The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?”

  Joan looked up, knowing that there was no use trying to decipher her premonition. Whatever happened, the Lord Jesus Christ would protect her. “I think I would like to take my morning walk now, my lady. If it pleases you.”

  Each of the two mornings past, Joan’s minders had escorted her up the narrow stone staircase to the flat roof of the southeastern tower of Beaurevoir castle. Here they had allowed her an hour of gentle pacing about the perimeter of the roof in the fresh air.

  Today Joan walked up as usual, encased by her women, and murmured her thanks as they led her into the sunshine. Not only was the sun and fresh air welcome, but the view was spectacular. Rolling fields, not yet browned by months of summer heat, spread in every direction, interrupted only here and there by a stand of trees, or a tiny village. Birds fluttered overhead, sometimes landing on the roof not far from Joan’s feet as if to beg from her a morsel of the breakfast she had left uneaten.

  Joan spent several minutes standing motionless in the centre of the roof, her hands folded before her, her eyes resting on the peaceful view. The sense of danger had now grown so intense it dominated her consciousness.

  She looked over her shoulder. Her two female companions were standing by the door to the stairwell, gossiping quietly. Further away stood the three men-at-arms who had accompanied them, watching Joan, but not with any serious attention.

  Not one of those five looked to have a single murderous intent lurking within their minds.

  Joan looked back to the view before her…and gasped in horror.

  Before her stood the very faintly illuminated figure of Archangel Michael.

  You stupid peasant, thinking you could switch your allegiance from us to that Demon Trickster Jesus. Thinking you still have a role to play in the drama ahead. Fool! Have you not yet realised how utterly redundant you are? How useless?

  And without waiting for any kind of answer, he lunged forward, enveloping Joan in his golden luminosity.

  A second later, she felt herself being lifted up and hurled over the side of the tower.

  Joan tried to scream, but the earth below rushed to meet her so fast that there was no time.

  “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?”

  Encased in such agony that she knew she must be dead, Joan managed to open one eye a fraction.

  A man leaned over her. A craftsman by the leather tunic he wore, and the belt of tools at his waist.

  “Help me,” she whispered.

  “How may I do that, mademoiselle,” the man replied, “when you are not even badly hurt. A little bump to your head, and a twisted ankle.”

  Suddenly Joan’s pain vanished, and she felt her broken body miraculously knit itself whole again.

  “Lord Jesu,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling against the strong morning sun. “I have not forgotten you, Joan,” he said, “nor forgotten how important you are to me. Do not doubt my love and need of you.”

  And then, suddenly, he was gone, and she was surrounded by the terrified faces of the men-at-arms who had rushed down from the tower roof.

  “She lives!” cried one.

  “And with barely a scratch!” said another.

  “A miracle,” Joan murmured, and closed her eyes and smiled, knowing how the angels must be screaming in frustration.

  Thirty-six hours later Philip’s men came to take her away.

  II

  Friday 16th August 1381

  —ii—

  Catherine paused inside the doorway, waiting for Philip to notice her. He was standing in a group by the window of the large chamber, gesticulating angrily with several of the French commanders, the Archbishop of Rheims, Regnault de Chartres, and the Provost General of Paris.

  She wondered if this was the best possible time to try and speak with him. But when else? Philip had not come to her bed at all in the past two nights, and had made no attempt to see her during the days. He had been lured away, not by the charms of another woman, but by that heady mistress, War. France had roused as never before against the English threat—the English dogs had stolen their Maid—and this time the French were determined to push the invaders back beyond the Narrow Seas once and for all. Now men and horses and equipment gathered in increasing numbers in the fields and meadows above Paris. There was a sense of resolve, a sense of purpose, and a sense of unity that gripped all Catherine met (save, naturally, her brother, Charles) and which was to her so strange as to be quite remarkable. Joan’s stealing had accomplished what very little else was able to: a forgetfulness of personal feuds and ambitions in preference for a united stand against the English.

  If only Joan knew, thought Catherine, she would be so happy.

  Then her mood darkened. France was going to war against England, but, more importantly and tragically for Catherine, Philip was going to war against Hal.

  She suddenly realised Philip had seen her. A stillness had come over the group by the window, and all eyes had turned to her.

  Catherine smiled—an expression meant to display confidence rather than amusement—and moved deeper into the chamber. She’d dressed carefully for this occasion: the deep crimson gown that Philip liked so much, jewels at her neck, upper arms and waist, and a delicate golden tracery of lace that trailed about her coiled dark hair and down her back.

  “My lords,” she said, inclining her head. “Surely this talk of war must not consume all your time? Are there no minutes left in your day for your women?”

  The men glanced at each other, embarrassed and out of sorts with Catherine’s entrance and words. There were great matters to be decided, a war to be won, invaders to be trod into the dust of the earth…this was no time for wives and lovers.

  “Ah,” Catherine said softly, “I have disturbed your talk.”

  She glanced at Philip. His dark gaze was riveted on her, his expression that of utter neutrality. Catherine knew him well enough, however, to know he was angry at her interruption.

