The Wounded Hawk

Isabeau studiously ignored Margaret, who had a beauty that was, disconcertingly, almost as great as her own.

“And so you are to be wedded and bedded, my dear,” Isabeau said to Mary. “And to which noble will fall the pleasure of inducting you into womanhood?”

“My Lord of Hereford,” Mary said. “Hal Bolingbroke.”

Isabeau’s face went still, then she affected disinterest with some considerable effort that did not escape Margaret’s attention.

“I have seen this Bolingbroke from afar,” Isabeau said, now reaching for a vial of cream on the chest beside her and fiddling with its stopper. “He is fair of face, and struts as if he has the virility of a bull. If I were you, my dear, I should eat well at your wedding feast, for I believe you shall need the energy for the night ahead.”

Isabeau put the vial of cream back on top of the chest with a loud crack and leaned close to Mary. “No doubt he’ll bruise you, and make you weep, but at least you shall have the blood-stained sheets in the morning to prove to your maids and, subsequently, to court gossip, that you are now truly the obedient wife and that you are well on your way to proving yourself yet another willing brood mare for the Plantagenet stallions.”

Isabeau sat back, a look of utter malice on her face as she stared down at the shocked Mary. “You are not a particularly desirable woman, Mary, and doubtless poor Bolingbroke shall have to call other faces to mind in order to rouse himself enough to accomplish your bedding. Never mind, Bolingbroke shall be happy enough the next morning, knowing that for his efforts he has won himself untold wealth with all the lands that fell under his control the instant he smeared your virgin blood across the sheets.”

Mary continued to stare at Isabeau’s face a moment longer, then she rose silently, her face ashen, and walked away.

“That was a cruel and unnecessary thing to say, madam,” Margaret said to Isabeau. “And spoken out of nothing but maliciousness!”

She, too, rose, but instead of immediately leaving Isabeau to her circle of candlelight and spiteful thoughts, leaned close and spoke so low that no one but Isabeau could hear.

“If you return to Charles’ camp, then tell Catherine that Bolingbroke takes Mary to wife. Tell Catherine!”

Margaret turned to go, but Isabeau’s hand whipped out and seized her sleeve with tight fingers. “And who are you to so issue me orders?”

“I am Catherine’s friend and soulmate,” Margaret said. “And you know, as well as I, that Catherine needs to know of Bolingbroke’s plans.”

Something in Margaret’s gaze, perhaps contempt, perhaps even pity, made Isabeau drop her hand.

“Send the girl Mary back to me,” she said, and sighed. “She is but a child, and I may have misled her. Perhaps it is not too late to undo the damage I have wrought.”

IX (#ulink_eba11aaf-4ca9-5529-9e96-fd14a0ee958f)

Ember Saturday in September

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(17th September 1379)

Ember Saturday in September was Feversham’s most important market day of the year. Men and women from all around the Kentish countryside made their way to the town, not only to market their wares, but their labour as well. The autumn agricultural markets were the best time for itinerant labourers to try to garner themselves a year-long work contract with one of the wealthier landlords or free farmers.

By Terce, a huge throng of people crowded the marketplace. Goods spilled over trestle tables and hastily erected stalls. Pigs, cows, horses and sheep jostled in small pens or tugged at their tie lines; dogs barked; geese, chickens and ducks squawked and honked; and the mass of people shouted, laughed, argued and prodded at the goods for sale.

A goodly proportion of the crowd, however, was edging away from the marketplace towards the church set at one boundary of the square.

There, a dusty, ragged priest with long, tousled hair was nailing a broadsheet to the church door. A sheaf of duplicate broadsheets ruffled in the light breeze at his feet.

As he nailed, the priest shouted out an abbreviated version of the contents of the broadsheet:

“Did God create both lords and bondsmen? Nay! He created all men equal! Why should you be the ones to live in draughty hovels and eat coarse bread while your lords live in castles and eat white bread, and rich clerics live in corrupt luxury? How is it they claim our lot is in the dirt and the freezing rain, while they wear fine furs and drink good Gascony wine? Truth is kept under a lock, my friends, and it is time to set it free!”

