unforgiving as it did every day. If she tried to move slightly in her bed, then Mary knew her flesh would drag and catch about the unmoving mass as if it were seaweed caught at a shoreline by a great rock. But at least today the lump did not send lancing fingers of pain throughout her flesh, and for that Mary was grateful.
On the days that the lump woke, and raged, she could hardly bear to live.
But if the lump lay quiescent, then the great bones of her legs, and those of her lower back, ached abominably. This was a new discomfort, and Mary wondered at it. She had not ventured far beyond her chamber in the past weeks: on most evenings to the great hall for evening supper, and sometimes to the courtyard if it were sunny and warm enough, and even then Thomas Neville generally carried her, so Mary knew there was no reason her bones should be complaining. Had they grown tired of their enforced resting?
Or was this some new manifestation of her illness? Tears formed behind Mary’s closed eyelids, and she fought to keep her breathing steady and slow, lest she alert her waiting women to her distress.
No, sweet Jesu, let not this affliction have struck my bones as well.
Had she not prayed enough? Confessed her every evil thought? Had sweet Jesu found her wanting in some way that now she was to be further punished?
Mary had spent the past year trying her best not to complain and not to fear, knowing that her illness was a test sent by God. She would not fail.
But, oh sweet Jesu! It was so hard! So hard.
It was not the pain that distressed Mary, but her ever increasing sense of complete failure. She’d failed as a woman, as a wife, and as a queen. As a woman she had shrunk from her husband’s attentions, as a wife she had not been able to bear her husband a living child, and as a queen, she had not only failed in her duty to provide the realm with an heir, but she had not been able to perform those duties that a queen should—as a helpmeet to her husband the king, so that he could the better shoulder the onerous duties of office.
Every time that Bolingbroke held her hand most gently, and told her with an even greater gentleness that she was not to fret about it, Mary felt even worse, and even more the failure.
And on those days when she saw the calculation lurking behind the superficial kindness in his eyes…
Mary’s breath almost caught audibly in her throat, and she froze, wondering if her women had heard her. But, no, they still continued to lie, dozing perhaps, and not listening too closely for a sign that their mistress was awake.
For the moment, Mary did not want to give them that sign. Not just yet. A few minutes more, and then she would be prepared mentally to start her day.
Bolingbroke. Mary’s feelings for her husband ranged between the fearful and the thankful, neither of which gave her much peace. Fearful, because she well knew her husband’s lust and desire for Catherine of France, and also knew her husband enough to know he was both impatient and angry at her ill health. Her increasing, but not yet fatal, illness made Bolingbroke chafe all the more for the moment when he could publicly pursue Catherine.
Thankful, because Bolingbroke continued to be so gentle and tolerant of her in public when he might well have been dismissive, if not angry. Thankful, because Bolingbroke kept her at his side—a living part of his court—when he might have discarded her into some dank, out-of-the-way castle or manor house while he enjoyed (more openly) the comforts and company of women more suited to his needs.
Once, and not so long ago, Mary had thought to have some power over him. The English adored her when she knew they would loathe Catherine, and Mary had thought this might have stayed Bolingbroke’s hand against her.
But after what had happened to Richard… if Bolingbroke could so easily dispose of a king, then what would he do with an unwanted wife? How much longer would he tolerate her? How long did she have before—?
“What? Still abed? Women, to your feet. Pleasure awaits!”
Mary heard the two women at the foot of her bed spring to their feet, stumbling over the blankets as they did so. But she did not start, or even, for the moment, open her eyes.
Instead, her mouth curved in a small smile of joy. Had he known that she would be lying here in the pre-dawn dark, a prisoner of both her failing flesh and her terrified thoughts?
She heard him move to the side of her bed, smelt his manly fragrance, and finally she opened her eyes, and allowed her mouth to stretch into a full smile.
“Tom, what do you here in my chamber so early?”
There was a faint light from the windows now, enough to catch the flash of Neville’s smile within the blackness of his well-clipped beard.
“Come to rouse you for the tournament, lady. Myself and,” he glanced over his shoulder, “my lovely wife.”
Now Margaret’s form rose behind that of her husband, and Mary’s smile stretched even wider. She looked back to Neville, still grinning at her.
“You shall cause great gossip, my lord, coming so unannounced into my chamber.”
Margaret laughed, and walked around Neville to sit on the side of Mary’s bed, gently, so as not to jolt her. “He has me as a chaperone, madam. His jealous wife shall make sure he gets up to no mischief.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears again, but tears of gratefulness rather than despondency or pain. Their jesting did for her what no amount of solicitous words and gestures could do—make her feel worthwhile, as both a woman and a friend.
“I come merely because my wife thought that she might need a loud voice with which to rouse you,” Neville said. He’d taken a step closer to the bed, and now stood behind Margaret, one hand resting on her shoulder. “I shall not stay, for I know these first hours of a queen’s day are dominated by her women, and do not allow the presence of a man. But,” he found his voice had lost its jesting tone, “how do you feel, my lady queen? Does the thought of a day at the tournament cheer you, or cause you distress?”
Mary smiled at Neville, and then at Margaret. “It cheers me,” she said, “for I think I shall enjoy watching full grown men beating each other about the ears with lances and clubs.”
Neville nodded. “Then I shall leave you to the attention of your ladies, madam,” he said, “and will instead go to ensure that your litter, comfortably cushioned and screened, is waiting for you after your breakfast.”
He bent, kissed Mary’s forehead familiarly, then kissed Margaret’s mouth, and with a bow and a flourish, left the chamber, flashing a grin at the two women standing by the hearth as they watched with curious eyes the group about their queen’s bed.
By mid-morning it had become apparent to all concerned that the great tournament at Windsor would be held under fine and warm skies. A great omen, whispered some among the ten thousand strong crowd that had gathered, for the bright dawning of the new reign. Many had made the journey from London to the tourneying fields a mile beyond Windsor over the previous days, others from the countryside nearer the castle that very morning. Some were there only to watch the jousting of the nobles, some to partake in the wrestling matches and other games scheduled to entertain the throng, others to set up stalls to cater to the thirst and hunger of the spectators and participants alike. Still others were there to feed off the crowd itself: cutpurses and thieves, and grim-faced friars determined to convince as many as possible that the Devil Himself
