Sara Douglass - Crucible 2 - The Wounded Hawk

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Tor Books by SARA DOUGLASS
The Wayfarer Redemption Series
The Wayfarer Redemption
Enchanter
StarMan
*Threshold
The Troy Game Series
Hades'Daughter
The Crucible Trilogy
The Nameless Day
The Wounded Hawk
*Stand alone
The Wounded Hawk
THE CRUCIBLE BOOK TWO
Sara Douglass
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either
fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE WOUNDED HAWK: THE CRUCIBLE: BOOK TWO
Copyright © 2000, 2005 by Sara Douglass Enterprises Pty Ltd
Originally published in 2000 by Voyager, an imprint of HarperColrinsPublishers, Sydney
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-765-30363-9 EAN 978-0765-30363-9
First U.S. Edition: January 2005 Printed in the United States of America 0987654321
The Wounded Hawk is for Diana Harrison,
who first opened the way into parallel worlds
across my kitchen table one damp afternoon
in Bendigo (our way aided, as always, by a
few good glasses of wine).
Well ought I to weep
When I see on the Rode,
Jesu, my lover,
And beside him standing
Mary and Johan,
And his back is ascourged,
And his side is atom,
For the love of man;
Well ought I to weep,
And sins to forgo,
If I of love know,
If I of love know,
If I of love know.
—Early fourteenth century
CONTENTS
Part One: Margaret of the Angels 11
Part Two: The Wounded Wife 107
Part Three: Well Ought I to Love 167
Part Four: The Hurtyng Tyme 259
Part Five: The Maid and the Hawk 339
Part Six: Dangerous Treason 393
Part Seven: Horn Monday 429
Part Eight: Bolingbroke! 453
Epilogue: Pontefract Castle 481
Glossary 487
PART ONE
Margaret of the Angels
I'll father no gift,
No knowledge no thrift.
—Thomas Tusser,
Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie
CHAPTER I
The Feast of the Beheading
of St. John the Baptist
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 29th August 1380)
MARGARET STOOD in the most northern of the newly harvested fields of Hal-stow Hall, a
warm wind gently lifting her skirts and hair and blowing a halo of fine wheat dust about her
head. The sun blazed down, and while she knew that she should return inside as soon as
possible if she were to avoid burning her cheeks and nose, for the moment she remained
where she was, quiet and reflective, her eyes drifting across the landscape. She turned a
little, catching sight of the walls of Halstow Hall rising in the distance.
There lay Rosalind, asleep in her crib, watched over by her nurse, Agnes. Margaret's eyes
moved to the high walls of the courtyard. In its spaces Thomas would be at his afternoon
swordplay with his newly acquired squire, Robert Courtenay, a likable fair-faced young man
of commendable quietness and courtesy.
Margaret's expression hardened as she thought of the banter the two men shared during their
weapon practice. Courtenay received nothing but respect and friendship from Thomas—
would that she received the same respect and friendship!
"How can I hope for love," she whispered, still staring at the courtyard walls, "when he
begrudges me even his friendship?"
Margaret might be Thomas' wife, but, as he had told her on their wedding night, she was not
his lover.
Margaret had never imagined that it could hurt this much, but then she'd never realized how
desperately she would need his love; to be the one thought constantly before all others in his
mind.
To be sure, this was what they all strove for—to force Thomas to put thought of her before his
allegiance to the Church and the angels—but Margaret knew her need was more than that.
She wanted a home and a family, and above all, she wanted a husband who respected her
and loved her.
She wanted Thomas to love her, and yet he would not.
She turned her head away from Halstow Hall, and regarded the land and the far distant
wheeling gulls over the Thames estuary.
These had been pleasant months spent at Halstow Hall despite Thomas' coolness, and
despite his impatience to return to London and resume his search for Wynkyn de Worde's
ever-damned casket. The angels had told Thomas that the casket held the key that would
see the demons who thronged earth cursed back into hell. As an ex-friar and a cold,
heartless man of God, Thomas was devoted to the archangel's cause, and he was
determined to discover the casket and work the angels' will. Margaret needed, desperately, to
crack the cold hard shell Thomas had built about himself when he'd turned to the Church
after the dreadful suicide of his lover, Alice. She needed, desperately, to have Thomas love
her before he found that casket.
