from the pestilence, people had poured out into the streets to honour her.
Neville smiled. Mary had been exhausted, and so obviously in pain, but at the same time
she‘d been delighted and uplifted by the gratefulness and love shown her.
―Beloved Lady,‖ they‘d called her, and Neville could not think of a better title to bestow
on her. Beloved Lady, indeed.
Full of surprises.
―Tom?‖
He blinked, and turned his head. Margaret had finished her bathing and now, naked, was
crawling into their bed. He reached out for her, holding her close to his body, and burying his
face in her hair.
―Tom,‖ she whispered, rubbing close against his body, as clean and as sweet as hers after
his earlier bath. ―I am glad to have my husband back.‖
He kissed her, then began to slowly caress her breasts. ―You have no need to be jealous
of Mary. I love her only as everyone else does.‖
―And if she were fit and well and free of any spousal encumbrance? And you the same?‖
Neville rolled Margaret onto her back. ―It would still be you in my bed, Meg.‖ He
covered her body with his, teasing her with intent, but not action.
She moaned, trying with her hands to push him down into her. ―But would you want her
as a wife? Would you love her?‖
―You are my wife, and I love you.‖
―But—‖ She gasped as Neville finally pushed himself inside her body, making love to
her with long, slow, powerful strokes. He kissed her, deep and sweet, massaging her breasts and
belly with firm, knowing hands.
―But,‖ she finally managed, dragging her mouth away from his, and trying to keep her
mind intact amid the sweet onslaught of his loving, ―do you love me enough to hand me your—‖
―Jesus Christ, Margaret!‖ Suddenly Neville pulled away from her, rolling over to his side
of the bed. ―Can you not ever leave that alone?‖
There was a long, bitter silence.
―If I had been Mary,‖ Margaret eventually said, ―you would not have rolled away.‖
PART THREE
Shrewsbury
―Also we do allege, saie & entend to prove that thou hast caused kynge Richarde our
soueraigne lorde and thine, traiterously within the castell of Poumfret, without the consent or
iudgement of the lordes of the realme, by the space of fiftene daies and so many nightes (which
is horible emong christian people to be heard) with honger, thirste and colde to perishe, to be
murdered [and then] thou by extorte power, diddest usurpe and take the kyngdom of
Englande…uniustly and wrongly, contrary to thyne othe…for the whiche cause we defy thee, thy
fautoures and complices as comen traytoures and destroyers of the realme.‖
Excerpts from the statement made by Northumberland and Hotspur prior to the battle of
Shrewsbury
I
Wednesday 29th May 1381
They trotted in long snaking lines down the mountains and valleys to vanish within the
drifting mists. They re-emerged just as the great wall rose before them, and shouted when they
saw it, thrusting fists and pikes into the night air. This was a day they‘d longed for through vast,
hateful centuries. Many exposed themselves to the stonework, demonstrating their ancient malice
for all who cared to see. By dawn they were through into Cumberland, passing underneath gated
arches opened by silent, resentful Englishmen.
The horsemen, thousands of them, moved in clattering lines past Carlisle, whose terrified
citizens shuttered themselves tight inside their homes. Rain fell, sheeting down in grey, cold
rivers, but the horsemen ignored it, for this cold and wet was as a home to them. They pushed
their small, tough horses into a canter, riding through the dark midmorning of West Warde
Forest and then further south towards the hills and Copeland Forest.
Finally, as the afternoon grew grim and chill, they approached the village of Black Hal
just above the border of Lancashire.
There lay the English army, and in a tangle of wild beards and colourful tartans the Scots
pushed their exhausted mounts into a gallop, and raised their pikes and swords, and rode to meet
their hated enemy.
Sir Henry Percy, Harry Hotspur, stood frowning in the doorway of the porch where he
had made his headquarters.
―Douglas,‖ he said to the man who‘d come to stand at his shoulder, ―I hope to God you
can keep them under some semblance of order. I need an army, not a rabble.‖
Archibald, fourth Earl of Douglas, grinned amiably. He was a huge man, all muscle and
darkness, and all grace of movement and manner. ―They‘re hot-hearted lads,‖ he said, in a voice
that was thickened by only the barest of Scottish brogues, ―but true-hearted. And they are mine.
