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.
CHAPTER XII
The Feast of St. Michael
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 29th September 1379)
MICHAELMAS
— II —
CATHERINE HESITATED IN front of the door, then opened it boldly without knocking.
Philip, as naked as the day he’d slid from his mother’s womb, was just lowering himself to the similarly naked body of the woman he had pinned to his bed.
“Sweet Jesu in heaven!” Philip said, and leaped to the floor on the far side of the bed, leaving the woman, abandoned, to cover her nakedness as well as she could with the bed coverings.
Catherine grinned, then composed her face and spoke to the woman, whom she vaguely recognized as a laundress attending la Roche-Guyon.
“You may dress yourself and leave,” she said. “His grace will not require your return.”
Disconcerted, the woman looked to Philip who had donned a loose shirt and was now
struggling into a pair of hose. “Do as she says.” he said, and the woman scrambled from the bed, hiding her breasts with her hands, and ran over to a far corner where her dress lay puddled.
Philip finally managed to get his hose on and stood up straight, looking at Catherine, still standing just inside the doorway.
“Sweet Jesu, Catherine, what do you here?”
Catherine remained silent, inclining her head toward the hurriedly dressing laundress, and then stepped aside as the woman sidled past her and out the door.
Catherine closed the door, and then bolted it. “I have come to speak with you,” she said.
Philip had walked over to a table and poured himself some wine from a ewer. Now he held the ewer up to Catherine, his eyebrows raised.
She nodded, and he poured her a cup of wine and passed it to her as she joined him.
“Talk could have waited until morning,” he said softly, his gaze intent on her face as he sipped his wine.
“It suited me to come tonight.” She drank her wine, then handed the cup back to Philip, making sure that their fingers touched as he took it from her.
“Beware, Catherine,” he said, even more softly than previously, “for you play a dangerous game.”
His words disconcerted Catherine, not for their meaning, but for the tone of concern which underpinned them.
She had the strangest feeling that the concern was genuine.
“We all play a dangerous game,” she said, turning her back to him and walking toward where the embers of a fire glowed in a hearth. “France is in turmoil, and Isabeau has once again cast doubt on Charles’ legitimacy.”
“Who will listen to the words of a woman whose memory changes according to the price offered?” Philip walked up behind Catherine, and placed his hand gently on the small of her back.
It was a test. Move away from me now and I will know you do not have the heart for the game.
Catherine tensed very slightly—which could have meant anything—and then leaned back against his hand, which meant only one thing.
Philip drew in a deep breath. So.
“Perhaps,” Catherine said, then briefly closed her eyes as Philip’s hand slowly caressed her back. “But France needs a strong man on the throne, and whether fathered by Louis, the Master of the Hawks or the ever-cursed peacock, Charles does not have that strength.”
“And you do?”
Catherine turned within the semi-circle of his arm so that she faced him. “I am a woman, and you know Salic Law—I cannot take the throne.”
Philip’s hand was harder now, and pulled her closer toward him. “But…”
“But I can do my best to make sure that a strong man does sit on the throne.”
Philip’s hand, as his entire being, stilled. “What are you here for, Catherine?”
“I am here to propose an alliance between us,” she said, “cemented with the sweat of our bodies.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Philip said, then abruptly spun away, moving back to the table where stood the wine ewer. “What is your price?” he said over his shoulder.
“That you be loyal to me, that you cleave only unto me, that you protect me, that you respect me.”
Philip toyed with the wine ewer a while, then put it down and walked back to Catherine. He lifted a hand and took her chin between gentle fingers; his face, so dark and handsome, was unreadable. “Then be my wife.”
“No,” she said, and his fingers tightened very slightly. “I will bed with you, and walk by your side. I will be your partner in your ambitions, and I will support you.” Her voice softened, and became very quiet. “I will give you any child that comes of my body from our union. But I will not be your wife.”
His eyes narrowed, deeply suspicious. She wanted to use him for some greater plan that she would not yet elucidate. Yet, in her own way, she was also being honest with him… and with what she would give him—her partnership in his ambitions, and any child that came of her body—she would give him everything he needed to seize the throne.
Perhaps, in time, she would attempt to betray him, but for the moment…
His hand dropped from her chin, and as it did so, Catherine turned around and lifted the thick plait of her hair over her shoulder, exposing the line of fastenings down the back of her gown.
She did not speak.
Philip hesitated, then lifted his hands to her neck and slowly began to undo the hooks. When he reached the last one, just above the swell of her buttocks, he gently folded back the now-loosened fabric of her gown.
She was wearing no garments beneath.
He slid his hands around her waist and over her belly, and gently pulled her back against him.
Her skin was warm and very, very soft.
“From this point,” he said, “there can be no going back. Leave now if there remains the slightest doubt.”
In answer, Catherine lifted her own hands and placed them over his beneath the material of her gown. She slid them up until they cupped her breasts, and then jumped very slightly, surprised at the sensations that flooded through her as he caressed them.
“I have no experience,” she said. “I do not know what to do.”
Philip repressed a smile, sure that these words were something Isabeau had taught her: they will inspire him to greater heat, my dear, for what man can resist being the one to induct a girl into the experience she lacks?