The consequence? I kept the property with Fitzjohn as my tenant for life, and the Abbot called down curses on my soul. Unfortunate, all in all, given the choice of the new Speaker, cousin to the Abbot.

“So where does that put us?” I asked, surveying my loosely linked fingers. Still, I did not see the true danger. Could Gaunt not use his influence against an upstart leader of the Commons?

“Under threat,” Gaunt ground out through clenched teeth.

I frowned. “What possible mischief can he and the Abbot make, even if they combine forces?”

“Think about it.” Gaunt swept across the room and gripped the arms of Edward’s chair in which I sat, trapping me. His eyes were a bare handsbreadth from mine. I refused to allow myself to blink as I saw myself reflected there. “Who is Peter de la Mare’s noble employer?”

“The Earl of March…”

“So, do I have to spell it out?”

Gaunt reared back and stalked to the window to look out, although I swear he did not see the scudding clouds. No, he did not have to spell it out. Finally I saw the connection. Peter de la Mare was also steward to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the husband of Edward’s granddaughter Philippa. A man who was not lacking in influence as Marshal of England, he would be more than happy to see his infant son become the next ruler of England.

“And March is involved…?”

“I’m sure he is!”

“Because of the succession…”

“Exactly! The whole lot of them are shackled together with my own princely brother in a plot against me.”

My fingers tightened together, white-knuckled. Had I not always wondered how loyal Gaunt would be to the true succession to the English crown?

Gaunt turned his head to stare fiercely at me over his shoulder. “It’s a conspiracy against me and those who stand as my friends. A neat little plot concocted by the Abbot of St. Albans and the Prince. Did you know they had long conversations together when the Prince stopped on his way from Berkhamsted to Canterbury earlier this year?”

No, I had not known.

“The Prince was not too ill to spend time putting weasel words into the ear of the Abbot. So there it is. March, the de la Mare cousins, and the Prince, all tied into a stratagem to keep me and my heirs from the throne.”

Never had Gaunt spelled out his ambitions so clearly. Not to me. Not, I surmised, to anyone. For it was dangerous talk. Treasonous, in fact, for it all came back to the problem of the future succession. If the Prince’s son Richard died without issue, the son of March and Philippa would rule England through order of descent, for Philippa had carried a son, a lad of three years old now. Not Gaunt. Not Gaunt’s boy, Henry Bolingbroke. Would Gaunt be vicious enough, ambitious enough, to destroy the claim of his nephew Richard, or that of the infant son of March? Watching his fist clench hard against the window ledge, I thought he might. But thought was not proof.…

Whatever the truth of it, rumor said that the Prince lived in fear that his son might never rule if Gaunt had his way. And the Prince from his sickbed was using the allies he had: the de la Mare cousins and now March, who had apparently discovered he had much to gain in opposing Gaunt.

I forced my mind to untie the knots. I still couldn’t quite see where this was leading. Unless the new de la Mare Speaker of the Commons intended to use the one weapon he had to get what he and his coconspirators wanted. My mind began to clear. The one weapon that would give him much power…

“Do you think that the Commons will grant finance for the war…?” I queried.

“At a price. And I wager de la Mare has it all planned to a miracle of exactness. He knows just what he will ask for, by God!”

“What?”

“I scent danger on the wind. They’re planning an attack. On me, on my associates in government. Latimer and Neville. Lyons. The whole ministerial crew, because I helped them into office. De la Mare and March will plot and intrigue to rid Edward of any man who has a connection with me. Gaunt will be isolated; that’s the plan. Brother warring against brother.” Gaunt’s smile was feral, humorless, as his eyes blazed. “And they will declare war on you too, Mistress Perrers, unless I’m way off in my reading of de la Mare’s crafty mind. Any chance that I might step into my brother’s shoes will be buried beneath the crucified reputations of royal ministers and paramour alike.” He folded his arms, leaning back against the stonework. “I did not think March had such ambitions. I was wrong. Being sire to the heir to the throne obviously appeals to him.”

Sire to the heir? But only if Richard were dead…Or perhaps Richard did not need to die.…The complications wound around my brain like a web spun by a particularly energetic spider. March—and even Gaunt—might challenge the boy’s legitimacy because of Joan’s scandalous matrimonial history. They would not be the first to do so, but…I could not think of that yet. There was a far more urgent danger.

