The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  She stopped, then shrugged. “I dreamed that I was loved, and that I loved, although everyone in the world seemed set against me.” Mary hesitated, deciding not to tell Neville of the frightful end of her dream. “There was a lesson in that dream, I think,” she continued. “Perhaps it was sent by Christ. Tom, I cannot believe Christ evil. I cannot. That dream was no lie. Neither was yours, when Christ told you to love Margaret.”

  She paused. “Love does not damn,” she whispered. “It only saves. Oh, Tom, free him! Free him!”

  “How?” he asked softly. “He is trapped in heaven, and I have not the power to free him from there.”

  She squeezed his hand, and sighed, and for a few minutes there was silence between them.

  “What must I do?” Mary eventually said. “Now that I know, what must I do?”

  “Be yourself,” Neville said. “Do what you think is right. There is nothing else that you can do. But…do not tell Hal that you are aware of who he is, and of what battle is being fought about you. That would be—”

  “Dangerous,” Mary said with a small smile, and squeezed Neville’s hand. “I know that. My life teeters on a dangerous thread anyway, Tom. Now that I know of the bond between Catherine and Hal, I can understand his longing, and his frustration in that longing. Now I understand the calculation in his eyes when he looks at me. At least,” she touched her gown where it lay over her belly, “this canker in my womb means I need not share his bed any longer. I could not do that, not now that I know of the men he destroyed in order to reach the throne.”

  Knowing that I may well be next, she thought, and knew she did not have to voice that thought to Neville.

  “Tom,” she said. “How do you feel about Hal?”

  “There has been such a bond of friendship between us,” he said, “and for so many years that it will, I think, never break completely. Yet that friendship is now darkened. I watch Hal, and wonder if sometimes his ambition clouds his judgement. I wonder what that might mean for England, and for mankind. And I know that Hal watches me.”

  “And Margaret?” Mary said very softly. “How do you feel for her? Especially after…after…” What Neville had told her about Richard’s and de Vere’s rape of Margaret had left her numb with disbelief. That Margaret and Bolingbroke could have been so manipulative…that they had put both Neville and her through a horror so contrived…

  Neville watched Mary’s face carefully, knowing some of what she was thinking. Bolingbroke and Margaret’s manipulations had hurt Mary as well.

  “Especially after her ‘rape’?” Neville sighed, rubbing his eyes as if so tired he could barely string two thoughts together. “She and Hal caused me to love, and I do not regret that love.”

  “But—”

  “But I do regret the manner in which it was achieved. The lies, the treachery. Of you, sweet lady, as much as of me.” His mouth quirked. “And of what could they have been thinking? Did they truly believe that I would wave away the cunning manner in which they manipulated my guilt as if it were of no consequence? That it would not affect the manner in which I love Margaret?”

  “You do love her?”

  “Oh, aye, I do love her. But, Mary, oh sweet Jesu, Mary, how can I give her my soul on a platter?”

  “Surely you can forgive her?”

  “I have forgiven her, Mary. I could not love her if I hadn’t forgiven her. But that doesn’t mean I can willingly hand her my soul.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because to hand her my soul, to hand anyone my soul, requires a trust and a love and a respect and an honour so complete that it consumes every fibre of my being. With Margaret—with my love for Margaret—there is now a tiny hesitancy. But that single slight hesitancy, that single scruple, will be enough to damn mankind. I cannot afford any hesitancy at all.”

  Mary briefly closed her eyes, pitying both Neville and Margaret. Her hand groped for his, and they sat a long while in silence, each lost in their own thoughts of Christ.

  “Tom! Mary! Thank the Lord Christ.”

  Both Neville’s and Mary’s heads jerked up, and they pulled their hands apart. Margaret stood at the door of the chapel, breathing heavily, as if she had been running, or perhaps panicking.

  She walked into the chapel, then stopped a few paces away from the bench where Mary and her husband sat. “What do you here?” she said. “Madam, are you well?”

