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He slid his hands around her waist and over her belly, and gently pulled her back against him. Her skin was warm and very, very soft.
“From this point,” he said, “there can be no going back. Leave now if there remains the slightest doubt.”
In answer, Catherine lifted her own hands and placed them over his beneath the material of her gown. She slid them up until they cupped her breasts, and then jumped very slightly, surprised at the sensations that flooded through her as he caressed them.
“I have no experience,” she said. “I do not know what to do.”
Philip repressed a smile, sure that these words were something Isabeau had taught her: they will inspire him to greater heat, my dear, for what man can resist being the one to induct a girl into the experience she lacks?
Then his smile died. Isabeau was a very wise woman.
“Then let me show you,” he whispered, and slid the gown completely from her body.
It was a night of discoveries, and of unthought of marvels. Catherine had expected many things of Philip the Bad, but not the tenderness and respect and patience he showed her. They talked and laughed and were silent in turns as first he explored her body, and then encouraged her to explore his. Everything was new and wondrous for Catherine. She adored Philip’s body, surprised not only by the manner and degree in which his flesh reacted to hers, but how, in turn, hers responded to his. There was no discomfort, no pain, only the discovery of new planes of sensation and of existence; no sense of loss, only the indescribable sense of how two bodies, two souls, could merge into one.
There was one moment, one moment that she thought she would remember all her life. Philip was over her, and deep inside her. He lifted his head and shoulders back from her a little distance, his face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair falling over his forehead.
“There is only you,” he said, and somehow that touched Catherine so deeply that she began to cry, and Philip leaned back down to her again, and kissed away her tears, and cried himself.
She woke very slowly from a deep sleep. It was dark, dark night, but Philip’s gently breathing body was curled against hers and she was not alone any more.
She was not alone any more.
So much of her life had been spent alone, always fatherless, and often motherless as Isabeau abandoned her time and time again.
Bolingbroke had not fought for her … but Philip—treacherous, untrustworthy Philip—had given her this night honesty and something that was so close to love that there might be no difference at all.
She sighed and stretched slightly so that she might feel Philip’s body rub against hers. She was filled with immeasurable content. Tonight, Bolingbroke lay with Mary Bohun, and Catherine could have spent this night weeping in her bed, but she had done what Isabeau had suggested and taken her fate in her own hands.
In doing so, Catherine had discovered in Philip something of infinite value … and perhaps, of infinite danger.
Could Hal ever compete? How strong was he?
Her movement had wakened Philip, and now he stirred.
“Catherine.” A hand cupped one of her breasts, and she gave a low laugh and rolled close against him. “Of what do you think?”
Catherine grinned in the dark and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “I was considering my fortune in this past night. Few women, whether peasant or noble lady, are ever conducted so sweetly over the threshold from maidenhood into womanhood. You did not have to act so tenderly, and yet you chose to do so. For that I thank you.”
“I could not act otherwise with you, Catrine.”
The unexpected endearment drew fresh tears to her eyes, and she drew in a shaky breath.
He touched his fingers to her cheek. “And I had not thought to spend the entire night wiping your tears away. Perhaps I have not been as gentle as you imagine.”
She smiled. “Then you must distract me from my pain, your grace.”
“And how may I do that?”
She laughed as his hand stroked down her flank. “May I ask you a question?”
He gave a mock groan. “If you must.”
“I was wondering, my King of Navarre, if you have ever bedded my mother.”
His hand abruptly stilled, and after a moment he propped himself up on one elbow. “Why do you ask?”
“I was curious only, Philip, for I know how well she regards you. I do not mind if you answer with a yea.”
Philip was silent, thinking, then decided to answer honestly. “No, I have never lain with her.”
He gave a short laugh, remembering. “When I was a young lad, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years, I lusted after her madly, and put her face to every one of the peasant girls I managed to persuade to lie down in the grass. When I grew older, and had occasion to know her better, I grew to like and respect her too much to become one of the tally marks on her tapestry frame.”
