The Wounded Hawk

He slid his hands around her waist and over her belly, and gently pulled her back against him. Her skin was warm and very, very soft.

“From this point,” he said, “there can be no going back. Leave now if there remains the slightest doubt.”

In answer, Catherine lifted her own hands and placed them over his beneath the material of her gown. She slid them up until they cupped her breasts, and then jumped very slightly, surprised at the sensations that flooded through her as he caressed them.

“I have no experience,” she said. “I do not know what to do.”

Philip repressed a smile, sure that these words were something Isabeau had taught her: they will inspire him to greater heat, my dear, for what man can resist being the one to induct a girl into the experience she lacks?

Then his smile died. Isabeau was a very wise woman.

“Then let me show you,” he whispered, and slid the gown completely from her body.

It was a night of discoveries, and of unthought of marvels. Catherine had expected many things of Philip the Bad, but not the tenderness and respect and patience he showed her. They talked and laughed and were silent in turns as first he explored her body, and then encouraged her to explore his. Everything was new and wondrous for Catherine. She adored Philip’s body, surprised not only by the manner and degree in which his flesh reacted to hers, but how, in turn, hers responded to his. There was no discomfort, no pain, only the discovery of new planes of sensation and of existence; no sense of loss, only the indescribable sense of how two bodies, two souls, could merge into one.

There was one moment, one moment that she thought she would remember all her life. Philip was over her, and deep inside her. He lifted his head and shoulders back from her a little distance, his face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair falling over his forehead.

“There is only you,” he said, and somehow that touched Catherine so deeply that she began to cry, and Philip leaned back down to her again, and kissed away her tears, and cried himself.

She woke very slowly from a deep sleep. It was dark, dark night, but Philip’s gently breathing body was curled against hers and she was not alone any more.

She was not alone any more.

So much of her life had been spent alone, always fatherless, and often motherless as Isabeau abandoned her time and time again.

Bolingbroke had not fought for her … but Philip—treacherous, untrustworthy Philip—had given her this night honesty and something that was so close to love that there might be no difference at all.

She sighed and stretched slightly so that she might feel Philip’s body rub against hers. She was filled with immeasurable content. Tonight, Bolingbroke lay with Mary Bohun, and Catherine could have spent this night weeping in her bed, but she had done what Isabeau had suggested and taken her fate in her own hands.

In doing so, Catherine had discovered in Philip something of infinite value … and perhaps, of infinite danger.

Could Hal ever compete? How strong was he?

Her movement had wakened Philip, and now he stirred.

“Catherine.” A hand cupped one of her breasts, and she gave a low laugh and rolled close against him. “Of what do you think?”

Catherine grinned in the dark and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “I was considering my fortune in this past night. Few women, whether peasant or noble lady, are ever conducted so sweetly over the threshold from maidenhood into womanhood. You did not have to act so tenderly, and yet you chose to do so. For that I thank you.”

“I could not act otherwise with you, Catrine.”

The unexpected endearment drew fresh tears to her eyes, and she drew in a shaky breath.

He touched his fingers to her cheek. “And I had not thought to spend the entire night wiping your tears away. Perhaps I have not been as gentle as you imagine.”

She smiled. “Then you must distract me from my pain, your grace.”

“And how may I do that?”

She laughed as his hand stroked down her flank. “May I ask you a question?”

He gave a mock groan. “If you must.”

“I was wondering, my King of Navarre, if you have ever bedded my mother.”

His hand abruptly stilled, and after a moment he propped himself up on one elbow. “Why do you ask?”

“I was curious only, Philip, for I know how well she regards you. I do not mind if you answer with a yea.”

Philip was silent, thinking, then decided to answer honestly. “No, I have never lain with her.”

He gave a short laugh, remembering. “When I was a young lad, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years, I lusted after her madly, and put her face to every one of the peasant girls I managed to persuade to lie down in the grass. When I grew older, and had occasion to know her better, I grew to like and respect her too much to become one of the tally marks on her tapestry frame.”

Catherine reached up a hand and cupped his cheek in its palm.

“Then my mother has suffered a great loss, because I think she has been looking for you all her life.”

“And I think,” he said softly, gazing down at the planes of her face now that his eyes had become accustomed to the faint light in the room, “that both you and I, my sweet maid, have gained a great deal more than we thought this night.”

“Aye,” she whispered.

And Hal has lost a great deal, she thought, as Philip’s mouth closed gently and sweetly over hers.

Three other people lay awake that night of Michaelmas. Three other people who shared Catherine’s night of wonder.

Wat Tyler, deep in the south-eastern counties of England where he worked his secret business, paced the streets of the small village where he’d put up for the night.

He was furious both with Catherine and with Bolingbroke.

Subtlety would never work, not now that Catherine had lain down with Philip. Etienne had been right all along—the thunder of revolution in the streets was a sounder means to accomplish their ends than Bolingbroke’s pretty subtleties.

Margaret lay next to her sleeping Tom, tears of joy and envy-sliding down her cheeks. She had not thought Catherine would do this—and what she had done would threaten everything they had fought so hard for—but Margaret was glad Catherine had found some measure of happiness at last … and what happiness she had found!

Bolingbroke also lay awake, Mary silent and still beside him.

He was beyond fury. An awareness of what Catherine was doing had come to him as he had turned to Mary when the door closed behind the last of their well-wishers.

As Philip had laid hand to Catherine, so Bolingbroke had laid hand to Mary.

As Philip’s mouth had claimed Catherine’s, so Bolingbroke’s had claimed Mary’s.

As Philip had entered Catherine’s body, so Bolingbroke had entered Mary’s.

As Catherine cried out in laughter and wonder, so Mary had screamed in pain and fear.

And as Catherine had caught Philip more closely to her, so Mary had fought, unsuccessfully, to push Bolingbroke from her.

Bolingbroke had known Mary was fearful, and had meant to be kind and patient with her. But, as awareness of Catherine’s actions came over Bolingbroke, blind fury, and an even worse jealousy, had swept through him and his hands and body became hard and unforgiving, and every one of Mary’s fears had been realised.