Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

“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.”