"Ay, but you're no more like your sister than Arab filly is to plough horse, my Katherine," said Hugh gruffly, not looking at her but fumbling for her hand. He pulled her down so that her bright face rested against his coarse woolly beard: She held herself tight so as not to draw back, and thought of the three violent and unhappy nights in which he had once more claimed her during their last brief time together at Kettlethorpe when she came home from the Savoy and before he left to join Sir Robert Knolles.

Hugh thought of those nights too, and cursed the physical debility that once more unmanned him, knowing that without the vigour of drunken haste, a paralysing doubt would set in - and fear, and then he would hate her and the lovely body which he well knew he had never truly possessed.

"I thought I had got you with child, before I left," he said, releasing her suddenly.

She sat up with an imperceptible sigh of relief. "Nay," she said lightly. "It didn't happen, doubtless because 'twas, the dark of the moon then. Hugh, tell me of the fighting you've been through, tell me how you got this" - she touched the bandaged leg. "Here I prate on of silly humdrum things at Kettlethorpe while you've done many a dangerous deed of arms."

She led him on to talk of the one subject which he understood, where he felt himself always sure, and under her admiring questions he expanded, words came to him more easily, his scowl vanished, and when he started to describe a hand-to-hand encounter with a Poitevin knight, in which the latter had cravenly cried for mercy, he actually laughed.

It was thus that Brother William Appleton found them when he pushed the door open and padded in on his bare feet. "Deo gratias!" cried the Grey Friar, standing at the foot of the bed and surveying his patient with kindly surprise. "Here is betterment indeed! Truly a wife is God's gift. Benedicite, my Lady Swynford." He placed his hand on her head. "How was the voyage?" He dropped his sack of drugs and instruments on the floor and smiled at Katherine.

"We had a great storm and I was much afraid," she said, hastening to pour the friar a cup of wine, "but our Blessed Lady and the saints vouchsafed a miracle and we were saved. It was a most wondrous and humbling thing." Her voice trembled, and Brother William glanced at her keenly, thinking that though she seemed made for the pleasures of the flesh, there yet was a sense of spiritual striving about her, and a healthiness of mind and body which pleased him who spent so much of his time with the sick. "Ay, it is a humbling thing when Heaven's mercy shields us from danger" - he nodded his long cadaverous head - "and we may be sure God sends us every chance for salvation - how do you find your husband?"

"Most grateful to you, Sir Friar, he says you saved his leg and maybe his life."

"Well, well - I've some skill but 'tis not all my doing. His stars were propitious." As he spoke the-friar deftly unbound Hugh's leg, and scooping a green ointment from a little pot plastered the wound. " 'Tis made of pounded watercress," he explained to Katherine, who exclaimed at the colour. "A balm the wild Basques use in their mountains, and ignorant as they are - barely Christians - they know much of simples. I've healed many a wound on the Duke's men-at-arms with this."

"How soon do you think I can get about, Brother?" asked Hugh through clenched teeth as the friar probed and pulled back the proud flesh.

"You can hobble a bit now, since it seems your dysentery's lessening. Did you take all the bowel-binder I left you?" He peered into the clay cup on the stool and shook his head. "Lady, you must see that he takes this each time before he eats. Camphorated poppy juice alone will heal the flux."

"I'll see that he takes it. Sir Friar," she said smiling, and held the cup for him to fill it with a black mixture.

"We must have you strong and able to attend on the Duke's wedding, Sir Hugh," said Brother William, fishing a rusty lancet from the bottom of his sack and motioning to Katherine to hold the basin for the daily bleeding.

Hugh thrust out his pallid gnarled arm and said with a hint of pride, "Katherine has been appointed brideswoman to the marriage."

"I know," said the friar with a faint chuckle, "you've told me many times." He had learned that and much more during the days of high fever that Hugh had suffered after he first came to Bordeaux, and in addition the friar had served as Hugh's confessor. So there was little he did not know about this man and his groping, clumsy brain, his grossnesses and sulky angers, his inability to adjust himself to others, his superstitious fears, and yet with all this, his bitter, humiliating, pathetic love for this beautiful woman.

Poor souls, thought the friar, applying styptic and a wad of lint to the bleeding arm-cut. Yet, no doubt, they would rub along somehow, no worse off than many a man and wife, until finally all passions died, and age or philosophy would bring surcease.

"Have you seen the Infanta Costanza?" said Katherine very casually while pouring the blood from the little basin into a slop-jar. "Is she fair?"

"They say not," answered the friar. "Remember, my Lord Duke desires her to be spoken of as the Queen of Castile - nay, I believe she is not fair.

He saw a strange little quiver pass over Katherine's mobile face, and having much observant knowledge of women, thought it came from gratified vanity and was amused, for from this foible she had seemed quite free; but he said nothing more. He gave them blessing and departed to visit another of the Duke's sick fighting men, his mind quite at ease about Hugh.

Katherine slept mat night on a straw mattress on the floor beside Hugh's bed, and Ellis slept as usual on a pallet near the outer door. In the soft grey dawn, Katherine rose and dressed to go to early Mass before the great crowds would come later. She yearned for the blissful comfort of the act of communion, when the sweet body of Jesus should enter into her own body and strengthen her, and she hoped that in the cathedral she might find a shrine to St. Catherine too. She felt great need to kneel before her own particular saint and refresh the moment of transcendent gratitude she had felt on the ship.

Hugh grunted sleepily as she told him where she was going, and she saw that he had improved in the night, his fever was gone and he breathed quietly.

