Читать книгу The Crippled Angel - Sara Douglass - Страница 11

The tournament began immediately Bolingbroke had taken his place beside Mary and nodded his readiness to the officials.

Within ten minutes the grinding, bloody, sweaty, bone-breaking, heart-stopping action had begun. Having agreed to the tournament itself, Bolingbroke had nevertheless drawn the line at allowing the traditional melee of several hundred knights drawn up into two opposing forces that charged down the field to engage in several hours of hacking, clouting and cursing until only a few men (and horses) were left standing. Instead, the action began with something only a little less spectacular.

The tourney field had been divided into twenty-five jousting lanes, and at the drop of the official’s flag, fifty knights lowered their lances and kicked their stallions into action. The thunder of the great horses’ hooves as they crashed down the lanes was outdone only by the screams of the crowd and the eventual grinding and screeching as lances struck or glanced off the breastplates and shields of opponents. Some knights managed to hold their seats, others were unhorsed on their first pass and left to flounder on the turf hoping the momentum of their fall and the weight of their armour wouldn’t roll them into the path of an oncoming destrier.

Destriers were bred for their density and thickness of muscle, their strength and their weight: they were not renowned for their ability to jump anything larger than a mouse or dodge anything in less than a gentle quarter-mile curve.

One man died and two were crippled when the huge, sharpened hooves of galloping destriers cut right through their armour and the bones and flesh beneath.

The horses trampled on, almost unaware of the men they had cut to ribbons beneath their hooves.

The unhorsed knights who managed to roll to their feet rather than under the oncoming death of destriers, steadied themselves and drew their swords. Those knights who made it to the other end of the jousting lanes still on their horses now dismounted and drew their own swords, striding as best they could in their enveloping armour back down the jousting lanes to meet their opponents in true chivalric fashion, one on one, sword to sword. Blades clattered against heads and necks, trying to find that sweet opening between helmet and shoulder and breast armour.

Opponents rested after each swing, gathering their strength to once again raise the massive blades with arms made heavy by their encasing armour and strike again.

Blood seeped out from joints in armour, and trailed in apologetic rivulets down breast and thigh plates. Breathing became harsh, and was intermixed with curses and shouted entreaties for aid to sundry saints. Some men pissed or shat themselves, either with fear or exertion, and the stink of urine and faeces added itself to the other manly odours of battle.

The crowd went wild. Men surged against barriers, each individual shouting encouragement to the knights of his choice, and curses against their opponents. Some spectators threw rocks and other missiles into the arena. Some turned against their neighbours and sent fists crashing into cheekbones and chins in the excitement of the moment.

The behaviour of the noble families and wives in the stands was scarcely better. Women leaped to their feet, waving streamers of their household colours, urging their menfolk on to greater efforts with voices shrill with battle lust. Young pages and valets, beside themselves with sorrow that they should not be on the field themselves, punched fists into the air, and shouted wagers into the din, sure that their lord would be the one to prevail.

And amid all this, the valets and pages of the fallen darted among the warriors on the field, litters dragging and bumping behind them, searching out their masters that they might attempt to roll them onto the litters and get them to the dubious safety of the surgeons’ tents.

Bolingbroke leaned forward eagerly, one fist clenched, his eyes straining to take in all the action.

“Surely this death and maiming is not so exciting?” Mary murmured, sickened at the sight before her.

“I need to know on whom I can rely on the battlefield,” Bolingbroke replied, not lifting his eyes from the action. Then he relaxed a little, and leaned back. “There? See? It is all but done. Some knights have conceded, while others have won outright.”

He stood and clapped his approval of the actions of the men below, and the crowds roared with him. The fighting was done now, and some knights strutted off the field, having triumphed against their opponents; later they would receive tokens from the king to mark their victory. Others slumped wearily, shamed. And others twisted, moaning, or, worse, lay still on the grass waiting for the final scurrying pages to come by with their litters.

And when all was finally cleared, men darted out with baskets of sawdust to dry out the patches of clotting red so that the next two lines of jousters would not slip and fall on the blood of their predecessors.

The day proceeded.

Neville wandered through the barely-controlled chaos amid the tents and horse lines of the nobles. Several rounds of jousting had now taken place, and soon the tournament would move into its most exciting stage: the great nobles, men who had fought and lived through a score of battles, would joust one on one.

No doubt there shall be a few scores settled this day, thought Neville as he pushed his way through the crowds, seeking his uncle Ralph Neville’s tent. Ah, there, the standard of Westmorland. He nodded to the guards outside the tent’s entrance, then ducked inside.

