Neville, still holding Mary’s hand, was not sure he should believe that. He felt a surge of protective care for the woman: she was with child, and must surely be terrified at what had happened over the past day.
“I do thank you, Tom,” Mary said, surprised and overwhelmingly grateful to see the concern in Neville’s eyes. “But Agnes is here with me, and Rosalind too, and if I have time and peace enough for an hour’s sleep then I shall be the better for it.”
Neville nodded, kissed her hand again, and then joined Bolingbroke in Lancaster’s death chamber, closing the door behind him. Whatever happened in here, he did not think that Mary should witness it.
BOLINGBROKE AND Neville stood silently at the bedside, staring down at Lancaster.
Margaret sat on the far side of the bed, her eyes shifting between the two standing men and Lancaster, who lay moaning and semi-conscious. Every so often she sponged gently, hopelessly, at Lancaster’s ruined face. She was about to say something—anything to break this silence!—when the chamber door opened, and the physician and his two apprentices bustled in.
But it was not the physician who commanded Bolingbroke’s and Neville’s attention, for immediately behind the doctor strode Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland.
The man was hard-faced and eyed, and spared Bolingbroke and Neville little more than a glance as he strode to Lancaster’s bed.
The hardness vanished as soon as Northumberland saw what had happened to Lancaster.
“Sweet God,” he whispered.
He looked to Margaret, then to the physician who was hiding his uselessness in bustle and self-importance, then to Bolingbroke and Neville.
“The rebels torched the Savoy,” Bolingbroke said, his voice harsh.
Northumberland opened his mouth, struggled to speak, then gave up, and Neville realized how deeply affected the man was by Lancaster’s plight. Rivals they might be, but there was still respect there, and horror that a comrade should have met such a horrifying fate.
The physician, aided by one of his apprentices, took hold of a burned piece of clothing that clung to one of Lancaster’s thighs and tugged it off.
Lancaster screamed, his body arching off the bed in the extremity of his agony.
Bolingbroke moved, but Northumberland was faster. He grabbed the physician by the shoulder, spun him about, and hit him as hard as he could on the jaw.
The physician slumped to the ground, senseless.
“Lady,” Northumberland said to Margaret, having taken a deep breath to bring his temper under control, “will you direct these useless apprentices to soak Lancaster’s clothes from his flesh?”
She nodded, as angry as Bolingbroke and Northumberland at the unthinking cruelty of the physician, and sent the apprentices scrambling to fill bowls with warm, salty water.
Then Northumberland started, for Lancaster had reached up a blackened hand and taken the earl’s arm in a fierce grip.
“Where are we?” he rasped.
“In the royal apartments of the Tower,” Bolingbroke said in a gentle voice.
Lancaster stared at his son, then looked back at Northumberland. “Do not let Richard murder him!” he said.
Northumberland glanced at Bolingbroke, who was staring at him, then down again at Lancaster.
“John—” Northumberland began.
The duke somehow managed to half-raise himself from the bed. “Do not let Richard murder my son!”
“If your son is a traitor to his king then there is little I can do,” Northumberland said.
Lancaster snarled, the expression a frightful rictus on his ravaged face. “My son is true to his land” he said. “Is Richard?”
Then, exhausted, his hand dropped, and Northumberland took a step back.
Margaret, standing with a warm bowl of water the other side of the bed, cloths in hand, looked at the men, then spoke.
“My lords, it were best, perhaps, if you left the chamber.”
They hesitated, wanting desperately to be gone before Lancaster’s agony began anew, but all three just as desperately concerned for him.
“She’s right,” Northumberland said roughly. “Hal… Richard knows you are here. It is best you attend him now.”
Lancaster groaned something, and Northumberland leaned down to him.
“Many things may happen to your son over the next few days,” Northumberland said, “but on my word your son’s murder shall not be one of them.”
Lancaster jerked his head, unable for the moment to speak, and Northumberland straightened and walked from the chamber.
Bolingbroke leaned over and said something to his father, while Neville looked at Margaret.
“Will you be well?” he asked.
