There was a man behind the group of children and demons, capering in joy as the children screamed. His features constantly flowed from those of a youth into those of a grinning demon and back again. His face was so fluid, so constantly in
motion, that his man-face was difficult to make out.
But Thomas knew who he was. He was dressed in green clothes, obscenely skimpy and tight-fitting. He wore a crown on his head, and in one hand he brandished a scepter.
The Demon-King. Richard.
Thomas tensed, frightened beyond anything he’d ever known, but also knowing that he was the only one who could save the children. He crouched, waiting for Richard to draw close, then he would spring, and tear the scepter from Richard’s hand, and beat him into death with it.
Then he must deal with the other demons, the shadowy ones who were too sly to reveal their true forms.
The children— such sweet children! Five boys and two girls—were now close, and their cries of terror and hopelessness tore at Thomas’ heart.
How dare the demons deprive them of life, and throw their innocence into eternal Hell!
Thomas’ hands clutched at the boulder as the children and demons passed, and he prepared to spring.
But he did not, for even as Richard cavorted close to him, there came another voice, and another footstep, and it made both demons and Richard halt their maddened dancing, and turn to stare back down the track toward the forest.
A man had stood forth from the trees. A knight. Dressed in armor so white it shone. He bore in one hand, not a sword, nor a mace, nor even an axe, but a longbow, and as Thomas watched, the knight lifted the bow and fitted an arrow to it.
“You wouldn’t dare!” screamed Richard.
“I dare,” said the knight, and Thomas wept, for he knew that voice, “because I have the right.”
And he shot forth the arrow, and it skewered Richard in the belly, projecting forth from his lower back in red-tipped victory.
Richard howled, and doubled over, and then collapsed to the ground, and as be did so the shadowy demons screamed, and vanished, and the children, blinking with surprise, ran back down the path toward the shining knight.
Thomas also stood, walking toward the knight.
As the children gathered about him, clinging to his legs and hips, the knight raised the visor of his basinet, so all could see his face.
It was a face of extraordinary beauty— creamy and smooth-skinned, with great cerulean eyes that took up half as much space again as did most human eyes.
And yet this knight was no human. He was an angel, and yet not an angel.
He was Hal Bolingbroke.
“Hal,”Thomas whispered, coming to a halt before him.
“Tom”said Hal, and extended Us mailed hand. “Will you serve as my man?”
“Yes,”Thomas said. “Yes!”
“Will you swear me homage and loyalty?”
“Yes, I do so swear!”
And then Hal Bolingbroke took Thomas’ face between his hands, and, leaning forth over the children still clustered about him, leaned forward and kissed Thomas on the mouth with a loving and lingering grace.
THOMAS STIRRED, and Margaret realized he was rising toward wakefulness. “Not yet, my love,” she whispered. “Dream sweetly yet once more.” The last dream had been required of her. This dream Margaret gifted her husband on their wedding night through love alone.
Thomas stood in the tourney ing field, the same tourneying field where he’d received the word of Alice’s self-murder and that of her children. About him came the sights and sounds of men and horses, but dulled and slow, as if they had been caught in some magical time.
He stood, waiting for something, although he was not sure what. He felt no fear, nor trepidation, unlike when he’d stood before the Cleft.
Instead, a feeling of great peace pervaded him. There was a movement to his left, and Thomas turned that way.
A woman walked toward him across the tourneying field, a baby held in her arms. About her men lunged in mock battles, and horses danced, all their movements so strangely slow, but the woman paid them no attention. She only looked at Thomas, and smiled. “Alice,” he said, and groaned. “Alice!”
“See,”she said, holding out the baby as she came to him. “See, our daughter.”
Thomas wept, and took the child in his arms. She was beautiful, so whole, so alive.
“Alice.. .”he began, but his throat closed up, and he could say no more.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Do not fear for us, Thomas.
We live a peaceful life beyond death. I am most sorry for what I did, for neither my children nor you deserved it. . . but do not fear that we writhe in torment in Purgatory. Our Lord Jesus Christ is a man full of love and compassion, and of forgiveness so encompassing that even my tormented soul has found ease and rest.
Thomas do not fear for us. We are well.”
“I should not have abandoned you, Alice. I am sorry.”
“You did not abandon Margaret,” she said, “and that was well done of you.”
“I wish…”
“Do not wish, beloved Thomas,” she said, kissing him once more on the cheek as she took back their daughter. “Merely do. Remember, love does not damn, Thomas, it only saves.”
And with that, she was gone, and the tourney ing field faded, and only Alice’s words were left to echo through Thomas’ mind.. . love does not damn, Thomas, it only saves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The third Sunday after Easter
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(1st May 1379)
— MAY DAY —
— I —
IT WAS CORONATION DAY and London was hot with revelry. This, the third Sunday after Easter, was also May Day, the traditional popular festival celebrating the resurrection of Spring after the long dark days of winter. Across the land young men and women had spent the night in the forests and woodlands, hunting the sapling they would cut down for their maypole … and also enjoying some of the lusts that youth and spring inflamed.
Now the saplings, denuded of their branches, were being hauled back to village and market squares, the revellers decked in greenery and ribbons, so that young women could dance about the pole in homage to the Green Man, the ancient pagan god of the trees and forests. For centuries the Church had banned and vilified the May Day revelries, and yet nothing had stopped them, and, today of all days, nothing could.
May Day in 1379 marked not only the rebirth of the land, but also the coronation of a new king, the youthful and handsome Richard. The old king, with the winter, was dead and buried; now was the springtime of youth and new beginnings.
None missed the symbolism.
At first light young girls, their hair unbound, had taken to the fields beyond the walls of the city to dance about the maypoles. Around them gathered young men, their eyes and bodies hot and drunken from the copious ale at hand from table and barrel. Husbands and wives also stood about, clapping and laughing, their children—oft products of previous May Day revelries—clinging to skirts and tunics.
As the sun rose in the sky, and grew as hot as the lust and revelries below, the crowds departed back into London, still laughing and singing and dancing. There they lined the main streets and thoroughfares as, at noon, with all the bells of London ringing, Richard made his way in stately procession from the Tower of London, through Cheapside, past St. Paul’s (its bells pealing frantically) and then down the Strand, lifting his head to smile and wave at Lancaster’s servants and retainers waving ribbons and pennants from the windows of the Savoy Palace.
Richard walked under a richly embroidered canopy of scarlet and azure and gold, which was supported by the four highest noblemen in England; John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, carried the pole supporting the front right-hand corner of the canopy.
The soon-to-be-crowned king wore opulent clothing—furs, velvets, silks—and in his gloved hands he carried a small branch of greenery, symbol of both spring and his own coronation. He waved and laughed at the screaming crowds, but what words he spoke were lost amid the tolling of the parish church bells and the roar of
his subjects.
Flowers and ribbons filled the air and tumbled down on the train of horsed noblemen— the greatest peers of the realm—who followed Richard.
At Richard’s heels capered his five companion hounds: slim, sly creatures, who snapped at the noise and tumult about them, and bit the hands of at least three children along the great processional route.
At Charing Cross, which marked the turning point from the Strand onto the road down to Westminster, stood a deputation of twelve young maidens, all freshly garlanded and frocked. They held flowers in their hands and, as Richard stopped before them began to sing: