The Crippled Angel (17 page)

Thursday 30th May 1381

“
P
aris,” said Charles. “I have set my mind to it.”
Thank the sweet Lord Christ
, thought Catherine.
Finally, we move from Rheims.

“May I enquire,” asked Philip the Bad of Navarre from his place at the table next to Catherine, “why this sudden change of heart? We have been here,” he gestured about the hall of the palace Charles had commandeered (or rather, that his mother, Isabeau de Bavière had commandeered) “some ten months, with most of us lusting after a change of scenery. But to this point you have always pouted your lip—”

“Philip!” Catherine hissed, not wanting his insolence to push her brother into retracting his order.

“—and declared that Rheims was more to your liking, and that Paris was full of nothing but stinking drains and rebellious peasants.”

“Paris,” Charles said stubbornly.

“Why?” Catherine asked with as much gentleness as she could muster.

“Because…”

“Because reports from England,” Joan said, her eyes steady on Catherine, “suggest that there are major troop movements in the north. Perhaps good King Hal,” her
mouth twisted very slightly, “is planning an invasion shortly. And, my beloved king wishes to go to Paris, where—”

“The walls are mightier than those about Rheims,” Charles finished in a rush.

“You are not afraid,” Catherine said, “that Paris might once again rise in rebellion at your presence? Do you not remember what occurred the last time we were there?”

“Joan shall keep me safe from any harm,” Charles said, looking down at the napkin he was fumbling between his hands. “She is the Maid of France, and none would dare hurt her, or those she protects.”

Catherine glanced at Joan, and saw a glint of humour in her eyes, as if she knew very well that there were many people who might hurt her.

Catherine felt a twinge of disquiet. Over these past two months Joan’s sense of peace and contentment had not wavered. She and Catherine had talked privately on three or four occasions, and not once did Joan veer from her commitment to establishing Charles firmly on the throne of France. When Catherine argued with Joan that Charles was an imbecile, the worst choice for the throne of France that anyone could possibly imagine, Joan only smiled gently, and said his time would come. Catherine felt in Joan something that greatly disquieted her—that Joan not only knew of her fate and accepted it, but embraced it.

Perhaps she would come to her senses if her parents could speak with her. Had not Joan said she would end her days as a shepherdess?

Catherine’s mouth lifted very slightly at the thought that not even sheep could be as stupid to herd as Charles so consistently proved himself to be.

Yes, perhaps all Joan needed was the temptation of her parents. The faint whiff of sheep, perhaps.

“Joan,” she said, “would you like it if I arranged for your parents to meet you in Paris?”

Joan’s face creased in a huge smile, and Catherine thought that if she’d been in any company other than that which
currently sat about this chamber she would have clapped her hands.

“Thank you,” Joan said. “You are a very generous woman, and sensitive to my needs.”

The faint whiff of sheep, Catherine?

Catherine had the grace to flush very slightly, and it deepened as she saw how merrily Joan smiled at her.

“Let me look at you,” Philip said, his brow furrowed in pretended confusion. “Perchance let me pinch you, to see if you are still the Catherine I fell in love with so long ago. Ah, yes! You do feel the same…but…something about you confuses me, muddles me…”

They were alone, finally, in their apartments. Catherine’s maid had just departed, leaving her mistress sitting in a chair by a fire with her glossy black hair unbound and flowing down her back, and her body encased in nothing but flimsy silk. Philip, for his part, still had his undershirt and hose on, but was hopping from foot to foot as he struggled to slide off his boots while poking Catherine in the shoulder.

Catherine laughed, a little self-consciously, for everyone in the hall had regarded her in startlement when she had been so unusually kind to Joan.

“Sometimes the little saint makes me feel sorry for her,” she said. “So attached to Charles. Such peasantish loyalty and naivety.”

“Ah…” Philip had finally managed to rid himself of his boots. He threw them into a darkened corner of the chamber, then lifted Catherine in his arms, sitting down in her chair and settling her upon his lap.

She smiled, and snuggled in close to his body.

