from the plates of her husband, on her left, and Raby, to her right. Bolingbroke engaged her from
time to time in courtly conversation, but most of his attention was given to Northumberland,
Exeter and the Abbot, who were all seated to his left.
Those whose allegiance he was most unsure of received his most gracious smiles.
Thomas Neville, watching the interplay from his spot close to the High Table, smiled
himself at Bolingbroke‘s efforts. Doubtless he thinks to ensure the country behind him before he
embarks on his campaign of world conquest, he thought, and his smile faded a little.
It was a pity for Bolingbroke that Richard had died under such shadowy
circumstances—and Neville had no doubt that Richard‘s death had been an expeditious murder
rather than an unfortunate fever—and not nobly in the course of battle. Neville remembered how
Bolingbroke had won the support of Richard‘s army outside Flint Castle with golden words
rather than with bloodshed, and now he wondered if perhaps Bolingbroke hadn‘t miscalculated.
Perhaps he should not have called a halt to what brief battle there had been before Richard had
taken a blade in the throat. Perhaps…
―Your thoughts must be all-consuming,‖ said a voice to Neville‘s right, ―for they have
surely taken your attention from the feast spread before us. And such a feast!‖
―Forgive me,‖ Neville said, smiling as he turned to face his dining companion, John
Montagu Earl of Salisbury (and relative of the William who had bigamously bedded Richard‘s
mother, Joan). Montagu was another noble who had backed Richard—the damn hall was packed
with them!—and doubtless Bolingbroke was hoping that Neville could charm Montagu as the
king was doubtless charming Holland. ―I was merely wondering what had so caught the abbot‘s
attention.‖
Montagu glanced at the High Table: the Abbot of Westminster, Bolingbroke, and Holland
and Northumberland had engaged in a lively conversation that had the Abbot‘s cheeks a bright
red with excitement.
―Our king‘s plans for Westminster, perhaps,‖ Montagu said.
―Aye. Rumour has it that the abbot is excited at the thought of Parliament finally moving
out of Westminster Abbey‘s chapter house!‖
Montague laughed easily, although the fingers of his right hand toyed nervously with his
knife. ―Your Hal has wasted no time making his mark upon the land,‖ he said.
Neville‘s smile did not slip at Montagu‘s usage of ―your Hal‖. ―Parliament needed
somewhere new to sit,‖ he said. ―The Chapter House was too crowded, and the abbot had spent
the past fifteen years complaining of the rowdiness of both Lords and Commons.‖ He broadened
his smile with a little effort. ―He claims his meal times to have been quite ruined.‖
―But to give Parliament the use of Westminster Palace…‖ Montagu said. His knife was
now making irritating rattling sounds as it jiggled against the side of his pewter plate.
Neville shrugged. ―The palace was cold and draughty, and of little use for the family that
Bolingbroke hopes to have surround him.‖
―And faint hopes of that,‖ Montague said in an undertone, shooting a glance towards
Mary.
―It is understandable, perhaps,‖ Neville continued, ―that he should want to refurbish the
Tower instead, and make of it not only a palace fit for a king, but a warm home as well.‖
―But to give Saint Stephen‘s to Commons!‖ Montagu said, and his hand finally stopped
playing with his knife as he fixed his dark eyes on Neville.
Ah, Neville thought, the crux of the matter. Parliament would now sit in Westminster Palace and, for the first time, the Houses of Lords and Commons would be permanently divided.
The new home of the House of Commons was to be the supremely beautiful St Stephen‘s
Chapel, where Lancaster had married his Katherine, but Lords…Lords…Neville‘s smile finally
lost its forced thinness and blossomed into a mischievous grin.
―Commons is the much larger house,‖ he said, ―and Saint Stephen‘s can accommodate
them easily.‖
Montagu remained silent, now staring at his knife.
