The Crippled Angel (26 page)

Monday 12th August 1381

—ii—

J
oan paced back and forth, back and forth, her mouth dry with nerves and her stomach roiling with fear. She’d known there would be a betrayal, and had known from which direction it was likely to come, but now that it was nigh…well, premonition was never the most easy of companions.

The news regarding Harfleur’s fall had come two days ago, and the arrival of Bolingbroke’s envoy this morning. Joan had no doubts whatsoever that the betrayal would come soon.

She wondered vaguely what price Philip had demanded for her capture.

Thirty pieces of silver, or had the price gone up since Christ’s time?

Ah! Joan shook herself out of her thoughts. She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes, and prayed for courage to the Lord Jesus Christ and the woman who comforted him.

For a long moment she stood still, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, and then she smiled very slightly, her peace of mind restored.

She opened her eyes, then walked to the door of her chamber.

Charles was in a slumber so light it could hardly be called a sleep. Far from a haven, Paris now seemed a trap—the cursed Bolingbroke was within a few days’ march. Why on earth had he come
here
of all places? Why hadn’t he fled south? Sweet Lord Christ. Who was it persuaded him to Paris in the first instance?

It must have been Philip, dark-browed, dark-hearted Philip. He couldn’t have possibly thought of this all by himself.

Had he done the right thing in giving Philip control of the military? Could he be trusted?

No.

Could he wrest control away from Philip and give it to someone else?

No. Philip would never stand for it. Even now the snake was likely sending assassination squads to his chamber.

Charles whimpered, then jerked into full wakefulness. He pulled the sheet to his chin, his eyes jerking fearfully about the dark room.

Was that chest there when he’d gone to bed?

Yes, he supposed so.

Was that table slightly out of place, as if someone had pushed against it while moving softly about in the dark?

Yes, almost certainly so.

Charles whimpered again, squirming further down beneath his covers.

A draught of air slid softly, almost apologetically, over his face.

For an instant Charles did not react. Everyone expected draughts in something as leaky and cold as the Louvre.

Save that his chamber was closed tight against the night (
and assassins
) and there should be no draught.

Charles drew in a terrified breath, breaking out into a sweat.

“Who’s there?” he said. “Who? I command you, stand forth!”

What was he saying? What was he saying?
Perhaps he should pretend to go back to asleep, and then whoever was in the room might leave. Might…

“It is only me, your grace,” said a soft voice, and Charles managed a sigh of relief.

Which instantly turned into imperious anger. “What are you doing here, Joan? What, I say? My private chamber is no place for you.”

“There was a time you would not have said so,” Joan said, emerging from the shadows clinging to the tightly shuttered windows. “There was a time when you would have drawn comfort from my presence.”

“You dare not speak to me like that,” Charles said, emerging from under his covers to stare at the girl. She’d stopped a foot or so from his bed, and now had the extraordinarily bad manners to sink down onto her knees, leaning her elbows on the bed and clasping her hands in an attitude of prayer.

“What are you doing? Go away.”

“Charles,” she said, giving him the benefit of no title nor flatteries, “my time is almost nigh. Soon I will be betrayed—”

“Go
away
!”

“—and you will be left by yourself. Charles, you must not despair—”

“Have you led assassins here?” he asked as her opening statements finally sank through into his consciousness. “Have you?”

Joan finally rose. “They will come for me tonight, I expect, but—”

Charles gave a wail of fear. “
Get out of this chamber. Guard! Guard!
”

Joan’s right hand snaked out and delivered a hearty slap to Charles’ cheek. “Be quiet and listen to me.”

Charles was shocked into silence. She had hit him. Her! The Maid! Was
she
an assassin?
Lord Jesus Christ, save me now! Lord Jesus Christ, save me now!

“
Listen
to me, Charles! By the morning you will be on your own. Paris is dangerous, too dangerous for you.”

She finally had his complete attention.

“Flee south, somewhere safe, somewhere surrounded by loyal French counts and vassals. Wait for word.”

“Wait for word? What do you mean?”

She smiled very sadly, even though she knew he could not see it. “Wait for word, Charles. You will know it when it comes for you.”

