dyke'd suit 'em and-" It occurred to him that, women being what they were, this was perhaps not the most effective of wooings. He cleared his throat and said, "Well, 'tis no secret to you that I've long wanted you in my bed, and if you'll come no other way, I'm willing to wed." Katherine laughed.

The merchant was divided between delight at the pretty sound of it and a natural annoyance.

"What's so funny?" he said stiffly. " 'Tis not, my dear, as though you had noble blood, to be sure you'll be plain Mistress Sutton, instead of 'Lady' - but I hardly think - -"

"Nay, nay - Master Robert," she put her hand on his knee, "I've no thought like that, I come of simple yeoman stock, and will be grateful to be Mistress Sutton - -"

"Then you will?" he cried. He lumbered to his feet and caught her up around the waist. He kissed her hotly, hard and insistent.

'Tis not so bad, she thought. He smelt of pomade and cloves; the feel of male strength and of desire, after so long a chastity, was not disagreeable. As he kissed her, her pulses quickened a little. Ay, I might learn to love him, at least enough - she thought. I shall try.

Next day the royal procession to the cathedral justified all Lincoln's hopes of gorgeousness, it also justified mounting rumours of Richard's unbridled extravagance, but today nobody bothered about that.

John Sutton, the mayor, in his scarlet robes came first, his aldermen followed, and the guild members with their banners, and the Church dignitaries, culminating in the bishop, ageing now, but as haughty, tight-mouthed and supercilious as ever. These were familiar sights to Lincoln and hardly worth standing out in the cold for; but the King and Queen and their retinue were another matter. Never had anyone imagined such a dazzle of cloth of gold, of pure silver tissue, such yards of ermine to trail in the muddy streets, such flashing of jewels.

Thanks to Robert Sutton's influence, Katherine watched from a bench in the minster nave as the procession moved sedately along between the clustered marble columns towards the north-east transept and turned left for the chapter house, where the ceremony would take place.

She watched with emotions more painful than she had anticipated when familiar figures marched by. Michael de la Pole, whom she had seen so often with the Duke. He was Richard's adviser now, had been created Earl of Suffolk, had been Chancellor of England, but there was trouble, how grave she did not know, except that he had been recently ousted from his chancellorship, and disgraced by the Lords in Parliament. He looked old, she thought with a pang, his shoulders stooped under their ermine cape, his hair was white as the ermine.

And Lord Neville of Raby, the fierce North Country warrior: he looked not only old but ill, his steps dragged and he leaned heavily on the arm of his stalwart good-looking son, Ralph.

Next came a giggling, mincing group of young men in skintight hose that showed their thighs, and more, and who wore velvet shoes with points a half yard long - Richard's contemporaries and cronies; and the Bohemian lords and ladies who had come over with Queen Anne. And young de Vere, once Lord Oxford, Richard's favourite, whom he had created Duke of Ireland.

At de Vere's faultlessly handsome face, Katherine gazed with revulsion. Even at Kettlethorpe she had heard of de Vere's incredibly stupid conspiracies against the Duke, three years ago, the subtle plans to have John poisoned, the foul story of a mad Carmelite friar who had been subjected to hideous torture as de Vere's scapegoat. Ay, there was perversion of all sorts dwelling behind those tinted beardless cheeks, the gold-powdered curls, the tall slender body that bore itself so haughtily in violet brocade which gave forth a wave of scent as he passed.

Was it not in great part because of the dark silken influence de Vere had always had on Richard that the reign that started so auspiciously ten years ago had now degenerated into quarrels more violent than any known in Edward's time, and that Richard so soon had come to be loathed by most of his people, peers and commons alike?

And yet perhaps Queen Anne might save him, many hoped so.

The royal couple came on alone, after an interval. Katherine and all those crowded into the nave fell to their knees.

Richard had filled out, and blurred. The apple-blossom cheeks were plump, there was roundness beneath the tunic that was so thickly crusted with gems that one could not see the gold beneath. Even the white hart badge on his chest was made of pearls. Queen Anne was equally ornate, and at first glance, because of the horned moon headdress, she appeared to tower over her husband. She was no beauty, certainly. This daughter of the Holy Roman Empire would, in a kirtle, have passed for any stout healthy farm girl, but her face was kind, and as she whispered something to Richard, her smallish eyes sparkled agreeably.

