.

and officials of the Chancery, and it would take a generation not only for all the brick partitions to be pulled down, but for suitable storage space to be found for all the rolls and deeds of government bureaucracy, not to mention all the grumpy Chancery officials. The Great Hall of Westminster was reserved for ceremonial occasions and the daily activities of the King’s Bench, as various other legal courts.

      That left the kitchens which were, in actual fact, a good choice. The great hall of the kitchen was of a similar size to the Painted Chamber, was solidly built, well lit, and, by virtue of being a kitchen, was well heated with five great hearths; and now that the palace was no longer to be used as a residence, the huge kitchen complex would no longer be needed. Once the cooks, dairy maids and butchers were moved out and the hall scrubbed, it would actually make a very good home for the House of Lords.

      It was just that it was a former kitchen! While many lords accepted it in good humour—their new home would be far more commodious and comfortable than the cramped Chapter House—many grumbled about it, feeling the location a slur. The beautiful St Stephen’s went to Commons, while the lords got the kitchens…

      At least the people on the streets of London and, presumably, the fields of England, have something to smile about, Neville thought.

      Then, before he could speak again, the Abbot of Westminster rose to his feet, his cheeks now a deep-hued crimson (although whether with excitement or drink, Neville could not tell), and called a toast to their handsome young king, and all in the hall rose, and raised goblets towards Bolingbroke.

      Much later, Bolingbroke rose, extending his arm to Mary. She rose herself, but her action was decidedly unsteady, and Bolingbroke’s eyes flew to Margaret at Neville’s side.

      Margaret murmured in concern, and moved about the tables towards Mary in order to help her.

      Bolingbroke’s eyes locked with Neville’s, and he tilted his head slightly.

      Neville nodded, understanding. Making his apologies to both Montagu and to Katherine, Lancaster’s widow, he moved quickly and silently into the pillared aisles behind the tables.

      “More wine, Tom? Surely you cannot have yet drunk yourself into stupidity.”

      “Thank you, sire,” Neville said, taking the goblet that Bolingbroke extended.

      “Hal,” the king said. “Call me Hal, Tom, when we are in private like this.”

      Neville had left the hall and walked quickly to Bolingbroke’s private apartments as Bolingbroke said his goodnights to both his guests and to Mary. He’d waited almost half an hour in the antechamber to Bolingbroke’s suite before the king had entered, dismissed all his attendants with an impatient wave of his hand, and nodded Neville through into the inner bedchamber.

      Now Bolingbroke sat in a chair before the fire, stretching out his legs and sighing. “Come, sit down, Tom. It is rare enough that we have this chance to so enjoy privacy, and there is no need for you to stand on ceremonial deference.”

      Neville’s mouth twitched as he sat in a chair opposite Bolingbroke’s. Bolingbroke could pretend all he liked that it was ceremony and the business of the nation that had kept them from their former close friendship, but Neville would have none of it. He would no longer tolerate the lies that had once characterised their friendship.

      “We are not the friends we once were, Hal.” Neville raised his goblet in a silent toast to Bolingbroke, but smiled, taking any potential sting from his words.

      “Aye,” Bolingbroke said, looking down to his own goblet. “Well… that we are not.”

      Then he looked directly back to Neville, the firelight glinting in his silver-gilt hair and lighting his pale grey eyes. “I no longer know you, Tom. And that terrifies me.”

      “Why? Because you think to have lost a friend, or because you think to have lost control of me?”

      Or because you fear that I will not hand my soul to Margaret when the time for my decision comes? Neville once again thanked Christ that he’d had the strength to refuse to watch Margaret transform herself into her true being while birthing Bohun. In that single refusal, Neville had, he hoped, given himself more room to manoeuvre.

      Bolingbroke’s mouth twisted. “You were ever blunt with your words, Tom.” He paused, his eyes not faltering as they gazed at Neville. “I am terrified for both those reasons.”

      “I thank you for your honesty,” Neville said. “If you had said anything else… ”

      Bolingbroke managed a slight laugh. “What? You would have raised a rebellion?”

      Neville took a sip of wine, and decided to be bold. “I can do far worse to you, Hal, should I have a mind to.”

      All amusement left Bolingbroke’s face, and he leaned forward. “Do not threaten me!”

      Neville leaned forward himself, taking Bolingbroke’s fury full on. “Then promise never to lie to me again!”

      Bolingbroke stared a moment or two longer at Neville, then gradually the fury faded from his face and he leaned back in his chair. “I cannot afford to, can I?”

      Neville also sat back, one part of his mind thinking that he and Bolingbroke were engaged in some bizarre seated dance. “Nay. Not after all the lies you have told me in the past.”

      They were both silent for long minutes, thinking of the web of deception Bolingbroke, and Margaret, had spun about Neville.

      It was Neville who finally broke the silence, his mouth lifting in a wry grin. “Who would have thought, Hal, that such a once intensely-devout friar would sit so comfortably with the king of demons?”

      “Such are the strange twists that life takes, Tom.”

      Again there was a silence, and again it was Neville who broke it.

      “You have been honest with me,” he said, “and so I shall be honest with you. Do you remember that moment during your coronation when the abbot asked if there were any reason you should not take the throne? If there were any man who disputed it?”

      “How can I forget it.”

      “You looked at me, knowing that if I spoke, I could yet ruin your triumph.”

      Bolingbroke did not speak, waiting for Neville to continue.

      “That moment stretched on and on,” Neville said very softly, “as I thought.”

      “And of what did you think?”

      “I thought of you that day you rode your white stallion into the centre of Richard’s army outside Flint castle. I thought of what you promised them: freedom.”

      “A better life,” Bolingbroke murmured, “for themselves and their families.”

      “I made myself a vow in that moment,” Neville said. “I vowed that whatever your birth blood, your demonry, if you worked tirelessly and truthfully to ensure the freedom of the commons of England, those men and women who have ever loved you, then I would condemn heaven into hell if it might help you.”

      Bolingbroke’s eyes widened, and he sat up slightly.

      “But if,” Neville continued, “I thought that you had lied to those men and women and to England, then I would do everything I could to ensure that you were thrust down into hell.”

      Bolingbroke stared, then spoke. “I did not lie, Tom. I would die if I thought it in the best interests of England’s common men and women.”

      Neville shrugged, and drained his goblet. He stood up, moving to the nearby table to refill it, turning to refill Bolingbroke’s as well.

      “Our friendship will never be what it once was, Hal. Not now.”

      “But we can still work together? For England?”

      “Aye,” Neville said, and raised his