through the man‘s neck.
It was stuck fast.
Bolingbroke cursed, unsettled by Philip‘s last words, and wrenched at the sword.
It came free suddenly and, encased as he was in his own heavy armour, Bolingbroke
toppled over backwards, landing in the liquefied muddied field with a tremendous splash.
There was instant pandemonium as those men-at-arms close by rushed to his aid. Four of
them managed to grab at his arms and shoulders and raise Bolingbroke to his knees, then two of
them worked at the straps holding his helmet in place.
There was a curious bubbling coming from within.
―France has him,‖ Mary said, her expression one of all-consuming sadness.
Desperate, the men cut through the straps with their knives, lifting the helmet off and
tossing it aside.
Underneath the helmet Bolingbroke‘s head was entirely covered in thick, liquid mud
which had seeped in with the force of his fall.
He was choking on it.
Hastily one of the men used the corner of a banner to wipe the mud free of Bolingbroke‘s
face and to clean out his mouth and nostrils.
Bolingbroke tried to draw a deep breath, choked, made a wretched gargling cry, choked
even more desperately, then leaned over, retching.
Great gouts of viscous black mud vomited forth from his mouth.
He took another breath, with much less difficulty this time, then leaned forward again and
spewed forth more of the rotting, sodden earth that he‘d swallowed.
Rivers of mud ran from his nose.
He choked, retched, vomited one final time, then managed to find breath enough to talk,
and smile reassurance at the men-at-arms and knights who now surrounded him.
―France cannot kill me that easily,‖ he rasped, and the circle of men laughed too loud in
relief.
―Tom,‖ Mary said, and, stunningly, managed to lift one of her shattered hands to take
hold of his fingers.
She smiled, full of love and tenderness and peace.
―Tom,‖ she said again, ―I do love you so very much. Remember that.‖
And then she died.
Much later, after Mary‘s corpse had been washed and laid out as best it could be, a valet
came through the door of the chamber, hesitated, then spoke quietly.
―The carpenter is here to measure our beloved queen for her casket,‖ he said.
―Tell him,‖ said Neville, ―that he is far too late.‖
And with that he pushed past the servant and left the chamber.
He did not want to see the carpenter.
PART SIX
Mary
10000 frenchmen there were slaine of enemies in the feeld, & neere as many prisoners
tane that day were forced to yeeld. thus had our King a happy day & victorye ouer france; he
bought his foes vnder his feete that late in pride did prance…but then Katherine, the Kings fayre
daughter there, being proued apparent his heyre, with her maidens in most sweet attire to King
Harry did repayre; and when she came before our King, shee kneeled vpon her knee desiring that his warres wold cease, & that her loue wold bee.
Excerpts from Agincourte Battell, late medieval ballad
I
Friday 6th September 1381
Five days after he had decimated the French at Agincourt, Bolingbroke strode into
Catherine‘s chamber in Rouen.
She was waiting for him, serene, well groomed and robed in a brilliant sky-blue and ivory
silken gown, sitting on a carved chest by the lead-paned window.
Her eyes were as glassy and as hard and as cold as the glass through which the sun
streamed.
―My lady,‖ Bolingbroke said, striding across the chamber before halting before her,
bowing, and kissing the hand she raised. ―I have tragic tidings—‖
―I have already heard of your return,‖ said Catherine, and almost smiled at the sudden
flush of anger in Bolingbroke‘s eyes.
―Your husband is dead,‖ he said softly, allowing her hand to drop back into her lap. ―You
are in need of a new one.‖
―And you are here to offer your hand?‖
―Damn it, Catherine. We had an agreement.‖
―By law,‖ she said, her voice both soft and hard, ―I am allowed to say either yea or nay.‖
―There is no law between you and me.‖
―Apparently not.‖
They stared at each other, the silence growing colder with every passing heartbeat.
―I will burn Paris to the ground if you refuse me,‖ Bolingbroke said suddenly.
―You terrify me,‖ Catherine said, and turned her face towards the window.
