“I am sure that Louis never fathered that girl,” Bolingbroke said. “No doubt her father was some stable lad Isabeau thoughtlessly bedded one warm, lazy afternoon.”
“And if she’s not bastard-bred?” Neville said, watching Bolingbroke as carefully as Bolingbroke had been watching him earlier. “We all know who will be the first to climb into Catherine’s bed.”
Bolingbroke stared stone-faced at Neville, then raised his eyebrows in query. “Philip is with Charles’ camp, Hal.” Philip, King of Navarre, known as Philip the Bad for his mischief making and constant designs on the French throne, to which he claimed a right. “You know he is stuck to Charles’ side to gain whatever advantage he can. And you also know that Philip’s lifelong ambition has been to reach beyond Navarre to the French throne. You’re wrong to suggest that Richard is the only close male relative to John—Philip thinks he has the better blood claim. The instant word reaches France of the treaty, Philip will be lifting back Catherine’s bedcovers with a grin of sheer triumph stretching across his handsome face.”
“Catherine would not allow it.”
“Why not? She has ambition herself and she will need to assure her future. Philip would be one of the few men in Christendom who could guarantee her a place beside the throne.”
Bolingbroke abruptly stood up. “Whatever. I thought you more interested in de Worde’s casket than a young girl’s bedding.” He walked to the door. “In three days’ time I will be called to Westminster as witness to the signing of the treaty. You will come with me, and together we can spend our spare hours haunting the cellars and corridors of the palace complex … the casket must be there somewhere! Now”—Bolingbroke grabbed the door latch and pulled the door open—”we shall collect our women and we will join my father and his lady wife for supper in the hall… they will surely be wondering where we are.”
“Hal, wait! There is one other thing!”
Visibly impatient, Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows.
“A few days before we left Halstow Hall, Wycliffe, Wat Tyler and two Lollard priests, Jack Trueman and John Ball, came to visit.”
All impatience on Bolingbroke’s face had now been replaced with stunned surprise. “What?
Why?”
“To irritate me, no doubt.” Neville paused. “Wycliffe said he was on his way to Canterbury, intimating it was with the leave of your father. Thus, Wat Tyler as escort.”
Bolingbroke slowly shook his head. “As far as we knew, Wycliffe had gone back to Oxford.
But he is in Kent?”
Neville nodded, and Bolingbroke frowned, apparently genuinely concerned.
“I must tell my father Wycliffe has been misusing his name,” he said, then corrected himself.
“No. I will make the inquiries. There is no need to disturb my father.”
Then, with a forced gaiety on his face, Bolingbroke once more indicated the door. “And now, we must return to our women, Tom!”
And with that Bolingbroke disappeared into the corridor as Neville, thoughtful, stared after him.
CECILIA BOHUN, dowager Countess of Hereford, gasped, and her face flushed.
“Madam?” Mary said, leaning over to lay her hand on her mother’s arm.
Cecilia took a deep breath and tried to smile for her daughter. “I fear you must pardon me, Mary. I—”
She suddenly got to her feet, and took three quick steps toward the door. Collecting herself with an extreme effort, she half-turned back to her still-seated daughter.
“Before we sup … I must… the garderobe …” she said, and then made as dignified a dash to the door as she could.
Margaret did not know what to do: what words should she say? Should she say anything? Did the Lady Mary expect her to go after her mother? Would the Lady Mary hate her for witnessing her mother’s discomposure?
“Margaret,” Mary Bohun said, “pray do not fret. My mother will be well soon enough. It is just that… at her age …”
Grateful that Mary should not only have recognized her uncertainty, but have then so generously rescued her, Margaret smiled and nodded. “I have heard, my lady, that the time of a woman’s life when her courses wither and die is difficult.”
“But we must be grateful to God if we survive the travails of childbed to reach that age, Margaret.”
