The Crippled Angel Page 32

  “Tom,” said a very gentle voice, and Bolingbroke stepped up behind Neville’s shoulder. Everyone had been too distracted by Mary to notice his entrance.

  Bolingbroke put a hand on Neville’s shoulder, but stared down at his wife.

  His face was expressionless, as that of a man who fights to control his emotions.

  “What do you here?” Neville said, and several of the ladies gasped at his audacity and the venom in his tone.

  “I cannot attend my own wife’s death bed?” Bolingbroke said, now lifting his eyes to stare at Neville.

  “Mary should have about her only those who love her,” Neville said.

  “You forget yourself,” Bolingbroke snapped.

  “Do you think to play the part of the grieving husband?” Neville said, jerking his shoulder out from under Bolingbroke’s hands. “Mary’s ‘accident’ could not have come at a better time for you, could it?”

  “Tom!” Margaret said. “Not here. Not now.”

  Neville stared at her, then forced himself to relax. “I beg forgiveness,” he said to no one in particular, although his eyes shifted to Mary as he spoke. “This is not the time for ill-spoken words or angry thoughts. Not when we have the death watch of such a wondrous woman.”

  And, so saying, he sank back to his stool, his eyes still on Mary.

  After a moment, Bolingbroke pulled up a stool and sat down beside him.

  “I have time to watch,” he said, “before I must to war.”

  X

  Wednesday 22nd August 1381

  (Night)

  Catherine wondered if she should have gone with her brother south to whatever safety he could find for himself, then, her every thought cynical, decided safety wouldn’t be worth the constant company of Charles. So, desolate, she wandered the palace, her feet scuffing the bare stone flagging, her eyes downcast, the fingers of her hands tracing along walls as if she thought to find a way out of a maze. There were few people within the palace left to keep her company. Most servants had left at the same time as Charles, and the majority of the men-at-arms had taken themselves to the walls, ready to repel any attempt by Bolingbroke to lay siege to the city. Isabeau was one of Catherine’s few remaining companions, but her mother’s company made Catherine nervous. Whenever they were together, Catherine could feel Isabeau’s calculating eyes upon her, and she knew Isabeau expected (planned) that Bolingbroke would emerge victorious against Philip. Catherine had no illusions left; Isabeau would use Catherine however she needed to, so she might assure her own place in the new order.

  And so Catherine avoided Isabeau, preferring to leave her mother in solitary contemplation of her ambitions.

  The strange carpenter who had appeared in her doorway telling her to pack Charles’ crown had not returned, and the few people she’d asked about him had blinked at her in confusion.

  There was no carpenter in the palace, she was told. Perhaps he had been a vagrant? An impostor? An English spy?

  Well, vagrant or not, he had spoken of her child, and so Catherine had done as he had asked. She had derived a strange satisfaction from slipping the cloth-wrapped bundle of be-gemmed monarchy into the cart containing Charles’ personal belongings. Hal would find the crown just that little harder to achieve now that he would have to chase around France for it. No doubt he had thought that Charles would have left it awaiting him in Paris.

  Catherine sighed, and settled into a chair by a window overlooking the palace courtyard. She had little enough to do with her time. An hour ago a servant had brought her some food, which Catherine had dutifully eaten. Now there were several hours before she could disrobe and slip under the covers of her bed for the night.

  An empty bed. A lonely night.

  Catherine almost wept again, but she sniffed, held her breath, and managed to control her tears. She had cried too much this past day, and she would not cry again.

  “Not for any man,” she whispered. She would become hard and bitter like her mother. Manipulate men and thrones before her supper, and entire nations after. She would not love again. That was too hard, and too dangerous.

  Catherine sat before the window, her eyes unfocused as dusk threw long shadows across the cobbled court below, and did not care at all that soon Thomas Neville would make his choice between her kind and their angelic fathers.

  In fact, she vaguely hoped that Neville would choose whichever path led to assured destruction, because then it meant that she would not have to think, or to grieve, at all.

