet for the first time in his long worship, Geoffrey wondered what it would be like to be mated to the moon, so cool and predictable and exalted. And then he smiled and reproved himself for harbouring foolish whimsies, because he had felt during that moment in the dingy church an odd fear, as though some turbulent, even menacing, force had been set in motion. One that none of these people, not even the all-powerful Duke and Duchess, might be able to withstand.
CHAPTER VI
Katherine's wedding night was spent at a pilgrim inn near Waltham Abbey. Hugh had meant to go farther, but he listened to Katherine's timid plea that she might stop and see the famous shrine of the black cross as they passed by. He was himself now willing to postpone the hour when they would be alone. Nervousness diminished his desire for her and at the thought that he would soon make her wholly his he grew afraid. She seemed to him unearthly beautiful, sitting straight and quiet on the little dappled palfrey he had given her. She had thanked him for the mare with startled gratitude, her voice soft-toned as he had never yet heard it for him. This had caused his heart to quiver and jump like a hare's. Hugh was not in the least devout; he had never bothered to visit any shrine before, but Waltham Abbey was of some interest to him because it was no Norman shrine. It held the bones of Harold, the last Saxon king, and its miraculous black marble cross had been placed here by Tofig, a Danish thane.
As he and Katherine took their place amongst other pilgrims in the abbey, the huge shadowed nave inspired Hugh with awe, while the brass spirals on the thick round columns seemed to writhe at him like snakes. No holy feeling did they engender, but rather a superstitious shrinking that stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. And after they mounted the pilgrim's steps, while he looked up at the black cross, a strange thing happened. Somehow the buckle which fastened his scabbard to the belt had loosened; as he bent his knee, his sword fell to the pavement with a great clatter, then rolled down the steps to the chancel floor, where it lay pointing towards the western door.