The priest had finished nailing the broadsheet to the door, and now picked up the pile of loose copies at his feet, turning to hand them out to the crowd jostling for position. He knew that few of them could read, but on a busy market day like this, the few that could would, within a short space of time, share the contents of the sheet with thousands of people.

“We all know how corrupt the Church is,” the priest continued to shout, “for have we not for generations witnessed the sins of the abbots and bishops? Has not good England laboured under the yoke of the Roman—”

“Or French!” someone in the crowd yelled, and there was general laughter.

“—Church for centuries? Why should we listen to fat bishops and foreign popes who say that unless we pay another penny, and yet another penny again, we shall not achieve salvation? Is salvation something to be purchased, my friends?”

The crowd mumbled, and then roared. “No! No!”

“Salvation is yours through the sacrifice of sweet Jesus Christ,” the priest yelled, his arms waving about emphatically now that he’d handed out all the broadsheets. “It is His gift! There is no need to pay the Church for salvation!”

The roar swelled again—the priest had touched a raw nerve.

“And what of your lords? Do they also not wallow in wealth while you grovel in the dirt? Do they not tax you until you cannot feed your children so that they can have their pretty tournaments and wars?”

There was a movement on the edge of the crowd, and the priest saw it. Soldiers, on horses.

“Who wears the face of Christ in this unhappy world of pain? Not the fat clerics, no! Nor the greedy lords. You wear the face of Christ, my friends, every one of you, through your hard work and poverty!”

The soldiers had pushed their horses very close, and the priest’s face began to gleam with sweat. Not through fear of being apprehended—he had always expected this—but through a desperation to preach to the crowd as much as he could before the soldiers reached him.

“The goods of both Church and lords belong to you, the face of Christ on earth! Not to bishops and dukes who care more for silks than for the thin cheeks of your children!”

People began to shout, some to voice their agreement with what the priest said, others to yell their anger at the now close soldiers.

“My name is John Ball,” the priest screamed, now directing his voice towards the soldiers, a few paces distant. “John Ball! I am not afraid that the corrupt lords and bishops should know it! My name is John Ball and I am the voice of the people, and of Christ, who weeps for the people!”

The was a huge surge of sound, and the soldiers pounced, seizing John Ball by the back of his robe and hauling him kicking and screaming atop one of their horses. One of the soldiers rode his horse close to the church door, and tore down the broadsheet.

“Let him go! Let him go!” the crowd shouted, and the twenty soldiers had to lash about with their swords and push their horses forward to fight their way free.

“It is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s men!” someone in the crowd shouted, and the throng screamed and pushed and pummelled. “Christ damn the Archbishop of Canterbury! Christ damn the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

John Ball, now held firmly across the saddle of one of the men, nevertheless managed to raise his head and yell one last defiant message to the crowd. “When Adam delved, and Eve span—who then was the gentleman?”

And then the soldiers were free, pushing their horses into a hard canter, and there was left only the swelling, murmuring crowd, passing the broadsheets to those who could read out loud.

“What did you know of this?” Lancaster said, throwing the broadsheet down on the table before Bolingbroke.

“My lord,” Bolingbroke said, then hesitated, picking the broadsheet up as gingerly as if it were gunpowder.

Lancaster’s furious eyes swung towards Neville, who stood just behind Bolingbroke’s shoulder. Neither of the two younger men were sitting. They had been summoned into Lancaster’s presence just a few minutes before.

“My lord,” Bolingbroke said again. “I had known that Master Wycliffe and several of his men were travelling through Kent—”

“And you had not informed me? Sweet Jesu, Hal, why not? And why not stop them? Do you think I would be pleased to have men known to be of my household engaged in such seditious activities? Ah! Wycliffe has gone too far this time.”

Neville knew he was going to earn Lancaster’s anger for not informing him personally of Wycliffe’s visit to Halstow Hall, but all he felt for the moment was relief. Lancaster had finally seen the danger in nurturing the demon Wycliffe, and now, perhaps, would go to the lengths necessary to stop him.