So she merely walked over, took his arm in a gentle hand, and together they went to see Mary.
The chamber was still, stuffy, warm. Candles burned in sconces and on many-branched stands.
Catherine, her hand still on Tudor’s arm, stopped just inside the door and stared.
“Sweet Jesu,” she said, her face appalled.
Several ladies on a bench against a distant wall started and rose up, as did Margaret and Neville, who had taken stools close to Mary’s bed. Culpeper, too, hovering about the foot of the bed, Jocelyn hiding behind him, made a movement, and a noise of protest.
“Catherine,” said Margaret. Her face, like all those about her, was lined and haggard, grey with anxiety and grief.
“I have been stolen,” Catherine said by way of brief explanation. It was enough, for both Neville and Margaret nodded dully, as though they had expected this.
Catherine moved slowly across the room, coming to stand by Mary’s bed.
What she saw shocked and horrified her. Mary, lying so broken it seemed a miracle that she could still draw breath.
Mary, her visible flesh chalky white save for four or five unnatural red streaks.
Mary, her eyes closed, sunken, not moving.
“Is she…” Catherine could not finish.
“She is as close to dead as it is possible to be while still drawing breath,” Neville said, and the grief and anger in his voice made Catherine raise her eyes to him.
He was sitting on a stool by Margaret, leaning forward, arms on knees, his hands dangling between his legs, uselessly wringing.
Everything about him—his slumping posture, his shadowed eyes, his wringing hands, his clammy skin—suggested a deep, agonising impotence, almost as if he thought he should be able to rectify the situation with a mere movement, or word.
Catherine’s eyes returned to Mary. “Does she wake?’
“No,” came Neville’s harsh voice. “When…when we moved her from the foot of the stairs she lost her senses, and they have not returned. I pray they do not, for her agony would be too great to bear.”
Catherine sighed, blinking back tears, then turned very slightly to where Tudor still stood by the doorway. “Will you bring me a stool, my lord? I would sit and keep watch as well.”
XII
Saturday 31st August 1381
Bolingbroke’s face, like everyone else’s within the English army, showed his exhaustion. They’d marched north for eight days, always adjusting both their pace and, to a mild degree, their direction as news came through of Philip’s force. The men were tired, desperate for rest, but at least they’d reached Agincourt before Philip.
Just.
Bolingbroke sat his horse, his commanders and a score of mounted men-at-arms about him, on a small hill that overlooked the eastern approaches to the village and its surrounding fields. Some miles distant a dusty haze rose, obscuring whatever had caused it. But Bolingbroke did not need intelligence to tell him what rode beneath it.
Philip, and his twenty-five thousand.
“He knows we’re here,” Warwick said softly, his eyes fixed on the distant dust. “We saw several of his scouts not an hour ago.”
“Good,” said Bolingbroke. He studied the distance a while longer. “He will be here by this evening. We will battle tomorrow. I will not give him time to rest.”
“And our men?”
“They have the rest of the day,” Bolingbroke said, checking the sun—it was a little before noon. “And tonight. Rest this afternoon, eat well at dusk, prepare this evening. Pray tonight.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Suffolk. “How are we to position?”
Bolingbroke pointed to the meadows directly before them. There was a stretch of land running roughly north–south for about twelve hundred yards. Some nine hundred yards wide at the northern perimeter, the stretch of land narrowed slightly to seven hundred yards at its centre, then ran an equal width of seven hundred yards to its southern border.
Dense woodland dropped away sharply to either side of the land’s western and eastern borders. There was no escape in either of those two directions.
Essentially, the strip of land formed a funnel, widest at its northern end.
“We form our positions at the south,” said Bolingbroke. He stood in his saddle, shielding his eyes against the sun, then pointed to a small meadowland a few hundred yards further to the south of his chosen battle position. “We’ll establish our camp there, forcing Philip to the north.”
