Sara Douglass - The Crippled Angel

“ Richard is dead! ”

“But he may still haunt you,” Neville said. “Be careful. You may be beloved of the commons, but there are many who would not weep to see you dead on the cobbles with a knife between your ribs. Richard’s name is the one they will use to thrust that knife home.”

Bolingbroke waved a hand. “I will prevail.”

“And I hope that you do,” Neville said, “for of all things I do not want another Richard to take your place.”

Bolingbroke smiled, and the atmosphere between them eased a little further. “You have taken good care of Mary,” he said. “You and Margaret. For that I thank you.”

“She is a treasure, Hal. The people on the street adore her almost as much as they do you.”

“I have been lucky in my wife,” Bolingbroke said.

“But not as lucky as you had hoped?” Neville said.

Bolingbroke sent him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

“Mary will never bear you an heir. Have you thought about setting her aside?”

“That is a brutal remark, coming from one who claims that my wife is a treasure.”

“Then I ask you as a king, not as a man. As a king, you need an heir. How does the king answer my question?”

“I can never set Mary aside,” Bolingbroke said. “And that is the answer of the king.”

Neville nodded, turning to stare into the flames as he thought. No, the king could not set Mary aside, and certainly not for the woman Bolingbroke truly wanted, Catherine of France. The commons adored Mary, and would loathe Catherine. It might be the end of Bolingbroke’s kingship if he set Mary aside.

So Bolingbroke the king was going to wait for Mary the queen to die.

Neville wondered very much what Bolingbroke might do if Mary did not die. A crippled, barren wife was second only to a successful rebellion as the worst lot in life that fate could deal a king.

“And France?” Neville said.

Bolingbroke hesitated. “France? You know I will turn my attention to France sooner or later, Tom.”

“Aye.” For there lies Catherine… and untold wealth and land . “Take care you do not become another King Arthur, Hal. So caught by his glorious dreams of conquering the entire civilised world he neglected his own family where waited his doom. Remember what happened to Arthur’s dream of Camelot.”

Bolingbroke shot Neville an unreadable look, then took a deep breath. “I must to France, but not merely for the ‘glory’. France waits for me, and for you.”

“Waits for me ?”

“Aye. It will be in France that the angels, no doubt using their mouthpiece Joan of Arc, will ask you for your decision, Tom. My road, as yours, will lead to France.”

Neville thought a moment, then nodded. Of course. Doubtless, Joan would present the choice on behalf of the angels. “Arthur’s dreams ended in France,” he said.

Bolingbroke stared at Neville. “Then I pray to our sweet Lord Jesus that France shall not prove the end of mine.”

It was still dark, but Mary could hear the world stir outside her chamber windows. There was a faint, distant clattering interspersed with the low growl of men’s voices: grooms readying the horses for the day’s entertainment. There was another clatter, closer, and this noise was interspersed with more feminine voices: women in the kitchen courtyard, darting to and fro between kitchen and great hall, carting pails and dishes, readying the morning’s breakfast. And faintly, so very faintly, came the morning song of the birds: the pigeons and doves of the stables, and the wilder, lovelier melodies of the meadow birds.

Mary kept her eyes closed, her hands clenching at her sides under the light coverlets, and bent her entire will to concentrate on the sound of the birds. But it was no use. The world of stables and of kitchens kept intruding, destroying the peace of the birdsong, and soon Mary knew the world of the court and of her responsibilities as queen would also intrude in the guise of the careful voices and hands of her waiting women.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Just a slit, a glance under her lashes, for Mary did not want anyone who might be watching to know she was awake. Still dark, it appeared that there was, as yet, no one up and moving about the chamber, but now Mary could hear the altered breathing of the two women who slept on pallets at the foot of her bed. Mary realised they were awake, steeling themselves to rise in the cold air of the chamber. Once they had gathered their bravery, and risen to pull on some clothes, they would stoke the fire in the hearth, air Mary’s clothes before it, and fetch warm water and a dish of soft white bread soaked in warm, watered wine from the kitchens. When all this was done, they would turn their attention to Mary, and ask her gently if she felt well enough to rise against the day; if she felt well enough to take some bread and wine.

Did she?

Mary closed her eyes again and concentrated on her body’s aches and pains. The great hard lump in her lower belly sat as rocklike and as unforgiving as it did every day. If she tried to move slightly in her bed, then Mary knew her flesh would drag and catch about the unmoving mass as if it were seaweed caught at a shoreline by a great rock. But at least today the lump did not send lancing fingers of pain throughout her flesh, and for that Mary was grateful.

On the days that the lump woke, and raged, she could hardly bear to live.

But if the lump lay quiescent, then the great bones of her legs, and those of her lower back, ached abominably. This was a new discomfort, and Mary wondered at it. She had not ventured far beyond her chamber in the past weeks: on most evenings to the great hall for evening supper, and sometimes to the courtyard if it were sunny and warm enough, and even then Thomas Neville generally carried her, so Mary knew there was no reason her bones should be complaining. Had they grown tired of their enforced resting?

Or was this some new manifestation of her illness? Tears formed behind Mary’s closed eyelids, and she fought to keep her breathing steady and slow, lest she alert her waiting women to her distress.

No, sweet Jesu, let not this affliction have struck my bones as well .

Had she not prayed enough? Confessed her every evil thought? Had sweet Jesu found her wanting in some way that now she was to be further punished?

Mary had spent the past year trying her best not to complain and not to fear, knowing that her illness was a test sent by God. She would not fail.

But, oh sweet Jesu! It was so hard! So hard .

It was not the pain that distressed Mary, but her ever increasing sense of complete failure. She’d failed as a woman, as a wife, and as a queen. As a woman she had shrunk from her husband’s attentions, as a wife she had not been able to bear her husband a living child, and as a queen, she had not only failed in her duty to provide the realm with an heir, but she had not been able to perform those duties that a queen should—as a helpmeet to her husband the king, so that he could the better shoulder the onerous duties of office.

Every time that Bolingbroke held her hand most gently, and told her with an even greater gentleness that she was not to fret about it, Mary felt even worse, and even more the failure.

And on those days when she saw the calculation lurking behind the superficial kindness in his eyes…

Mary’s breath almost caught audibly in her throat, and she froze, wondering if her women had heard her. But, no, they still continued to lie, dozing perhaps, and not listening too closely for a sign that their mistress was awake.

For the moment, Mary did not want to give them that sign. Not just yet. A few minutes more, and then she would be prepared mentally to start her day.