Kitabı oxu: «The Wounded Hawk»
SARA DOUGLASS
THE WOUNDED HAWK
The Crucible: Book Two
The Wounded Hawk is for Diana Harrison who first opened the way into parallel worlds across my kitchen table one damp afternoon in Bendigo (our way aided, as always, by a few good glasses of wine).
Contents
Cover
Title Page
PART ONE Margaret of the Angels
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
PART TWO The Wounded Wife
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
PART THREE Well Ought I To Love
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
PART FOUR The Hurtyng Tyme
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
PART FIVE The Maid and the Hawk
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
PART SIX Dangerous Treason
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
PART SEVEN Horn Monday
I
II
III
IV
V
PART EIGHT Bolingbroke!
I
II
III
IV
EPILOGUE: Pontefract Castle
Glossary
About the Author
By Sara Douglass
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART ONE Margaret of the Angels
Ill father no gift, No knowledge no thrift.
Thomas Tusser,
Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie
I
The Feast of the Beheading of St John the Baptist
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 29th August 1379)
Margaret stood in the most northern of the newly harvested fields of Halstow Hall, a warm wind gently lifting her skirts and hair and blowing a halo of fine wheat dust about her head. The sun blazed down, and while she knew that she should return inside as soon as possible if she were to avoid burning her cheeks and nose, for the moment she remained where she was, quiet and reflective, her eyes drifting across the landscape.
She turned a little, catching sight of the walls of Halstow Hall rising in the distance. There lay Rosalind, asleep in her crib, watched over by her nurse, Agnes. Margaret’s eyes moved to the high walls of the courtyard. In its spaces Thomas would be at his afternoon sword play with his newly acquired squire, Robert Courtenay, a likeable fair-faced young man of commendable quietness and courtesy.
Margaret’s expression hardened as she thought of the banter the two men shared during their weapon practice. Courtenay received nothing but respect and friendship from Thomas—would that she received the same respect and friendship!
“How can I hope for love?” she whispered, still staring at the courtyard walls, “when he begrudges me even his friendship?”
Margaret might be Thomas’ wife, but, as he had told her on their wedding night, she was not his lover.
Margaret had never imagined that it could hurt this much, but then she’d never realised how desperately she would need his love; to be the one thought constantly before all others in his mind.
To be sure, this was what they all strove for—to force Thomas to put thought of her before all else—but Margaret knew her need was more than that. She wanted a home and a family, and above all, she wanted a husband who respected her and loved her.
She wanted Thomas to love her, and yet he would not.
She turned her head away from Halstow Hall, and regarded the land and the far distant wheeling gulls over the Thames estuary. These had been pleasant months spent at Halstow Hall despite Thomas’ coolness, and despite his impatience to return to London and resume his search for Wynkyn de Worde’s ever-cursed casket.
There had been mornings spent wading in clear streams, and noon-days spent riding wildly along the marshy banks of the estuary as the herons rose crying about them. There had been afternoons spent in the hectic fields as the harvest drew to a close, and evenings spent dancing about the celebratory harvest fires with the estate men and their families. There had been laughter and even the occasional sweetness, and long, warm nights spent sprawling beneath Thomas’ body in their bed.
And there had been dawns when, half-asleep, Margaret had thought that maybe this was all there ever would be, and the summer would never draw to a close.
Yet, this was a hiatus only, the drawing of a breath between screams, and Margaret knew that it would soon end. Even now hoof beats thudded on the roads and laneways leading to Halstow Hall. Two sets of hoof beats, drumming out the inevitable march of two ambitions, reaching out to ensnare her once again in the deadly machinations of the looming battle.
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, then she forced them away as she caught a glimpse of the distant figure striding through one of the fields. She smiled, gaining courage from the sight of Halstow’s steward, and then began to walk towards the Hall.
Visitors would soon be here, and she should be present to greet them.
Master Thomas Tusser, steward to the Neville estates, walked though the stubbled fields at a brisk pace, hands clasped firmly behind his straight back. He was well pleased. The harvest had gone excellently: all the harvesters, bondsmen as well as hired hands, had arrived each day, and each had put in a fair day’s work; the weather had remained fine but not overly hot; the ravens and crows had devastated neighbours’ fields, but not his; and little had been wasted—like their menfolk, the village women and girls had worked their due, gleaning the fields of every last grain.
There would be enough to eat for the next year, and enough left over to store against the inevitable poor years.
The fields were empty of labourers now, but the work had not ceased. The threshers would be sweating and aching in Halstow Hall’s barns, separating precious grain from hollow stalk, while their wives and daughters swept and piled grain into mounds, before carting the grain from threshing court to storage bins.
Tusser’s footsteps slowed, and he frowned and muttered under his breath for a few minutes until his face suddenly cleared. He grinned, and spoke aloud.
“Reap well, scatter not, gather clean that is shorne,
Bind fast, shock apace, have an eye to thy corn,
Load safe, carry home, follow time being fair,
Give just in the barn, life is far from despair.”
Tusser might well be a steward with a good reputation, but that reputation had not been easy to achieve. He had made more than his fair share of mistakes in his youth: leaving the sowing of the spring crops too late, allowing the weeds to grow too high in the fields, and forgetting to mix the goose grease with the tar to daub on the wounds on sheep’s backs after shearing. He had found that the only way he could remember to do the myriad estate tasks on time, and in the right order, was to commit every chore to rhyme. Over the years—he was a middle-aged man now—Tusser had scribbled his rhymes down. Perhaps he would present them to his lord one day as a testament of his goodwill.
Well … that time was far off, God willing, and there would be many years yet to rearrange his rhymes into decent verse.
Tusser reached the edge of the field and nimbly leapt the drainage ditch separating the field from the laneway. Once on the dusty surface of the lane, he looked quickly about him to ensure no one was present to observe, then danced a little jig of sheer merriment.
Harvest was home! Harvest was home!
Tusser resumed a sedate walk and sighed in relief. Harvest was home, praise be to God, even though it had not been an easy year. No year was ever easy, but if a steward had to cope with a new lord descending upon his lands in the middle of summer …
When he’d commenced his stewardship of Halstow Hall eleven years ago, Tusser had been proud to serve as a servant of the mighty Duke of Lancaster … even if the duke had never visited Halstow Hall and Tusser had not once enjoyed the opportunity to meet his lord. But the duke had received Tusser’s quarterly reports and had read them well, writing on more than one occasion to thank Tusser for his care and to congratulate him on the estate’s productivity.
But in March preceding, Tusser received word that Lancaster had deeded Halstow Hall to Lord Thomas Neville as a wedding gift. Tusser was personally offended: had the duke thought so little of Tusser’s efforts on his behalf that he thoughtlessly handed the estate to someone else? Was the duke secretly angry with Tusser, and thought to punish him with a new lord who was to actually live on the estate? A lord in residence? The very idea! Tusser had read the duke’s news with a dismay that increased with every breath. No longer would Tusser have virtual autonomy in his fields … nay, there would be some chivalric fool leaning over his shoulder at every moment mouthing absurdities … either that or riding his warhorse at full gallop through the emerging crops.
Good Lord who findeth, is blessed of God,
A cumbersome lord is husbandman’s rod:
He noiseth, destroyeth, and all to this drift,
To strip his poor tenants of farm and of thrift.
Thus it was, that when Lord Thomas Neville had arrived with his lady wife and newly-born daughter, Tusser had stood in the Hall’s court to greet them with scuffling feet and a scowl as bad as one found on a pimply-faced lad caught with his hand on the dairymaid’s breast.
Within the hour he had been straight-backed and beaming with pride and joy.
Not only had Lord Neville leapt off his horse and greeted him with such high words of praise that Tusser had blinked in astonishment, Neville had then led him inside and informed him that Tusser’s responsibilities would widen to take in Neville’s other estates as well.
He was to be a High Steward! As Tusser strode along the lane back towards the group of buildings surrounding Halstow Hall, he grinned yet again at the memory. As well as Halstow, Tusser now oversaw the stewards who ran Neville’s northern estates, and the second estate in Devon that Lancaster had deeded Neville. Admittedly, this necessitated much extra work—Tusser had to communicate Neville’s wishes and orders to the northern and Devon stewards, as well as review their estate books quarterly—but it was work that admitted and made full use of his talents.
