The Crippled Angel (19 page)

Thursday 6th June 1381

P
hilip draped a comradely arm around Charles’ shoulders, and flashed his charming grin into the man’s face. “Charles, may I speak plainly, king to king?”

About them servants were taking down hangings and tapestries and folding them into great wooden chests, then piling pewter plate on top before carefully lowering and locking the lids. Others were rolling the heavy rugs from the floor, and pushing them to one side for labourers to lug outside to the awaiting carts.

Philip and Charles had to move smartly to one side to avoid the particularly energetic rug rolling of two servants, and Philip’s arm tightened a little around Charles’ shoulders as he led him towards a window seat that, being built into the wall, couldn’t be packed and moved.

“About what?” said Charles, his eyes sliding in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner as he scanned the chamber for possible assassins.

“About your situation, my friend. It seems to me to be most hideous.”

Charles sat down on the seat with a thump, and tried to move away from Philip’s arm. But the King of Navarre was apparently most desirous of Charles’ close physical
companionship, for as Charles shuffled a few inches down the seat, so did Philip shuffle against him, tightening his arm as he did so.

“In what manner?” Charles said, hating the slight shrillness in his voice. His eyes darted about once more, this time looking to see if perhaps his mother was going to emerge from one of the chests to accuse him of unseemly weakness.

“Well…” Philip finally lifted his arm from Charles’ shoulders, and leaned back in the seat, puffing his cheeks out on a breath as if his thoughts disturbed him greatly. “Firstly, my friend, there are the English.”

Charles wriggled uncomfortably, and began studying a ragged nail on his left hand.

“I cannot but think that the rumours are correct—dear Hal is surely thinking of invading this summer.”

Philip paused, damping down the amusement in his eyes at Charles’ obvious discomfiture, and leaned forward, assuming an earnest expression. “So, how
are
your war preparations coming along?”

The ragged nail suddenly became of such extreme interest, and Charles bent his head over it so acutely, he managed to hide his face from Philip.

He chewed the nail enthusiastically, and mumbled something around his mouthful.

Philip grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfiture, not so much out of mean-spiritedness, but because it would play directly into his own hands.

“You
do
have your war preparations well in hand…do you not?”

Again Charles mumbled something unintelligible. He shifted slightly on the seat so that his shoulder and back were half-facing Philip.

“Hmmm,” Philip said thoughtfully. He screwed his eyes up against the light streaming in the windows and pretended an interest in the servants still scurrying about the almost completely de-furnished chamber. “May I make a suggestion?”

Charles made no sound, but his nail biting came to a sudden end.

“Paris would be the perfect place to set in motion your plans for Bolingbroke’s, and England’s, complete humiliation, my friend,” Philip said. “The city is so easily secured, yet so strategically positioned as to make it the perfect location to sally forth against any invading English army. Don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps,” Charles managed. His shoulder shifted slightly, and Philip caught a glimpse of an eye slanting in his direction.

“But you are king, and of such a mighty kingdom,” Philip continued. “You have many burdens to bear. I cannot think how you manage to find the time to direct army preparations against the English as well.”

Charles shifted a little more towards Philip. “Perhaps.”

“Of course! Now…” Philip leaned forward. “I might be able to lift some of the care and burden of kingship from your hands.”

“In what manner?”

“You are as yet young, and I have spent many more years in the battlefield than yourself. Perhaps I might be able to assist you in overseeing your war preparations?”

Charles thought about it. He knew it was dangerous to give Philip control like this. Very dangerous. Philip had attempted to double-cross his grandfather on numerous occasions…the years of experience Philip had on the battlefield were on the battlefield
against
France.

And who wanted Philip of Navarre commanding one’s own army? That army was sure to be turned against one’s own person the instant it served Philip’s ambition.

Charles frowned. “No. I think not. I have the Maid of France. She will command my forces against whatever enemy arrays itself against me. I trust her. She speaks for God.”

“Hmmm,” said Philip, then fell silent, keeping his eyes on four beefy labourers who were pushing and shoving a massive chest towards the doorway.

“Well,” said Charles, “she
does
speak for God.”

Philip lifted one of his own hands and began to study his own nails with an expression of intense concentration.

