Katherine (12 page)

There were country folk in leather jerkins returning to their villages and pulling empty carts, having sold their produce at markets in the Chepes. There were richly dressed city merchants, sometimes accompanied by their wives, ambling back to town for supper. There was a splendid painted chariot drawn by two horses and containing an enormously fat and bejewelled Benedictine abbot. There were crippled beggars and noisy young prentices, and there was a street vendor tinkling a bell and urging his wares. "Hot pies! Hot pies! Good sirs and dames, buy me hot pies!"

Katherine looked longingly at the little meat pasties on the pieman's tray and said to Philippa, "Couldn't we get some? I'm so hungry. I have pennies."

But Philippa shook her head. "Save what few pennies you've left from the Duchess' bounty - and if you'd listened to me you might have had
more
than pennies from the Queen. We'll sup soon, when Sir Hugh comes."

Katherine sighed. Her healthy young stomach growled with hunger.

When Hugh finally came galloping up the Strand towards them he was in a black temper from a brawl with a horse-dealer in Smithfield from whom he had just bought a palfrey for Katherine. He was also in some pain from his wounded hand and he did not greet them courteously, though his eyes lightened when they saw Katherine. He merely said, "So you're here! Well, come along, all of you. You're to lodge at Chaucer's. We'll sup there now and I'm in sore need of it." He whacked Katherine's mare on the rump. The horse jumped forward, nearly unseating the girl. He's a churl, she thought furiously. I detest him. God help me.

Hugh leaned over from his saddle and clasped his good hand tight on her thigh. She could feel the heat of it through the green Silk of her skirt. "Katherine," he said roughly, "d'you see that church?"

She moved her leg and pulled the horse away from Hugh's. She said nothing, though she looked at the small wooden parish church ahead.

"That's Saint Clement Danes," he said. "That's where we'll be married Saturday."

"Saturday!" she cried, whitening. "Not
this
Saturday! It's too soon. What of the banns?"

Saturday was the day after tomorrow. A shiver ran down her back, she stared at the church again and her throat closed.

"I had the banns all cried at once on Saint Mark's Day," said Hugh, frowning. "The priest's a Lincoln man and beholden to Swynfords for his living. It's
all
arranged for Saturday morning - Katherine- - -" He put his hand out towards her again, but on seeing her stony profile, he let it drop. He knew not how to woo her, he knew only that with her he became even more harsh and clumsy than usual He had not even wit enough to explain his tardiness, which had been caused for her sake. He suffered bitterly from her repugnance to him, though it increased his desire for her, but he had persuaded himself that once he possessed her she would turn yielding and warm. Young virgins always did, they said. He himself had had nothing to do with decent women, let alone virgins.

They rode along in silence, with Philippa and Ellis behind them. Katherine was turning wild, impossible plans over in her mind. Tonight, from the Chaucer house, she might escape, after everyone was asleep; she would hide somewhere until the city gates opened in the morning, take cover in the greenwood, in Epping Forest; she saw it now, a dark sea of emerald to the north. There must be berries there to eat and maybe kindly outlaws who would help her. She would first find a knife and cut her gown off at the knees so as to run better. She looked down at the Duchess's gift and thought how shocked that gracious lady would be if she knew these wicked plans.

"You've seen my Lady Blanche - and the Duke?" said Katherine coldly at last as they squeezed through Ludgate into the narrow streets of London town.

"No," said Hugh and clapped his lips together. Though he slept in a loft with other knights in a corner of the vast Savoy he had seen nothing of his lord and lady because the Duke was punishing him for his behaviour at the tournament. He had sent Hugh word by a page that Hugh was forbidden to eat in the Great Hall, nor might he wait upon the Duke until after returning from his manor of Kettlethorpe in August. That Hugh must then report at Plymouth, ready to embark for Bordeaux. This punishment was not severe, but Hugh found it galling to his pride and had no intention of telling it to Katherine.

They rode past St. Paul's, and Katherine had no heart to admire the great cathedral of which she had heard so much. The London she had longed to see now seemed to her very cramped and dark and noisy with an earsplitting din from the rattling of carts, street criers and bells clanging for vespers from the hundred and fifty parish churches. She was conscious chiefly of foul smells and increasing weariness. They turned down Thames Street and into the Vintry where Geoffrey's father, Master John Chaucer, lived in a large half-timbered house near St. Martin's church. A cargo of Gascon wine had that day been delivered from off a galley at Dowgate slip, and piled barrels still cumbered the street outside the Chaucer door.