Why, Tusser now had the opportunity to send his verses to his under-stewards! Thus, every Saturday fortnight, Tusser sat down, ordered his thoughts, and carefully composed and edited his versified directions. He was certain that his under-stewards must appreciate his timely verses and homilies.
Tusser tried not to be prideful of his new responsibilities, but he had to admit before God and the Holy Virgin that he was not completely successful.
Not only had Neville praised Tusser’s abilities, and handed him his new responsibilities, but Neville had also proved to be no fool meddling with Tusser’s handling of the estate. He had a deep interest in what happened to the estate, and kept an eye on it, but he allowed Tusser to run it in the manner he chose and did not interfere with his steward’s authority.
Neville was a good lord, and surely blessed of God. And his wife! Tusser sighed yet again. The Lady Margaret had an agreeable manner that exceeded her great beauty, and Tusser rose each morning to pray that this day he would be graced with the sweetness of her smile.
Aye, the goodness and grace of God had indeed embraced Halstow Hall and all who lived within its estates.
Tusser turned a corner in the lane and Halstow Hall rose before him. It was a good building, built of stone and brick, and some two or three generations old. Originally, it had consisted only of the great hammer-beamed hall and minstrel gallery, kitchens, pantries and larders, and a vaulted storage chamber that ran under the entire length of the hall, but over the years Lancaster had caused numerous additions to be made, even though he had never lived here. Now a suite of private chambers ran off the back of the hall, allowing a resident lord and his family some seclusion from the public life of the hall, and new stables and barns graced the courtyards.
The sound of horses behind him startled Tusser from this reverie, and he whipped about.
A party of four horsemen approached. Tusser squinted, trying to make them out through the cursed sun … then he started, and frowned as he realised three of the four riders were clothed in clerical robes.
Priests! Cursed priests! Doubtless come to eat Halstow Hall bare in the name of charity before moving on again.
Priests they might be, but Tusser had to admit to himself that their habits were poor, and they showed no glint of jewels or gold about their person. The lead priest was an old man, so thin he was almost skeletal, with long and scraggly hair and beard.
His expression was fierce, almost fanatical, and he glared at Tusser as if trying to scry out the man’s secret sins.
Evening prayers will be no cause for lightness and joy this night, Tusser thought, then shifted his eyes to the fourth rider, whose appearance gave him cause for thought.
This rider was a soldier. Sandy hair fell over a lined, tanned and knife-scarred face, and over his chain mail he wore a tunic emblazoned with the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. As the group rode closer to Tusser, still standing in the centre of the laneway, the soldier pushed his horse to the fore of his group, pulled it to a halt a few paces distant from the steward, and grinned amiably at him.
“Good man,” said the soldier to the still-frowning Tusser. “Would you be the oft-praised Master Tusser, of whom the entire court whispers admiration?”
Tusser’s frown disappeared instantly and his face lit up with pride.
“I am,” he said, “and I see that you, at least, are of the Duke of Lancaster’s household. Who may I welcome on Lord Neville’s behalf to Halstow Hall?”
“My name is Wat Tyler,” said the rider, “and, as you can see, I am a sergeant-at-arms within good Lancaster’s household. I ride as escort to my revered companions,” Tyler turned and indicated the three priests, “who know your master well, and have decided to pass the night in his house.” Tyler grinned even more as he said the last few sentences. “Perhaps you have heard of Master John Wycliffe,” he nodded at the fierce-faced old priest, “while his two godly companions,” now Tyler could scarcely contain his amusement, “are named John Ball and Jack Trueman.”
Tusser bowed slightly to the priests, narrowing his eyes a little. He was well aware of John Wycliffe’s reputation, and of the renegade priest’s teachings that the entire hierarchy of the Church was a sinful abomination whose worldly goods and properties ought to be seized and distributed among the poor. Many of Wycliffe’s disciples, popularly called Lollards for their habit of mumbling, now spread Wycliffe’s message far and wide, and Tusser occasionally saw one or two of them at the larger market fairs of Kent.
The steward stared a moment longer, then he smiled warmly. “Master Wycliffe. You are indeed most welcome here to Halstow Hall, as are your companions. I am sure that my master and mistress will be pleased to greet you.”
“The mistress, at least,” said a voice behind Tusser, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Margaret walking down the laneway to join him. He bowed, and stepped aside.
Margaret halted, and looked carefully at each of the four men. “I do greet you well,” she said, “and am most happy to see you. My husband I cannot speak for.”
Wycliffe and Tyler smiled a little at that.
Margaret hesitated, then indicated with her hand that they should ride forward. “Welcome to my happy home,” she said.
Thomas Neville was anything but happy to welcome John Wycliffe and his two companion priests into his home. He had just finished at his weapons practice with Courtenay, when he heard the sound of hoof fall entering the courtyard.
Turning, Neville had been appalled to see the black figure of John Wycliffe walking beside Margaret, two other priests (Lollards, no doubt) close behind him, and Wat Tyler leading the four horses. As he watched, Tusser, who’d been walking at the rear of the group, took the horses from Tyler and led them towards some stable boys.
Margaret said nothing, only halting as Neville strode forward.
“What do you here?” Neville snapped at Wycliffe.
Wycliffe inclined his head. “I and my companions are riding from London to Canterbury, my lord,” he said, “and thought to spend the night nestled within your hospitality.”
“My ‘hospitality’ does not lie on the direct road to Canterbury,” Neville said. “I say again, what do you here?”
“Come to enjoy your charity,” Wycliffe said, his voice now low and almost as menacing as his eyes, “as my Lord of Lancaster suggested I do. I bear greetings and messages from John of Gaunt, Neville. It is your choice whether you decide to accept Lancaster’s goodwill or not.” Wycliffe paused. “It is for a night only, Neville. I and mine will be gone by the morning.”
Furious at being trapped—he could not refuse Lancaster’s request to give Wycliffe lodging and entertainment—Neville nodded tightly, and indicated the door into the main building. Then, as Margaret led Wycliffe and the two other priests inside, Neville directed a hard glare towards Tyler.
“And you?” he said.
Tyler shrugged. “I am escort at Lancaster’s request, Tom. There’s no need to glower at me so.”
Neville’s face did not relax, but neither did he say any more as they walked inside. Wat Tyler and he had a long, if sometimes uncomfortable, history together. Tyler had taught Neville his war craft, and had protected his back in battle more times than Neville cared to remember. But Tyler also kept the most extraordinary company—his escort of the demon Wycliffe was but one example, and Neville felt sure he knew one of the other priests from somewhere—and Neville simply did not know if he trusted Tyler any longer.
In this age of demons incarnate, who could he trust?
Margaret very carefully washed her fingers in the bowl the servant held out for her, then dried them on her napkin. Finally, she folded her hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and prayed to sweet Jesu for patience to get through this dreadful meal.
Thomas was not the sweetest companion at the best of times, but when goaded by John Wycliffe, as well as two of his disciples … Margaret shuddered and looked up.
Normally, she ate only with Thomas, Robert Courtenay, and Thomas Tusser in the hall of Halstow. Meals were always tolerable, and often cheerful, especially when Courtenay gently teased Tusser, who always good-humouredly responded with a versified homily or two. Tonight their visitors had doubled the table, if not its joy.
They had eaten before the unlit hearth in the hall, and now that the platters had been cleared, and the crumbs brushed aside, the men were free to lean their elbows on the snowy linen tablecloth and indulge the more fiercely in both wine and conversation.
Margaret sighed. Under current circumstances, and with current company, religion was most assuredly not going to make the best of conversational topics.
Neville toyed with his wine goblet, not looking at Wycliffe, who ignored his own wine to sit stiff and straight-backed as he stared at his host.
Margaret knew that Wycliffe, as well as his companions, John Ball and Jack Trueman, were enjoying themselves immensely.
“So,” Wycliffe was saying in a clipped voice, “you do not disagree that those who exist in a state of sin should not be allowed to hold riches or excessive property?”
