Yes, she deserved his pity, and his care. He could do that for her, at least. He could pretend for a year.
When he leaned back, he hoped that she would misunderstand the relief in his eyes.
“When you sent myself and Margaret to Richard that day,” she whispered, laying her hand on his cheek, “I wondered afterward if you had only been using us. I am glad I was wrong about you.”
Bolingbroke smiled, easy and loving. “I shall never place you in danger again. Ah, Mary, I have been a bad husband, in bed as well as out. Will you let me remedy that?”
“I have heard that what happens between a husband and a wife can be truly wondrous,” she whispered.
He leaned forward and kissed her deeply on the mouth, continuing the kiss until he felt her respond.
Eventually, he pulled back.
“Shall we find out?” he said.
CHAPTER IV
The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Sunday 25th December 1379)
CHRISTMAS WAS celebrated with joy and devotion at Kenilworth; the newfound peace between Neville and Margaret, as between Bolingbroke and Mary, had pleased everyone.
The world might yet turn awry beyond the walls of the castle, but within lav-only warmth and contentment.
The joy of Christmas deepened when Joan went into labor directly after Shepherd’s Mass at daybreak and was delivered of a healthy son as the bells rang out for the noonday mass of the Divine Word. Joan was attended by Katherine, Mary and Margaret, as well as three midwives and two other ladies. Given her own two abysmal experiences with childbirth, Margaret had expected to find this birth trying at best. Instead, she found it delightful. Not only did Joan deliver with astounding ease, Margaret was almost overcome with the atmosphere of love and companionship generated by the women present within the birthing chamber.
“Your son is so blessed,” Margaret said to Joan, and she bent down to stroke the child’s cheek as it lay on his mother’s breast, “to have been born on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ’s own nativity.”
Joan, her eyes wet with tears of joy and relief, could do nothing but smile. Like most women, she had regarded her childbed with dread… but her labor had taken only a few short hours, and the child had slipped out with such grace and brevity she could not, only a half hour since the birth, remember having suffered at all.
And to have a son … her husband would be so pleased!
“Thank you,” Joan finally whispered, and lifted her hand to take Margaret’s. “And for your aid and friendship I wish for you such an ease of birth when you deliver Neville’s son next autumn.”
Margaret’s eyes widened in shock, not only at Joan’s words—were they true? Did she already carry the chili that would make or break her and Hal’s cause?—but at the sensation of power that had passed between their linked hands. It was the power of women, she realized, strengthened and reinforced by the shared experience of this birth.
Margaret’s eyes misted with tears, and she leaned down to give Joan a brief kiss on the mouth, sealing the covenant. “As you have wished,” she said, leaning back, “so shall it be.
Just then the baby stirred and cried, and both women laughed through their tears. Not only the newborn boy, but this entire day had been blessed.
RABY WAS ecstatic, and the passing about of wine at the Yuletide feast that night was perhaps a little freer than it would normally have been. Although the women had joined their menfolk for the feast (other than Joan, of course), they had departed as soon as the meal was finished to return to Joan’s chamber and continue there in more womanly fashion the celebration of both Christ’s and the new child’s birthday (which womanly celebration also, truth be told, included the passing about of much sweet and good wine).
Now, as Compline came and went, Lancaster and his immediate family and retainers sat around a table set before a roaring fire in the great hall. There were platters of fruit and sugared confectioneries placed up and down its length, but they were hardly touched in preference to the silver ewers of Gascony wine that wound their way about the table. Raby’s fortune was toasted over and over with ribald humor (even if the humor was a little stilted on the part of his eldest sons), and with wishes that Bolingbroke would be the next to be so toasted at the birth of a son.
To this Bolingbroke smiled, and winked over the rim of his goblet, and then lowered his wine to remind everyone that Mary had barely recovered from her miscarriage, and that now was not the time to be discussing her future fertility.
The men were enjoying themselves, truly pleased for Raby and Joan, but also using the occasion and the wine to dull the unsettling knowledge that a confrontation with Richard was more than likely with the turning of the old year to the new.
The wine was good, and it worked wonders in dulling thoughts of the trials ahead, but it could do little against the great trouble that suddenly burst in through the twin doors at the far end of the hall.
Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester.
Gloucester had remained behind in London when his elder brother, Lancaster, had removed himself and his household to Kenilworth. After several uncomfortable weeks, Gloucester had left London for his estates, sending his brother word that he would join him for the New Year celebrations.
This early arrival, combined with Gloucester’s glowering face, was ill news indeed.
Gloucester strode toward the table at the head of the hall, brushing snow from his cloaked shoulders with impatient hands.
Lancaster rose, as did everyone else at the table.
“Brother,” Lancaster said, extending his hand to take Gloucester’s. Neville noted how ashen Lancaster’s color had gone, and shared a quick glance with Bolingbroke: Richard?
“What is it?” Lancaster continued. “What news?”
Gloucester unclasped his cloak and flung it across a bench. “Poor news, indeed, John. May I… ?”
“Of course, of course!” Lancaster held out his goblet for Gloucester and the man drained it of its contents in three swallows, wiping his lips with the back of a gloved hand.
A sheen of wine gleamed at the corner of his mouth, as if it was a bloodstain waiting to pounce, and Neville felt a chill run down his spine.
“This news has come to me by several messengers,” Gloucester said, “and I stinted no effort to bring it to you before you heard it from someone else. But first, sit… sit, if only to allow me to do the same. I do not think my legs will hold me upright much longer.”
Lancaster motioned everyone down, and poured Gloucester more wine before sitting down also.
“I thank you,” said Gloucester, taking the wine and seating himself with evident relief.
He hesitated, looking about the table and then to his brother. “John,” he said quietly, “this is heavy news, and I will not speak it lest you give me your word that you trust each and every man about this table.”
John stared at him, then looked slowly around. Bolingbroke, Neville and Raby, he nodded at.
Likewise Henry, his son by Katherine—bishop or not, Henry’s first loyalty would always be to
his father. Then he considered Raby’s two sons at the end of the table. He stared at them, then raised his eyebrows at Raby.
“They are my blood,” Raby said, “and they will betray neither you nor me.”
John nodded, accepting Raby’s word, then motioned for his brother to continue.
“Ten days ago,” Gloucester said, now staring about the table at each man present, “news arrived from Catalonia, as also from Aquitaine. Count Pedro has managed to wrest control back from his bastard half-brother Henry without any aid from Hotspur. Indeed, Hotspur had not yet moved his forces from Bordeaux before Pedro acted on his own. Pedro has sent him word not to bother marching on Catalonia—he’s decided he doesn’t want any bastard English on his territory, after all.”
Bolingbroke laughed. “Poor Hotspur, to be so denied his glory!”
Gloucester shot him a dark look. “Hotspur has no intention of being denied any glory. Can you imagine Hotspur contenting himself with an ‘Oh, very well,’ and then coming home? Nay, Hotspur has decided to clear up another small source of irritation.”
Silence.
Then Lancaster spoke. “Well? Speak, man, speak!”
“Hotspur is marching north on Limoges.”
“What?” Lancaster exclaimed, along with several others. “Why Limoges, for the Holy Virgin’s sake?”
The small city of Limoges was situated on the Vienne River some forty miles south of Chauvigny. After the English victory at Poitiers it had declared its loyalty for the Black Prince and his heirs, and—or so everyone about this table thought—had been a safe English stronghold.