The ladies finished with Katherine and put the last touches to their own toilets; they gave her a drink of wine which much revived her, before they all flocked down the steps towards the Great Hall for supper. "Stay near me," whispered Philippa. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

Katherine needed none of these admonitions, which simply echoed her convent training, and she clung to her sister, feeling very nervous and wishing that she were not so tall and might hide in that plump little person's shadow.

The Great Hall with its stone vaulting and tinted windows was large enough to have contained the entire convent of Sheppey. Katherine was dazzled by the light from a hundred candles and torches, enchanted by the gay music of the minstrels and amazed by the sweet scent that vanquished the usual aroma of sweat, smoke and food. The floor was strewn with aromatic herbs and a cartload of violets had been mingled with them. At the far end of the Hall on a dais, a line of glittering, gorgeously jewelled men and women sat at the high table and Katherine at once saw the King under the central canopy before she politely lowered her eyes. He looks so old, she thought, startled by the straggling white hair and thin beard and shrunken shoulders. Edward was actually fifty-four but he had the lean Plantagenet frame and years of campaigning and intermittent fever had aged him.

The Queen not being present, the chamberlain waved Philippa and the other ladies-in-waiting towards a side-table with scant ceremony, and Katherine sat on the bench beside her sister.

Suddenly a head was thrust between the sisters and a quick voice said, "So there you are, my fair Pica. I've been searching for you."

Philippa looked up and blushed. Her serious little face was lightened by a smile almost coquettish. "Good even, sir," she said. "I was afraid you might be serving the King tonight. Katherine, this is my betrothed, Geoffrey Chaucer, esquire."

"Betrothed!" echoed Katherine amazed. "You didn't tell me - God's greetings to you, sir," she added hastily, remembering her manners.

Geoffrey smiled, clambering over the bench and wedging himself between the two girls. "Her betrothed is perhaps a matter of small importance to Pica," he said in a tone of faint mockery. "You're the little sister from the convent, of course." He motioned to a servant, who brought him a bowl and cup.

"There was no time to tell her," protested Philippa, "so much to do, receiving her and the nuns and getting her ready to appear here. You can't imagine the condition she was in and-"

"To be sure," interrupted Geoffrey smiling. "I know you were busy as a little wren." He patted Philippa's hand and his hazel eyes twinkled as at some private joke.

Katherine decided that she liked him, though he was by no means the romantic figure she hoped would fall to her own lot. He was short, not much taller than Philippa herself and though he was only twenty-six, already inclined towards stoutness. He was more soberly dressed than the King's other squires; his tunic of a clerical, mouse-grey wool was scantily furred, and his belt and dagger were of simple silver. His fingers were ink-stained and there was a spot on his long sleeve. His stubby brown beard was neither creamed nor perfumed and his hair was cut unfashionably short above his ears; but there were sweetness and humour in his firm lips and a quiet amusement behind his alert gaze. Katherine felt instinctively, as had her betters before her from the King down, "Here is someone trustworthy and intelligent, a man truly debonair."

"You do not eat, ma belle?" Geoffrey said presently to Katherine, wiping his mouth on a napkin and taking a long draught of wine. "The goose patty's excellent."

"I can't," she said, "it's all so bewitching and strange." Her eyes flew back to the royal table. Philippa, used to this sight, did not understand how like a summer dream it was, how impossible to believe that one was actually beholding them in their golds and scarlets, their ermines and coronets, their gauzy veils and jewels; the Plantagenets, a dozen or more of them, laughing, talking, eating, just like all the lesser folk along the side of the Hall.

But Geoffrey understood. "Yes, they're real," he said smiling. He put down his spoon. "You see the King-"

Katherine nodded. The King wore a small gold-pointed crown and the Queen's great empty throne was next to him. The King was half turned from the table and talking to someone a little behind him, someone with a small black head bound by a pearl fillet. "Why, it's Alice Perrers!" cried Katherine. "She's sitting on the arm of the Queen's chair."

"Hush!" whispered Philippa angrily. "You little ninny!"

Geoffrey chuckled. "There are some things we don't say out loud at court. We but whisper them to each other, my dear. But your natural curiosity about your rulers shall be gratified. Look now - see the dark overblown lady in gold with the smouldering gaze which she keeps fixed on her liege lord next her?"

Katherine nodded.

"That is the Princess Isabel and her husband, Lord Enguerrand de Coucy. She dotes on him, having captured him late, and being perhaps none too sure of his affection. She is just up from childbed, a daughter, alas, another Philippa. There's profusion of Philippas named for the good Queen - that's why we call this one 'Pica.'" He smiled at his betrothed.

"And the King's sons-" continued Geoffrey. "Do you know which they are?" Katherine shook her head, and he continued, "They're all home now, except the Prince of Wales, of course, who is at his court in Aquitaine."

He pointed out the royal princes to Katherine. There was Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest, a boy of eleven, who sat with his elbows on the table, scowling into his gilded cup with an expression of surly boredom. He and Isabel showed their mother's heavy Flemish blood. And there was Lionel of Antwerp, who was the eldest of the sons, except for Edward, Prince of Wales. Lionel was a ruddy blond giant and the Queen's favourite. He was goodnatured, stupid, a fairly recent and not too disconsolate widower, whose marriage to the Italian merchant princess, Violante Visconti, was in negotiation.