“The idea has merit,” Neville replied, still looking at his goblet rather than his antagonist, “but who should determine if someone was existing in a state of—”
“And you do not disagree that many of the higher clerics within the Church are the worst sinners of all?”
Neville thought of the corruption he’d witnessed when he was in Rome, and the sordid behaviour of cardinals and popes. He did not reply, taking the time instead to refill his goblet.
Further down the table, Courtenay exchanged glances with Tusser.
“Over the years many men have spoken out about the corruption among the higher clergy,” Margaret said. “Why, even some of the saintlier popes have tried to reform the worst abuses of—”
“When did you become so learned so suddenly?” Neville said.
“It does not require learning to perceive the depravity rife among so many bishops and abbots,” Tusser said, his eyes bright, and all three priests present nodded their heads vigorously.
Neville sent Tusser a sharp look, but the steward preferred instead to see his lady’s smile of gratitude. He nodded, satisfied that he’d made his stand known, and resolved to say no more.
“You can be no defender of the Church, Lord Neville,” said one of the priests, John Ball, “when you have so clearly abandoned your own clerical vows to enjoy a secular lordship.”
Neville transferred his hostile glare to Ball. He had remembered where he had met the man previously—at Chauvigny, in France, where the priest had openly mouthed treasonous policies. The man was in the company of Wat Tyler then, too.
“Perhaps,” Ball continued, before Neville could respond, “you found your vows of poverty too difficult? Your vows of obedience too chafing? You certainly live a far more luxurious life now than you did as a Dominican friar, do you not?”
“My husband followed his conscience,” Margaret said, hoping she could deflect Thomas’ anger before he exploded. She sent Wycliffe a warning look.
“We cannot chastise Lord Neville for leaving a Church so riddled with corruption,” Wycliffe said mildly, catching Margaret’s glance. “We can only commend him.”
“Then why do you not discard your robes, renegade?” Neville said.
“I can do more good in them than out of them,” Wycliffe said, “while you do better at the Lady Margaret’s side than not.”
Neville looked back to his goblet again, then drank deeply from it. Why did he feel as though he were being played like a hooked fish?
“My lord,” said Jack Trueman, who had remained silent through this exchange, “may I voice a comment?” He carried on without waiting for an answer. “As many about this table have observed, the dissolution and immorality among the higher clerics must surely be addressed, and their ill-gotten wealth distributed among the needy. Jesus Himself teaches that it is better to distribute one’s wealth among the poor rather than to hoard it.”
There were nods about the table, even, most reluctantly, from Neville, who wondered where Trueman was heading. For a Lollard, he was being far too reasonable.
“But,” Trueman said, “perhaps there is more that we can do to alleviate the suffering of the poor, and of those who till the fields and harvest the grain.”
“I did not realise those who tilled the fields and harvested the grain were ‘suffering’,” Neville said.
“Yet you have never lived the life of our peasant brothers,” Trueman said gently. “You cannot know if they weep in pain in their beds at night.”
“Perhaps,” Wat Tyler said, also speaking for the first time, “Tom thinks they work so hard in the fields that they can do nothing at night but sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
“Our peasant brothers sleep,” Wycliffe put in before Neville could respond, “and they dream. And of what do they dream? Freedom!”
“Freedom?” Neville said. “Freedom from what? They have land, they have homes, they have their families. They lack for nothing—”
“But the right to choose their destiny,” Wycliffe said. “The dignity to determine their own paths in life. What can you know, Lord Neville, of the struggles and horrors that the bondsmen and women of this country endure?”
Neville went cold. He’d heard these words before from the mouth of the Parisian rebel, Etienne Marcel. And what had those words brought but suffering and death?
“Be careful, Master Wycliffe,” he said in a low voice, “for I will not have the words of chaos spoken in my household!”
Courtenay, very uncomfortable, looked about the table. “The structure of society is God-ordained, surely,” he said. “How can we wish it different? How could we better it?”
“There are murmurings,” Jack Trueman said, “that as do many within the Church enjoy their bloated wealth at the expense of the poor, so, too, do many secular lords enjoy wealth and comfort from the sufferings of their bondsmen.”
“Do you have men bonded to the soil and lordship of Halstow Hall, Lord Neville?” Wycliffe asked. “Have you never thought to set them free from the chains of their serfdom?”
“Enough!” Neville rose to his feet. “Wycliffe, I know you, and I know what you are. I offer you a bed for the night begrudgingly, and only because my Duke of Lancaster keeps you under his protection. But I would thank you to be gone at first light on the morrow.”
Wycliffe also rose. “The world is changing, Thomas,” he said. “Do not stand in its way.”
He turned to Margaret, and bowed very deeply. “Good lady,” he said, “I thank you for your hospitality. As your lord wishes, I and mine shall be gone by first light in the morning, and that will be too early for me to bid you farewell. So I must do it now.” He paused.
“Farewell, beloved lady. Walk with Christ.”
“And you,” Margaret said softly.
Wycliffe nodded, held Margaret’s eyes an instant longer, then swept away, his black robes fluttering behind him.
John Ball and Jack Trueman bowed to Margaret and Neville, then hurried after their master.
Furious that he could not speak his mind in front of Courtenay and Tusser, Neville turned on Tyler.
“And I suppose you walk with Wycliffe in this madness?”
Tyler held Neville’s eyes easily. “I work also for the betterment of our poor brothers, so,” he said, “yes, Tom, I walk with Wycliffe in this ‘madness’.”
“How dare you talk as if Wycliffe works the will of Jesus Christ!”
“Wycliffe devotes his life to freeing the poor and downtrodden from the enslavement of their social and clerical ‘betters’. Is that not what Jesus Christ gave his life for?”
“You will bring death and disaster to this realm, Wat,” Neville said in a quiet voice, “as Marcel did to Paris.”
Tyler’s face twisted, almost as if he wanted to say something but found the words too difficult.
Then, as had Wycliffe, he turned and bowed to Margaret, thanking her in a warm and elegant fashion, and bid her farewell. “Go with Christ, my lady.”
“And you, Wat.” Margaret turned her head slightly as soon as she had said the words, fearful that Thomas should see the gleam of tears within their depths.
Would this be the last time she ever saw Wat?
Wat Tyler stared at Margaret one more moment, then he, too, turned and left the hall.
II
The Tuesday before the Feast of SS Egidius and Priscus
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(30th August 1379)
Mycliffe, Tyler and the other two priests were gone by the time Neville arose at dawn. Although Neville was grateful they had departed, he felt useless as well. He would, by far, have preferred to put Wycliffe under some form of detention before he caused any mischief … but to do so might well be to anger Lancaster, and that Neville did not want to do.
So he’d had to let the demon—as he had no doubt Wycliffe was—escape.
Neville set about his morning tasks, hoping they would consume his mind, but instead, his temper became shorter as the day wore on. He was useless stuck here in the wilds of Kent! When would Hal call him back to court?
The only thing that calmed his mood was when, in the early afternoon, he joined Margaret and Rosalind in their solar. Neville loved his daughter, and always made the time to spend an hour at least playing with her each day.
He strode into the room, greeting Margaret perfunctorily—not noticing her wince—and lifted Rosalind from her arms.
Neville grinned and ruffled the black, curly hair that Rosalind had inherited from him. She was strong now, and of good weight and size for her almost six months of age. She had recovered well from the trauma of her birth … perhaps it was her good Neville blood, Neville thought, for his entire family was of hearty stock and robust determination.
Margaret watched him with sadness. Her husband looked to Courtenay for friendship, and to his daughter for love, but to her … what? She took a deep breath, controlling her emotions, and then tilted her head as she heard a noise outside the door.
Neville glanced at her, irritated by the solemnity of her expression, then turned to the door as Courtenay strode through.
“My lord!” Courtenay said. “We have yet more company!”
He got no further, for a handsome man dressed in Hal Bolingbroke’s new livery as the Duke of Hereford pushed past Courtenay.
Neville’s eyes widened, for he recognised the man as Roger Salisbury, a young knight of noble family who had worked in Hal’s entourage for some time.
Roger Salisbury stopped several steps into the solar, and bowed.
“My Lord Neville,” he said, and was interrupted from further speech by Neville.
“Bolingbroke wants me,” he said.
“Aye, my lord. I bear greetings from my Lord of Hereford, and am to inform you of his wish that you return to his side in London within the week.”
Neville turned back to Margaret. “At last! I thought Bolingbroke had forgotten me!”
He stepped over to her and gently lowered Rosalind into her care. “I shall miss her,” he said, and did not notice the sudden humiliation in Margaret’s eyes.
Salisbury cleared his throat. “My Lord of Hereford also wishes that the Lady Margaret and your daughter ride with you.”
Neville’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Margaret is to ride with me?”
“Indeed, my lord,” Salisbury said. “Bolingbroke—” he lapsed into informality, for although Hal was now Duke of Hereford, he was familiarly known as Bolingbroke “—is to take the Lady Mary Bohun to wife within the month, and it is her wish that your lady wife serve at her side.”
Neville’s mouth twisted. “Mary Bohun does not know the Lady Margaret exists,” he said. “The wish is Bolingbroke’s alone.”
He paused, and in that pause allowed his suspicions their full malevolent flood. Why did Hal want Margaret within his household? Surely it would be better if she and Rosalind stayed within the safety of Halstow Hall? There was no need for Hal to want Margaret back, as well as him, unless … no, no. It could not be … And then there was Richard … in London, Margaret would be so close to Richard’s animal lusts … too close …
“Richard …” he said without meaning to put voice to his thoughts.
Salisbury looked at Neville. Bolingbroke had told him that Neville would fear for Margaret’s chastity around a king who had already made clear his desire for her.
“Bolingbroke,” Salisbury said carefully, “has stated that the Lady Margaret will enjoy the full protection of his household. She will come to no harm under my lord’s roof.”
Maybe not from Richard, Neville thought. But from Hal? Hal has made it plain enough to me that he wants Mary only for her lands. Does he now want the woman he does desire back under his roof?
“My lord husband,” Margaret said, rising. “You have told me previously that Lancaster thought I could do well to serve his wife, the Lady Katherine. But now that you have taken service with Bolingbroke, instead of his father, it is natural that I should serve Bolingbroke’s wife instead.”
Neville looked at her closely, but finally nodded his agreement to something he fully realised he had no choice in.
“Very well,” he said, silently vowing that he would ensure Margaret came to, nor caused, no harm.
III
The Feast of the Translation of SS Egidius and Priscus
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 1st September 1379)
Richard Thorseby, Prior General of the Dominican Order in England, sat at his desk in the dark heart of Blackfriars in London, slowly turning a letter over and over in his hand. His eyes were unfocussed, his sharp-angled face devoid of expression, and his equally sharp mind fixed on a memory of the previous Lent rather than on the contents of the letter …
The Dominican friary in the northern English city of Lincoln. The Lady Margaret Rivers, tearfully confessing that Brother Thomas Neville was the father of the bastard child in her belly. Neville himself, his behaviour, dress and conduct advertising to the world his blatant abuse of every one of his vows. And John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, humiliating Thorseby and allowing Neville to escape Dominican discipline.
In the months since, Thorseby had never forgotten his affront, nor had he relaxed from his intention of bringing Neville to Dominican justice. Indeed, what had once been intention had now become obsession. Thorseby would move heaven and earth, if need be, to bring Neville to penitent knees.
Or worse.
But how to do so? Lancaster and his son, Bolingbroke, were powerful men, and Neville enjoyed their full support. If the arch-heretic, John Wycliffe, could escape the Church’s justice through Lancaster’s protection, then there was little Thorseby could do about the less-heretical problem of Thomas Neville. (Thorseby’s personal sense of insult would sway no one to attack the Lancastrian faction on his behalf.) For a time, Thorseby had thought he might be able to use the long-ago deaths of Neville’s paramour, Alice, and her three daughters, to his advantage. Surely Alice had well-connected family who would be pleased to see Neville brought to account for her death? Even her cuckolded husband could be useful.
But Alice’s family and husband proved disappointing. They were all dead: her parents, her sister, and even her husband, who had succumbed to a wasting fever while on a diplomatic mission to Venice four years previously. The family who were left—distant cousins—simply did not care overmuch … and certainly didn’t care enough to take on Lancaster and Bolingbroke.
“I will see you humbled yet, Neville,” Thorseby murmured, then blinked, and looked down at the letter in his hands.
It had arrived an hour ago, and was a summons to Rome where there was to be an Advent convocation of the Dominican Prior Generals. Normally, such a summons would irritate Thorseby; travel through Europe in November and December was never the most pleasant of pastimes, especially when the Advent and Christmas season was so busy here in England. But now such travel would give Thorseby the perfect opportunity to meet with those who had known Neville in the months when he had apparently decided to abandon completely his Dominican vows.
Somewhere in Europe lay the evidence that would enable Thorseby to extract Neville from Lancaster’s protection. Someone must have seen something that would damn Neville for all time; witnesses to a foul heresy, perhaps.
If there was one thing that Thorseby had learned from his Inquisitor brothers, it was that disobedience never goes totally unnoticed and unremarked upon.
Thorseby very carefully refolded the letter and put it to one side. He paused, briefly drummed his fingers on the desk, then leaned forward, picked up a pen, and began to compose the first of several letters he would send out later that evening.
Whatever he’d said to Neville, neither Wycliffe nor his companions had any intention of travelling to Canterbury in the near future. Tired and, on Wycliffe’s and Tyler’s parts, saddened by their inadequate farewells to a woman both loved in different ways, they’d moved directly from Halstow Hall south to the port city of Rochester.
There, as arranged, they met with several other men—two craftsmen and another Lollard priest—in a quiet room in an inn.
“Well?” Wycliffe said as he entered the room.
“Ready,” said one of the craftsmen. He indicated a stack of bundled papers. “Several hundred, as you requested.”
“Show me.”
The craftsman took a single large sheet of thick paper from the top of one of the piles and handed it to Wycliffe. Tyler, Ball and Trueman crowded about him, trying to read over his shoulder.
Wycliffe relaxed, then smiled at the three men he’d come to meet. “Very good. Wat?”
Wat was already shrugging off his distinctive livery, changing into the clothes one of the craftsmen handed him. Within minutes, he’d lost all appearance of a hardened sergeant-at-arms (save for his face) and looked more the prosperous farmer.
“You have mules for these men?” Wycliffe said.
“Yes,” the priest replied.
“Good.” Wycliffe turned to Tyler, Trueman and Ball. “My friends. You shall have the most troublesome of days ahead of you. Be careful.”
Then he smiled, the expression lightening his normally harsh face. “Remember, when Adam delved, and Eve span—”
“Then,” Wat finished for him, “there were no gentlemen!”
All the men broke into laughter, and, with that laughter were the seeds of revolution watered.
IV
The Feast of the Translation of St Cuthbert
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 5th September 1379)
—i—
The Thames was quiet—most ships and boats had put into harbour so their crews could devoutly mark the feast day—and its grey-blue waters lapped gently at the side of the small sailing vessel as it passed Wolwych on the southern bank. One more turn in the river and the great, smoky skyline of London would rise above the cornfields and orchards spreading beyond the marshy banks.
Neville sat impatiently on a wooden bench in the stern of the vessel.
They had ridden from Halstow two days past and had taken ship in Gravesend at dawn today, leaving several men from Roger Salisbury’s escort with the horses to follow more slowly by road. The roads leading towards London from Kent and the other southern counties were crowded with merchant and grain traffic at this time of year, and the wheels and hooves of this traffic churned up the soft surface of the roads until they were nigh impassable in places. The Thames provided the faster and smoother course, and Salisbury had offered no objection when, the previous evening, Neville had suggested they complete their journey via the river; not only was it faster and more commodious, the river was safer and they could dock directly at the river gate of the Savoy rather than ride through the dust-choked London streets.
Margaret sat by Neville’s side, Rosalind asleep in her arms. She was content and fearful in equal amounts: content because the river wind was cool and soothing as it whispered across her face and through her hair; fearful because of the inevitable travails and treacheries ahead. She glanced at her husband. He was fidgeting with a length of rope, his body leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the river ahead.