“And she will command my army. Successfully! I am perfectly safe with Joan about.”

Philip glanced over his hand towards Charles, arching one of his black eyebrows.

“Joan…” Charles’ voice drifted off. “She can help. Remember Orleans!”

Philip sighed, and put his hand down. “My friend,” he said in the most sorrowful of tones. “We both know that Joan is no longer the woman…well, the saint she used to be. For months she moped about, and now in the past weeks she has done nothing but smile and enjoy the comforts of your hospitality. What talk has she made of crusades, and winning back France from the English? Why—none.” His eyes darted around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I have even heard, my friend, that she has spoken of her desire to go home and tend her father’s sheep once more…although, personally, I think she’s simply decided to enjoy the luxury you wrap her in. Has she shown any interest in cladding herself in armour and riding out to war these days? No! Of course not. All she wants to do is live off you, my friend. She has you wrapped about her little finger.”

“She hasn’t! She hasn’t!”

“Shush,” Philip said urgently, laying a cautionary hand on Charles’ arm. “Never let the servants see your panic, man. All I mean to point out,” he continued in a more moderate voice, “is that Joan simply can’t be relied on any more. I mean to say, how many miracles has she popped out for you since you’ve been in Rheims? And who was it dropped your crown at your coronation? My sweet Lord Christ, man! If I hadn’t caught that crown and handed it back…you might
still
be grubbing for it under the pews of the cathedral.

“Charles—” Philip dropped all the banter and foppishness out of his voice, leaning forward to stare directly into Charles’ nervously shifting eyes “—Joan cannot save France. She doesn’t have the will any more. Neither, to be blunt, can you. Give me the command of the armed forces and I damn well
will
!”

“I don’t trust you,” Charles said.

“You don’t have a choice,” Philip said. He rose, dusting down his tunic over his hip where some dirt had smudged. “We have a week or so before we arrive in Paris. By then we will know with more certainty what is happening in England. And then, my dear boy, you will have to make a decision about what to do. You can’t delay any longer. Either pick someone to command your forces…or make it easy for Bolingbroke and simply flee south to whatever whorehouse in the sun you have picked out for yourself.”

And then he was off, striding across the floor without a backward glance.

Charles watched him go, trembling slightly at the harshness of Philip’s tone.

Annoyed with Charles, but not overly angry, for he knew it would take several overtures to win the faint-hearted idiot over to his plan, Philip ran nimbly down the main staircase of the palace. All about him he heard the noise of the move: the shrill voices of the cooks, rising out of the kitchens as they tried to both cook and pack at the same moment; the shuffle and snorting of horses in the courtyard; the curses of men as packs slipped and dislodged in the chaos. Catherine was elsewhere in the palace, closeted with her mother Isabeau, and Philip thought he might as well take the opportunity of a few free minutes to check that his war stallions were being loaded properly into their transport.

Just as he reached the foot of the staircase, however, he came to an abrupt halt.

Standing some ten paces in front of him in the great hall of the palace were Regnault de Chartres, the Archbishop of Rheims, and Joan herself. De Chartres had remained within Charles’ household ever since he’d examined Joan at La Roche-Guyon. Although he’d not found sufficient reason then to discredit her, Philip knew he’d been looking for an opportunity to do so ever since. Particularly since Joan had usurped his rightful role in crowning Charles in the cathedral of Rheims.

Now de Chartres was leaning over Joan, who was returning his stare without apparent effort. The archbishop’s
face was red-veined and incredulous, his pale blue eyes almost starting out of his head.

“May I ask you the question again?” he said, just as Philip sauntered up. “I cannot believe I heard you aright the first time you answered.”

“If you wish,” Joan said, and sighed. She glanced at Philip.

“The clerical brotherhood of Christendom,” de Chartres said, “are greatly divided over which pope should be obeyed: our revered papal father Clement in Avignon, or the rude pig of an impostor, Urban, in Rome? As you have the ear of God,” his lips curled in a faint sneer, “and seem on such intimate terms with the Archangels themselves—”

Joan’s cheeks flushed, as if the archbishop’s words angered her, but she kept her eyes steady on his.

Intrigued, Philip moved closer.

“—I ask you again, Joan of France, which pope do you say should be obeyed? Which one speaks on behalf of God?”