  Then she would not have to exist in a world where Philip had died, and she was a prisoner of Hal’s ambition.

  “How could I ever have loved him?” she whispered, her eyes still fixed unseeing on the dim courtyard, her mind now on Hal exclusively. She was quiet a very long time, thinking over her few meetings with Hal. Mostly they had been when she was very young, ten or eleven, when Hal had been eighteen or nineteen and as cocksure as any young prince of the blood was (and even more cocksure than most, knowing he was also the Demon-Prince with a potential world throne within his grasp). She had gloried in his attention to her, gloried in the secrets that they shared, believed him when he said that if she waited for him, wed him, then together they would unite the nations of England and France.

  And after that…the world.

  Catherine smiled dully. People thought Hal was only after the French throne. They did not know that his ambitions encompassed even greater glories than England and France combined.

  Well, as a young girl, feeling the first flush of womanhood coursing through her veins, Catherine had been enthralled with both man and ambition. She would be Hal’s mate, the keeper of his dreams, his one love before all others, his partner in the great battle against the angels, his soul.

  But then Hal had sidestepped and married Mary Bohun—a small matter of money only, she’d been assured—but that had hurt and disillusioned.

  And then, in her disillusionment, Catherine had taken Philip as a lover, and discovered…love.

  But to what purpose? Philip would die at the point of Hal’s ambition. Had she, Catherine, as good as killed him? Should she not have become his lover only? Not have married him?

  Not have conceived his child?

  Her hand slid to her belly. A week or so only. No mortal woman would know, but she did. A son. Philip’s son. Poor boy, to have lost a father before either had ever held each other…

  Catherine’s entire being suddenly stilled. For a long moment she held her stillness, then she blinked, refocusing her eyes on the world about her, her lips parting in a gasp of wonderment.

  And then she smiled. Then laughed. And found joy in her heart again. Philip might be riding to his death, and she would always mourn him, but there was a revenge to be had here, and Catherine would take it.

  Her entire body relaxed, and Catherine realised how tensely she had been holding herself. For no reason at all she thought of the carpenter again, his deep brown eyes, the quietude he had projected, and she smiled anew. He had been right, there was no need for her to fret about the child at all.

  And every reason to rejoice.

  Her eyes clouded again. Save for the loss of his father, of course.

  But then she squared her shoulders, and shook away her doubts. No one had forced Philip to war; this was as much his decision as Hal’s. She should not hold herself responsible for Philip’s own ambition.

  Catherine began to rise from her chair, then froze in the act.

  There was movement below in the courtyard. She finished rising then moved closer to the glass, resting her hands and forehead against its coolness.

  A cart, and some three or four men, dressed as pedlars.

  She almost smiled. They had come to collect their wares to peddle. Then Catherine did smile, for if these men snatched her away successfully, then Isabeau would be left alone in this empty palace, furious and frustrated that Catherine was with Bolingbroke and she, Isabeau, was left far distant from the machinations of power.

  Her smil
e fading, Catherine turned aside. She walked over to the larger of the two bedside coffers, raising its lid and lifting out her cloak.

  Lord Owen Tudor pulled the hood of the cloak more tightly about his face. He couldn’t believe they had come this far this easily. The guards at the city gates had acted as if enchanted, merely nodding to the group of disguised men who had asked entry, and signalling for the gate to be opened.

  No one had questioned them in the streets as they’d wound their silent way towards the palace.

  And now, here they were in the palace courtyard itself—and it was deserted.

  He looked over at Norbury, and found that Norbury was looking at him with the same kind of expression that Tudor expected was on his face.

  This was too easy.

  “It will get easier yet, my lords,” said a soft feminine voice, and Tudor’s eyes jerked forward.

  A woman had walked out from a doorway and now approached them. She wore a russet cloak about her slim figure. The hood lay across her shoulders, revealing a darkhaired woman of some particular beauty.

  “You are English?” she said as she halted a few paces away.

