The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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her proper—” her sacrificial “—role later!” And that was why I prayed so hard for her that night, Neville told himself. It was!
Bolingbroke drew back with shock and sorrow in his eyes. “Then God has a magnificent champion in you, Tom. No wonder the heavens rejoice in your very name.”
Neville nodded, taking Bolingbroke’s words as a compliment. “But the casket … the casket.” He shot a glance to the High Table where Richard was now leaning towards Isabeau de Bavière, engaging her in a conversation that had both their faces lit with amusement and their eyes dusky with lust.
Well, and it was surely no surprise that Isabeau de Bavière would tempt the boy-king into her bed. Or was it Richard who seduced Isabeau?
“We can do nothing until Richard summons us to his presence,” Bolingbroke said, barely restrained frustration and anger evident in his tone. “And at present the Demon-King is amusing himself by withholding that summons.”
Isabeau stretched out her arm and admired both its firmness and the brilliance of the gems in its armbands and finger rings. In the candlelight the gems glittered and sparkled, and their glow lent further sheen to her ivory skin.
Apart from her jewels, Isabeau de Bavière was utterly naked.
Women moved with silken whispers in the shadows about her, folding her clothes, pouring rosewater into a tub so that she might bathe away the sweat of both banquet and Richard. Isabeau’s mouth curled in silent memory: Richard had not even pretended decorous behaviour, escorting her behind the curtain that separated his bed from the High Table on the dais in the Painted Chamber and forcing her to its mattress even as diners were still exiting the hall.
Isabeau lowered her arm and sighed. Perhaps age was finally claiming its own, for she had found her bedsport with Richard a nauseating affair, and had risen and pulled down her skirts as soon as he’d rolled off her.
“I shall present my son with your kindest felicitations,” she had said, and then left him to return to her own chambers in Westminster’s palace.
“Madam?” one of the women said, sinking into a deep curtsey before her.
Isabeau sighed again and peered at the woman—girl, really. Who was she? Richard sent her new ladies every few days so that she might not form a close bond with any of them and perhaps subvert them to her own interests, and Isabeau found it difficult to recall names and faces. Ah yes, now she remembered …
“Mary, is it not?” she said. Her voice was deep and melodious and heavily accented with the dulcet cadences of her native country.
“Mary Bohun,” the girl said, finally looking up at Isabeau. She flushed, as if Isabeau’s nakedness disconcerted her.
“And I would hazard a guess,” Isabeau said, smiling, “that this Mary Bohun is a virgin.”
“But soon to be wed,” said another woman, now stepping from the shadows into the circle of candlelight that surrounded Isabeau.
“Who is this?” Isabeau said, not liking to be so interrupted.
Mary Bohun’s flush darkened, but she maintained her composure. “This is Lady Margaret Neville,” she said of Margaret, who had now sunk into her own curtsey before Isabeau. “She is one of my attendants, sent to serve with me this night, and also one of my closest confidantes.”
Isabeau studiously ignored Margaret, who had a beauty that was, disconcertingly, almost as great as her own.
“And so you are to be wedded and bedded, my dear,” Isabeau said to Mary. “And to which noble will fall the pleasure of inducting you into womanhood?”
“My Lord of Hereford,” Mary said. “Hal Bolingbroke.”
Isabeau’s face went still, then she affected disinterest with some considerable effort that did not escape Margaret’s attention.
“I have seen this Bolingbroke from afar,” Isabeau said, now reaching for a vial of cream on the chest beside her and fiddling with its stopper. “He is fair of face, and struts as if he has the virility of a bull. If I were you, my dear, I should eat well at your wedding feast, for I believe you shall need the energy for the night ahead.”
Isabeau put the vial of cream back on top of the chest with a loud crack and leaned close to Mary. “No doubt he’ll bruise you, and make you weep, but at least you shall have the blood-stained sheets in the morning to prove to your maids and, subsequently, to court gossip, that you are now truly the obedient wife and that you are well on your way to proving yourself yet another willing brood mare for the Plantagenet stallions.”
Isabeau sat back, a look of utter malice on her face as she stared down at the shocked Mary. “You are not a particularly desirable woman, Mary, and doubtless poor Bolingbroke shall have to call other faces to mind in order to rouse himself enough to accomplish your bedding. Never mind, Bolingbroke shall be happy enough the next morning, knowing that for his efforts he has won himself untold wealth with all the lands that fell under his control the instant he smeared your virgin blood across the sheets.”
Mary continued to stare at Isabeau’s face a moment longer, then she rose silently, her face ashen, and walked away.
“That was a cruel and unnecessary thing to say, madam,” Margaret said to Isabeau. “And spoken out of nothing but maliciousness!”
She, too, rose, but instead of immediately leaving Isabeau to her circle of candlelight and spiteful thoughts, leaned close and spoke so low that no one but Isabeau could hear.
“If you return to Charles’ camp, then tell Catherine that Bolingbroke takes Mary to wife. Tell Catherine!”
Margaret turned to go, but Isabeau’s hand whipped out and seized her sleeve with tight fingers. “And who are you to so issue me orders?”
“I am Catherine’s friend and soulmate,” Margaret said. “And you know, as well as I, that Catherine needs to know of Bolingbroke’s plans.”
Something in Margaret’s gaze, perhaps contempt, perhaps even pity, made Isabeau drop her hand.
“Send the girl Mary back to me,” she said, and sighed. “She is but a child, and I may have misled her. Perhaps it is not too late to undo the damage I have wrought.”
Ember Saturday in September
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(17th September 1379)
Ember Saturday in September was Feversham’s most important market day of the year. Men and women from all around the Kentish countryside made their way to the town, not only to market their wares, but their labour as well. The autumn agricultural markets were the best time for itinerant labourers to try to garner themselves a year-long work contract with one of the wealthier landlords or free farmers.
By Terce, a huge throng of people crowded the marketplace. Goods spilled over trestle tables and hastily erected stalls. Pigs, cows, horses and sheep jostled in small pens or tugged at their tie lines; dogs barked; geese, chickens and ducks squawked and honked; and the mass of people shouted, laughed, argued and prodded at the goods for sale.
A goodly proportion of the crowd, however, was edging away from the marketplace towards the church set at one boundary of the square.
There, a dusty, ragged priest with long, tousled hair was nailing a broadsheet to the church door. A sheaf of duplicate broadsheets ruffled in the light breeze at his feet.
As he nailed, the priest shouted out an abbreviated version of the contents of the broadsheet:
“Did God create both lords and bondsmen? Nay! He created all men equal! Why should you be the ones to live in draughty hovels and eat coarse bread while your lords