Sir Henry Percy, Harry Hotspur, stood frowning in the doorway of the porch where he had made his headquarters.
“Douglas,” he said to the man who’d come to stand at his shoulder, “I hope to God you can keep them under some semblance of order. I need an army, not a rabble.”
Archibald, fourth Earl of Douglas, grinned amiably. He was a huge man, all muscle and darkness, and all grace of movement and manner. “They’re hot-hearted lads,” he said, in a voice that was thickened by only the barest of Scottish brogues, “but true-hearted. And they are mine. They will do whatever I tell them.”
Hotspur chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if Douglas would stay true to the bargain they’d hammered out between them. Allowing this Scottish army to mingle with his went against everything he’d fought for his entire life.
“I’ve too much to lose to move against you,” Douglas said softly.
Still Hotspur did not answer, his dark eyes flickering over the English and Scottish camps before him. The tension was palpable, and Hotspur wondered if he shouldn’t have kept the two encampments further apart.
“They’re going to have to fight together,” Douglas said softly. “Best for them to learn to bed together now.”
“Are you a magician to so read my thoughts?”
Douglas laughed. “‘Tis the fey fairy blood of our people, laddie. Come, our captains can keep the peace between your men and mine, and there’s food awaiting us in the church.”
Hotspur lingered briefly, glancing once more over the English and Scots. Sweet Jesu in Heaven, let this alliance hold together just long enough for it to do what I need.
Then he turned his back on the gathering darkness, and walked into the brilliantly lit church.
There his commanders awaited him, as well as the grim Prior General Thorseby. The man was always hovering about in shadows, too eager to lean into any conversation he encountered and whisper his hatred of Bolingbroke. Hotspur well knew that Thorseby’s obsession with Thomas Neville had spilled over into an equally vile hatred of Bolingbroke, and that perhaps all Thorseby said should not be believed. But Thorseby appealed to Hotspur’s own long-nurtured resentment of Bolingbroke, and of Bolingbroke’s too-loving alliance with the Percys’ rival, Raby, the Earl of Westmorland.
Above all, England did not need another Lancaster…and most certainly not as king. That would spell disaster for the Percys and their ambitions.
Apart from Hotspur’s and Douglas’ commanders and Thorseby, there were several other men present. The Earl of Fife, Douglas’ son, also named Archibald. With him sat the earls of Orkney, Angus and Moray. All, as Douglas, had been taken prisoner by Hotspur at the battle of Hombildon Hill. And all, as Douglas, were now allies rather than prisoners.
Partners in a coalition so fantastic that had they been told of it several months ago they would have laughed at, and then beheaded, the fool who thought to relate it to them.
Fantastic it might be, but if successful it would bring everyone concerned such riches, and such power, that the fantastic needed to be taken very seriously indeed.
“And so the vengeance in the hand of God readies itself to strike,” Thorseby whispered as Hotspur sat down.
Hotspur shot him a dark look, and wondered if he could possibly leave the madman behind when they marched south. He’d put up with the man for over six months, and that was six months too long.
But he’d been useful, bringing with him powerful factions from within the Church. Dominican friars had spent the last few months spreading rumours amid the English, whispering that Bolingbroke was not God-blessed, and that he’d taken the throne illegally amid a welter of murder. Once Hotspur was successful, and had taken Bolingbroke’s head, then Thorseby would swing the might of the Church behind his own claim to the throne, crowning Hotspur with an aura of legitimacy.
Hotspur sighed as he accepted a cup of warmed wine from a valet. He needed Thorseby a while longer. But one day…one day…
“Have ye heard from ye father?” said Moray. The support of Hotspur’s father, the Earl of Northumberland, was critical to their eventual success.
Hotspur drained the wine and handed the cup back to his valet. “Aye. He gathers men in Yorkshire and Northumberland.”
“They are of little use to us in the northwest,” observed Douglas.