  “Well enough,” Mary said, smiling gently at Margaret. “Tom and I came here to pray, and talk a little. We did not wish to wake you.”

  Mary glanced at Neville, who gave a little nod, then she addressed Margaret again. “Tom and I have been talking.” She paused, holding Margaret’s gaze. She was about to go on, but Neville interrupted her.

  “Of inconsequential things, Margaret,” he said. “We needed some lightness after our immersion in the death beyond this chapel.”

  He trusts Margaret so little, Mary thought, stunned, that he will not tell her that now I know of the battle between the angels and demons? And of the nature of my husband?

  She looked at Margaret, and saw the unhappiness there. Lord Jesu, aid him to make the right decision! Aid him to give his soul to this woman so that mankind may at last be freed.

  Margaret looked between Neville and Mary, attempted a smile, failed, then spoke hastily to cover her confusion and distress. “Tom, perhaps you can join with me in persuading the queen, our beloved lady, that she should take better care of herself? She has spent far too much of her precious energy in aiding the sick, when she should be conserving her strength for her own battles ahead.”

  “Margaret speaks sense,” Neville said. “Mary, what can you do here, as tired and ill as you are? Please, rest a day or so at the very least.”

  “What can I do here, tired and ill as I am? I can give hope, and perhaps some comfort,” Mary said. “Tom, Margaret, I cannot walk away from these people. Now,” she stood up, “I have been a-wasting my time here in this peaceful chapel for these past hours while men and women have been dying in despair in the hall beyond. My self-absorption is reprehensible.”

  “Mary, no!” Margaret said, and reached out a hand.

  Mary looked at her kindly. “Will you help me, my Lady Neville?”

  Margaret shot Neville a despairing look, then sighed. “Of course, madam.”

  XIV

  Monday 27th May 1381

  —iv—

  And so began the nightmare once more. Mary may have been told of matters so great they affected both heaven and hell, but that was as nothing to her when ordinary men and women and children lay dying in agony in the room beyond. She, accompanied by Margaret, Jocelyn (who refused to leave Mary’s side), the Lady Alicia Lynley (who had returned from the Tower), and two nuns, moved from bed to bed, daubing, sponging, and murmuring what comfort they could.

  To Mary, it seemed that the comfort must be of very little use. Nothing she could do could ease the pain and horror of the pestilence that gripped these people. Nothing she did could ease their worry about the spouses or children they left behind. Nothing she could do could ease the forthcoming loss of their lives.

  What Mary did not realise was the level of comfort she did bring to every person she stopped by for a few minutes, and even to the mass crowded within the guildhall as a whole. Here she was, the Queen of England, demonstrating with her very presence the love and care she bore for the common folk of her realm. How many other queens would have done this much? Mary was so ill herself, yet she still cared more about them than she did her own comfort and easement.

  To the common folk of London, not only those in the guildhall, but to everyone within the city who had heard of her presence and work among those struck down with the pestilence, Mary embodied the ideal virtuous queen. She was nobility and care and love personified, and in many more than one instance, when a person prayed to the Blessed Virgin herself, they envisioned not a cold statue before them, but the lined and exhausted face of their queen.

  King Hal might direct
relief efforts from the Tower, and might even stride the streets offering words of hope, but his wife was among them, and bore the full weight of their grief about her own shoulders.

  By noon the stench within the guildhall had become almost unbearable. The day was unseasonably hot, and the brimstone fires and their thick, drifting smoke only made the heat worse. Jocelyn had finally succumbed to her weariness and the heat, and Mary had sent her to sleep an hour or so in the small antechamber. As the heat had thickened through the morning, all the ladies, Mary included, had stripped away their heavy-sleeved tunics and robes, and worked only in aprons over their linen under-tunics. Dank sweat stained the necklines and armpits of these under-tunics, and their hair hung in greasy tendrils, clinging to sweaty, grimy necks.