“You have saved me from madness these past months,” Philip said softly, one hand stroking Catherine’s hair. “This sitting about doing nothing. This waiting. This
not knowing.
”

“Shush.” Catherine kissed his mouth softly, knowing his frustration. Philip was a fighting man, a man of action and impetuosity, a man who was all for the
getting
and not for
the constant drivelling inaction he’d been forced to endure. “Paris is one step closer for us.”

“Yes? And how might that be? Was Joan right when she said that Bolingbroke was preparing to invade?”

Catherine could feel Philip tense underneath her. “I do not know what she has heard, sweetheart, but I do know that, whatever happens, Bolingbroke must invade sometime this year.”

“Oh? And how do you know that? Has Bolingbroke been writing to you of his plans? Of his hopes? Of his love?”

Philip’s voice had raised, and he pushed Catherine back a little so he could stare into her eyes.

“Nay,” she said softly. “I have no communication with Bolingbroke. But I know him, and I know his ambition, and I am certain that he will be here this year.”

“He wants you,” Philip said, and drew Catherine back to him, sliding the silken robe from her body as he did so. “We both do. You are France. Whoever you accept takes France. That was my deal with Bolingbroke…or have you forgot it?”

Catherine shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.

“Marry me,” he said.

His hands were sliding over her breasts, almost rough in their hunger, and Catherine wondered if it were her body he caressed, or the hills and valleys of France.

“I wish I could,” she whispered.

Again he pushed her back, studying her face. Then he ran his hand down to her belly, and pressed lightly. “How long have we shared a bed, Catherine? Almost two years, give or take a few months. And yet not once have you bred to me. Not once. You said that—”

“I would give you any child of my body, Philip. Yes. That was part of the bargain between us.”

“We are both young and healthy, and surely lusty enough to have filled half a village with our get by this stage. Tell me, Catherine, have you—”

“No! Philip, believe me, I have hungered for a child of ours more than you could possibly know. I have neither
ended a pregnancy, nor acted to prevent one. To have seen other women swell and breed at the slightest glance from a man has been…has been…”

“Hush. Hush now.” Philip drew Catherine against him once more, cuddling her close. “God surely has his reasons.”

And then he almost jumped, stunned by the sudden intensity of her weeping.

“If I had the courage,” she eventually whispered, “then I would wed you. If I had the courage.”

And if I thought that Bolingbroke would honour my choice, and the bargain between you.

She slept, and Philip continued to hold her, his dark handsome face hard in the lamplight.

Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked her back.

Despite his gentle words to Catherine earlier, Philip simply didn’t know what to think. Why hadn’t Catherine fallen pregnant to him by now? Jesu! Almost two years. Did she still hold true to this ancient bargain with Bolingbroke, even after Bolingbroke had married Mary Bohun?

Why wouldn’t Catherine marry him?

And if all those questions weren’t enough, then why Catherine’s sudden about-face to Joan in these past weeks? Catherine had hated Joan from the instant she’d first seen her…so why now this strange empathy with her?

Was Catherine still the one to partner him in his ambitions? She’d told him to wait, that their time would come…but what if Catherine was wrong?

Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked.

And then stopped.

Perhaps it would be best to watch for his own chance.

Sunday 2nd June 1381

“
T
om?”

Neville turned from the stallion he’d been brushing.

He looked about, making sure no one else was present. “Good morning to you, Hal.”

Bolingbroke walked into the dim horse stall. The entire stable complex was quiet; most grooms and horsemen were in the Tower’s chapel hearing Sunday mass. He ran a hand down the stallion’s smooth coat, admiring the sheen that the grey hairs picked up, even in this dimness.

“Not at mass, Tom?”

Neville resumed his long, slow strokes. Mary had asked him to accompany her to mass, but he’d demurred, saying he needed time alone to rid his head of his buzzing thoughts. Besides, Mary had a bevy of women, including Margaret, to attend her in chapel.

And perhaps it was best not to feed Margaret’s jealousy and unease any more than he had to.