And she had no idea how she could ever achieve it. Sweet Jesu knew how she had tried
these past months.
There had been mornings spent wading in clear streams, and noon-days spent riding wildly
along the marshy banks of the estuary as the herons rose crying about them. There had been
afternoons spent in the hectic fields as the harvest drew to a close, and evenings spent
dancing about the celebratory harvest fires with the estate men and their families. There had
been laughter and even the occasional sweetness, and long, warm nights spent sprawling
beneath Thomas' body in their bed.
And there had been dawns when, half-asleep, Margaret had thought that maybe this was all
there ever would be, and the summer would never draw to a close.
Yet this was a hiatus only, the drawing of a breath between screams, and Margaret knew that
it would soon end. Even now hoof beats thudded on the roads and laneways leading to
Halstow Hall. Two sets of hoof beats, drumming out the inevitable march of two ambitions,
reaching out to ensnare her once again in the deadly machinations of the looming battle
between the angels of heaven and the demons escaped from their imprisoning hell.
Margaret's eyes filled with tears, then she forced them away as she caught a glimpse of the
distant figure striding through one of the fields. She smiled, gaining courage from the sight of
Halstow's steward, and then began to walk toward the Hall.
Visitors would soon be here, and she should be present to greet them
MASTER THOMAS Tusser, steward to the Neville estates, walked though the stub-bled fields
at a brisk pace, hands clasped firmly behind his straight back. He was well pleased. The
harvest had gone excellently: all the harvesters, bondsmen as well as hired hands, had
arrived each day, and each had put in a fair day's work; the weather had remained fine but
not overly hot; the ravens and crows had devastated neighbors' fields, but not his; and little
had been wasted—like their menfolk, the village women and girls had worked their due,
gleaning the fields of every last grain.
There would be enough to eat for the next year, and enough left over to store against the
inevitable poor years.
The fields were empty of laborers now, but the work had not ceased. The threshers would be
sweating and aching in Halstow Hall's barns, separating precious grain from hollow stalk,
while their wives and daughters swept and piled grain into mounds, before carting the grain
from threshing court to storage bins.
Tusser's footsteps slowed, and he frowned and muttered under his breath for a few minutes
until his face suddenly cleared. He grinned, and spoke aloud.
**verse**
"Reap well, scatter not, gather clean that is shorne, Bind fast, shock apace, have an eye to
thy corn, Load safe, carry home, follow time being fair, Give just in the barn, life is far from
despair."
**endverse**
Tusser might well be a steward with a good reputation, but that reputation had not been easy
to achieve. He had made more than his fair share of mistakes in his youth: leaving the sowing
of the spring crops too late, allowing the weeds to grow too high in the fields, and forgetting to
mix the goose grease with the tar to daub on the wounds on sheep's backs after shearing. He
had found that the only way he could remember to do the myriad estate tasks on time, and in
the right order, was to commit every chore to rhyme. Over the years—he was a middle-aged
man now—Tusser had scribbled his rhymes down. Perhaps he would present them to his
lord one day as a testament of his goodwill.
Well... that time was far off, God willing, and there would be many years yet to rearrange his
rhymes into decent verse.
Tusser reached the edge of the field and nimbly leaped the drainage ditch separating the field
from the laneway. Once on the dusty surface of the lane, he looked quickly about him to
ensure no one was present to observe, then danced a little jig of sheer merriment.
Harvest was home! Harvest was home!
Tusser resumed a sedate walk and sighed in relief. Harvest was home, praise be to God,
even though it had not been an easy year. No year was ever easy, but if a steward had to
cope with a new lord descending upon his lands in the middle of summer...
When he'd commenced his stewardship of Halstow Hall eleven years ago, Tusser had been
proud to serve as a servant of the mighty Duke of Lancaster... even if the duke had never
visited Halstow Hall and Tusser had not once enjoyed the opportunity to meet his lord. But
the duke had received Tusser's quarterly reports and had read them well, writing on more
than one occasion to thank Tusser for his care and to congratulate him on the estate's
productivity.
