Katherine (54 page)

Then a strange look came into Blanchette's eyes - of pain, of fear, of revulsion, Hawise could not tell, but it was a relief to see some awareness there, for the girl seemed as thick-witted as though she had been drugged with poppy juice, for all that her eyes glittered glassy bright and her cheeks were crimson.

When Blanchette was dressed, Hawise went to fetch Katherine who had stayed inflexibly away from her daughter.

"She's ready, my lady," said Hawise, "but I fear she's sickening with something. Her skin's hot as fire to touch, and she do seem strange even for Blanchette."

"Bah!" said Katherine, "there's no more wrong with her than ill temper that she's being made to obey at last. 'Tis not the first time she's acted illness when she wanted her own way."

Hawise knew that this was true, but still she was uneasy and she said hesitatingly, "I hear there's some sickness in t'Outer Ward."

Katherine, who was examining her face in the mirror, preparatory to descending to the garden for the betrothal ceremony, looked up and caught her breath. "Not plague!" she whispered sharply.

"Nay, nay," Hawise crossed herself. "Saint Roch protect us! Some pink-spotted fever 'mongst the children."

"Oh, measles, no doubt," said Katherine returning to the mirror. "I think Blanchette had them long ago, nor has she seen anyone to catch them from. Hawise, you croak like an old raven today."

" 'Tis the toothache," said Hawise gloomily, exploring a jumping molar with her tongue. "I've said all the charms, I prayed to Saint Apollonia, but 'twon't stop. The barber'll have to pull it, like the others, God help me." An agonising prospect sufficient to cause Hawise's general apprehensions, but she had not told Katherine all that she knew of the sickness. It might be measles, but not like cases she had nursed. A little spit-boy had died in the night, screaming with head pain and scarlet as a boiled crawfish, and the page who waited on Blanchette was said to have come down with the fever this morning.

The chapel bell began to ring, in the Outer Ward the clock manikins clanged out the first of twelve strokes.

Katherine jumped up and hurried to the Monmouth Wing.

Blanchette was waiting. She looked once at her mother and then at the window, while Katherine said "Come" sternly and took the girl's hand, which was certainly dry and hot as a hearth-stone.

They walked through the courtyards and the archway to the gardens. Amongst assembled lords and ladies, Sir Ralph and the Carmelite, Walter Dysse, waited by a portable altar in the rose arbour. The Duke stood resplendent beside them, dressed in his gold-and-pearl embroidered tunic, wearing the chain of Castile and the Order of the Garter.

Jesu, how handsome he is, Katherine thought as she advanced gravely, holding Blanchette by the hand. The girl moved like a sleepwalker, but suddenly, as Katherine started to place the little hand in the outstretched one of Sir Ralph, Blanchette gave a strangled cry and sprang back, releasing herself. She clutched up her myrde-green skirts and ran frantically away through the archway.

"By God, what's this!" cried the Duke, while Sir Ralph flushed crimson, staring after Blanchette.

"She shall be beaten for it," cried Katherine, herself trembling with anger. "Nay, my lord," she said to John, "I beg you let me deal with her." Angry as she was, she must still protect Blanchette from the expression she saw in both men's eyes.

The Duke hesitated before he shrugged. He gestured to the minstrels and said with formal courtesy to Sir Ralph, "I've a troupe of gleemen may divert you from this shameful behaviour."

The knight bowed silently, biting his lips, while Katherine hurried back through the archway, and saw Blanchette at once, behind a yew tree, on the inner side of the wall. The girl was doubled up on the ground and had been vomiting.

Katherine stared, and her anger became fear.

"Oh, my poor child," she cried running to her.

Blanchette gazed at her mother without recognition. "Hurts - -" she muttered hoarsely, putting her hand to her head.

Her fingers touched the garland of lilies and she pulled it off. "White swans," she said, wrenching at the lilies and throwing them up into the air. "I must let them fly away home like the others."

Dear God, thought Katherine, with a stab of terror. But as she touched Blanchette, trying to raise her, she knew that this was the madness of fever, not lunacy. The girl's body gave off heat like an oven, her face and neck, even her chest, were scarlet, and her teeth began to chatter in a convulsive chill.

