The Crippled Angel (16 page)

Monday 27th May 1381

—iv—

A
nd so began the nightmare once more. Mary may have been told of matters so great they affected both heaven and hell, but that was as nothing to her when ordinary men and women and children lay dying in agony in the room beyond. She, accompanied by Margaret, Jocelyn (who refused to leave Mary’s side), the Lady Alicia Lynley (who had returned from the Tower), and two nuns, moved from bed to bed, daubing, sponging, and murmuring what comfort they could.

To Mary, it seemed that the comfort must be of very little use. Nothing she could do could ease the pain and horror of the pestilence that gripped these people. Nothing she did could ease their worry about the spouses or children they left behind. Nothing she could do could ease the forthcoming loss of their lives.

What Mary did not realise was the level of comfort she
did
bring to every person she stopped by for a few minutes, and even to the mass crowded within the guildhall as a whole. Here she was, the Queen of England, demonstrating with her very presence the love and care she bore for the
common folk of her realm. How many other queens would have done this much? Mary was so ill herself, yet she still cared more about them than she did her own comfort and easement.

To the common folk of London, not only those in the guildhall, but to everyone within the city who had heard of her presence and work among those struck down with the pestilence, Mary embodied the ideal virtuous queen. She was nobility and care and love personified, and in many more than one instance, when a person prayed to the Blessed Virgin herself, they envisioned not a cold statue before them, but the lined and exhausted face of their queen.

King Hal might direct relief efforts from the Tower, and might even stride the streets offering words of hope, but his wife was among them, and bore the full weight of their grief about her own shoulders.

By noon the stench within the guildhall had become almost unbearable. The day was unseasonably hot, and the brimstone fires and their thick, drifting smoke only made the heat worse. Jocelyn had finally succumbed to her weariness and the heat, and Mary had sent her to sleep an hour or so in the small antechamber. As the heat had thickened through the morning, all the ladies, Mary included, had stripped away their heavy-sleeved tunics and robes, and worked only in aprons over their linen under-tunics. Dank sweat stained the necklines and armpits of these under-tunics, and their hair hung in greasy tendrils, clinging to sweaty, grimy necks.

Mary and Margaret, one each side of the bed, attended three small children ranging in ages from four to eight. The pestilence had struck the children, all girls, in its most virulent form. Instead of the pustules and buboes erupting on the skin, they had formed inside the poor children’s bodies. Now the girls lay screaming, in so much agony from their internal swellings that they could not move. Mary and Margaret could not even sponge them down, for every movement, every touch, only increased their agony.

Margaret wanted more than anything to be able to use what little ability she had to ease their pain, but she was
exhausted beyond measure, and knew that she had no power left within her to aid these three girls.

“How can God justify such horrific vengeance on these innocents,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “How? How?”

Mary shifted slightly on the bed, then flinched as two of the girls screamed in agony at the movement. “There is no justification,” she began, but stopped and raised her head at a commotion towards the doors at the rear of the guildhall.

People were shrieking, panicking, falling over themselves in an effort to clamber away from something that stood just inside the doors.

Wincing at the effort—and the girls’ cries at her movement—Mary stood upright, peering with red-rimmed eyes, trying to see what had frightened people into such a panic.

For an instant a gap appeared in the press of people, and she saw what so terrified them.

Coldness overwhelmed her, then that was quickly consumed by such a rush of anger as Mary had never felt before.

“Let me through,” she said as people rushed down the centre aisle of the hall. “Let me through.”

Somehow, Margaret behind her, Mary managed to move towards the outer doors of the hall. People streamed towards her, but without fail all moved aside at the last moment, leaving her passage forward unimpeded. From his place at the other end of the hall where he’d been talking to Robert Courtenay, Neville pushed forward as well, moving quickly to reach Mary and Margaret.

Finally, she stood face to face with the creature that had caused the panic.

“Get you gone from this hall, this city, and this realm,” Mary said in an even voice. “You are not wanted, nor welcomed.”