  Mary and Margaret, one each side of the bed, attended three small children ranging in ages from four to eight. The pestilence had struck the children, all girls, in its most virulent form. Instead of the pustules and buboes erupting on the skin, they had formed inside the poor children’s bodies. Now the girls lay screaming, in so much agony from their internal swellings that they could not move. Mary and Margaret could not even sponge them down, for every movement, every touch, only increased their agony.

  Margaret wanted more than anything to be able to use what little ability she had to ease their pain, but she was exhausted beyond measure, and knew that she had no power left within her to aid these three girls.

  “How can God justify such horrific vengeance on these innocents,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “How? How?”

  Mary shifted slightly on the bed, then flinched as two of the girls screamed in agony at the movement. “There is no justification,” she began, but stopped and raised her head at a commotion towards the doors at the rear of the guildhall.

  People were shrieking, panicking, falling over themselves in an effort to clamber away from something that stood just inside the doors.

  Wincing at the effort—and the girls’ cries at her movement—Mary stood upright, peering with red-rimmed eyes, trying to see what had frightened people into such a panic.

  For an instant a gap appeared in the press of people, and she saw what so terrified them.

  Coldness overwhelmed her, then that was quickly consumed by such a rush of anger as Mary had never felt before.

  “Let me through,” she said as people rushed down the centre aisle of the hall. “Let me through.”

  Somehow, Margaret behind her, Mary managed to move towards the outer doors of the hall. People streamed towards her, but without fail all moved aside at the last moment, leaving her passage forward unimpeded. From his place at the other end of the hall where he’d been talking to Robert Courtenay, Neville pushed forward as well, moving quickly to reach Mary and Margaret.

  Finally, she stood face to face with the creature that had caused the panic.

  “Get you gone from this hall, this city, and this realm,” Mary said in an even voice. “You are not wanted, nor welcomed.”

  The black Dog of Pestilence snarled at her, low and vicious. It had grown in the past days, as if it had fed off the death which had followed in its passing, and now stood the size of a small pony. Its hide was, if anything, covered with more, and larger, weeping sores than before.

  Its small, piggy eyes were now bright red.

  “Get you gone,” Mary whispered. She heard Margaret and Neville move up behind her, and felt Margaret’s hand on her shoulder. Neville stood slightly to one side, his hand on the haft of his sword.

  The Dog took a stiff step forward, and snapped, scattering thick yellowed saliva to either side.

  Behind her was only stillness, but Mary could feel the entire hall watching, holding its breath.

  “I say to you once more,” Mary said evenly, “get you gone from this place. I like you not.”

  A frightful shudder ran through the Dog’s body. It snapped several more times, moving ever closer with every snap until it stood only a pace from Mary.

  “Mary,” Margaret whispered, “please, get away from it.” Beside her came the rasp of steel as Neville drew his sword.

  “I am not afraid,” Mary said, addressing the Dog rather than Margaret or Neville, “of either death or of this foul beast that stands before me. I say to you, Dog, take me if you will…if you think that my flesh is so sinful that you think it deserves the touch of your vileness.”

  She paused, and her fists clenched at her sides. “Otherwise, I command you to begone from this place! Begone, Dog. Go!”

  The Dog snarled and snapped and slavered and postured, but it did not advance. Rather, it took a half step back.

  Neville, meanwhile, was watching Mary rather than the Dog, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “I am Mary, Queen of England,” she said. “I am England. If you want to punish England, then take me instead of the innocent. Otherwise, get you gone.”

  She stepped forward one step, and half raised a fist. “Get out of here!”

  And the Dog, with one final snarling howl, turned and fled.

  Mary staggered, and Margaret wrapped her arms about her, steadying her. “He could not bear to face goodness,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Well done, Mary.”

  Behind them, on the bed they had risen from, the three little girls gasped, then blinked.

  All their pain had gone.