“And I say once more to you,” Joan snapped, “that I do not care overmuch. I concern myself only with France, not with the dubious arguments of men.
Or
of Archangels.”

And with a defiant look, first at de Chartres, then at Philip, she turned on her heel and marched off.

“One can almost sense her confusion,” Philip said softly, edging closer to de Chartres. “Perhaps…perhaps she has lost the ear of God? Perhaps the Archangels no longer visit her as once they did?”

De Chartres turned and studied Philip. Like everyone else, he didn’t trust the man…but that didn’t mean he might not make a useful ally. “Continue,” he said.

Philip gave a slight shrug. “She may prove more dangerous than beneficial to both you and to me, my lord. To both the Church and to France.”

“Yet who can touch her? France adores their miraculous Maid!”

“Well…” Philip said. He almost put his arm around the archbishop’s shoulders as he had with Charles, then thought better of it. “I have a plan, my lord archbishop. Perchance you might care to hear of it?”

Sunday 16th June 1381

“
H
otspur is still some twenty miles north of the town, sire. And neither Northumberland’s nor Glyndwr’s forces appear to have yet joined with him.”

Bolingbroke’s shoulders visibly slumped in relief. His face looked grey in this late afternoon light, deep lines of exhaustion and care creasing his forehead and running down from nose to mouth. His beautiful silver-gilt hair was plastered to his skull by days of sweat, and the neckline of the undershirt peeking from his leather armour was stained and rank.

It had been a hard ride from London, collecting over six thousand soldiers and knights in Oxfordshire, and another five thousand each in Worcestershire and Warwickshire to combine with the force Bolingbroke had assembled in East Smithfield. Now Bolingbroke commanded an army some twenty thousand strong—a good size, and made up of experienced knights, foot solders and archers, but next to useless if Hotspur had managed to assemble his entire alliance.

They’d ridden into Shrewsbury two hours ago. The town mayor, well aware of the two armies moving towards Shrewsbury, had hastened to greet Bolingbroke, assuring him of Shrewsbury’s continued loyalty and pledging the
town’s every resource to aid his king in repelling the rebels. Exhausted, irritable and impatient, Bolingbroke had wondered if the mayor would have said the same thing to Hotspur if he’d arrived first. But he thanked the man as graciously as he could manage, then waved him off, saying that he needed to confer with his lieutenants.

While the bulk of Bolingbroke’s army was encamped outside the town walls, just to the south of the River Severn which all but enclosed Shrewsbury, within the town the mayor had made available several adjoining townhouses for Bolingbroke and his commanders. They were comfortable and well appointed, and offered the men the first decent accommodation they’d had for over a week.

But before anyone could eat, or wash, or sleep, they needed to know the latest intelligence regarding Hotspur, Northumberland and Glyndwr. Bolingbroke had heard very little since he’d left London. He knew that Raby had reached the north…but did not know if he’d been in time to cut off Northumberland’s march towards Hotspur’s forces in the west. He knew that Warwick and Suffolk had reached the northern marches of Wales, but had they managed to turn aside Glyndwr’s push north? For all Bolingbroke knew he could have just ridden his army into the nightmarish situation of being caught in the pincers of three hostile armies.

The initial news from a scout waiting for Bolingbroke within his assigned townhouse had therefore been greeted with relief. At least Northumberland and Glyndwr had not yet joined with Hotspur.

But if not with Hotspur, then where were they?

Bolingbroke was in the main chamber of his townhouse with Thomas Neville, the Earls of Nottingham and Clarence, several of his leading commanders, John Norbury and Lord Owen Tudor, and an ever-shifting, whispering collection of squires and valets hovering about doorways and windows.

He was pacing back and forth before the unlit hearth, waving off any attempts by his valet to unstrap him from his armour and snapping at any remark or observation from any
of his commanders, when footsteps sounded at the door, and a messenger entered. Bolingbroke halted, staring at the man, who was even sweatier and more exhausted than he felt.

“Sire,” said the man, ducking his head, “I bring news from Ralph Neville, Baron of Raby and Earl of Westmorland. He sends his greetings, and—”

“For Christ’s sweet sake,” Bolingbroke snapped, stepping forward until he was within a pace of the now pale man, “just tell me your intelligence!”

