Kitabı oku: «The Wounded Hawk», sayfa 3

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.