Neville flinched a little, and it was enough to spur Richard on. “Not all the waters in the rough ocean deep,” he said, “are enough to wash the balm from the head of an anointed king. For every man that lifts cold steel for Bolingbroke, against my crown, there sits in heaven an angel in God’s heavenly pay. Heaven guards and protects my right, Neville, whatever Bolingbroke’s treachery does to me on this mortal soil!”
Neville opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t, and Raby shot him a concerned glance.
“You will be taken two nights from this,” Raby said, turning back to Richard, “to Traitor’s Gate, there to be escorted onto ship to commence your journey to Pontefract.”
“I wish Bolingbroke well in his treason,” Richard said, very low and angry, “and hope that he can summon sufficient cause in his defense when he must make report to his God.”
Northumberland gestured to his companions to leave the room, but just as the three men approached the door, Richard spoke again.
“Tell me, if nothing else, that you gave de Vere a decent burial according to the laws of God.”
Northumberland glanced at Raby, but the two earls left it to Neville to answer.
“We fed his corpse to the lions in their Tower cages,” Neville said, “but even they refused to touch his corrupted flesh.”
And then they were gone, and the door slammed in Richard’s distraught face.
CHAPTER III
Wednesday 26th September 1380
— II —
NEVILLE TOOK THE STEPS of Lambeth Palace three at a time, striding past the guards without acknowledging their greetings and salutes, and running through the interconnected halls and public chambers of the palace to reach the private apartments.
When he turned into the passage leading to the apartment he shared with Margaret he saw that Bolingbroke was slouched in a large chair outside its closed door.
Bolingbroke looked at Neville with unreadable eyes. “It is time,” he said.
Neville looked at him, then turned and opened the door.
“See with the eyes of love,” he heard Bolingbroke say, then the door swung shut behind him.
NEVILLE WALKED into a small waiting chamber that in turn led into the three other rooms of his apartments. Although Neville intended to stride directly into his and Margaret’s bedchamber, he stopped dead the instant the door had fallen shut behind him.
Directly across the chamber, seated on a large carpet-draped chest under a window, was Mary, Bolingbroke’s wife. Several of her ladies were grouped about her.
All were staring at him.
Neville glanced at the door that would lead to his bedchamber, fidgeted, hesitated, then looked back to Mary.
She rose, and her frailty made Neville instantly regret his impatient demeanor.
“My lady,” he said, walking over to her and kissing the back of her hand softly. “What do you here?”
To his amazement and considerable consternation, Mary began to weep.
“Tom …,” she said, then paused to take some control of herself.
Neville was shocked by her appearance. He had hardly seen her in the past weeks— there had been so much else to think about, and he had little enough to do with her in the usual course of events anyway—and these weeks had taken a dreadful toll on her appearance. Her hair seemed stringy and lifeless, her skin was ashen and waxy, and her beautiful eyes were now too large for her thin face.
Her hand trembled slightly in his, and Neville did not think that was due to her current state of emotion.
“Tom,” Mary said again, “Margaret’s time has come … and she waits out that time in her bedchamber… with her maid Agnes … and my lady Ashbourne …”
Neville nodded, trying to encourage her. Lady Elizabeth Ashbourne was one of Mary’s attending ladies, and of only minor nobility, but her presence in Margaret’s chamber indicated that she had a far higher fatherhood than he had heretofore suspected. Not Michael, for otherwise Bolingbroke or Margaret would have named her as a sister, but one of the other angels. Gabriel, perhaps? Raphael? Azarias?
And Agnes? The nurse had hid her secrets well.
Mary took a deep, shaky breath. “But Margaret will not await her birthing time with me!”
Oh, sweet Jesu! Neville realized that normally—had Margaret been a “normal” woman—Mary would certainly have been there for the birth. It would be a great honor for any woman to have an all-but-crowned queen attend her lying-in. But of course, Margaret couldn’t let in anyone who didn’t know her secret…
“Tom,” Mary whispered, “Hal has shut me out of his life completely. Please don’t let Margaret shut me out of hers.”
Neville was suddenly very angry, at Bolingbroke and Margaret both. Did they not care whom they hurt with their secrets? He held Mary’s hand, and stared into her distraught face, and then he leaned down and kissed her hand again, not taking his eyes from her face.
In this moment he completely changed his mind about what he would do.
Damn Margaret and Hal!
“Women in labor can do strange things,” he said, keeping his words light, teasing, and very warm. “Even husbands are most unwelcome. My Lady Mary, this is a cold and disagreeable place to wait out a birth. Will you join me in the gardens? I can lend you my arm for support, and should you grow too weary, I shall swing you into my arms as if you were a child.”
Mary’s mouth trembled, then firmed. “Ah, Tom,” she said, “how I envy Margaret her husband.”
Neville straightened, and held out his arm. “The garden, my lady?”
Mary smiled, and Neville was glad to see some of the unhappiness lift from her face. “The garden, my lord.”
Her ladies moved as if they would come with her, but Mary waved them back. “My Lord Neville shall keep me well enough,” she said. “Stay here, and bring the news of Margaret and her babe to us in the garden.”
BOLINGBROKE LEAPED to his feet, his face stunned as they came through the door. “Tom?
Mary? What—?”
“My wife has banished your wife from her birthing chamber,” Neville said, fixing Bolingbroke in the eye. “I could not bear to think of my Lady Mary’s unhappiness and I thought that it would be best if she and I awaited the birth of my child in the gardens.”
Bolingbroke narrowed his eyes at Neville. “You must—”
“I must do nothing,” Neville said very quietly. “I have free choice in this matter.”
Bolingbroke fought to keep his panic from his face, knowing that Mary was staring at him strangely. “Tom—”
“The world will not end if I am not there,” Neville said. “Imply nothing from my absence, Hal, but that I need the space and quiet of the gardens.” He paused. “It might be better if I know Margaret only as I love her, Hal. Not… not as she might become in the birthing chamber.”
Mary looked between the two of them, puzzled. Hal and Tom were talking as if Tom had been expected to attend the birth—but no man ever entered a birthing chamber.
“Hal?” she said. “Tom?”
“Ah, my lady,” Neville said, “we have been prattling on here about matters we understand and you do not. We are thoughtless warriors,” he grinned, and kissed her hand again, his eyes sparkling with mischief as they regarded her, “and our manners are as thick as the winter ice that forms on still ponds. Forgive us.”
Neville was not feigning his good humor. In denying Bolingbroke and Margaret what they wanted, Neville suddenly found himself back in control. Although he had wished to witness the birth of his son, and although he thought he needed to see what Margaret’s true form was, he also now understood that by attending the birth, and watching silently as Margaret assumed her angel-form, he would have given himself one less option. He would have been one step further down the path that led to total alliance with heavens nemesis.
He also meant very deeply what he’d just said to Bolingbroke—he wanted to always see Margaret as the beautiful woman whom he had come to love … did he truly need to see her slither and slide into … into … something else!
Something be might not be able to love?
So, as he lifted his head from Mary, he said to Bolingbroke, “It might be best, Hal, whatever you think, if I not be there. It is the option I prefer to take. My judgment of you and your cause shall have to wait. And”—he smiled back at Mary—”I think I can better spend the next few hours amusing your wife than listening to Margaret curse me for the trial to which my husbandly attentions have brought her. My lord, I wish you a good afternoon.”
And without further ado Mary found herself being escorted away from her husband through the palace toward the gardens. She frowned a little, trying to make sense of the scene she had just witnessed. Then she smiled, for although she had not understood the depths of Tom and Hal’s conversation, she understood very clearly that Tom had somehow managed to best Hal.