The Crippled Angel (18 page)

Wednesday 5th June 1381

—i—

A
s quickly as the pall and horror of pestilence had lifted from London, the shadow of major rebellion enveloped it. The joy that people had felt at their miraculous escape from almost inevitable death vanished, replaced with yet more uncertainty.

When Hal Bolingbroke ascended the throne, most people assumed that England would settle into a period of stability. Instead, the opposite appeared to be happening. Uncertainty over the manner, even the actual fact, of Richard’s death spread whispered doubt about the legitimacy of Bolingbroke’s monarchy. These whispered doubts became the stronger with Exeter’s attempted coup during the Windsor tournament. Then, within moments, so it seemed, pestilence exploded through London and the immediate surrounding areas.

The black Dog of Pestilence, which no one had seen for some twenty years, once more stalked the lives of the innocent.

Now, Hotspur, and a rebellion the like of which the good people of England had never seen. An unholy—an
abominable
—alliance of the northern English, the Scots and the Welsh against the central and southern peoples of England.

Surely God had spoken? Surely
this
was the final word and judgement on the legitimacy of Bolingbroke’s tenure as king?

Bolingbroke did not waste a single moment of those days which followed news of Hotspur’s rebellion. From within the precinct of the Tower complex came the distant shouts of men, and the noise of horses being readied. Across the green meadows of East Smithfield adjacent to the Tower, where Wat Tyler had once made his fateful demands of Richard, spread the horse lines and encampments of thousands upon thousands of men-at-arms. Every day their numbers swelled as Bolingbroke called on the loyalties and obligations of nobles across southern England. Rumour had it that similarly large encampments of men and horses were building in Oxfordshire, Worcestershire and Warwickshire, waiting to join up with Bolingbroke’s main force as it passed through on its way northwest.

But as men and arms and horses gathered, so did the ordinary people of London. Unsure, troubled, questioning, people grouped in increasingly large crowds in the major streets and squares leading to the Tower, and stood in shifting, murmuring clusters outside the East Smithfield encampment. The markets were filled with housewives and tradesmen, talking not of the over-pricing of salted cod, or debating the qualities of the fine flannels of Belgium, but of the ever increasing troubles of Hal Bolingbroke.

Sin attracted sin, did it not?

Among them moved yet more friars—those Whittington’s watchmen were not able to detect and eject from the city—muttering of the dark evils that had enveloped England since Bolingbroke seized the throne from poor, young Richard, whose only fault was the naivety and impetuosity of youth. They talked of the strange deaths of Edward III and the Black Prince, of the highly convenient deaths of Gloucester and Lancaster, and of how they cleared the way for Bolingbroke to assume the throne.

Once Richard was removed and murdered, of course.

Evil now sat the throne of England
, they whispered, nodding their heads sagely, and blessing all whom they encountered.
Evil sits the throne of England, and until it be removed, until all traces of it are burned and destroyed, evil
and its brother, despair, will multiply until all the good, God-fearing people of England have been crushed and destroyed.

The crowds grew, and their mood grew darker. Fair Prince Hal had long vanished from their memories.

Early Wednesday morning, Neville stood with several menat-arms on the stone causeway just inside the Lion Gate. Behind them, in the Lion Tower, one lion, two tigers and a crocodile roared and croaked, sensing the bleak mood of the crowds gathering in the courtyard beyond the Lion Gate.

No doubt the giraffe, a gift to Edward III from one of the Muslim sultanates seven years ago, would also have been whimpering and murmuring were it not for the fact it had died from the pestilence.

“They’ve increased three-fold since yesterday evening, my lord,” said one of the men-at-arms. His deeply seamed and browned face seemed impassive, yet when his eyes swung Neville’s way he could see that the soldier was gravely concerned.

“How quickly they forget,” Neville murmured, turning his gaze now on the people who crowded just beyond the gate.

“They have not forgot the pestilence, my lord,” said another of the soldiers, an almost gnome-like veteran of many battles, if the twisting scars on his left cheek and neck were anything to go by. “Not forgot the husbands and infants they saw tossed into the death pits. They have not forgot the stink of the rotting, nor the—”

“I understand!” Neville snapped. “Have
you
forgot how Queen Mary, ailing herself, further risked her own life to care for the dying?”

The soldier dropped his eyes, and then half-turned his face away. Neville had the feeling that, to this soldier at least, even the memory of Mary’s selflessness and mercy could not totally counteract the brooding misgivings of the moment.

He sighed. “Has the crowd done anything bar murmur and shuffle and stare?”

“Nay, my lord,” replied the first soldier.

“Not
yet
,” mumbled the gnome-like veteran.

Neville glared at him, then turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode back around the outer ward to the Garden Gate and so into the main complex of the Tower.