In her green and gold gown, to do honour to the festival, and a fine silk-hooded mantle, Katherine slipped downstairs past the wine-shop into the cobbled street. It was hotter than it would ever be in England, but she gave thanks for the morning freshness and hurried to the cathedral, which was but a block away.

The great west doors of the cathedral were wide open, the organ tones vibrated through the still air, while a line of peasants and rustics filed into the church bearing herbs, roots and fruits for blessing at the Virgin's shrine. Two mutilated beggars lolled on the cathedral step, and waving ulcerous stumps of legs and arms whined at Katherine, "Ayez pitie, belle dame, l'aumone, pour l'amour de Dieu-" She opened her purse and cast them silver pennies, then into the extended hat of a faceless leper she flung more of her silver, crossing herself as he mumbled "Grand merci" and shuffled away, shaking his warning clapper.

The hideous mutilations of the beggars and the leper had shaken her and before entering the cathedral she paused to collect herself. An ancient Bordelaise in high fluted cap and white apron was spreading baskets of flowers on the steps and Katherine walked over to her, at once assuaged by the lovely unfamiliar flowers - gaudy peonies, jasmine, fat red roses and huge lilies, all strangely shaped and more highly perfumed than any she had ever known.

As she leaned down to buy a bunch of jasmine, she noted vaguely that a tall pilgrim stood on the step a little way off, leaning on his staff. She finished her purchase; holding the jasmine against her cheek and sniffing delightedly, she turned again towards the cathedral. The pilgrim turned too and mounted the steps. He carried a scrip covered with cockleshells, and he was muffled to the mouth in a sackcloth, his large round hat pulled down low on his forehead so that little of his face showed. Katherine, assuming that it was one of those who were en route for St. James Compostela, gave him an indifferent glance. She walked into the cathedral porch, pausing to peer ahead into the dark nave and locate the candle-seller amongst all the booths and hurrying celebrants.

She felt an urgent hand on her arm and turned in astonishment to see that it was the pilgrim who had clutched her. He raised his head a little so that she might see his eyes and said, "Katrine! I must talk to you."

"Sweet Jesu! My lord!" she cried, so astounded that she dropped the jasmine sprays all over the worn stone paving.

"Hush!" he said sternly. "Come with me, I know a place where we can talk."

She bent over and picked up her jasmine, slowly, fighting for time to collect herself and marshal her resistance.

"I command it," he said, then with a swift change of tone, "nay - I beg you, I beseech you - Katrine."

She bowed her head and began to walk, following him a few paces behind. They went down the steps, across the busy "Place" and up a street to a little inn, Auberge des Moulins. He took a key from his scrip, and unlocking a low door in the pink plaster wall, motioned her to enter. It was the small inn garden to which he had brought her. It was planted with a few flowers and many herbs and furnished with wine-stained trestle-tables and benches.

"We'll not be disturbed here," he said, flinging off his hat and loosening the sackcloth cloak, "I've bribed the aubergiste lavishly. My God, Katrine," he added with a wry laugh, "look to what straits you've brought the ruler of Aquitaine - skulking in sackcloth, bribing frowsy scoundrels for a place of assignation - like a wenching sergeant - you should be proud of your enchantments!"

"What have you to say to me, my lord?" She leaned against the trestle-table because her knees shook, but her grey eyes were fixed on him steadily and their gaze held warning, yet she thought that, in the coarse brown sackcloth, he had never seemed so handsome or so princely.

"What have I to say to you?" He broke off, biting his lips. Since before Prime he had been waiting near the cathedral, knowing that she would come to Mass, and praying that she would be alone. Yet if that dolt of a squire Ellis de Thoresby had accompanied her, the meeting would still have been managed. Since the sight of her on the ship yesterday, she had obsessed him to a point beyond reason - almost beyond caution.

He turned on her suddenly, with violence. "I love you, Katrine. I want you, I desire you, but I love you. I feel that I cannot exist without you. That's what I have to say to you."

The garden walls melted. A rushing wind lifted and hurled Katherine into a void, a wind - no, a river of fire. An agonising painful joy in the whirling and rushing of this river of fire -

He threw himself down on the bench and seized her cold hands, looking up at her white face. "My dear love," he said softly, humbly, "can you not speak to me?"

"What can I say, my lord?" Her eyes fastened themselves on the blue flower of a borage plant near his foot; she stared at the little blue star while the fiery river throbbed and scorched in her breast.

"That you love me, Katherine - you told me so once."

"Aye," she said slowly, at last, "nothing has changed since then. Nothing. And I am still Hugh's wife - however much I - I love you."

He gave a sharp gasp and bending his head covered her hands with kisses. "Sweetheart!" he cried exultantly, and put his hands on her waist to pull her down to him. She stiffened and shook her head. "Nay, but there is one thing changed since we two were in the Avalon Chamber - then you mourned a wife but lately gone, and now you are betrothed to one who will soon be yours."

"There's no love in that, it has naught to do with us. You know that I must marry again, for England - for Castile."

"Yes," she said tonelessly, "I know."

She raised her eyes and tears slid quietly down her cheeks. "I cannot be your leman, my lord. Even if for love of you I could so shamefully dishonour Hugh, yet I cannot, for I have made a sacred vow."

"A vow?" he repeated. His hands dropped from her waist. "What vow, Katherine?"

"On the ship," Katherine said, each word dragging forth with pain. "Saint Catherine saved my life, for that I made the vow-" She stopped and swallowed, looking past him at the sunny wall. She went on in a whisper, "To be true wife, in thought, in deed, to my husband who is the father of my babies."