Neville fought to stop himself from laughing. ―But of course, I can understand that many
among the lords might be, ah, disgruntled, that they shall from henceforth sit in…the kitchens.‖
It was the merriment of the nation. Although Westminster Palace had several large halls,
most were currently entirely unsuitable for permanent habitation by the House of Lords. The
Painted Chamber‘s floor was almost rotted through, and needed replacing, while its foundations
were dank with rising damp. Repairs were desperately needed. White Hall had, for over fifty
years, been divided up into sundry chambers for clerks and officials of the Chancery, and it
would take a generation not only for all the brick partitions to be pulled down, but for suitable
storage space to be found for all the rolls and deeds of government bureaucracy, not to mention
all the grumpy Chancery officials. The Great Hall of Westminster was reserved for ceremonial
occasions and the daily activities of the King‘s Bench, as various other legal courts.
That left the kitchens which were, in actual fact, a good choice. The great hall of the
kitchen was of a similar size to the Painted Chamber, was solidly built, well lit, and, by virtue of
being a kitchen, was well heated with five great hearths; and now that the palace was no longer
to be used as a residence, the huge kitchen complex would no longer be needed. Once the cooks,
dairy maids and butchers were moved out and the hall scrubbed, it would actually make a very
good home for the House of Lords.
It was just that it was a former kitchen! While many lords accepted it in good
humour—their new home would be far more commodious and comfortable than the cramped
Chapter House—many grumbled about it, feeling the location a slur. The beautiful St Stephen‘s
went to Commons, while the lords got the kitchens…
At least the people on the streets of London and, presumably, the fields of England, have
something to smile about, Neville thought.
Then, before he could speak again, the Abbot of Westminster rose to his feet, his cheeks
now a deep-hued crimson (although whether with excitement or drink, Neville could not tell),
and called a toast to their handsome young king, and all in the hall rose, and raised goblets
towards Bolingbroke.
Much later, Bolingbroke rose, extending his arm to Mary. She rose herself, but her action
was decidedly unsteady, and Bolingbroke‘s eyes flew to Margaret at Neville‘s side.
Margaret murmured in concern, and moved about the tables towards Mary in order to
help her.
Bolingbroke‘s eyes locked with Neville‘s, and he tilted his head slightly.
Neville nodded, understanding. Making his apologies to both Montagu and to Katherine,
Lancaster‘s widow, he moved quickly and silently into the pillared aisles behind the tables.
―More wine, Tom? Surely you cannot have yet drunk yourself into stupidity.‖
―Thank you, sire,‖ Neville said, taking the goblet that Bolingbroke extended.
―Hal,‖ the king said. ―Call me Hal, Tom, when we are in private like this.‖
Neville had left the hall and walked quickly to Bolingbroke‘s private apartments as
Bolingbroke said his goodnights to both his guests and to Mary. He‘d waited almost half an hour
in the antechamber to Bolingbroke‘s suite before the king had entered, dismissed all his
attendants with an impatient wave of his hand, and nodded Neville through into the inner
bedchamber.
Now Bolingbroke sat in a chair before the fire, stretching out his legs and sighing.
―Come, sit down, Tom. It is rare enough that we have this chance to so enjoy privacy, and there
is no need for you to stand on ceremonial deference.‖
Neville‘s mouth twitched as he sat in a chair opposite Bolingbroke‘s. Bolingbroke could
pretend all he liked that it was ceremony and the business of the nation that had kept them from
their former close friendship, but Neville would have none of it. He would no longer tolerate the
lies that had once characterised their friendship.
―We are not the friends we once were, Hal.‖ Neville raised his goblet in a silent toast to
Bolingbroke, but smiled, taking any potential sting from his words.
―Aye,‖ Bolingbroke said, looking down to his own goblet. ―Well…that we are not.‖
Then he looked directly back to Neville, the firelight glinting in his silver-gilt hair and
lighting his pale grey eyes. ―I no longer know you, Tom. And that terrifies me.‖
―Why? Because you think to have lost a friend, or because you think to have lost control
of me?‖
Or because you fear that I will not hand my soul to Margaret when the time for my
decision comes? Neville once again thanked Christ that he‘d had the strength to refuse to watch Margaret transform himself into her true being while birthing Bohun. In that single refusal,
Neville had, he hoped, given himself more room to manoeuvre.
Bolingbroke‘s mouth twisted. ―You were ever blunt with your words, Tom.‖ He paused,
his eyes not faltering as they gazed at Neville. ―I am terrified for both those reasons.‖
―I thank you for your honesty,‖ Neville said. ―If you had said anything else…‖