He arrived in Bolingbroke’s royal chambers to find that Bolingbroke was already well aware of the unrest. Bolingbroke had several captains with him, as well as the Bishop of London, the Lord Mayor Dick Whittington, one of Bolingbroke’s household lords, Owen Tudor, and the usual accompanying bevy of clerks, recorders, messengers and valets. Mary was there also, accompanied by several of her ladies.

Bolingbroke, dressed in a leather jerkin over his white shirt and hose, heard what Neville had to say, then nodded. “We ride out at dawn on the morrow and I cannot afford to leave London seething behind me.” He gave a short laugh. “Imagine being caught between Hotspur and the Butchers’ Guild of London, Tom.”

Neville barely managed a smile at Bolingbroke’s poor joke. The Butchers’ Guild was notorious for its feast day parade violence, and its efficiency in dismembering any who got in their way. At any given time it seemed that a quarter of the guild’s members were in prison awaiting trial for murder, another quarter were in the streets committing murder, yet another quarter were patrolling the streets with their hatchets and knives looking for an opportunity to do murder, and the final quarter were, reluctantly, in their workshops dismembering the already dead.

“We could try to disperse them, sire,” said Dick Whittington, who’d joined Bolingbroke in the Tower the day previously. “I have several hundred well-armed men on watch, and—”

Bolingbroke silenced him with a wave. “Nay, Dick, I could not countenance that. Not setting Londoner against Londoner. Instead, set your men to spreading word that I will address the good citizens of London this evening at dusk, outside the encampment in East Smithfield.”

Neville raised an eyebrow, both aghast and impressed at Bolingbroke’s course of action. To address the crowds was good, a courageous choice. But to pick East Smithfield? Where Richard had ordered mass murder? And where the crowds might think that Bolingbroke meant to use the soldiers in the encampment to do the same thing?

“My lord?” Mary was seated on a couch near the window, and now she rose with a helping hand from one of her ladies.

Bolingbroke turned, smiling politely but impatiently at her. Mary looked wan and far more wasted than she had in previous weeks. The neckline of her gown gaped at shoulders and breast, and it appeared that Mary’s arms barely had the strength to carry the weight of the gown’s heavy sleeves. Her breasts were so flat as to be non-existent, while her belly was swollen and, obviously, painful.

“My lord,” Mary said again, and Neville heard a worrying breathlessness in her voice. “Allow me to come with you. Please. I might do some good.”

Bolingbroke’s face flushed, and Neville realised that he was angry.

“Mary, my love,” Bolingbroke said, “I cannot allow it. You are too frail. Besides, the mood of the crowd is dangerous—”

“And that mood is why I should come with you,” Mary said. Her own face had some colour in it now, and she tilted her chin determinedly. “I have a gentle voice and presence, and perchance I can soothe when—”

“When my words might only inflame? Think you that I cannot manage this on my own, Mary? Think you that you can save the day as you did at the tournament? Do you think me such an
incapable
king?”

“That is not what I meant, my lord, and well you know it.”

Owen Tudor, his compassionate face grave under its greying red hair, glanced about at the appalled and embarrassed faces of the others who were in the chamber, then spoke quickly before Bolingbroke could respond. “Your grace, madam, may I suggest something?”

Bolingbroke shot him a simmering look of anger, but waved his hand for Tudor to continue.

“I agree with my queen that she accompany you, sire, for she speaks well when she says that her presence might allay some of the more outward manifestations of anger. But, sire, you alone should speak, for this is not only your duty, but your right.”

Bolingbroke gave him another long, hard stare, then nodded. “You speak sense, my Lord Tudor, although I still fear for my queen’s safety.”

“Then I will ride at her side, sire,” said Neville quickly, before Tudor could jump in.

Tudor sent him an ambiguous look.

“So that I might watch over her for you,” Neville continued. “Will you trust me with her life?”

Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then again he nodded. “With you more than with anyone else, Tom.”

Then he turned aside, and began to speak of the preparations he would need to make for his evening’s activity.

Mary also nodded, first at Tudor, who smiled and bowed slightly, and then at Neville, clearly relieved at the adroit manner in which they’d managed to defuse the situation, and sank back down to her couch.

“Our queen shall surely be safe with you, my Lord Neville,” whispered Whittington in Neville’s ear.

“Then make sure that your men also spread word that the queen, as ill as she is, will also attend this evening’s audience with the king. Make sure the people know that.”

“Oh, aye,” Whittington said, and then he was gone.

Wednesday 5th June 1381

—ii—

E
ast Smithfield glittered in the dusk as the lights from a thousand torches glinted off hard steel and the angry, sceptical eyes of the crowd. People had moved from the streets and markets through the Tower gate into the meadows of East Smithfield. Normally filled with the sweet scent of cornflowers, columbines and dandelions at this time of the year, the fields were instead dust bowls, scarred with the recent excavations for death pits, as well as the more latter-day hooves and boots of Bolingbroke’s growing army.