  “I irritate you,” she continued, “I can see that. You think what I am and what I have to say is of little consequence. My lords…” Catherine sat on a throne-like chair that had been placed ready for Philip, her head and shoulders held elegantly, her hands carefully, deliberately, rearranging her full silken skirts into precisely the correct folds. She raised her head, regarding each man frankly, and continued. ”And yet this woman can perhaps aid you.” She tilted her head and regarded Philip. “If I said the right words, Philip, could I not win for you—”

  “Perhaps it would be better if Catherine and I spoke privately,” Philip said. He waved away the group about him. “Meet with me again this evening, and bring with you the latest reports on both the English and our preparations.”

  The men filed out, slowly, reluctantly, their every movement stiff with affront that Catherine should have so interrupted them.

  Finally, when all were gone, Philip closed the distance between himself and Catherine in three heavy strides, and leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair so that his stiff arms trapped Catherine.

  “What do you here?” he said, finally allowing his anger some freedom.

  “What do you do here?” she countered. “Philip, what is going on? Joan is gone, taken by Hal, they say…although I have my doubts. And here you are, preparing to lead an army against Hal. Philip, you cannot win.”

  He stepped back from her. “I thank you for your confidence in me.”

  Catherine’s shoulders slumped, and she looked down at her hands as they lay in her lap. “May I rephrase that last?” she said softly.

  She received only silence for an answer.

  Catherine looked up. “I do not want you to lose, Philip. I do not want to lose you.”

  Again, silence, although now his regard was more calculating than angry.

  “You said that Hal and you had made a bargain. Together you would dispose of Joan, then you would let me decide France. Whoever I took as my husband would take
France.”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Then stop this foolish war,” she said, “and marry me.”

  Nothing she could have said would have stunned Philip more. For months, years, she had consistently refused to marry him.

  “What?” he said.

  “I do not want Hal,” she said, her voice even softer now. “I want you. You will do better for France than either Hal or Charles. Marry me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This is some trap.”

  She smiled, but sadly, knowing that she deserved his suspicion. “No. No more a trap than any marriage. Marry me.”

  “Catherine…” Philip came close, squatting down before her. He took both her hands in his. “Catherine. There will be war anyway. If Hal discovers that you have wed me…” He gave a short laugh. “My love…neither of us meant that bargain. The rejected suitor was always going to take out his frustration on the battlefield.”

  “I know. Marry me anyway.”

  “Catherine…why now?”

  “Because I think the world is about to fall apart,” Catherine said, and began to weep soundlessly, “and I would prefer it to fall apart while I am in your arms than distanced from them.”

  He lifted a hand and wiped away some of her tears. “Regnault de Chartres is undoubtedly close. His ear is pressed permanently to doors. Should I call him now?”

  She nodded.

  III

  Monday 19th August 1381

  (Night)

  The stubble of the grain field crackled underneath the boots of the men and the hard-iron hooves of the horses they led on loose reins.

  The men walked slowly, loose-hipped, their eyes straight ahead, their heads and shoulders still, their arms wary by their sides.

  Two groups of men approaching each other across the newly harvested barley field, each equally watchful. Every man among them wore smiles of disdainful confidence on their faces.

  It was all show, all gamesmanship. Every man expected treachery to leap out at him from the night.

  Above them hung a heavy moon. A thin haze of clouds gave it a sickly yellow sheen, as if it had somehow caught the miasma that had so recently enveloped the English army. It drooped dully in the sky, as if tired of hanging on amid the exuberance of the stars.

  The air was hot and dusty, and most of the men glistened with sweat. But better this dark activity than tossing and turning sleepless on a pallet in camp.

  Hal Bolingbroke, King of England, led the group of twenty-five Englishmen. He was finely dressed in a crimson and forest-green tunic above ivory leggings and dark red Italian leather boots, wearing no armour and only a slim sword at his hip. His silver-gilt hair was left to lift in the breeze of his passing; his light grey eyes did not falter in their regard of the group that he approached.

  A small purse hung at his waist.

  Behind him walked seven nobles and eighteen sturdy and trustworthy men-at-arms who led the party’s horses.

  They had one spare.

  The group who walked towards them were of a similar composition to the English party, save that they were led by a man in the rustling silken robes of an archbishop. The cleric walked as confidently as did the English king, his head held as high, his face as arrogant.

  His eyes slipped to the small purse at Bolingbroke’s waist, and he permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction.

  “Greetings, King of England and Pretender to the French crown,” said the cleric as, finally, the two groups came to a halt some two paces apart. “I am pleased that you appear so hearty, given the disease that has decimated your army.”

  Bolingbroke’s face tightened. “Greetings, archbishop. I regret to say that your concern has no grounding. My army is well, and fit. What little illness there was has passed.”

  Archbishop Regnault de Chartres smiled cynically. The reports that he and Philip had received put the English army at a fraction of its previous size. Eight thousand, perhaps. No more. Bolingbroke was finished.

  But he was still useful.

  “I have what you want,” de Chartres said, seeing no point in wasting anyone’s time. He gestured slightly with his left hand, and two of his men-at-arms bought forward a hooded and hunched figure.

