The Crippled Angel (7 page)

“I am suffering no more than those poor men below who have been trampled beneath horses’ hooves,” Mary said, patting at Margaret’s hand. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you for caring, Margaret.”

Margaret took one of Mary’s hands in both of hers, and very, very gently rubbed its back with her thumbs. With Mary, as she had done with Lancaster, she should dig her
thumbs in deeply to give the relief required for such pain, but if she did that, and eased Mary’s pain to a remarkable degree, then Mary would indeed suspect something.

So Margaret gently rubbed, and the continual movement, with the slight power she put into it, managed to take the edge off Mary’s pain. It happened so gradually that Mary herself did not connect the very slight easing of her pain with Margaret’s rubbing.

She merely thought the ease was due to Margaret’s love…which, in a sense, it was.

After a few minutes Mary straightened her back a little, and lifted her head, suddenly becoming aware of the concerned looks being sent her way.

Mary smiled, then waved her hand a little. “A bad moment, my good people,” she said. “Nothing else. See, I am quite well now.”

And gradually those staring smiled, nodded, and returned their eyes to the tourney field before them.

Once their attention was back on the field, Mary turned to Margaret, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for your love,” she said. “It means so much.”

Margaret blinked back her tears, and smiled, and would have spoken save that Bolingbroke leaned over and hushed them.

“Quiet! The joust of the tournament begins.”

Mary turned her head back to the field—its grass now all but torn up where it wasn’t littered with congealing pink mounds of sawdust. All but one jousting lane had been cleared away, and at either end of this single remaining lane sat two great warriors on their destriers: Exeter and Raby.

Both men and their mounts were fully armoured: Raby in black armour emblazoned with the Neville device across breastplate and helm; Exeter in gleaming white armour, similarly emblazoned with his own heraldic devices.

An official shouted an instruction, and both men slowly lowered their lances.

Their destriers bunched beneath them, knowing that at any instant they would be sent thundering towards their opponent.

A flag dropped, the crowd roared, and the destriers lumbered into movement.

Bolingbroke leaned forward in his chair, his face tense, one fist clenched. “Do me proud, Ralph,” he muttered. “Do me proud.”

Raby and Exeter pounded towards each other, their bodies hunched over lance and shield, their heads swaying with the violent movement of their horses.

They met in a grinding of metal in the centre of the field: sparks flew, horses grunted, but both lances slid off their opponent’s shield harmlessly as each passed the other, trying to pull up their destriers with hands laden with shield and weapon.

Squires leapt to their masters’ aid, catching the destriers and turning them about.

The crowd’s roar grew louder.

Bolingbroke turned to say something to Mary, then stopped, his eyes fixed on Thomas Neville who had climbed the stairs into the stand and was now fast approaching the royal box.

“Tom?” Bolingbroke said.

Neville reached him, glancing at Margaret and Mary, and then to where Robert Courtenay stood with a group of armed men in the back of the stand, before bending down to Bolingbroke.

“Treachery, sire,” he whispered. “I think Exeter means to—”

He got no further, for just then Exeter and Raby met again in a clash of metal and horseflesh in the centre of the field. The grinding and screeching of lance against shield grew to almost unbearable levels, and then Raby’s shield toppled to one side, dragging its owner over with it.

Exeter managed to drop his lance, grabbing a club that hung at his side. In a heartbeat he’d raised it on high, then smashed it into Raby’s helm.

Neville’s uncle slid unceremoniously to the ground in a clatter of armour and a flailing of legs and arms. His horse skittered off, rolling its eyes.

“Ralph!” Margaret whispered, half-rising. She had been Raby’s lover once, and had never ceased caring for him.

“Hal!” Neville said, equally as urgently. “You are in danger—”

Exeter ignored Raby struggling ignobly in his heavy armour on the ground, dropping the club and grabbing at his sword to wave it about his head. He turned to the gates that marked the entry and exit point of the tourney field, the vigour of his sword-waving doubling.

Horsed and heavily armed men flooded into the tourney field—a thousand at the least—some liveried in the devices of Exeter, others in the devices of various other members of the extended Holland clan, and more yet in the liveries of the Earl of Rutland and the Earl of Salisbury.

“Sweet Jesu!” Bolingbroke said, lurching to his feet as the seriousness of the moment suddenly hit him. Already other men—those of Bolingbroke’s personal guard, nobles and retainers of Northumberland and Raby and other noble houses allied with them—were rushing towards the tourney field. Sporadic fighting started where the two groups met, but the crowds of commoners, now lurching this way and that in terror, were so thick that it was hard for the king’s defenders to get close to the rebels.

