The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass

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       I

      The Feast of the Beheading of St John the Baptist

      In the first year of the reign of Richard II

      (Monday 29th August 1379)

      Margaret stood in the most northern of the newly harvested fields of Halstow Hall, a warm wind gently lifting her skirts and hair and blowing a halo of fine wheat dust about her head. The sun blazed down, and while she knew that she should return inside as soon as possible if she were to avoid burning her cheeks and nose, for the moment she remained where she was, quiet and reflective, her eyes drifting across the landscape.

      She turned a little, catching sight of the walls of Halstow Hall rising in the distance. There lay Rosalind, asleep in her crib, watched over by her nurse, Agnes. Margaret’s eyes moved to the high walls of the courtyard. In its spaces Thomas would be at his afternoon sword play with his newly acquired squire, Robert Courtenay, a likeable fair-faced young man of commendable quietness and courtesy.

      Margaret’s expression hardened as she thought of the banter the two men shared during their weapon practice. Courtenay received nothing but respect and friendship from Thomas—would that she received the same respect and friendship!

      “How can I hope for love?” she whispered, still staring at the courtyard walls, “when he begrudges me even his friendship?”

      Margaret might be Thomas’ wife, but, as he had told her on their wedding night, she was not his lover.

      Margaret had never imagined that it could hurt this much, but then she’d never realised how desperately she would need his love; to be the one thought constantly before all others in his mind.

      To be sure, this was what they all strove for—to force Thomas to put thought of her before all else—but Margaret knew her need was more than that. She wanted a home and a family, and above all, she wanted a husband who respected her and loved her.

      She wanted Thomas to love her, and yet he would not.

      She turned her head away from Halstow Hall, and regarded the land and the far distant wheeling gulls over the Thames estuary. These had been pleasant months spent at Halstow Hall despite Thomas’ coolness, and despite his impatience to return to London and resume his search for Wynkyn de Worde’s ever-cursed casket.

      There had been mornings spent wading in clear streams, and noon-days spent riding wildly СКАЧАТЬ