Catherine reached up a hand and cupped his cheek in its palm.
“Then my mother has suffered a great loss, because I think she has been looking for you all her life.”
“And I think,” he said softly, gazing down at the planes of her face now that his eyes had become accustomed to the faint light in the room, “that both you and I, my sweet maid, have gained a great deal more than we thought this night.”
“Aye,” she whispered.
And Hal has lost a great deal, she thought, as Philip’s mouth closed gently and sweetly over hers.
Three other people lay awake that night of Michaelmas. Three other people who shared Catherine’s night of wonder.
Wat Tyler, deep in the south-eastern counties of England where he worked his secret business, paced the streets of the small village where he’d put up for the night.
He was furious both with Catherine and with Bolingbroke.
Subtlety would never work, not now that Catherine had lain down with Philip. Etienne had been right all along—the thunder of revolution in the streets was a sounder means to accomplish their ends than Bolingbroke’s pretty subtleties.
Margaret lay next to her sleeping Tom, tears of joy and envy-sliding down her cheeks. She had not thought Catherine would do this—and what she had done would threaten everything they had fought so hard for—but Margaret was glad Catherine had found some measure of happiness at last … and what happiness she had found!
Bolingbroke also lay awake, Mary silent and still beside him.
He was beyond fury. An awareness of what Catherine was doing had come to him as he had turned to Mary when the door closed behind the last of their well-wishers.
As Philip had laid hand to Catherine, so Bolingbroke had laid hand to Mary.
As Philip’s mouth had claimed Catherine’s, so Bolingbroke’s had claimed Mary’s.
As Philip had entered Catherine’s body, so Bolingbroke had entered Mary’s.
As Catherine cried out in laughter and wonder, so Mary had screamed in pain and fear.
And as Catherine had caught Philip more closely to her, so Mary had fought, unsuccessfully, to push Bolingbroke from her.
Bolingbroke had known Mary was fearful, and had meant to be kind and patient with her. But, as awareness of Catherine’s actions came over Bolingbroke, blind fury, and an even worse jealousy, had swept through him and his hands and body became hard and unforgiving, and every one of Mary’s fears had been realised.
He had tried to comfort her, afterwards, but what could he say?
What could he say?
And so they lay there, Bolingbroke and his wife, through that long night of Michaelmas, each wondering what lay ahead for their loveless marriage.
And that deep-buried imp chuckled, and peeped into the future, and saw the merry mischief it could make.
XIII (#ulink_77e614a9-2b35-52b3-b76b-f6270f7d9c33)
The Feast of St Jerome
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Friday 30th September 1379)
Bolingbroke had waited only for the first stain of dawn in the east before he rose from his marital bed. As soon as he had dressed there came a tentative knock at the door and Margaret entered, her eyes studiously averted from Bolingbroke.
“My Lady Neville,” Bolingbroke said in a harsh voice, as Margaret gathered up a robe for Mary.
She finally looked at him.
He could say nothing about Catherine in front of Mary, but he needed to lock eyes with Margaret, if only to share his silent anguish and anger.
She returned his stare evenly. What did you expect? Did you think she would sit on her hands and weep and wait?
The skin about Bolingbroke’s eyes tightened. “My lady wife requires your comfort, Lady Neville,” he said. “It seems that I have discomforted her during the night.”
And with that he was gone.
As soon as the door closed behind him Mary put a trembling hand to her mouth, and Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed and gathered her into her arms.
Neville found Bolingbroke in the courtyard of the Savoy at weapons practice just as the bells of Prime rang out over London. The city was waking into life: barges plied the river, the cries of the fishermen and coal merchants drifting soulfully over the palace walls; carts and hooves rattled down the Strand moving produce into the markets; whores drifted into shadowy rooms to sleep off their night’s labours just as priests flung open the doors of London’s parish churches to face the sins of the city.
Neville halted in the shadows of an archway and watched.
