Richard turned whispering to his mother. "Why does my uncle of Lancaster kneel to me?"
"Because you will be King of England, Dickon - when-"
She glanced at the old man humped over in his chair. "Some day." She looked down at her brother-in-law, and her tear-blurred eyes were beseeching. "God pity us, John," she said, "and you must pity us. Who is there but you who can protect us now that my dear Lord is dead?"
"I have vowed to protect you, my sister, and Richard shall be - by reason of his holy birthright - ever first with me and before my own son."
"I believe you," she said after a long moment.
For Katherine, the summer months were slow and heavy with longing. Kenilworth, scarce three days' journey from London, was not isolated. Messengers went back and forth to the Savoy, and Katherine had the comfort of brief letters from the Duke, but she did not see him. She knew that he loved her, yet she knew too that he threw himself into whatever aspect of his life was uppermost with single-minded vehemence, and the news that came through from London made clear the enormous pressure put upon him now.
Parliament sat on until mid-July. And there were the multitude of duties and arrangements resultant from the Prince of Wales' woeful death. And the King was ill, had taken to his bed at Havering-atte-Bower, pining for the banished Alice more than for his dead son, so the people whispered. The Duke was virtually regent of England.
Katherine strove to be reasonable. She played with her babies; she supervised the studies and games of the older children; she sat embroidering with Philippa and their women; and often they all rode out with the hounds and bows and the Duke's foresters to hunt the roebuck. Katherine had become a fair shot herself under the Duke's tutelage, and even Philippa enjoyed the chase.
The months passed, and Katherine lived for the receiving and writing of letters. She had mastered writing now, had practised with the children while they learned from an elderly friar. She wrote to John of the children, and frankly of her love and longing, and she wearied him with no reproaches.
At last, at the beginning of September, a messenger arrived from the Savoy and bore joyful news. The Duke summoned Katherine and some of the household down to London.
"Ma tres chere et bien-aimee," the Duke wrote to her in French, as he always did, and told her that he could not yet leave London; but it would not be improper if she as governess accompanied his daughters on the occasion of the annual obituary service for their mother, the Duchess Blanche, at St. Paul's. He directed that she leave her Swynford children and the two Beaufort babies at Kenilworth with their nurses, since the London air was not so healthful for little ones as that of Warwickshire; and he ended with an enigmatic little quotation which was private to them.
"Il te faudra de vert vestir" he wrote, and she finished it aloud, laughing softly, "c'est la livree aux amoureux," thinking of the first time they had said it to each other at the Chateau la Teste when she had worn the green kirtle as they started for the Pyrenees.
"Ay, now ye'll be merry as a popinjay again and juicy with love like a plum," said Hawise, acidly coming into the solar with an armful of Katherine's white silk shifts and glancing at the letter. "Well, when does he come?"
"He doesn't. We're going to the Savoy instead."
"Peter! That's a new betaking!" Hawise's sandy eyebrows shot up. "Will it not cause talk, an ye go to London?"
Katherine's glowing face hardened. "What more fitting than that I should pay respect to the memory of my beloved Duchess?"
Ay, you've no cause to fear her, Hawise thought, but what of the other Duchess? And she said, "There may be discomfortable things for ye to meet down there, sweeting."
Katherine lifted her chin. "I must chance it. Dear God, Hawise" - she turned with sudden passion -"do you not remember how long I've been parted from him?"
Katherine, the two ducal daughters, Hawise and a score of household servants journeyed down to London four days later.
Blanchette cried frantically when her mother left, but Tom did not even bother to say farewell, having embarked at dawn on a rabbit-snaring expedition with one of the Deyncourt boys.
Katherine worried about Blanchette for some time as they rode along the causeway and around the mere to cross the Avon. Beside the river bridge there stood a tavern; on its swinging sign was painted the Duke's arms. She gazed lingeringly, thinking that despite the thousands of times she had seen it this blazon never failed to give her a thrill of delight. And she forgot Blanchette.
At first the arrival at the Savoy was dismaying. She had not remembered how vast it was, how filled with people and commotion. Numerous as were the household officials, those of the chancery were greater. And, too, at the Savoy, most of the Duke's retinue were quartered. Katherine was given a chamber to herself near the falcon mew and close to the ducal suite, but she felt nearly as remote from him as she had when first she stayed here at the Beaufort Tower seven years ago.
Hawise helped to dress her in green satin trimmed with seed pearls, and then Katherine waited two hours in her room without word before a page tapped on her door to say that His Grace wished her to come to the Avalon Chamber.
He sat writing at the well-remembered carved-oak table frowning at a private missive to Wyclif, which he did not wish to dictate to a clerk. But he flung his pen into the sand cup and jumped up to give her greeting. He held out his arms and she ran to him with a low cry of joy.
He laughed, holding her from him, looking at her so that her pulses pounded. "And so you're wearing green, dear heart, as I asked - and I too." He pointed to the lining of the dagged sleeves of his brocaded robe. "We'll do full justice to love's colour, won't we, Katrine!" He put his hand on her breast and kissed her avidly.
He lifted her and carried her to the great crimson velvet bed which stood by the Avalon tapestry.
Before the honied oblivion overwhelmed her, she thought of that other time so long ago when he had carried her to this bed, and she had denied him with fear and anger. How strange that she had done so. For the space of the thought's flash she could not remember the reason. But it was because of Hugh, was it not? The answer seemed to her as flatly meaningless as a problem on the abacus. More than Hugh though, she had been full queasy of conscience in those days, a priggish child. But she could not remember what that girl had felt.
When their bodies were close they often caught echoes from each other's minds, and John, seeing the faint shadow in her languorous eyes, said, "Ay, darling, I never thought we'd be here like this, that other time when you ran from me." He laughed low in his throat. "Nor did I guess how hot a love my pope-holy little nun could show, though 'tis true she has the hidden mark of Venus." He kissed a certain small brown mole.
Quick rose dyed her cheeks, she pushed him away from her with mock anger, yet her voice trembled as she said, "You reproach me, my Lord? You would have me more coy? Maybe I should check your desire with stern looks and remind you that this is a fast day, and for conscience' sake we must abstain!"
At this he laughed again, with tenderness. "Do you think my love could have been held so close by a cold and canting woman?" He seized her hands as they pushed against his chest and holding them pinioned wide apart, looked down at her teasingly, and then with the darkening grimness of passion until her lips parted and she ceased to struggle.
The Duchess Blanche's Requiem Mass was to be held on her death day, September 12. A week at the Savoy had passed in a delicious haze. Taking their cue from their lord, the courtiers showed no recognition of Katherine's actual position, but there was an undercurrent of indulgent approval of the lovers. And except for the few of the ladies who were jealous of her beauty and would have liked to enjoy the Duke's favours themselves, she was treated with respect. It was a happy week. One day they held a fete champetre in the famous gardens. Tables strewn with thyme and loaded with simple country fare were set up beneath the rose arbours, and later the lords and ladies, glowing from the ale they had drunk, girded up their velvet robes to dance the Hey and cut other rustic capers.