His uncle was standing in the centre of the space, almost fully armoured, his face a mask of impatience as two of his squires tugged at buckle straps, and twisted plates into place. The earl grimaced at Neville’s entrance, and Neville was not sure if that was because one of the squires had tugged too tightly, or because his uncle was not happy to see him.

“You’re not going to fight?” Raby asked. “You have decided to play the part of the spectator?”

Ah, no wonder his uncle had grimaced at him. Raby had never been the one to pass a fight without adding his sword to it.

“There will be battle enough in the coming months,” Neville said. “Today I will wander the encampment, the better to understand the strength of various houses.”

“Humph,” Raby grunted. “First a warrior, then a priest, now a courtier. Will there never be an end to your incarnations, Tom?”

“I am just Tom,” Neville said, “choosing to reveal myself in different ways.” He walked closer to his uncle, and the squires, their task done, melted away. “Will you have some wine before you enter the lists, uncle?”

“Aye. It will steady my hand.”

Neville walked to a small table, poured out two goblets of wine from a ewer, and handed one of them to his uncle. “And who is your opponent?”

Raby hesitated. Then… “Exeter.”

Neville halted with his goblet halfway to his mouth, stunned. “Exeter? John Holland?” Richard’s half-brother against his uncle, the man responsible for garnering support for Bolingbroke, who then supplanted and then murdered Exeter’s brother?

“The very same.”

“And who arranged this?”

“Exeter himself, I believe,” Raby said, and drained his goblet. “I heard he specifically asked to be set against me.”

Neville took the empty goblet from his uncle’s hand and set it, together with his untouched one, to one side.

“Uncle… be careful. Exeter is dangerous.”

“And I’m not?”

“I didn’t mean dangerous as in skilled with a weapon, uncle. I meant dangerous in the use of treachery. Do you think he will allow his brother’s death to go unchallenged? Unrevenged?”

“If he knows what is best for him… yes.”

Neville turned away, fingering Raby’s mail gloves which lay on the table. “The Hollands are a powerful family,” he said.

Raby walked up beside Neville and took the mail gloves, pulling them on. “They wouldn’t dare. They are not that powerful. No doubt Exeter grumbles in private, as do most of the Holland family. But to take on Hal? No. They wouldn’t dare. Tom, they wouldn’t.”

That’s what Richard and de Vere believed about Bolingbroke, Neville thought, and that mistake killed them.

He forced a smile to his face. “Then I wish you good luck in your joust, uncle. I hope your lance bounces off his balls and bruises them so badly he shall not sire any more sons.”

Raby guffawed loudly. “I shall aim with intent,” he said. “England could do with a few less Hollands. Now, where are those damn squires? I need my helmet!”

When he’d left his uncle, Neville wandered as close as he could to Exeter’s tents without attracting unwanted attention. Sundry knights and nobles scurried about, most in full battle armour, all with tense expressions and narrowed eyes that darted this way and that.

Neville stood behind the tent of a minor noble and chewed at his lip in thought. How many men did Exeter and his fellow Hollands have with them? Two or three hundred, no more. They wouldn’t have been able to bring any more without attracting undue attention.

So, Exeter’s allies, then. Who were they likely to be? Northumberland? Northumberland had ever had his disagreements with Bolingbroke and his father, the Duke of Lancaster, and particularly with Neville’s own family. But Northumberland had too much to lose by turning against Bolingbroke, and far more to gain by standing at his side.

So Northumberland was unlikely to ally himself with Exeter, and Hotspur, Northumberland’s son, who may very well have supported an Exeter bid to topple Bolingbroke, was still far in the north.

There were, of course, a slew of lesser nobles who might support Exeter—Neville well knew that the wounds caused by Bolingbroke’s extraordinary rise to power had not yet healed—but Neville simply couldn’t see how they could hope to form a force strong enough to defeat Bolingbroke’s allies who were here in force; Raby and Northumberland, in particular, had huge escorts of men at the tournament.

A movement to his left caught Neville’s eye and he turned, then frowned slightly at what he saw.

None other than the Abbot of Westminster, striding out of Exeter’s tent and looking guilty enough to confess to Christ’s murder if someone should put a knife to his throat and ask him to say the words.

The abbot disappeared down a narrow alley between rows of tents, and Neville hurried after him.

After five minutes the abbot paused, looked about—causing Neville to duck behind a saddled destrier—then entered a small tent. In an instant he was out again, and a few heartbeats after his exit five Dominican friars hurried out, split up, and merged into the crowds.

What was the abbot doing, consorting first with Exeter, then with Dominicans, of all people?

