―Then I prefer the twenty thousand to the sixty,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―Our reaction must be
three-pronged if we are to keep that sixty thousand separated. Raby, to you I give the most
difficult of tasks—stop Northumberland before he can join his son.‖
Raby nodded, his face grim, then looked at Neville. They shared a silent understanding
born of long association and deep respect: Raby‘s task would be horrendous, not just difficult.
Not only would Raby have to ride hard and fast for the north, but his confrontation with
Northumberland would bring with it all the accumulated bitterness of their long rivalry.
―Sire,‖ Raby said, and half bowed. ―If I may have your permission to retire.‖
―Go, go!‖ Bolingbroke said. Then, when Raby was halfway to the door of the chamber,
Bolingbroke spoke again. ―Ralph. May Christ ride with you.‖
Raby nodded, once, tersely, then was gone.
―Warwick? Suffolk? I need you to deal with our Welsh upstart. Can you manage?‖
Warwick and Suffolk exchanged glances, then Warwick looked back to Bolingbroke and
smiled. He‘d never liked the Welsh. ―Oh, aye, I think we can manage.‖ He bowed, and both men
left.
―And I,‖ Bolingbroke said, ―shall to Shrewsbury.‖
Once some order was restored, and men sent on their appointed tasks, Bolingbroke drew
Neville aside for a quiet word.
―Tom, will you ride with me?‖
Neville did not hesitate. ―Aye.‖
Bolingbroke sighed in relief, which surprised Neville, for he‘d not realised how unsure of
him Bolingbroke had been. ―Thank you. Tom…‖
He hesitated, and seemed to drift off into such a dream world that after a moment or two
had passed Neville felt obliged to say something. ―Hal?‖
―I was thinking of Harry Hotspur, Tom, and of you and me. Of our wild childhood, of our
friendship, and of the times we pledged to defend each other to the death. Even though I‘d
always known of Hotspur‘s ambition, and even though I knew my father‘s and my alliance with
your uncle would undermine what friendship I had with Hotspur…this is still hard news to bear.‖
―A crown always attracts ambition, Hal. You know that.‖
Bolingbroke half smiled. ―How polite you are. You want to say that perchance Richard
felt as betrayed by me as I now feel betrayed by Hotspur.‖
―It had never crossed my mind, sire.‖ Neville grinned.
Now Bolingbroke‘s smile stretched into a genuine expression of merriment. ―Will you
ride as my friend, Tom?‖
―Aye, Hal, I will ride as your friend. I think I will enjoy setting aside questions of love
and angels and demons for a few hard days‘ riding.‖
―Would that we could set them aside for ever, Tom.‖ And Bolingbroke turned away.
IV
Wednesday 5th June 1381
—i—
As quickly as the pall and horror of pestilence had lifted from London, the shadow of
major rebellion enveloped it. The joy that people had felt at their miraculous escape from almost
inevitable death vanished, replaced with yet more uncertainty.
When Hal Bolingbroke ascended the throne, most people assumed that England would
settle into a period of stability. Instead, the opposite appeared to be happening. Uncertainty over
the manner, even the actual fact, of Richard‘s death spread whispered doubt about the legitimacy
of Bolingbroke‘s monarchy. These whispered doubts became the stronger with Exeter‘s
attempted coup during the Windsor tournament. Then, within moments, so it seemed, pestilence
exploded through London and the immediate surrounding areas.
The black Dog of Pestilence, which no one had seen for some twenty years, once more
stalked the lives of the innocent.
Now, Hotspur, and a rebellion the like of which the good people of England had never
seen. An unholy—an abominable—alliance of the northern English, the Scots and the Welsh
against the central and southern peoples of England.
Surely God had spoken? Surely this was the final word and judgement on the legitimacy
of Bolingbroke‘s tenure as king?
Bolingbroke did not waste a single moment of those days which followed news of
Hotspur‘s rebellion. From within the precinct of the Tower complex came the distant shouts of
men, and the noise of horses being readied. Across the green meadows of East Smithfield adjacent to the Tower, where Wat Tyler had once made his fateful demands of Richard, spread
the horse lines and encampments of thousands upon thousands of men-at-arms. Every day their
numbers swelled as Bolingbroke called on the loyalties and obligations of nobles across southern
England. Rumour had it that similarly large encampments of men and horses were building in
Oxfordshire, Worcestershire and Warwickshire, waiting to join up with Bolingbroke‘s main
force as it passed through on its way northwest.
