The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass

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!”

       PART TWO The Wounded Wife

      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

       I

      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 were of an age, and had grown up together. But now Nottingham had been rejected in favour of de Vere, and Nottingham’s resentment was widely known among the flower of England’s knighthood.

      Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was no surprise at all: he had never been close to Richard, and, as with Sir Richard Sturry who sat close by him, had been publicly vocal in expressing some reservations regarding Richard’s actions. Both these men had spoken brief words of support to Lancaster and Bolingbroke as they’d stalked from the Painted Chamber yesterday afternoon.

      There were others, too, earls and dukes, as well as ordinary knights, men who were profoundly disturbed by Richard’s actions of the past day, just as they had been disturbed by de Vere’s rapid rise to favour in the past few months.

      “My lord,” Sturry broke the silence, and rose and gave Lancaster a slight bow as he spoke. “You are in mortal danger. You should—”

      Lancaster halted him with a wave of his hand. “Richard would not dare to physically move against me.”

      “My lord, your very power is enough to make him move,” Sturry said. “Perhaps not this week, or even this year, but once Richard feels he has consolidated his hold …”

      Another brief silence, then Neville spoke. “My lords, I agree with Sir Richard that my Lord of Lancaster must beware of Richard’s ire, but I think my Lord of Gloucester in the more immediate danger. As,” he paused very briefly, “my Lord of Bolingbroke.”

      There was a murmur of agreement about the room, and heads nodded.

      “It would be better if both my brother Gloucester and my son Bolingbroke removed themselves from Richard’s immediate vicinity,” Lancaster said. “Perhaps my entire family should, for a time. Christmastide is approaching, and it will be easy to remove myself and mine to Kenilworth, citing the holy celebrations as cause enough.”

      “And while we are all busy saving ourselves,” Mowbray said, “what do we do about de Vere? Well? Richard has made this man powerful beyond belief! Who knows what else he will give him in the next few months. My lords,” Mowbray leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his angry eyes scanning the room, “I have heard rumour the ‘Duke’ of Ireland will not be enough for Richard’s toy. Our king plans to invade Ireland and create de Vere King of Ireland!”

      “He wouldn’t dare!” Gloucester said.

      “Nay?” Mowbray said softly. “And who among us thought two days ago that de Vere would