approach, and the reason for it, before he’d announced it in the clearing?
The he shrugged. No doubt the roads had been thronged with as many English spies as refugees, and the livery of his escort had been unmistakable.
A soldier behind Thomas gave him a none-too-gentle shove in the back, and Thomas paused long enough to give him a hard stare before he followed Hal.
They walked high and deep into the heart of the fortress, the street wide enough only for the passage of one person: it was no wonder they had had to leave their horses below.
As well as being narrow, the way was steep, more a stairway than a paved street.
Any flat section was never more than three or four paces long before yet more steps that twisted and turned between the walls of the buildings above them.
Bolingbroke strode lightly ahead of Thomas, and Thomas wondered at the man’s fitness. The way was steep, Hal still wore the greater weight of his armor, and yet he sprang ahead as if he carried nothing more than a linen loin wrap on his body.
On the other hand, Thomas was panting within moments of the ascent. Five years of prayer did nothing for the strength and suppleness of muscle.
Eventually Bolingbroke led Thomas into a small courtyard before the main entrance of one of the castles. The door was heavily guarded, but the men stepped back without a word as Bolingbroke and Thomas neared.
As soon as they were inside the entrance hall, Bolingbroke stopped and waited as Thomas caught his breath. Then, without a word, he led him into a spacious chamber to one side of the main hall.
THE CHAMBER was richly appointed. To one side sat a good-sized and well-furred canopied bed, a fire crackled in the hearth set against an outside wall, intricately carved benches and chests were set about, and embroidered heavy tapestries were set against the walls to hold back the drafts. Gilt and silver goblets and platters sat on a small table set to one side; someone had just concluded a meal.
Despite the warmth and comfort of the chamber, it contained a strange atmosphere, a tension that Thomas couldn’t immediately place. Then he was given no time for
thought, for a lithe middle-aged man with thinning gray hair rose from a table strewn with maps and reports, walking to stand a few paces in front of Thomas.
Thomas bowed—if he hadn’t been a cleric he would have gone down on one knee. “My lord prince,” he said. “I greet you well, and trust I find you in favorable health.”
In that instant, as Thomas straightened and looked into Edward, the Black Prince’s face, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
Edward was patently not well. His skin was stretched tight and pale over his prominent nose and cheekbones; his forehead was as wan as a shroud; his brown eyes reflected a deep weariness. Nothing could have shocked Thomas more.
Edward was all of fifty-five or -six, true, but he had been in rude health all his life.
What miasma was this that had dug its fingers into his bones?
The Black Prince stood with his feet slightly apart, his arms folded. He wore a shirt of chain mail over a deep blue tunic, but otherwise wore no other armor or weapons.
“Thomas Neville,” he said, and, belying his appearance, his voice was as strong as Thomas remembered it. “Here you stand before us, with, I believe, messages from the King of Navarre?”
At that moment Thomas realized what was wrong with the atmosphere. It was chill and antagonistic, and had Thomas still been a knight, and weaponed, he would have instinctively reached for his sword at that point.
The antagonism was clearly directed at him.
“How nice that you could drag yourself away from your divine mission to save the world from evil for this errand,” Edward continued.
Now utterly shocked, Thomas could do nothing but stare silently at the Black Prince’s face.
The prince stared back at him.
Thomas jerked his eyes about the rest of the chamber. Bolingbroke stood slightly back and to the right, between the Black Prince and Thomas. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. There was another man far back in the shadows—a knight, for Thomas could see the glint of steel—but neither his face nor insignia were discernible. Several guards stood about, within easy striking distance of Thomas, and clearly ready to do so at the first sign of aggression on Thomas’ part.
Silence.
Thomas dragged his eyes back to the Black Prince. “My lord prince, I regret to find you unwell—”
“A passing flux only. What does Philip have to say?”
“Uh, he says, to be plain—”
“I would appreciate that.”
“He says that he offers to ally with you against the Dauphin. Philip will bring substantial troops to your cause, as a substantial part of France. Between you, he says, you can force Charles to accept the terms of ransom and treaty.”
There was a guffaw of laughter from the shadowy figure at the back of the tent.
“Philip was ever the jester!”
Thomas recognized the voice instantly, and peered toward the figure, but the Black Prince spoke again, and Thomas jerked his eyes back to him.
“And the price?” Edward said. “Philip always has a price.”
“Gascony.”
At that even Edward smiled, and as he did so much of the sickness lifted from his face.
“I thank you for Philip’s offer,” he said, unfolding his arms and walking back behind the table. “I shall, after consultation with my commanders, take it under due consideration.”
“I have much other information, my lord prince, apart from what Philip has offered. I have—”
“Yes, yes,” Edward said. “But not now.”
He picked up a parchment from one corner of the table, and unfolded it as if it contained a sliver of pestilence.
“Brother Thomas Neville, friar of the Order of Preachers,” he began in a such a cold formal tone that it sent chills down Thomas’ spine. “I have here an order from Richard Thorseby, Prior General of England, to hold and contain the said Brother Thomas Neville until he can safely be transported back to England to face disciplinary proceedings against him in the court of—”
“What?” Thomas said. “You have no right to arrest me!”
The Black Prince threw down the parchment. “I have every right!” he shouted, making Thomas flinch. “You have abandoned your post without permission and have apparently run amok over Europe on some deranged quest on behalf of, for sweet Jesu’s sake, the blessed Saint Michael himself. You have disobeyed your superior! By God, Tom, if you had done this to me I would have gutted you and strungyou up for the crows to eat!”
He stared at Thomas, then spoke again, lower now, but in a voice quivering with anger and outrage. “You have disgraced your family, and brought the Neville name into disrepute. Damn you, Tom, you were raised better than this. How dare you abandon your post for this fanciful pilgrimage?”
Thomas could not speak. He was completely shocked, not only at the sudden turn of events (Thorsely wanted him placed in custody?) but also at the Prior General’s knowledge of his visions of St. Michael.
Had Prior Bertrand sent reports back to Thorseby?
“I—” he began.
“You will not speak,” said Edward, “because anything you say at this moment will only serve to anger me more. I am handing you over into the custody of your uncle, Baron Ralph Neville of Raby. You will accept this custody. He will keep you confined until I can bring myself to talk with you again about what you have seen in the northern provinces.”
And Edward turned his back on Thomas.
Baron Raby stepped forth from the shadows, a small mirthless smile on his face.
His strong features, brown eyes and waving black hair were an older copy of Thomas’ own, although the twenty years he had on his nephew had wrought deep
lines about his eyes and forehead.
“I only gave you leave to enter holy orders, Thomas,” Raby said, “because I believed you were truly committed to God and because I hoped the Order would curb your impetuous nature. I was wrong. You have disgraced our entire family.
Come.”
Without waiting for an answer, Raby brushed past Thomas and walked out of the chamber.
Thomas stared at Bolingbroke—his face was as implacable as Edward’s and Raby’s had been—then silently turned and followed his uncle outside.
What had gone so wrong?
Raby led him silently through the corridors of the castle into an apartment set in the walls overlooking the inner courtyard.
Once he reached his chamber he entered without a word, and Thomas followed him.
THE CHAMBER was smaller than that of the Black Prince’s, but as comfortably appointed. There was a bed standing against the back wall, deep pink and scarlet hangings falling down about it, and as Raby and Thomas entered a figure moved out from its shadow.