The Crippled Angel (8 page)

Saturday 4th May 1381

—iv—

S
he dreamed, and yet it felt unlike any dream she’d been lost in before, for in this dream she was both witness and participant.

She dreamed of a woman, a woman on her knees atop a dusty, stony hill swept by a warm, fragrant wind. Above pressed a heavy, depressing sky; the atmosphere was hot and humid, and full of noiseless lament. In the distance was a walled city dressed in pale stone, and a roadway lined with people leading from the city gates to the hill where she knelt.

The woman’s world had turned to grief. Her tears ran down her cheeks and dripped into the neckline of her white linen robe. Dark hair lay unbound down her back and clung in dampened wisps about her face. A cloak of sky blue lay to one side.

Several yards away lay her husband, still and dead, his corpse battered and bloodied. He had been sprawled across a rock for the vultures to feast on.

She reached out a hand towards him, wordlessly, now too exhausted and emotionally devastated to weep any more than she already had.

How could it have ended like this? Why had people hated him so much?

“Take her!” came a shout, and she jerked her head up at the same moment her hands slipped about her swollen belly.

People—soldiers, several priests and a crowd of ordinary men and women—surged towards her, and she started to rise. But her foot caught on the hemline of her robe, and she tripped and sprawled on the dusty earth.

She tried to rise again, desperate, knowing they meant her death, but she was too late.

Hands seized her by the shoulder of her robe and by her hair, and dragged her to her feet.

“Whore!” someone cried, and the entire crowd took up the accusation. “Whore! Whore! Whore!”

“I am not,” she said, but her words were lost in the roar of the crowd. “I am not!”

I am not a whore, but a queen
, she wanted to say, not understanding
why
it was she thought that.

But delusions were not going to help her or her unborn baby now.

They dragged her forth, ignoring her pitiful cries for mercy, to where a long-dry well had been covered over. Men tore away the wooden beams that closed the well, exposing a thirty-foot drop.

Then, still roaring their hatred, they threw her down.

They stopped roaring soon enough to hear her body hit the rocks at the bottom of the well.

A minute passed, then one of the priests grunted as he saw her limbs move slightly in their agony.

“She lives still,” he said, bending and picking up a rock.

All about him, those closest to the rim of the well bent down, and picked up their own rocks.

Then they began, one by one, to pitch them down towards the woman.

It took them most of the remaining hours of the afternoon to kill her completely, and before they were done they’d broken every bone in her body.

Margaret sat by Mary’s bed, watching the woman’s chest rise and fall in shallow, slow breaths. Mary had been moaning in agony by the time Neville had carried her back to her chamber, and Culpeper, the castle physician, alerted to her need by runners who had come ahead, had been ready at hand. He’d given Mary a powerful infusion of monkshood, wild mushroom and opium poppy, which had eased Mary’s pain within minutes.

It had also caused her mind to drift, and for almost an hour Margaret had sat holding Mary’s hand as the queen talked of things she could never have seen, and people she could never have met.

Now, Margaret hoped, Mary had finally settled into a deep sleep.

But just as Margaret was about to rise and go to her own bed, Mary’s eyes flew open.

“Meg?” she whispered in a cracked voice. “Meg? Are you here?”

“I’m right beside you, my sweet lady. I have never left.”

“Where am I, Meg?”

“Why, you are in your chamber in the Rose Tower, my lady.”

Mary’s head slowly rolled back and forth and her eyes searched. “No, no. I cannot be. What is that wind? And that scent of sweet spice upon it?”

“Madam—”

“And why do I weep? Why do I feel such loss?”

Margaret leaned closer and saw that, indeed, Mary did weep. Great tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mary stared ahead, as if looking at someone. “Is he dead? Is he?”

“Madam!” Margaret grabbed Mary’s hand between both of hers, and squeezed as tightly as she dared.

Mary continued to stare ahead, then she gasped, and cried out softly. “No! No!”

“Mary!” Margaret was beside herself, wondering what to do. Had the potion been too strong? Was it murdering Mary instead of aiding her? She half turned, meaning to wake the
women who slept at the foot of Mary’s bed, but just then Mary whipped her head about on the pillow and stared at Margaret.

“You are not all you would have me believe, are you, Margaret?”

Margaret opened her mouth, not knowing what to say.

