The Crippled Angel. Sara Douglass

bruises them so badly he shall not sire any more sons.”

      Raby guffawed loudly. “I shall aim with intent,” he said. “England could do with a few less Hollands. Now, where are those damn squires? I need my helmet!”

      When he’d left his uncle, Neville wandered as close as he could to Exeter’s tents without attracting unwanted attention. Sundry knights and nobles scurried about, most in full battle armour, all with tense expressions and narrowed eyes that darted this way and that.

      Neville stood behind the tent of a minor noble and chewed at his lip in thought. How many men did Exeter and his fellow Hollands have with them? Two or three hundred, no more. They wouldn’t have been able to bring any more without attracting undue attention.

      So, Exeter’s allies, then. Who were they likely to be? Northumberland? Northumberland had ever had his disagreements with Bolingbroke and his father, the Duke of Lancaster, and particularly with Neville’s own family. But Northumberland had too much to lose by turning against Bolingbroke, and far more to gain by standing at his side.

      So Northumberland was unlikely to ally himself with Exeter, and Hotspur, Northumberland’s son, who may very well have supported an Exeter bid to topple Bolingbroke, was still far in the north.

      There were, of course, a slew of lesser nobles who might support Exeter—Neville well knew that the wounds caused by Bolingbroke’s extraordinary rise to power had not yet healed—but Neville simply couldn’t see how they could hope to form a force strong enough to defeat Bolingbroke’s allies who were here in force; Raby and Northumberland, in particular, had huge escorts of men at the tournament.

      A movement to his left caught Neville’s eye and he turned, then frowned slightly at what he saw.

      None other than the Abbot of Westminster, striding out of Exeter’s tent and looking guilty enough to confess to Christ’s murder if someone should put a knife to his throat and ask him to say the words.

      The abbot disappeared down a narrow alley between rows of tents, and Neville hurried after him.

      After five minutes the abbot paused, looked about—causing Neville to duck behind a saddled destrier—then entered a small tent. In an instant he was out again, and a few heartbeats after his exit five Dominican friars hurried out, split up, and merged into the crowds.

      What was the abbot doing, consorting first with Exeter, then with Dominicans, of all people?

      Neville hesitated, then followed one of the Dominicans. The man’s hooded black figure made him easy to track at a safe distance in the otherwise gaudy multitude.

      The friar led Neville back towards the hordes of common folk who had come to watch the tournament. Now and then he would stop, catch the attention of a small group of men and women, whisper something, then move on.

      Neville’s disquiet grew, especially since the people the friar talked to remained agitated after the friar had moved on, and turned to talk to others within the crowd. He watched the Dominican work his way through the throng, thought about continuing his pursuit of him, then decided to ask some of the people what they’d been told by the friar.

      “My good man,” Neville said quietly to one man standing in a group of five or six others, “what did the friar tell you?”

      The man glanced at his fellows, licking his lips nervously, then looked back at this lord who had addressed him.

      “He said… ” the man hesitated, “… he said that Richard our king is not dead, and that he will be riding to London within the week to reclaim his throne.”

      “What?”

      “It’s what he said.”

      “It’s not true, dammit! Man, believe me, Richard is dead!”

      But the group stared at Neville, shaking their heads, and looked about uncertainly.

      “Perhaps he 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