The black Dog of Pestilence snarled at her, low and vicious. It had grown in the past days, as if it had fed off the death which had followed in its passing, and now stood the
size of a small pony. Its hide was, if anything, covered with more, and larger, weeping sores than before.

Its small, piggy eyes were now bright red.

“Get you gone,” Mary whispered. She heard Margaret and Neville move up behind her, and felt Margaret’s hand on her shoulder. Neville stood slightly to one side, his hand on the haft of his sword.

The Dog took a stiff step forward, and snapped, scattering thick yellowed saliva to either side.

Behind her was only stillness, but Mary could feel the entire hall watching, holding its breath.

“I say to you once more,” Mary said evenly, “get you gone from this place. I like you not.”

A frightful shudder ran through the Dog’s body. It snapped several more times, moving ever closer with every snap until it stood only a pace from Mary.

“Mary,” Margaret whispered, “please, get away from it.” Beside her came the rasp of steel as Neville drew his sword.

“I am not afraid,” Mary said, addressing the Dog rather than Margaret or Neville, “of either death or of this foul beast that stands before me. I say to you, Dog, take me if you will…if you think that my flesh is so sinful that you think it deserves the touch of your vileness.”

She paused, and her fists clenched at her sides. “Otherwise, I command you to begone from this place! Begone, Dog.
Go!
”

The Dog snarled and snapped and slavered and postured, but it did not advance. Rather, it took a half step back.

Neville, meanwhile, was watching Mary rather than the Dog, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“I am Mary, Queen of England,” she said. “I
am
England. If you want to punish England, then take me instead of the innocent. Otherwise, get you gone.”

She stepped forward one step, and half raised a fist. “
Get out of here!
”

And the Dog, with one final snarling howl, turned and fled.

Mary staggered, and Margaret wrapped her arms about her, steadying her. “He could not bear to face goodness,” she
whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Well done, Mary.”

Behind them, on the bed they had risen from, the three little girls gasped, then blinked.

All their pain had gone.

Neville lay in bed, weary, waiting for Margaret to join him. After the strange events of the day, they’d come back to the Tower apartments; slowly, for it seemed that all London had turned out to cheer Mary.

The news of her banishment of the Dog of Pestilence had spread out from the guildhall on a wave of relief and joy and, coupled with the instantaneous recovery of everyone suffering from the pestilence, people had poured out into the streets to honour her.

Neville smiled. Mary had been exhausted, and so obviously in pain, but at the same time she’d been delighted and uplifted by the gratefulness and love shown her.

“Beloved Lady,” they’d called her, and Neville could not think of a better title to bestow on her. Beloved Lady, indeed.

Full of surprises.

“Tom?”

He blinked, and turned his head. Margaret had finished her bathing and now, naked, was crawling into their bed. He reached out for her, holding her close to his body, and burying his face in her hair.

“Tom,” she whispered, rubbing close against his body, as clean and as sweet as hers after his earlier bath. “I am glad to have my husband back.”

He kissed her, then began to slowly caress her breasts. “You have no need to be jealous of Mary. I love her only as everyone else does.”

“And if she were fit and well and free of any spousal encumbrance? And you the same?”

Neville rolled Margaret onto her back. “It would still be you in my bed, Meg.” He covered her body with his, teasing her with intent, but not action.

She moaned, trying with her hands to push him down into her. “But would you want her as a wife? Would you love her?”

“You are my wife, and I love you.”

“But—” She gasped as Neville finally pushed himself inside her body, making love to her with long, slow, powerful strokes. He kissed her, deep and sweet, massaging her breasts and belly with firm, knowing hands.

“But,” she finally managed, dragging her mouth away from his, and trying to keep her mind intact amid the sweet onslaught of his loving, “do you love me enough to hand me your—”

“Jesus Christ, Margaret!” Suddenly Neville pulled away from her, rolling over to his side of the bed. “Can you not ever leave that alone?”

There was a long, bitter silence.

