There were those who thought so; Costanza did. He had denied it furiously and with truth. No woman, not even Katherine, could turn him from his goal. As the Castilian throne drew nearer to his grasp its lure shone even brighter. But he had learned prudence in these last years, and the need for careful planning. Money must be raised for an army, and sporadic little bursts of rioting, not only on the borders, but in English shires, must be put down with a firm hand - and then Castile.

Katherine heard his deep breath, and knew that he was thinking of those sun-baked plains that he had shown her from their mountaintop in the Pyrenees. She understood now better than she had then why that far-away land was the summit of his dreams.

She no longer wondered that he was not satisfied with being the greatest nobleman in England and its virtual ruler. Not when he could be a veritable anointed king, king of a country nearly twice as large as England. What complete answer that would be to continuing slanders that he plotted for Richard's throne! And, thought Katherine - that other thing. The ghost of the changeling story had been laid, even his enemies had forgotten it, and John could now refer to it with no more than the passing scorn he gave to all rumours about him. But the scar was there.

The King of Castile would be far above all rumours.

Katherine reached an arm through the curtains for the hand bell which would summon Hawise and a valet of the chamber. The bell made her think of Robin, who as body squire had often answered it, and she said, "My lord, you spoke of a second reason why Robin must be sent away?"

"Lollard," said John succinctly.

"But," she protested, "you've never been against the Lollards!" Half the court, the Princess Joan and until recently John himself had subscribed to most of Wyclif's doctrines.

"The Lollards now go too far," said John impatiently. "Their preachers are inflaming the people. And you know very well that I can no longer champion poor old Wyclif. I think his wits've addled. Though I'll not let his enemies harm him either. He shall propound his dreadful new heresies in peace at Lutterworth, but I want no active Lollards in my meinie."

Wyclif against the bishops, and the corrupt clergy, had been worthy of help. Wyclif against the Pope, particularly that now, since the schism in 'seventy-eight, there were most confusingly two popes, had merited many an intelligent person's approval.

Wyclif against the spiritual teachings of the Church was another matter. John had been sympathetic with the Englished Bible which Wyclif wanted given to the people, there was no harm in that, and the Duke believed in learning. He had been patient with the fiery black-robed doctor's arguments against the idolatry of saints, the folly of pilgrimage, the futility of confession.

But lately Wyclif had attacked the sacredness of the Mass itself, had dared to deny the miracle of transubstantiation. He had actually stated that the consecrated wafer and the wine did never change at all into the Blessed Body and Blood, that they were merely symbols. He had said it was better to worship a toad than the Sacrament, for a toad at least had life. And here John's long tolerance had shattered.

Perhaps, thought Katherine, Brother William had had something to do with John's revulsion against Wyclif. The Grey Friar himself no longer had the least sympathy for the reformer. And as for me, thought Katherine wearily, I cannot care either way. The observance of her religion had become dim, meaningless, boring.

John was truly devout in a hearty male way.. He believed as his father and mother had believed, so Wyclif had ended by horrifying him. And yet, she thought, it was like him to continue to protect Wyclif despite their quarrel.

His enemies misunderstood as usual. They gave him no credit for the loyalty that was his strongest trait. When he showed mercy they called it cowardice. But well-a-day, thought Katherine, what use to dwell on gloomy things? Today we'll have the stag-hunt and tonight we'll dance, my lord and I. She smiled, for their bodies were attuned in all ways and they danced so well together that even the most spiteful were forced to admire.

"God's greeting, my lady," said Hawise, popping her broad face through the curtains. "You look gay as a goldfinch. My lord too " She gestured with her white-coiffed head towards the garde-robe, where the Duke's voice could be heard singing,

"Amour et ma dame aussi

Votre beaute m'a ravie!"

while his squires rubbed him down with a herb-steeped sponge. "His Grace is in good spirits, I hear. 'Twas not his mood last night in the Hall, by corpus!" She enveloped Katherine in a chamber robe, encased the slim feet in embroidered kid slippers.

"How do you know that?" asked Katherine startled.