Margaret shuddered and looked to where Rosalind’s nurse slouched, dozing against a woolsack. Agnes Ballard was a homely woman in her late thirties who, three months previously, had in the same week lost her infant son to a fever and her husband to the savagery of a boar. Struggling to cope with her tragic loss, Agnes had been weepy-eyed with gratefulness when Margaret had suggested she wet-nurse Rosalind, replacing the nurse who had originally accompanied Margaret and Neville from London and who had wanted to return to her home. Agnes also acted as maid to Margaret herself, and Margaret enjoyed Agnes’ motherly attentions almost as much as she believed Rosalind did. Agnes was a simple woman (but not so simple that she did not harbour her own strange secrets), but she was honest and giving, and she allowed Neville’s occasional impatient or ill-meaning remarks to pass straight over her head.
Beyond Agnes, towards the prow of the vessel, sat Robert Courtenay with Roger Salisbury, who was laughing quietly with the remaining men of his escort and the three crew. They were rolling dice, and sharing a flask of wine between them.
Margaret shifted slightly, adjusting Rosalind’s sleeping weight in her arms, and hoped the flask contained only weak drink. Her mouth quirked a little as she imagined the stratagems of angels and demons alike drowning uselessly in the mud of the Thames if the drunken crew lost control of the sails and tipped everyone out.
Who would arrive to save us, she thought, as we flailed about? Would both the minions of heaven and hell shriek in a horrified chorus at the careless ruin of their conspiracies?
“At what do you smile?”
Margaret jerked out of her reverie and looked at her husband. “I was hoping Roger will not let the crew get too drunk, for it would be a disaster if the boat overturned.”
Her arms tightened slightly about Rosalind as she spoke, and Neville did not miss the movement.
He laid his hand on her arm. “There is no danger, Margaret. Nothing can—”
Margaret gave a low cry of terror, and gathered Rosalind so tightly against her breast that the baby awoke and cried out with protest.
Neville frowned, opening his mouth to speak, and then realised that Margaret was staring at something in the water on her side of the vessel.
He looked, and his breath caught so violently in his own chest that it felt as if his heart had stopped.
Beneath the rolling surface of the river spread a great golden glow.
Neville jerked his head around to look across the deck. The glow spread underneath the vessel to radiate an equal distance beyond on its other side.
“Tom!” Margaret said.
“Hush!” he said, and his hand gripped her arm tighter. “Hush!”
He looked towards Agnes, and to Courtenay Roger and their companions beyond her.
Agnes continued asleep, and the men were still engaged in their dicing as if nothing at all supernatural was gathering beneath the boards of the boat.
“Saint Michael!” Neville whispered, and Margaret whimpered and twisted about as if she wanted to jump overboard.
“Be still!” Neville said, moving his hand to her shoulder. Then he twisted a little himself so that he could stare directly into her terrified eyes.
“If you are as innocent as you have always claimed yourself to be,” he said, very slowly and carefully, “then why now do you fear?”
Sweet Jesu, why did he make it so easy to hate him? “I can have no innocence,” she hissed, a spark of anger stirring within her, “when you allow me none!”
As Margaret spoke the glow coalesced, first directly under the keel of the vessel, and then seething up through the timber to form a fiery column not two paces away. The column assumed the spectral shape of the archangel, and then his voice thundered around them.
You are corruption made flesh, Margaret. An abomination which should never have been allowed breath.
Agnes and the men continued their respective activities—only Margaret and Neville were blessed with the angelic presence.
Margaret’s lips curled at the archangel’s words. If the archangel had whispered sympathies to Margaret, he would have destroyed her, but his hatred only served to transform Margaret’s terror into fury.
Her face twisted in loathing. “If I am corruption made flesh,” she said, “then I am truly my father’s daughter!”
The archangel’s face took on a terrible aspect and his arms spread wide—impossibly wide, for it seemed to Margaret and Neville that they stretched from bank to bank. He hissed, and the sound was that of the wind of divine retribution.
Filth!
“I may be the daughter of filth,” Margaret said, her eyes locked onto the archangel’s face, “but I choose not to tread the path of filth!”
“Margaret!” Neville was unsure of the meaning of the exchange between St Michael and Margaret—did Saint Michael accuse Margaret of demonry, or merely of the charge of being the daughter of Eve, the burden that condemned all women?—but he was appalled at Margaret’s words and the anger she displayed towards the archangel.
“Divine saint,” Neville said, finally letting go of Margaret’s shoulder and sinking to his knees before the archangel. “Forgive her words, for—”
Do you not know what she is, Thomas?
Neville did not reply.
Do you not know? She is that which you seek to destroy, Thomas.
Still Neville did not reply, and he lowered his gaze to the planking before him.
What does she here at your side, Thomas? Why have you not killed her, as her issue?
Finally, Neville raised his eyes back to St Michael. “She is useful to me.”
Useful?
“She will draw out other corruption so that I may see it for what it truly is, and so that I might destroy it.”
Corruption is drawn to you anyway, Thomas. You know the foulness seeks to destroy you, before you destroy it.
“She is useful. She is a woman, after all.”
Then make sure you do use her, Thomas, but do not allow her to use you. Remember the price if you fail.
Neville gave a low, confident laugh—and, in that instant, Margaret truly did hate him. How could she ever have wanted him to love her?
“They think to trap all mankind into eternal damnation,” Neville said to the archangel, “by forcing me to hand her my soul on a platter, blessed saint. But there is no danger. I cannot possibly love her.”
She breathes, Thomas, therefore she is a danger.
“She is no danger,” Neville said, with such horrifying confidence that Margaret had to shut her eyes and force away her hatred of him. If she allowed herself to hate him, then the angels had won here and now … and was that why Michael had chosen to show himself before both her and Thomas? To force her into hatred of her husband?
The archangel’s vision swept over Margaret, and what he saw on her face seemed to satisfy him.
Good, he said. Thomas, Joan has taken her place, and soon you will take yours. Danger surrounds both of you, but you must endure.
“The casket …” Neville said.
Is in London. It cries for you, it screams to you … do you not hear it in your dreams?
“Aye,” Neville whispered.
It shall be in your hands soon, but beware, Thomas, for the only truth that matters lies inside its bounds. Listen not to what demons whisper in your ears.
“Aye,” Neville said again, his voice stronger.
Blessed Thomas, the archangel said, and then he was gone.
Neville stared at the place where the archangel had stood, then he turned to look at Margaret.
She quailed at what she saw in his eyes, but she forced herself to speak before he did, and she used every ounce of her willpower to keep her voice steady.
“All truth matters,” she said, “whether it lies inside Wynkyn’s damned casket or not.”
“Demon,” he said. His voice was shockingly expressionless.
Her eyes filled with tears. “No, I am not, and have never been. But only when you hear the truth will you understand that.”
There was an instant’s hesitancy in his eyes at her words, and it gave her the strength to continue.
“If you love your daughter,” she said, “then you cannot believe her mother a demon … for what does that make Rosalind?”
Neville blinked, and dropped his eyes from hers. “You plan my destruction. You would say anything to further your plan.”
“No,” she whispered, and the sadness in her voice made Neville lift his eyes back to her face. “No, I plan only for your infinite joy.”
Then the sails cracked and filled with wind as they rounded the bend in the river, and Roger Salisbury jumped to his feet and shouted as London hove into view.
“Tom! Tom!” Graceful and certain, Bolingbroke leapt down the steps at the Savoy’s river gate, laughing and waving. Light glimmered about his fair hair and in the brilliance of the sun it seemed that his grey eyes had turned to silver. “Ah, Tom, I have so missed you!”
Neville jumped from the side of the boat onto the wharf and embraced Bolingbroke as fiercely as Bolingbroke did him. “You affect the happy face well, my lord, for one who is shortly to be married.”
“Ah, Tom, those are not the words to speak when your own wife is so close.”
Bolingbroke turned away from Neville and held out his hand for Margaret who, with Rosalind now in Agnes’ arms, was proceeding from boat to wharf with caution.
“My Lady Margaret,” Bolingbroke said softly, and kissed her gently on the mouth.
