"And the King's sons-" continued Geoffrey. "Do you know which they are?" Katherine shook her head, and he continued, "They're all home now, except the Prince of Wales, of course, who is at his court in Aquitaine."

He pointed out the royal princes to Katherine. There was Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest, a boy of eleven, who sat with his elbows on the table, scowling into his gilded cup with an expression of surly boredom. He and Isabel showed their mother's heavy Flemish blood. And there was Lionel of Antwerp, who was the eldest of the sons, except for Edward, Prince of Wales. Lionel was a ruddy blond giant and the Queen's favourite. He was goodnatured, stupid, a fairly recent and not too disconsolate widower, whose marriage to the Italian merchant princess, Violante Visconti, was in negotiation.

Lionel had just returned from a most uncongenial sojourn in Ireland, where he endeavoured to rule the lands inherited from his late wife, Elizabeth de Burgh. He detested the Irish and, being now very drunk, was roaring a scurrilous song about them to the tune the minstrels were playing. Chaucer, while pointing him out to Katherine, regarded his former master with amused affection. Geoffrey had entered the household of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, as a page and progressing to squire had served him loyally. But Geoffrey had been much relieved at his recent transfer to the King's own service, having no liking at all for exile in Ireland.

Edmund of Langley, Earl of Cambridge, sat near Lionel and was much paler and smaller than his brother. Edmund at twenty-four was still a pretty boy, with sloping, almost beardless chin. He smiled often as he chatted with Lady Pembroke on his right, while now and again he looked nervously towards his father, who paid not the slightest attention to him or to anyone except Alice Perrers. The King sat with his grizzled head twisted up towards Alice, sharing his ruby-studded cup with her, listening to her whispers and breaking now and then into a shout of laughter.

"I think I have them straight now," said Katherine, having followed Geoffrey's identifications breathlessly. "But the King has another son. Which is the Duke of Lancaster?"

Chaucer tan his eye down the line again and shook his head. 'He's not come in yet, though there is his most lovely Duchess, God give her joy."

Katherine heard the drop to seriousness in the squire's voice which had been, throughout his previous recital, tinged with light irony, and she was startled by the expression in his eyes as they rested on Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster. Katherine glanced instinctively at her sister. But Philippa was discussing the proper distillation of lavender water with Elizabeth Pershore, and not listening.

So Katherine examined the Duchess with avid interest, wondering at first why she had so great a reputation for beauty. From this distance, at least, the Lady Blanche appeared muted and overshadowed by the other vivid and bejewelled ladies at the High Table. Her blond braids were partially concealed by a simple gauze veil and her pale oval face, calm and passionless as a lily, was turned from the others, while her sea-blue eyes gazed out across the Hall with gentle contemplation.

But as Katherine watched, the Lady Blanche responded to some remark from the Earl of Pembroke and she smiled a smile of piercing sweetness, while inclining her shining head in a gesture both humble and gracious. Katherine was suddenly awed. She is like the painting at Sheppey of the Blessed Virgin, she thought.

"Yes," said Geoffrey, who had been watching the girl's face, "she is a very great lady. The greatest in the land, not excepting the Queen."

"Can she have - has she children?" asked Katherine timidly, for it did not seem possible that this exalted lady might have known the dark urgings of the body, the stir of blood Katherine felt dimly in herself.

Geoffrey nodded slowly. "She has had three - Philippa, who is six, a baby John, who died at birth, and Elizabeth, who is two years old, I believe."

Katherine considered this and was led on to another question. "Is there true love between the Duke and Duchess, do you think?" she whispered, not unaware of naivety and boldness but knowing instinctively that she dared ask anything of this wise young man.

A shadow crossed his face, but then he smiled. "Ay, I believe there is, and you don't yet know, child, how rare a thing love is at court, and in a royal marriage."

Katherine would have asked more but was diverted by a commotion of running feet outside the entrance to the Hall, and the blare of trumpets, followed by a herald's voice shouting a gabbled string of titles, "John, Duke of Lancaster, Earl of Richmond and Derby, of Lincoln and Leicester, enters here!"

All the company in the Hall, including those at the royal table except the King and Lionel, rose to their feet. "The noble Duke arrives," said Chaucer somewhat dryly, "with, of course, due ceremony and recognition."

Seven or eight young men strode into the Hall together but nobody could have had difficulty in identifying the Duke.

