His sobbing now racked his entire body, and Neville sank down until he lay full length in the dust of Calvary, and let the wind of death sweep over him, knowing Christ’s agony was his fault.
As Alice’s agony had been his fault.
“Love saves,” Christ whispered, and Neville knew no more.
HE WOKE, suddenly, jerking into full awareness, and began to shake as he remembered the vision which had consumed him. He lay for a long while, staring at the ceiling of his chamber, then he lifted his trembling hands.
There on his palms twisted dried trails of mingled sweat and blood. He closed his eyes,
clenching his fingers about his palms, and took a slow breath. A deep calmness came over him and he relaxed, allowing the lingering peace and beauty of Christ’s love to enfold him.
As they had in his dream, tears filled his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
How could he have allowed himself to be so misled? Christ sacrificed Himself for love of mankind. Love did not damn, it saved.
Neville breathed deeply, pulling in the sweet morning air. He had not felt this relaxed, this certain, for… since forever, it seemed. Christ had redeemed him this past night, had allowed him to love without guilt and without fear.
Neville smiled, and the lines of worry and pain that years of hatred had etched into his face softened and then vanished completely.
He had done the right thing. Neville thought about St. Michael’s strange antagonism toward Margaret, and he felt a flicker of uncomfortable doubt. Why, if loving Margaret was the right thing, did St. Michael loathe her so greatly? But then Neville remembered his vision of Christ, and its strength and love. That vision completely overwhelmed his memory of St. Michael’s antagonism to Margaret. Christ’s benediction was all that mattered, and if Christ Himself blessed his love for Margaret, then Neville needed no higher authority to be convinced he had done the right thing. Besides, had not Margaret said heaven was in disarray? Perhaps even St. Michael had been misled. All knew that angels could be flawed…. Was not Satan a fallen angel? Christ had appeared to Neville and had shown him his true path—to love Margaret—
and Neville understood with every fiber of his being that Christ would never be deceived, could never be tricked.
Although Neville did not yet consciously realize it, his former utter devotion to the archangel St. Michael had suffered a final, fatal blow. Neville’s commitment to the archangel had been fractured ever since their meeting on the night of Margaret’s rape, when Neville had been racked with pain and guilt and sickened by St. Michael’s words of praise for his actions. Now, filled with the memory of Christ’s message, as with His love, one of the fundamental pillars of the old, cold Neville crumbled away into nothingness, to be replaced with Christ’s message of hope.
Love saves’ it does not damn.
He sighed happily, and smiled, and daydreamed about love until Courtenay came and roused him from his bed.
THEY ARRIVED at the Savoy by boat during the early evening of the second Sunday after the Feast of the Epiphany. The horses and the majority of their goods would arrive by road within two days, but Lancaster decided the river approach was not only speedier for the final portion of their journey from Kenilworth, but also much safer.
Everyone in the three boats had held their breath as they’d sailed downriver past Westminster, but they’d passed quietly enough, and none of the faces which undoubtedly watched from the palace windows had raised a hue and cry at their passage.
Lancaster’s chamberlain, Simon Kebell, met them at the steps of the Savoy’s wharf.
His face was drawn, but brightened noticeably as he saw that his lord and companions had arrived safely.
Neville waited until Lancaster, his brother Gloucester, Bolingbroke and Raby had disembarked before he prepared to move to the side of the boat. He had just stood up, and was shaking out his cloak, when he heard Lancaster’s voice.
“What?”
Neville looked up. Lancaster—Bolingbroke, Raby and Gloucester about him—was staring at Kebell.
Kebell spoke quietly, too softly for Neville to hear, and even before he’d finished Lancaster and his immediate group were talking furiously among themselves. Raby had gone white, Gloucester flushed—and had moved his hand to his sword—while Bolingbroke, having exchanged a brief word with his father, was now searching the disembarking crowd of retainers and servants for Neville.
Bolingbroke finally caught sight of him, and motioned him forward with an abrupt movement.
