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Neville glanced at the High Table. Isabeau de Bavière was leaning back in her chair, her brilliant eyes glancing about the hall, her mouth curled in a small smile … perhaps in contemplation of the pleasures of deceit.
“Isabeau is merely a woman rather than a witch,” Neville said, “and one who has been clever enough to make her weakness a powerful weapon for her ambition.”
“Tom! Are these admiring words for a woman I hear you speak? This is not like you at all. Ah, I think marriage has mellowed you.”
Neville’s face took on a reflective aspect at the indirect reference to his wife. “Hal … you know I have suspected Margaret of demonry.”
Bolingbroke’s own face became very careful. “Aye.”
Neville’s eyes lost focus as he remembered what had passed between him and Margaret several nights previously. “She is not what she seems,” Neville said slowly, “and she has lied to me on many occasions.”
Bolingbroke was now very, very still, his eyes fixed solely on Neville’s face. What had happened?
“I could bear it no longer. I confronted her the night we first arrived in London. Sweet Jesu, Hal, Saint Michael told me she had to be destroyed!”
“What happened, Tom?”
Neville gave a small humourless laugh, and, focussing his attention on Bolingbroke, suddenly realised how tense the man was.
“I threatened to kill both her and Rosalind,” he said, “if Margaret did not replace all her lies with truths. Lord Saviour, Hal, I think I would have done it, too, I was so beside myself with anger and doubt.”
He shook his head. “I cannot believe that I was so out of my mind that I would threaten Rosalind’s life.”
Bolingbroke was pale. “You threatened to kill a child? Tom, tell me what happened!”
Neville met Bolingbroke’s eyes. “I was angry with Margaret, not only because I thought her a demon, but because I thought she might be your lover.”
Bolingbroke stared incredulously, then erupted in loud and completely unfeigned laughter, surprising Neville, who had expected any of a hundred different responses but not this.
People glanced at them, and Bolingbroke managed to bring his laughter under control, although tears of mirth slipped down his cheeks and his face went stiff with the effort to keep his chortling muted. “I cannot believe you thought … I … and her Nay, nay, Tom, never fear that!”
Although Neville’s doubts regarding Margaret and Bolingbroke were finally and completely laid to rest, he now felt slighted on her behalf that Bolingbroke should prove so immune to her charms.
“Margaret is a very beautiful woman,” he said.
“Oh, aye, aye!” Bolingbroke continued to chortle, wiping away the tears from his face with a hand. “But … I … she …” He stopped, took a deep breath, and finally managed to gain complete control of himself. “Tom, I do beg your indulgence and forgiveness for any slight you felt I delivered to your wife. Margaret is truly an utterly desirable woman, but she is your wife, as she was once Raby’s woman, and I have too much love and respect for you, as I did for Raby, to even consider her a possible companion for bedsport. But tell me, what did she say to your other charge? That she was a demon.”
“She spoke strangely,” Neville said, “but with such a heavenly anger in her eyes that I was forced to believe every word she spoke.”
“And …?”
Again Neville focussed his gaze on Bolingbroke’s face. “She told me she was not a demon, but was also not a mere woman. She said she was of the angels.”
Any merriment still remaining in Bolingbroke’s eyes and face vanished completely. “And what else did she tell you?” he said softly.
Neville told Bolingbroke what had passed between them, and also detailed for Bolingbroke, as he had not done previously, the curse that Neville had heard from both Roman prostitute and demon. “Hal,” he finished, “she had such a look in her eyes that I was forced to believe her.”
“Such a look?”
“A look that I have seen only in one other being’s eyes—Saint Michael’s. She spoke truly when she said she was of the angels.”
Bolingbroke considered a long while before he spoke again. “Then Margaret is a remarkable woman indeed. Tom, even though she has told you she has been sent to provide the temptation to test you, can you truly resist her?”
“I must,” Neville said, “and I will. I shall regard her and treat her with the respect and pity she deserves, but I will not love her. She understands this.”
