On this bleak, windy afternoon, Katherine was sewing by the fire in the pleasant Hall of her town house on Pottergate, just inside the cathedral close. Her lap was filled with a sapphire velvet pool while she put the finishing gold stitches on the mantle she would wear to greet the King. Her sister Philippa sat in an arm-chair, propped with pillows, listlessly pleating a fine gauze veil. Hawise stood behind the kitchen screen pounding almonds into honey for a marchpane while keeping a watchful eye on the housemaids. Little Joan played on the hearth with her kitten. For some time there had been silence, except for Hawise's pounding and the crackle of the fire. The wind howled outside but there was no draught. A good snug house, Katherine thought contentedly.

This was the same house that the Duke had taken for her fifteen years ago when their John Beaufort had been born here, secretly. Three years ago she had decided that the elder boys, John and Harry, would benefit by spending the winter months in Lincoln, where the priests at the newly established Cantilupe Chantry took day scholars. So she had leased this house again. Whereupon the outraged citizenry had shown their displeasure by breaking into her walled close looting and beating the servants.

This was the culmination of many unpleasant incidents, which Katherine had borne with patience. In truth her burdens during these years had been even heavier than she had anticipated. Though her parting from the Duke was known to everyone, she continued to be reviled. Not only moral indignation motivated the folk of Lincoln, but resentment because of city quarrels between the Duke's constable at the castle and the town.

Katherine held herself apart, tried to administer her properties wisely and do the best thing for her little Beauforts. But the vandalism to her Pottergate house was another matter, since it had endangered the boys. She appealed by letter to the King. Richard responded promptly and gallantly, had sent a commission to investigate the charges, and fine the offenders. After that, she had been let alone. Entirely alone. Lincoln folk looked through her when they saw her on the street.

It might be because of that incident three years back, or because Richard had been intrigued by the little mystery when she met him outside Waltham and rescued Cob, or because he thought special notice of her would annoy his enemies - one never knew with Richard. In any case, he had sent word that Katherine was to dine at the bishop's palace on the morrow when the royal party would be there.

The three women in Katherine's Hall were all thinking of the royal visit. "Oh - doux Jesu - Katherine," Philippa sighed, lifting her thin, vein-corded hand and letting it fall despondently. "If only he would present you to the Queen. Then, then, your position might be better here."

Katherine put down her needle and looked at her sister with deep sorrow. Philippa faded daily. Sometimes she suffered much pain from the canker lump in her breast. Her rosy face was shrunken, her eyelids purple, feebleness had blunted her decisive nature. "But the King would not do that, you know, Pica cherie," said Katherine gently. "I don't mind, and I shall as least see her. I'll tell you all about her."

Philippa sighed again. "Anne, Anne, Queen Anne," she said fretfully. "They say she's ugly, with her fat German cheeks, her thick neck. Yet they say he adores her. 'Tis strange - and no heir either - five years - Richard, of course - one always doubted he could - -" Her voice trailed off.

Joan, who had been quiet with her kitten, suddenly looked up at Katherine with big-eyed earnestness. "Mama, why does Sir Thomas hate the King?"

Katherine laughed as mothers do when their children say something precocious, a little embarrassing. "Why, I'm sure he doesn't. What an idea!" She bent down quickly and tied a wisp of blue velvet around the kitten's neck. "There, look at Mimi, isn't she pretty!"

But Joan was not a baby, to be so easily distracted. She was eight, intelligent and practical. A dark pansy-eyed child, round and red-cheeked, she looked much as her Aunt Philippa had, years ago, though she was prettier and had her mother's wide full mouth. "Thomas hates the King," she insisted. "I heard him say so, last year when he was here. He said the King was womanish, soft-bellied and double-tongued as an adder."

"Joan!" cried mother and aunt sharply. The child paid no attention to her aunt, who was usually cross, but she had no wish to provoke her mother's rare displeasure. She hung her head and picked up the kitten.

Katherine, who was always just, stroked the dark curls. "What ever you heard, mouse, forget it. You're old enough to understand that it's dangerous - and discourteous - to say such things about our King. Come, here's a needle for you, let me see what nice stitches you can make."