Katherine called out repeatedly for help. In the garden they did not hear her, the minstrels were playing and the company were dancing. But the Savoy's sergeant-at-arms, Roger Leach, was berating the lazy porter at the Beaufort Tower and he heard her, and came running. In response to Katherine's gesture he picked up the girl and carried her to the Monmouth Wing.

" 'Tis what they call the scarlet sickness, my lady," said the burly soldier pityingly as he put the moaning, struggling Blanchette down on her bed. One of his own babes had had it a fortnight past. "They mostly goes out o' their heads wi' ut for a while."

Katherine threw her head-dress on the window-seat and twisted up her long silver sleeves. She dipped a napkin in a flagon of water and held it as best she could to Blanchette's tossing forehead. "Get me Hawise, quick!" she cried to the sergeant. "Then fetch Brother William Appleton - nay, I don't know where he is - at Greyfriars perhaps. But get him!"

The sergeant bowed and hurried away. Katherine sat on the bed and tried to quiet her delirious child.

On Sunday when the Duke departed for Scotland, Blanchette was better. The fever persisted but now she did not cry out and toss so much. Her body was covered with a mesh of tiny scarlet dots, and she seemed to feel less pain. Brother William had bled her and had her rolled in cold cloths. He had given her febrifuges and opiates. He said that now, though she was still in danger, he had great hopes of her recovery.

Katherine could not leave Blanchette alone so Hawise and the Beaufort babies were to travel up to Kenilworth without her.

The Grey Friar would not allow Katherine to say farewell to her smaller children. This disease lived in the breath, Brother William said, and breath was so subtle an element that there was no telling what it might permeate. So he had a brimstone candle burned in Blanchette's chamber. But there was little danger for older people, their breaths were strong and could fight off the evil miasma.

The Sunday morning when Katherine said good-bye to the Duke there was a storm as they came out of the chapel after Mass. The sky grew purple, lightning forked through black clouds and thunder rocked the palace. Rain fell in torrents and drenched the waiting cavalcade. The knights and men-at-arms were already mounted in the Ward; the baggage wagons and the chariot with Hawise and the Beauforts crammed in were lined up for the start.

Katherine spoke apologetic words to Sir Ralph, who received them courteously, but it was evident his ardour had cooled when he remarked that no doubt he would see Blanchette again sometime, after his return from Scotland. Katherine sadly gave him the stirrup cup, and turned to wave to her children in the chariot. The little boys waved back and Hawise held Joan up and made her kiss her hand to her mother. Katherine tried to smile. She went away quickly to follow John into a little anteroom below the Avalon Chamber.

He was dressed in full armour, the squire outside held his latten battle helmet in readiness. Katherine raised her arms to him, gazing at him piteously. Tears ran down her cheeks.

"Lovedy," he cried kissing her, "you mustn't weep. Blanchette will soon be well, and you'll come to Kenilworth and meet me later, as we planned." He smiled down at her.

"Ay," she said, but another crash of thunder rattled the window panes and she jumped and shivered." 'Tis evil omen," she whispered. "Sunday thunder.
'Tonnerre de dimanche est tonnerre de diable!'
" She crossed herself. "John, there's danger - I feel it. A blackness in my heart black like the sky out there. John,
must
we be parted now?"

He crossed himself too, but impatiently. He was eager to be off, and he had scant faith in omens when they did not accord with his wishes. "The storm'll soon be over, Katrine. Already 'tis lifting. It must be strain from nursing that coddled, vexing child that gives you dark whimsies. Come, smile, lovedy - -I'd not take the memory of a dismal face to Scotland!"

She tried to obey him but she could not. She saw that he had already gone from her in his thoughts, and knew that it was natural. His men were waiting in the court for word to start, days of hard riding were ahead and already the storm had delayed them.

He bent to kiss her again and with finality, but the oppression in her breast sharpened to panic. "John," she cried, "I'm afraid. Something threatens our love. I know it!" She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her face to the harsh steel links of his gorget.

He had never seen her so excited and unreasonable. He stroked her head as she clung to him sobbing, and said tenderly, "Hush - hush," mastering his impatience because he loved her. But as she continued to weep he took her hands and pulled them down from his neck. "Farewell, my love. God keep you." He strode out of the ante-room before she could stop him.