Bolingbroke reached out a hand and placed it on Neville’s shoulder, forcing Neville to look directly into his eyes.
“And when the pyre is lit, Tom, will you truly be able to throw her on it? Will you? Will you?”
Neville met Bolingbroke’s stare easily. “Margaret’s honesty has proved a blessing, for I can see that she is resigned to her fate and is prepared to sacrifice herself so that mankind will be spared Satan’s rule. Can I sacrifice her? Yes, I can, for both her sacrifice and my strength will surely see her live with the angels for eternity.”
“You couldn’t allow her to die the night she gave birth to Rosalind, though, could you?”
“That was different! She needed to live so that she might fill her proper—” her sacrificial “—role later!” And that was why I prayed so hard for her that night, Neville told himself. It was!
Bolingbroke drew back with shock and sorrow in his eyes. “Then God has a magnificent champion in you, Tom. No wonder the heavens rejoice in your very name.”
Neville nodded, taking Bolingbroke’s words as a compliment. “But the casket … the casket.” He shot a glance to the High Table where Richard was now leaning towards Isabeau de Bavière, engaging her in a conversation that had both their faces lit with amusement and their eyes dusky with lust.
Well, and it was surely no surprise that Isabeau de Bavière would tempt the boy-king into her bed. Or was it Richard who seduced Isabeau?
“We can do nothing until Richard summons us to his presence,” Bolingbroke said, barely restrained frustration and anger evident in his tone. “And at present the Demon-King is amusing himself by withholding that summons.”
Isabeau stretched out her arm and admired both its firmness and the brilliance of the gems in its armbands and finger rings. In the candlelight the gems glittered and sparkled, and their glow lent further sheen to her ivory skin.
Apart from her jewels, Isabeau de Bavière was utterly naked.
Women moved with silken whispers in the shadows about her, folding her clothes, pouring rosewater into a tub so that she might bathe away the sweat of both banquet and Richard. Isabeau’s mouth curled in silent memory: Richard had not even pretended decorous behaviour, escorting her behind the curtain that separated his bed from the High Table on the dais in the Painted Chamber and forcing her to its mattress even as diners were still exiting the hall.
Isabeau lowered her arm and sighed. Perhaps age was finally claiming its own, for she had found her bedsport with Richard a nauseating affair, and had risen and pulled down her skirts as soon as he’d rolled off her.
“I shall present my son with your kindest felicitations,” she had said, and then left him to return to her own chambers in Westminster’s palace.
“Madam?” one of the women said, sinking into a deep curtsey before her.
Isabeau sighed again and peered at the woman—girl, really. Who was she? Richard sent her new ladies every few days so that she might not form a close bond with any of them and perhaps subvert them to her own interests, and Isabeau found it difficult to recall names and faces. Ah yes, now she remembered …
“Mary, is it not?” she said. Her voice was deep and melodious and heavily accented with the dulcet cadences of her native country.
“Mary Bohun,” the girl said, finally looking up at Isabeau. She flushed, as if Isabeau’s nakedness disconcerted her.
“And I would hazard a guess,” Isabeau said, smiling, “that this Mary Bohun is a virgin.”
“But soon to be wed,” said another woman, now stepping from the shadows into the circle of candlelight that surrounded Isabeau.
“Who is this?” Isabeau said, not liking to be so interrupted.
Mary Bohun’s flush darkened, but she maintained her composure. “This is Lady Margaret Neville,” she said of Margaret, who had now sunk into her own curtsey before Isabeau. “She is one of my attendants, sent to serve with me this night, and also one of my closest confidantes.”
Isabeau studiously ignored Margaret, who had a beauty that was, disconcertingly, almost as great as her own.
“And so you are to be wedded and bedded, my dear,” Isabeau said to Mary. “And to which noble will fall the pleasure of inducting you into womanhood?”
“My Lord of Hereford,” Mary said. “Hal Bolingbroke.”
