both his forces and those of Northumberland‘s that he has been able to requisition, and Warwick
and Suffolk from the west, I shall have an invading army such as England has not been able to
raise in generations.
―And now is the time to strike,‖ Bolingbroke continued, his face growing flushed with his
enthusiasm and the force of his argument. ―Pretty boy Charles is sitting playing his harp and
refusing to be king, while this miraculous Maid Joan seems to have sunk into a mire of
do-nothingness. Who has seen or heard anything of her in months? My friends, I can add the
crown of France to that of England by late autumn. Are you with me? Are you with me?‖
Neville finally surfaced from his reverie. ―All England is with you, Hal. You know that.‖
Bolingbroke strode down the narrow corridors that joined the White Tower with the royal
apartment buildings, his stride bouncy and jaunty. He greeted every guard he passed along the
way by name, smiling and nodding at their returned greetings.
Everything was going far better than he‘d expected. To be frank, he‘d thought he might
have to wait until the following year to launch his campaign into France, but Hotspur‘s rebellion
had inadvertently played into his hands. Now England was secured, and he had the force at hand with which to deal with France.
And with Joan. And, finally, with Catherine.
His face lost some of its ebullience as he crossed under the archway that marked the outer
wall of the royal apartments.
Catherine…how many years had he waited for her? Longed for her?
And to see her throw herself at Philip. Catherine well knew why he‘d been forced to
marry Mary—Christ alone knew how much he‘d needed Mary‘s lands and wealth to launch his
own bid for the English throne. And Catherine also knew that Mary was ill, destined not to live
long.
Why could she not have waited?
Bolingbroke‘s face now shadowed with jealousy and anger, the emotions directed both at
Catherine and at Mary. Damn Mary, how much longer was she going to take to die? Why cling
so desperately to life when she knew her duty was to die?
What would happen if he won both France and Catherine and Mary was still clinging
grimly to life?
What truly irked Bolingbroke was the place Mary had in the hearts of the English people.
To the English, Mary was the Beloved Lady, almost a reincarnation of the Virgin Mary herself.
To Bolingbroke, she was becoming more of an irritation every day she continued to draw
breath. He‘d done his best for her, he‘d been kind to her, he‘d elevated her beyond anything she
could have dreamed possible. And yet she refused to fulfil her part of the bargain.
Her place was to die, and yet she would not do so.
And so, angered and irritable, Bolingbroke banged through the door into Mary‘s chamber
for his obligatory daily visit to her sickbed.
At least he‘d be able to escape her in France.
As usual, Mary was lying in her bed already, even though it was barely late afternoon.
Outside the sunlight still lay golden over the roofs and orchards of London. In this chamber, the
curtains had been drawn and the lamps lit, as if Mary wanted to will forward the night.
Bolingbroke nodded to several of Mary‘s ladies, Margaret among them, who drew back
from the bed as he approached, then sat himself down on the edge of his wife‘s bed.
―My dear,‖ he said, then floundered into a silence as he fought for, yet could not find,
words to continue.
She looked ill, grey and wasted, but then she always did. It was hardly anything new.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. ―You look excited about something, husband.
Will you tell me?‖
―I have decided to mount a campaign into France this summer, my dear. The time has
never been better.‖
Her face lost any trace of humour. ―Ah,‖ she whispered. ―Catherine. You must be happy
that you will go to her finally.‖
Bolingbroke‘s expression darkened. He looked down, as if searching for something to
distract him, and saw one of Mary‘s skeletal hands lying on the coverlet.
He reached out and picked it up, both marvelling at, and loathing, its thinness. ―On the
contrary, beloved,‖ he said, his voice hard in its expressionlessness, ―my thoughts shall be with
you every moment that we are separated.‖
Mary started to say something, then stopped, her brow creasing. ―My lord,‖ she finally
said, ―I see no need for us to be separated at all. A queen‘s place is with her husband the king. I
shall travel with you.‖
―What?‖ Bolingbroke dropped Mary‘s hand, ignoring her wince of pain. ―You cannot
come with me. An army encampment is no place for a woman, let alone one as ill as you.‖
―Philippa travelled with her husband Edward, your grandfather, on many of his
campaigns,‖ she said.
―Philippa was not sick unto death when she did so.‖
―I am well enough to travel,‖ Mary said, her face now set into resolute stubbornness. ―I
will travel with you, and with England‘s hopes.‖
Bolingbroke stood up, his own face set and hard. ―Then blame me not if your want finally
kills you,‖ he snapped, ignoring the gasps from the ladies standing a respectful distance from the bed. ―War is no place for a woman sliding slowly into death. If you die in France, Mary, I will
bear no responsibility, for it shall be as a result of your foolishness alone.‖
―It shall be my responsibility alone,‖ Mary murmured in agreement, and then smiled a
little, as if at an inward thought.
When Neville left Bolingbroke‘s chamber, he wandered through the Tower complex, and
out into London. He wasn‘t altogether sure why, only that a strange curiosity pulled him forward.
It was Saturday, a major market day, and the crowds thronging Cheapside, the main thoroughfare
through London, were dense and chaotic, and so Neville eventually ducked down a narrow side
street where the close overhanging of the buildings rendered the air cool and dim. Here were the
workshops and homes of craftsmen, mostly closed, but some open. Neville‘s pace slowed a little
as he spied the glow of lamplight coming from a workshop several houses down on his left.
He stopped, staring at it.
There was no particular reason why he should be so curious about this single workshop.
The lamplight in the dim alley certainly wasn‘t out of place, for Neville doubted full sunlight
would ever penetrate the narrow street. Even the fact that the craftsman within was working—the
noise of hammers emanated distinctly from the window—should not have been too much of a
surprise. Craftsmen took much joy in their work, and this particular man might simply be
celebrating London‘s release by returning to his craft…or trying to forget the loss of a loved one
in the sweat of his labour.
The hammering stopped, and a shadow moved behind the window.
Neville walked slowly forward.
The shadow moved again, and Neville realised the man was standing, watching him.
Neville walked to the open door, then stopped on the doorstep, looking in.
The workshop was the domain of a carpenter. The lathe, work table and tools of the
carpenter filled the larger portion of the work space, while wood shavings littered the floor. A
broom stood to one side, together with a pan—the carpenter was just about to clean up then.
Neville took a deep breath, and looked at the man standing in the half shadows. ―May I
enter, good sir?‖
―Certainly,‖ said the carpenter, and stepped forward so that Neville could see him clearly.
He was a man in his mid-thirties, lean yet strong, with curly black hair tied back into the
nape of his neck with a leather thong, and a well-clipped beard. His face was lined, as if he‘d
suffered loss, or pain, but his dark eyes were kindly, and full of humour.
―You are new hereabouts,‖ said Neville.
The carpenter grinned. ―And how would you know?‖ he said. ―You are a fine lord, and
your usual haunt the gaudy palaces of royalty. You cannot tell me you know the carpenter
workshops of London so well that a gain or a loss among us comes immediately to your
attention. So, if I may, what do you here, my fine lord?‖
―May I enter a little further?‖ Neville said, and the carpenter nodded.
―So long as you don‘t get in the way of my broom,‖ he said, picking the implement up
and beginning to use it to sweep up the shavings.
―I was walking,‖ said Neville, ―and saw the light in your window, and thought to speak
with you.‖
―Ah,‖ said the carpenter, working furiously with the broom.
Neville opened his mouth, closed it, and wondered how he could say what he needed to
ask. ―Carpenter,‖ he managed eventually, ―what shall I call you?‖