Long Will kicked his roan, which leaped ahead. He hurried them on until they passed near the royal palace at Sheen, deserted now except for a few varlets, since King Edward seldom used it as a residence, preferring Windsor, Woodstock or Eltham when he was not at Westminster. But Sheen was a small, pretty castle floating like a swan on its broad shining moat, and it put Will in a fine humour for the gatekeeper's daughter was a buxom lass, coy enough to make good sport, and she would doubtless be found at Windsor for the merrymaking.
On the following afternoon, Monday the twentieth of April, they finally reached Windsor, and during the last hour's ride, the road was so thronged they could scarcely move at all. Long Will's voice grew hoarse from shouting, "Make way! Make way for the Queen's messenger!"
From all the nearby shires, from as far away as Northumberland and Devon and Lincolnshire, the people were flocking to celebrate St. George's Day at Windsor. Weeks ago the King's heralds had galloped throughout the country proclaiming the great tournament and inviting all valorous knights to come and participate. There would be tilting at the quintain and other knightly games; there would be jousts and challenges, and there would be a climaxing tourney, or melee, for all contenders. Most of the knights had arrived at Windsor some days ago, and the lesser ones who could not be accommodated in the castle were already encamped on the plain below the walls in a bivouac of multi-coloured tents; many had brought their ladies and all, of course, their squires.
But the common people, though not specifically invited, were welcome, too. For these, five hundred oxen were roasting at charcoal fires dotted around the fields, vats of beer had been . set up, and a thousand loaves of barley bread already baked for distribution.
While Long Will expertly wormed his way through the streets of Windsor towards the castle gate they were jostled by prosperous merchants, beggars, palmers with cockleshells in their broad hats, whores in hoods of scarlet ray, respectable goodwives with their children, mummers and gleemen, all clamorous with holiday mood.
Katherine was a little frightened by the noise and confusion, and Dame Cicily was in tears as usual. Her habit had been caught by the gold spur of a passing knight as he shoved his horse impatiently through the press and now a jagged rip divided the black wool and shamefully exposed her skinny leg, fumble as she might to hide it. Even Long Will was disconcerted as he manoeuvred his charges, and said, "God's bones, ladies, I don't know where they'll lodge you for I swear there'll not be a cranny vacant in the castle."
Only the little prioress was imperturbable. "We will wait inside the gates," she said majestically, "until you make known our arrival to the Damoiselle de Roet's sister, who will doubtless have made provision for us."
So they rode through the portcullis to the lower ward and huddled in a corner by the curfew tower near a black-gowned clerk who fidgeted impatiently while he also awaited answer to some message he had sent.
Long Will dismounted, threw his reins to a stable urchin and disappeared.
This great paved courtyard was as full of confusion as the streets. Mounted knights and squires continually came and went, servants ran panting from building to building, a noble lady arrived in a gilt and blazoned chariot, was received by a blowing chamberlain and vanished through one of the myriad doors. Suddenly there was a greater flurry and a flourish of trumpets. Two boys in white livery marched through the gate, one bearing a jewelled mitre and the other a crozier.
They were followed by a plump, red-faced man in gold-embroidered robes, riding on a large grey horse. The Prioress Godeleva uttered an exclamation. She slid down off Bayard, pulling Katherine with her. " 'Tis the Bishop of Lincoln," she whispered and knelt on the paving-stones. Dame Cicily copied her prioress while tugging frantically at her torn habit.
Here and there throughout the courtyard others knelt too. John Buckingham, the bishop, smiled vaguely around, raising two fingers in blessing. Then his eye caught sight of the nuns and he looked startled. He rode over to them.
"Whence come you, Reverend Mother?" he asked Godeleva sharply, having noted her ring of office. "Are you of my flock?"
"No, my lord," said Godeleva. "We come from Sheppey Priory in Kent."
"Oh, the south-" said the bishop, losing interest. Had they come from his own diocese it would be necessary to inquire into the appearance of two nuns in such worldly surroundings, but he was relieved that no steps need be taken, for he was hungry and impatient to be housed.
"We have permission, my lord," said Godeleva. "I bring this girl here at the Queen's command."
"Ah." The bishop glanced down at Katherine, of whom he could see nothing but a cheap green woollen hood, for her head was properly bowed. But he noted her hands, which were very dirty and ringless.
"Some charity wench of the good Queen's no doubt," he said with a condescending laugh, dismissing them all. He murmured "Benedicite," and rode back to his waiting coterie.
Katherine flushed. There was enough truth in the bishop's careless statement to sting. I'm not a charity wench; my father was knighted, she thought hotly and she rose from her knees, staring after the bishop with no proper Christian humility. There were lesser priests around him, all fluttering and fawning except one, who stood apart. This priest wore doctoral robes and a four-cornered hat, and his brooding eyes, deep-set above a huge, hooked nose, were fixed on the magnificent Lord Bishop of Lincoln with a certain irony, visible even to Katherine, who therefore felt sudden interest.
"I wonder who that is?" she said to Godeleva, pointing discreetly; but before the prioress, who did not know, could answer, the clerk behind them spoke.
" 'Tis Master John Wyclif, that was King's chaplain."
"Blessed Virgin!" cried the prioress crossing herself. "Not that priest who's dared defy His Holiness the Pope? Katherine, don't look at him! He's tainted with vile heresy. By Sainte Marie, I've even heard that he wishes to English the Gospels - is't true, Sir Clerk?"
The clerk laughed. "I've heard so. His Lollards, the poor preachers, make all manner of shocking statements to the people."
"Deus misereatur! 'Tis no matter for laughing!" The prioress frowned at the clerk's amused face. She drew Katherine and Dame Cicily away from him, and lectured Katherine apprehensively on the many dangers that must be guarded against in the world. And they continued to wait.
During the next half-hour the girl had ample time to compare her own appearance with that of court ladies who flitted by to become increasingly uncomfortable. The chambress at Sheppey had done the best she could for Katherine, considering that there was no money forthcoming, but the hood and cape were now deplorably travel-stained, and the girl's brown serge kirtle hung loose and baggy like the nuns' habits and was unredeemed by lacings of fur or embroidery. Katherine's courage ebbed very low as time went on. The great folk passed by without even a glance in their direction, and she began inwardly to echo Dame Cicily's lamentations.
"Oh, Reverend Mother, they've forgotten us! Perhaps it was all a jest or a mistake! We were never meant to come! Would that we were safe back at Sheppey! O Merciful Blessed Lady and kind Saint Sexburga, don't desert us!"
"Hush," said the prioress sharply. "Here is Long Will now."
Long Will loped down the ward and behind him there hurried a small .plump girl with a worried smile. She was dressed in a blue robe trimmed with squirrel and her dark hair was looped in tight braids on either side of her round earnest face.
She curtsied to the prioress, then peered at Katherine. "Est-ce vraiment toi, ma soeur?" she said uncertainly.