They were so young, Katherine thought, only twenty, both of them, their characters not yet all formed. It might well be that this pleasant-looking young woman would prop the too delicately bred Plantagenet flower.

When the royal couple disappeared down the nave, Katherine stood up and stretched her cramped legs, noting that some of Richard's meinie had not gone into the small chapter house but were walking back into the nave to wait.

She wandered down the nave towards the Galilee entrance and paused in the transept beneath the rainbow shower of light from the round glass window called the Bishop's Eye. She had always loved this cathedral, and thought it the most beautiful in England with its west front of warm apricot-coloured stone, its wealth of carvings, some humorous, like the preaching fox in the wooden choir stalls or the tiny imp hidden in the stone foliage of the retro-choir, some inspiring like the musical angels or St. Hugh's shrine. The cathedral had gracious dignity that inspired a reverence peculiarly its own. Yet since the bishop's unkind sermon she could never feel welcome here, fancying that even the sacristans and chantry priests stared at her sardonically.

Today there were so many strangers that she did not feel conspicuous. While she gazed up at the Bishop's Eye, someone spoke her name. She turned and saw that it was Michael de la Pole.

"Why, God's greeting, my lord," she said uncertainly. She had met none of the Duke's close companions since the parting.

"Lady Swynford," said the old earl smiling. "Fair as ever, I see." He sighed, she saw that his blear eyes held a dragging weariness. " 'Tis good to see something that doesn't change."

"Oh, my lord," she protested, "indeed I have."

He shook his head. "I'm not being gallant, lady - if you remember, pretty speech was no art of mine. You look no older than you did six - ay, six years ago at Leicester Castle - by the Mass - that seems another life, another world."

"It was," said Katherine quietly. "For me."

Never during the long association with this woman had Michael quite understood the Duke's passion for her, but suddenly he did so now, perhaps because he had himself been suffering.

"My lady," he said, smiling ruefully, "I've the infirmities of age, alack - d'you know of a good nearby tavern where my page can go for wine? My belly shrinks and gnaws unless I keep it filled."

She nodded. "But my lord, if you would consider - my house is there, a few steps away - if I might offer you - -?"

"The very thing! An hour's quiet will hearten me - immeasurably. Yet, lady," his sunken eyes glimmered with a bitter light, "are you sure you wish to receive a man who has been accused of embezzlement, of cowardice, a man dismissed from office in disgrace?"

"You ask this of me?" said Katherine. They looked at each other half smiling, with a poignant understanding, before they turned and went together out of the cathedral and across the close to her house.

Hawise and Philippa were vastly fluttered by the arrival of the great Earl of Suffolk; little Joan caught the excitement and stared at him with awe, but the boys were all out enjoying the freedom of this gala day.

Katherine mulled wine herself over the fire for de la Pole while they settled down comfortably in the two cushioned chairs. He drew a sigh of relief. "This is good. Quiet. It takes youth, and strength, and - the wariness of a stoat to be around the King."

Philippa and Hawise had tactfully withdrawn, taking Joan with them. The two were alone in the pleasant room where the fitful sunlight glowed on Katherine's plain well-polished furniture, on the fresh sweet-smelling floor rushes. She picked up a tapestry square and began to stitch, thinking that he might prefer not to talk.

He watched her awhile, wondering if she ever thought of the old life and how things went with her here in Lincoln. She had changed, he thought, not her features, but in the atmosphere she emanated. There had used to be an undertone of intensity, of striving about her, now she seemed peaceful: serene and deep as a mountain tarn.

"Lady Swynford," he said suddenly, "do you ever think of the Duke?"

Her needle paused,, quivered, then plopped through the canvas, trailing its load of crimson wool. "It would do no good if I did, would it?"

"Nay - those times are long past, and well passed, I suppose, yet I don't doubt he thinks of you."

She raised her head. In the grey eyes the pupils enlarged slowly. "I'm sure you're wrong, my lord, unless it is with hatred."

"Hatred?" De la Pole was astonished. "Oh, he was very angry for a while up there in the north when you disappeared, 'twas natural enough. But it was not hatred that made him build a chapel to Saint Catherine near Knaresborough."

Katherine put down her tapestry and stood up; her chair scraped on the hearthstone. "Chapel to Saint Catherine?"