No one could be melancholy during these days of Maytime brightness, and the Duke shut his mind to impending problems and enjoyed himself wholeheartedly with Katherine.

On May 12, he was to set forth for Scotland again. The King's Council, much pleased with his handling of earlier Scottish- disorders, had commissioned him to ride north and negotiate for a prolongation of the truce and cessation of the new hostilities. Percy's touchy sensibilities would have to be soothed. The Lord of Northumberland felt that Border matters were his own exclusive concern, and passionately resented interference from Westminster. But a combination of tact, flattery, and sternness would doubtless pacify the Border lord as they had before.

Everything contributed to the optimism born of Nature's own gaiety.

Parliament had finally voted an appropriation, and the poll tax was being raised, albeit there had been some trouble. The first collectors, through laziness or venality, had failed miserably to hand over the average shilling a head that was required. In March the system had been tightened and a fresh staff of collectors commissioned. The chancellor, who was now old Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, had been scolded for his slackness; and a new treasurer, Robert Hales, Prior of St. John's, put in charge of the dilatory revenues.

The common folk might grumble - to be sure, taxes always caused grumbling - but a democratic effort had been made to distribute this tax fairly, "with the strong to help the weak." It was true that the levy of a shilling might wreak some hardship amongst labourers and servants since their wages seldom reached fourteen shillings a year; but on the other hand, the glorious prospects of eventual victory in France and Castile should certainly move the people to patriotic sacrifice. Besides, this new tax, for the first time, spared no one over fifteen years of age, even a baron or a bishop was assessed at a pound a head.

What could be fairer than that thought the Peers, while the Royal Council and Parliament agreed.

Katherine had been a trifle uneasy since she had heard John Ball preaching at Leicester, until the Duke told her that Ball had been imprisoned in Kent by Archbishop Sudbury.

"No need to fret, lovedy," said the Duke gaily. "With that ranting little firebrand quenched in jail, the people'll quiet down. They've no real cause for grievance, anyway."

Katherine was reassured. Yet she did say hesitatingly, "But the villeins aren't reasonable. My steward writes that at Kettlethorpe Cob o' Fenton has run off again! Though I freed him from the stocks and gave him back his land."

John shrugged. "No doubt they'll catch him, Katrine. Tis always hard to judge when leniency be wise. Some serfs would have shown you greater gratitude."

She had accepted this and ceased to think of it. Each lovely day must be enjoyed to the full especially as she and John would so soon be separated. Yet she had little fear for him on this march to Scotland which he anticipated with pleasure, nor should it take more than a month or so. She was to await him at Kenilworth with their children, and Kenilworth was a happy summer-time castle.

On Sunday she would leave the Savoy with the Duke, who would drop her and her household off at Kenilworth while he continued north. But before they left there was a small private matter to be attended to.

Sir Ralph Hastings would accompany his lord to Scotland, and Blanchette's betrothal should be solemnised. It had been delayed after Katherine's decision at Leicester because Sir Ralph had been at Pontefract, but now he had arrived at the Savoy, eager to claim the girl.

This was on Wednesday, the 8th of May. The Duke and Katherine were sitting in the rose garden watching a troupe of Cornish tumblers and gleemaidens who were cavorting on the lawn.

Sir Ralph strode through the garlanded archway into the garden, and walking to the Duke's chair knelt and kissed his hand. "God's greeting, my lord," he said, and bowed to Katherine. "I'm here a day before I thought to be, but love is a sharp spur, by Peter!" He chuckled and swaggered in his violet brocaded cote-hardie. A well-made man was Sir Ralph, and had spared no expense in clothing himself as finely as any young dandy at Richard's court. Blanchette's aversion to him he had assured himself sprang from charming modesty, being quite certain of his attraction. He was thirty-five and looked younger. He was an excellent horseman and jouster, and had been forbearing to the old wife he had been married to for twelve barren years until her lung complaint released him.

Blanchette had no excuse whatsoever for her behaviour, thought Katherine, smiling at Sir Ralph, who was asking after the girl.

"I'll get her," said Katherine rising. "In truth, Sir Ralph, you must have patience with her. Woo her gently. I confess she's sometimes of a heavy spirit."

The knight frowned a trifle but he spoke confidently. "Oh I'll soon gentle the little burde, once she's mine. 'Tis natural she should be shy."

''Natural, maybe," said the Duke smiling. "But she's played the coy long enough. We'll have the betrothal tomorrow, a merry climax to May revelry. Here in the arbour - and some jousting to follow. Blanchette shall be May Queen for the day."

Katherine bestowed a loving glance on John as she hurried from the gardens in search of Blanchette.

The girl lodged in a chamber in the Monmouth Wing, and could seldom be persuaded to leave it. Here she carried on many little occupations of her own. She had wooden puppets that she dressed in scraps of silk and velvet and played some secret game with, though she was well past the age for such toys. She strummed her lute and sang melodies of her own devising that were hushed at once if anyone came to the door.

And there were her birds. Almost daily Blanchette sent the page who waited on her to the market. He fetched her singing birds - linnets, thrushes, skylarks and sometimes nightingales that had been netted by fowlers and were offered for sale. She had a ritual with these. She left them in their cages only one night; while she talked to them softly as though they were Christian souls. At the dawning she would free them through her window and God-speed them as they winged out of sight.

A harmless enough pastime, but while Katherine stood at the girl's door she heard the low voice inside singing a plaintive tune, and the twittering of a bird. As she put her hand on the latch, Katherine's throat constricted while a memory assailed her - of the Lady Nichola in the tower-room at Kettlethorpe. Nay, but the child is in nothing like Nichola, Katherine thought with vehemence. She pushed the door and found it locked.

