The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  Potential site of rebellion or not, Paris was looking ever better to Charles. Its walls were difficult to breach, and the city was well prepared for a siege. Bolingbroke might hope to starve Charles into submission, but if he managed to ignore what was going on outside the walls, and perhaps ask the troubadours to lift the volume of their entertainment, then he would surely survive any attack. Bolingbroke would get bored and go home eventually.

  All would be well if he just ignored everything that was worrisome and irritating.

  All would be well…so long as he could trust those who promised to protect him.

  Suddenly nervous, Charles slid his eyes before him to where Joan rode her roan stallion. She was some four or five paces ahead, her horse’s pace slowed now to a walk as the citizens of Paris surged about her.

  Contrariwise, Charles and his immediate escort rode without any serious impediment at all, save the road blockage about Joan ahead of them.

  Joan was leaning down and touching as many hands and faces as she could. Her face seemed both grave and happy all at the same moment. Her mouth smiled, and spoke cheerful words, but her eyes were sorrowful, as if heavy thoughts consumed her.

  Why so grave? thought Charles, screwing his face as he tried to think it through. Should she not be joyous at this reception, at this public adoration? If not, then why not? What did she know? What secret did she not tell him? Did she know of a traitor? A treachery? Was she the treachery?

  Charles swallowed, and wondered if trapping himself within Paris was such a good idea, after all.

  He glanced behind him to where Philip of Navarre rode.

  Philip was staring straight at him with his intense black eyes.

  Charles almost slipped out of his saddle in his haste to turn back to the front again.

  Philip?

  No, no. Not Philip. He had to trust Philip. Who else could save him? Philip was right, Joan and Bolingbroke were the true thorns in his side. Joan had grown useless and unsure (the gravity in her eyes when they should have been joyous was truth enough of that), and Bolingbroke was a repellent Plantagenet born and bred…all of them were determined to have France at any cost.

  And the nastily efficient manner in which Bolingbroke had put down Hotspur’s rebellion was indication enough of his martial ability.

  Charles had not yet given Philip total control of his army—for which the man was constantly pressing him—although in the previous week he’d allowed him to begin preparations for war. But Charles was now thinking it might be the time to delegate military control to Philip. It would be best that way. He could keep both the Parisians and the English at a safe distance.

  Cheered by his decision, Charles smiled and began waving at the crowds. Most ignored him, preferring to mob Joan, but the Maid herself saw Charles’ attempts to be gracious.

  She turned in the saddle, throwing back one arm to indicate Charles.

  “There rides your king!” she shouted. “Charles, saviour of the French!”

  Charles’ heart lurched nastily within his chest, and his face paled.

  “Charles is France! Charles is France!” she shouted.

  Eyes swivelled in Charles’ direction, stayed long enough to see the king’s nervous attempts to moisten his lips, and the manner in which his hands trembled as they fumbled about his reins, then turned once more to Joan.

  “He will lead you to victory,” Joan shouted, now standing in her saddle, her eyes shining with the fervour she’d once reserved for the archangel. “Charles will save France! Charles will save France. Hail France! Hail Charles!”

  Charles almost panicked. And any respect he’d ever had for Joan fled at that precise moment.

  Damn, she was dangerous.

  He turned about to look at Philip once more.

  Philip stared at him, a sardonic smile playing about his lips. I told you she was dangerous.

  Charles returned his gaze to Joan. Damn her! Damn her!

  Charles was now completely determined to hand military control to Philip. At least Philip wouldn’t ask, or expect, him to ride with the army. Philip would allow him to remain safely tucked away in whatever palace seemed safest at the time. Philip would always take care of him.

  Philip was best, and Joan was looking more and more treacherous every minute.

  The crowd still roared and surged about Joan, ignoring her continued impassioned pleas to consider Charles as their saviour.

  They might be ill-bred, but they didn’t consider themselves stupid.