“He will meet us in Cheshire,” Hotspur said, staring at Douglas until the man averted his eyes. “Believe it.”
“There are some,” said Fife, keeping his voice indifferent, “who say that it seems passing strange that not seven months since the Percys helped put Bolingbroke on the throne they now seek to dethrone him.”
“What the Percys make, they can unmake,” Hotspur said. “We are the kingmakers of England. No one else.”
“But are you sure you want to do this, laddie?” Douglas said. “My son speaks only what many whisper.”
“I never rode with my father against Richard,” Hotspur said. “I kept apart from Bolingbroke’s slaughtering and murdering. Now I move against it. What is so ‘passing strange’ about that? What?”
He glared at the other men. “My father made an error of judgement. Now he seeks to rectify it. And why do you sit here and murmur and mumble about our actions? Do you not stand to gain as much as I?”
“Aye, aye, that we do,” Douglas said, holding out his hands placatingly. “We merely needed to be reassured as to the strength of your resolve, laddie. Bolingbroke was once your dear friend—”
“Once!” Hotspur said.
“Enough!” said a new voice, and everyone’s head whipped up to look at the man who had now entered the church.
Hotspur rose, and managed a smile. “Uncle. Greetings. I am glad you are here. What news?”
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, brother to the Earl of Northumberland and uncle to Hotspur, looked about carefully at each man present, then withdrew a parchment from underneath his cloak. “Glyndwr is with us.”
Without exception, the face of every nobleman and warrior present broke into a huge grin of combined relief and triumph.
Thorseby, on the other hand, mumbled something uncomplimentary about dark magicians into his beard.
“Owain Glyndwr,” Hotspur said, “the most powerful prince among the Welsh.”
Douglas sent him a sardonic glance, and refrained from reminding Hotspur that, until three years ago, Owain Glyndwr had been a failed law student at the Inns of Court who had wandered back to his native Wales, proclaimed himself a prince of the ancient Powys line, and proceeded to stir up nationalistic Welsh resentment against the English. Well, Douglas thought, to give the boy his due, he’d done a good job. Now tens of thousands of Welshmen would lay their lives down for him. For Hotspur, now, if Glyndwr had indeed agreed to the terms of the alliance.
“He will…” Hotspur could not complete the answer.
“Meet us in Cheshire, as will your father,” Worcester said. “Harry,” he addressed Hotspur familiarly, “we will have so many tens of thousands with us that Bolingbroke will have no choice but to lie down and cower.”
“And this island will finally be divided into three clear, independent and strong kingdoms,” Hotspur said. “England, Scotland and Wales, confirmed by treaty, and bound by brotherhood!”
Douglas winced, thinking Hotspur was getting a bit carried away. Confirmed by treaty, yes, but they’d be bound by treason and regicide, not brotherhood.
“And so to Cheshire,” Hotspur said. “And from there…England.”
II
Thursday 30th May 1381
“Paris,” said Charles. “I have set my mind to it.” Thank the sweet Lord Christ, thought Catherine. Finally, we move from Rheims.
“May I enquire,” asked Philip the Bad of Navarre from his place at the table next to Catherine, “why this sudden change of heart? We have been here,” he gestured about the hall of the palace Charles had commandeered (or rather, that his mother, Isabeau de Bavière had commandeered) “some ten months, with most of us lu
sting after a change of scenery. But to this point you have always pouted your lip—”
“Philip!” Catherine hissed, not wanting his insolence to push her brother into retracting his order.
“—and declared that Rheims was more to your liking, and that Paris was full of nothing but stinking drains and rebellious peasants.”
“Paris,” Charles said stubbornly.
“Why?” Catherine asked with as much gentleness as she could muster.
“Because…”
“Because reports from England,” Joan said, her eyes steady on Catherine, “suggest that there are major troop movements in the north. Perhaps good King Hal,” her mouth twisted very slightly, “is planning an invasion shortly. And, my beloved king wishes to go to Paris, where—”
“The walls are mightier than those about Rheims,” Charles finished in a rush.
