Philippa kept strict watch over her sister and saw to it that she herself or another of the Queen's women should always be with the girl, but even Philippa had relaxed into the general atmosphere of gaiety.

She discharged her duties every morning at six when she marshalled the pantry maids: tallied loaves of bread, unlocked and portioned out the day's allotment of the precious spices which would be used in the Queen's apartments, but after that, the Queen being still abed, Philippa was free. She noted that Katherine behaved modestly in public, that Roger de Cheyne did not press his attentions and that Hugh Swynford made no further attempt to speak to Katherine. So she felt that her fears had been unjustified and decided to wait until after the holiday to broach the girl's marriage to Symkyn-at-Woode.

Hugh, however, was awaiting opportunity. He was obsessed by Katherine, and dismally confused by this new sensation. Heretofore his occasional quick lusts had been as quickly satisfied, by whore or peasant, and had certainly never disturbed the tenor of his life.

But this girl, though she had no strong male protector, was yet a knight's daughter and attached, however nebulously, to the Queen. She might not be tumbled in a haymow or tavern, and in the face of her obvious indifference he did not know how to approach her. He watched for chances to see her alone, but there were none, and for the first time in his life he felt diffidence and regret that he was ugly.

On Wednesday evening his fate relented. There had been showers all afternoon, but after vespers the dying sun sprayed crimson light along the western battlements. In the Queen's ladies' solar there was the usual bustle of preparation for appearance at supper and the clack of women's tongues.

Alice Perrers these last nights had no longer bothered to appear in the solar at all, and the gossip was mostly of her. Katherine was quick to learn, and she now quite understood the reason for Alice's unpopularity. But it did not concern her. The royal family were still only glittering figures to be glimpsed at the High Table, and the Queen only a name. Katherine had nothing to wear except the violet gown borrowed from Matilda and no finery to put on, so she sat idly for a while on the bed that she shared with Philippa and Johanna Cosin, listening to the excited female gabble and longing to be out in the spring dusk. Then she heard the sound of singing outside, a gay lilting air newly come from France.

He dame de Vaillance!

Vostre douce semblance,

M'a pris sans defiance -

Katherine jumped up and, murmuring something to Philippa about a necessary trip to the garde-robe, instead ran down the stone stairs and out into the courtyard. There Hugh, who had been waiting, saw her, but she did not see him. She breathed deep of the soft air and followed the singing voices to the walled pleasaunce behind the eastern state apartments. The postern gate was open and she wandered through. The garden smelled of violets and rosemary, and the yew hedges, some as high as her head, had been clipped at the corners of the paths into peacock and lion shapes. There was no one in that part of the garden. The voices, now changed to a sadder tune, came from farther in by the fountain, whose splashing mingled with the plinking of a gittern.

Katherine loved flowers and was particularly sensitive to odours. She stooped to pick a daffodil and pressing the blossom to her nose, inhaled the sweet scent, when she heard the clanking of a sword and dropped the flower guiltily, suspecting that she had no right to be in the royal pleasaunce.

It was Hugh who strode around the corner of the hedge. He still wore his hauberk of chain-mail, his sword and his spun, for he bad been jousting that afternoon, and had caught sight of Katherine in the courtyard before he had had time to divest himself of all his armour.

"Good evening, damoiselle," he said in so harsh a voice that she was more puzzled than frightened.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here, but the music was so lovely - and the garden." She smiled, a slow radiant smile, its wistfulness belied by the cleft in her chin and a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

"I'll go back now," she said nervously, for the knight was blocking her way as he had on the first evening, scowling at her beneath his bushy crinkled eyebrows, the scar suddenly livid on his cheek. He breathed like a winded stag and his chunky thick-set body seemed to be trembling.

"Don't stare at me so, Sir Hugh," she cried, trying to laugh. "I'm not a witch or a ghost."

"Witch," he repeated thickly. "Ay, that's it. Witchcraft. You've cast a spell on me."

She saw his mouth working, heard the rasp of his breath, and before she could move, he lunged for her. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm while his other hand tore down the shoulder of her dress. The worn velvet ripped like gauze, exposing her arm and one breast. He crushed her furiously against him and the sharp links of his chain-mail ground into her flesh. He bent her backward until her spine cracked. She struggled for breath, then fought him with frantic terror. She beat him in the face with her fists and clawed with her nails until one of her frenzied blows hit his left eye. He tossed his head and loosed her just enough so that she could let out one long agonised scream.

"Don't Katherine, don't-" he panted, his grip on her tightened again. "I want you, I must have you-" He forced her against a hedge, bearing her down towards the ground.

A hand grasped Hugh's shoulder and a powerful arm jerked him upright, off Katherine, who fell to her knees on the path.

"Good God, Swynford," said a voice. "Must you pursue your little amours here?"

Katherine raised her head. One of her braids had come unbound and the cascade of hair half hid the naked shoulder and white breast that was imprinted with bloody flecks from the chain-mail Panting and shivering, she stared up at her rescuer.

It was the great Duke of Lancaster who stood between them on the path, his handsome mouth curled with distaste, his tawny gold hair bright in the dusk. His eyelids drooped over his vivid blue eyes as they always did when he was angry. He looked at his red-faced sweaty knight and spoke in a voice of biting calm. "I find your conduct displeasing, sir. You disturb the beauty of the evening. Who is this lady, who, moreover, seems not to share your lust?"

