Katherine (55 page)

Katherine looked up, pleased by his kindly tone, and said eagerly, "To Kenilworth? But sure she's not well enough yet for that?"

"No," said the friar frowning. "I meant that you might move to another chamber, one with more air and light."

Katherine nodded thoughtfully and after a moment said, "Then we'll move to the Privy Suite. Those apartments are by far the most comfortable." And I, she thought, will sleep in the Avalon Chamber again. In the ruby velvet bed where she had passed so many ecstatic nights, and where John would seem nearer to her.

She was aware at once of the friar's withdrawal. He said stiffly, "There are many other rooms at the Savoy."

Blanchette, too, stirred and said in her weak little voice, "Oh Mama - don't let's leave here."

"Sweet heart, 'twill do you good," said Katherine briskly. "There are beautiful tapestries for you to look at, I'll tell you stories about them and you can watch the boats on the Thames, and there's the Duke's collection of little ivory saints - you'll like to play with them."

Blanchette drew her breath in, and Katherine realised that it was the first time the Duke's name had been mentioned since the girl's illness, yet surely all that resentment had been dissolved in the renewed love her child gave her. She was reassured when Blanchette murmured, "As you will, Mama."

Brother William frowned, but there was nothing he could say. The Duke's suite was certainly the most comfortable accommodation in the palace.

"Please sit down and sup with us," said Katherine gently. "You seem wan yourself, good Brother. There's no fresh sickness about, I hope."

"No more than usual," said the Grey Friar. "No new fevers at any rate. Ay, I am a-wearied." He sat down abruptly. "I'll take some wine." For months now there had been a gnawing in his stomach, but he did not bother to give himself remedies, he simply fasted more stringently and ignored it.

Katherine's ring of the hind-bell was answered somewhat tardily by a servant she had never seen before, a pimply gat-toothed youth with scabs on his scalp. The points of his hose were untied and his blue and white livery was stained with grease.

"Where's Piers?" she said surveying the uncouth servant with disapproval.

"Piers be took wi' a colic," answered the lad, staring at the ceiling. "So I come in his stead. I be called Perkin. What's your wish m'lady?"

Katherine was slightly disturbed. Lately, since Blanchette no longer required her every thought, she had noticed a subtle unrest amongst the varlets, nothing so crude as insolence, but slight deviations from the smooth level of service she was accustomed to. The Savoy, had been left with a skeleton staff, since the vast army of servants required to wait on the Duke and his retainers naturally moved with them from castle to castle. Katherine's own servants had travelled to Kenilworth with Hawise and the little Beauforts, and none of the family remained at the Savoy.

Elizabeth had gone to visit her mother-in-law, the Countess of Pembroke; the Lady Philippa was spending three months of retreat with the nuns at Barking Abbey; Henry divided his time between his little wife's ancestral de Bohun castle and the King's court at Windsor; and her own Tom Swynford was now formally attached to Henry's retinue.

She gave the scab-headed Perkin the order for meat and wine and determined to question the chamberlain about the servants, when Brother William, who had been examining the lad intently, said, "Since I'm here, I'll have a look at this Piers' colic. Where does he lodge?"

Perkin's eyes shifted to the Grey Friar and he said, "No need of that, Sir Friar, 'tis but the common gripes."

"Where is he now?"
repeated the friar, fixing his stern gaze on the reddening face.

"How should I know, sir?" said the lad sullenly. "He maught be lying in t'kitchen passage or he maught've ta'en his pallet to the cellars, or he maught - -"

"Have left the Savoy altogether on some errand of his own?" said the friar with chill emphasis.

The lad thrust out his underlip and did not answer, then, seeing that there were to be no more questions, disappeared quickly. "What did you mean by that?" asked Katherine frowning. "The varlets can't leave the castle wards without permission."

"There's a deal being done just now without permission," said the friar dryly. "There's rioting in Kent."

"What sort of riots?" asked Katherine after a moment. "Is it the poll tax again?"

"That and other grievances, all most ably dinned into the peasants by a priest called John Ball."

"But he's in jail!" she cried. "My lord told me so and said the commons were quieting down."

