The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass

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      Then she looked to Agnes, folding clothes into one of the chests. “Leave us for the moment, Agnes. You may return for Rosalind later.”

      Agnes nodded, bobbed a curtsey to both Margaret and Neville, and left via a door which opened into a smaller chamber where she and Rosalind would sleep.

      Neville pinched at the bridge of his nose tiredly, not knowing where to start, or even what to do.

      Margaret inclined her head to a chair standing across the hearth from her. “Tom, sit down and take off your boots. You have borne the weight of the world long enough for one day.”

      “Aye.” Neville sank down into the chair, sliding his boots off with a grateful sigh. “And yet the day still weighs heavily on me, Margaret.”

      Margaret dropped her face to her daughter, running a finger very lightly over the sleeping girl’s forehead. “As it does me, my lord.”

      “Margaret …”

      She raised her face and looked at him directly. “Why hate me so much? What have I done to deserve that?”

      “Margaret, I do not know what to make of you—how can I interpret this afternoon? Saint Michael tells me to kill you; he says you are filth, an abomination which should never have been allowed to draw breath. He says you are that which I must destroy.”

      “And yet you do not kill me, nor our daughter. You do not because you think to use me, to draw demons to your side through my presence. At least,” Margaret held his gaze steadily, “that is the excuse you make to Saint Michael.”

      He was silent.

      “What demons have I drawn to your side, Tom?”

      Still he was silent, and she could not know that his mind had flickered back to Wycliffe’s brief visit, and to the priest’s patent respect for Margaret.

      “Or have I,” she continued very quietly, “drawn to you only those who are best able to aid you in your fight against evil? Without me you would be still trapped inside the Church. Without me you would not have Lancaster and Bolingbroke as your strongest allies. Without me you would not have the means you now enjoy to fight against demonry.”

      “And what is the demonry that now surrounds me, my love?”

      Her face set hard at the sarcastic use of the endearment. “Who else but Richard? Richard is demonry personified. Doubtless Richard now holds this casket you search for so desperately.”

      Neville leaned forward. “You trap yourself, Margaret. You have always known more than you should. My dear, tonight I will hear the truth or, before Jesus I swear that I will take Rosalind from your arms and dash her from the window, and then you after her!”

      “You would not harm your daughter!” Margaret’s arms tightened about Rosalind, but to no avail, for Neville sprang from the chair and snatched the child away.

      Rosalind shrieked, but Neville took no notice. “Unless you convince me, now, that Rosalind does not bear the blood of demons in her, then yes, I will so murder her! And you after her!”

      Margaret tried to take Rosalind back from Neville, but could not force his arms away from the child. “You love your daughter! You cannot do her to death!”

      “Did you not say yourself this afternoon,” Neville whispered with such malevolence that all the blood drained from Margaret’s face, and she ceased, for the moment, her efforts to rescue her daughter, “that I could not think you a demon, for what would that make Rosalind? Demon you are, Margaret, I know that now, and demon-spawn I would rather kill than allow myself to love!”

      “No! Stop!” Desperate, Margaret tried another argument. “Bolingbroke would not allow you—”

      “Hal will believe whatever I tell him!”

      Rosalind was now screaming and twisting in Neville’s arms and Margaret, standing frantic before them, realised that Neville meant—and believed—every word he said. Oh, why had she spoken so rashly this afternoon?

      And Hal. Hal would murder Thomas if he laid a hand to either Rosalind or herself, but Thomas did not know that, and would never believe it until the moment he saw Hal’s sword coming for its revenge.

      “My lord? My lady?” Agnes had come from the inner chamber at the sound of Rosalind’s screams, and now stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands helplessly.

      “Get out!” Neville snarled at her, and Agnes fled.

      “Please …” Margaret tried yet again to take Rosalind from Neville’s arms, but he had the girl tighter than ever. “Please, Thomas, you fought so hard for Rosalind’s life the night she was born—”

      “And how would you know that, witch, for I thought you unconscious?”

      “Thomas—”

      “I want the truth, for I am tired of living wondering if your lies will kill me.”

      “And will you recognise the truth if I say it?” Margaret said, frightened and desperate for Rosalind’s life well before her own.

      “Aye,” Neville said, staring steadily at Margaret. “I will.”

      Margaret fought to calm herself. “Well, then, I will speak of truth to you, but only if you give Rosalind into Agnes’s care. I will not speak to you until she is safe.”

      Neville hesitated, then nodded. “Agnes!” he called, and the woman walked hesitantly through the doorway.

      Margaret tried to smile reassuringly at her, although she knew that her face must still be frozen in a rictus of fear, then reached for the child.

      Neville let Rosalind go, although he kept his eyes intent on Margaret as she took the girl, soothed her for a moment, then handed her to Agnes.

      “Our thoughtless cross words have disturbed her, as they have you,” Margaret said to her maid, “and for that I apologise to you both. Please, take her, and keep her safe.”

       And, please Jesus, keep her safe from her father should he come storming into that room!

      Agnes, hesitant and still afraid, took Rosalind, now considerably quieter after Margaret’s soothing, and walked as quickly as she dared into her own chamber.

      The door closed with a bang behind her, and Margaret allowed herself some measure of hope.

      She would tell Tom as much truth as she dared, but would that be enough? Would he believe it?

      If he did not, and carried through his threat, then all would be lost.

      If he did believe her, then she and hers would be almost certain of victory.

      But why did victory always come at such cost? What was so “victorious” about the suffering that must necessarily be expended along the way?

      Then she gasped in pain, for Neville had taken her wrist in a tight grip. He pulled her closer to him, СКАЧАТЬ