He turned to Katherine and examined her. He saw that she was very young and frightened and that in a pale tear-stained face two enormous eyes stared up at him with passionate gratitude. His arrogant mouth softened, he leaned down and gave her his hand. She clung to it as she stumbled to her feet and instinctively she moved near to the Duke, leaning almost on his arm. "My Lord," she whispered, "thank you." Her mouth was tinder-dry with fear, her heart pounding in her throat, but she pulled her hair and the torn violet cloth across her breast and stood quietly beside the Duke.

John of Gaunt was touched, alike by her instinctive bid for his protection and by her dignified recovery from sobs and dishevelment. Her beauty he had not yet clearly seen, but he felt the girl's magnetism and turned with increased anger to Hugh. "Who is this lady you've insulted?"

Had it been anyone else but his Duke, Hugh would have replied with equal anger; as it was, he glowered at the ground and said sulkily, "She's naught but a sister to Philippa la Picarde, one of the Queen's waiting-women. I've not insulted her. She's cast a spell on me. Witchcraft!"

"By Saint George's spear - what nonsense! A spell of your own lust, you tom-cat. I say you've most grievously insulted this poor child and-"

"Nay, my lord," interrupted Hugh. He raised his little greenish eyes and gazed at Katherine with a dumb misery. "I wish to marry her," he said heavily, staring at the ground. "She has neither lands nor dowry, but I would marry her."

Katherine gasped and shrank closer to the Duke, but he was staring at his knight with astonishment. "Would you indeed, Hugh?" he said slowly, and Swynford bowed his head.

That changed matters. If the girl were indeed portionless, this offer was amazing. Swynford was of good blood and possessed of considerable property. To the Duke as to all his family, marriage was a commercial transaction, a peace-time weapon for the acquisition of new lands and the extension of power. Love of one's mate was entirely fortuitous, and lovable as was the Lady Blanche, the Duke might not have felt for her such keen devotion had she not brought him vast possessions.

Though like all feudal lords he concerned himself with the marriages, deaths and begettings of his vassals, he would certainly not have pursued this tawdry little incident further tonight had it not been for the girl and the curiosity she was beginning to arouse in him. He made one of his quick decisions and spoke in a tone of easy command. "Well, Hugh, go back to your tent. We can talk of this tomorrow. And you, damoiselle, come with me to the Duchess. I wish her to see you."

Swynford bowed, turned on his heel and disappeared down the path. Katherine was dazed and still said nothing. She obediently followed the Duke through the garden gate and up to the Lancaster apartments.

The Lady Blanche was sitting on a cushion in the window seat of her private solar; across her lap there lay a square of pale blue satin on which she had been embroidering trefoils in emerald silk. She was dressed in her favourite creamy white, and as she had not yet changed for the evening her pale gold head was uncovered and shone against the darkness outside.

Elizabeth and Philippa, her two little girls, played on a Persian rug by the fireplace, near a minstrel who gently twanged Ins harp and sang snatches from the Chanson de Roland.

Audrey, the Duchess's chief tiring-woman moved silently about her duties, perfuming water in a hand-basin and carrying clothes from sundry chests in the solar to the hanging brackets in the garderobe which served as antechamber to the latrine.

The room was bright from twenty wax candles and jewelled with colour. The lights glowed on the crimson and olive of the wall tapestries and twinkled off the bed hangings of silver brocade.

When the Duke strode in with Katherine, the little girls ceased playing and stared round-eyed at their father. The minstrel hushed his harp and pulled his stool into a corner, waiting for dismissal or command to continue.

The Lady Blanche rose with slow grace and smiled at her husband. "I did not expect you so soon, my lord." Her serene blue gaze rested on him tenderly. "I thought you were with the messenger from Bordeaux."

"I was," said John, "and bad news it is, too - but then I summoned some gleemen to sing for me in the garden and banish care for a while. I was disturbed-" He shrugged and indicated Katherine who curtsied nervously, conscious of the curious stares of the tiring-woman and the two little girls.

"Disturbed?" repeated Blanche. "By this child?" She put out her slender white hand to Katherine, smiling kindly, then she leaned forward. "But what's happened? Her gown is torn and there's blood on it. Audrey, fetch warm water and some wine. You're hurt, maiden?"

"Not much, Your Grace," said Katherine, very low. "My Lord Duke did save me."

"From what?" exclaimed Blanche, putting her arm around the girl.

"From rough love-making," said John, laughing suddenly. "But honourable it seems, in the end. Sir Hugh Swynford, you know the Lincolnshire knight they call the Saxon Ram, wishes to wed this young lady - an interesting idea."

"Oh, no," cried Katherine, sending the Duke a look of piteous bewilderment. "I'm sure he didn't mean it - and I couldn't, you must see I couldn't!"

"Hush, child," said the Lady Blanche, surprised that anyone should dare gainsay the Duke, whom she saw to be uncomfortable and wishful of escape. Indeed the girl, now brightly illuminated by the candles, had suddenly made an unpleasant impression on John, though he did not know why. True, many might call her beautiful, but to his taste she seemed overcoloured and earthy next to the exquisite Blanche. He disliked the flaunting profusion of bronze hair, the redness of her bruised mouth, the black abundance of her lashes, and particularly her eyes that stared at him with urgent pleading. They were too large and grey and gleamed with golden flecks in the candlelight. Her eyes disturbed him, evoking an unreasoned confusion of far-off anger and pain. For an instant he knew that someone else had stared at him like that long ago, and there had been betrayal, then the impression vanished, leaving only sharp resentment.