They will do whatever I tell them.‖
Hotspur chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if Douglas would stay true to the
bargain they‘d hammered out between them. Allowing this Scottish army to mingle with his
went against everything he‘d fought for his entire life.
―I‘ve too much to lose to move against you,‖ Douglas said softly.
Still Hotspur did not answer, his dark eyes flickering over the English and Scottish camps
before him. The tension was palpable, and Hotspur wondered if he shouldn‘t have kept the two
encampments further apart.
―They‘re going to have to fight together,‖ Douglas said softly. ―Best for them to learn to
bed together now.‖
―Are you a magician to so read my thoughts?‖
Douglas laughed. ―‗Tis the fey fairy blood of our people, laddie. Come, our captains can
keep the peace between your men and mine, and there‘s food awaiting us in the church.‖
Hotspur lingered briefly, glancing once more over the English and Scots. Sweet Jesu in
Heaven, let this alliance hold together just long enough for it to do what I need.
Then he turned his back on the gathering darkness, and walked into the brilliantly lit
church.
There his commanders awaited him, as well as the grim Prior General Thorseby. The man
was always hovering about in shadows, too eager to lean into any conversation he encountered
and whisper his hatred of Bolingbroke. Hotspur well knew that Thorseby‘s obsession with
Thomas Neville had spilled over into an equally vile hatred of Bolingbroke, and that perhaps all
Thorseby said should not be believed. But Thorseby appealed to Hotspur‘s own long-nurtured
resentment of Bolingbroke, and of Bolingbroke‘s too-loving alliance with the Percys‘ rival,
Raby, the Earl of Westmorland.
Above all, England did not need another Lancaster…and most certainly not as king. That
would spell disaster for the Percys and their ambitions.
Apart from Hotspur‘s and Douglas‘ commanders and Thorseby, there were several other
men present. The Earl of Fife, Douglas‘ son, also named Archibald. With him sat the earls of
Orkney, Angus and Moray. All, as Douglas, had been taken prisoner by Hotspur at the battle of
Hombildon Hill. And all, as Douglas, were now allies rather than prisoners.
Partners in a coalition so fantastic that had they been told of it several months ago they
would have laughed at, and then beheaded, the fool who thought to relate it to them.
Fantastic it might be, but if successful it would bring everyone concerned such riches,
and such power, that the fantastic needed to be taken very seriously indeed.
―And so the vengeance in the hand of God readies itself to strike,‖ Thorseby whispered as
Hotspur sat down.
Hotspur shot him a dark look, and wondered if he could possibly leave the madman
behind when they marched south. He‘d put up with the man for over six months, and that was six
months too long.
But he‘d been useful, bringing with him powerful factions from within the Church.
Dominican friars had spent the last few months spreading rumours amid the English, whispering
that Bolingbroke was not God-blessed, and that he‘d taken the throne illegally amid a welter of murder. Once Hotspur was successful, and had taken Bolingbroke‘s head, then Thorseby would
swing the might of the Church behind his own claim to the throne, crowning Hotspur with an
aura of legitimacy.
Hotspur sighed as he accepted a cup of warmed wine from a valet. He needed Thorseby a
while longer. But one day…one day…
―Have ye heard from ye father?‖ said Moray. The support of Hotspur‘s father, the Earl of
Northumberland, was critical to their eventual success.
Hotspur drained the wine and handed the cup back to his valet. ―Aye. He gathers men in
Yorkshire and Northumberland.‖
―They are of little use to us in the northwest,‖ observed Douglas.
―He will meet us in Cheshire,‖ Hotspur said, staring at Douglas until the man averted his
eyes. ―Believe it.‖
―There are some,‖ said Fife, keeping his voice indifferent, ―who say that it seems passing
strange that not seven months since the Percys helped put Bolingbroke on the throne they now
seek to dethrone him.‖
―What the Percys make, they can unmake,‖ Hotspur said. ―We are the kingmakers of
England. No one else.‖
―But are you sure you want to do this, laddie?‖ Douglas said. ―My son speaks only what