But in March preceding, Tusser received word that Lancaster had deeded Halstow Hall to
Lord Thomas Neville as a wedding gift. Tusser was personally offended: had the duke
thought so little of Tusser's efforts on his behalf that he thoughtlessly handed the estate to
someone else? Was the duke secretly angry with Tusser, and thought to punish him with a
new lord who was to actually live on the estate? A lord in residence? The very idea! Tusser
had read the duke's news with a dismay that increased with every breath. No longer would
Tusser have virtual autonomy in his fields ... nay, there would be some chivalric fool leaning
over his shoulder at every moment mouthing absurdities ... either that or riding his warhorse
at full gallop through the emerging crops.
**verse**
Good Lord who findeth, is blessed of God, A cumbersome lord is husbandman's rod: He
noiseth, destroyeth, and all to this drift, To strip his poor tenants of farm and of thrift.
**endverse**
Thus it was, that when Lord Thomas Neville had arrived with his lady wife and newly born
daughter, Tusser had stood in the Hall's court to greet them with scuffling feet and a scowl as
bad as one found on a pimply faced lad caught with his hand on the dairymaid's breast.
Within the hour he had been straight-backed and beaming with pride and joy.
Not only had Lord Neville leaped off his horse and greeted him with such high words of praise
that Tusser had blinked in astonishment, Neville had then led him inside and informed him
that Tusser's responsibilities would widen to take in Neville's other estates as well.
He was to be a High Steward! As Tusser strode along the lane back toward the group of
buildings surrounding Halstow Hall, he grinned yet again at the memory. As well as Hal-stow,
Tusser now oversaw the stewards who ran Neville's northern estates, and the second estate
in Devon that Lancaster had deeded Neville. Admittedly, this necessitated much extra work—
Tusser had to communicate Neville's wishes and orders to the northern and Devon stewards,
as well as review their estate books quarterly—but it was work that admitted and made full
use of his talents.
Why, Tusser now had the opportunity to send his verses to his under-stewards! Thus, every
Saturday fortnight, Tusser sat down, ordered his thoughts, and carefully composed and
edited his versified directions. He was certain that his under-stewards must appreciate his
timely verses and homilies.
Tusser tried not to be prideful of his new responsibilities, but he had to admit before God and
the Holy Virgin that he was not completely successful.
Not only had Neville praised Tusser's abilities, and handed him his new responsibilities, but
Neville had also proved to be no fool meddling with Tusser's handling of the estate. He had a
deep interest in what happened to the estate, and kept an eye on it, but he allowed Tusser to
run it in the manner he chose and did not interfere with his steward's authority.
Neville was a good lord, and surely blessed of God. And his wife! Tusser sighed yet again.
The Lady Margaret had an agreeable manner that exceeded her great beauty, and Tusser
rose each morning to pray that this day he would be graced with the sweetness of her smile.
Aye, the goodness and grace of God had indeed embraced Halstow Hall and all who lived
within its estates.
TUSSER TURNED a corner in the lane and Halstow Hall rose before him. It was a good
building, built of stone and brick, and some two or three generations old. Originally, it had
consisted only of the great hammer-beamed hall and minstrel gallery, kitchens, pantries and
larders, and a vaulted storage chamber that ran under the entire length of the hall, but over
the years Lancaster had caused numerous additions to be made, even though he had never
lived here. Now a suite of private chambers ran off the back of the hall, allowing a resident
lord and his family some seclusion from the public life of the hall, and new stables and barns
graced the courtyards.
The sound of horses behind him startled Tusser from this reverie, and he whipped about.
A party of four horsemen approached. Tusser squinted, trying to make them out through the
cursed sun ... then he started, and frowned as he realized three of the four riders were
clothed in clerical robes.
Priests! Cursed priests! Doubtless come to eat Halstow Hall bare in the name of charity
before moving on again.
