awaiting trial for murder, another quarter were in the streets committing murder, yet another
quarter were patrolling the streets with their hatchets and knives looking for an opportunity to do
murder, and the final quarter were, reluctantly, in their workshops dismembering the already
dead.
―We could try to disperse them, sire,‖ said Dick Whittington, who‘d joined Bolingbroke
in the Tower the day previously. ―I have several hundred well-armed men on watch, and—‖
Bolingbroke silenced him with a wave. ―Nay, Dick, I could not countenance that. Not
setting Londoner against Londoner. Instead, set your men to spreading word that I will address
the good citizens of London this evening at dusk, outside the encampment in East Smithfield.‖
Neville raised an eyebrow, both aghast and impressed at Bolingbroke‘s course of action.
To address the crowds was good, a courageous choice. But to pick East Smithfield? Where
Richard had ordered mass murder? And where the crowds might think that Bolingbroke meant to
use the soldiers in the encampment to do the same thing?
―My lord?‖ Mary was seated on a couch near the window, and now she rose with a
helping hand from one of her ladies.
Bolingbroke turned, smiling politely but impatiently at her. Mary looked wan and far
more wasted than she had in previous weeks. The neckline of her gown gaped at shoulders and
breast, and it appeared that Mary‘s arms barely had the strength to carry the weight of the gown‘s
heavy sleeves. Her breasts were so flat as to be non-existent, while her belly was swollen and,
obviously, painful.
―My lord,‖ Mary said again, and Neville heard a worrying breathlessness in her voice.
―Allow me to come with you. Please. I might do some good.‖
Bolingbroke‘s face flushed, and Neville realised that he was angry.
―Mary, my love,‖ Bolingbroke said, ―I cannot allow it. You are too frail. Besides, the
mood of the crowd is dangerous—‖
―And that mood is why I should come with you,‖ Mary said. Her own face had some
colour in it now, and she tilted her chin determinedly. ―I have a gentle voice and presence, and
perchance I can soothe when—‖
―When my words might only inflame? Think you that I cannot manage this on my own,
Mary? Think you that you can save the day as you did at the tournament? Do you think me such
an incapable king?‖
―That is not what I meant, my lord, and well you know it.‖
Owen Tudor, his compassionate face grave under its greying red hair, glanced about at
the appalled and embarrassed faces of the others who were in the chamber, then spoke quickly
before Bolingbroke could respond. ―Your grace, madam, may I suggest something?‖
Bolingbroke shot him a simmering look of anger, but waved his hand for Tudor to
continue.
―I agree with my queen that she accompany you, sire, for she speaks well when she says
that her presence might allay some of the more outward manifestations of anger. But, sire, you
alone should speak, for this is not only your duty, but your right.‖
Bolingbroke gave him another long, hard stare, then nodded. ―You speak sense, my Lord
Tudor, although I still fear for my queen‘s safety.‖
―Then I will ride at her side, sire,‖ said Neville quickly, before Tudor could jump in.
Tudor sent him an ambiguous look.
―So that I might watch over her for you,‖ Neville continued. ―Will you trust me with her
life?‖
Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then again he nodded. ―With you more than with anyone
else, Tom.‖
Then he turned aside, and began to speak of the preparations he would need to make for
his evening‘s activity.
Mary also nodded, first at Tudor, who smiled and bowed slightly, and then at Neville,
clearly relieved at the adroit manner in which they‘d managed to defuse the situation, and sank
back down to her couch.
―Our queen shall surely be safe with you, my Lord Neville,‖ whispered Whittington in
Neville‘s ear.
―Then make sure that your men also spread word that the queen, as ill as she is, will also
attend this evening‘s audience with the king. Make sure the people know that.‖
―Oh, aye,‖ Whittington said, and then he was gone.
