Northumberland’s face twisted, full of bitterness and anger. “Wife no longer. He has repudiated her, saying that as king of Ireland he can pick and choose among royal wenches to sit beside him.”
Raby stared at the older man, realizing that his daughter’s—and, indeed, his entire family’s—
humiliation was what had driven Northumberland into outright revolt.
“And Richard has allowed it?” Raby said.
Northumberland nodded curtly.
“How can he have been so foolish?’ Raby said.
“Then you know why we are here,” Northumberland said.
“Say it!”
“Richard must be removed.”
“And… ?”
“It is time Bolingbroke took the throne.”
Raby sat back in his chair, picking up his empty wine cup and idly swinging it to and fro. “You do not want the throne yourself, Percy? Nor for your son?”
“Neither I, nor Hotspur, could hope to hold it,” Northumberland said softly, meeting Raby’s eyes candidly.
Raby nodded slowly. No, Northumberland did not have the popular support to be able to stay on the throne once he had gained it… and he had the sense to acknowledge it.
He shifted his eyes to Hotspur.
The man was looking everywhere else but at Raby.
So. . . the son does not have as much sense as the father. Well, Bolingbroke would deal with Hotspur when and as he had to. For now, however, the Percys would see Bolingbroke to the throne.
Raby smiled, warm and honest. He stood and leaned down to Northumberland, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Lancastrian England,” he said.
After a small hesitation, Northumberland took his hand.
“I have many to bring with me,” he said.
“Then be sure that Bolingbroke will reward his friends well. But don’t,” Raby’s smile stretched into a mischievous grin, “expect him to marry your daughter!”
Northumberland smiled, then laughed. “She is well rid of de Vere, I think.”
THE NEXT day Raby departed Sheriff Hutton with only his squire and a few men-at-arms as escort. For almost five weeks he quietly traversed the back lanes and ridings of England, moving between this ancestral seat and that, speaking whispered words of treason in shadowy corners and against dark walls.
When he finally returned north, Raby had far more than just names behind him—he carried at his back the wind for Bolingbroke’s wings.
CHAPTER VI
The Feast of the Transfiguration
of Our Lord Jesus Christ
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 6th August 1380)
— I —
GHENT WAS one of the great cities of northern Europe. Sitting astride the Lieve and Leie rivers in northern Flanders, the city had grown rich on trade, textiles and the patronage of the Count of Flanders. The count’s castle, the Gravensteen, dominated the city, and it was to this pale stone, many-turreted castle on the waters of Ghent that Bolingbroke brought his household in the summer of the year of Our Lord 1380.
The count was a gracious host, pleased to see Bolingbroke, whom he’d not talked with for many years, and delighted to welcome, also, Mary and the other members of Bol-ingbroke’s household. The reason behind their visit—Bolingbroke’s exile—was passed off with a shrug.
Many a nobleman found himself temporarily out of favor with a monarch, and if that disfavor turned into something more permanent, well then, the Gravensteen had room for them all, and most particularly for someone of Bolingbroke’s lineage.
A month passed, then another waxed and waned. Margaret grew bigger with her child; Bolingbroke, Neville and the other men of Bolingbroke’s retinue hunted or spent hours in the castle courtyard at sword practice; Agnes and Rosalind turned brown in the sun.
Mary’s continuing weakness and illness was combined with an indefinable listless-ness that no one could cheer her from. She spent many hours staring sightlessly from windows, or playing with Rosalind.
She was very quiet with Bolingbroke when they were alone in their chamber at night. He asked her on several occasions what was wrong, if she would speak to him of her fears as she had that night in Kenilworth, but Mary would not do so.
She was afraid that if she did do so, then he would, this time, be truthful with her, and for the moment she did not want that. Mary had lost much of her innocence with her last pregnancy: she was sure now that Bolingbroke did not truly care for her, or need her now that he had her lands. At the same time she understood quite well that most noble marriages were partnerships of business rather than love, and that most of these marriages managed well enough.
It was just that she wanted to be needed, if not loved, and she knew with all her being , that Bolingbroke did not need her in any sense of that word.
She wondered if her deepening illness was an encumbrance to him, or a relief.
The latter, she thought, knowing that Bolingbroke would make the most cheerful of widowers.
One night, four or five weeks after they’d arrived in Ghent, Bolingbroke caressed her breast when he joined her in their bed, but Mary tensed, and so Bolingbroke withdrew his hand, and turned away with nary a word of good night.
After that he began to spend some nights away from their bed.
Mary did not ask where.
OCCASIONALLY NEWS arrived from England. Margaret knew little of what this contained,
only that it came from Raby, and sometimes one or two other noblemen. Bolingbroke did not appear either overly comforted or depressed by what the tidings relayed, and when Margaret pressed Neville for details he would only say that he did not think they would see out the winter in Gravensteen.
“We’ll be home for Christmastide,” he would say as they lay in their bed at night, rubbing a hand over her swelling belly, “and we will celebrate the birth of our son together with Christ’s birth.”
That never cheered Margaret very much, because by the time this Christmastide came and went, her and Hal’s cause would either be won or lost. Thomas would need to make his choice, whether for her or for the angels, at the birth of their baby. It would be then that he would know exactly what she was.
At Bolingbroke’s instructions, Raby had caused those of Hal’s household goods which had been saved from the Savoy—the majority of them, for most had been stored in chambers beneath the palace and had not been touched by fire—to be sent over to the Gravensteen.
Neville had groaned when the two barge loads arrived three weeks after their own arrival, for among all the clothes and scarves and candles and jewels was Boling-broke’s entire collection of bureaucratic muddle.
Bolingbroke had laughed when he’d seen Neville’s face, and had said that for the moment the clerical details could wait. “We’ll never have another summer like this,” he’d said, “never so much freedom again.”
And so the wounded hawk stretched his wings in the sunshine, and waited his chance to soar.
IN EARLY August, as the summer heat finally gave up its fury and mellowed toward autumn, Gravensteen finally awoke from its stupor.
Bolingbroke had the use of a large, airy chamber with windows looking out on to the river, and here, in the late afternoon, his household was wont to gather. Mary would sit by the windows, her sewing idle in her lap as, chin in hand, she stared across the gently rippling waters. Margaret would sometimes sit with her, or sometimes with Bolingbroke and Neville, if they requested it, playing softly upon a lute.
Agnes always sat by the door, sewing in hand, industrious where Mary was motionless.
Salisbury and Courtenay, and several members of the count’s household, would sit at a table in the late afternoon sunshine, playing cards or dicing, always talking and jesting—but softly, so as not to disturb Mary’s reverie, or Margaret’s music-making.
About Margaret or Neville’s feet, and often Mary’s, Rosalind would chase woolen balls.
Today, caught by the lethargy of the adults, she slept on the seat next to Mary.
Occasionally, the count and his wife would join them, but this particular afternoon they had not, preferring to spend the day watching the executions in the public square abutting the Gravensteen.
And thus it was, on this lazy, warm afternoon, that when the door burst open, and the man sprang through, no one reacted save for looking up in bemused surprise.
Not one hand reached for a weapon, not one voice was raised in protest.
Everyone merely raised their heads—languidly—and looked.
“What?” cried the man. “Is this the den of that arch renegade, Hal Bolingbroke? Is this the haunt of traitors? Is there treason afoot? Is—sweet Jesu, Black Tom, what do you here without your damn robes?”
“Philip?” Bolingbroke said, blinking. He slowly got to his feet.
“Aye, you rascal.” Philip of Navarre had by this time crossed the floor between them and enveloped Bolingbroke in a great hug. Then he embraced Neville, who was also standing.