The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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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.”
“Hal, wait! There is one other thing!”
Visibly impatient, Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows.
“A few days before we left Halstow Hall, Wycliffe, Wat Tyler and two Lollard priests, Jack Trueman and John Ball, came to visit.”
All impatience on Bolingbroke’s face had now been replaced with stunned surprise. “What? Why?”
“To irritate me, no doubt.” Neville paused. “Wycliffe said he was on his way to Canterbury, intimating it was with the leave of your father. Thus, Wat Tyler as escort.”
Bolingbroke slowly shook his head. “As far as we knew, Wycliffe had gone back to Oxford. But he is in Kent?”
Neville nodded, and Bolingbroke frowned, apparently genuinely concerned.
“I must tell my father,” he said, then corrected himself. “No. I will make the enquiries. There is no need to disturb my father.”
Then, with a forced gaiety on his face, Bolingbroke once more indicated the door. “And now, we must return to our women, Tom!”
And with that Bolingbroke disappeared into the corridor as Neville, thoughtful, stared after him.
Cecilia Bohun, dowager Countess of Hereford, gasped, and her face flushed.
“Madam?” Mary said, leaning over to lay her hand on her mother’s arm.
Cecilia took a deep breath and tried to smile for her daughter. “I fear you must pardon me, Mary. I—”
She suddenly got to her feet, and took three quick steps towards the door. Collecting herself with an extreme effort, she half-turned back to her still-seated daughter.
“Before we sup … I must … the garderobe …” she said, and then made as dignified a dash to the door as she could.
Margaret did not know what to do: what words should she say? Should she say anything? Did the Lady Mary expect her to go after her mother? Would the Lady Mary hate her for witnessing her mother’s discomposure?
“Margaret,” Mary Bohun said, “pray do not fret. My mother will be well soon enough. It is just that … at her age …”
Grateful that Mary should not only have recognised her uncertainty, but have then so generously rescued her, Margaret smiled and nodded. “I have heard, my lady, that the time of a woman’s life when her courses wither and die is difficult.”
“But we must be grateful to God if we survive the travails of childbed to reach that age, Margaret.”
Margaret nodded, silently studying Mary. She was a slender girl with thick, honey-coloured hair and lustrous hazel eyes. Not beautiful, nor even pretty, but pleasant enough. However, unusually for a woman of her nobility and inheritance, Mary was unassuming far beyond what modesty called for. When Margaret had first sat down, she thought to find Mary a haughty and distant creature, but in the past half hour she had realised that, while reserved, the woman was also prepared to be open and friendly with a new companion who was not only much more lowly ranked than herself, but whose reputation was besmirched by scandal; Mary must certainly have heard that Margaret’s daughter was born outside marriage, even if she had not heard of Margaret’s liaison with the Earl of Westmorland, Ralph Neville, while in France.
Margaret also realised that Mary was, as Hal had suggested, tainted with a malaise; deep in her eyes were the faint marks of a slippery, sliding phantom, the subterranean footprints of something dark and malignant and hungry.
Margaret shuddered, knowing that an imp of ruin and decay had taken up habitation within Mary. Giggling, perhaps, as it waited its chance.
Having seen that shadow, Margaret knew that Mary’s slimness might not all be due to abstemious dining habits, or the pallor of her cheeks not completely the result of keeping her face averted from the burning rays of the sun, and that the lustrousness of her eyes might be as much due to an as-yet unconscious fever as to a blitheness of spirit.
Mary’s affliction was as yet so subtle, so cunning, that Margaret had no doubt that Mary herself remained totally unaware of it.
Yet how like Hal, she thought, to have seen this affliction and to have realised its potential. And how sad that this lovely woman was to be so used. Treasured not for her beauty of character, but for the speed of her impending mortality.
“My lady,” Mary said, frowning slightly, “why do you stare so?”
Margaret reddened, dropping her eyes. “I am sorry, my lady. I was … merely remembering my own doubts on the eve of my marriage, and pitying your own inevitable uncertainties.”
As soon as she’d said those words, Margaret’s blush deepened. What if Mary had no uncertainties? What if she chose to view Margaret’s words, as well as her staring, with offence?
“My lady,” Margaret added hastily, “perhaps I have spoken ill-considered words! I had not thought to imply that—”
“No, shush,” Mary said. “You have not spoken out of turn.”
She hesitated, biting her lip slightly. “My Lady Margaret … I am glad that you are to be my companion. I shall