your lance bounces off his balls and bruises them so badly he shall not sire any more sons.‖
Raby guffawed loudly. ―I shall aim with intent,‖ he said. ―England could do with a few
less Hollands. Now, where are those damn squires? I need my helmet!‖
When he‘d left his uncle, Neville wandered as close as he could to Exeter‘s tents without
attracting unwanted attention. Sundry knights and nobles scurried about, most in full battle
armour, all with tense expressions and narrowed eyes that darted this way and that.
Neville stood behind the tent of a minor noble and chewed at his lip in thought. How
many men did Exeter and his fellow Hollands have with them? Two or three hundred, no more.
They wouldn‘t have been able to bring any more without attracting undue attention.
So, Exeter‘s allies, then. Who were they likely to be? Northumberland? Northumberland
had ever had his disagreements with Bolingbroke and his father, the Duke of Lancaster, and
particularly with Neville‘s own family. But Northumberland had too much to lose by turning
against Bolingbroke, and far more to gain by standing at his side.
So Northumberland was unlikely to ally himself with Exeter, and Hotspur,
Northumberland‘s son, who may very well have supported an Exeter bid to topple Bolingbroke,
was still far in the north.
There were, of course, a slew of lesser nobles who might support Exeter—Neville well
knew that the wounds caused by Bolingbroke‘s extraordinary rise to power had not yet
healed—but Neville simply couldn‘t see how they could hope to form a force strong enough to
defeat Bolingbroke‘s allies who were here in force; Raby and Northumberland, in particular, had huge escorts of men at the tournament.
A movement to his left caught Neville‘s eye and he turned, then frowned slightly at what
he saw.
None other than the Abbot of Westminster, striding out of Exeter‘s tent and looking
guilty enough to confess to Christ‘s murder if someone should put a knife to his throat and ask
him to say the words.
The abbot disappeared down a narrow alley between rows of tents, and Neville hurried
after him.
After five minutes the abbot paused, looked about—causing Neville to duck behind a
saddled destrier—then entered a small tent. In an instant he was out again, and a few heartbeats
after his exit five Dominican friars hurried out, split up, and merged into the crowds.
What was the abbot doing, consorting first with Exeter, then with Dominicans, of all
people?
Neville hesitated, then followed one of the Dominicans. The man‘s hooded black figure
made him easy to track at a safe distance in the otherwise gaudy multitude.
The friar led Neville back towards the hordes of common folk who had come to watch
the tournament. Now and then he would stop, catch the attention of a small group of men and
women, whisper something, then move on.
Neville‘s disquiet grew, especially since the people the friar talked to remained agitated
after the friar had moved on, and turned to talk to others within the crowd. He watched the
Dominican work his way through the throng, thought about continuing his pursuit of him, then decided to ask some of the people what they‘d been told by the friar.
―My good man,‖ Neville said quietly to one man standing in a group of five or six others,
―what did the friar tell you?‖
The man glanced at his fellows, licking his lips nervously, then looked back at this lord
who had addressed him.
―He said…‖ the man hesitated, ―…he said that Richard our king is not dead, and that he
will be riding to London within the week to reclaim his throne.‖
― What? ‖
―It‘s what he said.‖
―It‘s not true, dammit! Man, believe me, Richard is dead!‖
But the group stared at Neville, shaking their heads, and looked about uncertainly.
―Perhaps he still is alive,‖ one man said. ―Why shouldn‘t he be? Perhaps these stories of
his death were false.‖
Neville opened his mouth to refute the lie one more time, then shut it as he suddenly
realised what Exeter was going to do.
―My God,‖ Neville whispered, and hurried off.
Mary shifted a little on her cushions, trying to ease the agony coursing up and down her
spine. Her face twisted, and she gasped.
―Madam?‖ Margaret whispered, shocked by the whiteness of Mary‘s face. She grabbed at
Mary‘s hand, then looked to Bolingbroke.
He was already staring at Mary, and had taken her other hand. ―Mary,‖ he said, ―how bad
is it?‖
―Bad enough,‖ Mary whispered.
Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. The fact that Mary had admitted her pain told
her a great deal: Mary was in absolute agony. Nothing else would drive her to actually admitting
discomfort.
―Do something,‖ Bolingbroke hissed to Margaret, then turned to smile and wave at the
people whose heads had turned to watch what was happening in the royal box. She is tired, no
more.
Margaret hesitated. ―I have no more of the liquor,‖ she said.
Mary tried to smile, and failed dismally. ―I have been too greedy,‖ she said. ―It is my
fault.‖
Again Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. I can do for her what I did for Lancaster
in his final hours. Ease her pain.
No! She will know that you are other than what you present yourself!
And would that be so bad?
Meg, do not go against my will. We will be finished here soon enough.
Margaret dropped her eyes. I hope it is not your fate to die a lingering, painful death,
Hal.
―I will be well enough once we leave this place,‖ Mary said. ―Do not fear for me,
Margaret.‖
―It is difficult to avoid fearing for those whom you love dearly,‖ Margaret said, and her
eyes filmed with tears.
―I am suffering no more than those poor men below who have been trampled beneath
horses‘ hooves,‖ Mary said, patting at Margaret‘s hand. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper.
―Thank you for caring, Margaret.‖
Margaret took one of Mary‘s hands in both of hers, and very, very gently rubbed its back
with her thumbs. With Mary, as she had done with Lancaster, she should dig her thumbs in
deeply to give the relief required for such pain, but if she did that, and eased Mary‘s pain to a
remarkable degree, then Mary would indeed suspect something.
So Margaret gently rubbed, and the continual movement, with the slight power she put
into it, managed to take the edge off Mary‘s pain. It happened so gradually that Mary herself did
not connect the very slight easing of her pain with Margaret‘s rubbing.
She merely thought the ease was due to Margaret‘s love…which, in a sense, it was.
After a few minutes Mary straightened her back a little, and lifted her head, suddenly
becoming aware of the concerned looks being sent her way.
Mary smiled, then waved her hand a little. ―A bad moment, my good people,‖ she said.
―Nothing else. See, I am quite well now.‖
And gradually those staring smiled, nodded, and returned their eyes to the tourney field
before them.
Once their attention was back on the field, Mary turned to Margaret, and kissed her
cheek. ―Thank you for your love,‖ she said. ―It means so much.‖
Margaret blinked back her tears, and smiled, and would have spoken save that
Bolingbroke leaned over and hushed them.
―Quiet! The joust of the tournament begins.‖
Mary turned her head back to the field—its grass now all but torn up where it wasn‘t
littered with congealing pink mounds of sawdust. All but one jousting lane had been cleared
away, and at either end of this single remaining lane sat two great warriors on their destriers:
Exeter and Raby.
Both men and their mounts were fully armoured: Raby in black armour emblazoned with
the Neville device across breastplate and helm; Exeter in gleaming white armour, similarly
emblazoned with his own heraldic devices.
An official shouted an instruction, and both men slowly lowered their lances.
Their destriers bunched beneath them, knowing that at any instant they would be sent
thundering towards their opponent.
A flag dropped, the crowd roared, and the destriers lumbered into movement.
Bolingbroke leaned forward in his chair, his face tense, one fist clenched. ―Do me proud,
Ralph,‖ he muttered. ―Do me proud.‖
Raby and Exeter pounded towards each other, their bodies hunched over lance and shield,
their heads swaying with the violent movement of their horses.
They met in a grinding of metal in the centre of the field: sparks flew, horses grunted, but
both lances slid off their opponent‘s shield harmlessly as each passed the other, trying to pull up
their destriers with hands laden with shield and weapon.
Squires leapt to their masters‘ aid, catching the destriers and turning them about.
The crowd‘s roar grew louder.
Bolingbroke turned to say something to Mary, then stopped, his eyes fixed on Thomas
Neville who had climbed the stairs into the stand and was now fast approaching the royal box.