She gave the delighted child a corner of the velvet mantle and some gold thread. She resumed her own stitching and thought resignedly that the remark sounded like Tom, though she scarcely saw her eldest son, and knew little of what he thought.

Thomas Swynford was almost nineteen now, and a knight. He still served Henry of Bolingbroke, and what emotions he felt seemed to be for his lord. Tom had made two visits to Kettlethorpe since Katherine had come home, had approved, on the whole, her management of his inheritance, loftily ignored his bastard brothers and sisters, and been off again. Katherine knew that he had a dutiful fondness for her, and was also much ashamed of her reputation. He was teller than Hugh had been, but he had the same dusty ram's-wool hair, the same secretiveness. They had one clash. Tom had been angry when he arrived at Kettlethorpe and found that Katherine had been freeing her serfs. She knew better than to argue with him or put forth idealistic reasons, had given him proof instead that a manor worked by free, and devoted, tenants produced more efficiently than one run on the old servile system. Tom had grudgingly scanned the accounts, and ultimately agreed.

Yes, she thought, Tom is a good enough lad. None of her children had given her real anxiety - except - The years had passed without word. All reason demanded acceptance of Blanchette's death in the Savoy - and yet the ache, the void and the question were still there.

The minster bell began to clang for vespers. "The boys will soon be here," said Katherine gladly.

"Ay." Hawise stuck her head around the screen. "And I'd best be hiding me marchpane, them lads'd steal sweeties off the plate o' God himself. Lady," she said severely to Katherine, "put by your sewing, ye mustn't redden your eyes, when ye very well know who's coming to see ye - -"

"Oh Hawise," protested Katherine, with a laugh that mingled affection and exasperation, "you make pothers over nothing."

Hawise snorted rebelliously. Stouter, redder, and nearly toothless, none the less, Hawise was an unchanging rock. Stubborn as a rock too, at times.

"Ye'll not keep him dangling, I should hope!" she cried, wiping her hands on her apron, and stalking up to Katherine.

"By the Virgin, even Katherine couldn't be such a fool!" said Philippa with sudden energy. "Not if she really gets this chance." Philippa and Hawise were at one on this issue. Since the former had come to live with her sister two years ago, these determined women had learned to respect each other.

"Why you both should think he calls here for - for any special reason, I'm sure I don't know," said Katherine, defensively, and as they both opened their mouths for argument, she indicated Joan and shook her head. "Please - -"

Hawise shrugged gathering, up the mantle. "I'll do the last stitches - sweeting, ye're not going to wear that coif! It hides your hair. I'll bring ye the silver fillet."

"Thank God, Hawise has sense," sighed Philippa, lying back on the pillows. "It comforts me to know you'll have her, after I'm gone."

"Don't, dear - that's foolish," said Katherine quickly. "You'll be better when you've taken that betony wine the leech left."

Philippa shook her head and closed her eyes.

Katherine sighed deeply. I shall have to summon Geoffrey soon, she thought. He was living in Kent and dabbling in politics. He and Philippa were happier apart, but the separation was amicable as always, and he would be deeply shocked when he heard of his wife's condition.

Katherine picked up a distaff and began to spin abstractedly while she faced another more immediate worry. What shall I do about Robert Sutton, what is best? She had no real doubt as to the purpose of the wool merchant's announced visit this afternoon. The last time she had seen him he would have declared himself had she not managed to put him off, speaking - as though casually - about his wife, who was then but two months dead. God had helped her through these years. After an embarrassing time with Robert at the beginning, when she had thoroughly dashed all of his amorous hopes, they had settled into a friendly business relationship. Not truly friendly on his part, for Katherine knew he had fallen as deeply in love with her as his cautious, pompous nature would allow.

Katherine twirled the spindle and tried to think coolly. Marriage, honourable marriage with one of Lincoln's foremost citizens. The slandering tongues would be silenced, in public anyway. The lonely struggle would be over, she would be rich, secure. And the children - would it help them? Hawise and Philippa said "Of course." Katherine was not so sure. Robert was a possessive man, her anxious eye had seen indications that he resented the children. Still, she thought, it might be that she imagined his resentment. All her inmost self constantly sought arguments against this practical decision.