Warwick, the old and experienced campaigner, grinned as he realised what Bolingbroke was going to do. “And tonight, your grace, would you like us to pray for rain?”
“That would be very helpful,” Bolingbroke said, returning Warwick’s smile. Then he looked at his other commanders. “Keep your scouts in the field, report to me as soon as you know where Philip has encamped. Then, this evening, we’ll hold a final war council in my tent.” He looked at each man, his eyes steady, his voice confident. “The day will be ours tomorrow, my lords. This land belongs to England, not Philip.”
And with that he wheeled his horse’s head about and rode back to his army.
Mary lay abed, her flesh suppurating from the wounds sustained eleven days ago.
The stink was dreadful.
About her sat, as they had for those eleven dreadful days, Catherine, Neville and Margaret. At one time or another, one of them would stumble to one of the makeshift cots that sat in a far corner of the room and snatch three or four hours sleep, but most of each day and night, they sat, staring, weeping silently, keeping watch.
Apart from keeping Mary as clean as they could, and dripping fluids through her cracked and gaping lips, it was all they could do.
From time to time other members of the household joined in the watch. Sir Richard Sturry, who had not ridden with Bolingbroke. Lord Owen Tudor, who spent much of the day fetching and carrying food for the watchers, or quietly begging one or another of them to try to rest for an hour or so. Sir John Norbury came for a few minutes each day, as did the mayor of Rouen, Alain Montgies. Physicians shook their heads over Mary, while apothecaries left bundles of herbs and powders at the gates of the castle. Priests and friars, representatives of both papal camps amassing for the expected trial of the Maid of France, also tried to gain entrance to Mary’s agonisingly slow death watch, but Neville asked that only one or two be admitted so that they might bless Mary’s still, stinking form.
He wasn’t sure if Mary wanted them or not, but he thought that she’d be hurt if he turned them all down.
The carpenter did not appear, and in his bleakest moments Neville thought he might hate him for that. Surely he could have done something?
But perhaps there was nothing to be done save watch and wait for Mary to let go her life. Perhaps the carpenter was sitting, waiting by the casket he had crafted, himself waiting for Mary to die.
Neville wondered why she hung on so tenaciously when it would be so easy to slip away.
He did not know that Mary dreamed.
Philip was tired, sweaty and not in a mood to jest. His scouts had heard rumours of the English army moving north, but hadn’t been able to confirm it until today…and that confirmation came the worst possible way, with an actual sighting of the English army, moving slowly into an encampment to the east of the village of Agincourt.
“How many?” he snapped to the scout standing before him in his war tent.
“Not many,” said the scout. “About a thousand horsemen, knights and men-at-arms, and some five or six thousand archers.”
Philip’s face twisted in disbelief. “He has archers only? What is he thinking of doing? Shooting rabbits for his supper?”
Philip’s war commanders dutifully laughed, although the senior of them, Constable d’Albret, barely managed a smile.
“The English longbowmen are famed throughout Christendom,” he said.
“But to have only a thousand horsemen,” Philip said. “Is he mad? You can’t win battle
s with archers!”
“My lord,” said d’Albret very cautiously, “a single arrow from one of those longbows can penetrate the strongest armour.”
“Yes, yes,” Philip said, as he sat down in a campaign chair, gesturing to his commanders to also take seats. The scout he waved away. “So our first line will be vulnerable. But we have men and horses enough for three lines. We will override and overwhelm those archers within minutes of a cavalry charge. Archers are useless when trod into the dust by the heavy hooves of destriers.”
A breath of foetid air filtered through the dim, silent chamber.
Neville jerked his head up from his half doze.
Mary’s eyes were open, and her mouth worked, as if she tried to utter something.
“Mary,” he croaked, his mouth and throat dry from hour upon hour of breathing in the decaying air of this chamber. “Mary?”
Beside him Margaret jerked into full awareness, as did Catherine on her stool on the other side of the bed. Owen Tudor, who’d been slumped on a bench a little further away, awoke so suddenly he rolled off the bench and hit the floor with a thump and a muffled curse.