Lionel had just returned from a most uncongenial sojourn in Ireland, where he endeavoured to rule the lands inherited from his late wife, Elizabeth de Burgh. He detested the Irish and, being now very drunk, was roaring a scurrilous song about them to the tune the minstrels were playing. Chaucer, while pointing him out to Katherine, regarded his former master with amused affection. Geoffrey had entered the household of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, as a page and progressing to squire had served him loyally. But Geoffrey had been much relieved at his recent transfer to the King's own service, having no liking at all for exile in Ireland.

Edmund of Langley, Earl of Cambridge, sat near Lionel and was much paler and smaller than his brother. Edmund at twenty-four was still a pretty boy, with sloping, almost beardless chin. He smiled often as he chatted with Lady Pembroke on his right, while now and again he looked nervously towards his father, who paid not the slightest attention to him or to anyone except Alice Perrers. The King sat with his grizzled head twisted up towards Alice, sharing his ruby-studded cup with her, listening to her whispers and breaking now and then into a shout of laughter.

"I think I have them straight now," said Katherine, having followed Geoffrey's identifications breathlessly. "But the King has another son. Which is the Duke of Lancaster?"

Chaucer tan his eye down the line again and shook his head. 'He's not come in yet, though there is his most lovely Duchess, God give her joy."

Katherine heard the drop to seriousness in the squire's voice which had been, throughout his previous recital, tinged with light irony, and she was startled by the expression in his eyes as they rested on Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster. Katherine glanced instinctively at her sister. But Philippa was discussing the proper distillation of lavender water with Elizabeth Pershore, and not listening.

So Katherine examined the Duchess with avid interest, wondering at first why she had so great a reputation for beauty. From this distance, at least, the Lady Blanche appeared muted and overshadowed by the other vivid and bejewelled ladies at the High Table. Her blond braids were partially concealed by a simple gauze veil and her pale oval face, calm and passionless as a lily, was turned from the others, while her sea-blue eyes gazed out across the Hall with gentle contemplation.

But as Katherine watched, the Lady Blanche responded to some remark from the Earl of Pembroke and she smiled a smile of piercing sweetness, while inclining her shining head in a gesture both humble and gracious. Katherine was suddenly awed. She is like the painting at Sheppey of the Blessed Virgin, she thought.

"Yes," said Geoffrey, who had been watching the girl's face, "she is a very great lady. The greatest in the land, not excepting the Queen."

"Can she have - has she children?" asked Katherine timidly, for it did not seem possible that this exalted lady might have known the dark urgings of the body, the stir of blood Katherine felt dimly in herself.

Geoffrey nodded slowly. "She has had three - Philippa, who is six, a baby John, who died at birth, and Elizabeth, who is two years old, I believe."

Katherine considered this and was led on to another question. "Is there true love between the Duke and Duchess, do you think?" she whispered, not unaware of naivety and boldness but knowing instinctively that she dared ask anything of this wise young man.

A shadow crossed his face, but then he smiled. "Ay, I believe there is, and you don't yet know, child, how rare a thing love is at court, and in a royal marriage."

Katherine would have asked more but was diverted by a commotion of running feet outside the entrance to the Hall, and the blare of trumpets, followed by a herald's voice shouting a gabbled string of titles, "John, Duke of Lancaster, Earl of Richmond and Derby, of Lincoln and Leicester, enters here!"

All the company in the Hall, including those at the royal table except the King and Lionel, rose to their feet. "The noble Duke arrives," said Chaucer somewhat dryly, "with, of course, due ceremony and recognition."

Seven or eight young men strode into the Hall together but nobody could have had difficulty in identifying the Duke.

He was magnificent in a red and azure tunic quartered with the lilies of France and the Leopards of England. A gold girdle, fastened by the ruby rose of Lancaster, hung on his narrow hips and around his wide muscular shoulders lay the SS golden collar of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, who had just turned twenty-six last month, was the best made of all the King's sons. He was tall, though not so uncouthly large as Lionel, and he was slender, but not with the meagre delicacy of Edmund. In John's face the Plantagenet stamp of long nose, narrow cheeks and deep eye-sockets had been softened but not coarsened by the Flemish heritage. His eyes were as bright blue as his father's once had been, his thick hair was tawny yellow, as a lion's pelt. His beard was clipped short and his face shaven to disclose a full and passionate mouth.

As he strode down the Hall between the kneeling varlets and the bowing courtiers, Katherine felt the impact of a ruthless vitality and pride. He is more king than the King himself, she thought, staring fascinated. And many others thought so too, though not with her uncritical adjuration. It was the Lady Blanche's vast inheritance which had raised the King's third son to such power and there were some who thought him dangerously edging towards royal prerogatives and negligent of the proper respect due to his elder brothers, the Prince of Wales and Lionel.

The King had turned from Alice Perrers when his son's advent was announced and waited, frowning a little, until the Duke came up to the royal table and, kneeling, quickly kissed his father's hand and whispered something at which the King's face grew grim; he banged his fist upon the table, nodding slowly.

The Duke stood up again and raised his hand towards the minstrels, who hushed their instruments. He threw back his shoulders and though addressing the royal table, spoke in ringing tones designed to reach everyone throughout the Great Hall.

"A message has just come from our royal brother, the Prince of Wales. There is monstrous news. Henry Trastamare the Bastard has foully usurped the throne of Castile and was crowned on Easter Day!"

A shocked murmur ran around the Hall; it swelled to a chorus of dismay.