Neville glanced at Bolingbroke, but neither said anything.
“And your point is … ?” Lancaster said.
“My point, my lord, is that while the support you can muster is greater than can any single man within this kingdom, including Richard, it is not greater than the combined support of those who will stand behind Richard.”
“Parliament?” Lancaster said.
“Once they hear of Gloucester and Arundel’s deaths,” Bolingbroke said, “Parliament will piss itself in order to please Richard. Gloucester was the backbone of its dissent against the poll tax, Arundel his greatest supporter. They are now dead. No one will rush to take their place.”
“Richard will further strengthen himself with Gloucester and Arundel’s lands,” Raby added.
“Now, even more will back Richard in the hope that he might pass on those lands and titles to them.”
“He wouldn’t dare to take Gloucester’s lands!” Lancaster said.
No one spoke.
“Oh dear God,” Lancaster said tiredly. He sighed, then resumed speaking in a stronger voice.
“Richard’s strength will wane. It must. Sooner or later he is going to make an error of judgment and alienate half the nobles of England with one stroke. When he does that… we
must be ready.”
“Ready for what, father?” Bolingbroke said.
Lancaster hesitated, decades of loyalty and obedience to both his father and brother screaming at him not to speak these words of treason. He straightened, and something of his old strength came back into his face.
“Ready to depose Richard, should it come to that. If we don’t, then he will destroy this realm.”
“And you think to take his place?” Warwick said, very carefully.
Lancaster gave a small smile. “Nay, not I, Warwick. I am too old, and too tired.” He nodded at Bolingbroke. “England needs my son, not me.”
CHAPTER XII
The Feast of St. Chad
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Friday 2nd March 1380)
THEY LAY IN utter silence and stillness in that strange halfway place between the world of waking and the world of sleep. Their limbs were entwined, their bodies heavy and languid.
There was no need to move, no need to speak, and barely the need to even breathe, wrapped in the complete realm of each other and the encompassing bed.
Neville could feel the faint beat of Margaret’s heart through her ribcage where it pressed against his chest, could feel the faint rise and fall of her breast with each breath. Underneath his right hand, which rested on her belly, he fancied in his dream world that he could feel the heartbeat of the child within, perhaps even the gentle rise and fall of its chest as it breathed in Margaret’s goodness.
A son, she said. Neville did not disbelieve her. She was of the angels, a magical, sinless creation of heaven, and she had the power to know of what she carried within her body.
Neville had a brief urge to smile, but he was too warm and lazy to complete the movement.
Instead he sent a grateful—and somewhat sleep-muddled—prayer to the Lord Jesus Christ for His goodness in sending Margaret to him and for His goodness in making Neville understand that love was nothing to be afraid of.
How many years did I waste, he thought, in denying myself lover How many cold, dark years did I spend running from it? These days, when he rose to wakefulness with his body curled about Margaret’s, that thought was almost always at the forefront of his mind. His vision of Christ had affected him so deeply, and had moved him so profoundly, that Neville wondered if he’d actually become a different man. He was so changed from the man who had allowed Alice to die, so changed from the cold, heartless man who had affected to abhor love.
He rarely thought about St. Michael, and then only in passing. He was still committed to his mission, but now that mission had become Christ’s mission rather than that of St. Michael.
Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for your blessing, Neville prayed silently, feeling an overwhelming gratefulness for Christ’s care sweep through him. Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, thank you …
He snuggled closer to Margaret, wrapping his arms tighter about her, and finally smiling as she murmured sleepily before slipping back into her doze. He could hardly comprehend his fortune in having this beautiful, heaven-sent woman to love and who loved him in return. It was beyond fortune that she had already given him one child and now carried another.
“Christ sent you to me,” he whispered in her hair, now moving his hand from her belly to her breasts. How could he have believed she was his enemy, and demon-sent! How could he have believed those lies that it was mankind’s doom if he ever chose her before God’s cause? St. Michael must have been muddled, perhaps misled by demonic craftiness. It were better, far better, to listen to what Christ had spoken to him.