Neville hesitated, then followed one of the Dominicans. The man’s hooded black figure made him easy to track at a safe distance in the otherwise gaudy multitude.

The friar led Neville back towards the hordes of common folk who had come to watch the tournament. Now and then he would stop, catch the attention of a small group of men and women, whisper something, then move on.

Neville’s disquiet grew, especially since the people the friar talked to remained agitated after the friar had moved on, and turned to talk to others within the crowd. He watched the Dominican work his way through the throng, thought about continuing his pursuit of him, then decided to ask some of the people what they’d been told by the friar.

“My good man,” Neville said quietly to one man standing in a group of five or six others, “what did the friar tell you?”

The man glanced at his fellows, licking his lips nervously, then looked back at this lord who had addressed him.

“He said… ” the man hesitated, “… he said that Richard our king is not dead, and that he will be riding to London within the week to reclaim his throne.”

“What?”

“It’s what he said.”

“It’s not true, dammit! Man, believe me, Richard is dead!”

But the group stared at Neville, shaking their heads, and looked about uncertainly.

“Perhaps he still is alive,” one man said. “Why shouldn’t he be? Perhaps these stories of his death were false.”

Neville opened his mouth to refute the lie one more time, then shut it as he suddenly realised what Exeter was going to do.

“My God,” Neville whispered, and hurried off.

Mary shifted a little on her cushions, trying to ease the agony coursing up and down her spine. Her face twisted, and she gasped.

“Madam?” Margaret whispered, shocked by the whiteness of Mary’s face. She grabbed at Mary’s hand, then looked to Bolingbroke.

He was already staring at Mary, and had taken her other hand. “Mary,” he said, “how bad is it?”

“Bad enough,” Mary whispered.

Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. The fact that Mary had admitted her pain told her a great deal: Mary was in absolute agony. Nothing else would drive her to actually admitting discomfort.

“Do something,” Bolingbroke hissed to Margaret, then turned to smile and wave at the people whose heads had turned to watch what was happening in the royal box. She is tired, no more.

Margaret hesitated. “I have no more of the liquor,” she said.

Mary tried to smile, and failed dismally. “I have been too greedy,” she said. “It is my fault.”

Again Margaret locked eyes with Bolingbroke. I can do for her what I did for Lancaster in his final hours. Ease her pain.

No! She will know that you are other than what you present yourself!

And would that be so bad?

Meg, do not go against my will. We will be finished here soon enough.

Margaret dropped her eyes. I hope it is not your fate to die a lingering, painful death, Hal.

“I will be well enough once we leave this place,” Mary said. “Do not fear for me, Margaret.”

“It is difficult to avoid fearing for those whom you love dearly,” Margaret said, and her eyes filmed with tears.

“I am suffering no more than those poor men below who have been trampled beneath horses’ hooves,” Mary said, patting at Margaret’s hand. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you for caring, Margaret.”

Margaret took one of Mary’s hands in both of hers, and very, very gently rubbed its back with her thumbs. With Mary, as she had done with Lancaster, she should dig her thumbs in deeply to give the relief required for such pain, but if she did that, and eased Mary’s pain to a remarkable degree, then Mary would indeed suspect something.

So Margaret gently rubbed, and the continual movement, with the slight power she put into it, managed to take the edge off Mary’s pain. It happened so gradually that Mary herself did not connect the very slight easing of her pain with Margaret’s rubbing.

She merely thought the ease was due to Margaret’s love… which, in a sense, it was.

After a few minutes Mary straightened her back a little, and lifted her head, suddenly becoming aware of the concerned looks being sent her way.

Mary smiled, then waved her hand a little. “A bad moment, my good people,” she said. “Nothing else. See, I am quite well now.”

And gradually those staring smiled, nodded, and returned their eyes to the tourney field before them.

Once their attention was back on the field, Mary turned to Margaret, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for your love,” she said. “It means so much.”

Margaret blinked back her tears, and smiled, and would have spoken save that Bolingbroke leaned over and hushed them.

“Quiet! The joust of the tournament begins.”

Mary turned her head back to the field—its grass now all but torn up where it wasn’t littered with congealing pink mounds of sawdust. All but one jousting lane had been cleared away, and at either end of this single remaining lane sat two great warriors on their destriers: Exeter and Raby.

Both men and their mounts were fully armoured: Raby in black armour emblazoned with the Neville device across breastplate and helm; Exeter in gleaming white armour, similarly emblazoned with his own heraldic devices.

An official shouted an instruction, and both men slowly lowered their lances.

Their destriers bunched beneath them, knowing that at any instant they would be sent thundering towards their opponent.

A flag dropped, the crowd roared, and the destriers lumbered into movement.

