The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  The two men with their thick blanket sling returned, gently positioning Mary between them, and returning her once more into the grim narrow windings of the passageways leading from the dungeons into the higher levels of the castle. Margaret walked a step or two behind, one hand constantly raised and hovering behind Mary’s back, as if she might be able with that one hand to prevent a disaster if the two men should slip and lose their grip on their precious bundle.

  She felt exhausted, drained, her muscles aching and her head throbbing. But if she felt this weary and aching, then how much pain must Mary be enduring? Margaret prayed they reached the upper levels in good time, and that when they entered Mary’s chamber it would be to find that Culpeper had managed to discover an even stronger mixture of his dark, dangerous herbs that might serve to ease Mary’s agony.

  They ascended the narrow, winding stairs—the men stepping carefully, and with the utmost slowness, lest they slip on the damp stones and dislodge Mary from their care. The journey seemed to be taking hours, although Margaret knew they’d really only taken a few minutes to reach this point. Mary tried to keep quiet, but Margaret heard her sharp intakes of breath every time the men inadvertently jostled her, and could only imagine the pain she endured.

  “Mary…” she said as they reached the top of the stairwell.

  “I am well enough, Margaret,” came the reply, but Mary’s voice was tight and strained.

  We should not have come, thought Margaret. This was too much.

  But now that they’d reached the main levels of the castle the men made good and smooth time. They hastened through the main hall, populated at the moment by only a few sleeping men-at-arms and hunting hounds, then up yet another winding, but mercifully not so steep, stairwell. Mary’s chamber was at the top of this stairwell.

  Another few minutes only, thought Margaret, and then we shall be well.

  Yet her hand hovered closer than ever to Mary’s back.

  Just as they reached the final few steps before the top of the stairwell, both of the men exclaimed softly, slowing to a complete halt.

  “What is it?” said Margaret, her voice harsh with concern.

  “My lady…” said one of the men…and then he screamed, flattening himself against the wall of the stairwell.

  As he did so an explosion of golden light filled the space before the group. Margaret had time for only one, brief, appalled look at what stood there—an archangel, his arms raised above his head, his hands clawed, his face misshapen with hate, his entire being hurtling down the stairs towards the group—before the man who had screamed fell against her, knocking her against the wall and momentarily stunning her as her head hit stone.

  Bitch-whore! the archangel screamed. Do not think that this time you will thwart our will!

  And then the archangel’s scream was subsumed by something far more horrifying—Mary’s shriek of terror as the archangel enveloped her and her two bearers in his heavenly anger.

  Both the men dropped the blanket in an instinctive action to shield their faces with their arms.

  The archangel pushed them to one side, reaching for Mary.

  Whore-bitch! he screamed again.

  “Mary,” Margaret cried, reaching out through the confusion of falling bodies, trying to move herself so that as Mary fell Margaret might serve as some protection against the sharp edges of the stairs.

  Mary shrieked, a formless plea for mercy.

  The archangel roared, grabbed Mary by the hair and by the shoulder of her gown…and hurled her down the stairwell.

  Now too horrified to even cry out, Margaret grabbed for Mary, but the archangel had tossed her high above her head, and all Margaret could do was turn and watch…

  …as Mary’s body bounced down the stone stairwell, disappearing around the gentle curve of the interior supporting wall.

  Each time Mary bounced, Margaret could hear bones snap and break.

  There was a sudden, stunning stillness. Margaret glanced above her—the two men were moaning, half unconscious, slouched on the steps, and the archangel had vanished—then whipped her head downwards again as a thin wail of the most horrifying suffering came from the base of the stairwell.

  “Mary,” Margaret whispered, sliding and stumbling down the stairs. Her vision kept blinking in and out—her head throbbed abominably from the blow it had taken—and on at least two occasions Margaret blacked out momentarily as she slid downwards, but eventually she did make it to the foot of the stairs…and when she did, when she reached the final steps above the bottom of the stairwell, she came to a complete halt, blinking her eyes, trying desperately to believe that what she saw lying before her did not exist.