His hand massaged Margaret’s breasts a little more firmly. They still had time for love before Agnes bustled in with Rosalind for their morning cuddle, still time before Robert Courtenay arrived to help his master wash and dress, still time before the sorrows of the world intruded and reminded Neville that today would be yet another slow step toward his ultimate goal of removing Richard and his demonic conspirators from power.
“Margaret,” he whispered into her hair, “wake up.”
She murmured again, and very slowly stretched as she turned onto her back.
Neville almost groaned at the feel of her moving against his body, and he leaned over her, bringing her to full wakefulness with a deep kiss.
His hand squeezed her breast, and pinched her nipple.
“Tom,” she said, wincing. “Don’t.”
He was instantly contrite, remembering too late how tender her breasts were now that she was with child. He murmured an apology, kissing her sweetly, and stroking away her hurt.
She relaxed, and then moved so lasciviously against him that Neville wasted no more time on preliminaries. He rolled atop her, smiling and kissing her as she parted her legs, and then slid deep inside her, groaning softly with pleasure as he did so.
“Tom?”
Neville pulled away so violently that Margaret cried out, and clutched the bed covers to her.
“Tom? Margaret? Have I disturbed you?”
Neville sat up in the bed, pulling his own share of the covers over his lap, and silently cursed Bolingbroke. “Yes,” he said.
Bolingbroke did not even grin. He walked silently enough into the room, but now closed the door with a thud, and strode across the chamber.
“Then you have my apologies,” Bolingbroke said, “but this is news that could not wait for your morning’s loving.”
Margaret blushed, and lowered her eyes, but Neville forgot his irritation at Boling-broke’s sober face. “News?” he said.
“Aye.” Bolingbroke sat on Neville’s side of the bed. “News has reached us from France. News of Hotspur.” “Yes?”
“Hotspur has ‘dealt’ with Limoges in the manner he saw fit.”
Bolingbroke paused, and neither Neville nor Margaret, both with their eyes fixed on Bolingbroke’s face, spoke.
“He burned it to the ground,” Bolingbroke said, and his eyes flickered Margaret’s way. “And he slaughtered every man, woman and child within its walls.” “Oh, Hal!” Margaret said. “No!
Not the children.”
The news was so shocking that it did not even register with Neville that Margaret had addressed Bolingbroke so familiarly. “Why?” Neville said. “Surely Hotspur need not have been so cruel?”
“He had every need!” Bolingbroke said, and clenched his right hand into a fist where it lay on his thigh. “Hotspur wanted to impress Richard, he needed a victory to carry home for Richard, and so,” Bolingbroke spoke with deliberation, saying each word slowly, and with infinite anger, “he slaughtered every craftsman, every wife, every babe in arms within Limoges.”
Margaret, her hand to her mouth, had begun to weep silently. “The children …” she whispered. “Why? Why?”
“Have I not just said why?” Bolingbroke shouted, and Margaret jumped at his anger. “Hal—”
Neville said, but got no further.
“Lord Christ,” Bolingbroke said. “I am sorry, Margaret. I had no cause to shout at you. It’s just…”
“It is just that these are truly dreadful tidings,” she said, accepting his apology, and knowing the pain he would be feeling. Men took their own chances in wars which they too often began, and to some degree so did their wives. But children… children were so innocent! To heartlessly slaughter them …
“When will it end?” Bolingbroke said softly. “How?”
“Where is Hotspur now?” Neville said.
“Marching north, looking for more”—Bolingbroke’s voice hardened into sarcasm—
“military glories.”
He paused. “He is marching toward Orleans. He thinks to take that in Richard’s name.”
AS BOLINGBROKE left Neville jumped from the bed and began to pull on his clothes.
For the moment, Margaret stayed where she was, watching with worried eyes as Neville dressed.
“Can’t Bolingbroke do something?” she said.