“Hear me!” Exeter screamed, turning his destrier about in tight circles as he addressed the crowd, and still waving his sword about his head. “Hear me! I come on behalf of Richard the King. Yes! Richard! He still lives.
Richard lives and will be in London within the week to remove this monster from the throne!
”

The crowd’s noise swelled. Richard lived? Then several people shouted out: “Yes! Richard lives! We have heard it from men of God. Richard lives.”

And then another shout, coming so fast upon those of Exeter and the crowd that Bolingbroke had not had a chance of speaking himself.

The Abbot of Westminster, standing up from his place in one of the side stands: “Richard lives and shall come home
to London to claim his rightful seat on the throne within the week. Believe me. The Church stands behind Richard!”

The crowd pushed forward, shouting and screaming, the hours of high excitement now turned into a rebellious surge.

“Give us Richard!” several people yelled, and soon the refrain was taken up by all around. “Give us Richard!”

“Stupid yokels,” Bolingbroke said under his breath, his face bright red with fury. “Give them a refrain to yell,
anything
, and they’ll shout it from the rooftops until they are silenced only by the sword!”

“Hal—” Mary said, trying to grasp his arm, but he twisted it away from her.

“You must get out of here,” Neville said, checking to make sure that Courtenay and the score of armed men with him were now making their way towards the royal box. If they moved quickly, Bolingbroke and Mary still had a chance to move—

“Seize him!” Exeter shouted, now waving his sword towards Bolingbroke.

“Richard is dead!” Bolingbroke shouted. “Dead! How can you shout for him now when only months before you shouted
my
name in Westminster Abbey?”

“He has misled you,” shouted the abbot and Exeter together. “Richard lives, and will shortly return to reclaim his—”

“My good people,” said a soft voice, and, miraculously, all heard it.

Mary, rising unbalanced and shaking from her chair. Both Margaret and Neville reached out hands to steady her, exchanging a shocked glance as they did so.

“My good people,” Mary said again, extending her hands outwards, palms up as if in supplication. “Will you listen to me?”

The crowd quieted, although murmuring still swelled up and down its length. Faces turned to Mary.

“I am so distressed that you should be told such lies by those who have no respect for you,” Mary said, and tears ran down her cheeks.

Now even the murmuring quieted, and the entire tourney field and its surrounds, packed with over fifteen thousand people, stared at their queen.

“Richard
is
dead,” she whispered, and amazingly that whisper reached every corner. “Did I not weep over his still white corpse? Did I not swaddle him in his shroud as his mother once swaddled him as a babe?”

Bolingbroke stared at her, incredulous. Mary had never seen Richard’s corpse, let alone spent hours weeping over it or swaddling it.

But the crowd was staring at her enthralled—even Exeter and his band—and so Bolingbroke held both his tongue and his incredulity in check.

“I think perhaps my Lords of Exeter and Westminster have been mistaken,” she said, gracing both men with a sweet smile. “Perhaps what they meant to say was that my beloved husband,” and now she smiled almost beatifically at a still incredulous Bolingbroke, “has arranged for Richard’s poor corpse to make its way in solemn procession back to London, to lie in state in Saint Paul’s, so that all Englanders may have a chance to say their farewells to their beloved boy-king.”

She turned back to Exeter, staring at her from under the raised visor of his helm, then to the Abbot of Westminster, who was licking his lips and, patently, thinking furiously. “Is that not so, my lords?” Mary said. She folded her hands before her.

The abbot glanced at Exeter. “Um, well,” he stumbled. “Perhaps we might have been mistaken—”

“She lies!” Exeter screamed, now standing in his stirrups and brandishing his sword towards Mary. “She mouths nothing but foul lies! Richard lives, and he—”

“Will you listen to this man befoul your beloved queen?” shouted Raby. He’d struggled to his feet when all attention had been turned towards Mary, and now he stood at Exeter’s stirrup. “How can any deny the beauty and truth of what our adored queen says?”

As quickly as it had been engaged and manipulated by
Westminster and Essex, the mood of the crowd now swung again.

“Mary!” they screamed. “Mary!”

“Fool,” Raby said under the screams of the crowd and, so quickly that none of Exeter’s close companions could stop him, slid the unscabbarded blade of his sword up into the gap between Exeter’s abdominal and hip plates.

Exeter twisted, but it was too late. Raby leaned all his strength behind his thrust, and the sword tore through the stiffened leather beneath the plate armour and deep into Exeter’s lower belly.

The duke grunted, dropped his sword, then slid off his horse—and further onto Raby’s sword.

Instantly, his supporters started to back away.

Mary, who had not failed to notice Raby’s actions, clapped her hands, keeping the crowd’s attention on her. “My husband assures me Richard’s corpse will be back in London within the fortnight,” she said, “where you may all have the chance to view it and say your farewells. May sweet Jesu bless you all.”

