“Sire,” Bolingbroke said in a very quiet voice, “I went down on bended knee before you last May Day and pledged you my homage and allegiance. What have I done since that you now think me a traitor?”
Richard held Bolingbroke’s stare a long moment before he answered. “I move only so that you may never become a traitor, Bolingbroke,” he said. “Thank the sweet lord that you still have both your lands and life.”
Bolingbroke leaned back in his chair and looked away. He was pale with fury, and a muscle twitched in one cheek.
And had Richard thought he could do it, Neville realised, then he would indeed have deprived Bolingbroke of both lands and life. But Lancaster and his faction are still too powerful, and Richard must bide his time like a hunchbacked spider lurking in the shadows behind his web. Thank sweet Jesu Richard does not know of John Ball, and that Wycliffe is now safely silenced within the walls of Lutterworth!
Richard tore his gaze away from Bolingbroke and spoke for a few minutes of some other, minor, administrative appointments. Then …
“I have received a request for aid,” he said, and rose from his chair and ascended the dais, searching for a parchment which he finally located. He made a great show of perusing it, then spoke again, raising his voice so that he could clearly be heard around the table.
“This request I am disposed to regard kindly, for it could well rebound in England’s favour. Count Pedro of Catalonia has requested my assistance in some small domestic dispute he has with his bastard half-brother, Henry.”
Here Richard shot Bolingbroke another smouldering look, as if to imply that all relatives named Henry were bound to act treasonably sooner or later.
“Henry has apparently seized control of Pedro’s lands and revenues. Pedro needs help to get them back. I, and my chief advisers,” Richard indicated de Vere, Northumberland, Hotspur, as also Sudbury and Brantingham, “have decided to send a force into Catalonia in order to—”
“Your grace, this is madness!” Now Raby was standing, and Neville had to suppress a small groan and a desire to tackle his uncle to the floor. Was everyone he needed to aid him in his quest for the casket about to alienate themselves completely from influence?
“Any action in Catalonia,” Raby said, “is bound to remove forces from the south of France, where we need them most—”
“Westmorland, you will sit down!” Richard snapped. “Your advice on this matter is not sought.”
“More to the point,” Lancaster said, “Catalonia is under the overlordship of the King of Aragon. He will not be amused to think that England is sending an armed force into what he considers his own—”
“And your advice is most certainly not sought!” Richard said. “Pedro has the potential to be a good ally if handled correctly—”
At that remark a number of men about the table had to avert their eyes and bite their lips to keep the smiles at bay.
“—and if handed aid when he requires it.” Richard paused. “My Lord of Northumberland’s son. Hotspur, will lead the Catalonian expedition.”
Neville’s gaze shot to Hotspur. No wonder be had been so free and friendly with de Vere! But Hotspur? To lead such an expedition? He was brave, true, but young for a campaign that was going to need the delicate skills of a diplomat as much as the sword skills of the warrior.
“Your grace, England can ill afford the cost of such a venture.” Now Sir Richard Sturry, a trusted councillor of the dead King Edward, rose to his feet. “Already we are in considerable debt from our continued war with France—”
“All solved with the Treaty of Westminster,” Richard said, and waved Sturry back into his seat. “We can … and we will… afford this mission. It is time I make my mark, not only on England, but on Europe.
“My lords.” Richard now looked about the hall, and managed a small smile. “I think I have concluded my business for this day.”
Many of the Lords rose slowly to their feet as a sound of murmuring filled the hall.
But Neville was unable to tear his eyes away from Richard.
The king was standing behind one of the trestle tables on the dais, his eyes on Neville, a sly grin on his face …
… and his left hand resting on a small, brass-bound casket atop the table!
“Sweet Jesu,” Bolingbroke whispered as he joined Neville. “There it is!”
Thus, dear sister, as I have said before that it behooves you to be obedient to him that shall be your husband, and that by good obedience a wise woman gains her husband’s love and at the end hath what she would of him.
The Goodman of Paris to his wife, 1392
Before Matins, the Feast of St Melorius
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(1 a.m. Saturday 1st October 1379)
For the past two hours small boats had slipped silently through the waters of the Thames, sliding to a brief halt at the wharf of the Savoy and depositing their cloaked and hooded cargo before continuing into the night. The men who jumped from the boats and then ran as quietly as they could up the steps to the river gate muttered their names urgently to the man standing there, before taking his murmured directions to dart into an underground storage chamber.
In all, Neville greeted some sixteen men, among them some of the mightiest nobles in England. When the last man arrived, Neville walked with him down to the storage chamber dimly lit with flickering torches.
As Neville closed the door behind him, and sat down on a keg, a deep silence fell over the shadowy room.
This was sheer danger. More than dangerous, for all the men gathered in this room knew that their alliance was as fragile and ephemeral as a spider’s web.
The betrayal might as easily come from within as without.
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, stood by a stack of ale kegs, his brother Gloucester to one side, Bolingbroke to the other. Close to him sat Ralph Neville, Baron of Raby and Earl of Westmorland. These men trusted each other, but were desperately unsure of the others.
And yet had not the others sought them out?
Gathered about in the rest of the room were some of the greatest lords in England. Richard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey and, Lancaster and his brethren had thought, one of Richard’s most trusted Privy Councillors. What was he doing here?
Less surprising was the presence of Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Norfolk. He had once been a close friend of Richard’s—they
