Bolingbroke up to the coffin, to this meeting of kings.
Bolingbroke stepped up to the bier, put his hands firmly on the edge of the coffin, and peered inside.
The only indication of what he saw within was a very faint tightening of the muscles along his jaw line.
Whittington could feel the corpse roiling about within, feel the hate and injustice and vengeance reaching up to seizeBolingbroke by the throat. He wanted to rush to Bolingbroke’s side and tear him away, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as twitch a muscle.
This was between Bolingbroke and Richard alone.
Something spattered on the stones beneath the bier, and Whittington’s eyes looked down, as did everyone else’s in the cathedral save Bolingbroke’s, who kept his eyes firmly on whatever was happening within the coffin.
Fat drops of thick, black blood oozed from the joints of the coffin, soaked into the material covering the bier, then dripped onto the flagstones where it pooled in a mess of foulness.
The entire cathedral took a great breath of mixed fear and awe.
The corpse bled in the presence of its murderer.
Bolingbroke’s face twisted, and he lifted his hands and stepped away from the coffin.
He looked to the priests standing frozen to one side. “Take this coffin and its contents and burn it,” he said. “Richard was ever adept at fouling up the realm.”
He started to say something else, to address the crowds present, but as he opened his mouth, a low, vicious growl interrupted him.
Everyone’s eyes, now including Bolingbroke’s, swept to the open doors of the cathedral, from where the sound emanated.
There stood a hound of such vast size that most instantly assumed it was of a supernatural origin.
Richard’s soul, perhaps, come to exact its vengeance.
The hound stalked forward, its legs stiff with fury, its hair raised along its shoulders and spine. It was entirely black, its body covered with weeping sores. Its head it kept low, its yellow, unblinking eyes fixed on Bolingbroke, fetid strings of foam dripping to the floor from its snarling snout.
Bolingbroke moved his cloak slightly away from the sword he wore at his hip, but made no other movement.
The hound’s snarling increased both in volume and in viciousness. As it progressed up the centre of the nave, thevery path Bolingbroke had just walked, the hound lowered its body until its belly almost scraped the flagstones, creeping now, rather than stalking.
Its eyes shifted slightly from Bolingbroke to the coffin behind him.
Bolingbroke stepped to one side.
All down the nave, as the hound crept past, people shrank back, making both the sign of the cross and the sign against evil. Many clutched charms, some whispered hasty prayers, all wished they had chosen some other time to view Richard’s corpse.
The hound was now close to Bolingbroke.
The king took another step away. The hound ignored his movement. Its attention was all on the coffin, and on the spreading pool of black, clotting blood beneath it.
Slowly, slowly it crept closer, growling all the while, until its head was under the bier.
Then, suddenly, it lowered itself completely to the floor, gave a small yelp, and lapped at the blood.
As it did so, the sores that covered its body swelled and then burst, scattering great gouts of pus over the floor.
Someone in the crowd screamed: “ It is the black Dog of Pestilence!” There was a shocked silence, then someone else screamed, formlessly, terrified, and suddenly there was panic as people stampeded for the doors.
The Dog continued to lick at the pool of blood, and its sores continued to swell and burst.
Whittington forced himself forward, and grasped Bolingbroke’s arm.
“Sire. We must away. Get away from the Dog! ”
“It is already too late,” Bolingbroke said softly, and Whittington was not surprised to see tears rolling down his cheeks. “Too late.”
He turned and looked Whittington directly in the face. “The pestilence has returned. Sweet
Bolingbroke stepped up to the bier, put his hands firmly on the edge of the coffin, and peered inside.
The only indication of what he saw within was a very faint tightening of the muscles along his jaw line.
Whittington could feel the corpse roiling about within, feel the hate and injustice and vengeance reaching up to seizeBolingbroke by the throat. He wanted to rush to Bolingbroke’s side and tear him away, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as twitch a muscle.
This was between Bolingbroke and Richard alone.
Something spattered on the stones beneath the bier, and Whittington’s eyes looked down, as did everyone else’s in the cathedral save Bolingbroke’s, who kept his eyes firmly on whatever was happening within the coffin.
Fat drops of thick, black blood oozed from the joints of the coffin, soaked into the material covering the bier, then dripped onto the flagstones where it pooled in a mess of foulness.
The entire cathedral took a great breath of mixed fear and awe.
The corpse bled in the presence of its murderer.
Bolingbroke’s face twisted, and he lifted his hands and stepped away from the coffin.
He looked to the priests standing frozen to one side. “Take this coffin and its contents and burn it,” he said. “Richard was ever adept at fouling up the realm.”
He started to say something else, to address the crowds present, but as he opened his mouth, a low, vicious growl interrupted him.
Everyone’s eyes, now including Bolingbroke’s, swept to the open doors of the cathedral, from where the sound emanated.
There stood a hound of such vast size that most instantly assumed it was of a supernatural origin.
Richard’s soul, perhaps, come to exact its vengeance.
The hound stalked forward, its legs stiff with fury, its hair raised along its shoulders and spine. It was entirely black, its body covered with weeping sores. Its head it kept low, its yellow, unblinking eyes fixed on Bolingbroke, fetid strings of foam dripping to the floor from its snarling snout.
Bolingbroke moved his cloak slightly away from the sword he wore at his hip, but made no other movement.
The hound’s snarling increased both in volume and in viciousness. As it progressed up the centre of the nave, thevery path Bolingbroke had just walked, the hound lowered its body until its belly almost scraped the flagstones, creeping now, rather than stalking.
Its eyes shifted slightly from Bolingbroke to the coffin behind him.
Bolingbroke stepped to one side.
All down the nave, as the hound crept past, people shrank back, making both the sign of the cross and the sign against evil. Many clutched charms, some whispered hasty prayers, all wished they had chosen some other time to view Richard’s corpse.
The hound was now close to Bolingbroke.
The king took another step away. The hound ignored his movement. Its attention was all on the coffin, and on the spreading pool of black, clotting blood beneath it.
Slowly, slowly it crept closer, growling all the while, until its head was under the bier.
Then, suddenly, it lowered itself completely to the floor, gave a small yelp, and lapped at the blood.
As it did so, the sores that covered its body swelled and then burst, scattering great gouts of pus over the floor.
Someone in the crowd screamed: “ It is the black Dog of Pestilence!” There was a shocked silence, then someone else screamed, formlessly, terrified, and suddenly there was panic as people stampeded for the doors.
The Dog continued to lick at the pool of blood, and its sores continued to swell and burst.
Whittington forced himself forward, and grasped Bolingbroke’s arm.
“Sire. We must away. Get away from the Dog! ”
“It is already too late,” Bolingbroke said softly, and Whittington was not surprised to see tears rolling down his cheeks. “Too late.”
He turned and looked Whittington directly in the face. “The pestilence has returned. Sweet
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