V
Wednesday 5th June 1381
—ii—
East Smithfield glittered in the dusk as the lights from a thousand torches glinted off hard
steel and the angry, sceptical eyes of the crowd. People had moved from the streets and markets
through the Tower gate into the meadows of East Smithfield. Normally filled with the sweet
scent of cornflowers, columbines and dandelions at this time of the year, the fields were instead
dust bowls, scarred with the recent excavations for death pits, as well as the more latter-day
hooves and boots of Bolingbroke‘s growing army.
Just as the sun finally set, the sound of horns burst from the battlements of the Tower,
and then the faint shout of those people still about the Lion Gate as King Henry and his party
issued forth to meet with his people.
The crowd in East Smithfield strained, then surged forward, each member desperate to
catch a glimpse of their king. A shout spread through their ranks: ―The king draws near! The
king draws near!‖
And then, as Bolingbroke did indeed draw near, the crowd murmured, swelled, then sank
back.
Bolingbroke rode in all the majesty he could muster, and that was great indeed. His party
numbered perhaps some twenty, or twenty-five—small, considering what Bolingbroke could
have chosen to accompany him. But what his party lacked in numbers, it more than made up
with display. All were arrayed in the most sumptuous of garments: flowing silken robes of the
richest jewel-like hues, embroidered in costly gold and silver threads; many of the greater nobles
among them wore the crowns of their titles, as well their heraldic devices embroidered on their
horses‘ hangings; gems glittered at throat and wrist and chest; chains of gold ran across
shoulders; banners fluttered; great destriers snorted and snapped at any who pressed too close;
and faces, stamped with the nobility and importance of the owner‘s rank, nevertheless managed
to avoid haughtiness to radiate instead assurance and care.
At the head of this cavalcade rode Queen Mary, dressed in a long, flowing robe of
silvered satin over the finest lawn gown. Under her crown, her dark honey-blonde hair was left
free to flow down her back and flutter in the wind of her passing. About her throat sat a wide
collar of emeralds set in gold, and similar bands of gold and emeralds bound her wrists. She
nodded gravely to the crowds as she passed, not making the error of smiling amid their doubts.
A half pace behind her rode Lord Thomas Neville, as resplendently gowned and
bejewelled as any other in the king‘s escort. He wore a scarlet surcoat over white armour about
his chest and arms, and a golden sword in a scabbard that matched his surcoat bobbed at his left
thigh. A great chain of gold and diamonds enclosed his neck and draped over his surcoat. His
head was bare, his black hair and beard carefully trimmed, and his dark eyes never strayed from
the queen‘s form, as if he rode ready to spring forward the instant she showed any weakness.
Bolingbroke rode three paces ahead, and at counterpoint to everyone else in his party.
For, unlike their beautifully gowned and richly adorned figures, Bolingbroke rode completely
un-jewelled save for a simple crown about his silver gilt hair, and he wore, not resplendent robes,
but plain leather armour over which was draped a sleeveless tunic of chainmail. A war sword in a
leather scabbard hung at his hip. His black destrier, similarly, wore nothing but the
accoutrements of war: chainmail about its chest and flanks, armour and thick leather covering the
vulnerable points of its neck.
This was a king under siege, yet prepared to meet that siege head on, and Bolingbroke
wanted all to know it.
He rode deep into the crowd, stopping only when the press grew too thick to ride further.
―Good people,‖ he called, standing in his stirrups and looking about at the crowd. ―I beg
you stand back a little. My queen is ill, and needs air with which to breathe.‖
He swivelled in the saddle, and smiled lovingly at Mary. ―My lady, are you well?‖
Mary, remembering well her duty not to speak, merely inclined her head, arranging about
her face a loving smile to match her husband‘s.
The crowd murmured, then cheered a little.
―Good people!‖ Bolingbroke cried again, turning back to face the crowd. ―You have
carried such burdens of late. The pestilence, rumours—and worse—of rebellion and uprising,
false rumours and whispers. Your lives have been disrupted and made capricious by the whims
of fate and traitor alike. You want certainty and sunlight back in your lives, and I, of all among
you, can understand that need.
―Good people! I know that there is little I can say to allay your misgivings. I know that