Charles did not like the sound of that at all. “Joan,” he began, then wailed in terror as the door to his chamber burst open.

Five men, all darkly cloaked and masked, leaped into the room.

Steel glinted in the faint light.

Charles gave another shriek, trying to clamber over to the other side of the bed, but hampered by the suddenly wet, urine-soaked sheets that clung about his lap and upper legs.

“Be still,” Joan whispered. “They have not come for you.”

She faced her abductors calmly. “With whose authority do you come for me?” she asked as the first of the men reached her.

“With this authority, lady,” said the first of the men, and he clubbed her over her head with the hilt of his sword.

Joan slumped to the floor, clinging to the last vestiges of a consciousness riven by Charles’ shrieks:
Take her! Take her! Leave
me
alone!

You poor fool
, she thought, sliding deeper into unconsciousness.
One day you will look back to this moment and think it the most cowardly of your life.

And with that thought she blacked out completely.

Thursday 15th August 1381

—i—

N
icholas Culpeper wiped his forehead with his forearm; its sleeve was stained a light brown with two days’ worth of his sweat. He slowly sat on the bed of the soldier, cursing his stiff back, and hoping that it was stiff only because of his two days of work without rest, and not as a harbinger of disease.

This bloody flux which now consumed the English army was almost as bad as the pestilence which had gripped London.

It was not killing so fast, nor so horribly, but kill it did, and increasing numbers of men died each day. They’d moved from Harfleur, where the flux had first struck, to Rouen two days ago, the passage of the English army marked by a trail of blood-stained shit.

Thank sweet Jesu that the French had not the forethought—or the ability—to attack while they were on the march. Christ, the archers were too doubled over to be able to draw their bows, and few knights dared put on a single piece of armour, let alone mount a horse, for fear they’d have to squat in the roadside dust the instant they did so.

“Fetch me a bowl and water, and a cup of the opium and primrose infusion,” Culpeper said to the nearest of his assistants, Will Cooper. As Cooper went to do his master’s bidding, Culpeper sighed, sponging the face of the man on the bed. He wished he had a better stock of herbs, and more variety, than those he’d brought with him. Apart from his duties to the queen (
who, praise Jesu, had not been struck with the flux…yet
), Culpeper had expected his duties, as those of every other physician travelling with the English army, to encompass battlefield wounds…not the squirting misery that now confronted him.

Cooper returned with a cup of the infusion, and Culpeper gently raised the man’s head and dribbled the liquid between his lips. The opium would relieve the agony in the man’s gut, while both it and the primrose would go some way towards calming the almost continual spasms that gripped his bowel.

The man gulped, his face sheened with grey sweat, then collapsed back onto his pillow.

He moaned and rolled over, curving himself about his belly, his eyes staring, his hands clawing at the mattress.

Culpeper rose hurriedly, taking a step back as the man’s bowels voided themselves in a violent spasm, his face screwing up in distaste at the foul stench that rose from the bed.

“Find someone to clean him up,” he said to Cooper.

Will Cooper, a young man of twenty-two or -three years and with a remarkable stoicism of expression given the circumstances of the moment, silently said a quick prayer of gratefulness that at least Culpeper hadn’t asked him to clean the soldier up. But finding someone
else
to do it wasn’t going to be easy. The sick numbered three hundred in this market hall alone, stretched out in rows on thin pallets, and there were only some ten or twelve assorted servants and as yet unaffected soldiers available to aid them.

And every one of the sick squirted at least five or six times an hour. The problem was not only in the lack of helpers, but also in the ever-increasing number of rags, linens and herbal preparations needed to clean and treat the sick.

“First the pestilence, and now this,” Cooper said.

Culpeper looked at him sharply. “And what do you mean by that?”

Cooper gave a small shrug. “Many mutter between their spasms that King Hal is a singularly unlucky man,” he said. “Rebellion, pestilence, and now this bloody flux. It is like the seven plagues that God rained down on the Pharaoh for daring to keep Moses and the Israelites enslaved. What else shall we endure?”

Culpeper blew his breath out in exasperation, fighting the urge to slap Cooper’s face. “This bloody flux was caused by the men gorging themselves on unripe apples,” he said.