“What is it?” Neville asked as he managed to work his way to Bolingbroke’s side.
“John is dead,” Bolingbroke said.
“Dead? How?”
“It is said one of the street whores so disliked him she fed him poison while she serviced him.”
“But—”
A hard-eyed Raby turned from Lancaster and interrupted Neville. “There are men-at-arms who will verify it. They saw the girl atop John’s body, saw a goblet in her hand, and found for themselves a vial of poison that she’d secreted in her cloak.”
“Was she alone with John?” Neville asked, and Raby and Bolingbroke shared a tight smile.
“Nay,” Raby said. “She was not alone with him. Richard and de Vere were also there, jumping up and down and shouting ‘Murder!’ ”
“And what makes me think,” Neville said quietly, “that this girl is no longer able to defend herself?”
Now Gloucester joined them as Lancaster strode into the Savoy shouting orders at some servants.
“De Vere killed her even as she began to speak her innocence,” Gloucester said.
There was a momentary silence, then Raby spoke. “It is no matter here nor there that John is dead …”
“The great matter,” Bolingbroke said, “is that Richard and de Vere now commit murder with such impunity. Of a king, no less!”
Raby looked between Bolingbroke and Gloucester. “None of us are safe,” he said, “but you two are now in the gravest danger. If Richard and de Vere are starting to remove whatever and whoever they see as encumbrances, then your names will surely be close to the top of their list. Perhaps it might be best if …”
Gloucester and Bolingbroke shared a look.
“We stay,” Bolingbroke said, his face bleak and angry. “I will not run from Richard.”
MUCH LATER that night Neville and Bolingbroke stood wrapped in cloaks atop the parapets of the Savoy’s river wall. They were staring southeast toward Westminster.
“How can we move against him?” Neville said.
Bolingbroke remained silent.
Neville turned from the distant lights of Westminster and looked at Bolingbroke. The prince’s face was strained, his gray eyes angry and frustrated as he gazed southeast.
“We need to talk plain words between us,” Neville said quietly, and Bolingbroke blinked and turned himself so he could look at Neville. “We have been too distracted in past months to speak as we need to,” Neville continued, “and we must talk now, this night.
“Hal, Richard needs to be removed. He is demonry personified, he is its king, and England will perish if he is allowed to lead it for much longer. But, Christ Jesus, Hal, all we”—Neville’s hand swept back over the Savoy, taking in all their allies contained therein— “ever talk of is
‘removing,’ or of ‘moving against.’ What do we mean by that, Hal? No one wants to commit themselves to action, nor even to the words that might lead to action. All,” Neville’s voice tightened in frustration, “people ever talk of is waiting… watching…”
Bolingbroke turned his eyes back toward Westminster. “We must move against Richard, and it cannot be left for too much longer,” he said. “But, Lord Jesus, Tom, you know we must be wary.”
“Wary of what? Richard’s coterie of powerful allies, de Vere and Northumberland and Hotspur at their head?”
“Aye, them most certainly—”
“But it does not take much for a man to sneak into Richard’s chamber and slide a dagger into his—”
Bolingbroke whipped about and seized Neville’s arm in a tight grip. “You speak the words of a foolish youth. It is easy to see that you have had no lessons in statecraft.”
Neville’s face flushed, but Bolingbroke did not give him a chance to speak.
“Tom, the only way to overthrow Richard is if the entire realm overthrows him. It would be a relatively simple matter to slide that knife between his ribs, or to set fire to his chamber at night, or to cause his stallion to bolt and throw him one fine day. But that would be a disaster.”
Neville was still smarting at being called a foolish youth. “In what way?”
“You have seen our instant reaction to the news of John’s death—and we were not the only ones to react so. Kebell told us that all London is abuzz with rumor about John’s murder …
and who might or might not have been behind it. If Richard were to die suddenly, and in unusual circumstances, then rumor would envelop his death also.