Priests they might be, but Tusser had to admit to himself that their habits were poor,
and they showed no glint of jewels or gold about their person. The lead priest was an old
man, so thin he was almost skeletal, with long and scraggly hair and beard.
His expression was fierce, almost fanatical, and he glared at Tusser as if trying to scry out the
man's secret sins.
Evening prayers will be no cause for lightness and joy this night, Tusser thought, then shifted
his eyes to the fourth rider, whose appearance gave him cause for thought.
This rider was a soldier. Sandy hair fell over a lined, tanned and knife-scarred face, and over
his chain mail he wore a tunic emblazoned with the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. As the
group rode closer to Tusser, still standing in the center of the laneway, the soldier pushed his
horse to the fore of his group, pulled it to a halt a few paces distant from the steward, and
grinned amiably at him.
"Good man," said the soldier to the still-frowning Tusser. "Would you be the oft-praised
Master Tusser, of whom the entire court whispers admiration?"
Tusser's frown disappeared instantly and his face lit up with pride.
"I am," he said, "and I see that you, at least, are of the Duke of Lancaster's household. Who
may I welcome on Lord Neville's behalf to Halstow Hall?"
"My name is Wat Tyler," said the rider, "and, as you can see, I am a sergeant-at-arms within
good Lancaster's household. I ride as escort to my revered companions," Tyler turned and
indicated the three priests, "who know your master well, and have decided to pass the night
in his house." Tyler grinned even more as he said the last few sentences. "Perhaps you have
heard of Master John Wycliffe," he nodded at the fierce-faced old priest, "while his two godly
companions," now Tyler could scarcely contain his amusement, "are named John Ball and
Jack Trueman."
Tusser bowed slightly to the priests, narrowing his eyes a little. He was well aware of John
Wycliffe's reputation, and of the renegade priest's teachings that the entire hierarchy of the
Church was a sinful abomination whose worldly goods and properties ought to be seized and
distributed among the poor. Many of Wycliffe's disciples, popularly called Lollards for their
habit of mumbling, now spread Wycliffe's message far and wide, and Tusser occasionally
saw one or two of them at the larger market fairs of Kent.
The steward stared a moment longer, then he smiled warmly. "Master Wycliffe. You are
indeed most welcome here to Halstow Hall, as are your companions. I am sure that my
master and mistress will be pleased to greet you."
"The mistress, at least" said a voice behind Tusser, and he glanced over his shoulder to see
Margaret walking down the laneway to join him. He bowed, and stepped aside.
Margaret halted, and looked carefully at each of the four men. "I do greet you well," she said,
"and am most happy to see you. My husband I cannot speak for."
Wycliffe and Tyler smiled a little at that.
Margaret hesitated, then indicated with her hand that they should ride forward. "Welcome to
my happy home," she said.
THOMAS NEVILLE was anything but happy to welcome John Wycliffe and his two
companion priests into his home. He had just finished at his weapons practice with Courtenay
when he heard the sound of hoof fall entering the courtyard.
Turning, Neville had been appalled to see the black figure of John Wycliffe walking beside
Margaret, two other priests (Lollards, no doubt) close behind him, and Wat Tyler leading the
four horses. As he watched, Tusser, who'd been walking at the rear of the group, took the
horses from Tyler and led them toward some stable boys.
Margaret said nothing, only halting as Neville strode forward.
"What do you here?" Neville snapped at Wycliffe.
Wycliffe inclined his head. "I and my companions are riding from London to Canterbury, my
lord," he said, "and thought to spend the night nestled within your hospitality."
"My 'hospitality' does not lie on the direct road to Canterbury," Neville said. "I say again, what
do you here?"
"Come to enjoy your charity," Wycliffe said, his voice now low and almost as menacing as his
eyes, "as my Lord of Lancaster suggested I do. I bear greetings and messages from John of
Gaunt, Neville. It is your choice whether you decide to accept Lancaster's goodwill or not."
Wycliffe paused. "It is for a night only, Neville. I and mine will be gone by the morning."
