But his bravado faded almost immediately and, unbidden and unwanted, tales of the imps and demons that haunted these halfway worlds came to his mind.
His lips tightened in a silent snarl, furious that he should let these little-boy tales disturb him, and he began to wade as quietly, but as quickly, as he could in the direction he thought the fields lay.
Fuck Richard—-for all he cared Bolingbroke could draw and quarter him.
De Vere began to hope very, very much that Bolingbroke would do exactly that. If it wasn’t for Richard and his unnatural lusts he wouldn’t be here right now. God, if he ever managed to get his hands on the little prick again he’d—
De Vere stopped, his heart thudding.
Something had made a noise behind him.
Not a bird.
Not a frog.
Not anything small It sounded again, a strange warbling cry that de Vere instantly knew was not of this world—not of God’s world.
He drew in a sharp breath, trying not to panic.
Which direction had it come from?
Where?
Again a wet, lilting, warbling cry … and it was much, much closer.
And moving.
Fast.
De Vere panicked as he heard reeds being crushed and mangled with the movements of the creature behind him—no! Now to his left. He pitched and staggered forward, not caring how much noise he made because now he knew that the creature behind him was on his tail, he knew it could scent him, he knew that at any moment something from the pits of hell would worm its way up behind him and take him by the shoulder, or head, or buttocks—
Something lurched and crashed so close to de Vere he felt reeds pitch forward and slap against the back of his head.
He screamed; then again, and then once more, wanting above anything else for someone, anyone, to issue forth across the marsh and rescue him.
Something beneath the water slithered forward and slid about one of de Vere’s ankles.
With what seemed the last of his strength he lunged forward, tearing his ankle out of the creature’s grip—Lori God! Now he could smell its fetid breath!-—and, not caring about the agony in his shoulder, used both hands to drag himself forward, forward, forward through the marsh as the horror behind him lunged and splashed and roared and gurgled.
Something—something not of this world—raked claws down his back, and he felt skin tear along with the fabric of his tunic and shirt.
His breath now heaving in and out of his throat in short, desperate shrieks, de Vere continued to struggle forward, everything gone from his mind but the need to get away from the creature at his back. He could feel blood mingle with the water and slime of the marsh down his back, but he did not care, his wounds could wait, it was his life that had to be saved—
Suddenly, miraculously, the reeds thinned then vanished. De Vere squinted, and gasped in sheer relief.
There before him, only a few feet away, lay the raised causeway.
Sobbing with relief, uncaring of the further injury he was doing to his shoulder by using his arm, de Vere dragged himself free of the marsh’s grip and scrambled on his hands and knees onto the blessedly dry surface of the causeway.
He did not notice that the causeway was strangely deserted.
The marsh lay still and silent behind him. Whatever the creature was, apparently it had slithered away into the marsh world once it realized its quarry had evaded it.
De Vere collapsed to the ground, his breath heaving m and out of his chest, then rolled over onto his back, staring at the cold, starry sky above.
Praise God, praise God, praise God, praise…
“Your God shall not save you here. Not here, not in this time. Not in my time.”
The cold, vicious voice so shocked de Vere that he could not breathe for a long moment.
When finally he managed to rack in a breath, and roll in the direction of the voice, he refused for another long moment to believe what he saw.
Bolingbroke … but not Bolingbroke.
The man stood some three or four paces away between de Vere and the castle, which was itself a good half mile distant.
He was completely naked, his skin glinting in the faint light with the silvery fairness of his body hair.
And even though he looked to be a man, de Vere knew instinctively that he was as otherworldly as the creature that had harried him through the marsh …
… harried him into Bolingbroke’s trap…
Gasping in agony from his wounds, de Vere managed to roll over and raise himself to his knees.
Bolingbroke snarled, and de Vere saw that his teeth were small, and pointed.
He struggled to his feet, backing away a step or two.
Bolingbroke walked forward two steps with such exquisite grace de Vere could not be completely sure that he hadn’t glided instead of stepped.
“Do you remember,” the beautiful, silvery thing called Bolingbroke said, “how Margaret lay screaming beneath your body as you raped her?”
De Vere backed away another step.
“Can you imagine her pain as you forced yourself into her?”
De Vere looked over the creature’s shoulder toward the castle. He lifted his good arm and screamed, and waved.
The creature laughed. “There is no one there to hear you, nor see you.”
Then the laughter vanished from its face. “Did you never think to pity her as you abused her?”
“Please,” de Vere said, “please, I’ll do anything you want… just let me go… please…”
“Not until I’ve had my satisfaction,” the creature said, “as you once had your satisfaction of Margaret.”
And then the creature leaned forward, and as it did so its form changed until, by the time its hands had reached the ground, it was no longer man-shaped, but glowed red and gold in the form of one of the Plantagenet lions.
Its form was exactly as the lions represented on the Plantagenet standard, not as one of the lions de Vere had seen in the Tower’s cages. Its square head was over-large, its mouth a long dark slash. Compared to the size of the head, its thin tawny body was too slight, and its legs far too short and stubby.
Curled, twitching over its back, twice as long as its body, was a tufted tail.
De Vere turned to run, but the lion sprang as he did so, pinning de Vere to the ground.
As the lion’s claws tightened in his chest, and the creature’s breath washed over his face, de Vere screamed.
CHAPTER V
The day before the Vigil of the
Feast of SS. Egidius and Priscus
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 30th August 1380)
— III —
BOLINGBROKE DROPPED his hand, and time recommenced. No one had noticed the enchantment that had bound them: it had been merely the blink of an eye from the moment Bolingbroke had lifted his hand and then dropped it.
They only saw what had suddenly appeared beneath the hooves of Richard’s horse— de Vere’s naked, mutilated body.
Neville, half a pace behind and to one side of Bolingbroke, gasped in shock.
Richard’s horse reared in fright, and the youth narrowly avoided being thrown. As the horse thudded back onto all fours, he looked down to see what had startled it, and cried out.
“Robbie!”
Then he cried again, but this time his voice made no words, merely an animalistic utterance of grief and loss.
Bolingbroke turned his head slightly and looked at Neville, who was as shocked as everyone else staring at the mangled mess beneath Richard’s horse. Neville dragged his eyes away from what was left of de Vere, then gasped, for he could hardly believe the gray lines of fatigue he saw in Bolingbroke’s face, or the desperate weariness he saw in his eyes.
Had that brief battle so tired him, that he should be this close to exhaustion?
“Evil can twist and turn,” Bolingbroke said to Neville, his voice a harsh whisper, “but it can never escape justice.”
Then he turned back to Richard.
“Richard,” he said, his voice a little stronger, “do you admit before the men of England here standing, your malicious tyranny in subverting the law to the detriment of noble and commoner alike?”
“What?” Richard cried, his voice cracking with the continuing shock of de Vere’s bloodied corpse. His horse still skittered about nervously, and Richard wrenched at its reins, trying to bring it to a halt.
“What?” he said again. “There is no tyranny here but yours, traitor!”
He swiveled about, his eyes jerking from man to man behind him.
“Seize the traitor!” he screamed. “Seize him!”
Before anyone could move, Bolingbroke pushed his horse past Richard and rode deep into the column, its men and horses parting for him, where, earlier, they had milled chaotically.