“But so
many
men, and not all of them apple eaters,” Cooper murmured.

“
And
caused by the unhealthy air of the salt marshes about Harfleur,” Culpeper said. “And who knows how it continues to spread among the soldiers. All these men, living in such close, unsanitary quarters…Now, get moving, Cooper, or I’ll set you to washing the rags the servants use to wipe the men’s arses. Move!”

Cooper scurried off.

Bolingbroke stood at the window of his main day chamber of Rouen’s castle, staring at the city spread out before him. Rouen was a particularly beautiful city, with majestic spires and towers, gilded roofs, marbled balconies and intricatelycarved wooden fretwork on most buildings. Beautiful it remained after the English had occupied it two days ago, but only superficially, for now those gilded roofs and intricate fretwork hid requisitioned halls and the larger houses, all filled with the cries and the stench of the sick and dying.

Bolingbroke’s army was already decimated by thirty percent, and only the Lord Christ knew how many more would die before this sickness had passed.

To lose his chance at the French crown because his men were squirting their lives down the sewers. He hit the window frame in sheer frustration, turning back into the room.

As usual, most of his commanders were present (although
three, including Hungerford, were themselves so ill with the flux they looked like being able to leave their beds only in caskets), as also was Neville, standing in a corner, his arms folded, watching Bolingbroke intently.

Bolingbroke sent him a hard, suspicious look, then addressed the Earl of Suffolk, newly returned from his mission to Paris.

“Twenty thousand gold pieces! Where shall I get that from? I should send him twenty thousand carts laden with the effluent my men have voided. That should be his due.”

“Your grace—” Suffolk began.

“There was never mention of monetary payment in the bargain he and I made,” Bolingbroke continued, picking up an empty goblet from a table, then throwing it across the room in frustration and anger.
Damn the angels for the affliction they’d sent!

Bolingbroke shot Neville another foul look.

Suffolk shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trading looks with several of the other commanders. He wished Raby was here, rather than in England keeping watch over the realm, for Ralph Neville always had a calming effect on Bolingbroke.

And more than a damn shame that Lancaster himself was dead, for more than anyone he could have prevailed upon Bolingbroke to keep a cool head.

“Philip is playing games,” Warwick said. No one present made the mistake of believing they were dealing with Charles in this matter. “This morning’s intelligence reports that he’s jumping up and down, crying foul; that the English have stolen away his beloved Maid of France, and that all good Frenchmen must come to their nation’s aid.”

Bolingbroke, now fiddling with a tassel on a wall hanging, snorted in disgust. “At least we know he’s taken her,” he said. “And has her hidden away somewhere.” He turned away from the tassel and regarded the roomful of men once more. “He will give her to us, never fear.”

“That may work against us, much as we might want to get our hands on the heretic whore,” Suffolk said, again
trading looks with Warwick and the other commander in the room, the Earl of Nottingham.

“And in what manner might that be?” Bolingbroke snapped.

“It is sometimes better
not
to give one’s enemy a martyr to inspire them,” Nottingham said softly, moving forward. For a young man, he was unusually perceptive. “Better, perhaps, that we allow this Joan to lead France to defeat in battle. Her power over her people will then be lost.”

“Better,” Bolingbroke all but shouted, “to burn her and show them she is normal flesh and blood than to risk her
winning
the damn battle.”

There was an utter silence in the room as eyes dropped away from Bolingbroke. Never before had he spoken of defeat.

“Our men are dying,” Bolingbroke continued in a far more reasonable tone. “We had a moderately sized but fine army when we left England. Now we have a tiny army racked with disease. If you don’t think that leaves us vulnerable to defeat on the battlefield…then think again.

“Joan is our bitter enemy,” he continued, now even more softly. “Perhaps even the witch who has sent this plague upon us. She needs to die.”

“Your grace,” said Neville, unfolding his arms and standing off the wall on which he’d been leaning. “My Lord of Nottingham has spoken sense. The Maid’s power is fading anyway…how many battles has she won recently? Better, perhaps, to—”

“Better that I should burn you instead, traitor,” Bolingbroke yelled, striding forward and poking Neville in the chest with a stabbing forefinger. “Better that
you
die before the last of my men empties his bowels out in the gutters of France.”

