The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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why these persons may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, he do now confess it.”
There was a silence. Margaret, thinking of Catherine, bit her tongue lest she should betray herself (and everything she and her brethren had worked towards), but even as she felt the words must explode from her there was a voice raised from the crowd.
“I do declare that the wrong bridegroom kneels before you, my Lord Archbishop.”
Richard.
“I swear that it would be best that I wed the lovely Mary so that Bolingbroke will not gain the strength with which to topple me from the throne.”
An utterly horrified silence fell over the crowd. Bolingbroke, half rising from his knees, turned and stared down at Richard, who was grinning insolently up at him.
Neville made to step forward, as did several other men, Lancaster and Raby among them, but just then Richard held up his hand.
“A jest only,” he said, and laughed. “I thought to bring some levity into this most sombre of occasions.”
Another silence, then de Vere giggled, and a soft swell of forced laughter ran through the crowd.
“Continue, my good archbishop,” Richard said, waving his hand. “Let us see Bolingbroke happily wedded to all this lady has to offer.”
Neville closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Sweet Jesu, what else would this demon do to ruin the day?
Bolingbroke sank slowly to his knees again, his face stiff and expressionless, then turned back to face Sudbury, murmuring a quick word to Mary, who looked shocked and distressed.
Sudbury himself was flushed, and had to take several breaths before he was ready to continue.
Richard, meanwhile, happily grinned to any who happened to meet his eye.
Few did.
“Henry,” Sudbury said, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife …”
The speaking of the vows continued without further interruption, although most eyes, at some point or other, darted to Richard’s grinning face, wondering what he might do next.
Once Bolingbroke had made his vows, Mary spoke hers in a clear voice, and then Sudbury blessed the ring—a great ruby set in heavy twisted gold.
Another error, thought Margaret, for that ring will never sit well on Mary’s tiny hand.
Bolingbroke then took the ring and looked Mary in the eye. “With this ring I thee wed, and this gold and silver I thee give: and with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly chattels I thee honour.”
Then he slipped the ring on the thumb of Mary’s left hand, saying, “In the name of the Father—”
A great flock of pigeons rose from the buildings surrounding St Paul’s, the roar of their wings filling the air.
Bolingbroke moved the ring to Mary’s index finger, saying, “—and of the Son—”
Margaret looked up to the sky, and the sun broke through the shifting grey and black cloud of pigeons, sending a shaft of light upon Mary.
Bolingbroke now moved the ring to Mary’s middle finger, saying, “—and of the Holy Ghost—”
There were people present there, that day, who swore ever afterwards that a tremor ran through the ground beneath their feet as Bolingbroke spoke those words.
Finally, Bolingbroke slipped the ring onto Mary’s fourth finger, sliding it firmly into position.
“Amen,” he said, and the pigeons screamed, for at that moment a hawk flew into their midst, seizing a large snowy-white bird, and rose skyward shrieking in triumph.
And as the hawk shrieked, Bolingbroke glanced again at Richard, and this time his face was as full of triumph as was the hawk’s cry.
Margaret brushed out Mary’s hair, and hoped that this night would go as well for her as the rest of the wedding ceremony and feast had gone. After Bolingbroke had slipped the ring onto Mary’s finger, Sudbury had blessed them, and the archbishop, bridegroom and bride and all the invited guests had then moved into St Paul’s to hear the nuptial mass. Once that was done (and it had been a tedious two hours, indeed), the procession had wound its way back to the Savoy, the cheers of the crowd even louder this time, if possible, and sat down to a sumptuous wedding feast in the great hall.
Now was beginning the last rite that would see Mary move legally from girl to woman, and ensure Bolingbroke could cement his claim to the lands and wealth she brought as dowry: the consummation.
Mary was withdrawn and clearly apprehensive, but Margaret (and Mary, come to that) knew she was fortunate that the ancient custom whereby six lords of the Privy Council would stay within the bedchamber to witness the consummation had finally lapsed into abeyance. Bolingbroke and Mary would be allowed privacy for their sexual union, but they had yet to endure the formal blessing of the bedchamber—with a naked Bolingbroke and Mary lying patiently beneath snowy bedsheets pulled up to their shoulders—and then, in the morning, an inspection of the sheets by three privy lords to ensure that, firstly, a sexual union had taken place and, secondly, that Mary had been a virgin when she’d come to Bolingbroke’s bed.
Bolingbroke was a powerful peer of the realm, an heir to the throne, at least until Richard could get himself one of his own body, and the Privy Council would want to be certain that any child that slipped from Mary’s womb had been fathered by Bolingbroke.
Margaret had spent a great deal of the evening blessing the fact that she’d married a minor noble and hadn’t had to endure some of the more intrusive aspects of the marriage rites tolerated by the peers of the realm.
There, Mary’s hair was done, and Margaret could tell from the movements and murmurs behind the screen where Bolingbroke was being assisted by Neville and two valets, that it was time to put Mary to bed.
“Come,” she whispered, bending down to where Mary sat before her. “Do not be afraid. Bolingbroke is a glorious man, and there is many a woman in London tonight who will be envying you.”
“Look,” Mary said, and held out her hands. They were shaking slightly.
“Well then, when you and Bolingbroke are finally left in peace, tell him that you fear, and he will be kind. Come, my lady, the archbishop and guests await outside.”
Mary rose hesitantly, just as Bolingbroke emerged from behind the screen, Neville at his shoulder.
Margaret’s and Neville’s eyes met, then they each removed the light robes that covered the shoulders of Bolingbroke and Mary and held back the sheets as they slid naked beneath.
One of the valets moved to the door of the bedchamber, and the archbishop, Richard, de Vere, Lancaster and Katherine, and some fifteen other great nobles filed in. There were grins and winks and a few whispered ribald words, but the gathering generally behaved itself as Sudbury raised his hand and blessed the marriage bed.
Margaret thought that Richard might say something more to disturb the mood of the day, and looked over to him.
Richard, as de Vere who stood by his side, was paying the ceremony no attention at all.
Instead, both men were staring at Margaret.
The Feast of St Michael
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 29th September 1379)
—Michaelmas—
—i—
Catherine hesitated in front of the door, then opened it boldly without knocking. Philip, as naked as the day he’d slid from his