  The slow ride through the crowds meant that they didn’t reach the royal palace before late afternoon. By then, everyone from Maid of France to king to lowliest foot soldier assigned as escort was tired, irritable, and wanted nothing more than to eat, then fall down somewhere vaguely comfortable and sleep.

  But for Joan, both eating and sleeping were denied her for an hour or so. And yet, she minded not in the least.

  As they rode into the courtyard of the palace, a man and a woman emerged from a doorway, standing shyly to one side as valets and servants fussed about the royalty and nobility.

  Joan saw them only after she’d dismounted, and handed the more easily removed bits of her armour to a valet.

  “Mama?” she whispered. “Papa?”

  Catherine had said that she would arrange for Zabillet and Jacques d’Arc to meet Joan in Paris, but Joan had hardly dared to believe it.

  Now she rushed over to her parents as far as her exhausted body and heavy armour would allow. She hesitated just as she reached them, clearly wanting to hug them, and yet not wishing to crush them against her armour, and so she dropped to one knee before them, and bowed her head, asking humbly for her parents’ blessing.

  Jacques’ hair and beard were grey now, and his face more lined with care since Joan had last seen him. But his eyes were still warm, and full of love and compassion for his daughter. He stepped forward, and placed his hand on her bowed head.

  “Jeanette…” he said, and her heart almost broke as he spoke the diminutive of her name. “Jeanette, you always have had, and will always have our love. Do not kneel before us.”

  Joan lifted her face, and took one of her parents’ hands in each of her own. “I want so much to come home with you,” she said, “but I cannot. Not yet.” Tears formed in her eyes, and slid down her cheeks.

  Zabillet’s heart almost broke. “You must do as the angels tell you,” she said. “We know that.”

  A peculiar expression came over Joan’s face. “I do as my Lord Jesus Christ tells me, and no other.”

  There was a step behind her, and Jacques and Zabillet looked up, their faces blushing and unsure. “Madam,” Jacques said, and bowed deeply as his wife curtsied.

  Joan looked around.

  Catherine had walked over from her horse, hobbling a little with the stiffness in her body caused by their long ride. She held out a hand to Joan, aiding her to rise.

  As soon as she’d regained her feet, Joan also bowed as deeply as her armour would allow her before Catherine. “I do thank you,” she said, “for this act was nothing but kindness on your part.”

  Catherine smiled, nodding a greeting at Jacques and Zabillet, but speaking to Joan. “I would speak with you later,” she said. “Perhaps before you retire?”

  “Gladly,” said Joan.

  “Joan,” Catherine said to her many hours later as both met in a small chapel in the vaults under the royal palace. “Why not go home with your parents?”

  Joan shot her an amused glance, then picked up a small wooden statue of the Virgin from the altar. She stroked it gently with her fingers, as if drawing comfort from it.

  “You think to be rid of me so easily?”

  “We are no longer the enemies we once were,” Catherine said, cross that Joan had chosen that manner in which to respond.

  Joan sighed, and put the statue of the Virgin back in its place. “No, not enemies, but I do not think ‘friends’ yet, either, Catherine. I do not loathe you, I do not fear you, and I unde
rstand you, but I do not think myself your friend. You want either Bolingbroke or Philip for France, I want Charles.”

  Catherine studied the girl’s face for a moment, then sank down on the cushions scattered over the steps before the altar. She was very tired, and would be glad to go to bed.

  She thought she would have it to herself this night. Philip would be closeted with his commanders and his new-found authority in the war rooms of the palace.

  “Oh, Joan,” she said, concern making her voice husky. “If you stay you will die. Both Philip and Charles plan your downfall, and the good Archbishop Regnault de Chartres as well, if the whispers I hear are correct. I beg you to go home with your parents. Mind your father’s sheep. Joan, Charles plans your downfall as much as anyone. Why this loyalty to him? If you want to save France, why think him the man to do it?”

  Joan sat down beside her, staring towards the back wall of the chapel. This late at night there were only two or three oil lamps lit about the altar, and the back wall was covered in flickering shadows.

