about the coffer, and the mourning robes for the official wailers and weepers. Richard has ever
been an expensive burden to England.‖
VI
Saturday 4th May 1381
—iv—
She dreamed, and yet it felt unlike any dream she‘d been lost in before, for in this dream
she was both witness and participant.
She dreamed of a woman, a woman on her knees atop a dusty, stony hill swept by a
warm, fragrant wind. Above pressed a heavy, depressing sky; the atmosphere was hot and humid, and full of noiseless lament. In the distance was a walled city dressed in pale stone, and a
roadway lined with people leading from the city gates to the hill where she knelt.
The woman‘s world had turned to grief. Her tears ran down her cheeks and dripped into
the neckline of her white linen robe. Dark hair lay unbound down her back and clung in
dampened wisps about her face. A cloak of sky blue lay to one side.
Several yards away lay her husband, still and dead, his corpse battered and bloodied. He
had been sprawled across a rock for the vultures to feast on.
She reached out a hand towards him, wordlessly, now too exhausted and emotionally
devastated to weep any more than she already had.
How could it have ended like this? Why had people hated him so much?
―Take her!‖ came a shout, and she jerked her head up at the same moment her hands
slipped about her swollen belly.
People—soldiers, several priests and a crowd of ordinary men and women—surged
towards her, and she started to rise. But her foot caught on the hemline of her robe, and she
tripped and sprawled on the dusty earth.
She tried to rise again, desperate, knowing they meant her death, but she was too late.
Hands seized her by the shoulder of her robe and by her hair, and dragged her to her feet.
―Whore!‖ someone cried, and the entire crowd took up the accusation. ―Whore! Whore!
Whore!‖
―I am not,‖ she said, but her words were lost in the roar of the crowd. ―I am not!‖
I am not a whore, but a queen, she wanted to say, not understanding why it was she
thought that.
But delusions were not going to help her or her unborn baby now.
They dragged her forth, ignoring her pitiful cries for mercy, to where a long-dry well had
been covered over. Men tore away the wooden beams that closed the well, exposing a thirty-foot
drop.
Then, still roaring their hatred, they threw her down.
They stopped roaring soon enough to hear her body hit the rocks at the bottom of the
well.
A minute passed, then one of the priests grunted as he saw her limbs move slightly in
their agony.
―She lives still,‖ he said, bending and picking up a rock.
All about him, those closest to the rim of the well bent down, and picked up their own
rocks.
Then they began, one by one, to pitch them down towards the woman.
It took them most of the remaining hours of the afternoon to kill her completely, and
before they were done they‘d broken every bone in her body.
Margaret sat by Mary‘s bed, watching the woman‘s chest rise and fall in shallow, slow
breaths. Mary had been moaning in agony by the time Neville had carried her back to her
chamber, and Culpeper, the castle physician, alerted to her need by runners who had come ahead,
had been ready at hand. He‘d given Mary a powerful infusion of monkshood, wild mushroom
and opium poppy, which had eased Mary‘s pain within minutes.
It had also caused her mind to drift, and for almost an hour Margaret had sat holding
Mary‘s hand as the queen talked of things she could never have seen, and people she could never have met.
Now, Margaret hoped, Mary had finally settled into a deep sleep.
But just as Margaret was about to rise and go to her own bed, Mary‘s eyes flew open.
―Meg?‖ she whispered in a cracked voice. ―Meg? Are you here?‖
―I‘m right beside you, my sweet lady. I have never left.‖
―Where am I, Meg?‖
―Why, you are in your chamber in the Rose Tower, my lady.‖
Mary‘s head slowly rolled back and forth and her eyes searched. ―No, no. I cannot be.
What is that wind? And that scent of sweet spice upon it?‖
―Madam—‖
―And why do I weep? Why do I feel such loss?‖
Margaret leaned closer and saw that, indeed, Mary did weep. Great tears rolled down her
cheeks.
Mary stared ahead, as if looking at someone. ―Is he dead? Is he?‖
―Madam!‖ Margaret grabbed Mary‘s hand between both of hers, and squeezed as tightly
as she dared.
