up, moving to the nearby table to refill it, turning to refill Bolingbroke’s as well.
“Our friendship will never be what it once was, Hal. Not now.”
“But we can still work together? For England?”
“Aye,” Neville said, and raised his goblet. “For England.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as both men drank, then Neville spoke again. “Talking of England, I am assuming that it was for unity’s sake that you turned so much of your fabled charm on Exeter this evening?”
“I did my best, Tom. I did my best. At the least he laughed cheerily at my poor jests.”
Ah, thought Neville. Then Exeter is a dangerous man and undoubtedly thinking to raise a rebellion.
“And what words passed between you and Montagu?” Bolingbroke enquired.
“General charm, but some sourness over the new home for the House of Lords. Hal, be careful. There is yet unrest.”
“A kitchen has never caused a revolution yet, my friend. I shall have that kitchen decked out in fine emeralds and scarlets, and much gold gilding, and once the lords remember that the wine cellars lie directly beneath the former kitchen, well… ”
“I have also heard whispers—no, not from Montagu, but in the streets and stables—about Richard. Hal, some say he is not dead.”
Bolingbroke’s mouth thinned. “Trust me, he is dead.”
“Oh, I trust that you would not have him left alive to niggle at your legitimacy. But Richard’s name is powerful whether he is dead or not. A single rumour that he escaped Pontefract Castle and waits in the marches for all true Englishmen to gather at his side would be enough to destabilise your seat on that throne.”
“Richard is dead!”
“But he may still haunt you,” Neville said. “Be careful. You may be beloved of the commons, but there are many who would not weep to see you dead on the cobbles with a knife between your ribs. Richard’s name is the one they will use to thrust that knife home.”
Bolingbroke waved a hand. “I will prevail.”
“And I hope that you do,” Neville said, “for of all things I do not want another Richard to take your place.”
Bolingbroke smiled, and the atmosphere between them eased a little further. “You have taken good care of Mary,” he said. “You and Margaret. For that I thank you.”
“She is a treasure, Hal. The people on the street adore her almost as much as they do you.”
“I have been lucky in my wife,” Bolingbroke said.
“But not as lucky as you had hoped?” Neville said.
Bolingbroke sent him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”
“Mary will never bear you an heir. Have you thought about setting her aside?”
“That is a brutal remark, coming from one who claims that my wife is a treasure.”
“Then I ask you as a king, not as a man. As a king, you need an heir. How does the king answer my question?”
“I can never set Mary aside,” Bolingbroke said. “And that is the answer of the king.”
Neville nodded, turning to stare into the flames as he thought. No, the king could not set Mary aside, and certainly not for the woman Bolingbroke truly wanted, Catherine of France. The commons adored Mary, and would loathe Catherine. It might be the end of Bolingbroke’s kingship if he set Mary aside.
So Bolingbroke the king was going to wait for Mary the queen to die.
Neville wondered very much what Bolingbroke might do if Mary did not die. A crippled, barren wife was second only to a successful rebellion as the worst lot in life that fate could deal a king.
“And France?” Neville said.
Bolingbroke hesitated. “France? You know I will turn my attention to France sooner or later, Tom.”
“Aye.” For there lies Catherine… and untold wealth and land. “Take care you do not become another King Arthur, Hal. So caught by his glorious dreams of conquering the entire civilised world he neglected his own family where waited his doom. Remember what happened to Arthur’s dream of Camelot.”
Bolingbroke shot Neville an unreadable look, then took a deep breath. “I must to France, but not merely for the ‘glory’. France waits for me, and for you.”
“Waits for me?”
“Aye. It will be in France that the angels, no doubt using their mouthpiece Joan of Arc, will ask you for your decision, Tom. My road, as yours, will lead to France.”
Neville thought a moment, then nodded. Of course. Doubtless, Joan would present the choice on behalf of the angels. “Arthur’s dreams ended in France,” he said.
Bolingbroke stared at Neville. “Then I pray to our sweet Lord Jesus that France shall not prove the end of mine.”
It was still dark, but Mary could hear the world stir outside her chamber windows. There was a faint, distant clattering interspersed with the low growl of men’s voices: grooms readying the horses for the day’s entertainment. There was another clatter, closer, and this noise was interspersed with more feminine voices: women in the kitchen courtyard, darting to and fro between kitchen and great hall, carting pails and dishes, readying the morning’s breakfast. And faintly, so very faintly, came the morning song of the birds: the pigeons and doves of the stables, and the wilder, lovelier melodies of the meadow birds.
Mary kept her eyes closed, her hands clenching at her sides under the light coverlets, and bent her entire will to concentrate on the sound of the birds. But it was no use. The world of stables and of kitchens kept intruding, destroying the peace of the birdsong, and soon Mary knew the world of the court and of her responsibilities as queen would also intrude in the guise of the careful voices and hands of her waiting women.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Just a slit, a glance under her lashes, for Mary did not want anyone who might be watching to know she was awake. Still dark, it appeared that there was, as yet, no one up and moving about the chamber, but now Mary could hear the altered breathing of the two women who slept on pallets at the foot of her bed. Mary realised they were awake, steeling themselves to rise in the cold air of the chamber. Once they had gathered their bravery, and risen to pull on some clothes, they would stoke the fire in the hearth, air Mary’s clothes before it, and fetch warm water and a dish of soft white bread soaked in warm, watered wine from the kitchens. When all this was done, they would turn their attention to Mary, and ask her gently if she felt well enough to rise against the day; if she felt well enough to take some bread and wine.
Did she?
Mary closed her eyes again and concentrated
