The Crippled Angel

Friday 1st March 1381

T
he chamber was close and warm, its windows closed, its air thick with the scent of herbs. There was silence, save for the moans of the woman squatting between two midwives before the roaring fire in the hearth.

The woman giving birth was naked; her skin gleamed with sweat, while her unbound hair had soaked into glistening strings clinging to her shoulders and back. The midwives bent over her, holding bunches of soothing herbs close to her nostrils and open mouth, rubbing the small of her back encouragingly.

They did not murmur instructions to her, for Marie was of their own and knew what was happening both to her own body and to the baby it was trying to expel.

Two other women stood half shadowed on each side of the shuttered windows. To one side stood Catherine of France, daughter of the insane Louis and the adventurous Isabeau de Bavière, her attention as much on her silent companion as on the labouring Marie.

Slightly distanced from her stood Joan of Arc, Maid of France, staring intently at the woman struggling to give
birth. Her face, if possible, was even more tortured than that of Marie.

She was terrified of what Marie was about to birth.

Joan had spent these past seven months since Charles’ crowning at Rheims cathedral in a fugue of despair. This despair was not caused by Charles’ stubborn refusal to move from Rheims, or to do anything which might be construed even vaguely warlike, but by the swelling of Marie’s body. Indeed, Joan’s despair had increased in direct proportion to the escalating distention of Marie’s belly. Marie might not know how her child had been conceived, or who had put it in her, but Joan had a very good idea, and she knew that if the child confirmed her suspicions then she would have no choice but to abandon her crusade for the Archangel Michael.

How could she serve an angel who so callously used women’s sleeping bodies? Who was so inherently flawed? So inherently sinful? And so arrogant in that sinfulness?

“See?” said Catherine conversationally, very well aware of Joan’s distress. “The baby is about to be born.”

Joan jerked, an almost inaudible moan escaping her mouth. She wished she could tear her eyes from Marie, or run from the room, but she could do neither. She prayed meaninglessly, futilely—for she was not sure to whom she
could
pray—that somehow the actuality of Marie’s child would prove the archangel’s innocence.

But in Joan’s innermost being she knew that was impossible.

In her innermost being, Joan knew that the archangel had put that child inside Marie.

And in her very few, most painfully honest moments, Joan knew that the archangel had lied and abused and manipulated her even more grossly than he had Marie.

All Marie had to do was endure the agony necessary to birth his child.

All Joan had to do was die. To die for the cause of a sincrippled angel.

How could
that
cause be good, and just?

Marie was struggling even more now, moaning as she bore down on the child. One of the midwives moved in preparation to catch the baby as it slithered from Marie’s body; the other rubbed even more vigorously at Marie’s back.

Catherine moved her eyes from Marie, looking at Joan.

There was no venom, nor even triumph, in her gaze. Once she’d hated and loathed Joan, but now she realised that the struggle taking place within Joan was even worse than that which consumed Marie.

Of all people, a child of the angels herself, Catherine was one who empathised with those the angels used and manipulated. She also knew that, riven by her doubts, Joan was no longer such a terrible threat to the cause of Catherine and her fellows.

She wondered again, as she had so many times over the past few months, why the angels believed they could afford to alienate Joan.

Was Thomas Neville now so much their man?

Catherine frowned slightly. The small amount of news she’d managed to glean about Thomas Neville over the past few months indicated anything but that. He’d abandoned his vows, and married Margaret Rivers, half-sister to the Demon-King himself, Hal Bolingbroke. Surely Neville was more in the Bolingbroke camp than in that of the angels?

A particularly intense moan from Marie—more of effort than pain—made Catherine turn back to the woman. The midwife waiting to catch the child had moved forward now, her hands held ready, her eyes intent. Marie threw back her head, bearing down with every ounce of strength that she had.

She gave a sudden wail, almost of surprise, and Catherine saw the baby slither forth.

“’Tis a girl!” cried the midwife, who laid the baby on the waiting linens and was securing the cord as Marie herself sank down to the floor.

Catherine looked back to Joan.

The girl was staring unblinkingly at the scene before her, her eyes round, almost starting from her head. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and cheeks, and Catherine
thought them less a product of the chamber’s warmth than the intense emotion within Joan herself.

Catherine saw that the cord binding Marie and the baby had now been cut, and the child was wrapped securely in some linens.

She walked over, and took the child from the midwife. “I will bring her back momentarily,” she said at Marie’s murmured protests, then walked slowly back over to Joan.

“See this child?” she said, half holding the baby out to Joan, even though she knew Joan would not take her.

Joan stared down at it, her form trembling slightly.

She was a beautiful child.

Angelic.

And…something else.

“Can you feel
what
she is?” Catherine said softly, so that neither Marie nor the two midwives could hear.

Joan’s mouth half opened, and her tongue flickered over her lips. Her lips moved, but no sound came forth.

She was still staring at the child.

“Can you feel what she is?” Catherine said, more forcefully, but still low.

She is a demon, Joan. You can sense that, can’t you?

Joan’s face twisted in agony, and she finally managed to tear her eyes from the child to Catherine’s face.

The lack of malice—worse, the
understanding
—that Joan saw there appeared to distress her even more.

“Can you now see,” Catherine said, “how ‘demons’ come into this world? How is it that we are hated and vile creatures, Joan, when our only sin has been to be abandoned and loathed by our fathers? Who is the more hateful, Joan? The child…or the
father
?”

“I don’t…I can’t…” Joan said, then she shuddered so violently that Catherine took some pity on her.

“Go now,” she said. “I will come to you later, and speak with you honestly.”

Joan stared at her, blinked, looked once more at the child, then fled the chamber.