Bolingbroke struck several more men, and spoke again. ―I think that Hotspur would
prefer to die defiant, than to escape and live with his shame.‖
Neville looked about. Hotspur‘s forces had thinned considerably now, and he and
Bolingbroke were surrounded by their own men. Even as he watched, he saw a score or more of Hotspur‘s soldiers throw down their weapons and turn and flee.
Most didn‘t make it, struck in the back and neck as they fled.
―Hotspur,‖ Bolingbroke called, ―tell your men to lay down their weapons. It is over.‖
Seven or eight paces away, Hotspur turned his bay stallion towards Bolingbroke. He said
not a word, but hacked his way viciously towards Bolingbroke.
Then his horse stumbled, a sword sticking out of its neck, and sank to its knees.
Nimbly, for all his heavy armour, Hotspur leapt to the ground, hefting his sword as if he
thought to take on Bolingbroke‘s entire army by himself.
―Watch my back,‖ Bolingbroke shouted to Neville, but he was too late, for Neville had
already pushed his horse forward, and struck the sword from Hotspur‘s hand.
Bolingbroke muttered a curse, then looked about. ―Send the word,‖ he shouted to a
nearby man-at-arms. ―King Hal has Hotspur! Hotspur is taken!‖
As the shout rang out, Bolingbroke dismounted, stumbling a little as he did so. He
touched his cheek gingerly with one mailed finger, then hefted his sword, and walked slowly
forward.
―Harry Hotspur,‖ he said. ―What have you done?‖
Hotspur stood, surrounded by men on horses, their swords pointed towards his head.
Someone, Neville perhaps, for he now stood slightly to one side, had removed Hotspur‘s helmet.
Hotspur‘s face was sweaty, his cheeks and forehead splotched with the marks of his
helmet and his effort on the field, his eyes brilliant with hatred and anger.
―I have done what I needed to,‖ he said. ―That I failed is my own shame.‖
Bolingbroke advanced another step. ―Go down on your knees before me, pledge yourself
to me, and you will yet live.‖
Hotspur‘s face contorted, then he spat at Bolingbroke‘s feet.
A man-at-arms standing directly behind Hotspur swore, and gave Hotspur such an
almighty shove between his shoulder blades that he fell to his hands and knees.
―Pledge to me,‖ Bolingbroke said again, more softly this time, ―and you will yet live.‖
Hotspur struggled to his knees, raising his face to Bolingbroke. ―Bastard,‖ he said. ―Kill
me and you will die an ignominious death.‖
―I am not talking of killing!‖ Bolingbroke said. He was now very close to Hotspur. ―I am
talking only of pledging loyalty. Do you not remember those times when we were boys together?
Friends united against whatever the world threw in our path.‖
―Those boys are dead and gone,‖ Hotspur said. ―You lost my loyalty many years ago,
Hal. Do not think that you can wring it from me with threats now.‖
―I do not threaten, Harry. For sweet Jesu‘s sake. For the sake of that long-lost
friendship… do not make me kill you. ‖
―I would rather be dead by your sword, than living treacherously at your side,‖ Hotspur
snarled. ―If you do not have the courage to do it, Bolingbroke, then ask Tom. I‘m sure he‘d
manage.‖
―Harry!‖ Bolingbroke cried. He turned his head for a moment, struggling with himself,
his sword resting on its tip on the blood-soaked earth.
―You did not hesitate to murder Richard,‖ Hotspur said, his entire face twisted in a sneer.
―Why hesitate to so murder me?‖
―Because you were once my friend,‖ Bolingbroke whispered, ―and because once I loved
you.‖
And with that, he hefted his sword in both hands and, to the accompaniment of Hotspur‘s
wild laughter, smote the man‘s head from his shoulders.
X
Wednesday 19th June 1381
So confident had Prior General Richard Thorseby been of Hotspur‘s victory against
Bolingbroke—how could he fail with Scotland and Wales allied with him, and God so clearly on
his side?—Thorseby had removed himself from Hotspur‘s encampment at Black Hal in southern
Cumberland to arrive at Blackfriars in London within two days of Bolingbroke‘s move north.
This proved to be a rash decision.
In the early hours of the morning after the battle of Shrewsbury, well before news arrived
in London of Bolingbroke‘s victory, Thorseby woke to find something very unusual poking at
his feet.