But as men and arms and horses gathered, so did the ordinary people of London. Unsure,
troubled, questioning, people grouped in increasingly large crowds in the major streets and
squares leading to the Tower, and stood in shifting, murmuring clusters outside the East
Smithfield encampment. The markets were filled with housewives and tradesmen, talking not of
the over-pricing of salted cod, or debating the qualities of the fine flannels of Belgium, but of the ever increasing troubles of Hal Bolingbroke.
Sin attracted sin, did it not?
Among them moved yet more friars—those Whittington‘s watchmen were not able to
detect and eject from the city—muttering of the dark evils that had enveloped England since
Bolingbroke seized the throne from poor, young Richard, whose only fault was the naivety and
impetuosity of youth. They talked of the strange deaths of Edward III and the Black Prince, of
the highly convenient deaths of Gloucester and Lancaster, and of how they cleared the way for
Bolingbroke to assume the throne.
Once Richard was removed and murdered, of course.
Evil now sat the throne of England, they whispered, nodding their heads sagely, and
blessing all whom they encountered. Evil sits the throne of England, and until it be removed,
until all traces of it are burned and destroyed, evil and its brother, despair, will multiply until all the good, God-fearing people of England have been crushed and destroyed.
The crowds grew, and their mood grew darker. Fair Prince Hal had long vanished from
their memories.
Early Wednesday morning, Neville stood with several menat-arms on the stone causeway
just inside the Lion Gate. Behind them, in the Lion Tower, one lion, two tigers and a crocodile
roared and croaked, sensing the bleak mood of the crowds gathering in the courtyard beyond the
Lion Gate.
No doubt the giraffe, a gift to Edward III from one of the Muslim sultanates seven years
ago, would also have been whimpering and murmuring were it not for the fact it had died from
the pestilence.
―They‘ve increased three-fold since yesterday evening, my lord,‖ said one of the
men-at-arms. His deeply seamed and browned face seemed impassive, yet when his eyes swung
Neville‘s way he could see that the soldier was gravely concerned.
―How quickly they forget,‖ Neville murmured, turning his gaze now on the people who
crowded just beyond the gate.
―They have not forgot the pestilence, my lord,‖ said another of the soldiers, an almost
gnome-like veteran of many battles, if the twisting scars on his left cheek and neck were
anything to go by. ―Not forgot the husbands and infants they saw tossed into the death pits. They
have not forgot the stink of the rotting, nor the—‖
―I understand!‖ Neville snapped. ―Have you forgot how Queen Mary, ailing herself,
further risked her own life to care for the dying?‖
The soldier dropped his eyes, and then half-turned his face away. Neville had the feeling
that, to this soldier at least, even the memory of Mary‘s selflessness and mercy could not totally
counteract the brooding misgivings of the moment.
He sighed. ―Has the crowd done anything bar murmur and shuffle and stare?‖
―Nay, my lord,‖ replied the first soldier.
―Not yet,‖ mumbled the gnome-like veteran.
Neville glared at him, then turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode back around
the outer ward to the Garden Gate and so into the main complex of the Tower.
He arrived in Bolingbroke‘s royal chambers to find that Bolingbroke was already well
aware of the unrest. Bolingbroke had several captains with him, as well as the Bishop of London,
the Lord Mayor Dick Whittington, one of Bolingbroke‘s household lords, Owen Tudor, and the
usual accompanying bevy of clerks, recorders, messengers and valets. Mary was there also,
accompanied by several of her ladies.
Bolingbroke, dressed in a leather jerkin over his white shirt and hose, heard what Neville
had to say, then nodded. ―We ride out at dawn on the morrow and I cannot afford to leave
London seething behind me.‖ He gave a short laugh. ―Imagine being caught between Hotspur
and the Butchers‘ Guild of London, Tom.‖
Neville barely managed a smile at Bolingbroke‘s poor joke. The Butchers‘ Guild was
notorious for its feast day parade violence, and its efficiency in dismembering any who got in
their way. At any given time it seemed that a quarter of the guild‘s members were in prison