  Neville lay in bed, weary, waiting for Margaret to join him. After the strange events of the day, they’d come back to the Tower apartments; slowly, for it seemed that all London had turned out to cheer Mary.

  The news of her banishment of the Dog of Pestilence had spread out from the guildhall on a wave of relief and joy and, coupled with the instantaneous recovery of everyone suffering from the pestilence, people had poured out into the streets to honour her.

  Neville smiled. Mary had been exhausted, and so obviously in pain, but at the same time she’d been delighted and uplifted by the gratefulness and love shown her.

  “Beloved Lady,” they’d called her, and Neville could not think of a better title to bestow on her. Beloved Lady, indeed.

  Full of surprises.

  “Tom?”

  He blinked, and turned his head. Margaret had finished her bathing and now, naked, was crawling into their bed. He reached out for her, holding her close to his body, and burying his face in her hair.

  “Tom,” she whispered, rubbing close against his body, as clean and as sweet as hers after his earlier bath. “I am glad to have my husband back.”

  He kissed her, then began to slowly caress her breasts. “You have no need to be jealous of Mary. I love her only as everyone else does.”

  “And if she were fit and well and free of any spousal encumbrance? And you the same?”

  Neville rolled Margaret onto her back. “It would still be you in my bed, Meg.” He covered her body with his, teasing her with intent, but not action.

  She moaned, trying with her hands to push him down into her. “But would you want her as a wife? Would you love her?”

  “You are my wife, and I love you.”

  “But—” She gasped as Neville finally pushed himself inside her body, making love to her with long, slow, powerful strokes. He kissed her, deep and sweet, massaging her breasts and belly with firm, knowing hands.

  “But,” she finally managed, dragging her mouth away from his, and trying to keep her mind intact amid the sweet onslaught of his loving, “do you love me enough to hand me your—”

  “Jesus Christ, Margaret!” Suddenly Neville pulled away from her, rolling over to his side of the bed. “Can you not ever leave that alone?”

  There was a long, bitter silence.

  “If I had been Mary,” Margaret eventually said, “you would not have rolled away.”

  PART THREE

  Shrewsbury

  “Also we do allege, saie & entend to prove that thou hast caused kynge Richarde our soueraigne lorde and thine, traiterously within the castell of Poumfret, without the consent or iudgeme
nt of the lordes of the realme, by the space of fiftene daies and so many nightes (which is horible emong christian people to be heard) with honger, thirste and colde to perishe, to be murdered [and then] thou by extorte power, diddest usurpe and take the kyngdom of Englande…uniustly and wrongly, contrary to thyne othe…for the whiche cause we defy thee, thy fautoures and complices as comen traytoures and destroyers of the realme.”

  Excerpts from the statement made by Northumberland and Hotspur prior to the battle of Shrewsbury

  I

  Wednesday 29th May 1381

  They trotted in long snaking lines down the mountains and valleys to vanish within the drifting mists. They re-emerged just as the great wall rose before them, and shouted when they saw it, thrusting fists and pikes into the night air. This was a day they’d longed for through vast, hateful centuries. Many exposed themselves to the stonework, demonstrating their ancient malice for all who cared to see. By dawn they were through into Cumberland, passing underneath gated arches opened by silent, resentful Englishmen.

  The horsemen, thousands of them, moved in clattering lines past Carlisle, whose terrified citizens shuttered themselves tight inside their homes. Rain fell, sheeting down in grey, cold rivers, but the horsemen ignored it, for this cold and wet was as a home to them. They pushed their small, tough horses into a canter, riding through the dark midmorning of West Warde Forest and then further south towards the hills and Copeland Forest.

  Finally, as the afternoon grew grim and chill, they approached the village of Black Hal just above the border of Lancashire.

  There lay the English army, and in a tangle of wild beards and colourful tartans the Scots pushed their exhausted mounts into a gallop, and raised their pikes and swords, and rode to meet their hated enemy.