Neville had come to the stables to find some peace, to lose himself in the rhythmical grooming of his favourite horse. It had worked, because during his grooming, Neville had come to a decision within himself.

Trust Christ. Trust his own heart. And all would be well.

Having made his decision, Neville had felt a peace envelop him. The way forward was as yet dark, and his eventual decision full of unknowables, but if he could free Christ, then all would be well.

As Bolingbroke walked over to him, Neville slowed his stroking, then stopped altogether, resting his arm across the back of the horse as he looked at Bolingbroke. “I did not wish to go to mass,” he said.

Bolingbroke took the horse’s halter in one hand, and softly rubbed the stallion’s nose.

The horse snorted, and snuffled its nose across Bolingbroke’s chest.

Bolingbroke waited.

Neville sighed. He supposed he ought to tell Bolingbroke
something
of what was going on. “The Archangel Michael spoke to me.”

Bolingbroke straightened, and pushed the horse’s nose away. “When?”

“About ten days ago. That final day of the pestilence.”

“And?”

“He took me to the Field of Angels, Hal. Heaven, he called it.”

Again Bolingbroke waited.

“It was foul,” Neville said. “Foul.”

“In what way?”

“In every way, and yet in only one way. It was cold and barren and full of falseness, reflecting the coldness and barrenness and falseness of the angels’ souls.”

You could have told me earlier
, Bolingbroke thought.
Once I would have been the first one you would have rushed to.

Then he realised how unfair that was. It was gift enough that Tom should be telling him now.

“I have known since…well, since you gave me the casket, just how heartless the angels are. But to see them in their own world…”

Bolingbroke almost asked what the angels wanted, then bit his tongue. He knew what they wanted well enough.

Neville suddenly threw the brush into a corner of the
stall, making the horse jump and snort. “He made me feel like a puppet.”

Bolingbroke had caught the horse’s head, and was now stroking its cheek, soothing away its fright. “The angels have ever been loathsome creatures.”

As he said that, Bolingbroke thought again about the strange, horrifying confidence that the Archangel Michael had in Neville.
What was it? Why did the angels believe so implicitly in Thomas?

He opened his mouth to ask the question that consumed his nights and days,
Which way will you choose, Tom?
, but before he could speak there was a sudden rattle of hooves in the courtyard beyond, and both men’s heads jerked towards the door. Voices shouted, and Bolingbroke pushed past Neville and strode into the courtyard.

Neville entered the courtyard a moment or two after Bolingbroke. Some two score men had ridden in on horses close to dropping from exhaustion. Their captain was even now speaking urgently to Bolingbroke, so forgetting himself that he had rested his hand on the king’s shoulder.

Bolingbroke took no notice. He heard the man out, then nodded, thanked him, and sent him scurrying on his way.

Then he looked to where Neville was standing.

His eyes were wide with something that Neville thought looked surprisingly like loss.

The chamber which Bolingbroke had taken as his working chamber was alive with activity: shouted words, hands flung about, papers shuffled, men pacing back and forth, messengers running in and out. Most of Bolingbroke’s advisers were there, including Ralph Neville—Baron Raby and Earl of Westmorland; Thomas Beauchamp—Earl of Warwick; the youthful Thomas Mowbray—Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Norfolk; Michael de la Pole—Earl of Suffolk; and Sir Richard Sturry. All of them had been supporters during Bolingbroke’s rebellion against Richard, and all had been richly rewarded since.

Of course, the Earl of Northumberland had also been more than instrumental in supporting Bolingbroke, and had been richly rewarded as well.

But he was not here now, had not been at Bolingbroke’s court in many weeks, and this morning had brought the news that all of them had been dreading.

Horribly, the news was far, far worse than anyone could possibly have supposed.

“Well, it is no surprise, perhaps, that the Percys have proved so disloyal,” Suffolk was now saying. “Northumberland has ever been the turncoat, and Hotspur has ever been the ambitious one.”

Neville was standing behind a table covered with hastily unrolled maps, as well as the written reports of everyone from sheriffs to millers who had seen armies move this way or that. As Suffolk spoke, he happened to catch a glimpse of Bolingbroke’s face, and saw again that fleeting expression of sorrow in his eyes.

