Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

Bolingbroke made as if to object, then a thoughtful look came over his face, and he nodded. “You speak wisdom, Ralph, as does my Uncle Thomas.”

“Then let us finish,” Lancaster said. “It will not be long before dawn tints the sky, and none of you dares be seen leaving the Savoy. Neville? Will you escort my lords one by one back to the wharf?”

It wasn’t until well after dawn that Neville had a chance to have a quiet word with Bolingbroke. They needed to plan to recover the casket.

“It must be soon,” Bolingbroke said, “for father is planning our removal to Kenilworth within the next week.” He shuddered. “I confess, Tom, it will be good to leave London for the moment.”

“I must have the casket—”

“Yes, yes, but, Christ Saviour, Tom, it is in Westminster. But do not fret, Raby’s words have given me cause for thought.”

Bolingbroke lapsed into silence. “And Arundel’s offer to be tested can be used to your advantage,” he said finally. “Tom, I have a plan, but it will require the utmost courage—”

Neville nodded and began to speak, but Bolingbroke hushed him.

“— and it will require the courage of our wives. Are you prepared to risk that?”

“You are?” Neville said.

“Aye.”

Still Neville hesitated, then finally he nodded. “Then, yes, I am prepared to risk them. I must, if it will mean I finally achieve possession of the casket.”

Something flared in Bolingbroke’s eyes, and Neville was not sure whether it was triumph or extraordinary pain.

“Then let me explain …” Bolingbroke said.

Sext, the Vigil of the Feast of St Francis In the first year of the reign of Richard II (late morning Monday 3rd October 1379)

—i—

They came to Westminster by small barge, rather than on horseback, because it would be less awkward spiriting the casket away.

It would also be faster.

And safer.

Robert Courtenay, subdued because Neville had ordered him to remain behind, had waved them farewell from the Savoy’s river gate, and now they slipped silently, almost secretively, round the great bend in the river which would bring them to Westminster. Several men-at-arms sat in the stern of the barge with the two men who poled it through the choppy river waters. Bolingbroke, Mary, Neville and Margaret sat close to the bow, on wooden benches made comfortable with soft cushions and draperies.

Everyone was tense. Bolingbroke sat with his head steadfastly down, as if fascinated with the planking of the barge. Margaret sat white-faced, her hands clasped tight in her lap, terrified of an encounter with Richard.

Neville glanced at her from time to time, torn between his desperate need to achieve the casket and an almost equally desperate worry about what Richard might do to Margaret. Would she be safe? With Richard? Hal had said it would not take long to get the casket — not with the aid they had waiting for them in Westminster — and Mary and Margaret would not be placed in danger for long.

For an instant, Bolingbroke raised his head and locked eyes with Neville, then looked away.

We need Mary and Margaret to distract Richard, Neville reasoned with himself, even as he fretted over his concern for Margaret. Why waste time on disquiet? Margaret knows the stakes … she knows the risks.

But each time Neville closed his eyes he thought he could see a gigantic spider scurrying across a shadowed chamber, wrapping Margaret in its loathsome legs as it bore her to the floor.

No! Cease such fancifying! Bolingbroke was right … they would take but a few minutes to seize the casket, and Margaret would be in no real danger. All would be well. This afternoon he would have the casket, and the truth would be in his hands. Richard would have a day or two more of life only.

And so Neville leaned back against the side of the barge and tried to convince himself of this fact: Margaret would come to no harm, all would be well, and by this evening, tomorrow at the latest, the demons would be sent scurrying back to hell.

Mary, although she recognised the tension in the others, did not realise the full extent of the deception of the day. All she knew was that Richard had turned against her husband, who had done no wrong, save that he was more golden and glorious than the king. As Richard would not see Bolingbroke, Mary understood Bolingbroke’s request that she entreat an audience with her sovereign so that she might beg Richard to allow her husband to pledge his steadfast loyalty. It was a shame her husband’s pledge could not be more public, but there would be no public opportunity before the entire Lancastrian household moved to Kenilworth. Private must do, and there would surely be witnesses enough.

Margaret accompanied her in her capacity as her attendant gentlewoman, and Mary was heartily glad she had Margaret’s support.

She had no idea of Margaret’s terror.

When they docked at Westminster’s pier, Bolingbroke stepped out, aiding first Mary and then Margaret from the barge. There was no time for speech, hardly time even for thought, but Bolingbroke gave Margaret’s hand a brief squeeze as she stepped from barge to pier: a futile, hopelessly inadequate gesture of support.

She turned her head and would not acknowledge him, and Bolingbroke wondered if she would ever speak to him again.

This is such a pivotal, critical day, he thought, and from it we hope to achieve victory. But is victory worth the pain that will be visited on Margaret?

And then Bolingbroke thought of what awaited them if this day failed—the torments of hell everlasting—and he hardened his heart, and turned away from Margaret.

Arundel was waiting for them by the water gate leading into the Westminster complex, and as they approached he spoke quietly to the guards, who raised their pikes and allowed Bolingbroke’s party through.

Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows at Arundel, and the earl nodded.

“We have done all we can. Come, if we delay longer the king will depart for his afternoon’s hunting.”

They walked briskly along a westerly path before turning south along the west wall of the great hall. Most of the old roof had gone, and the hall was now exposed to the elements. Craftsmen and others scampered over the great ribs of the new roof, working desperately against the inevitable onset of the autumn and winter rains.

No one, save one or two of the men-at-arms, spared the activity a glance.

Arundel led them to the doorway of a small atrium in the southern-most part of the palace complex. Inside the atrium, three doors led, in turn, to the lesser hall, the Painted Chamber, and the complex of private apartments known collectively as the Queen’s Chambers.

Where, now, Richard had made his nest.

The atrium was cold and comfortless. Guards stood at each of the three doors; all stared with hard eyes at the newcomers.

Arundel walked over to the two guards standing by the door leading to the Queen’s Chambers.

“The Countess of Hereford and her lady companion wish an audience with the king.” Arundel grinned easily. “I can assure you they carry no weapons save for their feminine charms.”

Mary squared her shoulders and held the guards’ stare; a wan and tight-faced Margaret kept her eyes averted.

One of the guards disappeared, reappearing in a few moments.

“My ladies,” he said, and stood back so that they might pass through the door.

As Margaret followed Mary through she turned and sent Neville a look of such stark terror that he took a half-step forward, stopping awkwardly as Bolingbroke caught at his arm.

And on that look, the fate of the world turned.