Neville, who had taken a step forward, now halted, transfixed by the look on Margaret’s face as she stared into Bolingbroke’s.
It was an expression of the most immense and intimate love.
And it was the more horrifying because, although Neville could not see Bolingbroke’s face, the expression on Margaret’s made it apparent that the love was returned in full measure.
Terror swept through Neville, and this terror was the more frightful because he could not place the reason for its existence.
She thinks to use Hal against me, he thought, frantically trying to justify his fear. She thinks to use her arts as a whore to lure him into her—
“Tom,” Bolingbroke said, turning back to him, “you look as if you have all the fishes of the Thames roiling about in your belly.”
“We have had a difficult voyage,” Neville said, finally, managing to twist his mouth in a tight, unconvincing smile.
“Oh, aye, we have that,” Margaret muttered, and Bolingbroke shot her a sharp look.
V
Vespers, the Feast of the Translation of St Cuthbert
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(early evening Monday 5th September 1379)
—ii—
Margaret?” Bolingbroke closed the door to the storeroom quietly behind him, and stood, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The soft, warm glow of the autumn twilight filtered in through the half-closed shutters of the high windows, but all Bolingbroke could see, initially, were the bulging outlines of sacks of grain stacked against the back wall, and kegs of ale cached under the windows.
Then she moved from the safety of a shadow and the golden twilight swirled about her, and Bolingbroke made a soft sound and stepped forward and gathered her in his arms.
“Meg! Sweet Jesu, I did not know if my message had come safely to you!”
She shuddered, her face still pressed into his shoulder, and he realised she had sobbed, silently.
He pushed her back so that he could see her face. “Meg? What happened?”
Margaret managed a small smile. “What, Hal? Do I not even receive a kiss of greeting?”
Exasperated and frightened for her in equal amounts, Bolingbroke planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “What happened?”
“The great archangel appeared to us as we sailed down the Thames.”
“Michael dared …?”
“Oh, aye, he dared.” Margaret’s face twisted in remembered anger and loathing. “He called me filth, and said I was an abomination.”
Bolingbroke drew her to him again and tried as best he could to give her comfort. “And Tom?” he whispered, and felt her stiffen.
“The archangel told him to beware of me, as I was that which he had to destroy.”
“We have always known that Tom would suspect you—”
“Aye, but Tom said that I was more useful alive than dead, and that I was no danger to him.”
Bolingbroke hugged her tight. “He does not love you?”
“No. I do not think he ever will.”
Bolingbroke was silent a long moment. “We cannot have that,” he eventually said, very low. “Thomas must love you. He must.”
Margaret sighed and drew back. “If he knew I was here now …”
“He will not know. I sent him riding to Cheapside, to the goldsmith crafting Mary’s wedding finery, and to supervise its return here to the Savoy. He will be gone an hour or more yet. Margaret, events move more swiftly than any of us had thought.”
“This Jeannette … this Joan of Arc.”
“We never planned for her existence, nor for her intrusions. Sweet Jesu help us if she manages to rally the French … ah! but I cannot speak of her now. This is one of the only times we will have together, Meg, and I must use it well.”
He let her go, and started to pace the narrow confines of the storeroom. “I had thought we would have two or three years yet, but now I think we shall have only a few months. A year at most.”
He stopped, and stared at Margaret. “He must love you before a year is out.”
“How? How? He thinks me filth! Lord Jesu, Tom will do whatever his beloved archangel tells him to do!”
Bolingbroke slowly shook his head. “Nay, I do not think so. Not completely. He has already denied the archangel’s wishes once when it came to your death—you know Wat told us that, when he brought the physician to your side in Lincoln, they interrupted the archangel’s fury over Tom not immediately sliding the sword into your body.”
Margaret almost smiled remembering Wat Tyler’s too brief visit to Halstow Hall. “Not immediately,” she said, “but one day, when it comes to the choice, then Thomas will slide it in.”
“Not if we can help it,” Bolingbroke said. “Sweet Meg, he is capable of love, great love, but he needs to be pushed.”
She made a dismissive sound. “I cannot believe that. He is too cold … too arrogant. Too sure of himself and his damned, cursed God.”
“Meg, I have known Tom for many, many years. I knew him as a boy—even before his parents died. Once he was softer and kinder, with a truly gentle soul, but then God’s hand descended … and Tom’s life became a living hell. First with the death of his mother and father, then with the horrific tragedy of Alice. That happy, gentle boy is still there, somewhere, and it is you, Meg, who will draw him out. He must trust enough to love again.”
“And how am I to accomplish the impossible?”
Bolingbroke drew in a very deep breath, took both Margaret’s hands in his, and spoke low and soft for many minutes.
When he’d finished, Margaret stared at him, her eyes wide. “I cannot!”
“We must move quickly,” Bolingbroke said. “Margaret, I am sorry that it must be with such abominable trickery—”
“Trickery? Trickery of whom, Hal? Tom … or me?”
“Margaret—”
“And how can you ask such a thing of me? Have I not already suffered enough?”
“Meg—”
She jerked her hands out of his. “You’ll tread anyone to the ground to achieve your ambition, won’t you? Me … Tom … and now,” her voice rose, became shrill, “this Mary Bohun! Why marry her when you know your heart is pledged to another?”
Bolingbroke tensed, his eyes narrowing.
“Our entire cause is tied to you marrying another,” she said. “Will you tread Mary Bohun into the ground when she has outlived her usefulness?”
“You know why I need to wed Mary,” Bolingbroke said. “She is the sole heir to the Hereford family’s vast estates and her lands shall strengthen my position. I need that strength now, Margaret. The inheritance she brings will bolster my position against Richard—”
“And what if Mary gives you an heir? Do you truly want to dilute your blood with that of—”
Bolingbroke sighed. “She won’t.”
Margaret arched an eyebrow. “You will leave her a virgin? But won’t that compromise your claim to her lands?”
“I will make a true wife of Mary—I can do that for her, at least.” Bolingbroke paused. “Margaret, when you come to Mary, when you attend her, look deep into her eyes, and see the shadows there. You will know what I mean.”
“She is ill?”
Bolingbroke nodded.
“How fortunate for you,” Margaret said.
“It is not of my doing!” Bolingbroke said.
“Be sure to tell her of your ambitions and needs on your wedding night, Hal. Be sure to tell her that you expect her affliction to be of the most deadly nature. And timely, no less.”
“You have no right to speak to me thus!”
“I have every right!” Margaret said, close to tears. This had already been an appalling day, and Hal had made it so much worse than he needed to have done.
He reached out a hand, his fingers grazing her cheek. “Margaret, be strong for me. I do not need your womanly weeping, or your reminders of what is right and what is not. We’ve come too far for that.”
His hand lifted, lingering a moment at her hairline, then it dropped. He hesitated, as if he would speak more, but then he brushed abruptly past her and left the room.
Margaret put a trembling hand to her mouth, fought back her tears and leaned against the door, giving Bolingbroke the time he needed to get back to his apartments.
Finally she, too, left.
Lady Mary Bohun was also staying in the Savoy, chaperoned by her mother, Cecilia, and later that evening, in the hour before a quiet supper was held in the hall, Bolingbroke introduced his betrothed to her new attending lady.
Margaret, composed and courteous, curtsied gracefully before the Lady Mary, who stared at her a little uncertainly, then patted the stool beside her chair, indicating Margaret should sit.
Margaret fought the urge to glance at Hal, and did as Mary requested.
Mary gave an uncertain smile—this Margaret was so beautiful … what was she to Hal?—then leaned forward and spoke quietly of some of the lighter matters at court.
Margaret responded easily enough, but kept her eyes downcast, as she should when in the presence of such a noble lady.
Bolingbroke watched carefully for a minute, then turned and grinned boyishly at Neville, who had returned from the goldsmith’s in the past hour.
“And now that we have disposed of the ladies,” Bolingbroke said, “perhaps you and I can have a quiet word before we sup.”