“My Lord of Westmorland begs me to inform you that Northumberland’s push westward is stopped, and that Hotspur may expect no aid from that quarter.”

If the earlier news that Northumberland and Glyndwr had not yet joined with Hotspur brought relief, then this brought the kind of emotional release normally only associated with the unexpected lifting of a death order.

“Thank the sweet Lord Jesu!” Bolingbroke said, literally sinking down to his knees before the startled messenger. Bolingbroke leaned forward, grasped the messenger’s hand, and kissed it, before standing and grinning at the expression on the man’s face. “Norbury,” Bolingbroke said, “see to it that this man has suitable reward for the sweetness of his intelligence.”

Norbury, as relieved as any other in the chamber, smiled and beckoned the messenger away.

“Tom,” Bolingbroke said, turning to Neville, “your uncle has saved me once again. I do not think there are enough rewards in this kingdom to honour him. What can I do?”

“Good service to you is all the reward my uncle needs,” Neville said, too physically and emotionally exhausted to return Bolingbroke’s grin. “Sire, please. You must rest, eat, and perhaps wash away some of the sweat of your travel and worries.”

“Glyndwr…” Bolingbroke said.

“The Welsh bastard prince is the least of our worries,” Nottingham said. “Northumberland and the tens of thousands he could have called up behind him was the greater threat. Now that he is stopped…”

“Aye,” Bolingbroke said, finally sinking down into a chair and consenting to take a cup of warmed wine from his valet. “If we have to then we can deal with Glyndwr. But I have faith in Warwick and Suffolk. I have no doubt that Glyndwr is even now scurrying back into the mountains of Wales.”

His squire now stepped forward, and tried once more to relieve his master of some of his armour. But yet again Bolingbroke waved him away, asking him only to see to it that he lit the fire and set before it a tub of hot water.

“My lords,” Bolingbroke said, “I do find that indeed I need some hours of rest. I excuse you to your own ablutions and meals.”

The various men in the room turned to leave, but just as Neville had taken a step towards the door, Bolingbroke spoke again. “Tom. Will you stay and serve me? I would speak with you.”

Neville nodded, helping himself to some warmed wine before sitting down in a chair by the window and waiting silently as Bolingbroke’s valet set up the tub of warm water. Then, as the door closed behind the valet, Neville spoke.

“My lord, how may I serve you?”

“Aid me to untie some of these buckles to begin with.”

Bolingbroke was fumbling with the buckles holding his leather armour to his body, and Neville wearily rose, walked over, and started to tug at straps himself.

Bolingbroke managed a smile. “I am sorry to ask you to do this, Tom. I know you as much as anyone need your meal and rest. But I wanted to talk to you…Ah! There! That is done!”

Neville lifted the massive chest and shoulder armour away from Bolingbroke’s body, draping it over a nearby chair, then helped with the buckles about his hips and thighs.

Bolingbroke muttered and cursed, stripping away the armour and tossing it into a corner, then almost tearing off his filthy, sweat-stained undergarments.

“Sweet Jesu,” he muttered as he finally managed to free himself from his last bit of clothing. “I thought those linens had melded with my skin.”

He stretched, bent and touched his toes several times, then gingerly got into the steaming bath that his valet had put before the now-roaring fire.

“Tom,” he said finally, “bring your wine and that stool and come sit by me awhile as I soak.”

“About what do you want to talk?” Neville asked, sitting down next to the tub and eyeing the hot water enviously. He hoped his valet or his squire, Courtenay, were preparing his own tub in his chamber.

“About friendship,” Bolingbroke said. He had stretched out as best he could in the tub, and now lay with his head on the rim, and the waters lapping at his chest.

His eyes were closed.

“It seems to me,” Bolingbroke said softly, “that in my lifetime I have had two close friends—not counting my father, Lancaster. You, and Hotspur.”

Neville watched Bolingbroke reflectively, sipping at his wine. “Not Margaret? Or Wat?”

Bolingbroke smiled, his eyes still closed. “Oh, I loved Wat, and still love Margaret. But my love for them is only tangentially a friendship. There is something about those few, strong friendships that are made beyond the bounds of family, Tom, that mark the boundaries of a man’s life.” He opened his eyes, and looked about. “Where did that damn valet put the soap?”