Mary’s mouth grimaced in a frightful rictus, her breath odorous due to the potion she’d imbibed and the dryness of her tongue.

“Margaret,” she whispered, “why do so many people lie to me?”

And then, suddenly, she was asleep, and breathing easy.

Her hand relaxed away from Margaret’s.

Friday 17th May 1381

“
W
hat clearer sign could you hope to have, my lord, than that of Exeter’s revolt?”

The son of the Earl of Northumberland, Sir Henry Percy, commonly called Hotspur, slouched in the chair, staring at Prior General Richard Thorseby with dark, unreadable eyes. The Prior General had joined his household six months ago, just after Bolingbroke had himself crowned. And for six months the Prior General had been whispering and arguing and pleading: King Henry was an evil man who had murdered Richard and who would drive England into the mud of ignominy should he be allowed to keep the throne.

And who else was to act if not Hotspur?

“Exeter’s revolt lasted an afternoon, Prior General,” Hotspur said, “and ended in his death and those of his allies. I do not call that a ‘clear sign’.”

“People resent Bolingbroke! The country will rise up against him if
you
lead!”

Hotspur sprang out of his chair, snatching a pike from a surprised man-at-arms guarding the doorway of the chamber, and threw it down at Thorseby’s feet. “If you think the country so ready to rise, then lead it yourself!”

Thorseby took a deep breath and composed his face. He folded his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his habit
and affected a righteous air, not realising that it only antagonised Hotspur further.

“Bolingbroke must be overthrown. He is the devil’s spawn.”

Trying to keep his temper, Hotspur strode to a shuttered window, unlatched one of the shutters, and drew it open. Outside there was nothing but cold, grey fog, with here and there the bare black branches of wind-blasted trees reaching into the low sky like the skeletal fingers of a corpse.

Lord God
, Hotspur thought,
I do not know which I hate more
—
the damp climes of these northern lands, or the ever-whining voice of the Prior General.

He stood a few minutes, allowing the still grey landscape outside to calm him, then he closed the shutter and turned back to Thorseby.

“I can understand your dislike of Thomas Neville,” Hotspur said, “but why your sudden hatred of Bolingbroke? Do you profess to hate him, and thus beg me to dislodge him from the throne, only so you can once more claim Neville?”

Thorseby took his time in answering. In truth, he
did
loathe Bolingbroke because of his protection of Neville…but that was not all. Sometimes, over these past few months, he’d had strange visitations from shadowy, cloaked figures who had whispered that they were the messengers of the angels, and it was heaven’s wish that Bolingbroke be torn down and destroyed. In his more lucid moments, Thorseby feared these shadowy, whispering visitors were but figments of his imagination. But these moments were few and far between, and generally Thorseby
knew
he had God, the angels and all of heaven behind him on this issue.

Bolingbroke must go. Neville must be brought to justice. And Hotspur was the most logical instrument of God’s will.

“Bolingbroke is an ungodly man,” Thorseby said, ensuring his face and voice remained calm and reasonable. “He murdered Richard and unjustly usurped his throne. He
must
be brought to justice. If my words do not persuade you, then be prepared. Soon God shall make His will clear with an unmistakable sign. You might not believe me, my lord, but you shall surely believe God.”

“Oh, and what shall God do?” said Hotspur. “Send a plague of frogs? Turn the Thames red with blood? Strike dead the first-born son in every family?”

“I should hope not the latter, my lord, if only for your sake.”

Hotspur grunted.

“I counsel you, my lord, to prepare your way now. Speak closely and secretly with those who will support you. Exeter was rash, stupid. He deserved to fail. But if you—”

“Do
not
tell me how to wage a war, Thorseby.”

Thorseby closed his mouth, raising his eyebrows slightly as if a schoolmaster rebuking his wayward pupil.

Hotspur picked up a letter that he’d been reading before Thorseby had come in. It was from his father, Northumberland, now back in his northern stronghold, and it contained many interesting statements and yet more interesting suggestions and promises. Hotspur’s father had grown somewhat tired of Bolingbroke, it seemed, especially since Bolingbroke had proved himself so willing to doubt Northumberland after Exeter’s attempted rebellion. A word here, a frown there, and so easily did allegiance shift. Hotspur pretended to peruse the letter for a few minutes, then he folded it carefully, and put it down again.