She watched from the window while his squires held his stallion and he mounted. The rain had stopped. Brightness flowed into the sky above the Lancaster pennant on the pinnacle of the Monmouth Tower, his brass helmet glinted as he turned and waved good-bye.

She leaned from the window and slowly waved her silver scarf.

He spurred his horse, which leaped ahead through the gateway to the Strand. The cavalcade formed after him and clattered two by two through the arch. The chariot and baggage train filed after.

Katherine watched until the stable-boys returned to their tasks and the great Outer Ward was empty. Even the yapping dogs had slunk back towards the kitchens. Quiet fell on the whole great Savoy Palace, three-quarters emptied now. The subdued drowsing state that it would show until its lord returned to it again.

And its lord, as he cantered along the country road through the village of Charing Cross, suddenly reined in his stallion and looked back to gaze at the fair white palace which was more completely home to him than any of his country castles. It sparkled in the after-storm sunshine. He smiled tenderly at Katherine's dismalness, and thought that the Savoy set off her beauty like a great ivory frame. He jerked the tasselled bridle and spurred his stallion, which bounded northward. No premonition told the Duke that he had looked his last on the Savoy.

Throughout the rest of May and the first week of June, Katherine lived in a seclusion as complete as though she were on an island. She moved into the Monmouth Wing, and for the days of Blanchette's danger slept in the chamber with her child. She saw no one but Mab, who shared the nursing, the varlets who brought food, and Brother William, who came daily to examine the patient.

Blanchette improved gradually, the rash faded, her body no longer burned with raging heat; but a succession of complications bedevilled her. For some days her throat was so swollen that she could not swallow, and when this abated she suffered from excruciating ear-aches until the drums burst and prurient matter ran out on her pillow.

During this time the girl reverted to her childhood and looked to her mother for everything, weeping and fretting if Katherine left the room, and calling for her constantly. The conflict between them was as though it had never been, and Katherine poured out a remorseful love. It was nothing but coincidence that Blanchette had come down with her illness on the day of her betrothal, and yet Katherine could not quite rid herself of guilt, and she thought now that Blanchette's outrageous insolence on the day before had stemmed from the beginning of the fever, too, and was sorry that it had made her so angry.

As the girl finally improved, Katherine knew that all her strong love for this child was now augmented by the crisis they had passed through together. Blanchette had gained the added preciousness of something nearly lost which one has oneself saved from destruction.

On the ninth of June, a month after the onset of her illness, Brother William pronounced Blanchette definitely on the mend.

It was in the long golden dusk that the Franciscan friar came to visit his patient and found the girl sitting propped up in the windowseat with Katherine beside her. Blanchette's head rested against her mother's shoulder, her little face was pinched and white, and she seemed shockingly diminished because the lovely hair had begun to fall out in handfuls, and Katherine had resolutely cut it short to strengthen the new growth.

Huddled up in her dressing-robe, cuddling against her mother, and with the little shorn head, she might have been a child of five, and the Grey Friar upon entering felt an unwelcome softness. As a humane physician he had answered Lady Swynford's frenzied plea for his services. Indeed he could not have refused, since he was retained by the Duke, but he had had to conquer a deep reluctance.

He had entirely avoided Katherine since the day in the courtyard by the falcon mew, and pleading his own ill health, had spent more and more time in his cell at Greyfriars in town, leaving the routine care of the Duke's meinie to two secular leeches. He had been, troubled with no more wicked dreams of Katherine since the one in which she had been linked with disaster, and he wished to forget her and her continuing relationship with the Duke. He had done his duty by Blanchette and treated Katherine with rigid impersonality during the girl's illness, but he had been forced to admire the mother's devotion. Tonight he saw that Katherine was as pale and listless as her daughter and while he looked at Blanchette's tongue and felt the slow pulse in her neck, he spoke in a warmer voice than usual.

"Lady Swynford, we shall have you ailing too, if you don't take care. I'll brew you some parsley water, and," he glanced around Blanchette's chamber, "this place holds unhealthful miasmas. Now the lass is better, I think you should move."