Furious at being trapped—he could not refuse Lancaster's request to give Wycliffe lodging
and entertainment—Neville nodded tightly, and indicated the door into the main building.
Then, as Margaret led Wycliffe and the two other priests inside, Neville directed a hard glare
toward Tyler.
"And you?" he said.
Tyler shrugged. "I am escort at Lancaster's request, Tom. There's no need to glower at me
so."
Neville's face did not relax, but neither did he say any more as they walked inside. Wat Tyler
and he had a long, if sometimes uncomfortable, history together. Tyler had taught Neville his
war craft, and had protected his back in battle more times than Neville cared to remember.
But Tyler also kept the most extraordinary company—his escort of the demon Wycliffe was
but one example, and Neville felt sure he knew one of the other priests from somewhere—
and Neville simply did not know if he trusted Tyler any longer.
In this age of demons who could shape-shift at will, taking on whatever form they needed in
order to deceive, whom could he trust? Neville had trusted the Frenchman Etienne Marcel—
and yet he had been a demon, intent on destroying God's order on earth and distracting
Neville from working the angels' will. Tyler kept the company of demons; Neville knew he
could not trust him.
MARGARET VERY carefully washed her fingers in the bowl the servant held out for her, then
dried them on her napkin. Finally, she folded her hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and
prayed to sweet Jesu for patience to get through this dreadful meal.
Thomas was not the sweetest companion at the best of times, but when goaded by John
Wycliffe, as well as two of his disciples ... Margaret shuddered and looked up.
Normally, she ate only with Thomas, Robert Courtenay, and Thomas Tusser in the hall of
Halstow. Meals were always tolerable, and often cheerful, especially when Courtenay gently
teased Tusser, who always good-humoredly responded with a versified homily or two.
Tonight their visitors had doubled the table, if not its joy.
They had eaten before the unlit hearth in the hall, and now that the platters had been cleared,
and the crumbs brushed aside, the men were free to lean their elbows on the snowy linen
tablecloth and indulge the more fiercely in both wine and conversation.
Margaret sighed. Under current circumstances, and with current company, religion was most
assuredly not going to make the best of conversational topics.
Neville toyed with his wine goblet, not looking at Wycliffe, who ignored his own wine to sit stiff
and straight-backed as he stared at his host.
Margaret suspected that Wycliffe, as well his companions, John Ball and Jack True-man,
were enjoying themselves immensely. During her time spent at Lancaster's court before her
marriage to Neville, she'd heard tales of how Wycliffe liked to goad more conservative
companions into red-faced anger with his revolutionary ideas, and Margaret was certain
Wycliffe wouldn't miss this opportunity to torment Thomas, who so clearly disliked the
renegade priest.
"So," Wycliffe was saying in a clipped voice, "you do not disagree that those who exist in a
state of sin should not be allowed to hold riches or excessive property?"
"The idea has merit," Neville replied, still looking at his goblet rather than his antagonist, "but
who should determine if someone was existing in a state of—"
"And you do not disagree that many of the higher clerics within the Church are the worst
sinners of all?"
Neville thought of the corruption he'd witnessed when he was in Rome, and the sordid
behavior of cardinals and popes. He did not reply, taking the time instead to refill his goblet.
Further down the table, Courtenay exchanged glances with Tusser.
"Over the years many men have spoken out about the corruption among the higher clergy,"
Margaret said. "Why, even some of the saintlier popes have tried to reform the worst abuses
of—"
"When did you become so learned so suddenly?" Neville said.
"It does not require learning to perceive the depravity rife among so many bishops and
abbots," Tusser said, his eyes bright, and all three priests present nodded their heads
vigorously.
Neville sent Tusser a sharp look, but the steward preferred instead to see his lady's smile of
gratitude. He nodded, satisfied that he'd made his stand known, and resolved to say no more.
"You can be no defender of the Church, Lord Neville," said one of the priests, John Ball,
"when you have so clearly abandoned your own clerical vows to enjoy a secular lordship."
"I am more able to work the Lord's will as a nobleman than as a priest," Neville snapped.
Ball gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Such a convenient answer, my lord."
