at least… the man she once wanted to sit on the throne of France.”
Philip leaned forward on the small table that separated them. “The thing I want you to answer me honestly, my friend, is … what do you want more? France … or Catherine?”
Bolingbroke’s face twisted with anger. “I can have both,” he said.
Philip smiled. “No, Bolingbroke, I don’t think you can. Not anymore.”
NEVILLE HAD taken the other men to guard the door to the chamber where Philip and Bolingbroke parleyed, and Agnes had taken Rosalind to eat in the kitchens, so now there were only Mary, Margaret and Catherine left in the light and airy chamber.
“You must be Margaret Neville,” Catherine said, walking over to Margaret once the others had left.
Margaret nodded, and curtsied. She and Catherine well knew who the other was, though this was the first time they’d met.
Catherine took Margaret’s hand, raising her back to her feet. “I once spat at your husband,”
she said.
Despite the gravity of the current situation, Margaret’s mouth twitched. “I have been tempted to do the same on many occasions. My lady, may I introduce to you my Lady of Hereford, Bolingbroke’s wife.”
Margaret held her breath as Catherine turned to Mary but, as Philip had done, Catherine also recognized the illness and misery that consumed Mary.
“My lady,” Catherine said, leaning forward to place her hands gently on Mary’s shoulder and to kiss her cheek. Catherine was angry with Bolingbroke, but not with this woman. “You have lost a child recently.”
“I should think you would be pleased at that loss,” Mary said, not attempting to conceal the bitterness in her voice as she drew back from Catherine.
“Then you misjudge me,” Catherine said, “for children are blessings, and their loss is tragic.”
There was an awkward silence, and Catherine finally walked over to the window and stared out. “This is a beautiful city,” she said. “What is that castle next to the cathedral? It has a feel of great subtlety about it.”
“That is the castle of Gerald the Devil,” said Mary, directly behind Catherine.
Catherine’s shoulders stiffened. “And why is he called a devil, Mary?”
“Would you like to refresh yourself with some wine, my Lady Catherine,” Margaret said, desperate to distract the other two women from that damned castle.
“He is called a devil,” Mary said, “because once he takes one wife, he begins to lust after another. Thus far he has murdered four wives in order to take some other woman who has caught his fancy.”
She fell silent, staring at the castle while Catherine stared at her.
“No doubt,” Mary finally said, softly, looking back to Catherine, “you cannot understand the terror in which his wives lived, for you are that woman on the outside looking in. How can you understand the fear of knowing your husband wants another, and the greater fear of not knowing when that want will grow strong enough to turn his thoughts to murder?”
Again she paused, staring with flat, hard eyes at Catherine. “He has my lands,” she said,
“and now I am no longer needed. How will you feel, Catherine of France, when he has your lands, and you are no longer needed? Will you remember me then?”
“MARY IS in a piteous situation,” said Philip, “for she—as everyone else—saw how you looked at Catherine this afternoon. Your secret is out, and she knows she is no longer loved.”
“Mary is my wife and I will treat her with all the respect and love that—”
Philip banged his fist on the table. “Don’t mouth such pitiful lies to me, Boling-broke! Mary is expendable—why else marry her?”
“I am not a wife-murderer!”
“You will not take knife or poison to her, I grant you that, but nevertheless you will poison Mary with your neglect. She is a woman who needs to be loved in order to live. Refuse her that love …”
“You did not come here to talk to me of my husbandly duties, Philip. What do you here? Did you not tell me and my uncle the Black Prince that you’d decided to ally yourself with Charles and his saintly virgin Joan?”
Philip shrugged expressively. “A temporary measure only—you understand such necessities,
surely. But as to what I come to talk to you about, well, I come indeed to discuss Charles and the Holy Maid.”
Bolingbroke said nothing, watching Philip with careful eyes.
“The fact is, Bolingbroke, that we both need them dead.”
Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows.
“I for one reason. I want the French throne and can’t have it until Charles and his saintly damsel are enjoying an eternity with God. And you for two reasons. You want the French throne and can’t enjoy it until—”
“And the second reason?”
“Even if you didn’t want the throne, Bolingbroke, you need to be rid of Joan because she has, it seems, taken a hearty dislike to you. Every evening she leads us in prayers that speak of the destruction of the English throne and the malevolent evil that sits upon it.”
Philip laughed. “I, of course, pray for that most fervently, but I have every doubt that you would be so pleased to see it come to pass. You see, my friend, I have the strangest feeling that Joan isn’t talking of Richard when she mutters about binding the English king to a pyre and lighting the fires of God’s vengeance beneath him. I think she is talking about you”
“I am not king,” said Bolingbroke. “I am in exile and—”
Philip waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, exile can be such a transitory thing, don’t you agree?
Frankly, Bolingbroke, I doubt you intend to stay a fugitive forever… or for very much longer, come to that.”
“You can’t think that I would try to—”
“Don’t be shy, Bolingbroke, it doesn’t become you. You’ve been as ambitious for the English throne as I am for the French throne. It’s just that I have been a trifle more honest about my ambitions than you.”
Bolingbroke smiled very slightly, but remained silent, holding Philip’s gaze easily.
“I think that you will return to England within… oh, shall we say a month or so? You won’t want to winter abroad, because that will give Richard too much time to consolidate his position, and if you are going to make a move before winter then you must do so soon, before the rain and sleet set in and the mud makes your task impossible.”
Bolingbroke shrugged, as if the matter was of no concern to him.
“Whatever,” Philip continued, “I have heard, as no doubt have you, that Richard is feeling so sure of himself that he is about to embark for Ireland, there to bludgeon its heathens into accepting his bottom-boy as their king. I imagine you think this your perfect opportunity.”
Philip paused. “And, of course, you would be right. Richard is too stupid to sit on the throne of England… the crown shall gleam much more nicely on your scheming head.”
He leaned forward and all the banter dropped from his face and voice. “Once you have secured England your eyes shall turn to France—to stop the Holy Maid before she stops you, and then to take the kingdom. But you won’t have a chance against Joan, Bolingbroke, unless you ally yourself with me.”
“You want an alliance with me against Joan?”
“Once you’ve managed to secure England… yes. We both want her dead and we can work together to achieve that end.”
“I can do it without you,” said Bolingbroke.
Philip smiled coldly. “No. You can’t. I am sure you have heard of Hotspur’s small debacle at Orleans.”
Bolingbroke’s face closed over, and Philip knew that Bolingbroke had indeed heard of the English defeat there.
“True,” Philip said, “Hotspur didn’t have a strong force, and they were demoralized at that. But I doubt any force could have stopped the French that day.”
Philip told Bolingbroke what he’d seen—how Joan had rallied Orleans and then, at the battle’s height, how the Archangel Michael had appeared in the sky.
“She has God behind her,” Philip finished softly. “Can you counter that?”
“She will burn as easily as any mortal flesh.”
“But only if you can get your hands on her, Bolingbroke. Ally with me against Joan and Charles, and I can give you Joan.”
It was not as simple as that, as Bolingbroke well knew, but on the other hand Philip would be a valuable ally against Joan and Charles … and to have Joan delivered to him…
“How can I trust you?” Bolingbroke said.
“Because you know I want her dead as much as you.”
“And you can deliver her to me?”
“Aye. She has a weakness. She can be seized.”
Bolingbroke smiled cynically. “Supposing that all this comes to pass. We ally against Joan
and Charles, and send both to whatever afterworld awaits them. Then what, Philip? We are left where we began—both wanting the French throne.”