Hugh dismounted and helped Katherine down, though he left Philippa to his squire. He knocked loudly. They waited long for an answer while Philippa looked worried and Hugh remarked under his breath that it was a pity Geoffrey was so little eager to see his own betrothed. Hugh banged again on the door, this time with the hilt of his dagger. A window was thrown open above, and a woman's voice cried, "Hush, for the love of Jesu, hush - there's grave sickness here."

Philippa gave a little cry and crossed herself and they all stood silent for a moment, until at last the door opened softly and Geoffrey himself stepped out. "No, it's not I who is ill, sweetheart," he said to Philippa in answer to her expression. He took her hand and held it in his, then turned to the others. "God's greetings to you, Katherine, Sir Hugh and Ellis de Thoresby. I'm sorry to give you such a poor welcome, but my father has this day suffered a strange kind of fit, he gasps for breath and moans with pain. I fear-" Geoffrey shook his head. His bright little hazel eyes were sad. "We've sent for the parson." He gestured towards the church, and at that moment the priest emerged, treading solemnly, his silver-gilt crucifix held at arm's length before him.

The priest's eyes were half shut and his lips moved in prayer. He was followed by a small acolyte who bore the sacred pyx on a pillow beneath a lace cloth. Geoffrey threw wide the door of his house and fell to his knees, with the girls, beside the doorstep. Hugh and Ellis uncovered and kneeled also. With bowed heads they all .waited while the Sacred Body passed between them and up the stairs to the dying man.

Katherine rose with her rebellious heart somewhat chastened. It had seemed to her that there was a glow of unearthly light shimmering above the shrouded mystery as it passed her so near, and that a voice had spoken to her in reproof. She thought with shame of the mad plans she had made for escape, and guiltily murmured the words of contrition. She kept her head low and stood quietly by the house wall while the others made immediate arrangements.

Philippa, it seemed, would stay here where she could be of help to her future family in these critical hours, but Chaucer had thought Katherine would do better at a friend's house. The abode of death was no place for a bride. The Pessoners in Billingsgate awaited her now, and he directed Hugh to their home. Katherine silently kissed her sister and remounted her mare.

Guy le Pessoner was a wealthy fishmonger, and an important official in that all-powerful guild. His fine house, many-gabled and newly-tiled, stood just past the entrance to London Bridge and had its own dock on the river for the unloading of fish. He had a garden, too, though the roses and lilies that bloomed there made little impression on the all-pervading odour. The Pessoners did not mind; they were a jolly crew and enjoyed life whether it smelled of lilies or herrings, and they welcomed Katherine, Hugh and Ellis most heartily, leading them at once to the Hall where the family were still supping.

The oak board was loaded with joints of beef and mutton, with pigeon pies and boiled capons spiced with ginger and cinnamon. There was a mess of jellied eggs in a wooden dish, white loaves of bread, and great tankards of ale and mead. And for sweets there were honey and almond pastes, nutmeg custards and a basket heaped high with boiled raisins.

Nobody waited for ceremony, all reached and helped themselves, cutting chunks off the roasts with their hip knives, or ladling meat juices on to the bread trenchers with the great dipper. Katherine's hunger was such that she forgot all the prioress' careful schooling and soon was reaching, gulping, smacking with the rest of them. There were a score of people in the Hall, prentices in leather aprons not quite cleansed of fish scales, two maidservants and the large Pessoner family. Large in size as well as in number, from Guy himself, who was built like one of his own herring barrels, and Dame Emma, who was round, firm and red as an apple, through the eleven children to the baby, who brandished fat arms and suckled greedily at Dame Emma's ample bosom. Katherine had never seen such plump and merry people. She noted that even Hugh, who sat beside his host, looked less surly and once or twice when Guy made some ribald joke, Hugh gave a grunt of laughter.

Katherine herself sat on the bench beside Hawise, the eldest daughter, and when everyone had quenched his thirst and Hawise no longer had to keep running down to the cellars for more ale, she had leisure for Katherine, and turned to their visitor with sympathetic curiosity. Katherine satisfied it willingly, saying without visible tremor that she was to be married Saturday morning, and that yes, Sir Hugh, there, was her betrothed.

