The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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the man slipped to the ground, and Bolingbroke stepped forward and raised his sword in both hands.
His face was twisted, his eyes blank.
“Bolingbroke,” Neville said softly, seizing Bolingbroke’s wrists in both his hands. “Cease. This man is not your enemy.”
Bolingbroke tore himself free, the sword clattering to the ground, and whipped about to face Neville.
His eyes were furious. He began to say something, then he visibly fought for control, finally forcing the fury from his gaze.
Bolingbroke took a deep breath. “William,” he said, half turning to face the sergeant-at-arms, “I do apologise to you. I meant no harm.”
The man managed a half smile, but his hands were shaking as he sheathed his sword. “If you one day direct that anger at the French, my lord, then I do not mind being the near-murdered target of your practice.”
“Well, one day, please Jesus, maybe I will,” Bolingbroke said, and nodded a dismissal at the man.
“And that day may be closer than you think,” Neville said as William walked away.
“What? What news?”
“Hal, your father sent me to find you. Richard has called a council of the great lords currently in London. We have an hour.”
Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then muttered a curse and ran for the door.
The courtyard of the palace of Westminster was clogged with horses, men-at-arms, pages, horse-boys, valets, squires, and ill-tempered nobles shouting for their attendants.
What could Richard want?
Although the Lords of the Privy Council were to be present at Richard’s hastily-called meeting, this was not a gathering of the Privy Council itself, for many more lords were to attend.
Bolingbroke and Neville dismounted from their horses, throwing their reins to the men of their escort. As they shouldered their way through the throng they saw Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, disappearing through the palace entrance way and, directly behind him, Thomas Brantingham, Bishop of Exeter.
They vanished inside in a flurry of scarlet and blue cloaks.
“Sudbury and Brantingham?” Bolingbroke muttered. “What is happening. Ah, look, there is my father!”
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had emerged from a side entrance and was now only a few paces from Bolingbroke and Neville.
“Father?” Bolingbroke said.
Lancaster’s face was grey—but grey with anger and frustration rather than illness. “Richard has decided to take personal control of government,” he said, and held up his hand for silence as Bolingbroke spluttered. “He is eighteen, and his grandfather had taken personal control at the same age. He has a right … and the Privy Council has nodded their collective age-addled heads.”
“But why?” Bolingbroke said.
Lancaster gave his son a bleak look. “Why not? Hal, Richard has the right to rule on his own. My regency would not last forever.”
“He is to keep you as a councillor, surely.”
Now Lancaster’s look was even bleaker. “Nay, Hal. Richard is determined to cast off the chains of past monarchs … and apparently I am the greatest weight of them all.”
Bolingbroke and Neville shared a look, but Lancaster interrupted before either could speak. “There is no good to be done idling about here with our questions. Come, let us hear what our king has to say.”
Richard was to meet with his lords in the Painted Chamber. When Bolingbroke and Neville entered, they both noted that the hall had been somewhat modified since they’d last seen it. Richard’s bed had gone from the dais at the top of the hall—he had apparently moved to one of the apartments adjoining the Painted Chamber, possibly the Queen’s apartments which were empty of a Queen—and the space was now occupied by several trestle tables cluttered with boxes, maps, small chests and several score documents. Neville instantly thought the scene bore a remarkable resemblance to Bolingbroke’s disordered office, which Neville still had to succeed in bringing under some degree of control.
Several large tables had been placed end to end in the centre of the hall to form one long table, chairs drawn up about it. To each side stood groups of nobles, murmuring between themselves, some sipping from cups of wine.
Some faces were apprehensive, others confident.
A loud laugh sounded, and Bolingbroke’s and Neville’s eyes jerked to a group of three men standing close to the dais.
Robert de Vere, Henry Percy the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur.
All three were huddled companionably close, and de Vere had his arm about Hotspur’s shoulders.
The laugh had come from both de Vere and Hotspur, and they were staring straight at Bolingbroke.
“This is a bad business,” said a voice, and Lancaster, Bolingbroke and Neville turned about.
Ralph Neville—Thomas’ uncle and Baron of Raby and Earl of Westmorland—had joined them, and now he nodded to the three men standing before the dais. “Those three have an uncommon bond today. Why, I wonder?”
“De Vere is married to Northumberland’s daughter, Philippa,” Neville said. “Perhaps …”
Raby’s eyes had not left the three men, who were returning his stare with more than a little insolence. “There is more,” he said. “I think those men have traded something of greater value than a little woman-flesh.”
Neville looked back to the group, wondering what their alliance could mean for his uncle. Raby and Northumberland were rivals for power in the north of England … and now that Richard was apparently freeing himself of Lancaster’s influence, and Raby was so closely allied to Lancaster’s house and star, it boded nothing but evil that Northumberland and Hotspur now stood so smoothly with Richard’s favourite.
Of course it boded nothing but evil! Richard was freeing himself from all influences who could stay his hand, and allying himself with all those who, for the sake of their ambitions, would condone any devilry he chose to mouth.
“Ah,” Lancaster said. “There’s Gloucester. Hal, Ralph, we should join him.”
They walked over to where Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, and Lancaster’s youngest brother, stood with several of his attendants. Gloucester greeted his brother, nephew and Raby warmly, and even nodded civilly enough to Neville, apparently forgetting that Neville had once spoken harsh words to him when Gloucester had blamed Margaret for his wife’s death in childbirth.
“The little imp has won himself some new friends,” Gloucester said, nodding over to the Percys and de Vere, all still watching Bolingbroke and Lancaster.
“De Vere?” Lancaster said. “Aye, that he has, and I believe that it bodes—”
“My lords!” cried an attendant by the side entrance. “I give you your king!”
And there was Richard, striding into the hall and smiling at the assembled lords. His lean body was clad in tight-fitting black—a colour he now apparently preferred to green—and he wore no jewels or insignia of office save for a small circlet of gold.
Richard has dressed appropriately for whatever grim tidings he bears, Neville thought.
As the lords bowed, Richard walked to the throne set at the head of the tables and sat down, indicating that the lords, too, should take their places.
Neville moved slightly back as Lancaster, his brother Raby and Bolingbroke all sat midway down the table—
They should have been close to the king’s right hand, Neville thought.
—while their noble