Neville—to meet with such an arch traitor. He is as soon likely to have one of his archers put an
arrow through your breast as engage in gentle courtly parley!‖
―Hotspur will not do that,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―I know him well. He may rail at me, but he
will not stoop to coldblooded murder.‖
―Sire—‖ tried Norbury.
―I have made up my mind,‖ Bolingbroke said, carefully folding the letter. ―Now, see to
the arrangements.‖
As the others set to their tasks, grudgingly, murmuring among themselves, Bolingbroke
locked eyes briefly with Neville.
The three old friends would meet one last time, to see if the old ties of that friendship
would be enough to save staining the fields north of Shrewsbury with English blood.
The wind was cold, the sky still layered with the dirty brown clouds of dawn, the air thick
and irritable with the dust lifted by the hooves of the thirty thousand horses of the armies to the
north and south of Shrewsbury. It was hot, and the noise of insects shrilled through the air.
Neville and Bolingbroke sweated underneath their armour, and within half an hour of
riding out from Shrewsbury, an escort of some three hundred men at their backs, they stank as
badly as they had before their baths the previous night.
The ploughed field with the three oaks lay some two miles north of Shrewsbury along a
badly rutted track. On either side the fields waved thigh-high with grain crops, and the meadows
along the several small streams they passed were thick with over-ripe hay.
But there was no one in the fields weeding the crops, or in the meadows scything the hay.
Neville was uncomfortably reminded of that hot day he rode through northern France, wondering
at the oddness of deserted fields before smelling the foulness of the roasting flesh.
He shuddered, and hoped his memory was not to be an omen.
It was early afternoon, the time Hotspur had said he would meet with Bolingbroke, and in
the near distance Neville could see the dusty black earth of the ploughed field, with the three
oaks standing in a sorry cluster in its southwestern corner.
There were a thousand glints of steel on the far side of the field— a river of steel, thought
Neville—marking the position of Hotspur‘s escort. Presumably his army would be another mile or so behind that.
Hotspur had encamped his force of Scotsmen and Englishmen behind a mid-sized ridge
some three miles north of Shrewsbury late the previous night. As soon as Bolingbroke had risen
at dawn, and been informed of Hotspur‘s arrival, he‘d sent the request that they meet. Hotspur‘s
response had been only an hour in its delivery.
As they arrived at the southern edge of the field, Bolingbroke held up his hand, halting
the advance of his escort. Then he looked at Neville, raising his eyebrows.
Neville nodded, and they kicked their horses forward.
Both he and Bolingbroke rode in full ceremonial armour, although minus any helm or
helmet, or any weaponry. Their plate was gleaming white steel, marked with Bolingbroke‘s
personal standard, as well the three Plantagenet lions. Their horses were decked out in as fine a
manner, although their carefully washed and groomed coats were now coated with the fine dust
that hung in the air.
As bad as our heads of hair, thought Neville, and wished that, somehow, either Hotspur
or Bolingbroke could have magically arranged a damp day so that the dust might have been
settled. He fought the urge to wipe his dry lips, and, as he saw a mounted figure emerge from the
glittering steel at the far side of the field, cleared his throat quietly in order to try and bring some moisture back into his mouth.
―I am glad you are with me,‖ Bolingbroke said from his position slightly to the front of
Neville‘s left.
―I would not have let you come on your own,‖ Neville said, and Bolingbroke flashed him
a boyish grin.
Then they both focused on the rider approaching them, and any merriment on their faces
died.
Hotspur rode a dark bay destrier, festooned in scarlet draperies. Hotspur‘s armour was
scarlet also, with silver decorations. To Neville‘s eyes he looked like the scourge of death riding
to meet them.
―Hail, Harry Hotspur,‖ said Bolingbroke as he reined his destrier to a halt. ―What have I
done, Harry, that you should so maltreat me?‖
Hotspur, also helmetless, glanced between the two men, nodding at Neville, then settled
his gaze on Bolingbroke.
―I have come to revenge Richard,‖ Hotspur said, ―and to settle legitimacy back on the
English throne.‖
―That being yourself, of course,‖ Bolingbroke said.