The friar crossed his lean shanks, and resting his gaunt tonsured head against the chair back said with patience, "He was in jail, but the Kentishmen have released him. There's been violence down in Kent, and Essex too, I hear."

Katherine thought of the russet-clad preacher she had seen at Leicester and the pounding ridiculous couplet the mob had chanted, and felt again a vague apprehension, though not of any personal danger, for rioting in Kent seemed nearly as remote as fighting in France. And it was not, thank God, like that black night in 'seventy-six when the people of London had gone mad with rage against Percy and the Duke. This seemed to her a matter of diffused and wearisome theory, and she had learned by now that there were always malcontents about.

"But what is it that the commons
want?"
she said impatiently. "Or rather," she amended, for well she knew the impossible things that the human heart could want, "what is it, in sanity, that they can hope to
get
by their riots?"

The friar raised his lids and looked at her. He smiled faintly "They want the equality of man. They want freedom. You speak truth when you say that they cannot, in sanity, hope to get it - and especially by violence."

"Then they are mad!"

"Nay - not mad. Ignorant and desperate and oppressed. They're tired of paying for unsuccessful wars, they're tired of surfdom or unfair wages for their labour. They're tired of eating black bread while the manor lords, baron and abbot alike, eat venison and fat capons. It's natural, and a change will come in time, I believe."

Already there had been changes, the friar thought, since the Black Death in 'forty-nine had halved the population and thereby made a scarcity of labour. The old feudal system was crumbling gradually of its own weight without the explosions that were designed to hasten its destruction. Yet Wyclif's reforms had done good, up to the point where the devil had got hold of him and forced him into blasphemy. Even this fanatical hedge-priest, John Ball, spoke truth in many of his rantings, though hatred and class war were dangerous double-edged weapons.

Katherine had been considering the friar's remarks with more attention than she had ever given to this problem of bondage and privation and need of change, and she struggled to express a feeling that the arguments he had given for the commons' side were not entirely just.

"But Brother William," she said at last, "is it not also true that in most cases the villeins are better off on the manors where they were born and their forebears too?" She paused, feeling some unease as to her own administration of Kettlethorpe, yet there they were handicapped in many ways and the steward did the best he could. And the Duke's manors were notably well run.

"A good manor lord
cares
for his serfs," she continued. "He gives them ale feasts, and alms. In time of trouble he protects them, feeds them, and he administers justice for them that they have not the understanding to do for themselves. They're like his children."

The friar gave his rare chuckle. "You voice the arguments for slavery that are old as Babylon and have satisfied many. There are however others who prefer freedom to any benefits - I don't know," he added half to himself, "what is
God's
law."

He picked up his wooden crucifix and stared down at it. "I only know that our Blessed Lord was a carpenter, and that He said it was easier for a camel to go through the needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven, and that the Holy Saint Francis enjoined upon us poverty - which vow I've tried to follow."

He sighed. It was true he had never broken his vows. He kept none of the annuities the Duke gave him, but expended them on charity or returned them to his order. And yet, was he perhaps as much a parasite of the great Lancastrian feudality as that fat Carmelite, Walter Dysse? Or as the hundreds of retainers who battened off the Duke, or as-He raised his eyes and looked at Katherine. If God would but show me the way to save her, he thought in confusion. And the Duke too, of course, from certain damnation; but the Duke's fate did not touch him so nearly. Why not?
Domine libera nos a malo
- it surely could not be because of her cursed female beauty that he thought first of her - -

Brother William's chair grated on the tiles. He shook himself to his feet. "The food is long in coming. I cannot wait. I'll be back in a day or so. Send if you have sooner need.
Benedicite."
And he stalked out.

Katherine was used to his abruptness and did not try to stop him though it was lonely now at the Savoy, and she had been glad to talk to him. She had long ago accepted his disapproval, but she had as perfect trust in him and his leechcraft, as she had had at Hugh's bedside in Bordeaux.

Blanchette had spoken of her father while the fever clouded her wits. It seemed that she relived the moment when she had bade him good-bye at Kettlethorpe, repeating as Hugh must have said it to her, "Be a good little maid till I return and I'll bring you back a gift from France." It had sent tears to Katherine's eyes to listen to Blanchette's high excited voice as she quoted her father, and had made her think more gently of Hugh then she ever had. It was true that he had shown a shamefaced warmth for his little daughter, though Katherine had scarcely noticed it at the time, so eaten up with miserable love had she been for John.

