Hawise questioned more and found out all the lonely circumstances of Katherine's life, and her warm heart was touched. She felt drawn to the girl and protective, though she was but two years older.

Suddenly she stroked Katherine's cheek with one finger. "How fair you are, damoiselle" she said without a trace of envy. "Sheen as a fairy woman, I trow."

She herself was neither shining nor fair, being a stout, big-boned lass, sandy-haired, freckled as a thrush's egg, and with a front tooth missing. Yet there was about her the wholesome strength of a healthy animal, and a mind for fun and colour that made her very likeable.

After Hugh had taken an inarticulate leave of Katherine, and he and Ellis had returned to the Savoy for the night, Katherine mounted thankfully to the loft over the fish-shop, where she climbed into a big bed beside Hawise and two younger sisters, who were already asleep. She would not see Hugh again until they met at the church door, because it was not seemly to meet during the twenty-four hours before their marriage; and she resolutely tried to forget him.

Hawise started to talk of the wedding, but on seeing that Katherine fell silent and sighed often, the older girl let the topic alone and spoke instead of her own young man. This was Jack Maudelyn, weaver's apprentice, and Hawise loved him dearly, though they were not betrothed. The Pessoners were people of consequence in London, and Master Guy was loath to give his daughter to a mere prentice. Moreover, though the weavers had a fine enough guild, her father looked down on them and thought them not a patch on the wealthy victuallers such as the fishmongers, the vintners and grocers. "I misdoubt Dada'll ever give consent, until I get me with child by Jack," added Hawise cheerfully, snuggling her head into the goose-feather pillow.

"Blessed Sainte Marie!" cried Katherine, sitting up straight in bed. "You wouldn't do that, Hawise. 'Tis mortal sin, it's - it's horriblel"

The other girl chuckled, she put her arm around Katherine's slender naked shoulders, and pulled her down again. "Easy to see you're convent-bred, sweeting. 'Tis no such sin, an' ye get wedded in time. It happens often enough in London. God's bones, I'll be eighteen come Michaelmas!"

Katherine was shocked, but she was fascinated, too. Could there be different ways of looking at a thing, even mortal sin? And was it possible that this ordeal which awaited her Saturday could be viewed in this cheerful and matter-of-fact light, could even be pleasurable? Ah, but Hawise loved her Jack, surely that made a difference, though Philippa said not, Lady Agnes de Saxilby said not, too-that love had nothing to do with duty. Suddenly, there swam before her eyes an image of the Duke as he had smiled up at his wife at the tournament. She shut her eyes tight and fingering the wooden beads that hung around her neck, began the Paternoster.

She was awakened before daybreak by Hawise's playful slaps. "Get up, get up, damoiselle, for we must bring in the May!"

The whole Pessoner household was astir. The maids were raking out the floor coverings of stale, matted rushes, and laying down sweet-smelling new ones to last the month. Dame Emma stood over the kitchen fire seething eels and pike in claret to make her famous galantine, for though this was Friday, she saw no reason to keep strict fast, so long as one touched no meat. Indeed it was one of the most joyous of holidays, and Katherine, scampering barefoot in a borrowed kirtle through the London streets with Hawise and a dozen other lads and lasses from their ward, forgot the dignity of her fifteen years, forgot that she would be a wife tomorrow, and giggled and danced and sang with the rest of them.

At every block they were joined by a new band of young people from other districts, and they all poured through Bishopsgate into the open fields and woods past St. Mary Bedlam's hospital. Now they scattered, darting in all directions, hunting for the thickest-blossomed hawthorns, for branches of apple and sycamore and flowering cherry. Through the fresh dew-sparkled dawning, the lads' jerkins and maidens' kirtles flitted like scarlet, yellow and green butterflies.

Katherine and Hawise, having found their May boughs, were sitting in a meadow, feverishly weaving a garland of primroses and bluebells, when someone threw a mistletoe ball at Hawise's head. It bounced into her lap amongst the flowers and she looked up giggling." 'Tis Jack," she said to Katherine, "I'll pay him out!" She stuffed the heavy bannock her mother had given her against hunger dexterously into the mistletoe, and when a shock of brick-red hair peered around the trunk of the nearest beech, she flung her missile hard. It hit Jack full on the mouth; he let out a roar of mock fury, and rushing for Hawise tumbled her backward upon the grass, tickling her until she howled for mercy.