Isabeau’s face went still, then she affected disinterest with some considerable effort that did not escape Margaret’s attention.
“I have seen this Bolingbroke from afar,” Isabeau said, now reaching for a vial of cream on the chest beside her and fiddling with its stopper. “He is fair of face, and struts as if he has the virility of a bull. If I were you, my dear, I should eat well at your wedding feast, for I believe you shall need the energy for the night ahead.”
Isabeau put the vial of cream back on top of the chest with a loud crack and leaned close to Mary. “No doubt he’ll bruise you, and make you weep, but at least you shall have the blood-stained sheets in the morning to prove to your maids and, subsequently, to court gossip, that you are now truly the obedient wife and that you are well on your way to proving yourself yet another willing brood mare for the Plantagenet stallions.”
Isabeau sat back, a look of utter malice on her face as she stared down at the shocked Mary. “You are not a particularly desirable woman, Mary, and doubtless poor Bolingbroke shall have to call other faces to mind in order to rouse himself enough to accomplish your bedding. Never mind, Bolingbroke shall be happy enough the next morning, knowing that for his efforts he has won himself untold wealth with all the lands that fell under his control the instant he smeared your virgin blood across the sheets.”
Mary continued to stare at Isabeau’s face a moment longer, then she rose silently, her face ashen, and walked away.
“That was a cruel and unnecessary thing to say, madam,” Margaret said to Isabeau. “And spoken out of nothing but maliciousness!”
She, too, rose, but instead of immediately leaving Isabeau to her circle of candlelight and spiteful thoughts, leaned close and spoke so low that no one but Isabeau could hear.
“If you return to Charles’ camp, then tell Catherine that Bolingbroke takes Mary to wife. Tell Catherine!”
Margaret turned to go, but Isabeau’s hand whipped out and seized her sleeve with tight fingers. “And who are you to so issue me orders?”
“I am Catherine’s friend and soulmate,” Margaret said. “And you know, as well as I, that Catherine needs to know of Bolingbroke’s plans.”
Something in Margaret’s gaze, perhaps contempt, perhaps even pity, made Isabeau drop her hand.
“Send the girl Mary back to me,” she said, and sighed. “She is but a child, and I may have misled her. Perhaps it is not too late to undo the damage I have wrought.”
IX (#ulink_eba11aaf-4ca9-5529-9e96-fd14a0ee958f)
Ember Saturday in September
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(17th September 1379)
Ember Saturday in September was Feversham’s most important market day of the year. Men and women from all around the Kentish countryside made their way to the town, not only to market their wares, but their labour as well. The autumn agricultural markets were the best time for itinerant labourers to try to garner themselves a year-long work contract with one of the wealthier landlords or free farmers.
By Terce, a huge throng of people crowded the marketplace. Goods spilled over trestle tables and hastily erected stalls. Pigs, cows, horses and sheep jostled in small pens or tugged at their tie lines; dogs barked; geese, chickens and ducks squawked and honked; and the mass of people shouted, laughed, argued and prodded at the goods for sale.
A goodly proportion of the crowd, however, was edging away from the marketplace towards the church set at one boundary of the square.
There, a dusty, ragged priest with long, tousled hair was nailing a broadsheet to the church door. A sheaf of duplicate broadsheets ruffled in the light breeze at his feet.
As he nailed, the priest shouted out an abbreviated version of the contents of the broadsheet:
“Did God create both lords and bondsmen? Nay! He created all men equal! Why should you be the ones to live in draughty hovels and eat coarse bread while your lords live in castles and eat white bread, and rich clerics live in corrupt luxury? How is it they claim our lot is in the dirt and the freezing rain, while they wear fine furs and drink good Gascony wine? Truth is kept under a lock, my friends, and it is time to set it free!”