“If I had been Mary,” Margaret eventually said, “you would not have rolled away.”

Wednesday 29th May 1381

T
hey trotted in long snaking lines down the mountains and valleys to vanish within the drifting mists. They re-emerged just as the great wall rose before them, and shouted when they saw it, thrusting fists and pikes into the night air. This was a day they’d longed for through vast, hateful centuries. Many exposed themselves to the stonework, demonstrating their ancient malice for all who cared to see. By dawn they were through into Cumberland, passing underneath gated arches opened by silent, resentful Englishmen.

The horsemen, thousands of them, moved in clattering lines past Carlisle, whose terrified citizens shuttered themselves tight inside their homes. Rain fell, sheeting down in grey, cold rivers, but the horsemen ignored it, for this cold and wet was as a home to them. They pushed their small, tough horses into a canter, riding through the dark midmorning of West Warde Forest and then further south towards the hills and Copeland Forest.

Finally, as the afternoon grew grim and chill, they approached the village of Black Hal just above the border of Lancashire.

There lay the English army, and in a tangle of wild beards and colourful tartans the Scots pushed their exhausted mounts into a gallop, and raised their pikes and swords, and rode to meet their hated enemy.

Sir Henry Percy, Harry Hotspur, stood frowning in the doorway of the porch where he had made his headquarters.

“Douglas,” he said to the man who’d come to stand at his shoulder, “I hope to God you can keep them under some semblance of order. I need an army, not a rabble.”

Archibald, fourth Earl of Douglas, grinned amiably. He was a huge man, all muscle and darkness, and all grace of movement and manner. “They’re hot-hearted lads,” he said, in a voice that was thickened by only the barest of Scottish brogues, “but true-hearted. And they are mine. They will do whatever I tell them.”

Hotspur chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if Douglas would stay true to the bargain they’d hammered out between them. Allowing this Scottish army to mingle with his went against everything he’d fought for his entire life.

“I’ve too much to lose to move against you,” Douglas said softly.

Still Hotspur did not answer, his dark eyes flickering over the English and Scottish camps before him. The tension was palpable, and Hotspur wondered if he shouldn’t have kept the two encampments further apart.

“They’re going to have to fight together,” Douglas said softly. “Best for them to learn to bed together now.”

“Are you a magician to so read my thoughts?”

Douglas laughed. “‘Tis the fey fairy blood of our people, laddie. Come, our captains can keep the peace between your men and mine, and there’s food awaiting us in the church.”

Hotspur lingered briefly, glancing once more over the English and Scots.
Sweet Jesu in Heaven, let this alliance hold together just long enough for it to do what I need.

Then he turned his back on the gathering darkness, and walked into the brilliantly lit church.

There his commanders awaited him, as well as the grim Prior General Thorseby. The man was always hovering about in shadows, too eager to lean into any conversation he encountered and whisper his hatred of Bolingbroke. Hotspur well knew that Thorseby’s obsession with Thomas Neville had spilled over into an equally vile hatred of Bolingbroke, and that perhaps all Thorseby said should not be believed. But Thorseby appealed to Hotspur’s own long-nurtured resentment of Bolingbroke, and of Bolingbroke’s too-loving alliance with the Percys’ rival, Raby, the Earl of Westmorland.

Above all, England did not need another Lancaster…and most certainly not as king. That would spell disaster for the Percys and their ambitions.

Apart from Hotspur’s and Douglas’ commanders and Thorseby, there were several other men present. The Earl of Fife, Douglas’ son, also named Archibald. With him sat the earls of Orkney, Angus and Moray. All, as Douglas, had been taken prisoner by Hotspur at the battle of Hombildon Hill. And all, as Douglas, were now allies rather than prisoners.

Partners in a coalition so fantastic that had they been told of it several months ago they would have laughed at, and then beheaded, the fool who thought to relate it to them.

Fantastic it might be, but if successful it would bring everyone concerned such riches, and such power, that the fantastic needed to be taken very seriously indeed.