―God has spoken,‖ Hotspur said. ―The black Dog of Pestilence stalks your reign—‖
―You speak in the riddles of fairy tales,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―Come now, Harry, what need
is there of this? Turn about, now, and ride back to the north. Wall those Scots back in their
mountains where they belong. Sweet Mary Mother of Christ, Harry, all you need do is bow
before me and pledge your allegiance and I will give you all the honours I may.‖
Neville glanced at Bolingbroke. Hal‘s voice had almost broken on that last phrase.
―The Percys can never hope for any justice under a Lancastrian sun,‖ Hotspur said. ―You
would have had us killed as you had Richard. We needed to move to save ourselves.‖
―Harry…‖ Bolingbroke edged his horse closer to Hotspur, who just as quickly edged his
horse away a few paces.
―Harry,‖ Bolingbroke said again, ―does the friendship between us mean nothing?‖
―Our ‗friendship‘ died many years ago, Hal,‖ Hotspur said. ―We have only tolerated each
other since then.‖
―I remember a year or so past,‖ Bolingbroke said, ―when we laughed together in London
at the feasts and tilting matches of Christmastide. We were friends then, surely.‖
―Ah, yes,‖ Hotspur said. ―Was that not the same Christmastide that our beloved King
Edward died, and the Black Prince with him? The same Christmas when the first of several
Plantagenet impediments to your eventual seizure of the throne dropped dead?‖
Neville shifted uncomfortably on his horse, and dropped his eyes.
Hotspur did not fail to notice it. ―Yes, I see that Tom remembers. How is it, Tom, that
you sit on that side of this ploughed field, and not mine?‖
Neville raised his eyes again. ―My loyalty is to Bolingbroke,‖ he said.
Hotspur sneered. ―Your loyalty has ever been to the Lancastrian house, Tom. You even
abandoned your clerical vows when Lancaster snapped his fingers in your face. I knew it even
when we were boys. I could never trust you. Never.‖
―Christ, Harry,‖ Bolingbroke said, holding out a mailed hand in entreaty. ―Why must it
come to this? Why blemish English soil with English blood? What do you want? What can I give
you?‖
Hotspur held Bolingbroke‘s gaze easily. ―Your throne and your death,‖ he said. ―And not
necessarily in that order.‖
―Harry, no! There must be some means, some way, some thing that we can do—‖
―Listen to yourself, Bolingbroke. Begging me to go away. You are a fool!‖
―Hal speaks to you as friend to friend,‖ Neville said quietly. ―He speaks to you as an
Englishman begging you not to put that in motion which will see Englishmen killed. He asks you
to remember who you are, and what once was between you and him.‖
―Who we are? What once lay between us?‖ Hotspur laughed incredulously. ―He is
Lancaster, and I am Percy, and our houses have ever been rivals. I will not sit by and watch a Lancaster take the throne of England.‖
―Your father supported him. Gave him the throne,‖ Neville shouted, finally losing his
temper.
―But I did not! I did not simper all about London singing, ‗Fair Prince Hal! Sweet Prince Hal!‘. I have never given Bolingbroke my loyalty, and will surely not do so now. As to my
father…he has finally seen sense—‖
―And you will oversee the death of the great House of Percy if you persist in this
foolishness,‖ Bolingbroke said. All friendship, all humour, all entreaty had fallen from his voice.
―Your father will not be joining you here, as you surely must have heard by now.‖
Hotspur‘s glowering face was all the confirmation that Bolingbroke needed.
―And Glyndwr has lost himself in the misty Welsh valleys—or so my intelligence
reported to me not an hour ago. Have you heard different? No?‖
Bolingbroke paused, calming his voice. ―Harry, one last chance. Bow to me now, disband
your force, and your house will not suffer. But carry this treason forward and I will destroy your
house—your father, your uncles and cousins, your own infant son. All will perish.‖
Hotspur‘s face twisted with loathing. ―And that‘s all you have ever wanted to do, isn‘t it,
Bolingbroke? From the moment we were boys together you wanted to destroy me.‖
―No,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―I loved you then and I love you now. Pledge to me, Harry, and