Katherine drew a little aside during this rough play, but she laughed, too, and when Jack finally released his victim with a smacking kiss, she saw that he was a big hulking lad, as freckled and sandy as Hawise herself.

His eye lit on Katherine, and thinking her naught but a pretty barelegged maid, he seized her around the waist, pinched her little rump and nuzzled her neck. Katherine struggled and twisted, which he took for coyness, and he twined his hands in her long shining hair.

"Nay, nay, Jack!" cried Hawise. "Let her be. She's not one o' us. She's convent-bred! She's betrothed to a knight."

Jack's lantern jaw dropped; he released Katherine's hair, then peered fearfully around the quiet meadow.

"Her knight's not lurking here, you great booby!" laughed Hawise.

"Come help us with our garland, quick!" It brought extra good fortune to bring in the May before the sun was fairly up. And when the garland was finished, Katherine had already forgiven Jack. The three young people ran back together into town, singing in round, as they skipped down Bridge Street, the oldest of all the springtime greetings, "Sumer is icumen in, lhude sing cuccu."

In after years when Katherine thought of this last day of her girlhood she saw it lit up with a golden gaiety.

Spring bloomed in all the dark houses, every rafter and every post were festooned with greenery. The girls wore wreaths of flowers in their hair, the men tucked flowers behind their ears and under their belts. They drank the May wine, perfumed with wild thyme and violets. And they went to dance and sing around the enormous gilded Maypole which each year was erected by St. Andrew's church in Cornhill. So famous was this Maypole that it had given its name to the church, St. Andrew-under-shaft, at which some of the stricter clerics frowned, deeming the May frolics pagan things that lured the folk to licence. But most of the clergy thought no harm, and in the smiling ring of onlookers about the Maypole there was many a passing friar or parson, and even the black-garbed Benedictines stopped to watch.

Ah, Katherine should have been May Queen, cried Hawise, for she was fairer than any other maiden! But the queen had been chosen long ago, and already sat on her flowery throne beside the dancing. The May Queen's father was a goldsmith, and his metal seemed to shimmer in his daughter's hair, while her eyes were round and blue as forget-me-nots, so that Katherine knew Hawise was but being kind in calling her the most fair. Still, this kindness warmed her, and added to the glory of the golden day the feeling that she had found a true friend.

She did not forget Philippa mewed up in the house of illness. Once they stopped in the Vintry to inquire and found that Master John Chaucer seemed neither better nor worse. Philippa, full of pleasurable importance, had taken charge of the kitchen, so as to release Dame Chaucer for the nursing. Katherine felt guilt that she should be enjoying herself so much while her sister toiled. But Philippa wanted no help, it was plain that she was too busy to think of Katherine, who therefore continued to enjoy her freedom, which ended at last when they all danced the hay-de-guy around a bonfire in the wide square near the Guildhall.

How different was Katherine's awakening on Saturday morning. The lovely weather had dissolved into a steady rain. She awoke long before Hawise, against whose sturdy shoulder she had slept fitfully, and lay staring at the rafters and listening to the drip. It seemed as though a cold hand was gripping her heart, and she dared not move for fear the cold would spread and freeze her whole body.

The kindly Pessoners tried to rally her spirits with sly jests and rough teasing. They were sorry for this bride who had no mother to weep with her, and no kin to dress her. Hawise indeed took over the latter rite, tending Katherine lovingly, anointing her with a fragrant essence of gillyflowers, dressing her in the Duchess's green gown, which had been cleansed and freshened yesterday by one of the Pessoner maids. She brushed the curling dark auburn hair until it gleamed like Bohemian garnets, and left the mantle of hair to flow loose down to Katherine's knees in token of virginity. She set a bridal wreath of garden flowers on the girl's head, volubly cursing the rain as she did so. "But don't ye mind, my sweeting, mayhap it'll clear, thanks be to Saint Swithin!" Her heart ached for this still, quiet figure who allowed herself to be dressed and tended like a wax image, when yesterday she had been all rosy laughter. Bad luck, thought Hawise sadly, that it should rain, always an ominous wedding portent, and worse hick yet to be married in May. Blessed Mary grant the girl didn't know that, being yet so unworldly, or it might further depress her spirits.

The Pessoner parish church, St. Magnus, had but just finished ringing for Tierce when there was a knock at the door. It was Philippa with Geoffrey, come to conduct the bride to St. Clement's.