"Even common folk've eyes, sweeting. Tis known through the castle that fool of a Robin bussed you too hotly last night, and the Duke went black as iron. Some thought he'd beat you to a jelly with a pikestaff, some that Robin's bloody corpse'd be found afloating in the Soar; but I never fretted. You can do anything with His Grace nowadays."

"Robin leaves today for Cumberland," said Katherine, while soaking her hands in a basin of warm cream. Still every winter she had to fight recurring chilblains.

"Ay - I'm not surprised. Poor gawk. He lost his head, but small wonder. He's been panting for you like a thirsty dog, this age past."

"I didn't know - at least I never thought much about it," said Katherine ruefully. "Half the young squires're sighing and languishing after somebody, it's the fashion."

"Truth is - ye're blind as a midday bat to all but the Duke," said Hawise chuckling. She began to rub separate coppery strands with a silk cloth to increase their sheen and added in a different tone, "Yet there's one who'll be heart-stricken that Robin's to be sent off."

"Who?" asked Katherine idly.

"Blanchette, m'lady - nay, I see ye'd not guessed. The poor little wench keeps a button he wore under her pillow, and I've seen other signs."

"Blessed Saint Mary--" cried Katherine on a long note of mingled pity and exasperation. "That child. What am I to do with her? Still it can't be serious, she's too young, and Robin's shown her no special notice, has he?"

"Nay. Robin's had eyes for no woman but you."

Katherine sighed. This then was one explanation of Blanchette's increasing hostility. Lately she had hurt Katherine by her silences, her stubborn refusal to comply with any of Katherine's requests, though Katherine had shown tolerance in the matter of the betrothal to Sir Ralph. The Duke had even been annoyed with her about it. Blanchette could scarcely hope for another such offer, and Sir Ralph was not the man to be kept dangling.

"Robin'd be no match for her, even if he'd have her," said Katherine slowly. "She must look higher than a hobbledehoy Suffolk yeoman. God's blood, I don't know what ails the girl. She cares nothing about all we've done for her!"

Hawise was silent while she began the elaborate braiding of her mistress' hair. She sympathised with Katherine's worries about this child who never smiled any more. Hawise wound and netted the thick braids at the back of Katherine's head in readiness for the moony headdress later, and offered thoughtfully, "She seemed brighter on that visit to Kettlethorpe than I've seen her in donkey's years."

"Kettlethorpe!" repeated Katherine with disgust. She put down the mirror, and frowned at the unpleasant memory.

A year ago in November, after she had recovered from the baby Joan's birth, the Duke, having business in Lincoln, had decided that they should visit Kettlethorpe and see how Katherine's property did. They took Tom and Blanchette in their train, so that the Swynford children might see their birthplace, and they had stayed at Kettlethorpe for three very uncomfortable days.

The Duke had long ago appointed a resident steward under the direction of his Lincolnshire feodar, William de Spaigne, so that the manor had been kept in repair and was being as efficiently run as possible. But to Katherine, Kettlethorpe had presented a picture of bleak desolateness. It was so small and draughty and damp. Comforts which she had come to take for granted were entirely lacking, a dense November fog chilled the bones, and she, who was so seldom ill, promptly came down with violent chills, streaming nose and a racking cough. She had viewed her erstwhile home through a haze of physical and spiritual disease.

They had held a love-day and ale feast in the manor Hall. Herded by the steward and a new reeve, her serfs had filed through and apathetically knelt to do her homage, while little Tom stood by her chair with a proud smile, savouring this parade of his own future possessions.

There had been many deaths since she was here before, some bowel complaint had carried off half of Laughterton. Then there had been three runaways. Odo the ploughman's twin lads had taken to their heels and disappeared in Sherwood Forest. Cob o' Fenton, the former spit-boy, had refused to pay his heriot fine on his father's death, and made off too, but he had been caught at once and brought back. His property confiscated, he had been branded with an F on his left cheek, for "fugitive", and was even now in the village stocks as an example.

The steward had walked Katherine to the village green, where a gibbet had. been set up, beside the stocks where Cob the runaway was being punished.

Cob had changed little since the old days. Still small and flaxen-polled, though he must be thirty. Between white lashes his pale eyes had stared at Katherine sullenly - while the branded F reddened on his cheek.