―Hal is now king,‖ Neville said. ―He has great lords and Privy Councillors, and even,‖ he
allowed himself a small smile, ―Lord Mayors to advise him. He does not need me so much.‖
―And the friendship has died along with Hal‘s elevation to the throne? I ask,‖
Whittington hurried on, noting the surprise in Neville‘s face, ―because I care deeply for Hal, and
I cannot think that he is the better man for the loss of your friendship.‖
―He has not lost my friendship,‖ Neville said, noting Whittington‘s easy use of
Bolingbroke‘s Christian name. ―We have merely grown distant with circumstances.‖ He did not
say that what Bolingbroke had lost was Neville‘s complete trust once he‘d realised the depth of
Bolingbroke‘s lies and manipulations.
―Hal did what he needed to gain the throne,‖ Whittington said very quietly. ―England is
the better land for his actions.‖
Now Neville stared outright at Whittington. What did he allude to? Bolingbroke‘s
rebellion against Richard, or the series of well-planned murders that ensured Bolingbroke was
the only Plantagenet left to succeed to the throne?
And if Whittington alluded to the murders…then what did that make the Lord Mayor?
Man, or demon?
―Who are you?‖ Whittington said, his voice still quiet. ―Hal‘s man, or the angels‘?‖
Neville‘s own question answered, he abruptly stood. ―I am my own man, my Lord
Mayor,‖ he said, knowing that would be the answer Bolingbroke most feared, and knowing
Whittington would certainly report it back to the king. ―And now, I will detain you no longer. I am sure London needs its Lord Mayor more than I do.‖
And with that he turned and strode away.
As Neville disappeared into the building, Whittington looked to the windows of the Great
Chamber, and shook his head slightly.
Bolingbroke looked down from the window of the Great Chamber, catching the shake of
Whittington‘s head.
His face hardened, his suspicions confirmed.
Behind him droned on the voices of his advisers, debating the merits of raising the
passport application fee yet again, but Bolingbroke heard none of it.
Instead, his thoughts were full of Neville.
Why was Archangel Michael so confident of Neville? How could he be so sure of him?
―What is your secret, Tom?‖ Bolingbroke murmured. ― What is your secret?”
Neville blinked as he walked under the stone arch into the shaded walks of the King‘s
Cloister. There were a few people about enjoying the early spring air, but it was still relatively
quiet.
Neville nodded to two young lords whom he knew, then ducked into the stairwell that led
to the royal apartments on the second level.
He emerged in the upper gallery, but turned away from the door leading to the Great
Chamber and to Bolingbroke. Neither did Neville so much as glance at the open door of the
beautiful chapel that ran along the upper gallery at right angles to the Great Chamber.
Instead, Neville walked purposefully towards the Queen‘s apartments and the loveliest
chamber in the entire castle complex—the Rose Tower.
He paused at the door, nodding to the two guards standing outside, then walked through
without any announcement…apart from Bolingbroke, Neville was the only person in the royal
court ( in the entire kingdom) permitted so to do by the lady within.
Neville paused just inside the door, hearing it close softly behind him, and looked about.
There were several ladies in the chamber, all grouped about the hearth, spinning and
gossiping softly.
Margaret was not among them, and Neville supposed his wife was still in their apartment
with their two children.
Mary lay on a couch set by the windows so that the morning light could fall upon her,
and so that her gaze could in turn fall upon the awakening springtime outside.
Neville smiled, knowing Mary regarded him from under her downcast eyelashes, and
walked towards her. As he did so, he once more admired the beauty of this chamber, as he did
every time he entered it.
Bolingbroke‘s grandfather, Edward III, had redeveloped and redecorated much of
Windsor Castle, and the pride of his refurbishing was the Rose Tower chamber, which Edward
had made his inner sanctum. The walls and domed ceiling were painted deep crimson, and
covered with scattered stars. At regular intervals across this bloodied, starry night were brilliant
green enamelled cartouches, each holding within its gilded border a single delicate rose. Now
Edward was dead, as was his successor Richard, and Bolingbroke was king, but it was
Bolingbroke‘s wife Mary who had taken this most beautiful of chambers as her inner sanctum,
and that, Neville thought as he knelt on one knee beside her couch, was only as it should be.