“You are not afraid,” Catherine said, “that Paris might once again rise in rebellion at your presence? Do you not remember what occurred the last time we were there?”
“Joan shall keep me safe from any harm,” Charles said, looking down at the napkin he was fumbling between his hands. “She is the Maid of France, and none would dare hurt her, or those she protects.”
Catherine glanced at Joan, and saw a glint of humour in her eyes, as if she knew very well that there were many people who might hurt her.
Catherine felt a twinge of disquiet. Over these past two months Joan’s sense of peace and contentment had not wavered. She and Catherine had talked privately on three or four occasions, and not once did Joan veer from her commitment to establishing Charles firmly on the throne of France. When Catherine argued with Joan that Charles was an imbecile, the worst choice for the throne of France that anyone could possibly imagine, Joan only smiled gently, and said his time would come. Catherine felt in Joan something that greatly disquieted her—that Joan not only knew of her fate and accepted it, but embraced it.
Perhaps she would come to her senses if her parents could speak with her. Had not Joan said she would end her days as a shepherdess?
Catherine’s mouth lifted very slightly at the thought that not even sheep could be as stupid to herd as Charles so consistently proved himself to be.
Yes, perhaps all Joan needed was the temptation of her parents. The faint whiff of sheep, perhaps.
“Joan,” she said, “would you like it if I arranged for your parents to meet you in Paris?”
Joan’s face creased in a huge smile, and Catherine thought that if she’d been in any company other than that which currently sat about this chamber she would have clapped her hands.
“Thank you,” Joan said. “You are a very generous woman, and sensitive to my needs.”
The faint whiff of sheep, Catherine?
Catherine had the grace to flush very slightly, and it deepened as she saw how merrily Joan smiled at her.
“Let me look at you,” Philip said, his brow furrowed in pretended confusion. “Perchance let me pinch you, to see if you are still the Catherine I fell in love with so long ago. Ah, yes! You do feel the same…but…something about you confuses me, muddles me…”
They were alone, finally, in their apartments. Catherine’s maid had just departed, leaving her mistress sitting in a chair by a fire with her glossy black hair unbound and flowing down her back, and her body encased in nothing but flimsy silk. Philip, for his part, still had his undershirt and hose on, but was hopping from foot to foot as he struggled to slide off his boots while poking Catherine in the shoulder.
Catherine laughed, a little self-consciously, for everyone in the hall had regarded her in startlement when she had been so unusually kind to Joan.
“Sometimes the little saint makes me feel sorry for her,” she said. “So attached to Charles. Such peasantish loyalty and naivety.”
“Ah…” Philip had finally managed to rid himself of his boots. He threw them into a darkened corner of the chamber, then lifted Catherine in his arms, sitting down in her chair and settling her upon his lap.
She smiled, and snuggled in close to his body.
“You have saved me from madness these past months,” Philip said softly, one hand stroking Catherine’s hair. “This sitting about doing nothing. This waiting. This not knowing.”
“Shush.” Catherine kissed his mouth softly, knowing his frustration. Philip was a fighting man, a man of action and impetuosity, a man who was all for the getting and not for the constant drivelling inaction he’d been forced to endure. “Paris is one step closer for us.”
“Yes? And how might that be? Was Joan right when she said that Bolingbroke was preparing to invade?”
Catherine could feel Philip tense underneath her. “I do not know what she has heard, sweetheart, but I do know that, whatever happens, Bolingbroke must invade sometime this year.”
“Oh? And how do you know that? Has Bolingbroke been writing to you of his plans? Of his hopes? Of his love?”
Philip’s voice had raised, and he pushed Catherine back a little so he could stare into her eyes.
“Nay,” she said softly. “I have no communication with Bolingbroke. But I know him, and I know his ambition, and I am certain that he will be here this year.”