Neville repressed a surge of guilt. It had been best that he leave the Dominican order. As a
nobleman, he had far better access to those who worked their demonry within the English
court than ever he would have had as a friar. He tried to find the words for to justify his
decision to this self-righteous priest, but instead satisfied himself with a hostile look sent
Ball's way. He remembered where he had seen the man previously—at Chauvigny in France,
where the priest had openly mouthed treasonous policies. The man was in the company of
Wat Tyler then, too.
"Perhaps," Ball said, easily holding Neville's stare, "you found your vows of poverty too
difficult? Your vows of obedience too chafing? You certainly live a far more luxurious life now
than you did as a Dominican friar, do you not?"
"My husband followed his conscience," Margaret said, hoping she could deflect Thomas'
anger before he exploded. She sent Wycliffe a warning look.
"We cannot chastise Lord Neville for leaving a Church so riddled with corruption," Wycliffe
said mildly, catching Margaret's glance. "We can only commend him."
"Then why do you not discard your robes, renegade?" Neville said.
"I can do more good in them than out of them," Wycliffe said, "while you do better at the Lady
Margaret's side than not."
Neville looked back to his goblet again, then drank deeply from it. Why did he feel as though
he were being played like a hooked fish?
"My lord," said Jack Trueman, who had remained silent through this exchange, "may I voice a
comment?" He carried on without waiting for an answer. "As many about this table have
observed, the dissolution and immorality among the higher clerics must surely be addressed,
and their ill-gotten wealth distributed among the needy. Jesus Himself teaches that it is better
to distribute one's wealth among the poor rather than to hoard it."
There were nods about the table, even, most reluctantly, from Neville, who wondered where
Trueman was heading. For a Lollard, he was being far too reasonable.
"But," Trueman said, "perhaps there is more that we can do to alleviate the suffering of the
poor, and of those who till the fields and harvest the grain."
"I did not realize those who tilled the fields and harvested the grain were 'suffering,' " Neville
said.
"Yet you have never lived the life of our peasant brothers," Trueman said gently. "You cannot
know if they weep in pain in their beds at night."
"Perhaps," Wat Tyler said, also speaking for the first time, "Tom thinks they work so hard in
the fields that they can do nothing at night but sleep the sleep of the righteous."
"Our peasant brothers sleep," Wycliffe put in before Neville could respond, "and they dream.
And of what do they dream? Freedom!"
"Freedom?" Neville said. "Freedom from what? They have land, they have homes, they have
their families. They lack for nothing—"
"But the right to choose their destiny," Wycliffe said. "The dignity to determine their own paths
in life. What can you know, Lord Neville, of the struggles and horrors that the bondsmen and
women of this country endure?"
Neville went cold. He'd heard virtually the same words from the mouth of Etienne Marcel, the
Provost of Paris, just before the provost had led the Parisians into an ill-fated uprising against
both their Church and their nobles. Many thousands had died. Not only the misguided who
had thought to revolt against their betters, but many innocents, as well. Neville remembered
the terrible scene of butchery he'd come across on his journey toward Paris, the slaughtered
and tormented bodies of the Lescolopier family. Marcel, and now Wycliffe, mouthed words
that brought only suffering and death, never betterment,
"Be careful, Master Wycliffe," he said in a low voice, "for I will not have the words of chaos
spoken in my household!"
Courtenay, very uncomfortable, looked about the table. "The structure of society is God-
ordained, surely," he said. "How can we wish it different? How could we better it?" There are
murmurings," Jack Trueman said, "that as do many within the Church enjoy their bloated
wealth at the expense of the poor, so, too, do many secular lords enjoy wealth and comfort
from the sufferings of their bondsmen."
"Do you have men bonded to the soil and lordship of Halstow Hall, Lord Neville?" Wycliffe
asked. "Have you never thought to set them free from the chains of their serfdom?"
Enough!" Neville rose to his feet. "Wycliffe, I know you, and I know what you are.
I offer you a bed for the night begrudgingly, and only because my Duke of Lancaster keeps
you under his protection. But I would thank you to be gone at first light on the morrow."