"Let me in!" she called sharply." 'Tis your mother." After a moment the door opened slowly and Blanchette stood as though to bar the way, her hands clenched together between her breasts. Her copper-gold hair cascaded in loose ringlets down her back. She wore a dove-grey chamber robe, unadorned. Never would she willingly wear any of the costly trinkets that the Duke or Katherine gave her. She was still shorter than her mother but her slight body showed the curves of womanhood, though her face had not lost its baby roundness and a few freckles still peppered her nose.

"Come, child," said Katherine more gently, "why must you always act as though I'd harm you? I love you, and wish you nothing but good. It hurts me when you act like this."

The girl stood motionless on the tiles, her sombre eyes fixed on Katherine.

A tiny green linnet hopped and twittered in a wooden cage though the cage door had been opened. The lute lay on the window-seat next to a quill pen, wet with ink, and a piece of parchment on which there were some straggling characters. Katherine moved to examine them, thinking to please Blanchette with praise for practising her writing. She read the childish letters at a glance.

I sigh when I sing

For sorrow that I see

Robin is gone

And thinks naught of me.

Blanchette with a muffled cry rushed over and swooped up the parchment. She crumpled it in her shaking hand, while fury flashed in her eyes. She turned on her mother and gasped, "What d-do you w-want of me, my lady?"

Katherine sat down on the window-seat and shook her head. "You mustn't blame me, darling, for things I can't help," she said quietly. "You must believe that all sorrows pass, and what you feel today you won't in a year. And you must believe that I know what's best for you."

The girl said nothing. Her eyes moved from her mother's pleading face to the green linnet, her mouth set in an ugly line. Her fingers clenched the crumpled ball of parchment, and she flung it on the tiles.

She that was the sweetest and the gentlest of children - Katherine thought - dear Lord, why is she like this now? Ay, it must be I've spoiled her. She sighed, then spoke with decision. "Blanchette, Sir Ralph has come. He's in the garden with my lord. Your betrothal shall take place tomorrow."

Blanchette raised her eyes. "I'll n-not," she said through her teeth. "I'll - run away. You'll n-never find me - -" Her voice shrilled and the stammer left her speech. "I'll not do what he says, ever - I swear it by my father's soul!" She crossed herself and her face went white as clay.

"This is wicked folly!" cried Katherine. " 'Tis not what the Duke says, 'tis what I say - -"

She gasped, for Blanchette flung out her arms and shouted, "You lie! And I hate you! You are naught but his creature, you and the scurvy pack of bastards that you bear him!" She turned wildly and stumbling across the room flung herself on her bed.

"Jesu," whispered Katherine. She sat rigid on the window-seat. A black wave submerged her and at length retreated, leaving behind a jutting rock of anger as refuge. She rose and stood by the bed. Blanchette's face was buried in her arms, her shoulders shook but she made no sound.

"This Blanchette, is too much!" Katherine said in a voice of icy control. "God knows if I can ever find it in my heart to forgive you."

Blanchette quivered. She twisted her face slowly around and stared up at her mother, and seeing there anger for the first time in her life, she gave a frightened moan. "Mama," she whispered.

Katherine moved away. Ay, she thought, my patience is at an end. I've put up with her humours, with the hatred she shows to John and me, and her jealousies of my babies. She blames me too that Robin did not love her, and now she speaks to me like that.

"Since you are lost to decency and make wicked threats, Blanchette," she said, "I shall see that you are strictly guarded night and day. One of my serving-maids shall stay here with you, and a man-at-arms remain outside the door. Tomorrow at noon there will be your betrothal to Sir Ralph, and after that I'll send you to a convent until your marriage. You may be thankful that I don't beat you as you deserve." She picked up the hand-bell and rang.

"Mama - -" whispered Blanchette again. She slid off the bed. Her eyes were dark with fear. "I d-didn't m-mean - -"

Katherine answered frigidly, "Think not to wheedle me into softness as you have so often. I've been soft with you too long."

Blanchette drew back a step. She turned her head from side to side, her eyes moved from the green linnet to the window, then back to her mother's face. But Katherine did not look at her.

One by one Katherine took the measures for Blanchette's imprisonment. She summoned a serving-wench, a taciturn Lancashire lass called Mab, and told her not to leave the girl alone a moment. She stationed a man-at-arms outside the door, telling him to enter if the servant should call. She herself bolted the door on the outside as she left. Then she went back to the gardens and told Sir Ralph that he would see Blanchette on the morrow at the betrothal, but that the girl was indisposed at present. The knight was not pleased.

In the Avalon Chamber Katherine tossed and turned that night until John anxiously asked her what ailed her and suggested that a warm sleeping posset be sent for. She reassured him and kissed him. But she did not tell him of what had passed with Blanchette, for never did she disquiet him if she could help it. He held her close in his arms and after a while she slept, soothed by the familiar comfort of his love; but her sleep was filled with confused bitterness.

Blanchette acted throughout the morning of her betrothal like one of the jointed puppets that she played with in her chamber. She let the Lancashire wench and Hawise array her in a gown of myrtle-green satin and embellish her with jewels, her own and Katherine's. She raised her arms and lowered them when they told her to. They twined flowers in her flowing hair and garlanded her with lilies. She never spoke at all or seemed to know what they were doing, but once, when Hawise stood back admiringly and said, "God's blood, my poppet, I vow you're near as fair as your mother was on her bridal day!"