"Is it so?" said Hawise, examining the knight. "He's naught so bad, young enough, too. I'd mislike an old man's bed - dry as bean straw. Is he rich?"

Katherine laughed. It appeared that all the Pessoners said right out whatever was in their minds. "I - I think so. I don't know rightly," she answered.

Hawise looked startled. Even in her own class no marriage ever took place without a complete airing of all financial matters, and amongst the gentry and nobility she knew that this airing went much further into a pother of jointures and settlements and papers to be signed.

Hawise questioned more and found out all the lonely circumstances of Katherine's life, and her warm heart was touched. She felt drawn to the girl and protective, though she was but two years older.

Suddenly she stroked Katherine's cheek with one finger. "How fair you are,
damoiselle"
she said without a trace of envy. "Sheen as a fairy woman, I trow."

She herself was neither shining nor fair, being a stout, big-boned lass, sandy-haired, freckled as a thrush's egg, and with a front tooth missing. Yet there was about her the wholesome strength of a healthy animal, and a mind for fun and colour that made her very likeable.

After Hugh had taken an inarticulate leave of Katherine, and he and Ellis had returned to the Savoy for the night, Katherine mounted thankfully to the loft over the fish-shop, where she climbed into a big bed beside Hawise and two younger sisters, who were already asleep. She would not see Hugh again until they met at the church door, because it was not seemly to meet during the twenty-four hours before their marriage; and she resolutely tried to forget him.

Hawise started to talk of the wedding, but on seeing that Katherine fell silent and sighed often, the older girl let the topic alone and spoke instead of her own young man. This was Jack Maudelyn, weaver's apprentice, and Hawise loved him dearly, though they were not betrothed. The Pessoners were people of consequence in London, and Master Guy was loath to give his daughter to a mere prentice. Moreover, though the weavers had a fine enough guild, her father looked down on them and thought them not a patch on the wealthy victuallers such as the fishmongers, the vintners and grocers. "I misdoubt Dada'll ever give consent, until I get me with child by Jack," added Hawise cheerfully, snuggling her head into the goose-feather pillow.

"Blessed Sainte Marie!" cried Katherine, sitting up straight in bed. "You wouldn't do that, Hawise. 'Tis mortal sin, it's - it's
horriblel"

The other girl chuckled, she put her arm around Katherine's slender naked shoulders, and pulled her down again. "Easy to see you're convent-bred, sweeting. 'Tis no such sin, an' ye get wedded in time. It happens often enough in London. God's bones, I'll be eighteen come Michaelmas!"

Katherine was shocked, but she was fascinated, too. Could there be different ways of looking at a thing, even mortal sin? And was it possible that this ordeal which awaited her Saturday could be viewed in this cheerful and matter-of-fact light, could even be pleasurable? Ah, but Hawise loved her Jack, surely that made a difference, though Philippa said not, Lady Agnes de Saxilby said not, too-that love had nothing to do with duty. Suddenly, there swam before her eyes an image of the Duke as he had smiled up at his wife at the tournament. She shut her eyes tight and fingering the wooden beads that hung around her neck, began the
Paternoster.

She was awakened before daybreak by Hawise's playful slaps. "Get up, get up,
damoiselle,
for we must bring in the May!"

The whole Pessoner household was astir. The maids were raking out the floor coverings of stale, matted rushes, and laying down sweet-smelling new ones to last the month. Dame Emma stood over the kitchen fire seething eels and pike in claret to make her famous galantine, for though this was Friday, she saw no reason to keep strict fast, so long as one touched no meat. Indeed it was one of the most joyous of holidays, and Katherine, scampering barefoot in a borrowed kirtle through the London streets with Hawise and a dozen other lads and lasses from their ward, forgot the dignity of her fifteen years, forgot that she would be a wife tomorrow, and giggled and danced and sang with the rest of them.

At every block they were joined by a new band of young people from other districts, and they all poured through Bishopsgate into the open fields and woods past St. Mary Bedlam's hospital. Now they scattered, darting in all directions, hunting for the thickest-blossomed hawthorns, for branches of apple and sycamore and flowering cherry. Through the fresh dew-sparkled dawning, the lads' jerkins and maidens' kirtles flitted like scarlet, yellow and green butterflies.