―My lady queen,‖ he murmured, kissing her hand. ―How do you this fine morning?‖
―The better for your presence, Lord Neville,‖ Mary replied, and smiled.
Neville‘s eyes sparkled with merriment. ―My lady queen,‖ he said, continuing their
playful formality, ―may I beg your indulgence to rise from my poor knee, and perchance—‖
―Sit at the end of my couch,‖ Mary said, laughing now, ―where, Jesu willing, you might
cease your groaning.‖
Neville did as she bid, careful not to disturb the silken wrap about her, or to place any
pressure near the delicate bones of her ankles and feet. For a minute he did not speak, studying
her face.
Mary watched him unquestioningly, for this moment of silent regard was a normal part of
their morning greeting ritual.
―You have slept well,‖ Neville said finally.
―Aye. My physician, Culpeper, has formulated a new liquor which allows me to forget
my aches and moans for an hour more each night.‖
Neville‘s merriment faded at Mary‘s mention of her illness. Ever since her marriage to
Bolingbroke, Mary had been wasting away from a growth in her womb. Sometimes she had a
period of wellness that lasted as long as three or four weeks; more often she lay as she did this
day, paleskinned with dark pouches under eyes shadowed with pain.
And yet never did she complain, or moan about the injustice of life.
Silently, Neville reached out a hand and took hers. If his relationship with Bolingbroke
had slid from deep friendship into wary politeness, then his relationship with Mary had taken the
opposite path. Neville spent several hours each day with Mary—no doubt occasioning much
gossip in court—talking, playing chess or, as now, merely sitting with her as he held her hand.
Her condition had stabilised somewhat over the past five or six months. From what both
Mary and Margaret had told him, Neville knew that the mass in her womb had stopped actively
growing and had instead shrunk to a small, hard lump; Mary no longer exhibited signs of
pregnancy, nor expelled blackened spongy portions of the growth. Nevertheless, it continued to
suck at Mary‘s vitality, and often to cause her great pain and discomfort.
But not to any mortal extent.
Neville wondered what Bolingbroke thought about this.
Bolingbroke and Mary no longer shared the same bed, both claiming that her illness
made it impossible for Bolingbroke to sleep well. Bolingbroke had moved to chambers in a
distant corner of the royal apartments, where he made no secret of occasionally sharing his nights
with an accommodating lady of the court. Mary shrugged away her husband‘s unfaithfulness,
and from the few words she‘d said to him about it, Neville knew that she was secretly glad to
escape the burden of her husband‘s sexual demands. She was not bitter, nor angry, and spoke of
and to her husband with the greatest respect and good humour.
Neville thought her a saint, but he was unsure about how Bolingbroke regarded Mary‘s
continuing grip on life. As a man ( as a man-demon), Bolingbroke loved and lusted for another
woman, Catherine of France. As a king, he lusted for the day he could hold a male heir in his
arms.
Mary stood in the way of both lusts, and showed no sign of moving into the waiting pit of
her grave any time in the near future.
Mary‘s hand tightened very slightly around his, and Neville wondered if she somehow
not only could read his thoughts, but thought to offer him comfort instead of asking it for herself.
Then the door to the chamber opened, breaking the spell between them.
A guard entered. ―The Lady Margaret Neville,‖ he said, bowing in Mary‘s direction,
―with her children.‖
Mary let Neville‘s hand go, then smiled. ―Let her enter,‖ she said, and the guard bowed
once again and opened the door wide.
Margaret walked through the door, her seven-month-old son Bohun nestled in her arms.
Directly behind Margaret was her maid, Agnes, with Margaret‘s two-year-old daughter Rosalind
tugging at one of Agnes‘ hands as she looked curiously about her.
Both Margaret and Agnes sank into deep curtsies. Then Margaret took Rosalind and
walked to where Mary and Neville sat. Agnes retired to a stool in a corner by the hearth to await
her mistress‘ pleasure.
Margaret glanced at her husband as she approached, then smiled warmly at Mary. ―How