Hotspur, his childhood friend, and now his betrayer.

“We must move fast,” Mowbray said. “These reports are some days old. Sire…”

Bolingbroke grimaced, and looked about. Whatever pain had been in his eyes was now gone. “Of course we must move fast…but in which direction? Northumberland is moving in Yorkshire and Northumberland. Hotspur and his damned Scots alliance are on the move in Cumberland—no doubt in Lancashire by now—and Owain Glyndwr, by sweet Jesu’s sake, in the northern reaches of Wales.”

“They are all heading in one direction,” Raby said, moving to the table. He ruffled about a little, found the map he was after, and stabbed his finger down. “Shropshire. The city of Shrewsbury.”

“If they meet up, sire,” Neville said, feeling the weight of Bolingbroke’s eyes fall upon him, “then your task will be more than difficult.”

Everyone could see Bolingbroke struggle with himself, trying to deny it, but he couldn’t. Again he grimaced, and this time his pain was clear for all to see. “Scotland, Wales
and the damned north of England, all arrayed against me. You are right, Tom. Raby, Nottingham, Warwick, Suffolk, Sturry…what numbers would Hotspur command?”

“If they all meet up,” Warwick said slowly, not wanting to say the words, “then he could well have over sixty thousand.”

“And currently? What does he command currently with just his men and the Scots?”

Raby again fidgeted among the reports. “Twenty thousand,” he said eventually.

“Then I prefer the twenty thousand to the sixty,” Bolingbroke said. “Our reaction must be three-pronged if we are to keep that sixty thousand separated. Raby, to you I give the most difficult of tasks—stop Northumberland before he can join his son.”

Raby nodded, his face grim, then looked at Neville. They shared a silent understanding born of long association and deep respect: Raby’s task would be horrendous, not just difficult. Not only would Raby have to ride hard and fast for the north, but his confrontation with Northumberland would bring with it all the accumulated bitterness of their long rivalry.

“Sire,” Raby said, and half bowed. “If I may have your permission to retire.”

“Go, go!” Bolingbroke said. Then, when Raby was halfway to the door of the chamber, Bolingbroke spoke again. “Ralph. May Christ ride with you.”

Raby nodded, once, tersely, then was gone.

“Warwick? Suffolk? I need you to deal with our Welsh upstart. Can you manage?”

Warwick and Suffolk exchanged glances, then Warwick looked back to Bolingbroke and smiled. He’d never liked the Welsh. “Oh, aye, I think we can manage.” He bowed, and both men left.

“And I,” Bolingbroke said, “shall to Shrewsbury.”

Once some order was restored, and men sent on their appointed tasks, Bolingbroke drew Neville aside for a quiet word.

“Tom, will you ride with me?”

Neville did not hesitate. “Aye.”

Bolingbroke sighed in relief, which surprised Neville, for he’d not realised how unsure of him Bolingbroke had been. “Thank you. Tom…”

He hesitated, and seemed to drift off into such a dream world that after a moment or two had passed Neville felt obliged to say something. “Hal?”

“I was thinking of Harry Hotspur, Tom, and of you and me. Of our wild childhood, of our friendship, and of the times we pledged to defend each other to the death. Even though I’d always known of Hotspur’s ambition, and even though I knew my father’s and my alliance with your uncle would undermine what friendship I had with Hotspur…this is still hard news to bear.”

“A crown always attracts ambition, Hal. You know that.”

Bolingbroke half smiled. “How polite you are. You want to say that perchance Richard felt as betrayed by me as I now feel betrayed by Hotspur.”

“It had never crossed my mind, sire.” Neville grinned.

Now Bolingbroke’s smile stretched into a genuine expression of merriment. “Will you ride as my friend, Tom?”

“Aye, Hal, I will ride as your friend. I think I will enjoy setting aside questions of love and angels and demons for a few hard days’ riding.”

“Would that we could set them aside for ever, Tom.” And Bolingbroke turned away.