The Wounded Hawk

“Aye. He will never have the strength to fight for his inheritance on his own.”

Catherine took a deep breath. “I would have liked to have saved myself for—”

“Oh, stop prattling on about saving yourself!” Isabeau laughed in genuine amusement. “You’ve been listening to those pious priests and dimwitted nursery maids again. Enjoy Philip, for he will be good for you and to you.”

“Are you sure this is not a task you want to take on yourself, mother?”

“I think it is time for you to take wing and fly, child. Besides, yours is the body and womb that will gift a strong man the throne of France, not mine. Not any more. I have bequeathed you that power, Catherine. Use it.”

When Catherine had gone, Isabeau sat back and let her thoughts drift.

In many ways Catherine disconcerted her, but most of all Catherine disconcerted Isabeau because she should not exist.

Catherine was conceived one winter when Isabeau was being held captive in a stronghold of the Duke of Burgundy’s—the duke had thought to ransom her back to King John until he’d realised after four months that John would not pay a single gold piece to have his daughter-in-law returned. Finally, the duke had been forced to release Isabeau with much grumbling and cursing.

Catherine was not Louis’ daughter. Indeed, everyone assumed that Isabeau had consoled herself during her capture with a guard, or perhaps a cook.

But only Isabeau knew the truth. During those four months she had bedded no man. When, some two weeks before the Duke had finally released her, Isabeau had realised she was pregnant she was beside herself with fear.

What sprite had fathered this child on her? What imp would she give birth to?

Not wanting to know the answer to either question, Isabeau had taken every potion and herb she knew of to try and rid herself of the child in her womb. But it would not be shifted. Isabeau had gone into her birthing chamber terrified, thinking the child would kill her in its release from the womb.

But the birth had been easy, surprisingly painless, and Isabeau had recovered quickly. The child, Catherine, had been as any human child, and gradually Isabeau had convinced herself that perchance she had imbibed too much wine one night and had consoled herself with a foul-smelling guard after all.

And yet sometimes, as she did this day, Isabeau felt strong enough to admit to herself the truth.

Catherine was not the child of any mortal man, and she had not been put in her womb through any mortal means.

XI (#ulink_f8650324-1482-5093-b47c-94b82e56277c)

The Feast of St Michael

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(Thursday 29th September 1379)

—Michaelmas—

—i—

Neither Mary’s mother, Cecilia, nor Bolingbroke, had spared any expense to adorn Mary in the finest garments possible.

And yet what a shame, Margaret thought as she carefully buttoned Mary into her wedding dress, that they did not pick something more suitable for Mary’s shy and subtle attraction.

The dress was of heavy damask, deep red in colour, and weighted down with pearls and gems that encrusted its bodice and cascaded down its full skirts and fancy sleeves. Its colour and decoration was too overwhelming for the modest Mary, and its cut too close and too cruel, for it served only to further flatten Mary’s small breasts and boyish hips.

The costume was too alive for her. Margaret could almost hear the sly whisperings of that sickening imp deep within Mary’s being. Surely the blood-red vitality of this gown would tempt it forth the sooner?

Margaret shuddered, then regretted her lapse instantly.

“Is something wrong?” Mary asked, trying to twist her head about to see what Margaret was doing.

“No. There, you are fastened in. Now, let me see that your hair is properly secured.”

Margaret sat Mary down on a stool and busied herself with the woman’s elaborate hairstyle; that it had taken Cecilia, Margaret and two other women half the morning to fix properly. Mary’s long, thick honey hair had been bound in two plaits which had been wound above her forehead. A veil, of the same rich colour as her dress, had then been laid over the crown of Mary’s head, and painstakingly pinned in place with jewelled hairpins. Then a broad circlet woven of gold and silver wires, with beautiful pale-green peridot stones gleaming within its twists and turns, was placed over both plaits, dropping low about Mary’s head to cover both her ears and holding the veil in place. The lower length of the veil was left to flow freely to halfway down Mary’s back.

The effect of both dress and headdress was stunning—or, at least, it would have been had Mary both the colouring and the regal bearing to set it off.

But Catherine would have worn it perfectly …

Margaret forced all thought of Catherine from her mind. Isabeau would have told Catherine by now—but what could Catherine do? Nothing … nothing.

And Hal. Margaret could understand the why of this marriage. It would serve him well in terms of power. But could he truly afford to alienate Catherine in this manner?

“My ladies?” A page appeared in the doorway. “It is time.”

Bolingbroke had chosen to be married not in the Savoy’s chapel, nor in either the abbey or St Stephen’s chapel in Westminster, but in St Paul’s in the west of London. It was a calculated choice, for Bolingbroke meant this to be a marriage in which the people of London could participate. The marriage would be a union between Mary Bohun and Hal Bolingbroke, and a cementing of the already strong marriage between Bolingbroke and the English commoners.

In that the Londoners loved Bolingbroke all the more for choosing St Paul’s, it was a fortunate choice. In another aspect, however, it was an appalling one.

Richard (accompanied as always by Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford) would also be attending.

At noon a great procession started from the Savoy; leading the way were Bolingbroke and Mary, Bolingbroke seated astride his great, prancing snowy destrier, Mary seated far more demurely on a chestnut palfrey mare led by a page.

Behind them rode, side by side, John, Duke of Lancaster, and Richard, who had arrived at the Savoy from Westminster by barge some hours earlier that morning. Behind them rode several peers of the realm, the Earl of Westmorland, Ralph Raby (who had made the trip from Sheriff Hutton the week previously), and Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, among them. In the group behind the great nobles rode Thomas Neville with several other of the noble attendants of the leading dukes, earls and barons.

It would be a relatively short ride from the Savoy to St Paul’s, taking perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes at a walk. From the Savoy’s gates the procession turned north-east on the Strand. A cheer went up from bystanders, for the Strand was a busy highway, and Bolingbroke smiled and inclined his head, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd.

From his vantage point just behind the leading riders, Neville could see Richard’s back stiffen.

They proceeded slowly along the Strand, passing the Inns of Court on the right. These, the great legal schools and courts of England, occupied the old buildings of the Knights Templar.

Then another, greater building arose like a great black crow hunched over its piteous prey: Blackfriars, the home of the Dominicans in London. Indeed, the analogy with the ravening crow was apt, because Blackfriars had grown so large that it had actually consumed that part of London’s wall which stretched from Ludgate down to the Thames.

Neville had to repress a shiver. Was the Prior General of England, Richard Thorseby, in there somewhere, still plotting his downfall?

A shadow fell over Neville, and he started before realising that it was the gloom cast by the height and breadth of Ludgate. He looked up at it looming above him and imagined he could hear the cries for mercy from the prisoners held within its dank dungeons.

He shook himself. What was he doing? This was a joyous day!

The instant he’d thought that, Bolingbroke and Mary, leading the procession, passed from under Ludgate’s shadow onto the wide street that led to St Paul’s, directly ahead.

The cathedral’s courtyard was crowded with Londoners, and as Bolingbroke and Mary appeared a great roar went up.

Hal! Hal! Fair Prince Hal!

And Neville, watching closely, saw Richard tense even further before shooting de Vere a dark glance over his shoulder.