Hawise was grimly disapproving. "You're full young and brash, m'lad, to have the care of our lady here, there'll be a rough crowd jammed into Paul t'see the fun. Can you keep her from harm?"
"That I can, you old mulligrubber," said Robin, chucking Hawise under the chin. "You know well," he said, giving Katherine a soft yearning glance, "I'd give my life for her gladly, if 'twere needed."
"Humph," said Hawise with an unwilling smile, "sheep's eyes, calf talk - nay, lady dear, ye mustn't wear that gown!"
Katherine, hardly listening to them, had pulled the gorgeous apricot velvet robes from her travelling coffer and was smoothing down the ermine bands. She looked up astonished, then flushed. She had been following instinct in planning to make herself beautiful, but she knew that Hawise was right.
"The old grey woolsey, and your plain russet mantle," said Hawise with decision, lifting these garments from the coffer and shaking them out. " 'Twere best ye be not noticed, an' ye must go."
Katherine and Robin arrived early at St. Paul's, but it was already jammed. The mayor and his aldermen, and their wives, filled the choir aisles; while packed around them stood members of the great guilds: the vinters, the goldsmiths, the mercers, the grocers, all recognisable by their banners.
The largest nave in England had St. Paul's, but it would not hold all the Londoners who wished to see their bishop defy the Duke of Lancaster. Folk clambered on the tombs, they clung to the windowledges and the carved-stone traceries of the pillars, but still more kept pressing in.
Robin shoved and coaxed and threatened until he got Katherine nearer to the Lady Chapel. Here all the bishops were assembled around Sudbury, the gentle old Archbishop of Canterbury, who looked and doubtless felt distressed, for he was ever a man of peace. Robin put his hands around Katherine's waist, and, blushing a little at this liberty, lifted her to a high perch between two iron bars of a chantry.
Katherine looked first towards Blanche's tomb, and could see the brightly painted stone canopy and the wrought-iron grille that enclosed her chantry, but not the lovely alabaster face. Still she felt comforted by her nearness to Blanche.
They waited a long time, and the crowd grew restless. There were stampings of feet and impatient whistles, when high in the tower above them Paul's great bell began to clang.
Katherine craned forward and saw William Courtenay. Bishop of London, appear majestically on the choir steps. He held his crosier at arm's length to rest the tip on the tapestried carpet, and stood like a Roman general, awaiting the homage of a conquered people.
Then she heard shouts at the great door. Her head turned with a thousand other heads to look down the nave. She saw a stocky man in armour covered by a surcote embroidered with blue lions. He waved a white staff and shouted, "Get out o' the way, you scurvy knaves." His arms threshed like flails, and she saw him pound someone's head.
"Who is it?" Katherine whispered.
Robin, standing on tiptoe, answered, "Percy, with his marshal's staff. The people won't give way for him."
The Bishop of London descended the choir steps and called out angrily to Percy, "What entrance is this you make into the House of God! Throw down your staff or by St. Paul himself I'll have you thrown out!"
Katherine did not hear the answer, for behind Percy and topping him by a foot, she saw John. The Duke stood where a ray of amber sunlight streamed through the painted glass of the western window on to his head. The blue and red velvet of his sleeves, the three ermine tabs on his chest, the lilies and leopards of his surcote, the gold of his coronet all glowed in a soft yellow nimbus, while his face seemed to shine. Humility struck Katherine, even shame that she had dared to expect love from such a man as this.
But then the Duke strode forward, pushing past Percy, and hurried to the choir steps. She could hear nothing that was said, but she saw that he shouted something to the bishop, who shouted back, and that there was great wrath between them.
The Duke plunged again amongst the muttering people and led forward Wyclif and four friars. The priest walked sturdily with downcast eyes and the crowd fell back, for many of them had listened to him preach and many admired him. It was not Wyclif that they feared.
Wyclif entered the Lady Chapel and the people surged forward again. They climbed up on to each other's shoulders so as to see. Katherine's view was blocked but not her knowledge of what was taking place, for those in front called back to others and murmurs blew like wind throughout the church. "The Duke demands a seat for Wyclif! Our bishop will not allow it!" - "Now Percy shakes his fist in the bishop's face" - "The Archbishop seems to plead and try to calm them but no one listens" - "Now by God's body - Lancaster-"
"Oh, what's happening?" cried Katherine in an agony. She heard nothing but "Lancaster" as a sullen roar like mounting surf beat to the vaulting of the church.
Robin cried, "I cannot tell. Sweet lady, I must get you out from here-" But he saw no way to move her through the throng.
A great fellow in a leather jerkin called out, "The Duke threatens our bishop - Jesu, he's drawn his sword - Lancaster would kill - -"
"Kill - kill - kill-" Like the senseless repetitions of a nightmare, a thousand voices bawled the word. There was a sharp crack of wood from the rood screen as the mob heaved against it. The tapers rocked in their holders. A woman screamed.
"Quick!" cried Robin, "we'll try for that door." He scooped Katherine off her perch and holding her tight in his left arm edged backward along the wall to a small recessed door. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he found that it was open. He pushed Katherine through. They were in the cloisters. From there a gate led to the churchyard and through the gravestones on to Watling Street.
Katherine had obeyed her squire blindly, so frightened by that roaring mob that she could not think. But in the street she clutched Robin's arm and cried, "What will happen to him? Jesu, we can't leave here like this."
"No harm can befall our Duke," cried Robin fiercely, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "I must get you to safety - 'twere madness to stay in there, 'twould do no good-"
"Yes, yes," she cried, "then take me to the Pessoners in Billingsgate - 'tis near. Hurry, Robin, hurry - so you may go back - -"
He nodded instantly and they ran together through the streets towards the Bridge until they came to the fishmonger's half-timbered house on Thames Street.
"Lady Katherine!" cried Dame Emma in amazement as she opened to their frantic knocks.
"Let me stay here," panted Katherine. "Robin, run back and see - then tell me-" She sank on to the settle by the bright fire and struggled to catch her breath.
Dame Emma was alone, the children were working on the fish wharf, the maids all in the brewhouse grinding malt. The dame let Katherine recover on the settle while she went to the still-room for a bunch of dried sage, prime remedy for nervous upsets. When the brew was cool enough, she brought it to Katherine and made her drink it with the same kind firmness that Hawise had inherited.
"Cock's bones, m'lady, what's ado?" she said then, her smile as warming as her applewood fire. "Is't some trouble at Paul's?" she added, and her smile faded, for her husband Guy, and Jack Maudelyn too, had gone to see the trial.
Katherine explained quickly and Dame Emma shook her head. "There'll be cracked pates and brasted bones if no worse, the City's been heaving like a pot o' porridge these past months. This'll boil it over. I pray me goodman keeps his wits, though I've scant hope o' Hawise's Jack - sore as a bear on a chain is Jack."
Katherine did not answer; she twisted her hands together and looked continually towards the window hoping for Robin's return. She sipped the sage brew, she wandered about the cheerful low-ceilinged room, presently she sat down by Dame Emma and despite the good dame's protests helped her with the cracking and picking out of hazel nuts. Dame Emma thought how those white soft hands had once been rough and red with chilblains, and of the frightened fifteen-year-old bride who had so touched her heart and Hawise's.