Bolingbroke leaned forward, seized her left upper arm, and hauled her to her feet.
―We will marry this afternoon, after Mary‘s funeral mass. No need to change your dress,
you are well enough accoutred for what I need. But I would have you put a smile on your face,
for I do not intend to wed with a wasp.‖
In response, Catherine smiled brittlely, falsely. ―Will this do, my lord?‖
Bolingbroke cursed, and let go her arm, swivelling about and walking for the door. ―I will
send your escort in two hours.‖
Then, just before he reached the door, Bolingbroke turned, stared at Catherine, then
walked back to her. He grabbed her face in both his hands and kissed her deep and hard. She
tried to tear herself away, but he was too strong, and when he‘d finished, Catherine was
red-faced and gasping.
―I will wive you on my terms,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―Not yours.‖
And then he was gone.
Catherine sat back in her chair, stared at the door, then lowered her face into a hand,
weeping softly.
People, nobles and commoners alike, French and English both, packed the great cathedral
of Rouen for Mary‘s funeral mass. It was a solemn affair, attended by genuine grief and loss.
Mary‘s casket lay on a bier before the altar, covered in a crimson cloth, embroidered over with
thousands of lilies and crowns.
She had been a woman, she had been a queen, and she had been deeply loved, and the
mourning for her was accomplished with all due respect and dignity.
A respect and dignity marred only by Bolingbroke‘s several bouts of coughing. He sat
with Catherine and several earls and dukes in ornately-carved chairs just to the right of the altar.
Several times through the mass he began to cough, almost choking on his phlegm on one
occasion. Catherine ignored him, and it was left to the Earl of Suffolk to aid Bolingbroke as best
he could.
But, by the time the monks had carried Mary‘s casket, still draped in its wondrous cloth,
towards the side chapel where it was to be laid under the floor, Bolingbroke had managed to
overcome whatever had tickled his throat.
No sooner had Mary‘s casket disappeared than Bolingbroke stood, taking Catherine‘s
hand and forcing her to her feet beside him, and led her towards the waiting Bishop of Rouen.
―No point in waiting,‖ he said to the bishop.
The bishop glanced nervously towards the nave. Most of the people who had come to pay
their respects to Mary were now departing, and the cathedral was filled with the noise of their
shuffling feet and murmured conversations.
Only a few people apparently intended to remain for Bolingbroke and Catherine‘s
nuptials, Neville and Margaret among them.
―Bishop,‖ said Bolingbroke, and the bishop licked his lips nervously, raising an unsteady
hand for a blessing.
And so were wed Catherine of France and Bolingbroke, King of England, their nuptials
accomplished to the shuffling of feet and the irreverent whisperings of departing mourners and
the silent stares of those who remained to witness.
Once the abbreviated ceremony was done (Bolingbroke had informed the bishop that the
marriage need only take the minimum of words), Bolingbroke lowered his head to kiss his bride.
Just as his mouth touched hers, Catherine‘s lips moved. ―France shall have you,‖ she
whispered, her eyes staring into Bolingbroke‘s, her lips moving against his, ―and everything you
hold dear.‖
He took her directly back to his bedchamber to consummate the marriage—no need for
the inconvenience of a wedding feast. He dismissed the ladies who had come to serve Catherine,
and the valets who had come to attend him. He tore her lovely gown from her body, determined
to wipe the look of disdain from her face, and bore her to his bed. He did not kiss her, he did not
caress her, he merely jerked her limbs into the position he needed and plunged immediately into
her body, taking satisfaction from her involuntary cry of pain and the defensive arching of her
back.
―I want blood on the sheets,‖ he whispered, thrusting into her again and again with all the
force he could muster, ―as any proud husband expects from the conquering of his new wife.‖
She bit and scratched, but she could do nothing to stop him. He was resolved to make her
hurt and bleed and weep, and in all three objectives he succeeded.
It was his revenge for her love for Philip.
When he‘d finally done, he pulled himself out of her and rolled onto his back, breathing
heavily. ―I‘m sure we shall have a long and productive marriage,‖ he said.