“And so the vengeance in the hand of God readies itself to strike,” Thorseby whispered as Hotspur sat down.

Hotspur shot him a dark look, and wondered if he could possibly leave the madman behind when they marched south. He’d put up with the man for over six months, and that was six months too long.

But he’d been useful, bringing with him powerful factions from within the Church. Dominican friars had spent the last few months spreading rumours amid the English, whispering that Bolingbroke was not God-blessed, and that he’d taken the throne illegally amid a welter of murder. Once Hotspur was successful, and had taken Bolingbroke’s head, then Thorseby would swing the might of the Church behind
his own claim to the throne, crowning Hotspur with an aura of legitimacy.

Hotspur sighed as he accepted a cup of warmed wine from a valet. He needed Thorseby a while longer. But one day…one day…

“Have ye heard from ye father?” said Moray. The support of Hotspur’s father, the Earl of Northumberland, was critical to their eventual success.

Hotspur drained the wine and handed the cup back to his valet. “Aye. He gathers men in Yorkshire and Northumberland.”

“They are of little use to us in the northwest,” observed Douglas.

“He will meet us in Cheshire,” Hotspur said, staring at Douglas until the man averted his eyes. “Believe it.”

“There are some,” said Fife, keeping his voice indifferent, “who say that it seems passing strange that not seven months since the Percys helped put Bolingbroke on the throne they now seek to dethrone him.”

“What the Percys make, they can unmake,” Hotspur said. “We are the kingmakers of England. No one else.”

“But are you sure you want to do this, laddie?” Douglas said. “My son speaks only what many whisper.”

“
I
never rode with my father against Richard,” Hotspur said. “I kept apart from Bolingbroke’s slaughtering and murdering. Now I move against it. What is so ‘passing strange’ about that?
What?
”

He glared at the other men. “My father made an error of judgement. Now he seeks to rectify it. And why do
you
sit here and murmur and mumble about our actions? Do
you
not stand to gain as much as I?”

“Aye, aye, that we do,” Douglas said, holding out his hands placatingly. “We merely needed to be reassured as to the strength of your resolve, laddie. Bolingbroke was once your dear friend—”

“
Once!
” Hotspur said.

“Enough!” said a new voice, and everyone’s head whipped up to look at the man who had now entered the church.

Hotspur rose, and managed a smile. “Uncle. Greetings. I am glad you are here. What news?”

Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, brother to the Earl of Northumberland and uncle to Hotspur, looked about carefully at each man present, then withdrew a parchment from underneath his cloak. “Glyndwr is with us.”

Without exception, the face of every nobleman and warrior present broke into a huge grin of combined relief and triumph.

Thorseby, on the other hand, mumbled something uncomplimentary about dark magicians into his beard.

“Owain Glyndwr,” Hotspur said, “the most powerful prince among the Welsh.”

Douglas sent him a sardonic glance, and refrained from reminding Hotspur that, until three years ago, Owain Glyndwr had been a failed law student at the Inns of Court who had wandered back to his native Wales, proclaimed himself a prince of the ancient Powys line, and proceeded to stir up nationalistic Welsh resentment against the English.
Well
, Douglas thought,
to give the boy his due, he’d done a good job. Now tens of thousands of Welshmen would lay their lives down for him.
For Hotspur, now, if Glyndwr had indeed agreed to the terms of the alliance.

“He will…” Hotspur could not complete the answer.

“Meet us in Cheshire, as will your father,” Worcester said. “Harry,” he addressed Hotspur familiarly, “we will have so many tens of thousands with us that Bolingbroke will have no choice but to lie down and cower.”

“And this island will finally be divided into three clear, independent and strong kingdoms,” Hotspur said. “England, Scotland and Wales, confirmed by treaty, and bound by brotherhood!”

Douglas winced, thinking Hotspur was getting a bit carried away. Confirmed by treaty, yes, but they’d be bound by treason and regicide, not brotherhood.

“And so to Cheshire,” Hotspur said. “And from there…England.”