  It could not exist, because for this degree of suffering to exist must surely mean the world was at an end.

  Mary lay in a twisted nightmare on the flagging about two paces distant from the final step. Her head was contorted to one side, almost as if her neck had been wrung; her arms and legs lay at unnatural angles; her body was twisted back upon itself in a manner that suggested her back was snapped in two in more than one place.

  Her body, as the floor beneath her, was wet with blood, and her robe, once such a pristine smooth silkiness, had peculiar little bumps in it.

  Horrified, Margaret realised jagged bits of bone poking through Mary’s flesh had raised those otherwise innocuous bumps.

  One gleaming, white piece had actually punctured both Mary’s flesh and her robe, jutting out a half-finger’s length from her left shoulder.

  But the most appalling thing of all was that Mary was completely conscious, completely aware of what had happened, and of the lingering torment in which she had been doomed to die.

  Her eyes, wide and tortured, stared directly into Margaret’s.

  “Margaret,” she whispered, and in that one word managed to convey both her suffering and her plea for Margaret to somehow, impossibly, make it all better.

  Her mouth agape, her face white with horror, Margaret crawled forward on her hands and knees until she reached Mary’s side.

  She kneeled in a pool of Mary’s blood, and held out shaking hands before her.

  She did not know what to do with them. She wanted to touch Mary, but could not, for any touch would double her suffering.

  Lord Christ, how were they going to move her?

  Margaret’s mouth worked, and her eyes filled with tears. The tremor in her hands increased so dramatically she had to hold them against her chest in an effort to keep them still.

  “Mary…” she managed, then lifted her head and stared uselessly about the hall as people in their ones and twos began to walk towards Mary and Margaret. They approached slowly, hesitatingly, their steps leaden with horror.

  “Help us,” Margaret whispered, her tears overflowing her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. “Help us!”

  Mary, still conscious, whimpering in both shock and the horrifying knowledge of her condition, had not once taken her eyes from Margaret’s face.

  “Help us,” whispered Margaret one last, hopeless, time.

  VIII

  Tuesday 20th August 1381

  —iv—

  “ hilip is gathering an army together above Paris,” said Thomas Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick. “There can be no doubt that he will move soon.”

  “Philip is not a man to be underestimated,” the Earl of Nottingham said, watching Bolingbroke’s face carefully.

  Bolingbroke heard the note of caution in Nottingham’s voice, and raised his head from the map he was studying. He nodded an agreeance at Nottingham, observing the young man’s slight shoulder-slump of relief.

  “He has much experience,” Bolingbroke said, once again studying the map, and tapping it with his fingers. He had gathered his commanders together at dawn in order to discuss their next move…which Philip looked like forcing on them.

  He stood up and moved away from the map table. “Culpeper,” he said, summoning the physician forward from where he stood by the door. “How goes this fl
ux? The latest reports I had were that the flux had virtually run its course. Is this true?”

  “The scourge is indeed almost gone, your grace,” Culpeper said. “There are a few men suffering still, but not badly. Only two score men were newly infected once we left Harfleur. In a few days those that are still abed will have recovered enough to fight.”

  “We may not have a few days,” Bolingbroke muttered, then waved a dismissal at Culpeper. “Thank you, Master Culpeper. Without you and your brigade of physicians I would not have an army left.”

  He waited until the physician had gone, then looked about at his three senior war commanders. “And exactly how many men do we have left?”

  Warwick, Suffolk and Nottingham shared a quick glance, trying to decide who should speak the poor news. Finally, Warwick, the eldest, spoke.

  “Less than eight thousand, your grace. But if you take into account the nine hundred you left at Harfleur to garrison the town and secure our retreat, and the similar number you’ll need to leave here at Rouen…”

  “I have an army of six thousand men only,” Bolingbroke said. His face was bland, showing none of the emotion he must have been feeling. He waited a silent moment, then said, “And Philip?”