Wycliffe also rose. "The world is changing, Thomas," he said. "Do not stand in its way."
He turned to Margaret, and bowed very deeply. "Good lady," he said, "I thank you for your
hospitality. As your lord wishes, I and mine shall be gone by first light in the morning, and that
will be too early for me to bid you farewell. So I must do it now." He paused.
"Farewell, beloved lady. Walk with Christ."
"And you," Margaret said softly.
Wycliffe nodded, held Margaret's eyes an instant longer, then swept away, his black robes
fluttering behind him.
John Ball and Jack Trueman bowed to Margaret and Neville, then hurried after their master.
Furious that he could not speak his mind in front of Courtenay and Tusser, Neville turned on
Tyler.
"And I suppose you walk with Wycliffe in this madness?"
Tyler held Neville's eyes easily. "I work also for the betterment of our poor brothers, so," he
said, "yes, Tom, I walk with Wycliffe in this 'madness.' "
"How dare you talk as if Wycliffe works the will of Jesus Christ!"
"Wycliffe devotes his life to freeing the poor and downtrodden from the enslavement of their
social and clerical 'betters.' Is that not what Jesus Christ gave his life for?"
"You will bring death and disaster to this realm, Wat," Neville said in a quiet voice, "as Marcel
did to Paris."
Tyler's face twisted, almost as if he wanted to say something but found the words too difficult.
Then, as had Wycliffe, he turned and bowed to Margaret, thanking her in a warm and elegant
fashion, and bid her farewell. "Go with Christ, my lady."
"And you, Wat." Margaret turned her head slightly as soon as she had said the words, fearful
that Thomas should see the gleam of tears within their depths.
Would this be the last time she ever saw Wat?
Wat Tyler stared at Margaret one more moment, then he, too, turned and left the hall.
CHAPTER II
The Tuesday before the Feast
of SS Egidius and Priscus
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(30th August 1379)
WYCLIFFE, TYLER and the other two priests were gone by the time Neville arose at dawn.
Although Neville was grateful they had departed, he felt useless as well. He would, by far,
have preferred to put Wycliffe under some form of detention before he caused any mischief...
but to do so might well be to anger Lancaster, and that Neville did not want to do.
So he'd had to let the demon—as he had no doubt Wycliffe was—escape.
Neville set about his morning tasks, hoping they would consume his mind, but instead, his
temper became shorter as the day wore on. He was useless stuck here in the wilds of Kent!
When would Hal call him back to court? Hal Bolingbroke, the son of the Duke of Lancaster,
was not merely one of England's highest noblemen, as well as Neville's oldest friend, but now
also Neville's benefactor. Lancaster had asked Neville to serve as Hal's secretary, a powerful
position that would aid Neville's search for Wynkyn de Worde's casket and protect Neville
from those demons who had infiltrated the court... but Neville could do nothing to further his
quest for the casket and against the demons until Hal actually recalled him to court.
The only thing that calmed his mood was when, in the early afternoon, he joined Margaret
and Rosalind in their solar. Neville loved his daughter, and always made the time to spend an
hour at least playing with her each day.
He strode into the room, greeting Margaret perfunctorily—not noticing her wince— and lifted
Rosalind from her arms.
Neville grinned and ruffled the black, curly hair that Rosalind had inherited from him. She was
strong now, and of good weight and size for her almost six months of age. She had recovered
well from the trauma of her birth... perhaps it was her good Neville blood, Neville thought, for
his entire family was of hearty stock and robust determination.
Margaret watched him with sadness. Her husband looked to Courtenay for friendship, and to
his daughter for love, but to her for... what? She took a deep breath, controlling her emotions,
and then tilted her head as she heard a noise outside the door.
Neville glanced at her, irritated by the solemnity of her expression, then turned to the door as
Courtenay strode through.
"My lord!" Courtenay said. "We have yet more company!"
He got no further, for a handsome man dressed in Hal Bolingbroke's new livery as the Duke
of Hereford pushed past Courtenay.