At first he thought it one of those strange cloaked figures who had periodically appeared
to him while he was with Hotspur in the Scottish borderlands, whispering to him that
Bolingbroke was unloved of God and must be overthrown.
But then the figure crouching at the foot of his bed moved, and Thorseby realised that it
was not only not cloaked, but utterly unclothed and horribly, horribly solid.
―We‘ve had enough of you,‖ the creature whispered, and Thorseby scrabbled about in
bed until he was sitting.
―Lord Jesu Christ,‖ he began in a harsh whisper.
―Do not invoke his name with your filthy mouth,‖ said the creature, and it moved
slightly, revealing itself in a shaft of pale moonlight that filtered through a high window.
Thorseby‘s chest tightened in horror, and he found that he could not breathe.
A demon crouched at the foot of his bed. Oh sweet Jesu, see his horns! His humped back!
His claws!
―Do you remember what you and Tresilian once discussed regarding Thomas Neville?‖
said the demon, rising to its full height of some seven feet.
Thorseby, incapable of movement save to clutch his bed linens the tighter to his chest,
gibbered something meaningless.
―You thought to murder him by a means most foul,‖ said the demon, and suddenly sat
down on Thorseby‘s bed.
His weight rested fully on Thorseby‘s feet, and the Prior General could feel his bones
crunching under the creature‘s body.
He whimpered in pain.
The creature took no notice. ―I know,‖ it said, ―because Tresilian talked to me about it
once. About how pleased you were that Neville was going to be…what was it…be drawn and
quartered, and then have his cock sliced off and forced down his throat, followed after a lengthy
interval by his balls and bowels.‖
The creature grinned, revealed small pointed teeth. ―Of course, that didn‘t eventuate, did
it, because honest men saw to it that Neville was released from your custody. Even Tresilian,
after his initial enthusiasm, realised that Neville was a far better man alive than dead.
―But not you. Oh no, not you. You‘ve spent these past months scheming and planning,
and turning your ire against everyone Neville is connected to. We can‘t have that, Thorseby. Not at all. I‘m terribly afraid that you shall have to die.‖
Thorseby screeched, his eyes bulging, his shoulders twisting in the effort to free his legs
from under the demon‘s weight.
It grinned, enjoying the man‘s terror. ―And what better fate for Prior General Richard
Thorseby than a hanging and a quartering, followed by a good disembowelling and a stuffing of
his mouth and throat with his privy parts.‖
Thorseby forgot his horror of the creature, and leaned forward to beat at it with his fists.
The demon swatted aside his fists with ease. ―Of course, hanging and quartering will be
too tedious in this small chamber, so I‘ll content myself with a mere disembowelling followed by
a genital mutilation. You‘ll bleed to death, Thorseby, in agony, before anyone thinks to come
wake you from your oversleep. Will that suffice, do you think?‖
And then the demon leaned forward himself, and seized the Prior General in his clawed
hands.
―My Lord Mayor!‖ said the gateman at Ludgate, glancing at the dawn sky, ―you are out
and about early!‖
―Ah, my good man,‖ said Dick Whittington, passing the gateman a coin, ―a Lord Mayor‘s
work is never done.‖
And so saying, he walked down Watling Street towards St Paul‘s, whistling merrily
despite the exhaustion that marked his face.
XI
Thursday 27th June 1381
—i—
Tom, Tom, why do you not free me?
Neville twisted about, unable to tear his eyes away from the contorted, bleeding figure on
the cross.
Tom? Have I not suffered enough? Free me!
―How, sweet lord?‖ Neville whispered. ―How?‖
I am nailed to this cross, Tom. Nailed…
― How? I cannot penetrate heaven!‖
Nailed to this cross, Tom, as I am nailed to ten thousand score crosses about
Christendom.
As he had many times previously, whenever Christ appeared before him, begging to be
freed, Neville extended his hands. ―How? How?‖
Nailed…nailed…take out the nails, Tom.
―How?‖ Neville cried.
Christ‘s face twisted, and he gasped, as if the agony was finally about to consume him.
Then he took a deep, ragged breath, and managed to speak again in a heavy rasp.
Mary. Go to Mary. She prays before the answer.
―Mary?‖
Nails, Tom. I am bound only by nails.
And then the vision vanished, and Neville started, aware once more of his surroundings.
He sat under a bower in the gardens of the Tower complex. They had returned to London
some three days previously, Bolingbroke riding triumphant, if a little battered, at the head of his