Bolingbroke leaned forward in his chair, his face tense, one fist clenched. “Do me proud, Ralph,” he muttered. “Do me proud.”

Raby and Exeter pounded towards each other, their bodies hunched over lance and shield, their heads swaying with the violent movement of their horses.

They met in a grinding of metal in the centre of the field: sparks flew, horses grunted, but both lances slid off their opponent’s shield harmlessly as each passed the other, trying to pull up their destriers with hands laden with shield and weapon.

Squires leapt to their masters’ aid, catching the destriers and turning them about.

The crowd’s roar grew louder.

Bolingbroke turned to say something to Mary, then stopped, his eyes fixed on Thomas Neville who had climbed the stairs into the stand and was now fast approaching the royal box.

“Tom?” Bolingbroke said.

Neville reached him, glancing at Margaret and Mary, and then to where Robert Courtenay stood with a group of armed men in the back of the stand, before bending down to Bolingbroke.

“Treachery, sire,” he whispered. “I think Exeter means to—”

He got no further, for just then Exeter and Raby met again in a clash of metal and horseflesh in the centre of the field. The grinding and screeching of lance against shield grew to almost unbearable levels, and then Raby’s shield toppled to one side, dragging its owner over with it.

Exeter managed to drop his lance, grabbing a club that hung at his side. In a heartbeat he’d raised it on high, then smashed it into Raby’s helm.

Neville’s uncle slid unceremoniously to the ground in a clatter of armour and a flailing of legs and arms. His horse skittered off, rolling its eyes.

“Ralph!” Margaret whispered, half-rising. She had been Raby’s lover once, and had never ceased caring for him.

“Hal!” Neville said, equally as urgently. “You are in danger—”

Exeter ignored Raby struggling ignobly in his heavy armour on the ground, dropping the club and grabbing at his sword to wave it about his head. He turned to the gates that marked the entry and exit point of the tourney field, the vigour of his sword-waving doubling.

Horsed and heavily armed men flooded into the tourney field—a thousand at the least—some liveried in the devices of Exeter, others in the devices of various other members of the extended Holland clan, and more yet in the liveries of the Earl of Rutland and the Earl of Salisbury.

“Sweet Jesu!” Bolingbroke said, lurching to his feet as the seriousness of the moment suddenly hit him. Already other men—those of Bolingbroke’s personal guard, nobles and retainers of Northumberland and Raby and other noble houses allied with them—were rushing towards the tourney field. Sporadic fighting started where the two groups met, but the crowds of commoners, now lurching this way and that in terror, were so thick that it was hard for the king’s defenders to get close to the rebels.

“Hear me!” Exeter screamed, turning his destrier about in tight circles as he addressed the crowd, and still waving his sword about his head. “Hear me! I come on behalf of Richard the King. Yes! Richard! He still lives. Richard lives and will be in London within the week to remove this monster from the throne!”

The crowd’s noise swelled. Richard lived? Then several people shouted out: “Yes! Richard lives! We have heard it from men of God. Richard lives.”

And then another shout, coming so fast upon those of Exeter and the crowd that Bolingbroke had not had a chance of speaking himself.

The Abbot of Westminster, standing up from his place in one of the side stands: “Richard lives and shall come home to London to claim his rightful seat on the throne within the week. Believe me. The Church stands behind Richard!”

The crowd pushed forward, shouting and screaming, the hours of high excitement now turned into a rebellious surge.

“Give us Richard!” several people yelled, and soon the refrain was taken up by all around. “Give us Richard!”

“Stupid yokels,” Bolingbroke said under his breath, his face bright red with fury. “Give them a refrain to yell, anything, and they’ll shout it from the rooftops until they are silenced only by the sword!”

“Hal—” Mary said, trying to grasp his arm, but he twisted it away from her.

“You must get out of here,” Neville said, checking to make sure that Courtenay and the score of armed men with him were now making their way towards the royal box. If they moved quickly, Bolingbroke and Mary still had a chance to move—

“Seize him!” Exeter shouted, now waving his sword towards Bolingbroke.

“Richard is dead!” Bolingbroke shouted. “Dead! How can you shout for him now when only months before you shouted my name in Westminster Abbey?”

“He has misled you,” shouted the abbot and Exeter together. “Richard lives, and will shortly return to reclaim his—”

“My good people,” said a soft voice, and, miraculously, all heard it.

Mary, rising unbalanced and shaking from her chair. Both Margaret and Neville reached out hands to steady her, exchanging a shocked glance as they did so.

“My good people,” Mary said again, extending her hands outwards, palms up as if in supplication. “Will you listen to me?”

