Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

“Undoubtedly ‘dear Robbie’ taught Richard to do a great many things with his manly poker other than to piss with it. Well, now de Vere struts about as the Earl of Oxford … his father died some two years past,” Bolingbroke grinned slightly, “while you were ensconced in your friary. He also managed to wed Philippa, Hotspur’s sister.”

Neville raised his brows—that wedding and bedding marked an important (and potentially dangerous) alliance between the houses of Oxford and Northumberland.

“De Vere has left his wife at home in his draughty castle and is now back at court and in the king’s great favour.” Bolingbroke’s grin faded, replaced with a look of contempt. “Rather, de Vere gifts the king with the benevolence of his patronage. It is said that not only will Richard not make a single decision without consulting de Vere—sweet Jesu, Tom, if de Vere said that black was white then Richard would believe him!—but that the two men share an … unnatural … relationship.”

Neville stared at Bolingbroke. “You cannot mean that they still practise their boyhood follies!”

“Oh, aye, I do mean that. Their hands are all over each other in those hours that they’re not all over some poor woman they’ve had dragged in from the alleys behind St Paul’s.”

Neville was so appalled he had to momentarily close his eyes. Saint Michael had been right to say that the English court was corrupted with evil. Soon Richard would have the entire court — nay! the entire country! — dancing to his depraved tune.

“I must find that casket!” Neville said.

“Aye,” Bolingbroke said. “And it must be in Westminster. Where else?”

“And how can I—”

“Patience, my friend. I called you back not merely to witness my forthcoming nuptials and to take care of this mess,” Bolingbroke waved his hand laconically about the tumbled muddle of papers and reports around them, “but because Richard himself will shortly present me—and thus you—with the excuse to haunt the halls of Westminster.”

Neville, who had turned to stare in frustration out a small window looking over the river wall of the Savoy, now looked back to Bolingbroke. “And that excuse is …?”

“Do you remember the terms the Black Prince—may sweet Jesu watch over his soul—set for John’s repatriation back to France?”

“Aye. Charles was to pay … what? Seven hundred thousand English pounds for his grandfather’s ransom?”

Bolingbroke nodded.

“And, as well, both John and Charles had to be signatories to a treaty of peace that recognised the Black Prince as heir to the French throne … disinheriting Charles completely.”

“Exactly.” A small pile of papers on the table next to Bolingbroke toppled over with a gentle sigh, scattering about his feet, and Bolingbroke kicked them aside impatiently, ignoring Neville’s exasperated look.

“But,” Bolingbroke continued, folding his arms and watching Neville carefully, “circumstances have changed. Edward is dead. The Black Prince is dead. A young and untried man now sits on the throne. We may have trod the French into the mud of Poitiers, but now we have no tried war leader to press home the advantage.”

“Not even you?” Neville said very quietly.

Bolingbroke ignored him. “My father has no taste for spending what time remains to him leading rows of horsed steel against the French, and, in any case, his talents have always been in the field of diplomacy rather than the field of battle. Northumberland is also aging,” Bolingbroke’s mouth quirked, “although I hear Hotspur is keen enough to take his own place in the vanguard of England’s hopes in France.”

And you? Neville thought, keeping silent this time. Where do your ambitions lie, Hal?

“So Richard must needs rethink the terms of treaty,” Bolingbroke said. “This he has done—doubtless with de Vere’s advice—and his new terms meet with John’s approval. Or, more to the point, John has grown old and addled enough not to truly care what he signs any more.”

“What are the terms?”

“The demand for £700,000 has gone. Instead, Richard has settled for secure access to the Flemish wool ports for our wool merchantmen—John will agree to remove whatever naval blockade he still has in place.”

Neville shook his head slightly. The Black Prince would simply have smashed his way through the French blockades … Richard had, in effect, paid the French £700,000 to remove them.

Bolingbroke watched Neville’s reaction carefully. “But Richard has not backed down on his claim to the French throne. In two days time King John will sign at Westminster a treaty that recognises Richard as the true heir to the French throne.”

Neville raised his eyebrows. Maybe the £700,000 had been worth it, after all.

“And,” Bolingbroke continued very softly, “Richard no longer demands that Charles co-sign. Instead, he has a more powerful French signatory, someone who he hopes will virtually guarantee him an ironclad claim to France.”

“Who?”

“Isabeau de Bavière.”

“What? Charles’ whore mother?”

Bolingbroke laughed. “Aye. Dame Isabeau will formally declare Charles a bastard. Her memory has become clearer, it seems, and she is now certain that it was the Master of Hawks who put Charles in her.”

“And what price did Richard pay for the return of her memory?”

“A castle here, a castle there, a stableful of willing lads … who truly knows? But enough to ensure that Isabeau will swear on the Holy Scriptures, and whatever splinters of the True Cross the Abbot of Westminster scrapes up, that Charles is a bastard, and that leaves Richard, as John’s great grand-nephew, the nearest male relative.”

Neville grimaced. “John must rue the day his father gave his sister to be Edward II’s wife.”

“I swear that he has spent his entire life ruing it. And the inevitable has come to pass. John must sign away the French throne to a distant English relative.”

“What of Catherine?”

“Catherine?”

“Aye, Catherine … Charles’ sister.” Neville wasn’t sure why Hal was looking so surprised—he must surely have considered her claim. “Is Catherine a bastard as well? Or did John’s son Louis actually manage to father her on Isabeau? If Catherine is legitimate, then, while she is not allowed to sit on the throne herself according to Salic Law, her bed and womb will become a treasure booty for any French noble who thinks to lay claim to the throne.”

“I am sure that Louis never fathered that girl,” Bolingbroke said. “No doubt her father was some stable lad Isabeau thoughtlessly bedded one warm, lazy afternoon.”

“And if she’s not bastard-bred?” Neville said, watching Bolingbroke as carefully as Bolingbroke had been watching him earlier. “We all know who will be the first to climb into Catherine’s bed.”

Bolingbroke stared stone-faced at Neville, then raised his eyebrows in query.

“Philip is with Charles’ camp, Hal. You know that. And you also know that Philip’s lifelong ambition has been to reach beyond Navarre to the French throne. You’re wrong to suggest Richard is the only close male relative to John—Philip thinks he has the better blood claim. The instant word reaches France of the treaty, Philip will be lifting back Catherine’s bed covers with a grin of sheer triumph stretching across his handsome face.”

“Catherine would not allow it.”

“Why not? She has ambition herself and she will need to assure her future. Philip would be one of the few men in Christendom who could guarantee her a place beside the throne.”

Bolingbroke abruptly stood up. “Whatever. I thought you more interested in de Worde’s casket than a young girl’s bedding.” He walked to the door. “In three days time I will be called to Westminster as witness to the signing of the treaty. You will come with me, and together we can spend our spare hours haunting the cellars and corridors of the palace complex … the casket must be there somewhere! Now,” Bolingbroke grabbed the door latch and pulled the door open, “we shall collect our women and we will join my father and his lady wife for supper in the hall … they will surely be wondering where we are.”