“If any man wishes to challenge Bolingbroke,” he said, “he will need more than swords behind him.”

Thorseby smiled, small and cold. “I am a powerful man in my own right,” he said. “The Dominican family will stand behind you. Already my friars have been whispering, preparing the way for God’s will as expressed through you.”

Thorseby’s Dominican ‘family’? More like a murderous flock of black crows
, thought Hotspur, and shivered slightly at the thought of the great winged beasts swooping down on him through the cold, grey mists.

“If God sends me a sign,” Hotspur said, “then I will move. Until then, I merely watch.”

“And plan.”

Hotspur hesitated, but only slightly. “And plan. Begone, Thorseby, for I think to warm this chamber with your absence.”

Tuesday 21st May 1381

—i—

T
he nave of St Paul’s in London was crowded with people but, strangely, nevertheless completely hushed. Many had queued patiently in the courtyard since many hours before dawn, hoping to be among the first admitted inside.

To see.

Two days ago King Richard’s corpse had arrived in London from Pontefract Castle in West Yorkshire. One hundred men-at-arms had accompanied the coffin on its black-draped bier, protecting it from the curious, subdued, close-pressed crowds. Behind the men-at-arms came nineteen hessian-wrapped and ash-painted professional mourners, one for each year of Richard’s life. They had accompanied the corpse to St Paul’s where six of the men-at-arms had carried it inside, the cathedral’s doors closing promptly behind them.

The dean and his monks had spent two days preparing both display and corpse. That amount of time had set tongues a-wagging all the faster. Why did they need so long? Was it proving hard to stitch up the dagger holes? Or to smooth his poison-ravaged face with flesh-coloured wax?

But now St Paul’s and Richard’s remains were thrown open to the inspection of the curious, and the Londoners had flocked to the occasion in their thousands.

Richard lay in an open, solid oaken coffin, its joints well sealed with wax and other substances, set on its bier before the altar. Candles and incense surrounded the bier save for a space directly before the coffin where a single person could step close for a quick viewing.

To one side stood an ever-changing guard of several priests and friars, there to ensure that the individual’s viewing
was
only quick, and that he or she did not attempt to snatch a lock of the dead king’s hair, or a scraping from under his fingernails to sell at a local relic market.

Dick Whittington stood in line with everyone else, and was as curious as everyone else. Whittington was no fool, and had understood very well that Bolingbroke could not have allowed the former king to survive as a lodestone for every disaffected person in the kingdom. Nevertheless, he thought, it
was
a shame that Bolingbroke couldn’t have arranged for Richard to fall off a horse in front of a score of impartial witnesses, or arrange his drowning in a swollen river as Richard and his party were attempting to cross. The rumours sweeping London ever since news of Richard’s death had ranged from the bizarre to the almost certainly correct: Lancaster’s ghost had so terrified Richard one dark night he had fallen down dead (or Lancaster’s ghost had set fire to Richard, or flayed him, or torn off his genitals and eaten them, leaving Richard to bleed to death); a band of Scottish soldiers had infiltrated Pontefract Castle in an attempt to kidnap Richard and make him
their
king, but had mistaken Richard for a guard, killed him, and then kidnapped the guard and installed him on the Scottish throne; Richard had choked to death on a frog which had taken up residence in the damp castle; Richard had pined to death over his lover, Robert de Vere; Bolingbroke had sent a band of assassins to Pontefract to murder Richard by means most foul.

Worse were the rumours that Richard was not dead at all, and that news of his death was only an official attempt to
disguise the truth—that Richard had escaped Pontefract and was even now riding on London with an avenging army of tens of thousands behind him.

God had anointed Richard, therefore would God allow Richard to be so destroyed? And if Richard were truly murdered, would God allow his murder to go unpunished?

The truth, Whittington thought, as he slowly shuffled forward a few places in the queue, was that the Londoners, as many other among the English, were starting to feel a trifle guilty about their role in Richard’s downfall. They had abandoned Richard with an indecent haste, supporting “fair Prince Hal’s” counterclaim to the throne. While Richard had been festering in Pontefract, awaiting his murder, they’d been crowding about Westminster Abbey, shouting Bolingbroke’s name as if it were a charm against evil.

