The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
Читать онлайн книгу.
to make sure that the several servants about were not within hearing distance. “You have been a maid, and now are married with a child. You have undertaken the journey that I am soon to embark upon.”
Margaret inclined her head, understanding that Mary was uncertain about her forthcoming marriage. Well, there was nothing surprising about that.
“My lady,” she said, “it is a journey that most women embark upon. Most survive it.”
If not unscarred, she thought, but knew she must never say such to Mary.
“My Lord of Hereford,” Margaret continued, “will no doubt be a generous and loving husband.”
Again Mary glanced about the chamber. “Margaret, may I confide most intimately in you, and be safe in that confidence?”
Oh, Mary, Mary, be wary of whom you confide in!
“My lady, you may be sure that you shall be safe with me.”
Even as she spoke the words she initially thought would be lies, Margaret realised that they were true. Whatever Mary told her would be repeated for no other ears.
Mary took a deep breath. “Margaret … the thought of marriage with Bolingbroke unsettles me greatly. He is a strange man, and sometimes I know not what to make of him. I wonder, sometimes, what kind of husband he shall prove to be.”
Margaret briefly closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to Jesus Christ for forgiveness for the lie she knew she now must speak.
“My lady,” she said, smiling as reassuringly as she could, “your fears are but those of every maid approaching her marriage bed and who fears the unknown. Rest assured that my Lord of Hereford will surely prove the most loving of husbands and one that most women would be more than glad to have in their beds.”
Mary’s eyes searched Margaret’s face, and she began to say more, but was interrupted by the opening of the far door.
“Mary! Margaret!” Bolingbroke strode into the chamber, Neville at his shoulder. “Supper awaits! Come, cease your girlish gossiping and take our arms so that we may make our stately way to the hall where my Lord and Lady of Lancaster await us.”
When Margaret gave her arm to Mary to aid her to rise, she was shocked at the tightness of Mary’s grip.
After Compline, the Feast of the
Translation of St Cuthbert
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(deep night Monday 5th September 1379)
—iii—
Neville was late back to the chamber he shared with Margaret. Lancaster and Bolingbroke had kept him for several hours after supper had ended, discussing and debating the treaty about to be signed in Westminster. Neville had been disturbed by Lancaster’s appearance: he seemed tired and listless, as if trying to advise and guide Richard had brought him years closer to his grave.
And what was surprising about that? Lancaster, a godly man, was doubtless worn down in trying to deal with Richard’s demonry.
When Katherine had interrupted their talk, gently insisting that Lancaster needed his bed, Neville had not been sorry—for his own sake as much as Lancaster’s. It had been a long day, full of emotion and surprises, and Neville badly needed sleep. His head ached abominably and his limbs were heavy and cumbersome with weariness.
He halted outside the closed door to his chamber, resting his head gently on its wood as his hand lightly grasped its handle. As much as he needed to lie down and close his eyes, he knew even that would be denied him for an hour or so.
As yet, Margaret and he had not had a chance to talk privately … and, after this afternoon’s confrontation with the archangel, Neville needed to talk with his wife.
He did not know what he wanted to say to her, nor even what he wanted to hear from her, but something needed to be said, for Neville did not think he could lie down by her side this night with the afternoon lying between them.
With what the archangel had said.
An abomination …
He straightened, then opened the door, closing it softly behind him as he entered.
Hal had made sure they received a good chamber, light and airy. There were several chests for their belongings (and yet not that one casket Neville so desperately sought), a wide bed generously spread with linens and blankets, clean, woven rush matting spread across the timber floor, and oil lamps that burned steadily from several wall sconces. In the far walls the wide windows were shuttered close—the river night was chill, even in this early autumn—and, into the side wall close by the bed, a fire flickered brightly in the grate.
Margaret sat on her knees by the hearth. She was dressed simply, in a loose wrap of a finely-woven ivory wool, her bronze-coloured hair undressed and left to flow freely over her shoulders.
Rosalind lay asleep in her lap, and as Neville entered Margaret raised her face and gave him an uncertain smile.
Then she looked to Agnes, folding clothes into one of the chests. “Leave us for the moment, Agnes. You may return for Rosalind later.”
Agnes nodded, bobbed a curtsey to both Margaret and Neville, and left via a door which opened into a smaller chamber where she and Rosalind would sleep.
Neville pinched at the bridge of his nose tiredly, not knowing where to start, or even what to do.
Margaret inclined her head to a chair standing across the hearth from her. “Tom, sit down and take off your boots. You have borne the weight of the world long enough for one day.”
“Aye.” Neville sank down into the chair, sliding his boots off with a grateful sigh. “And yet the day still weighs heavily on me, Margaret.”
Margaret dropped her face to her daughter, running a finger very lightly over the sleeping girl’s forehead. “As it does me, my lord.”
“Margaret …”
She raised her face and looked at him directly. “Why hate me so much? What have I done to deserve that?”
“Margaret, I do not know what to make of you—how can I interpret this afternoon? Saint Michael tells me to kill you; he says you are filth, an abomination which should never have been allowed to draw breath. He says you are that which I must destroy.”
“And yet you do not kill me, nor our daughter. You do not because you think to use me, to draw demons to your side through my presence. At least,” Margaret held his gaze steadily, “that is the excuse you make to Saint Michael.”
He was silent.
“What demons have I drawn to your side, Tom?”
Still he was silent, and she could not know that his mind had flickered back to Wycliffe’s brief visit, and to the priest’s patent respect for Margaret.
“Or have I,” she continued very quietly, “drawn to you only those who are best able to aid you in your fight against evil? Without me you would be still trapped inside the Church. Without me you would not have Lancaster and Bolingbroke as your strongest allies. Without me you would not have the means you now enjoy to fight against demonry.”
“And what is the demonry that now surrounds me, my love?”
Her face set hard at the sarcastic use of the endearment. “Who else but Richard? Richard is demonry personified. Doubtless Richard now holds this casket you search for so desperately.”
Neville leaned forward. “You trap yourself, Margaret. You have always known more than you should. My dear, tonight I will hear the truth or, before Jesus I swear