Bolingbroke had a suite of eight or nine chambers set aside for his personal use in the Savoy, and the chamber he now led Neville into was part of his office accommodation. Its furniture—two tables, two wooden chairs, three stools, several large chests and innumerable smaller ones, and a great cabinet standing against a far wall—was almost smothered in vellum rolls containing legal records, and several large volumes opened to reveal columns of figures written in the new Arabic numerals, and half-folded papers drawn with everything from maps to diagrams of the inner workings of clocks.
From the ceiling joists hung a variety of strange mechanical contraptions. Neville would later learn that two of them were the fused skeletons and internal organs of clocks, one was the result of the strange and unsuccessful mating of a clock and a crossbow, one was something Bolingbroke had been told could predict thunderstorms by measuring the degree of anger within the air, one was a strange hybrid abacus, and one sparkling collection of brass and copper cogs and wheels and shafts did nothing but bob and tinkle pleasantly whenever there was movement within the air.
Bolingbroke looked apologetic as he gestured about the room. “I have several clerks who try to keep my affairs in order … but as you can see, Tom, I need you badly.”
Neville ducked as he almost hit his head on the hybrid abacus. “Lord Saviour, Hal. What lies buried amid this mess?”
For an instant, amusement glinted in Bolingbroke’s eyes, only to be replaced with a look of abstracted and irritated worry. “What lies here? Bills, receipts, reports, petitions, memorandums from at least four working committees of Commons in which, apparently, I am to take an interest, lists of passports issued in the past five months, accounts of lambing and harvest from sundry of my stewards, digests of legal debates from the Inns of Courts, summaries of—”
“Enough!” Neville threw up his hands, then he turned to Bolingbroke and laughed. “What sin have I committed, my friend, that you so burden me with minutiae?”
“Minutiae is the oil which smooths the English bureaucracy, Tom, surely you know that, and the bureaucracy is determined to see to it that every nobleman in England is to be kept out of mischief with an excess of the mundane. A memorandum is as vicious a weapon as has ever been invented. Far better than the axe.”
Neville shook his head, then let the amusement drain from his face. “It is good to be back, Hal.”
Bolingbroke grasped Neville’s hand briefly. “And it is good to have you back. Tom, we need to talk, and it has nothing to do with this mess.”
“Aye. Richard.”
“Richard, indeed.” Bolingbroke moved to a table, swept a portion of it free of papers, and perched on a corner. “He moves fast to consolidate his horrid hold on England.”
“Hal, the archangel Saint Michael appeared to me as we sailed towards London.”
Bolingbroke’s face tightened with shock. “What did he say?”
“That the casket is in London, and that it screams to me. That I am to be surrounded by lies, but that all lies will be as naught once I read the truths that the casket contains.”
“It is certain that Richard holds the casket,” Bolingbroke said.
“Have you learned anything?”
“About the casket? No.”
“About Richard, then.”
Bolingbroke grimaced in distaste. “Do you remember, years back, when you were still at court, that the boy-Richard scurried about with Oxford’s son?”
“Robert de Vere? Yes … he was a lad some few years older than Richard.” Neville idly scratched at his short beard, remembering some of the gossip that had spread about the two boys. “De Vere was probably the one who first taught Richard how to piss standing up.”
“Undoubtedly ‘dear Robbie’ taught Richard to do a great many things with his manly poker other than to piss with it. Well, now de Vere struts about as the Earl of Oxford … his father died some two years past,” Bolingbroke grinned slightly, “while you were ensconced in your friary. He also managed to wed Philippa, Hotspur’s sister.”
Neville raised his brows—that wedding and bedding marked an important (and potentially dangerous) alliance between the houses of Oxford and Northumberland.
“De Vere has left his wife at home in his draughty castle and is now back at court and in the king’s great favour.” Bolingbroke’s grin faded, replaced with a look of contempt. “Rather, de Vere gifts the king with the benevolence of his patronage. It is said that not only will Richard not make a single decision without consulting de Vere—sweet Jesu, Tom, if de Vere said that black was white then Richard would believe him!—but that the two men share an … unnatural … relationship.”
Neville stared at Bolingbroke. “You cannot mean that they still practise their boyhood follies!”
“Oh, aye, I do mean that. Their hands are all over each other in those hours that they’re not all over some poor woman they’ve had dragged in from the alleys behind St Paul’s.”
Neville was so appalled he had to momentarily close his eyes. Saint Michael had been right to say that the English court was corrupted with evil. Soon Richard would have the entire court—nay! the entire country!—dancing to his depraved tune.
“I must find that casket!” Neville said.
“Aye,” Bolingbroke said. “And it must be in Westminster. Where else?”
“And how can I—”
“Patience, my friend. I called you back not merely to witness my forthcoming nuptials and to take care of this mess,” Bolingbroke waved his hand laconically about the tumbled muddle of papers and reports around them, “but because Richard himself will shortly present me—and thus you—with the excuse to haunt the halls of Westminster.”
Neville, who had turned to stare in frustration out a small window looking over the river wall of the Savoy, now looked back to Bolingbroke. “And that excuse is …?”
“Do you remember the terms the Black Prince—may sweet Jesu watch over his soul—set for John’s repatriation back to France?”
“Aye. Charles was to pay … what? Seven hundred thousand English pounds for his grandfather’s ransom?”
Bolingbroke nodded.
“And, as well, both John and Charles had to be signatories to a treaty of peace that recognised the Black Prince as heir to the French throne … disinheriting Charles completely.”
“Exactly.” A small pile of papers on the table next to Bolingbroke toppled over with a gentle sigh, scattering about his feet, and Bolingbroke kicked them aside impatiently, ignoring Neville’s exasperated look.
“But,” Bolingbroke continued, folding his arms and watching Neville carefully, “circumstances have changed. Edward is dead. The Black Prince is dead. A young and untried man now sits on the throne. We may have trod the French into the mud of Poitiers, but now we have no tried war leader to press home the advantage.”
“Not even you?” Neville said very quietly.
Bolingbroke ignored him. “My father has no taste for spending what time remains to him leading rows of horsed steel against the French, and, in any case, his talents have always been in the field of diplomacy rather than the field of battle. Northumberland is also aging,” Bolingbroke’s mouth quirked, “although I hear Hotspur is keen enough to take his own place in the vanguard of England’s hopes in France.”
And you? Neville thought, keeping silent this time. Where do your ambitions lie, Hal?
“So Richard must needs rethink the terms of treaty,” Bolingbroke said. “This he has done—doubtless with de Vere’s advice—and his new terms meet with John’s approval. Or, more to the point, John has grown old and addled enough not to truly care what he signs any more.”
“What are the terms?”
“The demand for £700,000 has gone. Instead, Richard has settled for secure access to the Flemish wool ports for our wool merchantmen—John will agree to remove whatever naval blockade he still has in place.”
Neville shook his head slightly. The Black Prince would simply have smashed his way through the French blockades … Richard had, in effect, paid the French £700,000 to remove them.
Bolingbroke watched Neville’s reaction carefully. “But Richard has not backed down on his claim to the French throne. In two days time King John will sign at Westminster a treaty that recognises Richard as the true heir to the French throne.”
Neville raised his eyebrows. Maybe the £700,000 had been worth it, after all.
“And,” Bolingbroke continued very softly, “Richard no longer demands that Charles co-sign. Instead, he has a more powerful French signatory, someone who he hopes will virtually guarantee him an ironclad claim to France.”
“Who?”
“Isabeau de Bavière.”
“What? Charles’ whore mother?”
Bolingbroke laughed. “Aye. Dame Isabeau will formally declare Charles a bastard. Her memory has become clearer, it seems, and she is now certain that it was the Master of Hawks who put Charles in her.”
“And what price did Richard pay for the return of her memory?”
“A castle here, a castle there, a stableful of willing lads … who truly knows? But enough to ensure that Isabeau will swear on the Holy Scriptures, and whatever splinters of the True Cross the Abbot of Westminster scrapes up, that Charles is a bastard, and that leaves Richard, as John’s great grand-nephew, the nearest male relative.”
Neville grimaced. “John must rue the day his father gave his sister to be Edward II’s wife.”
“I swear that he has spent his entire life ruing it. And the inevitable has come to pass. John must sign away the French throne to a distant English relative.”
“What of Catherine?”
“Catherine?”