“Here.” Neville tossed it to him, and watched for a few moments as Bolingbroke soaped his chest and underarms. He thought he knew where Bolingbroke wanted this conversation to go…and while he understood, was not sure that he wanted to go there himself.

“Myself and Hotspur,” Neville finally said. “The friendship between three lonely boys, the friendship soldered in the heat of our learning to be men and warriors.”

“Aye. Two deep friendships I made in my life, Tom. Just two, and both lost to me. Hotspur’s friendship I lost when the ambitions of both our fathers and ourselves collided. Yours when you joined the Church.”

“But I came back.”

“Oh, aye, you came back to me. And for a sweet short time I thought I had your friendship back, Tom.” Bolingbroke had given up all pretence at washing himself, and now lay back in the tub again, his head resting on its rim, his watchful eyes resting on Neville. “But then I lost it again, and it was not your doing that drove us apart, but mine.”

“Hal, I do not want to talk of this again.” Neville’s voice was very, very tired, and his empty wine cup sagged between his hands. “What’s done is done. I love Margaret still, and…”

“And?”

“And, you too, Hal. I cannot deny that.” Neville grimaced, and let the cup fall to the floor. It hit the timbers with a clatter, then rolled away a few paces. Neville watched it until it had come to a stop, then resumed. “Hal, I am so sick of both angels and demons. And I am sick to death of having you watch me day and night and wonder what my decision will be.”

Abruptly his eyes swivelled back to Bolingbroke. “Listen to me now, accept what I say, and then perhaps we can find some measure of friendship within this forest of wariness that has enveloped it.” He paused. “I will do what I think is best, Hal. Not what is best for you, nor what is best for the crippled angels in their cold, sterile heaven, but what is best for mankind. I will do what my heart and soul scream at me to do. Can you accept that? And, accepting that, not bother me with what I might or might not choose? You can do nothing more than what you have already, Hal. Nothing.”

Bolingbroke sighed, closing his eyes and sliding back in the tub briefly so that the water covered his head. He shook his head as he brought it back up, then wiped his eyes with a hand. “Aye, Tom. I can accept that.” He sighed again, and Neville realised that the moisture in his eyes was not all due to the bath water. “Would that Hotspur’s friendship prove so easy to regain.”

Frowning, Neville leaned forward slightly. “You would accept Hotspur’s friendship again?”

“If I could persuade him away from his treason, then, aye, I would. Tom, Hotspur’s scouts have no doubt informed
him that I am now at Shrewsbury. By tomorrow noon at the latest he will be in the fields just to the north of here. I want to meet with him, talk with him, see if we can’t settle this in some other manner than bloody warfare.”

Was this statecraft speaking
, Neville thought,
or the voice of a man sorrowing at the loss of a friend?

“It is the voice of a man who hopes to use statecraft to win a friend back,” Bolingbroke said softly, not looking at Neville.

Neville stared at him for a long minute. Finally he rose, retrieved his wine cup, and placed it on a nearby table. Then he put his hand briefly, gently, on Bolingbroke’s shoulder before turning and leaving the room.

Once the door closed behind Neville, Bolingbroke rubbed his eyes once more with a hand, and whispered: “Oh, sweet Jesu, has any of this been worth what has been lost, and is yet to be lost?”

No one answered him.

Perhaps because he
was
so exhausted, Neville found it difficult to sleep. He tossed and turned, thinking over what had passed between him and Bolingbroke. In the end, while he finally drifted off to sleep as faint dawn light stained the muddy grey clouds over Shrewsbury, he decided that he could find some peace from what they’d said. Bolingbroke had been Neville’s only friend during his youth and early manhood—Hotspur had never been as close to him as Neville had been to Bolingbroke—and Neville did not think he could afford to lose him completely.

He did not want to lose him. Bolingbroke had lied to him and manipulated him, and had abused their friendship in the doing, but that did not prevent Neville from understanding Bolingbroke’s reasons.

He was virtually asleep now, and his thoughts became softer, less formed. They had been so close as boys…weathered so many storms side by side…shared so much laughter…perhaps…perhaps it would be good to have Hal back as a friend.

For however long it lasted.