Bolingbroke’s outburst caused a commotion within the chamber.

“Your grace!” Suffolk said, coming to stand beside an obviously shocked Neville. “My Lord Neville is hardly a traitor. What has he done that you so accuse him?”

Bolingbroke’s eyes shifted about the murmuring group, and he abruptly backed down. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I’ve had so little sleep, and am riven with concern for my wife.” He waved his hand, hinting at other vague problems.

“Perhaps you need to rest, your grace,” said Sir John Norbury, who’d been standing silent with Owen Tudor to this point.

“Yes, you’re right, I do need to rest,” Bolingbroke said, stretching his face in an unconvincing attempt at a smile. “If perhaps you could excuse me for the moment.”

The group bowed, murmuring their farewells, but just as they started to move away, Bolingbroke spoke again. “Tom, stay, if you will. I should apologise for my unfortunate words.”

“I am a traitor?” Neville said quietly when the last man to leave the room had closed the door behind him. “In what manner am I ‘traitor’?” Neville knew that Bolingbroke had no intention at all of apologising for his attack…he’d just wanted to be able to continue it in private.

“In what manner ‘traitor’, Tom? Oh, what pretty words!” Bolingbroke’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“What
is
this?” Neville said, walking to within a pace of Bolingbroke and staring belligerently into his face. “You and Margaret have these past weeks treated me as if I were a pariah. For what reason? Do you think to manipulate my guilt again as once you did? Think you to
force
me into tossing my soul into Margaret’s manipulative care? Christ, Hal, how better to turn me
against
you?”

“You have never had
any
intention of choosing in my, Margaret’s, or mankind’s favour.”

“I have every intention of doing so, but
you
make it too difficult for me. Damn you, Hal!
Damn you!”

“Damning me has always been your intention, hasn’t it, Tom?” Bolingbroke said very quietly, his eyes unflinching as they stared into Neville’s furious brown ones. “You have ever pretended to be my friend while always remaining my secret enemy.”

“Ah!” Frustrated, Neville turned away. “For the sweet Lord’s sake, Hal, what
do
you mean?”

“Rosalind,” Bolingbroke said, watching Neville’s back carefully. “Bohun.”

Neville turned around again, his face creased in puzzlement. “
What?
”

“Your children have betrayed you, Tom.”

“
Of what do you speak, Hal?
”

“Seven weeks ago, Tom, seven weeks ago, Rosalind spoke into Margaret’s mind. When Margaret tested Bohun, she found that he, too, had the same ability. No mortal has that power. None.”

“But Rosalind and Bohun have as their mother an angel-child, Hal. Surely…” Neville’s voice drifted off as he remembered what Margaret had once told him…that the children of the angel-children, if one parent was a mere mortal, were as all mortal children. They had no powers at all: no shape-shifting, no mind-reading, no witchery of any sort.

Neville suddenly realised his mouth was hanging open, and he snapped it shut.

“Yes.” Bolingbroke was walking (
stalking
) very slowly closer to him. “Rosalind and Bohun
should
be as mortals, shouldn’t they? But they have the full range of abilities as do all angel-children, Tom.
As do all angel-children!
”

“You cannot mean…” Again Neville drifted into a silence as he remembered what the Archangel Michael had said to him when they were standing before Christ’s cross in the Field of Angels. There was no God save the combined will of the angels…Jesus was the child of the combined will of the angels…Jesus had proved himself a frightful burden to the angels, trying to free mankind from their grip, therefore the angels had imprisoned him on the cross…but he was
“Not like our next effort. He works our will as if an extension of our own thoughts. There will be no mistake this time…Beloved.”

“Beloved?” Neville whispered, staring at the whorls in the grain of the floor planking.
Rosalind and Bohun were fullbred angel-children?

He looked up at Bolingbroke, now so very close, his eyes the piercing murder of the plunging hawk.

“I am an angel?” Neville whispered.
Jesus was an angel, too?

Brother, he had called me.

Bolingbroke’s mouth opened, twisting with the full measure of his rage and hate, and he reached for Neville with hands hooked into claws.