It was an official missive, dictated, and there was no private message to Katherine. He sent the note and the gifts by a new young squire Katherine did not know, a Robert Beyvill, who was to escort the ladies back to the Savoy.

Katherine received the letter while she sat amongst her household in Kenilworth's beautiful new Hall. She kept rigid control of her face as she read and thought, Dear Mother of God, he has then really ceased to love me or he could not write thus. I shall not go - I'll refuse. Even as she thought this, her heart began to deny it. His love had been buried but surely it was still there despite the evil demon, or whatever the incubus was, that drove him. She must not let her pride strike back at him, since he had again summoned her, no matter how coldly. She would go to London.

And underneath ran bitter realisation. What choice had she but to obey? This castle was his, the bread she ate, the clothes she wore came from his bounty. Like the hundreds in his retinue, like his children, like this young squire who stood waiting respectfully before her, she had no course but submission.

Suddenly she thought of Kettlethorpe. That place was wholly hers, her widow's rights had been confirmed. How small and mean it was compared to these lovely castles where she lived now here, now there, at the Duke's whim; and yet that crumb of far-off Lincolnshire was the only thing in the world entirely her own.

The thought was fleeting. She looked at her little Swynfords - Blanchette's golden curls bent over a grubby bit of embroidery while Philippa gravely helped her. Tom whittling an arrow on the hearth - both well grown, finely clad, and educated better than most nobles' children. And she thought how much they had profited by their mother's situation. She turned her eyes to the young squire and said quietly, "Then we must make ready to leave for London, must we not? What are you named, sir?"

"Robert Beyvill, my lady, but mostly I'm called Robin."

"Robin," she said with her sudden enchanting smile, thinking him well named. He had sharp eyes, a curly brown head, and his tunic was a bright rusty red. He was tall and merry-looking. Altogether far more pleasing a squire than Raulin d'Ypres had been - or Ellis.

Katherine rose abruptly and poured wine for Robin. She never allowed herself to think long of Hugh's erstwhile squire. She had seen Ellis once in Lincoln when little John was born. She had met him by chance as she walked up Pottergate to the house the Duke had leased for her. Ellis had stopped squarely in front of her, his heavy Saxon features twisted to a mask of loathing. "Whore!" he had cried, and spat directly into her face. She had not told the Duke the whole of it but she had seen to it that Ellis de Thoresby was sent off to his estates in Nottingham.

"I dare say Lady Philippa and I shan't be gone long," said Katherine, sitting down again and addressing her household. She spoke soothingly, for she knew there would be bad moments with Elizabeth, who adored the gaieties of London and resented being left out of anything. Worse than any tantrums Elizabeth might have was the stricken look in Blanchette's eyes as the little girl raised them to her mother. Plain as speech they said, And so you leave me again - for him.

"Come here, darling," said Katherine to her. "Shall we sing 'Havelock the Dane'? Will you play it on your lute?" That was the child's favourite ballad, and it used to be that to the point of weariness she begged Katherine for it.

But Blanchette shook her head and lowered it over the embroidery. "No, thank you, Mama," she said in a dull, flat little voice.

Katherine, Philippa and Robin Beyvill, the squire, left for London on the fifteenth of February, accompanied by the usual escort of men-at-arms, varlets and baggage carts, while Hawise and Philippa's waiting-women were stuffed into a wagon with the mistresses' travelling coffers.

Robin enlivened the way by telling the two ladies all that had been happening in London, but Philippa did not listen as she rode sedately along on her white mare. She was praying to the Blessed Virgin, supplicating that understanding Lady with conflicting petitions. First, that the marriage negotiations with Luxemburg would come to naught and second, that she would always have the will to obey her father. But Katherine listened eagerly to the squire and learned more about the Duke's activities than she had ever known. Robin had an uncritical admiration for his lord, whom he had served four years, though only recently promoted to be one of the Duke's own personal squires.

There was plenty of time for talk as they wended along the frozen muddy roads, and Catherine's interest was enlivened by feminine amusement when she discovered that Robin was casting her in the classic role of the unattainable lady fair.

He had too much humour to sigh and groan, as the love-stricken squire should do, but he demonstrated the other signs. His hand trembled when he helped her to dismount, he blushed when she looked at him, and once, when she dropped a sprig of holly which she had been wearing on her bodice, she saw him stealthily pick it up and, kissing the red berries, slip the whole twig into his pouch.