  “The best intelligence we have,” said Nottingham, “puts the total number at some twenty-five thousand. Almost all mounted men-at-arms and knights, and only perhaps some thousand archers.”

  “And our force?” Bolingbroke said.

  “Of the six thousand you’ll take to meet Philip, nine hundred are mounted men-at-arms and knights, and just over five thousand are archers.”

  Bolingbroke managed a smile. Stunningly, it looked genuine. “Then if we find a mud hole for Philip’s heavy armoured cavalry to sink into, our archers will win the day, my friends. What say you?”

  Suffolk laughed. “Shall I have a scout find us a suitable mud hole, your grace, then send them on to Philip requesting that he meet us there?”

  Now all the men in the room laughed, glad to find a jest with which to relieve the tension.

  Bolingbroke moved back to the map table, beckoning his war commanders over. “So, where will Philip go? Will he attack us direct…or…?”

  “He’ll try to cut off our retreat and attack us from behind,” said Warwick. “Lay siege to Rouen, if he has to. But he will make every effort to cut our retreat line back to Harfleur.”

  Bolingbroke nodded. “I agree. And his best route?”

  Warwick hesitated, then let his finger trace a shallow arc through the country north of Paris. “He’ll head far enough north in the hope that we might not realise his movements. Then, once he has moved west far enough, he’ll swing south.”

  Suffolk had been watching Bolingbroke’s face carefully. “Are you thinking of attacking him on his march, your grace?”

  “Aye.” Bolingbroke looked up from the map, and caught the uneasiness in Suffolk’s eyes. “And you are thinking, my lord, that six thousand against twenty-five thousand are not good odds?”

  “Your grace, I did not mean to imply that—”

  “You only spoke the truth, Suffolk. Six thousand against twenty-five is not good odds. But,” Bolingbroke flashed his boyish grin, “of those six thousand, we have five thousand of England’s best longbowmen, hand-picked, battle-hardened. What does Philip have? A motley collection of shiny-armoured knights whose only battle experience in recent years has been of monumental failure. Suffolk…my friends…when those men ride into battle all they will be thinking of is Poitiers. They will be remembering their rout there. They will quaver and shake, and they shall be ours.”

  “Are you sure they won’t be remembering Orleans?” Nottingham said softly.

  Now Bolingbroke did look annoyed. “They no longer have their precious Maid, Nottingham. They have lost her. She will not be able to aid them this time.”

  None of the three other men present thought it prudent to remind Bolingbroke that Philip was using Joan’s kidnap as a means by which to drive French nationalistic feeling to fever point. Whether with the French or not, the Maid was going to be a factor.

  “We will march within forty-eight hours, or sooner if we have word of Philip’s movements. We travel light, we take no cannon. The men carry eight days worth of provisions only. We march…” Bolingbroke studied the map, his finger tracing a route north from Rouen, “here, to this village. I travelled through there some years ago. There is an open space just to the west of the village where, if I get there in time and position my six thousand, we will stand a good chance against Philip’s twenty-five thousand.”

  Bolingbroke paused, his eyes on the map. Again, his finger tapped. “Here. Agincourt.”

  Then, before anyone could comment, the door burst open and a valet, wide-eyed with horror, ran in.

  IX

  Tuesday 20th August 1381

  —v—

  Danting heavily, filled with dread, Neville crashed through the twin doors of the hall. There was a group of people huddled at the far end of the hall, gathered at the foot of the stairwell, and he sped towards them.

  As he did so a scream of pure agony tore through the hall.

  “Mary,” Neville shouted, doubling his efforts to reach the group. Some ten paces away both his exhaustion and his apprehension caused one of his feet to slip out from under him, and he slid the last few paces on his hip, only managing to stop himself before he crashed into the group with the mightiest of efforts.