Mary continued to stare ahead, then she gasped, and cried out softly. ―No! No!‖
―Mary!‖ Margaret was beside herself, wondering what to do. Had the potion been too
strong? Was it murdering Mary instead of aiding her? She half turned, meaning to wake the
women who slept at the foot of Mary‘s bed, but just then Mary whipped her head about on the
pillow and stared at Margaret.
―You are not all you would have me believe, are you, Margaret?‖
Margaret opened her mouth, not knowing what to say.
Mary‘s mouth grimaced in a frightful rictus, her breath odorous due to the potion she‘d
imbibed and the dryness of her tongue.
―Margaret,‖ she whispered, ―why do so many people lie to me?‖
And then, suddenly, she was asleep, and breathing easy.
Her hand relaxed away from Margaret‘s.
VII
Friday 17th May 1381
―What clearer sign could you hope to have, my lord, than that of Exeter‘s revolt?‖
The son of the Earl of Northumberland, Sir Henry Percy, commonly called Hotspur,
slouched in the chair, staring at Prior General Richard Thorseby with dark, unreadable eyes. The
Prior General had joined his household six months ago, just after Bolingbroke had himself
crowned. And for six months the Prior General had been whispering and arguing and pleading:
King Henry was an evil man who had murdered Richard and who would drive England into the
mud of ignominy should he be allowed to keep the throne.
And who else was to act if not Hotspur?
―Exeter‘s revolt lasted an afternoon, Prior General,‖ Hotspur said, ―and ended in his
death and those of his allies. I do not call that a ‗clear sign‘.‖
―People resent Bolingbroke! The country will rise up against him if you lead!‖
Hotspur sprang out of his chair, snatching a pike from a surprised man-at-arms guarding
the doorway of the chamber, and threw it down at Thorseby‘s feet. ―If you think the country so
ready to rise, then lead it yourself!‖
Thorseby took a deep breath and composed his face. He folded his hands inside the
voluminous sleeves of his habit and affected a righteous air, not realising that it only antagonised
Hotspur further.
―Bolingbroke must be overthrown. He is the devil‘s spawn.‖
Trying to keep his temper, Hotspur strode to a shuttered window, unlatched one of the
shutters, and drew it open. Outside there was nothing but cold, grey fog, with here and there the
bare black branches of wind-blasted trees reaching into the low sky like the skeletal fingers of a
corpse.
Lord God, Hotspur thought, I do not know which I hate more— the damp climes of these northern lands, or the ever-whining voice of the Prior General.
He stood a few minutes, allowing the still grey landscape outside to calm him, then he
closed the shutter and turned back to Thorseby.
―I can understand your dislike of Thomas Neville,‖ Hotspur said, ―but why your sudden
hatred of Bolingbroke? Do you profess to hate him, and thus beg me to dislodge him from the
throne, only so you can once more claim Neville?‖
Thorseby took his time in answering. In truth, he did loathe Bolingbroke because of his
protection of Neville…but that was not all. Sometimes, over these past few months, he‘d had
strange visitations from shadowy, cloaked figures who had whispered that they were the
messengers of the angels, and it was heaven‘s wish that Bolingbroke be torn down and
destroyed. In his more lucid moments, Thorseby feared these shadowy, whispering visitors were
but figments of his imagination. But these moments were few and far between, and generally
Thorseby knew he had God, the angels and all of heaven behind him on this issue.
Bolingbroke must go. Neville must be brought to justice. And Hotspur was the most
logical instrument of God‘s will.
―Bolingbroke is an ungodly man,‖ Thorseby said, ensuring his face and voice remained
calm and reasonable. ―He murdered Richard and unjustly usurped his throne. He must be brought to justice. If my words do not persuade you, then be prepared. Soon God shall make His will
clear with an unmistakable sign. You might not believe me, my lord, but you shall surely believe
God.‖
―Oh, and what shall God do?‖ said Hotspur. ―Send a plague of frogs? Turn the Thames