She summoned Mab to help her to get Blanchette back to bed, and while she washed the girl with cool rose-water she thought with joy of the letter she had received yesterday. It had been sent from Knaresborough last week. John said that he was leaving at once for the Border, that Hawise and the babies had been duly dropped off at Kenilworth and were well. He missed her and expected to be back with her in a month or so. She carried the letter in her bodice next to her heart.

In thinking of it and in singing to Blanchette, who quickly fell asleep, she forgot for some time the extraordinary dilatoriness of the varlet she had sent for food, until hunger reminded her and brought sharp annoyance.

Katherine jangled the bell and after a while a sleepy little page appeared. "Fetch me the chamberlain at once!" she commanded. The boy bowed and scurried off. He returned in a few minutes not with the chamberlain but with Roger Leach, the sergeant-at-arms.

Katherine raised her eyebrows and the big soldier explained. "Chamberlain's gone to Outer Ward, m'lady. He'll come to ye directly, but there's a party o' roving gleemen come into the castle for night's lodging."

"Since when does the chamberlain concern himself personally with the vagabonds who take shelter here and give them precedence over
my
summons?"

The sergeant looked uncomfortable. He pushed back his helm and scratched his head where the leather caused it to sweat. "Well, 'tis this m'lady, chamberlain thought he best hear what's going on. Some o' the varlets packed theirsel's round the gleemen, seeming so 'tranced wi' their songs, no work's being done."

"No work's being done anyway," said Katherine. "I ordered wine and meat two hours back, nor has it come yet. Have the varlets turned unruly, sergeant?"

"Nay, nay, m'lady!" Leach was shocked and his pride hurt. Though he was directly responsible only for the men-at-arms left at the Savoy, a dozen or so at present, he also aided the old chamberlain and the butler and the master cook in keeping a disciplinary eye on the servants. " 'Tis but midsummer giddiness 'mongst the young folk. A few switchings'll straighten 'em out."

Katherine looked at him thoughtfully. "I think I'll go down and listen to these gleemen's songs."

"Then I'll go wi' ye, m'lady," said the sergeant, adjusting his helm and squaring his shoulders under his padded leather hauberk. "These gleemen shouldn' been let in, 'twas that niddering gate-ward done it."

From this Katherine gathered that the sergeant was a trifle uneasy despite his denial. Travellers of all sorts, from beggars to bishops, frequently came to request a night's lodging and the gate-ward could hardly be blamed for admitting a troupe of gleemen.

She left Mab in charge of Blanchette and walked downstairs to the Outer Ward, where some thirty of the servants were gathered in the angle between the chapel and the stables. They were very quiet, listening intently to five gleemen with harps and bagpipes who were grouped around a well and singing. One of the men stood on the well kerb and seemed to be the leader. Katherine stared at him searchingly, half expecting that it might be the rebel preacher John Ball; but it most certainly was not. This was a pretty lad in a loose blue and scarlet minstrel's jerkin, and the song he sang had nothing to do with Adam and Eve. It sounded rather like a nursery rhyme.

The gleemen sang in a clear flutelike voice and his fellows hummed the melody, which was plaintive and charming:

Jack Milner asketh help to turn his mill aright.
For he hath grounden small, small, small,
The King's son of heaven he payeth for all.
With might and with right, with skill and with will
Right before might, then turns our mill aright
But if might goes before right then is the mill misadight.

" 'Tis gibberish," said the sergeant contemptuously. "No sense to ut."

As he spoke the intent crowd became aware of Katherine. There was a murmuring as heads were turned. She saw Piers, her usual servitor, the scab-headed Perkin and others. They looked at her from the corners of their eyes, and one by one began to melt away towards the kitchens and the stables.

The young glee leader on the well kerb made Katherine a little bow, and called out in a pleasant voice, "Shall we sing for you, fair lady? We know many a dainty love tune. Or shall we juggle for you? By the rood, there's no gleemen in England can do more jolly tricks than we."