Neville's eyes widened, for he recognized the man as Roger Salisbury, a young knight of
noble family who had worked in Hal's entourage for some time.
Roger Salisbury stopped several steps into the solar, and bowed.
"My Lord Neville," he said, and was interrupted from further speech by Neville.
"Bolingbroke wants me," he said.
"Aye, my lord. I bear greetings from my Lord of Hereford, and am to inform you of his wish
that you return to his side in London within the week."
Neville turned back to Margaret. "At last! I thought Bolingbroke had forgotten me!" He
stepped over to her and gently lowered Rosalind into her care. "I shall miss her," he said, and
did not notice the sudden humiliation in Margaret's eyes.
Salisbury cleared his throat. "My Lord of Hereford also wishes that the Lady Margaret and
your daughter ride with you."
Neville's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Margaret is to ride with me?" "Indeed, my lord,"
Salisbury said. "Bolingbroke"—he lapsed into informality, for although Hal was now Duke of
Hereford, he was familiarly known as Bolingbroke— "is to take the Lady Mary Bohun to wife
within the month, and it is her wish that your lady wife serve at her side."
Neville's mouth twisted. "Mary Bohun does not know the Lady Margaret exists," he said. "The
wish is Bolingbroke's alone."
He paused, and in that pause allowed his suspicions their full malevolent flood. Why did Hal
want Margaret within his household? Surely it would he better if she and Rosalind stayed
within the safety of Halstow Hall? There was no need for Hal to want Margaret back, as well
as him, unless . . . no, no. It could not be. . . And then there was Richard. . . in London,
Margaret would be so close to Richard's animal lusts . . . too close .. .
"Richard..." he said without meaning to put voice to his thoughts.
Salisbury looked at Neville. Bolingbroke had told him that Neville would fear for Margaret's
chastity around a king who had already made clear his desire for her.
"Bolingbroke," Salisbury said carefully, "has stated that the Lady Margaret will enjoy the full
protection of his household. She will come to no harm under my lord's roof."
Maybe not from Richard, Neville thought. But from Hal? Hal has made it plain enough to me
that he wants Mary only for her lands. Does he now want the woman he does desire back
under his roof? Neville suspected there was more to Hal and Margaret's relationship than just
that of mere traveling companions during the time both had spent within the Black Prince's
entourage in France. Margaret had then been the mistress of Baron Raby, Neville's uncle, but
had her relationship with Hal merely been one of superficial acquaintance? Neville had
occasionally come across them together when they had no true reason to be sequestered
alone, and he remembered Hal's deep care for Margaret when she had been pregnant and
unwell. Was that just Hal's natural care for the weak... or was it indicative of deeper emotion?
Then Neville mentally shook himself. What was he doing, acting like a desperate husband?
"My lord husband," Margaret said, rising. "You have told me previously that Lancaster thought
I could do well to serve his wife, the Lady Katherine. But now that you have taken service with
Bolingbroke, instead of his father, it is natural that I should serve Bolingbroke's wife instead."
Neville looked at her closely, but finally nodded his agreement to something he fully realized
he had no choice in.
"Very well," he said, silently vowing that he would ensure Margaret came to, or caused, no
harm.
CHAPTER III
The Feast of the Translation
of SS. Egidius and Priscus
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 1st September 1379)
RICHARD THORSEBY, Prior General of the Dominican Order in England, sat at his desk in
the dark heart of Blackfriars in London, slowly turning a letter over and over in his hand. His
eyes were unfocused, his sharp-angled face devoid of expression, and his equally sharp
mind fixed on a memory of the previous Lent rather than on the contents of the letter...
The Dominican friary in the northern English city of Lincoln. The Lady Margaret Rivers,
tearfully confessing that Brother Thomas Neville was the father of the bastard child in her
belly. Neville himself, his behavior, dress and conduct advertising to the world his blatant
abuse of every one of his vows. And John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, humiliating Thorseby
and allowing Neville to escape Dominican discipline.
In the months since, Thorseby had never forgotten his affront, nor had he relaxed from his
intention of bringing Neville to Dominican justice. Indeed, what had once been intention had
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