And yet again the crowd roared in acclaim, and did not notice Northumberland’s and Raby’s men moving through the rebels, seizing the nobles who had thought to topple Bolingbroke.

Mary stood, waving and smiling, until order had been achieved. Then she said, “Beloved people, will you excuse me if I sit? I am so tired—”

She got no further, for suddenly she sank down, her entire frame shaking with pain, and Margaret wrapped her arms about Mary’s shoulders, concerned.

“Hal—” Neville said urgently.

Bolingbroke turned to address the crowd. “I must take my wife home,” he said, “for she has been greatly distressed by the treachery Exeter forced her to witness. Will you perchance excuse your king and queen?”

There were shouts of goodwill, then the crowd began to disperse.

Neville finally relaxed. “Hal, you would be dead now if it were not for Mary.”

Bolingbroke held Neville’s eyes, sharing both his shock and relief at the turn of events. Then, as one, both men looked down at Mary.

She had fainted dead away, and Margaret and one of her other women were rubbing her hands and wiping her forehead with a soft cloth.

“Sire,” Margaret said, “she must be returned to Windsor.
Now!
”

Bolingbroke nodded, but it was Neville who spoke.

“I will take care of it,” he said, then looked at Bolingbroke. “I think that you, sire, ought to make plans forthwith to bring Richard’s ‘poor corpse’ back from whatever pit you had it thrown in.”

Bolingbroke’s mouth twisted. “Not before I have had a chance to deal with Exeter—if he still lives—and our trusty friend the abbot,” he said. “I hope you took good note of who else had taken Exeter’s part, Tom.”

“Aye,” Neville said. “And they were many more than I know you would like to think, Hal.”

Then he bent down, and, with Margaret and the other ladies fussing about, gathered Mary into his arms.

Saturday 4th May 1381

—iii—

“
W
ell?” said Bolingbroke, turning to face his chief advisers.

They stood in the cool evening light in Bolingbroke’s private chamber: the king had allowed no servants in to light either the fire or the lamps.

“Exeter will be dead by dawn,” Raby said. He was slumped wearily in a chair, still in the sweat-stained garments he’d worn under his armour. His face was drawn, sallow now rather than swarthy, and a dark bruise ran up one cheek. “His wound is bad.”

Bolingbroke grunted. “And for that you have my thanks indeed. Westminster?”

“Huddled praying in the chapel,” Neville said. “Surrounded by fifteen men-at-arms and enclosed by locked doors.”

“You cannot have him killed,” the Earl of Northumberland said. “He is a churchman.”

Bolingbroke’s face left them in no doubt what he thought of all “churchmen”. He turned abruptly, and strode away a few paces. “Then he shall rue the day he ever thought to raise his shrill little voice against me,” he said. “He’s finished.”

Behind him, Neville, Northumberland, Raby and the other three men present—Bolingbroke’s Chancellor, John Scarle, and Sir John Norbury and Lord Owen Tudor, members of Bolingbroke’s household—exchanged glances. Bolingbroke’s mood had been vicious ever since they returned from the aborted tournament. Armed guards now surrounded and infiltrated every part of Windsor, and more were stationed in the fields beyond. Bolingbroke was taking no chances.

And no one blamed him for that. Exeter’s plan, born of desperation, would have stood a very good chance of succeeding, had it not been for Mary’s quiet words…and the respect the crowd had for her. The cry that Richard still lived, appealing as it did to the English crowd’s sense of drama and intrigue, could have rallied the entire ten thousand behind him. Once the crowd was behind him, shouting his cause, then seeds of doubt would have grown in everyone else present.
Was Richard still alive? Was he planning a return to London?

Exeter had used the very same tactics against Bolingbroke that Bolingbroke had employed against Richard: the manipulation of dramatic words to turn loyalties. His voice wasn’t as sweet, nor his words as seductive, as Bolingbroke’s had been to Richard’s army outside Flint Castle, but still…

No matter that the-very-dead-Richard would never stage a return to London—at least not alive. All Exeter would have needed to do was manage to place Bolingbroke under armed guard, and very soon Bolingbroke would have been as dead as Richard, and Exeter’s faction in control of England.

“Rutland?” Bolingbroke said, still with his back to the group watching him. “Salisbury? And every other of the damned Hollands that thought to join with their cousin Exeter?”

“In prison,” Raby said. “Under guard.”

Bolingbroke spun about to face them. “They will hang in the morning.”

“Sire—” Neville said.

“Nay, do not try and dissuade me, Tom,” Bolingbroke said. “I cannot let them live. You know that. I need to send a message to anyone else—” he paused “—out there who might harbour the same plans and ambitions as Exeter.” No one said a word. All knew to whom he was referring.
Hotspur.
“As for Exeter’s retainers,” Bolingbroke continued, “and those of the other rebel lords, well…they shall receive pardons as evidence of my true mercy. I will not murder all of England in spite.”