Neville, Margaret and Catherine leaned as close as they dared over Mary, wanting to touch her, knowing they couldn’t.
“Mary,” Neville said again, his voice full of grief and gentleness.
Mary’s eyes slowly moved to each of the faces hanging above her. She blinked, her brow creasing in the slightest of frowns as if the faces confused her.
Margaret had dampened a towel, and now she wiped Mary’s brow and lips with it. Mary sucked eagerly at its dampness, and so Margaret put the towel aside and picked up a beaker of lemon water, and spooned a few drops into Mary’s mouth.
Mary’s tongue, swollen and blackened, licked at her lips, and she sighed in pleasure, as if those lemon water drops had been a draught of the sweetest nectar on earth.
“Where is Joan?” she said in a voice so hoarse that the others barely understood her.
“Where is Joan?”
Owen Tudor, standing very slightly behind Catherine, looked to Neville, his eyebrows raised.
Neville nodded, and Tudor turned silently and left the room.
Margaret continued to spoon lemon water into Mary’s mouth until Mary moaned slightly, and Margaret pulled back. She put the beaker of water down, jumping when it slipped and rattled against a bowl.
“I have been dreaming,” Mary said, almost inaudibly, “and yet I do not know if this is the dream, or if I am awake. My husband was here. Talking. Laughing softly. Where is my husband? Why has he gone away from me?”
“He has gone to war, many days ago,” Margaret said, touching Mary’s brow gently, stroking, giving what comfort she could. “There is a great war to be fought, and he must lead our army.”
Mary moaned, stronger now, as if in the grip of agony. “No, no, he was here, with me, and he would never go to war. Never! Why are you lying to me—?”
“Mary,” Neville said, “Bolingbroke went to war eight days ago. We know not what has happened to him.” He hoped that would be enough for her.
Mary relaxed. “Oh, so this is the dream. Thank you, Tom. Thank you.”
And then she drifted back into unconsciousness.
Back to where her husband waited to talk to her, and to ease her pain.
She laughed, but only in dream.
XIII
Saturday 31st August 1381
(Night)
Joan’s conditions had improved immeasurably in the past week. She’d been released from her cage, given clean and well made (but not ostentatious or rich) clothing to don, and allowed the pleasant company of the wife of the castle dungeon keeper. She remained confined to her underground chamber, but her keepers had provided her with a good pallet, warm blankets, and light during the day.
All this had been accomplished because, Joan assumed, Bolingbroke had ridden off to war and Mary had subsequently ensured some alleviation of her distress. Joan was extremely thankful—simply to have her dignity restored was a gift of priceless value.
Yet the strange, wondrous Mary had not reappeared. Joan was sorrowful at that, but not surprised. The queen had been so patently ill, that time she had visited, that Joan supposed her condition had worsened in some manner in the past week.
And so Joan continued. She prayed to Jesus Christ and his exalted mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and that comforted her, and passed the hours.
On the final day in August, guards unlocked and opened her door late in the night. Joan was asleep, and woke suddenly, fearful, thinking that somehow Bolingbroke had returned and that her terror had begun.
She sat up from her pallet, pushing the blankets aside, blinking groggily.
A man she had not seen before came into the chamber. Tall, well proportioned, a tired, kindly face framed by greying reddish hair. He gave a small bow of acknowledgement, and spoke quietly.
“Mademoiselle, forgive me for disturbing you so impolitely. My name is Owen Tudor, and I am attached to Queen Mary and King Henry’s household here in Rouen. May I ask you to accompany me? Queen Mary has asked for you.”
“Is she not well?”
At that Owen Tudor paused. Is she not well? How could he answer that? “She is dying,” he said. “She suffered terribly in a fall after she left here, and has been lying broken and insensible since. Just now she woke, and asked for you.”
Joan nodded, slipping on her clothing as Tudor politely turned his back. She was ready in moments, and he led her out of the cell and upwards towards Mary’s death chamber.
