to the goldsmith crafting Mary’s wedding finery, and to supervise its return here to the Savoy. He will be gone an hour or more yet. Margaret, events move more swiftly than any of us had thought.”
“This Jeannette … this Joan of Arc.”
“We never planned for her existence, nor for her intrusions. Sweet Jesu help us if she manages to rally the French … ah! but I cannot speak of her now. This is one of the only times we will have together, Meg, and I must use it well.”
He let her go, and started to pace the narrow confines of the storeroom. “I had thought we would have two or three years yet, but now I think we shall have only a few months. A year at most.”
He stopped, and stared at Margaret. “He must love you before a year is out.”
“How? How? He thinks me filth! Lord Jesu, Tom will do whatever his beloved archangel tells him to do!”
Bolingbroke slowly shook his head. “Nay, I do not think so. Not completely. He has already denied the archangel’s wishes once when it came to your death—you know Wat told us that, when he brought the physician to your side in Lincoln, they interrupted the archangel’s fury over Tom not immediately sliding the sword into your body.”
Margaret almost smiled remembering Wat Tyler’s too brief visit to Halstow Hall. “Not immediately,” she said, “but one day, when it comes to the choice, then Thomas will slide it in.”
“Not if we can help it,” Bolingbroke said. “Sweet Meg, he is capable of love, great love, but he needs to be pushed.”
She made a dismissive sound. “I cannot believe that. He is too cold … too arrogant. Too sure of himself and his damned, cursed God.”
“Meg, I have known Tom for many, many years. I knew him as a boy—even before his parents died. Once he was softer and kinder, with a truly gentle soul, but then God’s hand descended … and Tom’s life became a living hell. First with the death of his mother and father, then with the horrific tragedy of Alice. That happy, gentle boy is still there, somewhere, and it is you, Meg, who will draw him out. He must trust enough to love again.”
“And how am I to accomplish the impossible?”
Bolingbroke drew in a very deep breath, took both Margaret’s hands in his, and spoke low and soft for many minutes.
When he’d finished, Margaret stared at him, her eyes wide. “I cannot!”
“We must move quickly,” Bolingbroke said. “Margaret, I am sorry that it must be with such abominable trickery—”
“Trickery? Trickery of whom, Hal? Tom … or me?”
“Margaret—”
“And how can you ask such a thing of me? Have I not already suffered enough?”
“Meg—”
She jerked her hands out of his. “You’ll tread anyone to the ground to achieve your ambition, won’t you? Me … Tom … and now,” her voice rose, became shrill, “this Mary Bohun! Why marry her when you know your heart is pledged to another?”
Bolingbroke tensed, his eyes narrowing.
“Our entire cause is tied to you marrying another,” she said. “Will you tread Mary Bohun into the ground when she has outlived her usefulness?”
“You know why I need to wed Mary,” Bolingbroke said. “She is the sole heir to the Hereford family’s vast estates and her lands shall strengthen my position. I need that strength now, Margaret. The inheritance she brings will bolster my position against Richard—”
“And what if Mary gives you an heir? Do you truly want to dilute your blood with that of—”
Bolingbroke sighed. “She won’t.”
Margaret arched an eyebrow. “You will leave her a virgin? But won’t that compromise your claim to her lands?”
“I will make a true wife of Mary—I can do that for her, at least.” Bolingbroke paused. “Margaret, when you come to Mary, when you attend her, look deep into her eyes, and see the shadows there. You will know what I mean.”
“She is ill?”
Bolingbroke nodded.
“How fortunate for you,” Margaret said.
“It is not of my doing!” Bolingbroke said.
“Be sure to tell her of your ambitions and needs on your wedding night, Hal. Be sure to tell her that you expect her affliction to be of the most deadly nature. And timely, no less.”
“You have no right to speak to me thus!”
“I have every right!” Margaret said, close to tears. This had already been an appalling day, and Hal had made it so much worse than he needed to have done.
He reached out a hand, his fingers grazing her cheek. “Margaret, be strong for me. I do not need your womanly weeping, or your reminders of what is right and what is not. We’ve come too far for that.”
His hand lifted, lingering a moment at her hairline, then it dropped. He hesitated, as if he would speak more, but then he brushed abruptly past her and left the room.
Margaret put a trembling hand to her mouth, fought back her tears and leaned against the door, giving Bolingbroke the time he needed to get back to his apartments.
Finally she, too, left.
Lady Mary Bohun was also staying in the Savoy, chaperoned by her mother, Cecilia, and later that evening, in the hour before a quiet supper was held in the hall, Bolingbroke introduced his betrothed to her new attending lady.
Margaret, composed and courteous, curtsied gracefully before the Lady Mary, who stared at her a little uncertainly, then patted the stool beside her chair, indicating Margaret should sit.
Margaret fought the urge to glance at Hal, and did as Mary requested.
Mary gave an uncertain smile—this Margaret was so beautiful … what was she to Hal?—then leaned forward and spoke quietly of some of the lighter matters at court.
Margaret responded easily enough, but kept her eyes downcast, as she should when in the presence of such a noble lady.
Bolingbroke watched carefully for a minute, then turned and grinned boyishly at Neville, who had returned from the goldsmith’s in the past hour.
“And now that we have disposed of the ladies,” Bolingbroke said, “perhaps you and I can have a quiet word before we sup.”
Bolingbroke had a suite of eight or nine chambers set aside for his personal use in the Savoy, and the chamber he now led Neville into was part of his office accommodation. Its furniture—two tables, two wooden chairs, three stools, several large chests and innumerable smaller ones, and a great cabinet standing against a far wall—was almost smothered in vellum rolls containing legal records, and several large volumes opened to reveal columns of figures written in the new Arabic numerals, and half-folded papers drawn with everything from maps to diagrams of the inner workings of clocks.
From the ceiling joists hung a variety of strange mechanical contraptions. Neville would later learn that two of them were the fused skeletons and internal organs of clocks, one was the result of the strange and unsuccessful mating of a clock and a crossbow, one was something Bolingbroke had been told could predict thunderstorms by measuring the degree of anger within the air, one was a strange hybrid abacus, and one sparkling collection of brass and copper cogs and wheels and shafts did nothing but bob and tinkle pleasantly whenever there was movement within the air.
Bolingbroke looked apologetic as he gestured about the room. “I have several clerks who try to keep my affairs in order … but as you can see, Tom, I need you badly.”
Neville ducked as he almost hit his head on the hybrid abacus. “Lord Saviour,