“Aye, Catherine … Charles’ sister.” Neville wasn’t sure why Hal was looking so surprised—he must surely have considered her claim. “Is Catherine a bastard as well? Or did John’s son Louis actually manage to father her on Isabeau? If Catherine is legitimate, then, while she is not allowed to sit on the throne herself according to Salic Law, her bed and womb will become a treasure booty for any French noble who thinks to lay claim to the throne.”
“I am sure that Louis never fathered that girl,” Bolingbroke said. “No doubt her father was some stable lad Isabeau thoughtlessly bedded one warm, lazy afternoon.”
“And if she’s not bastard-bred?” Neville said, watching Bolingbroke as carefully as Bolingbroke had been watching him earlier. “We all know who will be the first to climb into Catherine’s bed.”
Bolingbroke stared stone-faced at Neville, then raised his eyebrows in query.
“Philip is with Charles’ camp, Hal. You know that. And you also know that Philip’s lifelong ambition has been to reach beyond Navarre to the French throne. You’re wrong to suggest Richard is the only close male relative to John—Philip thinks he has the better blood claim. The instant word reaches France of the treaty, Philip will be lifting back Catherine’s bed covers with a grin of sheer triumph stretching across his handsome face.”
“Catherine would not allow it.”
“Why not? She has ambition herself and she will need to assure her future. Philip would be one of the few men in Christendom who could guarantee her a place beside the throne.”
Bolingbroke abruptly stood up. “Whatever. I thought you more interested in de Worde’s casket than a young girl’s bedding.” He walked to the door. “In three days time I will be called to Westminster as witness to the signing of the treaty. You will come with me, and together we can spend our spare hours haunting the cellars and corridors of the palace complex … the casket must be there somewhere! Now,” Bolingbroke grabbed the door latch and pulled the door open, “we shall collect our women and we will join my father and his lady wife for supper in the hall … they will surely be wondering where we are.”
“Hal, wait! There is one other thing!”
Visibly impatient, Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows.
“A few days before we left Halstow Hall, Wycliffe, Wat Tyler and two Lollard priests, Jack Trueman and John Ball, came to visit.”
All impatience on Bolingbroke’s face had now been replaced with stunned surprise. “What? Why?”
“To irritate me, no doubt.” Neville paused. “Wycliffe said he was on his way to Canterbury, intimating it was with the leave of your father. Thus, Wat Tyler as escort.”
Bolingbroke slowly shook his head. “As far as we knew, Wycliffe had gone back to Oxford. But he is in Kent?”
Neville nodded, and Bolingbroke frowned, apparently genuinely concerned.
“I must tell my father,” he said, then corrected himself. “No. I will make the enquiries. There is no need to disturb my father.”
Then, with a forced gaiety on his face, Bolingbroke once more indicated the door. “And now, we must return to our women, Tom!”
And with that Bolingbroke disappeared into the corridor as Neville, thoughtful, stared after him.
Cecilia Bohun, dowager Countess of Hereford, gasped, and her face flushed.
“Madam?” Mary said, leaning over to lay her hand on her mother’s arm.
Cecilia took a deep breath and tried to smile for her daughter. “I fear you must pardon me, Mary. I—”
She suddenly got to her feet, and took three quick steps towards the door. Collecting herself with an extreme effort, she half-turned back to her still-seated daughter.
“Before we sup … I must … the garderobe …” she said, and then made as dignified a dash to the door as she could.
Margaret did not know what to do: what words should she say? Should she say anything? Did the Lady Mary expect her to go after her mother? Would the Lady Mary hate her for witnessing her mother’s discomposure?
“Margaret,” Mary Bohun said, “pray do not fret. My mother will be well soon enough. It is just that … at her age …”
Grateful that Mary should not only have recognised her uncertainty, but have then so generously rescued her, Margaret smiled and nodded. “I have heard, my lady, that the time of a woman’s life when her courses wither and die is difficult.”
“But we must be grateful to God if we survive the travails of childbed to reach that age, Margaret.”
Margaret nodded, silently studying Mary. She was a slender girl with thick, honey-coloured hair and lustrous hazel eyes. Not beautiful, nor even pretty, but pleasant enough. However, unusually for a woman of her nobility and inheritance, Mary was unassuming far beyond what modesty called for. When Margaret had first sat down, she thought to find Mary a haughty and distant creature, but in the past half hour she had realised that, while reserved, the woman was also prepared to be open and friendly with a new companion who was not only much more lowly ranked than herself, but whose reputation was besmirched by scandal; Mary must certainly have heard that Margaret’s daughter was born outside marriage, even if she had not heard of Margaret’s liaison with the Earl of Westmorland, Ralph Neville, while in France.
Margaret also realised that Mary was, as Hal had suggested, tainted with a malaise; deep in her eyes were the faint marks of a slippery, sliding phantom, the subterranean footprints of something dark and malignant and hungry.
Margaret shuddered, knowing that an imp of ruin and decay had taken up habitation within Mary. Giggling, perhaps, as it waited its chance.
Having seen that shadow, Margaret knew that Mary’s slimness might not all be due to abstemious dining habits, or the pallor of her cheeks not completely the result of keeping her face averted from the burning rays of the sun, and that the lustrousness of her eyes might be as much due to an as-yet unconscious fever as to a blitheness of spirit.
Mary’s affliction was as yet so subtle, so cunning, that Margaret had no doubt that Mary herself remained totally unaware of it.
Yet how like Hal, she thought, to have seen this affliction and to have realised its potential. And how sad that this lovely woman was to be so used. Treasured not for her beauty of character, but for the speed of her impending mortality.
“My lady,” Mary said, frowning slightly, “why do you stare so?”
Margaret reddened, dropping her eyes. “I am sorry, my lady. I was … merely remembering my own doubts on the eve of my marriage, and pitying your own inevitable uncertainties.”
As soon as she’d said those words, Margaret’s blush deepened. What if Mary had no uncertainties? What if she chose to view Margaret’s words, as well as her staring, with offence?
“My lady,” Margaret added hastily, “perhaps I have spoken ill-considered words! I had not thought to imply that—”
“No, shush,” Mary said. “You have not spoken out of turn.”
She hesitated, biting her lip slightly. “My Lady Margaret … I am glad that you are to be my companion. I shall be grateful to have a woman close to my own age to confide in.”
Mary’s eyes flitted about the chamber to make sure that the several servants about were not within hearing distance. “You have been a maid, and now are married with a child. You have undertaken the journey that I am soon to embark upon.”
Margaret inclined her head, understanding that Mary was uncertain about her forthcoming marriage. Well, there was nothing surprising about that.
“My lady,” she said, “it is a journey that most women embark upon. Most survive it.”
If not unscarred, she thought, but knew she must never say such to Mary.
“My Lord of Hereford,” Margaret continued, “will no doubt be a generous and loving husband.”
Again Mary glanced about the chamber. “Margaret, may I confide most intimately in you, and be safe in that confidence?”
Oh, Mary, Mary, be wary of whom you confide in!
“My lady, you may be sure that you shall be safe with me.”
Even as she spoke the words she initially thought would be lies, Margaret realised that they were true. Whatever Mary told her would be repeated for no other ears.
Mary took a deep breath. “Margaret … the thought of marriage with Bolingbroke unsettles me greatly. He is a strange man, and sometimes I know not what to make of him. I wonder, sometimes, what kind of husband he shall prove to be.”
Margaret briefly closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to Jesus Christ for forgiveness for the lie she knew she now must speak.
“My lady,” she said, smiling as reassuringly as she could, “your fears are but those of every maid approaching her marriage bed and who fears the unknown. Rest assured that my Lord of Hereford will surely prove the most loving of husbands and one that most women would be more than glad to have in their beds.”
Mary’s eyes searched Margaret’s face, and she began to say more, but was interrupted by the opening of the far door.
“Mary! Margaret!” Bolingbroke strode into the chamber, Neville at his shoulder. “Supper awaits! Come, cease your girlish gossiping and take our arms so that we may make our stately way to the hall where my Lord and Lady of Lancaster await us.”
When Margaret gave her arm to Mary to aid her to rise, she was shocked at the tightness of Mary’s grip.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