Margaret nodded, silently studying Mary. She was a slender girl with thick, honey-colored hair and lustrous hazel eyes. Not beautiful, nor even pretty, but pleasant enough. However, unusually for a woman of her nobility and inheritance, Mary was unassuming far beyond what modesty called for. When Margaret had first sat down, she thought to find Mary a haughty and distant creature, but in the past half hour she had realized that, while reserved, the woman was also prepared to be open and friendly with a new companion who was not only much more lowly ranked than herself, but whose reputation was besmirched by scandal; Mary must certainly have heard that Margaret’s daughter was born outside marriage, even if she had not heard of Margaret’s liaison with the Earl of Westmorland, Ralph Neville, while in France.
Margaret also realized that Mary was, as Hal had suggested, tainted with a malaise; deep in her eyes were the faint marks of a slippery, sliding phantom, the subterranean footprints of something dark and malignant and hungry.
Margaret shuddered, intuiting from both Hal’s words and her own observations—
Sweet Lord Jesus, before her marriage to Thomas, she had been wed ten years to a man with constant illness—that an imp of rum and decay had taken up habitation within Mary.
Giggling, perhaps, as it waited its chance Having seen that shadow, Margaret knew that Mary’s slimness might not all be due to abstemious dining habits, or the pallor of her cheeks not completely the result of keeping her face averted from the burning rays of the sun, and that the lustrousness of her eyes might be as much due to an as-yet unconscious fever as to a blitheness of spirit.
Mary’s affliction was as yet so subtle, so cunning, that Margaret had no doubt that Mary herself remained totally unaware of it.
Yet how like Hal, she thought, to have seen this affliction and to have realized its potential And how sad that this lovely woman was to he so used Treasured not for her beauty of character, but for the speed of her impending mortality.
“My lady,” Mary said, frowning slightly, “why do you stare so?” Margaret reddened, dropping her eyes. “I am sorry, my lady. I was … merely remembering my own doubts on the eve of my
marriage, and pitying your own inevitable uncertainties.”
As soon as she’d said those words, Margaret’s blush deepened. What if Mary had no uncertainties? What if she chose to view Margaret’s words, as well as her staring, with offense’1
“My lady,” Margaret added hastily, “perhaps I have spoken ill-considered words! I had not thought to imply that—”
“No, shush,” Mary said. “You have not spoken out of turn.”
She hesitated, biting her lip slightly. “My Lady Margaret… I am glad that you are to be my companion. I shall be grateful to have a woman close to my own age to confide in.”
Mary’s eyes flitted about the chamber to make sure that the several servants about were not within hearing distance. “You have been a maid, and now are married with a child. You have undertaken the journey that I am soon to embark upon.”
Margaret inclined her head, understanding that Mary was uncertain about her forthcoming marriage. Well, there was nothing surprising about that.
“My lady,” she said, “it is a journey that most women embark upon. Most survive it.” If not unscarred, she thought, but knew she must never say such to Mary. “My Lord of Hereford,”
Margaret continued, “will no doubt be a generous and loving husband.”
Again Mary glanced about the chamber. “Margaret, may I confide most intimately in you, and be safe in that confidence?”
Oh, Mary, Mary, he wary of whom you confide in! “My lady, you may be sure that you shall be safe with me.”
Even as she spoke the words she initially thought would be lies, Margaret realized that they were true. Whatever Mary told her would be repeated for no other ears.
Mary took a deep breath. “Margaret… the thought of marriage with Bolingbroke unsettles me greatly. He is a strange man, and sometimes I know not what to make of him. I wonder, sometimes, what kind of husband he shall prove to be.”
Margaret briefly closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to Jesus Christ for forgiveness for the lie she knew she now must speak. Christ was her master, and Hal’s, and He knew better than anyone how twisted was the path toward salvation.
“My lady,” she said, smiling as reassuringly as she could, “your fears are but those of every maid approaching her marriage bed and who fears the unknown. Rest assured that my Lord of Hereford will surely prove the most loving of husbands and one that most women would be more than glad to have in their beds.”