The crowd quieted, although murmuring still swelled up and down its length. Faces turned to Mary.

“I am so distressed that you should be told such lies by those who have no respect for you,” Mary said, and tears ran down her cheeks.

Now even the murmuring quieted, and the entire tourney field and its surrounds, packed with over fifteen thousand people, stared at their queen.

“Richard is dead,” she whispered, and amazingly that whisper reached every corner. “Did I not weep over his still white corpse? Did I not swaddle him in his shroud as his mother once swaddled him as a babe?”

Bolingbroke stared at her, incredulous. Mary had never seen Richard’s corpse, let alone spent hours weeping over it or swaddling it.

But the crowd was staring at her enthralled—even Exeter and his band—and so Bolingbroke held both his tongue and his incredulity in check.

“I think perhaps my Lords of Exeter and Westminster have been mistaken,” she said, gracing both men with a sweet smile. “Perhaps what they meant to say was that my beloved husband,” and now she smiled almost beatifically at a still incredulous Bolingbroke, “has arranged for Richard’s poor corpse to make its way in solemn procession back to London, to lie in state in Saint Paul’s, so that all Englanders may have a chance to say their farewells to their beloved boy-king.”

She turned back to Exeter, staring at her from under the raised visor of his helm, then to the Abbot of Westminster, who was licking his lips and, patently, thinking furiously. “Is that not so, my lords?” Mary said. She folded her hands before her.

The abbot glanced at Exeter. “Um, well,” he stumbled. “Perhaps we might have been mistaken—”

“She lies!” Exeter screamed, now standing in his stirrups and brandishing his sword towards Mary. “She mouths nothing but foul lies! Richard lives, and he—”

“Will you listen to this man befoul your beloved queen?” shouted Raby. He’d struggled to his feet when all attention had been turned towards Mary, and now he stood at Exeter’s stirrup. “How can any deny the beauty and truth of what our adored queen says?”

As quickly as it had been engaged and manipulated by Westminster and Essex, the mood of the crowd now swung again.

“Mary!” they screamed. “Mary!”

“Fool,” Raby said under the screams of the crowd and, so quickly that none of Exeter’s close companions could stop him, slid the unscabbarded blade of his sword up into the gap between Exeter’s abdominal and hip plates.

Exeter twisted, but it was too late. Raby leaned all his strength behind his thrust, and the sword tore through the stiffened leather beneath the plate armour and deep into Exeter’s lower belly.

The duke grunted, dropped his sword, then slid off his horse—and further onto Raby’s sword.

Instantly, his supporters started to back away.

Mary, who had not failed to notice Raby’s actions, clapped her hands, keeping the crowd’s attention on her. “My husband assures me Richard’s corpse will be back in London within the fortnight,” she said, “where you may all have the chance to view it and say your farewells. May sweet Jesu bless you all.”

And yet again the crowd roared in acclaim, and did not notice Northumberland’s and Raby’s men moving through the rebels, seizing the nobles who had thought to topple Bolingbroke.

Mary stood, waving and smiling, until order had been achieved. Then she said, “Beloved people, will you excuse me if I sit? I am so tired—”

She got no further, for suddenly she sank down, her entire frame shaking with pain, and Margaret wrapped her arms about Mary’s shoulders, concerned.

“Hal—” Neville said urgently.

Bolingbroke turned to address the crowd. “I must take my wife home,” he said, “for she has been greatly distressed by the treachery Exeter forced her to witness. Will you perchance excuse your king and queen?”

There were shouts of goodwill, then the crowd began to disperse.

Neville finally relaxed. “Hal, you would be dead now if it were not for Mary.”

Bolingbroke held Neville’s eyes, sharing both his shock and relief at the turn of events. Then, as one, both men looked down at Mary.

She had fainted dead away, and Margaret and one of her other women were rubbing her hands and wiping her forehead with a soft cloth.

“Sire,” Margaret said, “she must be returned to Windsor. Now!”

Bolingbroke nodded, but it was Neville who spoke.

“I will take care of it,” he said, then looked at Bolingbroke. “I think that you, sire, ought to make plans forthwith to bring Richard’s ‘poor corpse’ back from whatever pit you had it thrown in.”

Bolingbroke’s mouth twisted. “Not before I have had a chance to deal with Exeter—if he still lives—and our trusty friend the abbot,” he said. “I hope you took good note of who else had taken Exeter’s part, Tom.”

“Aye,” Neville said. “And they were many more than I know you would like to think, Hal.”

Then he bent down, and, with Margaret and the other ladies fussing about, gathered Mary into his arms.