  The figure stumbled a little as it hit a raised sod of earth, but made no sound.

  Bolingbroke stared at it, his eyes raised. “This is the mighty Maid of France? Where her powers? Her miracles?”

  De Chartres shrugged dismissively. “I have not brought you miracles, Bolingbroke. Only the maid, Joan. Do what you will with her.”

  The men shoved the hooded girl forward, and she tripped, falling to her knees before Bolingbroke.

  Bolingbroke smiled.

  “And I have these for you,” de Chartres continued. He snapped his fingers at one of the noblemen behind him, and the man handed him a packet of documents, tightly bound and sealed. De Chartres took them and stepped forward, handing them to Bolingbroke over Joan’s bowed figure.

  “You will find these useful, I think,” the archbishop said. “They relate the girl’s various heresies, and her sorceries.”

  Bolingbroke took the documents readily enough, but raised an eyebrow. “You are being generous, de Chartres.”

  “I am a man of God,” de Chartres replied, and now it was Bolingbroke’s turn to smile cynically.

  “You have been careful, I hope,” he said to the Frenchman. “It would not go well for you were your countrymen and women to discover your treachery to their Maid.”

  “I have been careful,” de Chartres snapped. “Have you brought the money?”

  “The twenty thousand gold pieces?” Bolingbroke laughed, and took the purse from the belt at his waist. He opened it, tipping a pile of silver coins into his hand. “I have brought only what you deserve, de Chartres. Thirty silver pieces, the regulation payment for any Judas.”

  He flipped the coins towards the archbishop, and they caught the moonlight as they arced into the night, glittering like magical dots of light as they fell in a tinkling heap, one by one, at de Chartres feet.

  He stared at them, but did not condescend to bend and pick them up.

  “Do not think that she will do you any good,” de Chartres finally said softly, lifting his head. Then he swivelled about on his heel, and gestured to his party to return the way they had come.

  Bolingbroke stared after him for a moment, then waved several of his men to come forward, grab Joan, and hoist her onto the spare horse.

  Then, just as Bolingbroke was mounting himself, de Chartres stopped in his tracks, and spun about to shout a final message.

  “Good King Hal,” he cried, “I almost forgot. Philip of Navarre says that the final part of the bargain between you is now also concluded.”

  Bolingbroke froze in the act of mounting, one leg hanging awkwardly over his horse’s back.

  “He says that he hopes for your very best wishes,” de Chartres continued, and all could hear the laughter in his voice, “on the occasion of his marriage to Catherine of France. A happy ceremony which I was glad to perform two nights ago.”

  Very, very slowly, Bolingbroke managed to lower his leg across his horse and settle in his saddle. His face was completely expressionless.

  “But at least you now have Joan,” de Chartres concluded. “And with her, Philip says, you must be content. Perhaps you shall not wish to burn her after all.”

  He laughed, mocking and triumphant, and Bolingbroke swung his horse about, and spurred him into a gallop.

  They arrived back in Rouen at dawn, Bolingbroke still stony-faced at the head of his party. He led them to the entrance below the castle which he had made his headquarters, to the dungeons, then commanded them in curt words to lift Joan from where she’d been roped across her horse and to follow him.

  He led them deep into the underground vaulted chambers. The stone walls were damp with constantly dripping water, and splotchy-dark with mould. Torches sputtered in infrequent sconces, and everyone, save Bolingbroke, stumbled, cur
sing, from time to time. Joan was in a pitiful state, for the hood still covered her features, and her hands were bound behind her back. Had not two men kept their fingers buried in the shoulder material of her tunic she would have hardly been able to walk at all. As it was, she had twisted her left leg at some point, and now it dragged behind her.

  Eventually Bolingbroke came to a halt before a door. Several men stood at guard outside, and to these men Bolingbroke nodded curtly. “Is it done?”

  “Aye, your grace,” replied a sergeant. “Exactly as you ordered.”

  “Good.” Bolingbroke nodded to the sergeant, who produced a key from a bunch at his belt, unlocking and swinging the door inwards.

  Bolingbroke took a torch from one of the sconces, and stepped into the chamber.

  After a moment he emerged, his face satisfied, and nodded to the two men who held a half-fainting Joan between them.

  They hustled her inside, Bolingbroke a half step behind them.

  He closed the door as he entered.

  Joan whimpered, hating her weakness that she did so. Her entire body ached from the bruising ride tied across the horse’s withers, and her head and ankle still pained her from her fall three days previous, but worst of all was the pain in her heart and soul.

  Betrayed in such brutal fashion. But then she had expected that.

  What had distressed her more than she had known was to be treated in a more worthless manner than was a common pig.

  Brought here, to the heart of the hated English enemy camp, where, no doubt, they had tortures aplenty devised for her, to be applied with brutal glee that they’d finally got their hands on the Maid of France.

  Christ be with me, she prayed. But here, in this dankness, and surrounded with Bolingbroke’s enmity, she wondered if even Christ would be able to aid her.