Neville shot Bolingbroke an unreadable look, but Bolingbroke chose to ignore it.

“My friends,” Bolingbroke continued, “your advice, if I may. Who else do I need to fear? Who else should I guard my throne and England’s stability against?”

Everyone studiously avoided looking at Northumberland.

“The Dominicans,” Neville said. “There were several within the crowd this afternoon spreading word that Richard still lives. They were Exeter’s allies.”

“So,” Bolingbroke said, looking at Neville with some speculation. “The Dominicans do not like me, and would like to unseat me. Can you tell me why, Tom?”

Because you are a demon, Hal, and because they suspect it.

“Many within the Church distrust you,” Neville replied, “especially since you directed that religious studies receive less emphasis in schools and universities in favour of the new secular humanism. And your reforms of the calendar…many priests view that as a turning away from God.”

Bolingbroke shrugged. He picked up a piece of fruit from a bowl, and bit into it, keeping his eyes on Neville.

“But you—we—have one bad enemy within the Dominicans. Prior General Richard Thorseby,” Bolingbroke said, spitting out a seed and tossing it into the grate.

“Aye. No one has seen or heard from him since June last year when the rebels torched Blackfriars. I do not like that.”

“Well,” Bolingbroke said, “no doubt he will turn up sooner or later, and no doubt with a renewed plan to see you incarcerated, Tom. But for the moment, I do not think the Dominican whispers are the worst—”

“But these whispers that Richard is still alive?” Raby said.

“I will return to those in a moment,” Bolingbroke said. “There is one worse potential traitor in England that I think we all need to discuss. Here. Now.”

Northumberland slowly rose to his feet. His face was grave, his eyes hard. “You refer to my son, sire. Why do you not say it aloud?”

Bolingbroke faced the earl, his own eyes as flinty as Northumberland’s. “He has refused to swear allegiance to me. He sits in the north with an army of twenty thousand behind him—and the ability to raise another twenty thousand—that he claims to need against the Scots. He looks south, and hungers. Combine all those facts, my lord, and I see a very real threat.”

“He has done nothing wrong!” Northumberland said.

“Save refuse to swear me allegiance and collect swords about his person in numbers the Scots do not warrant!” Bolingbroke shouted.

“Sire,” Raby said softly, rising to place a cautionary hand on Bolingbroke’s arm.

Bolingbroke shot Raby a furious look, then turned his gaze back to Northumberland. “Will you swear me Hotspur’s allegiance, my lord? Will you swear to me that your son will remain a good and faithful subject?”

“Hal!” Raby barked. “That is enough. Northumberland saw you to your throne. Do not ask this of him now when—”

“I am not a stable boy for you to so rebuke me,” Bolingbroke said, swinging back to Raby. “Remember who it is you address.”

Then he spoke to Northumberland again. “Your aid has proved invaluable to me, Northumberland,” he said, “but do you have any idea how quickly my love and support of your house will fade if your son leads an army south?”

“Why did I support you against Richard if I thought to then throw my son against you?”

“Perhaps,” Bolingbroke said, his voice very low, his eyes furious, “you supported me against Richard so that eventually your son might have an easier path to the throne.”

“Sire—” Northumberland growled, taking a step forwards.

“This has gone far enough,” Neville said, and nodded to John Scarle, the Chancellor, who laid a hand on Northumberland’s arm, and whispered something in his ear.

“Northumberland cannot swear Hotspur’s allegiance,” Neville said to Bolingbroke. “He
cannot
! Hotspur is a man grown, and must do it himself. Do not visit the son’s sin of omission on the father who has proved such a valuable ally to you.”

Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then nodded, the muscles about his face and neck visibly relaxing. He looked to Northumberland, still standing, still staring furiously.

“My lord, forgive me. This afternoon’s treachery has proved a great trial, and has made me snap at those I should trust before all others.”

Northumberland waited a few heartbeats, then inclined his head, accepting the apology. Scarle tugged a little at his arm, and Northumberland sighed, and sat down.

Gradually, the other men resumed their seats, and Bolingbroke took a sumptuously carved chair close by the unlit grate.

“I must bring Richard’s body back to London,” he said. “Mary was right. The people must view it.”

“Is it,” Raby said carefully, “in a state
fit
to be viewed?”

Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows, assuming an innocent expression. “In a state fit to be viewed, Raby? Whatever do you mean? Richard died of a fever, not a vicious clubbing or a tearing to bits by dogs. Of course it is fit to be viewed. As fit as any six-month-dead corpse can be, of course.”

He sighed. “No doubt the royal purse shall have to bear the cost of the candles placed about the coffer, and the mourning robes for the official wailers and weepers. Richard has ever been an expensive burden to England.”