  “Mary,” he cried again, and the outer ring of people parted, and let him see what lay on the floor.

  “Mary,” he whispered, and rose to his knees, shuffling forward until he was at her side.

  On Mary’s other side, a pale and distraught Margaret stared at him. “What can we do?” she said. “What can we do?”

  Neville leaned down to take one of Mary’s hands…then saw how it was disfigured. It seemed as though her skin contained, not a hand, but a shapeless mess of broken bone and tissue. Lord Christ, every one of her bones must be shattered.

  “What…how…?” he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from Mary, who had now swivelled her eyes to stare at him.

  “The archangel,” Margaret whispered, and those two words contained all that Neville needed to know.

  For a moment he remained silent, then he tipped back his head and roared, the sound filled both with anger and with an agony of sorrow.

  He took a deep breath, and it appeared as though he would roar again, but Neville contained himself with a mighty effort, the muscles in his neck visibly tightening. Then, after another breath, he looked down at Mary, and smiled.

  “May I help you?” he said. “Will you accept my aid?”

  Mary was now clearly incapable of speech, but her lips moved, and she lowered her eyelids slowly at him.

  Neville reached out a hand and gently stroked her forehead—the only part of her that he could see was not broken.

  I am an angel, he thought, and if I am ever going to use my heritage then it must be now.

  But when he tried to summon his heritage, nothing came. He strained, seeking within himself for the power that must be there…

  He was an angel for Christ’s sake! An angel!

  …but the only thing he managed was to continue to stroke Mary’s forehead, hopelessly, trying to keep that hopelessness out of his face.

  “Mary,” he said again, his voice infused with the utmost gentleness, “I am going to lift you, and carry you to your chamber.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. Let me die here. Don’t touch me. Let me die here.

  Neville flinched. “Mary, I must. You cannot lie here.”

  A small mewling sound escaped her lips, and her eyes rounded in sheer terror.

  Neville looked about. “Does anyone have a cloak, or a blanket, we could lie Mary on?”

  What happened next was a nightmare that Neville knew he would remember all the days he would be permitted to live. Someone fetched a thin blanket, and as gently as possible they edged Mary on to it.
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  Nothing could have prepared them for the agony she endured, nor for the shrieks of sheer torment that escaped her mouth. Her bones crackled, shifting every which way within her body, spearing into flesh that had thus far escaped major hurt, poking even further from the rents they’d already made in other parts of her body. She convulsed, just as they had managed to slide her to the blanket, her body arching off the floor. Then, to the thankfulness of everyone about her, she lost consciousness, her body sagging in a dead weight.

  By that time, though, all about her were sobbing.

  “I can do nothing more for her beyond what I have done already,” said Culpeper, his ashen face staring down at the form lying on the bed. He had reached Mary’s chamber at the same time that Neville, a mercifully unconscious Mary in his arms, had been carefully laying her down atop her bed.

  “There must be more you can do,” Neville said, sitting to one side of the bed. His face was haggard, his eyes almost terrifying in their intensity. He’d thought he would be able to do more himself—had not Christ routinely managed miracles of regeneration?—but he’d been able to do nothing more for Mary than torture her into a coma, and then physically lift her broken form in its blanket and carry her up those same stairs she’d been pushed down. He would let no one else help him; he would carry Mary, alone.

  Culpeper gave a disheartened shrug of his shoulders. “I have set those bones of hers that I could, and wrapped others. I have given her an infusion which will ease some of her pain when she reawakens. I have applied herbal poultices to her abrasions and open wounds. But, my lord…she has been so cruelly damaged…she cannot live through this. No one could. The best we can do for her now is to prepare her as gently for death as we can.”

  “There must be more,” Neville said, rising to his feet. About them Mary’s ladies murmured and shifted. Margaret stood still, one of her arms about Jocelyn’s shoulders, hugging the girl tight into her own body.