  “My companions are English,” said Tudor, half bowing. “But I am Welsh. Lord Owen Tudor, my lady.”

  She raised an eyebrow. From what she could see of him under his hood, the man was of considerable comeliness. Perhaps in his late thirties, tall, greying reddish-blond hair and clipped beard, a weary, kind face with grey eyes. “A Welshman? But I thought all Welshmen were uncivilised dogs. And you, sir, do not look like a dog.”

  “And I,” said Tudor without an instant’s hesitation, his eyes steady on Catherine’s face, “thought all French women gutter-bred harpies.” He pointedly did not continue.

  She gave a startled half smile. “Forgive me, my Lord Tudor. I spoke poorly.”

  “You did that. You are Catherine, Lady of France?”

  “Aye.”

  “My lady…” Tudor hesitated, not sure how to continue. They’d thought they’d have to sling the woman screaming over their shoulders, but he, at least, had not thought out how to announce politely to her the fact of her abduction.

  Now Catherine smiled fully, taken with the Welshman. “I am at your disposal, my Lord Tudor.” She paused. “And I do not hold you responsible for what your lord has asked you to do on his behalf.”

  Tudor nodded, then stepped forward and held out his hand. “The cart is clean, my lady, and piled with pillows and comforts.”

  She held his eyes a long moment, then raised her arm and took his hand. “Then I entrust myself into your keeping, Lord Owen Tudor.”

  XII

  Thursday 22nd August 1381

  (Evening)

  “ y lady,” said Tudor, “I am sorry, but I have orders to take you directly to the king.” “Of course,” Catherine said, trying to pull her gown and cloak straight as Tudor helped her out of the cart. They’d travelled non-stop through the night and most of this day, and now Catherine was tired, grimy and grumpy and her attire creased, stained and ill-fitting.

  But of course Bolingbroke would brook no delay in inspecting his prize.

  Catherine looked up at Tudor. The weariness on his face had increased dramatically. His skin was now almost as grey as his irises, and there were deep pouches under his eyes, and lines in his forehead and about his mouth.

  “Will you escort me?” she asked softly.

  “Gladly,” he said, holding out his arm for her to take.

  Catherine paused briefly to talk with Norbury and the men-at-arms who’d attended her on the cart, thanking them for their care and courtesy, then she nodded to Tudor and took his arm.

  He led her into Bolingbroke’s castle.

  “I am surprised Bolingbroke has not yet ridden out to meet my husband,” she said, slightly stressing the word “husband”.

  She had her reward as Tudor’s arm jerked slightly. “The news of your marriage has only just reached us, my lady.”

  “I look forward to receiving the congratulations of Bolingbroke.”

  Tudor paused a moment, obviously considering whether or not to reply to her remark, then moved back to the safer territory of Catherine’s original comment. “The king will move out tonight, madam. He has waited only to see you.”

  They were climbing the staircase now towards the royal apartments, and suddenly Catherine halted, her face white.

  “Tudor,” she said, “something has happened here. Something…”

  “Something terrible, madam. Our beloved queen, Mary, fell down these steps almost two days ago. She was…” his voice caught, and Catherine studied his face carefully. This man loved Mary, adored her as a woman and a queen. There was no lust in his face—he had not thought of her as he might a paramour—but only grief, respect and devotion.

  “She was hurt most grievously,” Tudor finally continued in a low voice. “She is near death. She…she cannot last for much longer.”

  Catherine’s hand tightened very slightly about Tudor’s arm, and he gave her a small nod, acknowledging the comfort.

  “Once I have seen Bolingbroke,” Catherine said, “I would be most grateful if you could take me to see Mary. I have met her once before, and I honour her.”

  Tudor nodded again, not speaking, then continued to lead Catherine up the stairs.

  Bolingbroke waited for Catherine in an antechamber, knowing the fact of her arrival a few minutes earlier. He was dressed in a leather jerkin over a warm shirt and above wellfitted leather breeches. A cloak, gloves and a sword lay to one side, ready to be donned.