Just as the sun finally set, the sound of horns burst from the battlements of the Tower, and then the faint shout of those people still about the Lion Gate as King Henry and his party issued forth to meet with his people.

The crowd in East Smithfield strained, then surged forward, each member desperate to catch a glimpse of their king. A shout spread through their ranks: “The king draws near! The king draws near!”

And then, as Bolingbroke did indeed draw near, the crowd murmured, swelled, then sank back.

Bolingbroke rode in all the majesty he could muster, and that was great indeed. His party numbered perhaps some twenty, or twenty-five—small, considering what Bolingbroke could have chosen to accompany him. But what his party lacked in numbers, it more than made up with display. All were arrayed in the most sumptuous of garments: flowing silken robes of the richest jewel-like hues, embroidered in costly gold and silver threads; many of the greater nobles among them wore the crowns of their titles, as well their heraldic devices embroidered on their horses’ hangings; gems glittered at throat and wrist and chest; chains of gold ran across shoulders; banners fluttered; great destriers snorted and snapped at any who pressed too close; and faces, stamped with the nobility and importance of the owner’s rank, nevertheless managed to avoid haughtiness to radiate instead assurance and care.

At the head of this cavalcade rode Queen Mary, dressed in a long, flowing robe of silvered satin over the finest lawn gown. Under her crown, her dark honey-blonde hair was left free to flow down her back and flutter in the wind of her passing. About her throat sat a wide collar of emeralds set in gold, and similar bands of gold and emeralds bound her wrists. She nodded gravely to the crowds as she passed, not making the error of smiling amid their doubts.

A half pace behind her rode Lord Thomas Neville, as resplendently gowned and bejewelled as any other in the king’s escort. He wore a scarlet surcoat over white armour about his chest and arms, and a golden sword in a scabbard that matched his surcoat bobbed at his left thigh. A great chain of gold and diamonds enclosed his neck and draped over his surcoat. His head was bare, his black hair and beard carefully trimmed, and his dark eyes never strayed from the queen’s form, as if he rode ready to spring forward the instant she showed any weakness.

Bolingbroke rode three paces ahead, and at counterpoint to everyone else in his party. For, unlike their beautifully gowned and richly adorned figures, Bolingbroke rode completely un-jewelled save for a simple crown about his
silver gilt hair, and he wore, not resplendent robes, but plain leather armour over which was draped a sleeveless tunic of chainmail. A war sword in a leather scabbard hung at his hip. His black destrier, similarly, wore nothing but the accoutrements of war: chainmail about its chest and flanks, armour and thick leather covering the vulnerable points of its neck.

This was a king under siege, yet prepared to meet that siege head on, and Bolingbroke wanted all to know it.

He rode deep into the crowd, stopping only when the press grew too thick to ride further.

“Good people,” he called, standing in his stirrups and looking about at the crowd. “I beg you stand back a little. My queen is ill, and needs air with which to breathe.”

He swivelled in the saddle, and smiled lovingly at Mary. “My lady, are you well?”

Mary, remembering well her duty not to speak, merely inclined her head, arranging about her face a loving smile to match her husband’s.

The crowd murmured, then cheered a little.

“Good people!” Bolingbroke cried again, turning back to face the crowd. “You have carried such burdens of late. The pestilence, rumours—and worse—of rebellion and uprising, false rumours and whispers. Your lives have been disrupted and made capricious by the whims of fate and traitor alike. You want certainty and sunlight back in your lives, and I, of all among you, can understand that need.

“Good people! I know that there is little I can say to allay your misgivings. I know that only my
actions
can ease your minds and hearts. And I know also that you remember the plagues and uncertainties of recent weeks, and wonder if somehow this is a reflection on my right to reign over you.”

Bolingbroke dropped his voice, although it still carried easily across the assembled masses. “I also wonder. I also am consumed with doubt. And I also know that this doubt must be laid to rest soon, or all my legitimacy will vanish, both in your eyes, and in God’s.

“My fellow Englishmen, hear now my vow to you. Tomorrow I ride to meet with Hotspur, who leads the rebellion in the north. Let
God
be the judge. Let the
battlefield
be the trial of my right to reign as your monarch. And let
you
be the guardians of the crown until either I, or Hotspur, return to claim it.”

Bolingbroke stood tall in his stirrups, his balance easy on the shifting, nervous horse beneath him. He let go the reins, and, raising both his hands, grasped the crown about his head.

“My brothers and sisters,” he shouted. “May you guard the crown and majesty of England until God has made His decision!”

He raised the crown with both hands, holding it above his head, then, in a sudden, stunning movement, he tossed the crown into the crowd.

“Take it, and guard it,” he shouted, his voice ringing over all of East Smithfield and into the city beyond, “and may God prove the final arbiter on my right to rule!”

He sank down into his saddle, holding the crowd captive with the intensity of his eyes.

“And, whoever comes back to reclaim that crown, may you never again question his right to rule. For what God has joined, may no man put asunder.”