The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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was so close to love that there might be no difference at all.
She sighed and stretched slightly so that she might feel Philip’s body rub against hers. She was filled with immeasurable content. Tonight, Bolingbroke lay with Mary Bohun, and Catherine could have spent this night weeping in her bed, but she had done what Isabeau had suggested and taken her fate in her own hands.
In doing so, Catherine had discovered in Philip something of infinite value … and perhaps, of infinite danger.
Could Hal ever compete? How strong was he?
Her movement had wakened Philip, and now he stirred.
“Catherine.” A hand cupped one of her breasts, and she gave a low laugh and rolled close against him. “Of what do you think?”
Catherine grinned in the dark and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “I was considering my fortune in this past night. Few women, whether peasant or noble lady, are ever conducted so sweetly over the threshold from maidenhood into womanhood. You did not have to act so tenderly, and yet you chose to do so. For that I thank you.”
“I could not act otherwise with you, Catrine.”
The unexpected endearment drew fresh tears to her eyes, and she drew in a shaky breath.
He touched his fingers to her cheek. “And I had not thought to spend the entire night wiping your tears away. Perhaps I have not been as gentle as you imagine.”
She smiled. “Then you must distract me from my pain, your grace.”
“And how may I do that?”
She laughed as his hand stroked down her flank. “May I ask you a question?”
He gave a mock groan. “If you must.”
“I was wondering, my King of Navarre, if you have ever bedded my mother.”
His hand abruptly stilled, and after a moment he propped himself up on one elbow. “Why do you ask?”
“I was curious only, Philip, for I know how well she regards you. I do not mind if you answer with a yea.”
Philip was silent, thinking, then decided to answer honestly. “No, I have never lain with her.”
He gave a short laugh, remembering. “When I was a young lad, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years, I lusted after her madly, and put her face to every one of the peasant girls I managed to persuade to lie down in the grass. When I grew older, and had occasion to know her better, I grew to like and respect her too much to become one of the tally marks on her tapestry frame.”
Catherine reached up a hand and cupped his cheek in its palm.
“Then my mother has suffered a great loss, because I think she has been looking for you all her life.”
“And I think,” he said softly, gazing down at the planes of her face now that his eyes had become accustomed to the faint light in the room, “that both you and I, my sweet maid, have gained a great deal more than we thought this night.”
“Aye,” she whispered.
And Hal has lost a great deal, she thought, as Philip’s mouth closed gently and sweetly over hers.
Three other people lay awake that night of Michaelmas. Three other people who shared Catherine’s night of wonder.
Wat Tyler, deep in the south-eastern counties of England where he worked his secret business, paced the streets of the small village where he’d put up for the night.
He was furious both with Catherine and with Bolingbroke.
Subtlety would never work, not now that Catherine had lain down with Philip. Etienne had been right all along—the thunder of revolution in the streets was a sounder means to accomplish their ends than Bolingbroke’s pretty subtleties.
Margaret lay next to her sleeping Tom, tears of joy and envy-sliding down her cheeks. She had not thought Catherine would do this—and what she had done would threaten everything they had fought so hard for—but Margaret was glad Catherine had found some measure of happiness at last … and what happiness she had found!
Bolingbroke also lay awake, Mary silent and still beside him.
He was beyond fury. An awareness of what Catherine was doing had come to him as he had turned to Mary when the door closed behind the last of their well-wishers.
As Philip had laid hand to Catherine, so Bolingbroke had laid hand to Mary.
As Philip’s mouth had claimed Catherine’s, so Bolingbroke’s had claimed Mary’s.
As Philip had entered Catherine’s body, so Bolingbroke had entered Mary’s.
As Catherine cried out in laughter and wonder, so Mary had screamed in pain and fear.
And as Catherine had caught Philip more closely to her, so Mary had fought, unsuccessfully, to push Bolingbroke from her.
Bolingbroke had known Mary was fearful, and had meant to be kind and patient with her. But, as awareness of Catherine’s actions came over Bolingbroke, blind fury, and an even worse jealousy, had swept through him and his hands and body became hard and unforgiving, and every one of Mary’s fears had been realised.
He had tried to comfort her, afterwards, but what could he say?
What could he say?
And so they lay there, Bolingbroke and his wife, through that long night of Michaelmas, each wondering what lay ahead for their loveless marriage.
And that deep-buried imp chuckled, and peeped into the future, and saw the merry mischief it could make.
The Feast of St Jerome
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Friday 30th September 1379)
Bolingbroke had waited only for the first stain of dawn in the east before he rose from his marital bed. As soon as he had dressed there came a tentative knock at the door and Margaret entered, her eyes studiously averted from Bolingbroke.
“My Lady Neville,” Bolingbroke said in a harsh voice, as Margaret gathered up a robe for Mary.
She finally looked at him.
He could say nothing about Catherine in front of Mary, but he needed to lock eyes with Margaret, if only to share his silent anguish and anger.
She returned his stare evenly. What did you expect? Did you think she would sit on her hands and weep and wait?
The skin about Bolingbroke’s eyes tightened. “My lady wife requires your comfort, Lady Neville,” he said. “It seems that I have discomforted her during the night.”
And with that he was gone.
As soon as the door closed behind him Mary put a trembling hand to her mouth, and Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed and gathered her into her arms.
Neville found Bolingbroke in the courtyard of the Savoy at weapons practice just as the bells of Prime rang out over London. The city was waking into life: barges plied the river, the cries of the fishermen and coal merchants drifting soulfully over the palace walls; carts and hooves rattled down the Strand moving produce into the markets; whores drifted into shadowy rooms to sleep off their night’s labours just as priests flung open the doors of London’s parish churches to face the sins of the city.
Neville halted in the shadows of an archway and watched.
Bolingbroke was dressed in a fortified leather tunic that hung down over his thighs, and thick studded gloves. A chain mail hood hung over his head, flowing over his shoulders and upper chest. In his hands he had a great sword, and with this sword he was trading blows with