This was pale comfort but there was little Katherine could do except plead illness, hide in the solar and avoid seeing Hugh.

The Lady Blanche on hearing of the girl's aversion to the marriage had broached the matter to her husband and found him unexpectedly obdurate and impatient. "Of course Swynford's a fool to take her. I believe he could have had that Torksey heiress whose lands adjoin his, but I think he is bewitched. Since he lusts so for her, let him have the silly burde."

"You dislike her?" Blanche was puzzled by his vehemence. "I find her quite charming. I remember her father, a gallant soldier. When I was a child he once brought me a little carved box from Bruges."

"I don't dislike the girl. Why should I? I dislike wasting time or thought on such a trivial matter when we're going to war. And the sooner they marry the better, since Swynford will sail for Aquitaine this summer. He might as well beget an heir before he goes."

Blanche nodded. She was no more sentimental about marriage than anyone else, but she was sorry for Katherine and sent a page over with a generous present to help alleviate the girl's unhappiness.

Katherine was alone now because it was the day of the final tournament, and everyone in the castle except the sick Queen and the scullions had gone down to the lists. Though the ladies had urged her and Philippa had commanded, Katherine, who three days ago had so joyously looked forward to this spectacle, would not go.

She was fifteen and incapable of self-analysis. She knew only that this gorgeous new world, at first so entrancing, had resolved itself into a chaotic mass of helplessness and fears, against which she struggled blindly, finding no weapon but evasion. She was much frightened of meeting Hugh again, but vaguely she knew too that this unhappiness was reinforced by a more subtle one. She longed to see the Duke, and this longing upset her as much as Hugh's obsession, for the Duke had not been her champion after all; he had seemed to show her sympathy and as suddenly withdrawn it, and during that moment in his wife's bower he had looked at her with cold distaste, with, in fact, an undoubted and inexplicable repulsion.

Katherine went to the slitted window and gazed down to the plain far below, by the river, where she could see the lists and the forked pennants of the contending knights as their identifying flags fluttered from the pavilions. It was high noon now and the hot sun flashed off the silvery armour; great clouds of dust obscured the actual field, but she could hear the roars of excitement from a thousand throats, and the periodic blare of the heralds' trumpets.

She turned into the room and throwing herself across the bed, hit her bruised breast. She winced and though the tiny cuts were healing the pain seemed to strike through to her heart. If I pray to the Blessed Virgin, she thought, perhaps she'll help me, and the forlorn hope brought guilt, for she had missed Mass these two days of hiding in the solar. True, some of the courtiers did not go every day to Mass, Philippa often skipped herself, but the convent habit was strong.

Katherine slipped to her knees on the prie-dieu and began, "Ave Maria gratia plena," but the whispered words echoed bleakly in the empty solar. Then she heard a heavy knock on the oak door.

Katherine, clad only in her linen shift, threw the woollen cloak around her and nervously called, "Come in."

The door opened and Hugh Swynford stood on the threshold looking at her sombrely. He was dressed in full armour, for he was to be an afternoon contender in the lists. His chain-mail hauberk was covered by the ceremonial white silk jupon embroidered with three golden boars' heads on a black chevron, his coat of arms. He looked formidable, and cleaner than she had yet seen him, his crinkled hair as light as straw, his square beard close-trimmed.

He advanced into the room and Katherine stifled a moan and then hot anger rose in her. Holy Blessed Mother, she thought, I pray to you and this is how you reward me!

She wrapped the cloak around her and stood tall and stiff against the wall, her face hardened like the carved stone corbel. "Yes, Sir Hugh," she said. "I'm quite alone and helpless. Have you come to ravish me?"

Hugh's eyes dropped. Dull red crept up from his mailed gorget. "Katherine - I had to see you - I - I bring you this."

He opened his clenched hand, holding it out stiffly, his eyes on the rush-strewn floor. On his calloused palm there lay a massive gold ring, carved claws around a sea-green beryl.

"Take it," he said hoarsely, as she did not move. "The betrothal ring."

"I don't want it," she said. "I don't want it!" She folded her arms tight against her chest. "I don't want to marry you."

His hand closed again over the ring; she saw the muscles of his neck quiver, and the scar on his cheek go white, but he spoke with control.