  “Is Philip the man to save France?” she asked softly, her eyes still on the shadowy wall. “Or Bolingbroke?”

  Her eyes suddenly shifted back to Catherine. “Both men want France for themselves, and for their own ambitions. Both men will rape France.”

  “And what will Charles do?” Catherine cried. “Suddenly find his spirit and courage and lead France into a glorious and secure future? Charles?”

  Joan’s mouth quirked in genuine amusement. “Charles. Yes, he will. Charles does not yet know himself.”

  Catherine laughed shortly, disbelievingly. “Charles will do nothing but lead France into muddlement and disarray. He is a fool. Joan…if you stay here you will die. And what will that accomplish? Go home. I say that, not because my scheming wants you out of the way, but because I do not want you to die for nothing.”

  “I will not die for nothing,” Joan said very softly, reaching out to take Catherine’s hand. “My death will accomplish France’s freedom. It is a simple thing to do, a simple act for a simple girl, and I will not shirk it.”

  “And is this what the archangel told you?” Catherine said, her voice full of bitterness.

  “No,” said Joan, smiling secretively, and not explaining her answer. “Catherine, what I do is for joy. Joy for my parents and my village and my homeland. And I do it because I know that my death will give Charles what he needs to be a true king to France.”

  “You are a fool, Joan,” said Catherine, but her voice held no hostility, only despair.

  Aye, thought Joan, once I was a fool, but no more.

  “Why care so much for me, Catherine?” she asked. “Why care so much for my fate?”

  Catherine took a long while answering. “Because you have been so grievously handled by the angels. As grievously handled as their children.”

  “Where have you been hiding this heart all these years?” said Joan. She leaned forward and kissed Catherine’s cheek gently. “Now go to your bed. You and I are both tired, and if we stay here any longer we shall weep.”

  Catherine smiled. “And that would not do, would it? Not for the Maid of France, nor for the Princess Catherine.”

  Joan grinned, and helped Catherine to rise.

  “Charles is an idiot,” she said, “but he will not be so forever.”

  II

  Friday 26th July 1381

  Having ordered England’s affairs as best he could, and leaving behind Ralph Raby, Earl of Westmorland, as Justiciar to govern England, Bolingbroke embarked for France a little shy of a month after his announcement to invade. Three score ships set sail from the Cinque Ports, fat with archers, men-at-arms, knights, valets, horses and all the weapons, armour, gear, and as much of their sustenance as they could manage. Ships glistening not only with the spray of the Narrow Seas and the hot sun above, but with the jewel-like banners, pennants and sails that strained at every masthead and pole and rope, and with the shimmer of light from the helmets and weapons of those men-at-arms on top of the decks.

  Three score ships, carrying an army of thirty-five thousand: England’s chance at France.

  The preparations for this invasion force had not gone unnoticed by France. Philip of Navarre, now in control of Charles’ military force, was almost certain of Bolingbroke’s destination: Harfleur, the garrison that guarded the mouth of the Seine. Bolingbroke would come straight for Paris—no use dawdling sightseeing about the provinces when the crown both literally and metaphorically rested in Paris—

  and if he wanted to secure his approach to Paris, he would need to subdue Harfleur.

  Philip had every intention of ensuring that Bolingbroke got bogged down in the salt marshes surrounding Harfleur.

  He and Bolingbroke may have made a bargain regarding France—once both Joan and Charles were disposed of, whoever Catherine gave her hand to in marriage received the throne—but Philip trusted Bolingbroke not an inch.

  He trusted Catherine even less. She refused to marry him, and thus her heart must be set on Bolingbroke. Philip knew he was going to have to fight to finally wrest the crown away from Joan, Charles and Bolingbroke and his Englishmen.

  Harfleur had for generations been a well-defended town and garrison. By the time the English fleet hove into view at the head of the wide bay leading to the mouth of the Seine on the dawn of the 26th of July it was virtually unassailable.

