The Crippled Angel. Sara Douglass

of what our adored queen says?”

      As quickly as it had been engaged and manipulated by Westminster and Essex, the mood of the crowd now swung again.

      “Mary!” they screamed. “Mary!”

      “Fool,” Raby said under the screams of the crowd and, so quickly that none of Exeter’s close companions could stop him, slid the unscabbarded blade of his sword up into the gap between Exeter’s abdominal and hip plates.

      Exeter twisted, but it was too late. Raby leaned all his strength behind his thrust, and the sword tore through the stiffened leather beneath the plate armour and deep into Exeter’s lower belly.

      The duke grunted, dropped his sword, then slid off his horse—and further onto Raby’s sword.

      Instantly, his supporters started to back away.

      Mary, who had not failed to notice Raby’s actions, clapped her hands, keeping the crowd’s attention on her. “My husband assures me Richard’s corpse will be back in London within the fortnight,” she said, “where you may all have the chance to view it and say your farewells. May sweet Jesu bless you all.”

      And yet again the crowd roared in acclaim, and did not notice Northumberland’s and Raby’s men moving through the rebels, seizing the nobles who had thought to topple Bolingbroke.

      Mary stood, waving and smiling, until order had been achieved. Then she said, “Beloved people, will you excuse me if I sit? I am so tired—”

      She got no further, for suddenly she sank down, her entire frame shaking with pain, and Margaret wrapped her arms about Mary’s shoulders, concerned.

      “Hal—” Neville said urgently.

      Bolingbroke turned to address the crowd. “I must take my wife home,” he said, “for she has been greatly distressed by the treachery Exeter forced her to witness. Will you perchance excuse your king and queen?”

      There were shouts of goodwill, then the crowd began to disperse.

      Neville finally relaxed. “Hal, you would be dead now if it were not for Mary.”

      Bolingbroke held Neville’s eyes, sharing both his shock and relief at the turn of events. Then, as one, both men looked down at Mary.

      She had fainted dead away, and Margaret and one of her other women were rubbing her hands and wiping her forehead with a soft cloth.

      “Sire,” Margaret said, “she must be returned to Windsor. Now!”

      Bolingbroke nodded, but it was Neville who spoke.

      “I will take care of it,” he said, then looked at Bolingbroke. “I think that you, sire, ought to make plans forthwith to bring Richard’s ‘poor corpse’ back from whatever pit you had it thrown in.”

      Bolingbroke’s mouth twisted. “Not before I have had a chance to deal with Exeter—if he still lives—and our trusty friend the abbot,” he said. “I hope you took good note of who else had taken Exeter’s part, Tom.”

      “Aye,” Neville said. “And they were many more than I know you would like to think, Hal.”

      Then he bent down, and, with Margaret and the other ladies fussing about, gathered Mary into his arms.

       V Saturday 4th May 1381 —iii—

      “Well?” said Bolingbroke, turning to face his chief advisers.

      They stood in the cool evening light in Bolingbroke’s private chamber: the king had allowed no servants in to light either the fire or the lamps.

      “Exeter will be dead by dawn,” Raby said. He was slumped wearily in a chair, still in the sweat-stained garments he’d worn under his armour. His face was drawn, sallow now rather than swarthy, and a dark bruise ran up one cheek. “His wound is bad.”

      Bolingbroke grunted. “And for that you have my thanks indeed. Westminster?”

      “Huddled praying in the chapel,” Neville said. “Surrounded by fifteen men-at-arms and enclosed by locked doors.”

      “You cannot have him killed,” the Earl of Northumberland said. “He is a churchman.”

      Bolingbroke’s face left them in no doubt what he thought of all “churchmen”. He turned abruptly, and strode away a few paces. “Then he shall rue the day he ever thought to raise his shrill little voice against me,” he said. “He’s finished.”

      Behind him, Neville, Northumberland, Raby and the other three men present—Bolingbroke’s Chancellor, John Scarle, and Sir John Norbury and Lord Owen Tudor, members of Bolingbroke’s household—exchanged glances. Bolingbroke’s mood had been vicious ever since they returned from the aborted tournament. Armed guards now surrounded and infiltrated every part of Windsor, and more were stationed in the fields beyond. Bolingbroke was taking no chances.

      And no one blamed him for that. Exeter’s plan, born of desperation, would have stood a very good chance of succeeding, had it not been for Mary’s quiet words… and the respect the crowd had for her. The cry that Richard still lived, appealing as it did to the English crowd’s sense of drama and intrigue, could have rallied the entire ten thousand behind him. Once the crowd was behind him, shouting his cause, then seeds of doubt would have grown in everyone else present. Was Richard still alive? Was he planning a return to London?

      Exeter had used the very same tactics against Bolingbroke that Bolingbroke had employed against Richard: the manipulation of dramatic words to turn loyalties. His voice wasn’t as sweet, nor his words as seductive, as Bolingbroke’s had been to Richard’s army outside Flint Castle, but still…

      No matter that the-very-dead-Richard would never stage a return to London—at least not alive. All Exeter would have needed to do was manage to place Bolingbroke under armed guard, and very soon Bolingbroke would have been as dead as Richard, and Exeter’s faction in control of England.

      “Rutland?” Bolingbroke said, still with his back to the group watching him. “Salisbury? And every other of the damned Hollands that thought to join with their cousin Exeter?”

      “In prison,” Raby said. “Under guard.”

      Bolingbroke spun about to face them. “They will hang in the morning.”

      “Sire—” Neville said.

      “Nay, do not try and dissuade me, Tom,” Bolingbroke said. “I cannot let them live. You know that. I need to send a message to anyone else—” he paused “—out there who might harbour the same plans and ambitions as Exeter.” No one said a word. All knew to whom he was referring. Hotspur. “As for Exeter’s retainers,” Bolingbroke continued, “and those of the other rebel lords, well… they shall receive pardons as evidence of my true mercy. I will not murder all of England in spite.”

      Neville shot Bolingbroke an unreadable look, but Bolingbroke chose to ignore it.

      “My friends,” Bolingbroke continued, “your advice, if I may. Who else do I need to fear? Who else should I guard my throne and England’s stability against?”

      Everyone studiously avoided looking at Northumberland.

      “The Dominicans,” Neville said. “There were several within the crowd this afternoon spreading word that Richard still lives. They were Exeter’s allies.”

      “So,” Bolingbroke said, looking at Neville with some speculation. “The Dominicans do not like me, and would like to unseat me. Can you tell me why, Tom?”

      Because you are a demon, Hal, and because they suspect it.

      “Many within the Church distrust you,” Neville replied, “especially since you directed that religious studies receive less emphasis in schools