Bolingbroke was dressed in a fortified leather tunic that hung down over his thighs, and thick studded gloves. A chain mail hood hung over his head, flowing over his shoulders and upper chest. In his hands he had a great sword, and with this sword he was trading blows with a sergeant-at-arms. Or rather, he seemed intent on murdering his sergeant-at-arms, who was clearly tiring.
Even as Neville moved forward from the shadows, the man slipped to the ground, and Bolingbroke stepped forward and raised his sword in both hands.
His face was twisted, his eyes blank.
“Bolingbroke,” Neville said softly, seizing Bolingbroke’s wrists in both his hands. “Cease. This man is not your enemy.”
Bolingbroke tore himself free, the sword clattering to the ground, and whipped about to face Neville.
His eyes were furious. He began to say something, then he visibly fought for control, finally forcing the fury from his gaze.
Bolingbroke took a deep breath. “William,” he said, half turning to face the sergeant-at-arms, “I do apologise to you. I meant no harm.”
The man managed a half smile, but his hands were shaking as he sheathed his sword. “If you one day direct that anger at the French, my lord, then I do not mind being the near-murdered target of your practice.”
“Well, one day, please Jesus, maybe I will,” Bolingbroke said, and nodded a dismissal at the man.
“And that day may be closer than you think,” Neville said as William walked away.
“What? What news?”
“Hal, your father sent me to find you. Richard has called a council of the great lords currently in London. We have an hour.”
Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then muttered a curse and ran for the door.
The courtyard of the palace of Westminster was clogged with horses, men-at-arms, pages, horse-boys, valets, squires, and ill-tempered nobles shouting for their attendants.
What could Richard want?
Although the Lords of the Privy Council were to be present at Richard’s hastily-called meeting, this was not a gathering of the Privy Council itself, for many more lords were to attend.
Bolingbroke and Neville dismounted from their horses, throwing their reins to the men of their escort. As they shouldered their way through the throng they saw Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, disappearing through the palace entrance way and, directly behind him, Thomas Brantingham, Bishop of Exeter.
They vanished inside in a flurry of scarlet and blue cloaks.
“Sudbury and Brantingham?” Bolingbroke muttered. “What is happening. Ah, look, there is my father!”
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had emerged from a side entrance and was now only a few paces from Bolingbroke and Neville.
“Father?” Bolingbroke said.
Lancaster’s face was grey—but grey with anger and frustration rather than illness. “Richard has decided to take personal control of government,” he said, and held up his hand for silence as Bolingbroke spluttered. “He is eighteen, and his grandfather had taken personal control at the same age. He has a right … and the Privy Council has nodded their collective age-addled heads.”
“But why?” Bolingbroke said.
Lancaster gave his son a bleak look. “Why not? Hal, Richard has the right to rule on his own. My regency would not last forever.”
“He is to keep you as a councillor, surely.”
Now Lancaster’s look was even bleaker. “Nay, Hal. Richard is determined to cast off the chains of past monarchs … and apparently I am the greatest weight of them all.”
Bolingbroke and Neville shared a look, but Lancaster interrupted before either could speak. “There is no good to be done idling about here with our questions. Come, let us hear what our king has to say.”
Richard was to meet with his lords in the Painted Chamber. When Bolingbroke and Neville entered, they both noted that the hall had been somewhat modified since they’d last seen it. Richard’s bed had gone from the dais at the top of the hall—he had apparently moved to one of the apartments adjoining the Painted Chamber, possibly the Queen’s apartments which were empty of a Queen—and the space was now occupied by several trestle tables cluttered with boxes, maps, small chests and several score documents. Neville instantly thought the scene bore a remarkable resemblance to Bolingbroke’s disordered office, which Neville still had to succeed in bringing under some degree of control.
Several large tables had been placed end to end in the centre of the hall to form one long table, chairs drawn up about it. To each side stood groups of nobles, murmuring between themselves, some sipping from cups of wine.
Some faces were apprehensive, others confident.
A loud laugh sounded, and Bolingbroke’s and Neville’s eyes jerked to a group of three men standing close to the dais.
Robert de Vere, Henry Percy the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur.