  Bolingbroke stood on the deck of his flagship, the Grace Dieu, staring at the coastline fifty yards away. The ship swayed vigorously beneath his feet, tugging impatiently at its anchor, but he did not notice his movement. The coastline, and the geography of the landscape surrounding Harfleur, occupied his entire attention.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “Land there and climb to the top of the hill. It will be the best spot from which to observe, and too far from Harfleur’s walls for arrow flight. Get back as soon as you can…I want to begin disembarkation today.”

  The two men who stood beside him, Lord Hungerford and Sir Gilbert Umfraville, nodded, then turned and led a party of some thirty-six men down rope ladders to two small boats bobbing at the Grace Dieu’s side.

  Bolingbroke waited until he saw them land, scurrying for cover and the path to the top of the rolling hills to the northwest of Harfleur, then he went below to oversee the final preparations for landing.

  As he was about to duck down into the hatchway he saw Neville standing at the stern of the ship.

  They stared at each other, locking eyes, then Bolingbroke disappeared below.

  Neville continued watching the now empty hatchway for some time before returning his gaze to the choppy seas and the row after row of ships at anchor behind the Grace Dieu.

  For the past few weeks, ever since that day he had talked with James the carpenter in his workshop in London, both Bolingbroke and Margaret had been assiduously avoiding him. This was an easy matter on Bolingbroke’s part, for he was a king, not only governing one realm, but preparing an invasion of another, and he had many things to occupy him. On those few occasions Bolingbroke could not manage to avoid Neville, he spoke with Neville stiffly and coolly, as if he were the most treasonous piece of filth in the realm.

  What friendship they had reforged before Shrewsbury was patently torn asunder.

  Margaret had a more difficult time of avoidance, for Neville was her husband, and she must share his bed at night. Nevertheless, Neville felt such a vast distance between them within that bed that she might as well have been inhabiting the mythical Cathay. She would hardly speak to him, replying only in monosyllables whenever he tried to engage her in conversation, and refusing to meet his eyes. He saw more of her back than any other side of her.

  It was, in many respects, a return to the Margaret who had so rejected him after her rape at Richard’s and de Vere’s hands.

  So, Margaret and Bolingbroke avoided him, and turned their backs to him. What had he done? Did they somehow know of what he did in St John’s Chapel within the Tower complex? Were they somehow
angry that Christ was freed from his torment?

  Or had he committed some other sin?

  Whatever it was, Neville found he did not care overmuch. Bolingbroke and he had been drifting apart for a very long time. A brief reunion of their friendship during the campaign against Hotspur was apparently not enough to bridge permanently the divide between them. Margaret and he…well…he loved her, and wanted whatever had come between them to be resolved, but he was not going to moon after her, or chase after her, or beg her forgiveness as he had after her rape. If she did not want to come to him and broach whatever troubled her, then it must needs continue to trouble her.

  Neville had other things on his mind.

  The decision. It would be made here, in France. Bolingbroke had long ago told him this, and now Neville could feel it, tugging at his blood. Here, in France, and within weeks at the most. Everyone who needed to be a part of that decision was present: Margaret, as part of Mary’s entourage; Bolingbroke; Joan—presumably still with Charles, but Neville had no doubt that sooner or later fate would see her in Bolingbroke’s camp; and Neville himself. At least his children were well out of it, sent back home to Halstow Hall in the company of Agnes and a grumbling Robert Courtenay, who would have vastly preferred to be participating in the glory of a final French defeat than minding two small children.

  Of all the thoughts that eased Neville’s mind, the knowledge that if all went well he could return to the love of his children comforted him the most.

  If all went well.

  Neville assumed that Bolingbroke and Margaret were as much aware of the closeness of the decision as he was himself, and he wondered that they so damaged their cause in turning their backs and hearts against him. What ploy was this on their part? Did they not need him to so love Margaret that he would hand her his soul? Neville wondered if their coldness was a conscious ploy. After all, these tactics had worked perfectly once before, bringing him to love’s heel, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that they would try it again.