Katherine by Anya Seton

Pthaw!" And he spat on the floor.
    "Why do you want to marry me?" said Katherine quietly, "since I bring you nothing but my unwilling body."
    He looked at her startled. Certainly he had not meant marriage until the Duke interrupted them in the garden. His assertion then had astonished himself. Was it an aura cast over her by the ducal protection, was it a cool integrity in the girl himself, and the increasing effect on him of her beauty, or was it the hunter's instinct for capture and total subjection? His slow mind baulked at reasons. He knew only that his longing for her was an anguish tinged with fear. It would never have occurred to him to speak of love, so he found refuge again in the excuse he had given the Duke.
    "By Saint Anthony and his temptations, maiden, I don't know. You've cast a spell on me - or slipped me a love philtre."
    From weariness and futility, Katherine suddenly laughed. "I wish that I had a love philtre, so I might drink it too."
    At her laugh his heavy face brightened, his little eyes sought hers in sudden pleading. "The ring, Katherine, put on the ring," he whispered holding it out to her again, "and say the vows with me."
    She bowed her head and held her hand out slowly. His blunt fingers shook as he pushed the ring down her middle finger where it hung heavy and loose as an iron shackle. "I, Hugh, plight thee, Katherine - my troth, as God is my witness." He swallowed hard, crossing himself.
    Katherine looked down at the ring and the square, freckled sweating hand that clasped hers. She exhaled her breath in a long sigh, "I, Katherine, plight thee, Hugh - my troth as God is my witness."
    So be it, she thought. Her aversion to him had not lessened, but she found a bitter new peace in the surrender. He leaned towards her for the betrothal kiss and she yielded her cool mouth, then drew back. He let her go, finding this quiet self-possessed girl far more awesome than the one who had fought him in the garden.
    "My Katherine," he said humbly, "will you come to the lists and see me joust now? I - I should like to wear your colours - - "
    A sardonic voice spoke in her head. Ah yes, it said, this is what you dreamed of, little fool, those nights at Sheppey. This is the fairy tale come true - a knight who asks to wear your colours at the King's tournament.
    "I fear I've nothing to give you, sir," she said flushing, "except - wait-" She looked at the Lady Blanche's brocade dress and, quickly decisive, ripped the long green silk tippet from the left sleeve. "Will this do?"
    He took the bright flimsy streamer and held it as though it burned his fingers. "Thank you," he muttered. "I shall hope to do you credit. I'll send back a page to guide you to the lists." He turned stiffly in his armour and the door banged shut behind him.
    Katherine sank on the window seat, staring at her betrothal ring. Her first jewel. Massive and unwieldy, it looked on her small roughened hand. It was a cabochon beryl carved with Hugh's boar's-head crest and far too large, since he had worn it himself. The beryl, like all stones, had talismanic powers, it gave victory in battle and protection to the wearer, and it had cost Hugh something to part with it, though he had other amulets to rely on.
    Though Katherine knew nothing of this, she could not help but take pleasure in the possession of a ring and feel, especially now that Hugh was no longer near, a great lightening of mood.
    She wound thread around her finger to hold the ring and gradually her natural optimism returned. She was honourably betrothed, she had pretty clothes to wear, and she would see the tournament after all. What excuse then for moping, and bewailing that the conditions surrounding these admirable facts were not as she had wanted them? "A bas la tristesse!" said Katherine aloud, and while she washed she hummed the gay French song she had heard in the garden. Hi, dame de Vaillance!
    When she had dressed herself in the long green gown, fastened the girdle low on her