“Aye. I have these two,” she gestured to the apprentices standing to one side, “to aid me”
“Good.” Neville looked to one of the men-at-arms standing against the wall. “Take this”—his booted foot poked at the still-senseless physician—”and remove it from this chamber.”
As they left, Bolingbroke looked at Margaret. “Do what you can, all you can,” he said, and she
nodded.
WHEN THE men had gone, Margaret shooed the apprentices away for the moment and sat on the bed close to Lancaster and took both his hands in hers.
“I can do too little for you,” she whispered, “but I will be glad to do what I can.
She lowered her eyes to his hands, and gently rubbed her thumbs over their charred flesh.
Lancaster groaned, a deep, terrible sound.
“Shush,” Margaret said … then jabbed her thumbs into his flesh as hard as she could.
Lancaster’s eyes widened, and as he opened his mouth to scream the men-at-arms tensed and made ready to move forward. But then Lancaster slowly closed his mouth, realizing that his pain had receded in great, rolling waves.
A great ache and soreness still consumed him, but the agony had gone.
He blinked, stunned. “What are you?” he whispered.
Margaret smiled, a smile as full of sweetness and love as she could manage.
“I speak for Christ,” she said, so softly that only he heard, “as if I were his sister.”
Lancaster looked at her, his state of near death allowing him to see her for what she was. “I am going to die,” he said.
“Aye,” she said, “that you are. But there will still be time to say goodbye to Hal.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, and Margaret smiled again and leaned down and kissed him on the lips.
Then she sat back, rolled up her sleeves, and set to soaking off Lancaster’s charred clothing.
RICHARD TURNED from the window as he heard the door open, and glanced at de Vere before he looked at Bolingbroke and Neville who stood to one side of Northumberland.
“Why, my lords,” he said, “I did so think you’d be roaming the streets with the traitorous rebels rather than submitting yourself to my tender love.”
“It is clear,” said de Vere, walking slowly to stand at Richard’s side, “that Neville has taken good advantage of the riot.”
There were other men in this chamber high within the White Tower: Tresilian; the Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury; the Treasurer, Bishop Thomas Brantingham; the earls of Kent and Warwick; several other high-ranking nobles; and William Wadsworth, the Lord Mayor—
and a pale-faced, but calm, Joan of Kent, Richard’s mother, sitting in a large chair by the hearth.
All had their eyes riveted on the confrontation between Richard and Bolingbroke.
“Your grace,” said Northumberland, and Bolingbroke and Neville were surprised to hear the grating undertone of his words, “Bolingbroke brought to the Tower his father, Lancaster, who lies a-dying in the royal apartments.”
Richard managed to prevent himself from smiling, but could not quite hide the sudden leap of glee in his eyes.
“Dying, my lord?”
“The rebels burned down the Savoy,” Bolingbroke said. “My father has been burned beyond recognition, and the rest of us barely escaped with our lives.”
Richard laughed. “Escaped straight into my clutches!”
“Your grace,” Northumberland said again, “Bolingbroke can perhaps give us important information.”
Richard made a dismissive gesture, but Bolingbroke managed to speak before Richard ignored him completely. “Indeed,” he said, “I have a message for your grace from the leader of the rebels.”
Now Richard raised an eyebrow. “A ‘message’?”
“Wat Tyler, who speaks for those who wish to present you their grievances, requests that you meet with him this evening in East Smithfield.”
Richard stared at Bolingbroke, a muscle flickering in his cheek, then the pink, glistening tip of his tongue flickered over his lower lip. He turned to de Vere, and smiled.
De Vere took his lover’s cue, smiling incredulously and lacing his voice with cutting sarcasm.
“Have you become a messenger boy for the rabble, Bolingbroke?” Then his smile faded.
“How dare you so instruct my lord your liege?”
“I only repeat what my lord my liege needs to know!” Bolingbroke said.
Northumberland put a hand on Bolingbroke’s shoulder, and Bolingbroke subsided.
Northumberland dropped his hand. “We must consider the request carefully,” he said.
“You expect me to dance, to the tune of peasants?” Richard said. “I am not going to—”
“Your grace,” Tresilian said, rising from his seat and joining the group, “we appear safe enough within the Tower… but are we truly? Many of the Londoners agree with the rebels’