Free The Crippled Angel by Sara Douglass Page A

stirrup. “How can any deny the beauty and truth of what our adored queen says?”
    As quickly as it had been engaged and manipulated byWestminster 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.

V
    Saturday 4th May 1381
    —iii—
    “ W ell?” said Bolingbroke, turning to face his chief advisers.
    They stood in the cool evening light in Bolingbroke’s private chamber: the king had allowed no servants in to light either the fire or the lamps.
    “Exeter will be dead by dawn,” Raby said. He was slumped wearily in a chair, still in the sweat-stained garments he’d worn under his armour. His face was drawn, sallow now rather than swarthy, and a dark bruise ran up one cheek. “His wound is bad.”
    Bolingbroke grunted. “And for that you have my thanks indeed. Westminster?”
    “Huddled praying in the chapel,” Neville said. “Surrounded by fifteen men-at-arms and enclosed by locked doors.”
    “You cannot have him killed,” the Earl of Northumberland said. “He is a churchman.”
    Bolingbroke’s face left them in no doubt what he thought of all “churchmen”. He turned abruptly, and strode away a few