Now they were here in their droves, impelled not only by curiosity but by guilt.

Starting to get impatient, and finding that his joints ached greatly in the chill damp of the cathedral’s nave, Whittington craned his head, trying to see how much longer he might have to wait. The queue appeared to stretch for some thirty or forty persons before him, but the priests standing about the coffin were making sure that people were moving briskly, and not loitering too long over Richard’s open casket.

No one showed any signs of wanting to loiter, however. Perhaps, Whittington surmised, the stench was putting off even the most guilty or ardent of viewers.

Loiter they might not, but Whittington noticed that every man and woman who turned aside from the coffin had pale faces as they crossed themselves, halting briefly for the blessings of the priest. And they were quiet as they walked away, not pausing to whisper or gossip.

Some drew their wraps tighter about themselves, and looked nervously over their shoulders with darting eyes.

All left the cathedral as quickly as they could.

Whittington’s curiosity grew, and he fidgeted impatiently.

The queue ahead of him was moving very quickly now. Perhaps only some four or five stood between Whittington
and his turn at a viewing, and Whittington’s head craned all the more. He could see a little into the open coffin over the shoulders before him—there was a heavy drape of a richly embroidered material over most of Richard’s body. Whittington could see a pale blur of a face, and it appeared that Richard’s skeletal arms and hands were crossed over his chest, clutching a gold crucifix.

He shivered suddenly, feeling as if a winter frost had dug deep into his bones.

The people ahead of him visibly shivered, too, and hurried the faster, bending only briefly over the coffin.

Then, finally, it was Dick Whittington’s turn, and he stepped forward. A priest murmured in his ear, “Hurry! Hurry!”, and the stench of hot incense and cold decaying flesh assaulted his nostrils, making his stomach roil.

He stepped up to the coffin, and peered in.

Richard’s remains were horrible to behold. His flesh had shrunk close to his bones, his skull was sparsely dotted with a few clumps of dry hair, his eyelids had gummed closed over sunken eyeballs. His nose was a thin ridge only barely covered with the remnants of flesh—in one spot cartilage had poked its way free.

His desiccated lips were frozen into a horrible rictus, showing yellowed, slimy teeth. Behind them loomed something huge and horrid—his swollen, blackened tongue.

Whittington tore his eyes away from Richard’s face and looked to where his skeletal hands clutched a crucifix. The fingers were clasped so tightly about the cross that in places the flesh of Richard’s hands had rotted into the chain, and then reformed about it; the crucifix had become part of Richard’s flesh.

“Move on!” came the whisper from a close attendant priest, and Whittington looked one last time at Richard’s face…

…and screeched in terror. Richard’s eyes had opened, revealing black, glistening orbs. They rolled in Whittington’s direction, and, as the Lord Mayor stared, horrified, the dead king’s lips moved:
Murderer! Murderer!

Whittington tried to move, but couldn’t. Richard’s eyes held him locked in place.

Murderer! Murderer!

There was a clink, and Whittington realised that Richard’s finger bones had clicked as his hands moved about the crucifix.

Whittington, Whittington, what do you think? Shall I rise from my grave to my throne again?

Whittington’s face contorted, and he physically wrenched himself away from Richard’s rolling eyes. He stumbled back, almost falling, then turned about, his breath coming in great, gasping gulps.

He realised no one was looking at him—
Why? Why? Had no one seen what he had? Had no one wondered at his strange reaction?
—then realised that everyone was staring at a richly cloaked and garbed man walking slowly up the clear space of the centre of the nave.

Gold glinted about his brow.

Bolingbroke.

Whittington stumbled further away from the coffin, staring at Bolingbroke.

Bolingbroke had no eyes for anything but the coffin. He strode forth slowly but purposefully, his eyes fixed on the bier and what lay on it.

Don’t go near it!
Whittington’s mind screamed.
Don’t go near
—

“Sire!” he gasped as Bolingbroke approached. “Sire!”

Bolingbroke ignored him. His steps quickened, the heels of his boots ringing across the flagstones, the hem of his cloak fluttering out behind him.

Every eye in the cathedral followed 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 seize
Bolingbroke 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, the
very 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 Jesus Christ help us all.”

Then he pulled away from Whittington’s grip and walked down the nave and out the doors.

The Dog of Pestilence continued to lap.