“He wants you,” Philip said, and drew Catherine back to him, sliding the silken robe from her body as he did so. “We both do. You are France. Whoever you accept takes France. That was my deal with Bolingbroke…or have you forgot it?”
Catherine shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
“Marry me,” he said.
His hands were sliding over her breasts, almost rough in their hunger, and Catherine wondered if it were her body he caressed, or the hills and valleys of France.
“I wish I could,” she whispered.
Again he pushed her back, studying her face. Then he ran his hand down to her belly, and pressed lightly. “How long have we shared a bed, Catherine? Almost two years, give or take a few months. And yet not once have you bred to me. Not once. You said that—”
“I would give you any child of my body, Philip. Yes. That was part of the bargain between us.”
“We are both young and healthy, and surely lusty enough to have filled half a village with our get by this stage. Tell me, Catherine, have you—”
“No! Philip, believe me, I have hungered for a child of ours more than you could possibly know. I have neither ended a pregnancy, nor acted to prevent one. To have seen other women swell and breed at the slightest glance from a man has been…has been…”
“Hush. Hush now.” Philip drew Catherine against him once more, cuddling her close. “God surely has his reasons.”
And then he almost jumped, stunned by the sudden intensity of her weeping.
“If I had the courage,” she eventually whispered, “then I would wed you. If I had the courage.”
And if I thought that Bolingbroke would honour my choice, and the bargain between you.
She slept, and Philip continued to hold her, his dark handsome face hard in the lamplight.
Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked her back.
Despite his gentle words to Catherine earlier, Philip simply didn’t know what to think. Why hadn’t Catherine fallen pregnant to him by now? Jesu! Almost two years. Did she still hold true to this ancient bargain with Bolingbroke, even after Bolingbroke had married Mary Bohun?
Why wouldn’t Catherine marry him?
And if all those questions weren’t enough, then why Catherine’s sudden about-face to Joan in these past weeks? Catherine had hated Joan from the instant she’d first seen her…so why now this strange empathy with her?
Was Catherine still the one to partner him in his ambitions? She’d told him to wait, that their time would come…but what if Catherine was wrong?
Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked.
And then stopped.
Perhaps it would be best to watch for his own chance.
III
Sunday 2nd June 1381
“Tom?”
Neville turned from the stallion he’d been brushing.
He looked about, making sure no one else was present. “Good morning to you, Hal.”
Bolingbroke walked into the dim horse stall. The entire stable complex was quiet; most grooms and horsemen were in the Tower’s chapel hearing Sunday mass. He ran a hand down the stallion’s smooth coat, admiring the sheen that the grey hairs picked up, even in this dimness.
“Not at mass, Tom?”
Neville resumed his long, slow strokes. Mary had asked him to accompany her to mass, but he’d demurred, saying he needed time alone to rid his head of his buzzing thoughts. Besides, Mary had a bevy of women, including Margaret, to attend her in chapel.
And perhaps it was best not to feed Margaret’s jealousy and unease any more than he had to.
Neville had come to the stables to find some peace, to lose himself in the rhythmical grooming of his favourite horse. It had worked, because during his grooming, Neville had come to a decision within himself.
Trust Christ. Trust his own heart. And all would be well.
Having made his decision, Neville had felt a peace envelop him. The way forward was as yet dark, and his eventual decision full of unknowables, but if he could free Christ, then all would be well.
As Bolingbroke walked over to him, Neville slowed his stroking, then stopped altogether, resting his arm across the back of the horse as he looked at Bolingbroke. “I did not wish to go to mass,” he said.
Bolingbroke took the horse’s halter in one hand, and softly rubbed the stallion’s nose.
The horse snorted, and snuffled its nose across Bolingbroke’s chest.
Bolingbroke waited.
Neville sighed. He supposed he ought to tell Bolingbroke something of what was going on. “The Archangel Michael spoke to me.”
Bolingbroke straightened, and pushed the horse’s nose away. “When?”
“About ten days ago. That final day of the pestilence.”
“And?”