“Will we be admitted?” he asked softly.
Bolingbroke gave a short, harsh laugh. “Richard would not dare to keep us out,” he said. “We have some twenty fighting men among us. Besides, it will not be Richard manning the gates to the Tower, but some sensible guardsmen. All they will see when they look at us are twenty extra swords. So, aye, we will gain entry.”
They were well past Queenshithe Wharf now and were rapidly approaching London Bridge.
Neville looked up at the bridge, and at the people leaning from the windows of the tenement buildings and shops and swarming over both the deck of the bridge and its piers.
“We will be safe,” said Whittington, and, as the shadow of the bridge spread over them, he stood up, making the vessel rock alarmingly.
He grabbed at Courtenay and Salisbury to stabilize himself, then shouted his name to the men on the piers even now readying pikes and staves to tackle the barge.
As soon as the men recognized Whittington, they lowered their staves and gestured to the people on the bridge and at the windows to put down their stones and chamber pots.
“I escort my Lord of Bolingbroke to the king,” Whittington called, trying to inject as much cheerfulness into his voice as possible, “so that he might persuade him to meet with Tyler and his rebels and listen to their grievances!”
A cheer went up, and men lowered their weapons and waved as the barge glided by.
Neville blessed their luck that Lancaster lay in the bottom of the barge, for he had no doubt that had the men on the piers realized who else the barge contained they would have stopped it and dragged the luckless Lancaster free.
But perhaps that would have done the man a kindness, granting him a swift death on the blade of a sword or in the watery embrace of the river rather than the agonizing lingering death that currently awaited him.
Darkness swept over them as they passed under one of the great stone arches of the bridge,
then, as they emerged on the other side, and the Tower loomed into view two hundred yards away, the two men-at-arms resumed their poling with renewed vigor.
CHAPTER X
Afternoon on the Saturday within
the Octave of Corpus Christi
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(2nd June 1380)
— IV —
THE TOWER FORTRESS and complex occupied the lower southeastern corner of London. It was completely surrounded by water, the Thames flowing along its southern wall, while a deep river-fed moat protected the other three sides. The double walls of the complex enclosed some sixteen acres of gardens, barracks, palaces, galleries, halls and the square whitewashed lime- and rag-stone Norman keep known as the White Tower.
The land entry to the Tower complex was across a bridge that spanned the moat at the southwestern corner of the walls. This bridge led to the Lion’s Gate (so called because it housed the royal collection of moth-eaten and half-starved exotic animals), which in turn led to the Outer Ward, the space between the double walls.
There was one other entry: a water gate set into the southern wall where boats on the Thames could pull in. Above the water gate rose a great tower called St. Thomas’ which, at sundry times, formed part of the royal lodgings.
Today it seemed cold and soulless.
Their barge bumped into the small wharf by St. Thomas’ and Bolingbroke jumped onto its steps, leaning down to give Mary his arm as she rose to disembark.
He frowned as he looked into her face, and he glanced at Margaret.
She nodded slightly, admitting her own worry for Mary at the same time as she wondered how genuine was Bolingbroke’s concern. She walked to Mary’s side and took her arm, and smiled at her, and Mary returned the smile gratefully.
Margaret murmured something to her, but Mary shook her head, and said something that, for the moment, eased the worry in Margaret’s eyes.
As Whittington stepped onto the wharf he turned to Bolingbroke. “My lord, I will leave you here. I can do more good among my fellow citizens.”
Bolingbroke nodded. “What is their mood? How will they turn?”
Whittington thought deeply before replying. “This morning’s anarchy and violence will have persuaded most of them that they would be happier to see the last of their country cousins,”
he said finally. “I do not think Wadsworth will have much trouble raising the city militia to a more active role by this evening.
“However,” he continued, as Bolingbroke opened his mouth to speak, “my brothers and sisters of the city still greatly sympathize with the rebels’ grievances. Indeed, many share them. Richard would be well advised to treat the rebels with magnanimity and a gentle, guiding hand.”
Again Bolingbroke opened his mouth to speak, and again Whittington forestalled him.
“And if Richard doesn’t use magnanimity and gentleness,” he said softly, staring into Bolingbroke’s eyes, “then I think they will be greatly disappointed in their king.”
Bolingbroke took a deep breath, understanding. “I thank you, Whittington,” he said. “I think I shall leave Richard to his own devices in this matter.”
Whittington snorted. “You are a subtle, cunning man,” he said. “You might as well march in there and hand Richard a shovel to dig his own grave.”
A strange, hard expression came over Bolingbroke’s face. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Whittington nodded. “Aye, my friend. That you did. And one day, when you are king and I am Lord Mayor, we will sit down and remember this day and toast Wat with the best of wines.”
Sudden tears glimmered in Bolingbroke’s eyes. He reached out, grasped Whittington briefly by the shoulder, and then turned away.
THE MEN manning the portcullis at the Traitor’s Gate needed little persuading to raise it as soon as they knew who stood on the other side.
Bolingbroke thanked them, then led his group under the stone arch of the gate and into the Outer Ward. Directly across from them in the inner wall was another tower and gate known as the Garden Gate, also barred with a lowered portcullis.
This, too, was raised as soon as Bolingbroke announced himself and his companions.
Beyond the Garden Gate was an area containing orchards and herb beds, and beyond the gardens stretched an open gravelled space.
Across this space scurried armed men between the bastions on the double walls, the barely visible barracks against the far wall of the compound and the huddle of buildings against the great White Tower to the right.
Neville moved to Bolingbroke’s shoulder, wondering about the numbers and readiness of the garrison within the complex, but more concerned for the moment with Lancaster and the women.
“Your father needs attention,” he said.
“Aye,” said Bolingbroke, and beckoned to the four men carrying the blankets in which Lancaster lay. “This way.”
He led them toward the palace complex that lay a little distance from the southern wall of the White Tower.
“Shouldn’t we go to the Keep?” said Neville.
Bolingbroke shook his head. “We’re safe enough within the walls without cowering in the White Tower,” he said. “Besides, the royal apartments attached to the Hall are more comfortable than the chill of the Keep itself.”
And they’ll be free of Richard, thought Neville, who is no doubt locked inside one of the highest chambers within the Keep.
They were met at the entrance to the palace apartments by a chamberlain who needed no introductions, nor instructions, once he saw Lancaster and the white-faced women.
“This way, my lords,” he said.
He led them to several chambers that were easily defensible by virtue of their narrow windows and entrance ways, and sent two of his servants scurrying for a physician.
Bolingbroke nodded his thanks as Margaret directed the men-at-arms to carry Lancaster into one of the inner chambers where they lifted him gently onto a large bed. Neville handed Rosalind to Agnes, who took charge of both her and Mary, who had sunk to a chair under one of the windows, her face lined with exhaustion.
Bolingbroke conferred quietly with Raby. The earl eventually nodded, then took Courtenay and Salisbury with him, together with ten of the men-at-arms, to secure as well as they could the passageways leading to the chambers.
As Raby and the men-at-arms left, Bolingbroke glanced at Mary, hesitated, then turned away to enter the chamber to wait with his father.
Neville watched Bolingbroke, frowned, then walked over to where Mary sat.
“My lady,” he said, squatting on his haunches beside her chair, “in all the fright of the past hours we have forgot you. Are you well?”
She lifted her hand to him, and he bent and kissed it.
“I am most grateful for your concern, Tom,” she said softly.
“My lady, Bolingbroke has been—”
“I know, I know, you need not make excuses for him, Tom. His father lies burned and dying, and Hal’s first thought must be for Lancaster. But to answer your question, I am tired, and frightened, but otherwise you need have no concern for me.”