He was magnificent in a red and azure tunic quartered with the lilies of France and the Leopards of England. A gold girdle, fastened by the ruby rose of Lancaster, hung on his narrow hips and around his wide muscular shoulders lay the SS golden collar of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, who had just turned twenty-six last month, was the best made of all the King's sons. He was tall, though not so uncouthly large as Lionel, and he was slender, but not with the meagre delicacy of Edmund. In John's face the Plantagenet stamp of long nose, narrow cheeks and deep eye-sockets had been softened but not coarsened by the Flemish heritage. His eyes were as bright blue as his father's once had been, his thick hair was tawny yellow, as a lion's pelt. His beard was clipped short and his face shaven to disclose a full and passionate mouth.

As he strode down the Hall between the kneeling varlets and the bowing courtiers, Katherine felt the impact of a ruthless vitality and pride. He is more king than the King himself, she thought, staring fascinated. And many others thought so too, though not with her uncritical adjuration. It was the Lady Blanche's vast inheritance which had raised the King's third son to such power and there were some who thought him dangerously edging towards royal prerogatives and negligent of the proper respect due to his elder brothers, the Prince of Wales and Lionel.

The King had turned from Alice Perrers when his son's advent was announced and waited, frowning a little, until the Duke came up to the royal table and, kneeling, quickly kissed his father's hand and whispered something at which the King's face grew grim; he banged his fist upon the table, nodding slowly.

The Duke stood up again and raised his hand towards the minstrels, who hushed their instruments. He threw back his shoulders and though addressing the royal table, spoke in ringing tones designed to reach everyone throughout the Great Hall.

"A message has just come from our royal brother, the Prince of Wales. There is monstrous news. Henry Trastamare the Bastard has foully usurped the throne of Castile and was crowned on Easter Day!"

A shocked murmur ran around the Hall; it swelled to a chorus of dismay.

The Duke waited for the sensation to subside, then went on, "King Pedro, the rightful, most Christian and unhappy monarch, has applied to us for aid against the shameful traitor!"

Now many Knights jumped forward and there were exultant shouts. Katherine, who understood nothing of this but was gazing entranced at the handsome Duke, heard Chaucer say, "Welladay, so here we go again, poor England."

"What do you mean?" she asked, peering around at him.

He shrugged. "That the King and my Lord Duke will be on fire to right so grievous a wrong, particularly a wrong backed by France, and we shall fight again."

"Don't you want to fight?" said Katherine with some disapproval.

He chuckled in his throat. "I have fought, been captured and ransomed, too. I no longer need to prove myself the flower of chivalry, and I dare say I can serve my King better on missions."

"Missions," repeated Katherine, raising her chin and feeling a little sorry for Philippa. Her eyes flew back to the Duke of Lancaster. He had seated himself beside his wife and was talking animatedly across her to his father and brothers. She could no longer hear what was said but she saw that they were all in a buzz of excitement and indignation. Their royal blue eyes were flashing, and even little Thomas had lost his surly boredom and was hanging over the Duke asking eager questions.

How splendid they were, thought Katherine, and her heart swelled with hero-worship, directed towards the lovely Lady Blanche as much as towards the Duke. Of all the handsome people, those two were the best-looking, and a fairy enchantment surrounded them like a nimbus.

"Ah, yes," said Chaucer, watching her, "the Plantagenets dazzle like the noonday sun - but the Lancasters," he added on a lower note, glancing up at the Lady Blanche, "that one there doesn't dazzle, she glows, gentle as the Queen of Heaven. I think, my dear" - he interrupted himself abruptly - "that you are causing some interest across the Hall."

Katherine had been entirely unaware of herself during the last hour, now she followed Chaucer's gaze and reddened. Several of the Duke's retinue, after accompanying him into the Hall, had seated themselves at a table directly opposite.

Two of the young men were looking hard at Katherine and whispering. ;

For one who stared with such intentness that he seemed to be scowling at her, she felt an immediate antipathy. He had an ugly florid face, square as a box, and kinky hair, short and dusty, buff in colour like sheep's wool. His beard was of the same stubborn texture, so that it did not part neatly in the middle like that of other men, but jutted in a fringe. A jagged purple scar puckered his right cheek and contributed to the repulsion Katherine felt. The small scowling eyes were staring across at her with frank purpose, a look that even Katherine recognised as desire.