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Arthur’s dream of Camelot.”
    Bolingbroke shot Neville an unreadable look, then took a deep breath. “I must to France, but not merely for the ‘glory’. France waits for me, and for you.”
    “Waits for me ?”
    “Aye. It will be in France that the angels, no doubt using their mouthpiece Joan of Arc, will ask you for your decision, Tom. My road, as yours, will lead to France.”
    Neville thought a moment, then nodded. Of course. Doubtless, Joan would present the choice on behalf of the angels. “Arthur’s dreams ended in France,” he said.
    Bolingbroke stared at Neville. “Then I pray to our sweet Lord Jesus that France shall not prove the end of mine.”

III
    Saturday 4th May 1381
    —i—
    I t was still dark, but Mary could hear the world stir outside her chamber windows. There was a faint, distant clattering interspersed with the low growl of men’s voices: grooms readying the horses for the day’s entertainment. There was another clatter, closer, and this noise was interspersed with more feminine voices: women in the kitchen courtyard, darting to and fro between kitchen and great hall, carting pails and dishes, readying the morning’s breakfast. And faintly, so very faintly, came the morning song of the birds: the pigeons and doves of the stables, and the wilder, lovelier melodies of the meadow birds.
    Mary kept her eyes closed, her hands clenching at her sides under the light coverlets, and bent her entire will to concentrate on the sound of the birds. But it was no use. The world of stables and of kitchens kept intruding, destroying the peace of the birdsong, and soon Mary knew the world of the court and of her responsibilities as queen would also intrude in the guise of the careful voices and hands of her waiting women.
    Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Just a slit, a glance under her lashes, for Mary did not want anyone who might be watching to know she was awake. Still dark, it appeared that there was, as yet, no one up and moving about the chamber, but now Mary could hear the altered breathing of the two women who slept on pallets at the foot of her bed. Mary realised they were awake, steeling themselves to rise in the cold air of the chamber. Once they had gathered their bravery, and risen to pull on some clothes, they would stoke the fire in the hearth, air Mary’s clothes before it, and fetch warm water and a dish of soft white bread soaked in warm, watered wine from the kitchens. When all this was done, they would turn their attention to Mary, and ask her gently if she felt well enough to rise against the day; if she felt well enough to take some bread and wine.
    Did she?
    Mary closed her eyes again and concentrated on her body’s aches and pains. The great hard lump in her lower belly sat as rocklike and as unforgiving as it did every day. If she tried to move slightly in her bed, then Mary knew her flesh would drag and catch about the unmoving mass as if it were seaweed caught at a shoreline by a great rock. But at least today the lump did not send lancing fingers of pain throughout her flesh, and for that Mary was grateful.
    On the days that the lump woke, and raged, she could hardly bear to live.
    But if the lump lay quiescent, then the great bones of her legs, and those of her lower back, ached abominably. This was a new discomfort, and Mary wondered at it. She had not ventured far beyond her chamber in the past weeks: on most evenings to the great hall for evening supper, and sometimes to the courtyard if it were sunny and warm enough, and even then Thomas Neville generally carried her, so Mary knew there was no reason her bones should be complaining. Had they grown tired of their enforced resting?
    Or was this some new manifestation of her illness? Tears formed behind Mary’s closed eyelids, and she fought to keepher breathing steady and slow, lest she alert her waiting women to her distress.
    No, sweet Jesu, let not this affliction have struck my bones as well.
    Had she not prayed