The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  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.

  VIII

  Monday 17th June 1381

  Bolingbroke held the single-page letter in his hand, and only Neville, who was close enough and astute enough, could see that the king’s hand trembled very slightly.

  “He will meet with me,” he said. “In the ploughed field with three oak trees beyond the town. Alone, save,” his eyes lifted, glancing briefly at Neville before settling on his assembled commanders, “for Neville. We must both be unarmed.”

  “Sire!” Cumberland said. “This is folly. You cannot ride alone—my apologies, save for Neville—to meet with such an arch traitor. He is as soon likely to have one of his archers put an arrow through your breast as engage in gentle courtly parley!”

  “Hotspur will not do that,” Bolingbroke said. “I know him well. He may rail at me, but he will not stoop to coldblooded murder.”

  “Sire—” tried Norbury.

  “I have made up my mind,” Bolingbroke said, carefully folding the letter. “Now, see to the arrangements.”

  As the others set to their tasks, grudgingly, murmuring among themselves, Bolingbroke locked eyes briefly with Neville.

  The three old friends would meet one last time, to see if the old ties of that friendship would be enough to save staining the fields north of Shrewsbury with English blood.

  The wind was cold, the sky still layered with the dirty brown clouds of dawn, the air thick and irritable with the dust lifted by the hooves of the thirty thousand horses of the armies to the north and south of Shrewsbury. It was hot, and the noise of insects shrilled through the air.

  Neville and Bolingbroke sweated underneath their armour, and within half an hour of riding out from Shrewsbury, an escort of some three hundred men at their backs, they stank as badly as they had before their baths the previous night.

  The ploughed field with the three oaks lay some two miles north of Shrewsbury along a badly rutted track. On either side the fields waved thigh-high with grain crops, and the meadows along the several small streams they passed were thick with over-ripe hay.

  But there was no one in the fields weeding the crops, or in the meadows scything the hay. Neville was uncomfortably reminded of that hot day he rode through northern France, wondering at the oddness of deserted fields before smelling the foulness of the roasting flesh.

  He shuddered, and hoped his memory was not to be an omen.

  It was early afternoon, the time Hotspur had said he would meet with Bolingbroke, and in the near distance Neville could see the dusty black earth of the ploughed field, with the three oaks standing in a sorry cluster in its southwestern corner.

  There were a thousand glints of steel on the far side of the field—a river of steel, thought Neville—marking the position of Hotspur’s escort. Presumably his army would be another mile or so behind that.

  Hotspur had encamped his force of Scotsmen and Englishmen behind a mid-sized ridge some three miles north of Shrewsbury late the previous night. As soon as Bolingbroke had risen at dawn, and been informed of Hotspur’s arrival, he’d sent the request that they meet. Hotspur’s response had been only an hour in its delivery.

  As they arrived at the southern edge of the field, Bolingbroke held up his hand, halting the advance of his escort. Then he looked at Neville, raising his eyebrows.

  Neville nodded, and they kicked their horses forward.

  Both he and Bolingbroke rode in full ceremonial armour, although minus any helm or helmet, or any weaponry. Their plate was gleaming white steel, marked with Bolingbroke’s personal standard, as well the three Plantagenet lions. Their horses were decked out in as fine a manner, although their carefully washed and groomed coats were now coated with
the fine dust that hung in the air.

  As bad as our heads of hair, thought Neville, and wished that, somehow, either Hotspur or Bolingbroke could have magically arranged a damp day so that the dust might have been settled. He fought the urge to wipe his dry lips, and, as he saw a mounted figure emerge from the glittering steel at the far side of the field, cleared his throat quietly in order to try and bring some moisture back into his mouth.

  “I am glad you are with me,” Bolingbroke said from his position slightly to the front of Neville’s left.

  “I would not have let you come on your own,” Neville said, and Bolingbroke flashed him a boyish grin.

  Then they both focused on the rider approaching them, and any merriment on their faces died.

  Hotspur rode a dark bay destrier, festooned in scarlet draperies. Hotspur’s armour was scarlet also, with silver decorations. To Neville’s eyes he looked like the scourge of death riding to meet them.

  “Hail, Harry Hotspur,” said Bolingbroke as he reined his destrier to a halt. “What have I done, Harry, that you should so maltreat me?”

  Hotspur, also helmetless, glanced between the two men, nodding at Neville, then settled his gaze on Bolingbroke.

  “I have come to revenge Richard,” Hotspur said, “and to settle legitimacy back on the English throne.”

  “That being yourself, of course,” Bolingbroke said.

  “God has spoken,” Hotspur said. “The black Dog of Pestilence stalks your reign—”

  “You speak in the riddles of fairy tales,” Bolingbroke said. “Come now, Harry, what need is there of this? Turn about, now, and ride back to the north. Wall those Scots back in their mountains where they belong. Sweet Mary Mother of Christ, Harry, all you need do is bow before me and pledge your allegiance and I will give you all the honours I may.”

  Neville glanced at Bolingbroke. Hal’s voice had almost broken on that last phrase.

  “The Percys can never hope for any justice under a Lancastrian sun,” Hotspur said. “You would have had us killed as you had Richard. We needed to move to save ourselves.”