The priest had finished nailing the broadsheet to the door, and now picked up the pile of loose copies at his feet, turning to hand them out to the crowd jostling for position. He knew that few of them could read, but on a busy market day like this, the few that could would, within a short space of time, share the contents of the sheet with thousands of people.
“We all know how corrupt the Church is,” the priest continued to shout, “for have we not for generations witnessed the sins of the abbots and bishops? Has not good England laboured under the yoke of the Roman—”
“Or French!” someone in the crowd yelled, and there was general laughter.
“—Church for centuries? Why should we listen to fat bishops and foreign popes who say that unless we pay another penny, and yet another penny again, we shall not achieve salvation? Is salvation something to be purchased, my friends?”
The crowd mumbled, and then roared. “No! No!”
“Salvation is yours through the sacrifice of sweet Jesus Christ,” the priest yelled, his arms waving about emphatically now that he’d handed out all the broadsheets. “It is His gift! There is no need to pay the Church for salvation!”
The roar swelled again—the priest had touched a raw nerve.
“And what of your lords? Do they also not wallow in wealth while you grovel in the dirt? Do they not tax you until you cannot feed your children so that they can have their pretty tournaments and wars?”
There was a movement on the edge of the crowd, and the priest saw it. Soldiers, on horses.
“Who wears the face of Christ in this unhappy world of pain? Not the fat clerics, no! Nor the greedy lords. You wear the face of Christ, my friends, every one of you, through your hard work and poverty!”
The soldiers had pushed their horses very close, and the priest’s face began to gleam with sweat. Not through fear of being apprehended—he had always expected this—but through a desperation to preach to the crowd as much as he could before the soldiers reached him.
“The goods of both Church and lords belong to you, the face of Christ on earth! Not to bishops and dukes who care more for silks than for the thin cheeks of your children!”
People began to shout, some to voice their agreement with what the priest said, others to yell their anger at the now close soldiers.
“My name is John Ball,” the priest screamed, now directing his voice towards the soldiers, a few paces distant. “John Ball! I am not afraid that the corrupt lords and bishops should know it! My name is John Ball and I am the voice of the people, and of Christ, who weeps for the people!”
The was a huge surge of sound, and the soldiers pounced, seizing John Ball by the back of his robe and hauling him kicking and screaming atop one of their horses. One of the soldiers rode his horse close to the church door, and tore down the broadsheet.
“Let him go! Let him go!” the crowd shouted, and the twenty soldiers had to lash about with their swords and push their horses forward to fight their way free.
“It is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s men!” someone in the crowd shouted, and the throng screamed and pushed and pummelled. “Christ damn the Archbishop of Canterbury! Christ damn the Archbishop of Canterbury!”
John Ball, now held firmly across the saddle of one of the men, nevertheless managed to raise his head and yell one last defiant message to the crowd. “When Adam delved, and Eve span—who then was the gentleman?”
And then the soldiers were free, pushing their horses into a hard canter, and there was left only the swelling, murmuring crowd, passing the broadsheets to those who could read out loud.
“What did you know of this?” Lancaster said, throwing the broadsheet down on the table before Bolingbroke.
“My lord,” Bolingbroke said, then hesitated, picking the broadsheet up as gingerly as if it were gunpowder.
Lancaster’s furious eyes swung towards Neville, who stood just behind Bolingbroke’s shoulder. Neither of the two younger men were sitting. They had been summoned into Lancaster’s presence just a few minutes before.
“My lord,” Bolingbroke said again. “I had known that Master Wycliffe and several of his men were travelling through Kent—”
“And you had not informed me? Sweet Jesu, Hal, why not? And why not stop them? Do you think I would be pleased to have men known to be of my household engaged in such seditious activities? Ah! Wycliffe has gone too far this time.”
Neville knew he was going to earn Lancaster’s anger for not informing him personally of Wycliffe’s visit to Halstow Hall, but all he felt for the moment was relief. Lancaster had finally seen the danger in nurturing the demon Wycliffe, and now, perhaps, would go to the lengths necessary to stop him.