"It is arranged, damoiselle. Your sister consents, the Duke of Lancaster consents - and the Queen."

"The Queen?" repeated Katherine faintly. "You've seen the Queen?"

"I sent her a message through Lady Agnes. The Queen is pleased."

It was then that Katherine gave up hope. The Queen, the concept of the Queen, had always ruled her destiny as it had her father's. She owed her life to the Queen, and all her loyalty. Of what use was rebellion anyway, for, as Philippa kept asserting, no woman followed her own inclination in marriage. She knew better than to doubt Hugh's word. Brutal and stupid as he might be, he would also be bluntly honest. And now at her continued silence his ready anger flared.

"The Queen thinks me lack-wit to take you, no doubt! They all do. I see them sniggering behind their hands - that scurvy fop de Cheyne -" He scowled towards the window and the noises of the jousting. "His pretty womanish face. Pthaw!" And he spat on the floor.

"Why do you want to marry me?" said Katherine quietly, "since I bring you nothing but my unwilling body."

He looked at her startled. Certainly he had not meant marriage until the Duke interrupted them in the garden. His assertion then had astonished himself. Was it an aura cast over her by the ducal protection, was it a cool integrity in the girl himself, and the increasing effect on him of her beauty, or was it the hunter's instinct for capture and total subjection? His slow mind baulked at reasons. He knew only that his longing for her was an anguish tinged with fear. It would never have occurred to him to speak of love, so he found refuge again in the excuse he had given the Duke.

"By Saint Anthony and his temptations, maiden, I don't know. You've cast a spell on me - or slipped me a love philtre."

From weariness and futility, Katherine suddenly laughed. "I wish that I had a love philtre, so I might drink it too."

At her laugh his heavy face brightened, his little eyes sought hers in sudden pleading. "The ring, Katherine, put on the ring," he whispered holding it out to her again, "and say the vows with me."

She bowed her head and held her hand out slowly. His blunt fingers shook as he pushed the ring down her middle finger where it hung heavy and loose as an iron shackle. "I, Hugh, plight thee, Katherine - my troth, as God is my witness." He swallowed hard, crossing himself.

Katherine looked down at the ring and the square, freckled sweating hand that clasped hers. She exhaled her breath in a long sigh, "I, Katherine, plight thee, Hugh - my troth as God is my witness."

So be it, she thought. Her aversion to him had not lessened, but she found a bitter new peace in the surrender. He leaned towards her for the betrothal kiss and she yielded her cool mouth, then drew back. He let her go, finding this quiet self-possessed girl far more awesome than the one who had fought him in the garden.

"My Katherine," he said humbly, "will you come to the lists and see me joust now? I - I should like to wear your colours - - "

A sardonic voice spoke in her head. Ah yes, it said, this is what you dreamed of, little fool, those nights at Sheppey. This is the fairy tale come true - a knight who asks to wear your colours at the King's tournament.

"I fear I've nothing to give you, sir," she said flushing, "except - wait-" She looked at the Lady Blanche's brocade dress and, quickly decisive, ripped the long green silk tippet from the left sleeve. "Will this do?"

He took the bright flimsy streamer and held it as though it burned his fingers. "Thank you," he muttered. "I shall hope to do you credit. I'll send back a page to guide you to the lists." He turned stiffly in his armour and the door banged shut behind him.

Katherine sank on the window seat, staring at her betrothal ring. Her first jewel. Massive and unwieldy, it looked on her small roughened hand. It was a cabochon beryl carved with Hugh's boar's-head crest and far too large, since he had worn it himself. The beryl, like all stones, had talismanic powers, it gave victory in battle and protection to the wearer, and it had cost Hugh something to part with it, though he had other amulets to rely on.

Though Katherine knew nothing of this, she could not help but take pleasure in the possession of a ring and feel, especially now that Hugh was no longer near, a great lightening of mood.

She wound thread around her finger to hold the ring and gradually her natural optimism returned. She was honourably betrothed, she had pretty clothes to wear, and she would see the tournament after all. What excuse then for moping, and bewailing that the conditions surrounding these admirable facts were not as she had wanted them? "A bas la tristesse!" said Katherine aloud, and while she washed she hummed the gay French song she had heard in the garden. Hi, dame de Vaillance!