Katherine's sore heart was warmed by this adoration, in which she saw no danger; after all, the lad was barely twenty, and she full twenty-six. She relaxed with him and enjoyed his company, perhaps all the more so because Robin was not of high blood. His father was a franklin in Suffolk, a prosperous one, who farmed ample lands and owned a new half-timbered house.

Robin went on to say proudly that his father, Richard, was even now sitting in Parliament at Westminster, a new member of the Commons. "For," said Robin laughing, "the Duke has seen to it that this Parliament shall be properly packed with his own supporters, so there'll be no trouble like there was last spring."

They jogged out of Buckinghamshire towards Woburn Abbey, where they would sleep that night, while she considered what Robin had said, and she spoke thoughtfully. "So all goes well with His Grace now? He has no more enmities to fight against?"

"God's body, lady, I wouldn't say that!" Robin laughed again, then sobered and turned sharply in his saddle. "There's still the bishops! May the devil's pitchforks prick their fat rumps until they've bled out all the gold!"

"Robin!" cried Katherine.

Philippa looked up from her vague gazing at the road. "Are you a Lollard, Sir Squire?" she said stiffly; her long mild face showed a flash of Lancastrian hauteur. It was only in matters of piety that Philippa dared differ from her father's views.

"I ask your pardon, my lady," said Robin to Philippa, "I spoke too crude." But his eyes never lingered on the girl, and they returned at once to Katherine as he explained eagerly, "I feel as Wyclif does, and our lord the Duke. We've had the 'poor preachers' come to our home in Suffolk - they're good honest men, lady."

"Well-a-day," said Katherine, uninterested in Wyclif's preachers or indeed in Wyclif. "What is it between the Duke and the bishops now?"

"They most damnably defy His Grace!" cried Robin, his brown eyes flashing. "The Bishops' Convocation has dared to summon Wyclif for trial at Saint Paul's on Thursday. 'Tis Courtenay's doing."

Katherine could see no reason for Robin's vehemence. The bishops were powerful, of course, everyone knew that, but the Duke was omnipotent - all that Robin had told her proved it, and some struggle over Wyclif seemed to her of scanty importance. She now thought that she had been overly frightened for the Duke when he had faced the mob that jeered about the placard; and as they drew nearer to London she began to wonder with increasing anxiety what was really in her beloved's heart, and to suffer a miserable, vague jealousy, not of Costanza; but there were plenty of designing ladies at court. And he had apparently been seeing much of Alice Perrers - and the Princess Joan.

John was not aware that he had neglected Katherine. There were times when he longed for her and desired her, but these emotions took place at the back of his attention and were overwhelmed by the obsession which had come to him. The demonstration of power was a drink heady as the strongest metheglin ever the wild Saxons brewed, and yet continual imposition of his will did little to appease the pain which drove him on to further fight.

This pain smouldered like a hidden coal in his breast, and sometimes at night it became an actual fiery lump that rose into his throat and stuck there, so that he choked and gasped and sweated as he tried to swallow it down. Alone in his great State Bed, he would roll in shameful distress, clenching his fists and struggling for each breath, until at last he fell back exhausted and the thing dissolved. Then he would think of witchcraft and pull himself from bed to pray at Blanche's prie-dieu in the corner of the chamber.

In the mornings he could barely remember what had happened, and would awaken with increased passion to outwit his enemies.

On Wednesday, February 18, he rose after a badly troubled night and angrily shouted for his squires to come and dress him. His head ached and he was annoyed at the lateness of the hour. Parliament would open today at eight, and he must hurry to Westminster. This docile Commons was voting as it should, but they needed constant guidance.

Just as he was leaving the Savoy he remembered to summon the chamberlain, and told him to prepare rooms in the Monmouth Wing for Lady Philippa and Lady Swynford, who might arrive today from Kenilworth. The chamberlain looked startled. The Monmouth Wing was not where Lady Swynford had lodged before, and it was half the length of the Savoy from the Duke. The Duke caught the flicker in the man's eye, and some realisation of Katherine's feelings pierced his preoccupation. But nothing on earth would induce him to let anyone see him in those humiliating nightly attacks, and besides he had no time for love.