Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

And what was surprising about that? Lancaster, a godly man, was doubtless worn down in trying to deal with Richard’s demonry.

When Katherine had interrupted their talk, gently insisting that Lancaster needed his bed, Neville had not been sorry—for his own sake as much as Lancaster’s. It had been a long day, full of emotion and surprises, and Neville badly needed sleep. His head ached abominably and his limbs were heavy and cumbersome with weariness.

He halted outside the closed door to his chamber, resting his head gently on its wood as his hand lightly grasped its handle. As much as he needed to lie down and close his eyes, he knew even that would be denied him for an hour or so.

As yet, Margaret and he had not had a chance to talk privately … and, after this afternoon’s confrontation with the archangel, Neville needed to talk with his wife.

He did not know what he wanted to say to her, nor even what he wanted to hear from her, but something needed to be said, for Neville did not think he could lie down by her side this night with the afternoon lying between them.

With what the archangel had said.

An abomination …

He straightened, then opened the door, closing it softly behind him as he entered.

Hal had made sure they received a good chamber, light and airy. There were several chests for their belongings (and yet not that one casket Neville so desperately sought), a wide bed generously spread with linens and blankets, clean, woven rush matting spread across the timber floor, and oil lamps that burned steadily from several wall sconces. In the far walls the wide windows were shuttered close—the river night was chill, even in this early autumn—and, into the side wall close by the bed, a fire flickered brightly in the grate.

Margaret sat on her knees by the hearth. She was dressed simply, in a loose wrap of a finely-woven ivory wool, her bronze-coloured hair undressed and left to flow freely over her shoulders.

Rosalind lay asleep in her lap, and as Neville entered Margaret raised her face and gave him an uncertain smile.

Then she looked to Agnes, folding clothes into one of the chests. “Leave us for the moment, Agnes. You may return for Rosalind later.”

Agnes nodded, bobbed a curtsey to both Margaret and Neville, and left via a door which opened into a smaller chamber where she and Rosalind would sleep.

Neville pinched at the bridge of his nose tiredly, not knowing where to start, or even what to do.

Margaret inclined her head to a chair standing across the hearth from her. “Tom, sit down and take off your boots. You have borne the weight of the world long enough for one day.”

“Aye.” Neville sank down into the chair, sliding his boots off with a grateful sigh. “And yet the day still weighs heavily on me, Margaret.”

Margaret dropped her face to her daughter, running a finger very lightly over the sleeping girl’s forehead. “As it does me, my lord.”

“Margaret …”

She raised her face and looked at him directly. “Why hate me so much? What have I done to deserve that?”

“Margaret, I do not know what to make of you—how can I interpret this afternoon? Saint Michael tells me to kill you; he says you are filth, an abomination which should never have been allowed to draw breath. He says you are that which I must destroy.”

“And yet you do not kill me, nor our daughter. You do not because you think to use me, to draw demons to your side through my presence. At least,” Margaret held his gaze steadily, “that is the excuse you make to Saint Michael.”

He was silent.

“What demons have I drawn to your side, Tom?”

Still he was silent, and she could not know that his mind had flickered back to Wycliffe’s brief visit, and to the priest’s patent respect for Margaret.

“Or have I,” she continued very quietly, “drawn to you only those who are best able to aid you in your fight against evil? Without me you would be still trapped inside the Church. Without me you would not have Lancaster and Bolingbroke as your strongest allies. Without me you would not have the means you now enjoy to fight against demonry.”

“And what is the demonry that now surrounds me, my love?”

Her face set hard at the sarcastic use of the endearment. “Who else but Richard? Richard is demonry personified. Doubtless Richard now holds this casket you search for so desperately.”

Neville leaned forward. “You trap yourself, Margaret. You have always known more than you should. My dear, tonight I will hear the truth or, before Jesus I swear that I will take Rosalind from your arms and dash her from the window, and then you after her!”

“You would not harm your daughter!” Margaret’s arms tightened about Rosalind, but to no avail, for Neville sprang from the chair and snatched the child away.

Rosalind shrieked, but Neville took no notice. “Unless you convince me, now, that Rosalind does not bear the blood of demons in her, then yes, I will so murder her! And you after her!”

Margaret tried to take Rosalind back from Neville, but could not force his arms away from the child. “You love your daughter! You cannot do her to death!”

“Did you not say yourself this afternoon,” Neville whispered with such malevolence that all the blood drained from Margaret’s face, and she ceased, for the moment, her efforts to rescue her daughter, “that I could not think you a demon, for what would that make Rosalind? Demon you are, Margaret, I know that now, and demon-spawn I would rather kill than allow myself to love!”

“No! Stop!” Desperate, Margaret tried another argument. “Bolingbroke would not allow you—”

“Hal will believe whatever I tell him!”

Rosalind was now screaming and twisting in Neville’s arms and Margaret, standing frantic before them, realised that Neville meant—and believed—every word he said. Oh, why had she spoken so rashly this afternoon?

And Hal. Hal would murder Thomas if he laid a hand to either Rosalind or herself, but Thomas did not know that, and would never believe it until the moment he saw Hal’s sword coming for its revenge.

“My lord? My lady?” Agnes had come from the inner chamber at the sound of Rosalind’s screams, and now stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands helplessly.

“Get out!” Neville snarled at her, and Agnes fled.

“Please …” Margaret tried yet again to take Rosalind from Neville’s arms, but he had the girl tighter than ever. “Please, Thomas, you fought so hard for Rosalind’s life the night she was born—”

“And how would you know that, witch, for I thought you unconscious?”

“Thomas—”

“I want the truth, for I am tired of living wondering if your lies will kill me.”

“And will you recognise the truth if I say it?” Margaret said, frightened and desperate for Rosalind’s life well before her own.

“Aye,” Neville said, staring steadily at Margaret. “I will.”

Margaret fought to calm herself. “Well, then, I will speak of truth to you, but only if you give Rosalind into Agnes’s care. I will not speak to you until she is safe.”

Neville hesitated, then nodded. “Agnes!” he called, and the woman walked hesitantly through the doorway.

Margaret tried to smile reassuringly at her, although she knew that her face must still be frozen in a rictus of fear, then reached for the child.

Neville let Rosalind go, although he kept his eyes intent on Margaret as she took the girl, soothed her for a moment, then handed her to Agnes.

“Our thoughtless cross words have disturbed her, as they have you,” Margaret said to her maid, “and for that I apologise to you both. Please, take her, and keep her safe.”