Passage to Pontefract by Jean Plaidy

his from the moment he had set eyes on her.
    She told him now that she must go. She would be missed. She was right of course. What had happened had been so sudden and so overwhelming and for those moments neither of them had thought of anything but the slaking of their passion. There would be prying eyes in the castle. She was a woman with a husband overseas; he was a man who was mourning the death of his wife.
‘Alas of death, what aileth thee
That thou would not have taken me …’
    Those were the words Chaucer had put into his mouth, and when he had read them he had felt deeply moved; and yet here he was, with Blanche so recently dead, sporting in the very bed which he had shared with her.
    But this was Catherine. There was no one like Catherine. He had never experienced anything like this emotion she aroused in him, this heady intoxication which made him oblivious of everything else but his need of her.
    ‘Tonight,’ he said.
    ‘I shall come to you,’ she promised.
    He had to be satisfied with that and reluctantly he let her slip out of his arms.
    When she had gone he lay for a long time thinking of her.
    He was all impatience for the night.

    They lay beside each other, limp, exhausted by the force of their passion.
    He knew so little of her except that she was the most desirable woman in the world. She knew much more about him, naturally. He had wondered about Hugh Swynford and she told him that the marriage had been arranged for her and she had been a reluctant bride. Everyone had told her that she was fortunate to find a titled land-owning husband; she had felt herself less fortunate.
    ‘He’s an uncouth fellow,’ muttered John. ‘A good soldier but I shudder to think of you together.’
    ‘As I do.’
    ‘And there have been others?’
    ‘No. I left my convent and almost immediately was married. I am not a woman to break my vows … easily.’
    He believed her.
    ‘I would you had never married Swynford,’ he said. ‘I would you had come to me straight from your convent.’
    She was silent.
    There was a certain pride in her, he knew. She was the daughter of a Flemish knight even though his knighthood had been bestowed on the battlefield and he had died soon after receiving it. Her mother had been a sturdy country woman of Picardy who had brought up her children in a fitting manner; and when Catherine had become an orphan she had received some education at the hands of the nuns of Sheppey.
    He wished that she was unmarried; that she was some princess who would be considered a reasonable wife for him. Yes, his feelings were so strong that he could think of marriage. He had never seen Marie again, though he had made sure that she and their daughter were well cared for. In spite of his ambitions he was a man who was capable of love. He had loved Marie; he had revered Blanche; he had thought himself fortunate to possess such a bride. Yet this feeling he had for Catherine Swynford was entirely different. It was wild, passionate, sensuous in the extreme and yet he knew that tender love was stirring in him too.
    If she had been some great heiress … Constanza of Castile for instance … what joy that would be.
    But she was not. She was merely the wife of that uncouth squire, Hugh Swynford. If she had not been … what temptation she would have put in his way.
    That was his feeling for Catherine. When he was with her it overwhelmed him; he would have been ready to offer her anything.
    He was surprised to learn that she had had two children by Swynford – Thomas and Blanche.
    ‘Do you not long for them?’ he wanted to know.
    Yes, there were times when she did. But she had the satisfaction of knowing that they were well cared for in the country.
    He said no more of them. He feared she might wish to return to them.
    ‘How grateful I am to your sister Philippa,’ he said. ‘But for her we might never have met. Where is she now?’
    ‘She is still in the Queen’s household, but she will have to go, of