It's a matter of politics; it is a purely politic sentiment that moves them both to this. And if Thomas' affections do not lean in quite the direction the wind is blowing at court, then he will obey nevertheless. He doesn't know if the sort of feeling that sweeps over him when he sees his king is sexual attraction or semi-religious awe, and not knowing which he cannot object to either.

It's a private oath for the two of them only, and if God sees it, let Him forgive it. Mowbray swears it with his English lips and English tongue and all the strength in his body. He sinks to his knees on the well-worn flagstones of the closet room and swears it as eloquently as he can.

There are many rings on Richard's royal fingers and he kisses each one anxiously, unsure if he is doing well, uncertain even if this is gratifying to his king or simply tedious. He can hardly say that he is bored -- his aching muscles keep him from growing too complacent here and his mind is on fire with expectation, though expectation of what he does not know. Perhaps the test is one of endurance, how long he can endure proximity with King Richard without being burned up entirely and lost.

Richard turns over his hand in a smooth, gracious gesture. Mowbray gasps a little and turns his face against his palm. The touch of his cool thumbnail to Mowbray's lips makes him shudder.

He's no longer kneeling now but fallen back on his heels and Richard's hand is no longer simply extended to receive his reverence but pressed to his nose and lips. He has to sink down himself to do it, Mowbray not being an especially large man and Richard being a slim gilt mass of beautiful sleeves and long limbs. His reverend grip is strong and he does not present himself to be admired; he exerts his strength and presses, hard, his other hand bracing the back of his head.

He cannot breathe. Richard's broad white beautiful hand is fitted to press the life from him and he doesn't dare object. In a moment he'll feel differently -- as the air begins to run out in desperate choking earnest and not just the pleasurable urgency of a held breath -- but in this sublime instant he does not speak a word nor raise a hand in struggle. He cannot even blink. Mowbray is transfixed the way those who see saints and angels are transfixed, needing to look away but thirstily continuing to gaze on him to whom, it seems in this awful moment, he owes everything. He cannot do anything but regret having acted against him in the past -- maybe this is one of the disadvantages of his disposition, but the king is so gracious, and he doesn't exactly see Henry Bolingbroke anywhere around here.

"The day may come when I require much of you, Thomas."

It's a silly thing to ask of a conspirator, he thinks tipsily, as the first breaths he sucks in make his lips sting or to a soldier who would already kill and die for him. The wine and the smoky air of the room both do their part for making his head spin and his voice hoarse. His lungs burn.

"Let me serve you. I'll go wherever you send me, only say where and I'll do what you want done."

Richard smiles grimly on him, and just now, he thinks, he is ready to do all manner of things for this man.