Somewhere … somewhere far distant in her chaotic mind… she thought she could hear Mary’s useless cries, and she knew she could hear de Vere’s laughter, and then his urgent words to Richard to make haste, sire, for I must have my turn as well, and then Richard’s plunging became even more torturous, more hurtful than she thought she could bear, and worse… worse was knowing that any moment his semen would issue forth inside her, and she did not think she would be able to endure the years ahead knowing such vileness had left its stain so deep within her flesh.
And then Richard’s loathsomeness did issue forth, and Margaret almost lost her mind, and writhed and screamed, and beat her fists upon the table, and all to no avail.
NOW THE other men-at-arms had gathered up their loads and were moving in a group across the floor of the Painted Chamber, some three or four paces behind Neville and the man carrying the precious casket.
Neville was hardly aware of them. His entire being was focused on that casket, and the need to get it to safety so he could—
He jerked to a halt and turned to the side wall that abutted the Queen’s Chambers.
There had been no sound, but Neville had suddenly been struck with such a sense of horror that he was now unable to move.
Bolingbroke stepped up behind him. “Tom?”
Neville turned a stricken face to him. “It’s Margaret, sweet Jesu, Hal, it’s—”
“Be quiet!” Bolingbroke said, looking about to ensure no one had heard. “We can do nothing, damn it. We need to get this casket to safety before—”
“My lords?” a guard appeared from a side door. “His grace will see you now.”
RICHARD HAD stood back from her for a full minute watching her try to scrabble across the table to safety, a smirk stretching across his face as he slowly adjusted himself back inside his clothing. He’d looked to de Vere, nodded, then walked away toward the door, opening it and speaking quietly to a guard outside even as de Vere seized Margaret and dragged her back to the edge of the table so that he, too, could take his pleasure with Neville’s wife.
He was a larger man, far more powerful than Richard, and his rape of Margaret’s now torn and bleeding flesh went beyond the agonizing.
The only thing that saved Margaret, the only thing that allowed her to keep hold of her sanity, was that Mary had crept across the floor to the side of the table and had taken hold of her hand where it had fallen across the table’s edge. As Margaret seized her hand, Mary whispered, very gently, very sweetly, a nothingness of words that, nevertheless, provided Margaret with an anchor strong enough to prevent her losing her mind completely.
Margaret, Margaret, Margaret, she thought she heard Mary whisper, come home, Margaret, I come back Margaret, don’t fret Margaret, I am here, I am here… Margaret, sweet Meg, hold my hand, Margaret, hold my hand, don’t he afraid, Margaret…
Of all the people who could have saved her, of all the people in the palace that day who had the power to save her, it was the woman Margaret had the most cause to resent who was there at her side.
“QUICK!” NEVILLE said, and, grasping Bolingbroke’s arm, almost propelled him toward the side door that the guard indicated. “And the casket?” Bolingbroke hissed.
“Go!” Arundel said in a soft voice beside them. “Sturry and I will see to the casket. Now… go!”
Neville and Bolingbroke walked after the guard, and, once they were in the corridor leading to Richard’s chambers, Neville pulled Bolingbroke back a few paces.
“If he has harmed Margaret—”
“Then what?” Bolingbroke said. “What? You knew the risks, and have they not been worth it?”
Neville did not answer.
“If either Margaret or Mary has been harmed then we can do nothing, not now,” Bolingbroke continued. “We need to get that casket out of here and back to the Savoy. We will both go down on bended knee before Richard and swear our loyalty and love, and we will leave our revenge until we can afford its risks. Do you understand? At the moment we can do no else.”
He snapped his mouth shut as the guard drew to a halt before a door. As Bolingbroke and Neville joined him, the guard raised his hand and rapped on the wood.
The door opened immediately.
Richard stood there, his face carefully composed into a contemptuous expression, but neither Bolingbroke nor Neville saw him.
All they could see was a table against the far wall, and Robert de Vere slowly withdrawing himself from Margaret’s half-naked and battered body sprawled across its top.
Even as they watched, de Vere pulled himself completely free from Margaret, and she scrabbled away from him, sliding over the side of the table to slump on the floor next to Mary.
Mary still held her hand in a tight grip.
CHAPTER III
Nones, the Vigil of the Feast of St. Francis
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(noon Monday 3rd October 1379)
— II —
NEVILLE SAID SOMETHING, he did not know what, and would have moved forward had not Bolingbroke’s hand held his arm in a viciously tight grip.
“Your grace,” Bolingbroke said, and bowed.
Neville was still staring over Richard’s shoulder and did not move.
“Your wives have been most accommodating,” Richard said softly, threateningly, “and it would truly suit your purposes, my lords, were you to appreciate their efforts on your behalf.”
Neville jerked his eyes to Richard’s face. “You—”
Bolingbroke reached out a hand and clamped it on Neville’s shoulder. “Tom!”
Neville battled with his intense desire to take the dagger from his belt and plunge it into Richard’s belly—and some distant part of his mind admired the way Richard stood there, as if oblivious to the danger—and then he jerked his head and body in as close an approximation of a bow as he could manage—every one of his muscles screamed at this insult to his person that he was forced to perform.
Richard nodded. It was enough. He stepped aside and motioned Bolingbroke and Neville into the room.
“Your wife states that you have something to say to me,” he said to Bolingbroke as he closed the door behind them.
On the far side of the room Mary had managed to persuade Margaret to her feet, and was now calmly pulling down the woman’s skirts and rearranging her bodice, as if there were no others present.
Margaret was trembling, and her face was tear-stained, but she made no sound, and neither would she look at Bolingbroke or Neville.
Mary lifted a hand to Margaret’s cheek, and whispered something in her ear, and Margaret briefly closed her eyes and nodded very slightly.
“Then I thank my wife for her well-chosen words,” Bolingbroke said.
“And?” Richard said.
Bolingbroke dropped to his knees before Richard, somehow managing to drag Neville down with him, and bowed his head. Neville kept his head raised, staring to where Margaret and Mary stood.
Margaret avoided his gaze. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she gripped Mary’s hand tightly. Neville realized she was very close to the breaking point.
“Your grace,” Bolingbroke said. “I would not have you doubt my love and loyalty for your body and your cause.”
There was a soft, sarcastic laugh—de Vere, now reclining on Richard’s bed.
“And so I offer to you again the pledge that I gave to you on your coronation day,”
Bolingbroke continued. “That I am your liege man, and obliged to serve you in war and peace—”
“Oh, cease your lies,” Richard said, growing bored. “I will have none of this pretense! Get to your feet and get you gone from my sight. I have instructed Lancaster that he is to hold you and be responsible for you, and that I wish to see neither you nor him until Parliament in the New Year.”
Bolingbroke rose slowly to his feet. “The house of Lancaster is a bad one to alienate, your grace.”
“Are you threatening me? Are you in loss of your senses? Get you gone!”
“Hal,” Mary said softly.
Neville finally managed to move. He strode over to where Mary and Margaret stood, and reached for his wife, but Margaret recoiled as soon as she felt his hand on her.
“Don’t touch me!” she said, and Neville flinched back.
But at least we lave the casket… at least we have the casket.
Strange how that thought imparted no comfort. Strange how guilt and horror coiled about his belly as if his very soul had been torn apart.
Strange how he felt, in the face of Margaret’s rejection of his hand, as if his life had been wrenched to an abrupt halt.
Mary urged Margaret toward the door—as they passed Richard he reached out and ran his fingers softly across Margaret’s face.