  There was a step outside, a low voice, and then the door opened.

  Bolingbroke straightened, staring at the door.

  Tudor entered, bowed slightly, then gestured to Catherine to enter.

  Bolingbroke took a deep breath. It seemed decades since he had last seen Catherine, although in reality it had only been some twelve months since Philip brought her to Gravensteen.

  She’d changed since then—grown a little thinner, her face a little wearier, her blue eyes a little harder.

  She also looked exhausted and crumpled, but she still entered the room like a queen, her chin tilted up, her eyes flashing, her shoulders square.

  Lord Christ, she would make him such a wondrous mate.

  “Tudor,” Bolingbroke said softly, his eyes not leaving Catherine who had halted a few paces inside the door, “leave us.”

  Tudor bowed again, and turned for the door.

  “My Lord Tudor,” said Catherine, her eyes as steady on Bolingbroke as his were on her. “I would have you stay. I am a married woman, and I would not like evil rumours of solitary meetings with another man to reach my husband.”

  Tudor halted, hesitant. He looked at Bolingbroke, who shot him a cold look. Go.

  Tudor hesitated a heartbeat longer, then quietly closed the door, standing to one side of it. “I must respect the lady’s wishes, your grace,” he said.

  Catherine’s lips threatened to curve into a smile, but she managed to keep them under control. “I have heard of your wife Mary’s tragedy, your grace,” she said. “You must be heartbroken.”

  Bolingbroke was still staring furiously at Tudor, but at mention of Mary he looked back to Catherine. “Do not pretend grief,” he said.

  “I pretend nothing, your grace. I am sure that you are as grief-stricken at Mary’s fate, as,” her voice hardened, and she stressed the next phrase very particularly, “I would be should my husband meet an ill end.”

  “What did you think to do,” Bolingbroke shouted suddenly, taking an aggressive step forward, “in marrying Philip?”

  “I loved him,” she spat back. “And still do.”

  Tudor had also taken a half step forward, watching both Bolingbroke and Catherine carefully, but stopped as Bolingbroke shot him yet another furious glance.

  “You have a better future before you,” he said, “than Philip.”

  “And I think,” she said, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes glittering wi
th tears, “that I could have no better future than Philip.”

  There was a long silence, both staring at each other.

  Finally, Tudor cleared his throat. “My lady has asked if she could see the queen,” he said, expecting Bolingbroke to lash out at him, “in order to pay her respects.”

  “Someone should pay Mary respect,” said Catherine, holding Bolingbroke’s stare.

  “The entire world pays Mary its respects,” Bolingbroke said in a hard, ugly voice. “And I, for one, am right sick of it.”

  He turned abruptly away, striding to the table where rested his cloak, gloves and sword. “Tudor,” he said, putting on his sword belt, “I hold you responsible for the Princess Catherine’s safety while—”

  “I am a queen,” Catherine said. “Queen of Navarre.” Sweet Jesu, she thought. He has never loved me. He has only wanted me as a desire, as a triumph. He has never even understood the meaning of love.

  “Then I hold you damn well responsible for the Queen of Navarre’s safety while I am gone.”

  Tudor bowed, wishing only that he could walk out of this room. “My lady queen,” he said, opening the door. “May I escort you to Queen Mary?”

  “Gladly, my lord,” she said, then, as she was in the act of turning, paused and looked back at Bolingbroke, now fully cloaked and gloved. “Will you come with us, your grace? To bid your wife farewell?”

  “I have spent months bidding my wife farewell,” Bolingbroke said. “I doubt she cares overmuch to hear another one from me.”

  “Your grace—” said Tudor, shocked.

  “There is a war to be won,” Bolingbroke said, “and I do not have time to waste on the trivialities of women.”

  And with that he pushed past both Catherine and Tudor, and vanished through the door.

  Catherine looked to Tudor, his face visibly showing his distress at Bolingbroke’s last remark. She tried to find something to say, to comfort him, then realised there was nothing.