Neville looked up as the door opened and Tudor ushered Joan inside.
He rose, then walked over to greet Joan.
Feeling a deep guilt at the way he had once spoken to her, and thought of her, he took her hand, and kissed it as if she were the noblest of ladies.
“Thomas Neville,” Joan said, not so much surprised to see him (she had known he was close), but affected deeply by the sight of him after so long. When had they last spoken?
“In your father’s hay store,” Neville said, managing a small smile even though Joan could see he was beset by grief. “Where Archangel Michael came to us, and set us forward on our—his—mission. Joan, we should talk, but first pay your respects to our beloved Lady Mary, who lies a-dying.”
Joan nodded, returning Neville’s smile, then allowed him to escort her across the chamber towards Mary’s bed.
Behind them Tudor closed the door, then sat on a stool by the wall. Keeping watch, as he so often had through these long days and nights.
As Neville and Joan crossed the chamber, two women rose from stools either side of Mary’s bed. Joan was not particularly surprised to see either of them: the beautiful demon Margaret, who had attended Mary on her visit to Joan’s dungeon, and Catherine, no doubt here at Bolingbroke’s will. Joan did not think she would have come of her own accord.
“She woke, and asked for you,” said Neville softly as they drew to a halt by Mary’s bed, “then slipped back into insensibility. We hope that she will wake again.”
Joan stared at Mary, almost unable to comprehend the destruction that had been visited on this wondrous woman.
“Every bone in her body has been shattered,” Catherine said, lifting her eyes from Mary to Joan.
“How?” Joan whispered, almost overcome by her pity and sorrow.
There was a silence. Then Margaret spoke.
“Archangel Michael pushed her,” she said, and Joan’s eyes flew up from their contemplation of Mary to stare at Margaret.
“Why?” she said. But somehow Joan knew why. Michael would have pushed Mary for the same reason he’d thrown her from the tower at Beaurevoir: somehow Mary threatened the angels’ will. Mary?
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, and she spread her hands helplessly. “Why? Who can know the twisted reasoning within the archangel’s mind. He said, ‘Whore-bitch! Do not think that this time you will thwart our will!’ And then he pushed her, and destroyed her in the
most cruel way imaginable.”
Neville watched Joan carefully, not knowing how she regarded the Archangels. “Joan,” he said, “in the past months I have come to realise that—”
“The angels are cruel and capricious creatures,” Joan finished for him. “I know that, Thomas. I am no longer their creature. I am for France, and for Christ.”
“For Christ?” he said, staring at her.
“Aye,” she said, and something in her eyes made Neville realise that James had, at some point, graced Joan with his presence.
He nodded, acknowledging her understanding. “But even Christ may not be able to help,” he said, hating himself for the sudden flare of pain and fear he saw in Joan’s eyes. He knew what she faced at Bolingbroke’s hands, and knew also that the only hope she had was that Christ would, somehow, aid her.
“What do you know?” said Joan, her voice flat.
Neville looked from her to Catherine, then Margaret. “We shall need to sit,” he said, “for I have a long tale to tell.”
He fetched a short bench from a shadowy corner of the room, and indicated that he and Joan should sit upon it. Then, as Margaret and Catherine sat, glancing apprehensively at each other, Neville began to talk.
He told them of everything that had happened to him over the past few weeks, of the discovery of his true self, of his experiences in the Field of Angels, and of what he had learned there. He told them of the choice, the decision (Hand his soul to Margaret, and save mankind? Or find himself unable to do that, and allow his soul to revert into the care of the angels, ensuring mankind’s eternal enslavement to the will of the angels?) that the angels would shortly force upon him, and of the manner in which they had ensured his eventual decision must be in their favour.
He did not tell them of how he’d freed Christ from the cross, or of the strange presence of James the carpenter within his life. That knowledge was for only James to impart.
The Crippled Angel Page 33
