The Crippled Angel by Sara Douglass

he will turn up sooner or later, and no doubt with a renewed plan to see you incarcerated, Tom. But for the moment, I do not think the Dominican whispers are the worst—”
    “But these whispers that Richard is still alive?” Raby said.
    “I will return to those in a moment,” Bolingbroke said. “There is one worse potential traitor in England that I think we all need to discuss. Here. Now.”
    Northumberland slowly rose to his feet. His face was grave, his eyes hard. “You refer to my son, sire. Why do you not say it aloud?”
    Bolingbroke faced the earl, his own eyes as flinty as Northumberland’s. “He has refused to swear allegiance to me. He sits in the north with an army of twenty thousand behind him—and the ability to raise another twenty thousand—that he claims to need against the Scots. He looks south, and hungers. Combine all those facts, my lord, and I see a very real threat.”
    “He has done nothing wrong!” Northumberland said.
    “Save refuse to swear me allegiance and collect swords about his person in numbers the Scots do not warrant!” Bolingbroke shouted.
    “Sire,” Raby said softly, rising to place a cautionary hand on Bolingbroke’s arm.
    Bolingbroke shot Raby a furious look, then turned his gaze back to Northumberland. “Will you swear me Hotspur’s allegiance, my lord? Will you swear to me that your son will remain a good and faithful subject?”
    “Hal!” Raby barked. “That is enough. Northumberland saw you to your throne. Do not ask this of him now when—”
    “I am not a stable boy for you to so rebuke me,” Bolingbroke said, swinging back to Raby. “Remember who it is you address.”
    Then he spoke to Northumberland again. “Your aid has proved invaluable to me, Northumberland,” he said, “but do you have any idea how quickly my love and support of your house will fade if your son leads an army south?”
    “Why did I support you against Richard if I thought to then throw my son against you?”
    “Perhaps,” Bolingbroke said, his voice very low, his eyes furious, “you supported me against Richard so that eventually your son might have an easier path to the throne.”
    “Sire—” Northumberland growled, taking a step forwards.
    “This has gone far enough,” Neville said, and nodded to John Scarle, the Chancellor, who laid a hand on Northumberland’s arm, and whispered something in his ear.
    “Northumberland cannot swear Hotspur’s allegiance,” Neville said to Bolingbroke. “He cannot ! Hotspur is a man grown, and must do it himself. Do not visit the son’s sin of omission on the father who has proved such a valuable ally to you.”
    Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then nodded, the muscles about his face and neck visibly relaxing. He looked to Northumberland, still standing, still staring furiously.
    “My lord, forgive me. This afternoon’s treachery has proved a great trial, and has made me snap at those I should trust before all others.”
    Northumberland waited a few heartbeats, then inclined his head, accepting the apology. Scarle tugged a little at his arm, and Northumberland sighed, and sat down.
    Gradually, the other men resumed their seats, and Bolingbroke took a sumptuously carved chair close by the unlit grate.
    “I must bring Richard’s body back to London,” he said. “Mary was right. The people must view it.”
    “Is it,” Raby said carefully, “in a state fit to be viewed?”
    Bolingbroke raised his eyebrows, assuming an innocent expression. “In a state fit to be viewed, Raby? Whatever do you mean? Richard died of a fever, not a vicious clubbing or a tearing to bits by dogs. Of course it is fit to be viewed. As fit as any six-month-dead corpse can be, of course.”
    He sighed. “No doubt the royal purse shall have to bear the cost of the candles placed about the coffer, and the mourning robes for the official wailers and weepers. Richard has ever been an expensive burden to England.”

VI
    Saturday 4th May 1381
    —iv—
    S he