Then he bent to Margaret, and his eyes darkened and his smile slipped, and he took her hand and kissed it. “My lady, I see you wear the ring of marriage, and bear within your body the fruits of it, but should you ever tire of your husband…”
She looked at him, knowing who he was even though he’d not been introduced, and then, slowly smiled. No wonder Catherine lad acted as she did.
“Her name is Margaret,” said Neville behind Philip, “and she is my wife.” Philip grinned mischievously into Margaret’s eyes as he heard the jealousy in Neville’s voice, then he winked very slowly at her—again managing to surprise her with the friendliness of the gesture—before turning back to Neville.
“A wife, Tom? And yet you were so attached to your monkish robes when last we met.”
“When last we met at Chatellerault,” Bolingbroke said, referring back to that time he and the
Black Prince had met Philip to determine if the king of Navarre would support the English or the French in their war, “you were shouting insults to my uncle and hurling decapitated heads at us.” He walked slowly forward. “What was it you said? Ah yes, we were a ‘filthy presence’
that you could not wait to rid your beloved land of. You had decided that you preferred the alliance of a sacred damsel to that of old friends.”
Philip shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “It was the atmosphere of that quarry tunnel, Bolingbroke. So dramatic, didn’t you think? I got quite carried away.”
He swiveled around before Bolingbroke could reply and caught sight of Mary sitting by the window.
“Ah,” Philip said softly, “this must be your wife, Bolingbroke. France has been quite abuzz with the rumors of your marriage.”
He walked over to Mary, who stood as he approached, smoothing down her skirts.
Philip bowed graciously, and took her hand to kiss it. As he did so he looked into her face, and saw there the unmistakable signs of illness, and then looked into her eyes, and saw the unquestionable signs of misery.
He said nothing, but his fingers tightened about Mary’s hand, and his own eyes deepened with compassion.
Mary, who had heard so many tales of the various wickednesses of the king of Navarre, had to take a deep breath to steady the sudden emotion that coursed through her.
“I thank you, your grace,” she said softly, and Philip gave her hand another brief squeeze before he let it go.
He glanced to Salisbury and Courtenay, as also to the two Flemish squires who had joined the Englishmen over this afternoon’s game of chess. All four men now stood with hard faces and hands on knives.
Philip dismissed them without second thought, his eyes flickering to the door of the chamber before he looked to Bolingbroke.
“What do you here?” Bolingbroke said. His eyes were hooded, his stance that of a man ready to spring at any moment.
He did not believe they were in physical danger… but who ever trusted Philip?
“I come to talk,” Philip said, his voice now serious. “But first—”
“The last time you wanted to ‘talk,'” Bolingbroke said, “it was merely to tell us how much you thought us your despised enemy.”
“Hal,” Mary said, walking forward a little, “I think Philip has brought company with him.”
Of everyone in the room, she was the only one who had seen the shadow waiting behind the half open door.
Philip nodded at her. “My Lady of Hereford has quick eyes. Aye, I have brought company.”
He moved over to the door but, before opening it farther, placed himself so he could see the faces of most of the people in the room.
Philip had come to the Gravensteen to forge an alliance—but there was one thing he needed to know before he made his proposition, and there would be only one instant when he could learn that one thing.
Now.
“I would have come alone,” Philip said, “but there was one who insisted on accompanying me.” He shrugged, the action contrived, and looked directly at Bolingbroke. “But you, most apparently, know how difficult it is to be parted from one’s wife.”
Bolingbroke’s face froze, and Philip had all the knowledge he needed.
“My dear,” said Philip, and opened the door.
Catherine walked through, her every movement assured and elegant. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright and Margaret, watching, thought that that was more due to her annoyance at being kept waiting outside than anything else.
She also could not help noticing that Catherine was dressed in a gown of precisely the same deep red damask as Mary had worn on her wedding day. Had Catherine somehow known, or was this just strange fate?
And as Margaret had thought on that now far-past day, so again she thought: Cather-ine wears that color with confidence, whereas Mary was overwhelmed by it. The gown had a deep square neckline, showing the swell of Catherine’s creamy breasts, and was gathered in close to her waist and hips before dropping in heavy drapery over her legs. She wore little jewelery, save some gold earrings and several garnet rings on her right hand.
She was stunning, as much due to the power of character she exuded as to her physical comeliness.
Margaret’s eyes looked to Bolingbroke.
He was staring at Catherine with an expression that Margaret instantly knew betrayed every
emotion churning about inside him.
She looked to Mary, and saw Mary staring, distraught, at both Bolingbroke and Catherine.
Sweet Jesu, she thought. Who engineered this disaster? Catherine or Philip?
“Wife?” said Bolingbroke, hating the way the word rasped out of his mouth.
“Philip has ever been the jester,” Catherine said, and looked at Philip with amused eyes.
They did not touch, but the air between them was alive with intimacy.
Philip returned Catherine’s smile, then stared straight at Hal’s eyes. “She refuses to wed me, even though she is not shy about sharing my bed.”
Bolingbroke flushed brick-red, and Neville placed a hand on his arm, hoping Bolingbroke wasn’t going to explode into violence. He’d never imagined that Bolingbroke had felt so strongly for Catherine.
Margaret had eyes only for Mary. The woman’s distress was plain enough for anyone who cared to look, and Margaret put aside her lute and rose softly to stand at Mary’s side, taking Mary’s hand in her own.
Mary’s eyes, huge and agonized, were fixed on Catherine.
“That was not well said, Philip,” Neville said softly.
Philip affected an expression of surprise.
” ‘Was not well said,’ Tom? What do you mean? Are there coy virgins among us who cannot bear to hear the truth? Are we not all adults here? Do we not all know of what happens between a man and a woman? Do we—?”
“What do you want, Philip?” Bolingbroke shouted, furious both at Philip and Catherine’s actions and at the depth of pain they caused him. “What in Christ’s name are you doing here?”
“I have come to broker a deal with you, Bolingbroke.”
Bolingbroke stared at him, his chest heaving with the depth of his rage and hurt and his embarrassment that all here had witnessed his discomposure.
“If perhaps we could speak,” Philip said. “Alone.”
CHAPTER VII
The Feast of the Transfiguration
of Our Lord Jesus Christ
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 6th August 1380)
— II —
“WELL NOW,” said Philip, “I think I finally understand you.”
He and Bolingbroke were sitting at a window in a chamber at the very top of the main keep of Gravensteen. Below them the rivers Leie and Lieve twisted sinuously through the city and the flat country beyond. Bolingbroke said nothing.
Philip stared out the window, as if entranced by the beauty of the rivers. “I never quite understood why Catherine came to me so freely,” he said, sliding his eyes back to Bolingbroke. “For a virgin, she was very eager.”
Bolingbroke’s face was flat and hostile.
“But then I began to make some inquiries,” Philip continued, again looking out the window. “I came to realize that the night she came to me was your wedding night, my friend. And then I remembered that, some years back, there had been some negotiations between you and her.”
Philip shrugged. “Of course, what inference could I draw from that? But still I wondered. Why did Catherine refuse to wed me? Was there some deeper purpose within her that I could not discern? She says that she wants a strong man on the throne of France, and she says that she will be a partner in my ambitions, but I find myself thinking that I am not the strong man she wants to take the crown from her knock-kneed brother.”
He shifted his eyes back to Bolingbroke, and the vestiges of banter dropped from his voice. “I think, Bolingbroke, that there is—was—some secret pact between you … a pact she thought broken when you took Mary to wife. I think that you are the man she wants on the throne. Or