Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

Once the nobles were seated, their retainers and men-at-arms ranked behind them, and the crowds who had rumbled out of London to witness the public humiliation of the French restrained as best could be behind wooden barriers and sharp spears and pikes, a clarion of trumpets sounded, and the monarchs of England and France appeared in magnificent procession from behind a row of screens masking the entrance to the palace complex.

Or, rather, Richard, with Isabeau de Bavière on his arm, proceeded in magnificent procession. King John of France sulked and shuffled his way towards the table, his eyes occasionally darting to the sky, almost as if he were waiting for a sympathetic raven to deposit an excuse not to sign the treaty now spread out on the table before them.

The crowd roared and every bird atop the spires of Westminster Hall, Abbey and Palace fled into the sun to finally alight far away on the banks of the Thames.

John descended into a black fugue; his last chance to avoid signing the treaty was fluttering away.

Traitor birds!

If John had slipped further towards his dotage, then Richard had moved from youth to man in the few months since Neville had seen him last.

Kingship sat upon him well. He still affected his cloth of green, almost as if he never wanted (or wanted no one else) to forget that gay May Day of his coronation, but now it had been augmented with enough jewels and chains of gold that he seemed to outrival the sun itself for power and glory. His face was more mature, harder … more knowing and far more cunning, if that were possible.

Every step of his green-clad legs radiated confidence, every slight movement of his crown-topped head bespoke the power that he commanded.

Richard was king, and no one would ever be allowed to forget it.

On his arm Isabeau de Bavière walked straight-backed and proud. She was aging now, but Neville thought he had never seen a more beautiful or desirable woman. She was grey-haired and wrinkled, and her delicate form very slightly stooped, but her eyes were of the clearest sapphire, sparkling in the light, and her face … her face was so exquisitely fragile that Neville thought a man would lust to bed her simply so he could prove to himself (as to his fellows) that he could do so without breaking every bone in her body.

The English crowd, both men and women, instinctively loathed her on sight. Women catcalled, and men roared lusty words, exposing themselves until guards struck them where it was most likely to sting and forced them to cover up again.

Isabeau cared not. She had endured insults all her life and yet none had touched her. Men and women both had scorned her, yet she had lived out her days manipulating kings and popes alike. She was a woman of her own mind, and free to indulge her ambitions with the wealth of a husband she had managed to drive beyond the bounds of sanity (Isabeau had never been slow to recognise the potential of the well-trained-and-aimed lust of a peacock). Isabeau de Bavière was a woman both beyond and out of her time.

She lifted her free hand and elegantly waved to the spitting, roaring crowd.

Lancaster groaned, and cast his eyes heavenward.

Only a few paces away now, Isabeau de Bavière turned her eyes to Lancaster and sent him a swift, conniving look that had Neville wondering if Lancaster himself had ever succumbed to her charms. Why was it that Lancaster had called off the proposed marriage between Catherine of France and Bolingbroke … had Isabeau sent him a carefully worded warning about possible incestuous complications?

Suddenly Neville had to repress a laugh. He had an image of all the highest nobles and princes of Europe furtively counting dates on their fingers and wondering if they were possibly responsible for Charles or Catherine.

Had all Europe shared in the making of King John’s soon-to-be-declared-bastard heir?

The laugh finally escaped, and of all who shot Neville looks, Isabeau de Bavière’s was the only one that included a glint of amusement.

And so, with the sun shining, the wind gusting and the crowd roaring, Isabeau de Bavière leaned over the creamy parchment that contained the words which made the Treaty of Westminster and signed away her son’s self-respect.

Then she leaned back, held out the quill for the frowning, pouting King John, and laughed for sheer joy at the beauty of life.

Compline, the Feast of the Nativity

of the Blessed Virgin Mary

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(evening Thursday 8th September 1379)

—ii—

In the evening, Richard hosted a celebratory banquet in the Painted Chamber to which all the nobles who had witnessed the signing of the treaty were invited together with their womenfolk who had been excluded from the more serious business.

Neville and Margaret both attended the evening, not as invited guests, but in their capacity as attendants to great nobles.

The evening was a splendid affair: Richard proved the most generous of hosts, de Vere behaved with the utmost gentility, Isabeau de Bavière shone with the brilliance of the evening star at Richard’s side, and no one minded that King John had refused to attend.

The talk among the guests was of many things, although most topics were generally concerned with the treaty and the current situation in France. Could Richard enforce the treaty? And what was the now-formally-declared-bastard Charles doing? The latest intelligence had him still ensconced in la Roche-Guyon, dithering about what to do and how to take advantage of the sudden deaths of Edward III and the Black Prince. Once the Black Prince had abandoned Chauvigny, Philip the Bad had left Chatellerault and rejoined Charles at la Roche-Guyon, no doubt to keep a closer eye on the Dauphin and see what advantage he could wrest from the situation. Rumour also spoke of this Joan of Arc, and her spine-strengthening effect on the Dauphin. What if Charles did rally the French behind his banner, and. did manage to retake all English holdings in France? Would Richard counter such a move, or sit fuming on his throne in Westminster waving about his useless scrap of a treaty?

The Abbot of Westminster had been sharing Bolingbroke’s plate and cup during the banquet, but when the dishes were removed, he excused himself saying he had matters within the abbey to attend to.

As soon as he’d gone, Bolingbroke waved Neville to take his place.

Bolingbroke checked to make sure that the man seated to his left was engaged in conversation elsewhere, then leaned close to Neville and spoke quietly.

“Richard is to send Isabeau de Bavière to Charles with a copy of the treaty. It is a good plan, for it may further demoralise Charles … and Isabeau’s black witchcraft may act to counter this saintly—” Bolingbroke spoke the word with utter loathing—“Joan we hear so much prattle of.”

Neville glanced at the High Table. Isabeau de Bavière was leaning back in her chair, her brilliant eyes glancing about the hall, her mouth curled in a small smile … perhaps in contemplation of the pleasures of deceit.

“Isabeau is merely a woman rather than a witch,” Neville said, “and one who has been clever enough to make her weakness a powerful weapon for her ambition.”

“Tom! Are these admiring words for a woman I hear you speak? This is not like you at all. Ah, I think marriage has mellowed you.”

Neville’s face took on a reflective aspect at the indirect reference to his wife. “Hal … you know I have suspected Margaret of demonry.”

Bolingbroke’s own face became very careful. “Aye.”

Neville’s eyes lost focus as he remembered what had passed between him and Margaret several nights previously. “She is not what she seems,” Neville said slowly, “and she has lied to me on many occasions.”