“Can you hinder Speaker de la Mare?” I asked.

“What can I do? The Commons are elected and hold the whip hand over finance,” Gaunt responded, as if I were too much a woman to see it. “I’d look a fool if I tried and failed.” When he rubbed his hands over his face, I realized how weary he was. “You have to tell the King.”

My response was immediate and blunt. “No.”

“He needs to know.”

“What would be the point? If you can do nothing, what do you expect from an old man who no longer thinks in terms of plans and negotiations and political battles, who cannot enforce the authority of royal power? You’ve seen him when he is as drained as a pierced wine flask. What could he do? He’d probably invite de la Mare to share a cup of ale and discuss the hunting in the forest hereabouts.”

“He is the King. He must face them and…”

“He can’t. You know he can’t.” I was adamant. I watched as the truth settled on Gaunt’s handsome features, so like his father’s. “It will only bring the King more distress.”

Gaunt flung his ill-used gloves to the floor. For a moment he studied them as if they would give him an answer to the crisis; then he nodded curtly. “You’re right, of course.”

“What will you do?” I asked as he recovered his gloves and walked toward the door, his thoughts obviously far away. My question made him stop, slapping his gloves against his thigh, searching for a way forward.

“I’ll do what I can to draw the poison from the wound. The only good news is that the Prince is too weak to attend the sitting in person. It might give me a freer hand with Speaker de la Mare. If we come out of this without a bloody nose, it will be a miracle. Watch your back, Mistress Perrers.”

“I will. And I will watch Edward’s too.”

“I know.” For a moment the harshness in his voice was dispelled. “I detest having to admit it, but you have always had a care for him.” Then the edge returned. “Let’s hope I can persuade the Prince to have mercy on his father and leave him to enjoy his final days in peace.”

He made to open the door, clapping his hat on his head, drawing on his gloves, and I wondered. No one else would ask him, but I would.

“My lord…”

He came to a halt, irritably, his hand on the door.

“Do you want the crown for yourself?”

“You would ask that of me?”

“Why not? There is no one to overhear. And who would believe anything I might say against you?”

“True.” His lips acquired a sardonic tightness. “Then the answer is no. Have I not sworn to protect the boy? Richard is my brother’s son. I have an affection for him. So, no, I do not seek the crown for myself.”

Gaunt did not look at me. I did not believe him. I did not trust him.

But who else was there for me to look to? There would be no other voice raised in my defense.

Gaunt was gone, leaving me to search out the pertinent threads from his warning. So the Prince was behind the Commons attack, intent on keeping his brother from the throne. Every friend and ally of Gaunt would be dealt with. And I saw my own danger, for I had failed to foster any connection between myself and the Prince. But perhaps I was a fool to castigate myself over an impossible reconciliation. Could I have circumvented Joan’s loathing? I recalled her vicious fury over the herbs, her destruction of the pretty little coffer. No, the Prince would see me as much a whore as his wife did.

Could I do anything now to draw the poison, as Gaunt had so aptly put it? I could think of nothing. Edward was not strong enough to face Parliament and demand their obedience as once he might. He needed the money. And what would the price be for de la Mare’s cooperation to keep the imminent threat of France at bay? Fear was suddenly perched on my shoulder, chattering in my ear like Joan’s damned long-dead monkey.

Watch your back, Mistress Perrers!

I considered writing to Windsor, but abandoned that exercise before it was even begun. What would I say? I could expect no help from that quarter before the ax fell. If it fell. All was so uncertain. I shivered. I would simply have to hope that its sharp edge fell elsewhere.

In those days following Gaunt’s warning, while I sat tight in Westminster and rarely left Edward’s side, the name of Peter de la Mare came to haunt my dreams and bewitch them into nightmares. I gleaned every piece of information that I could. Neither Edward nor the Prince attended any further sessions, so all fell into the lap of Gaunt, who tried to chain de la Mare’s powers by insisting that a mere dozen of the Commons members should present themselves to confer privately with Gaunt in the White Chamber. De la Mare balked at the tone of the summons. How clear was the writing on the wall when he brought with him a force of well over a hundred of the elected members into a full session of Parliament? There they stood at his back, as their Speaker put forward his intent to the lords and bishops in the Painted Chamber.