still is alive,” one man said. “Why shouldn’t he be? Perhaps these stories of his death were false.”
Neville opened his mouth to refute the lie one more time, then shut it as he suddenly realised what Exeter was going to do.
“My God,” Neville whispered, and hurried off.
Mary shifted a little on her cushions, trying to ease the agony coursing up and down her spine. Her face twisted, and she gasped.
“Madam?” Margaret whispered, shocked by the whiteness of Mary’s face. She grabbed at Mary’s hand, then looked to Bolingbroke.
He was already staring at Mary, and had taken her other hand. “Mary,” he said, “how bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” Mary whispered.
Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. The fact that Mary had admitted her pain told her a great deal: Mary was in absolute agony. Nothing else would drive her to actually admitting discomfort.
“Do something,” Bolingbroke hissed to Margaret, then turned to smile and wave at the people whose heads had turned to watch what was happening in the royal box. She is tired, no more.
Margaret hesitated. “I have no more of the liquor,” she said.
Mary tried to smile, and failed dismally. “I have been too greedy,” she said. “It is my fault.”
Again Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. I can do for her what I did for Lancaster in his final hours. Ease her pain.
No! She will know that you are other than what you present yourself!
And would that be so bad?
Meg, do not go against my will. We will be finished here soon enough.
Margaret dropped her eyes. I hope it is not your fate to die a lingering, painful death, Hal.
“I will be well enough once we leave this place,” Mary said. “Do not fear for me, Margaret.”
“It is difficult to avoid fearing for those whom you love dearly,” Margaret said, and her eyes filmed with tears.
“I am suffering no more than those poor men below who have been trampled beneath horses’ hooves,” Mary said, patting at Margaret’s hand. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you for caring, Margaret.”
Margaret took one of Mary’s hands in both of hers, and very, very gently rubbed its back with her thumbs. With Mary, as she had done with Lancaster, she should dig her thumbs in deeply to give the relief required for such pain, but if she did that, and eased Mary’s pain to a remarkable degree, then Mary would indeed suspect something.
So Margaret gently rubbed, and the continual movement, with the slight power she put into it, managed to take the edge off Mary’s pain. It happened so gradually that Mary herself did not connect the very slight easing of her pain with Margaret’s rubbing.
She merely thought the ease was due to Margaret’s love… which, in a sense, it was.
After a few minutes Mary straightened her back a little, and lifted her head, suddenly becoming aware of the concerned looks being sent her way.
Mary smiled, then waved her hand a little. “A bad moment, my good people,” she said. “Nothing else. See, I am quite well now.”
And gradually those staring smiled, nodded, and returned their eyes to the tourney field before them.
Once their attention was back on the field, Mary turned to Margaret, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for your love,” she said. “It means so much.”
Margaret blinked back her tears, and smiled, and would have spoken save that Bolingbroke leaned over and hushed them.
“Quiet! The joust of the tournament begins.”
Mary turned her head back to the field—its grass now all but torn up where it wasn’t littered with congealing pink mounds of sawdust. All but one jousting lane had been cleared away, and at either end of this single remaining lane sat two great warriors on their destriers: Exeter and Raby.
Both men and their mounts were fully armoured: Raby in black armour emblazoned with the Neville device across breastplate and helm; Exeter in gleaming white armour, similarly emblazoned with his own heraldic devices.
An official shouted an instruction, and both men slowly lowered their lances.
Their destriers bunched beneath them, knowing that at any instant they would be sent thundering towards their opponent.
A flag dropped, the crowd roared, and the destriers lumbered into movement.
Bolingbroke leaned forward in his chair, his face tense, one fist clenched. “Do me proud, Ralph,” he muttered. “Do me proud.”
Raby and Exeter pounded towards each other, their bodies hunched over lance and shield, their heads swaying with the violent movement of their horses.
They met in a grinding of metal in the centre of the field: sparks flew, horses grunted, but both lances slid off their opponent’s shield harmlessly as each passed the other, trying to pull up their destriers with hands laden with shield and weapon.
Squires leapt to their masters’ aid, catching the destriers and turning them about.
The crowd’s roar grew louder.
Bolingbroke turned to say something to Mary, then stopped, his eyes fixed on Thomas Neville who had climbed the stairs into the stand and was now fast approaching the royal box.
“Tom?” Bolingbroke said.
Neville reached him, glancing at Margaret and Mary, and then to where Robert Courtenay stood with a group of armed men in the back of the stand, before bending down to Bolingbroke.
“Treachery, sire,” he whispered. “I think Exeter means to—”
He got no further, for just then Exeter and Raby met again in a clash of metal and horseflesh in the centre of the field. The grinding and screeching of lance against shield grew to almost unbearable levels, and then Raby’s shield toppled to one side, dragging its owner over with it.
Exeter managed to drop his lance, grabbing a club that hung at his side. In a heartbeat he’d raised it on high, then smashed it into Raby’s helm.
Neville’s uncle slid unceremoniously to the ground in a clatter of armour and a flailing of legs and arms. His horse skittered off, rolling its eyes.
“Ralph!” Margaret whispered, half-rising. She had been Raby’s lover once, and had never ceased caring for him.
“Hal!” Neville said, equally as urgently. “You are in danger—”
Exeter ignored Raby struggling ignobly in his heavy armour on the ground, dropping the club and grabbing at his sword to wave it about his head. He turned to the gates that marked the entry and exit point of the tourney field, the vigour of his sword-waving doubling.
Horsed
