The Crippled Angel (22 page)

Saturday 29th June 1381

B
olingbroke stood at the window of the White Tower, gazing out over London. “Ah, my friends,” he said softly, “for the first time in months I feel safe!”

“Glyndwr? Northumberland?” Neville said, speaking for all of Bolingbroke’s councillors in the chamber that morning.

Bolingbroke turned to face them. His right cheek was still swollen and mottled purple and brown about the angry red tissue, but it was healing well, and the physicians had told him he would likely have only a small scar to show for his battle injury.

“Glyndwr is vanished into the mountains of Wales,” he said, “and without a strong English ally then that is where he will stay, spending his ambition warring with local Welsh lords and petty princes. Northumberland…well, Northumberland has gone into exile, taking what remains of his family with him.”

“Is that wise?” Dick Whittington sat in a huge chair underneath another of the chamber’s many windows. In his lap he held a remarkably plump cat, which he stroked absently.

“Wise? Do you mean ‘Should I not have had him executed?’. Well, maybe so, but in this instance I thought
mercy best called for. Northumberland will not trouble me again. I have confiscated all his lands, and without that wealth to back him, his power is gone.” Bolingbroke paused. “His ambition, of course, died with Hotspur.”

He walked slowly into the centre of the chamber, briefly meeting every man’s eyes as he did so. “Internal ferment is at an end. True, there may be still some minor lords muttering in their dark castles, but there will be no more serious threat of rebellion. Not now that Exeter, Northumberland and Hotspur have been negated.”

“And so, sire?” Neville asked.

“And so?” Bolingbroke laughed. “How well you know me, Tom. And now…France!”

“France?” Sir Richard Sturry, one of Bolingbroke’s closest and most respected advisers, shared a concerned glance with several of the other men present. “But surely…”

“Surely
what
, Sturry? When would be a better time? England is at peace, and rebels disposed of. Better, the rebels’ wealth and lands have found their way into the royal purse.” Bolingbroke smiled. “I shall not even have to ask Parliament for the funds for this campaign. I want France and
I
shall pay for it.”

Neville thought those words had a particularly ominous ring, but he paid them little heed. For the past few days his mind had been consumed with curiosity and wonder in equal amounts. Wonder that he’d managed to free Christ, curiosity as to where he’d gone. Neville had somehow thought that there would be rumour of a new prophet gathering crowds in the marketplaces and fields of London, or strange word of miracles being wrought amid the poor and hopeless. But there’d been nothing. It was as if, once freed, Christ had vanished.

Perhaps he thought his work was done.

“And the bonus,” Bolingbroke continued, “is that after the troubles of the past few weeks, I have a force almost completely assembled. Once Westmorland comes back from the north, with both his forces and those of Northumberland’s that he has been able to requisition, and Warwick and Suffolk
from the west, I shall have an invading army such as England has not been able to raise in generations.

“And
now
is the time to strike,” Bolingbroke continued, his face growing flushed with his enthusiasm and the force of his argument. “Pretty boy Charles is sitting playing his harp and refusing to be king, while this miraculous Maid Joan seems to have sunk into a mire of do-nothingness. Who has seen or heard anything of her in months? My friends, I can add the crown of France to that of England by late autumn. Are you with me? Are you with me?”

Neville finally surfaced from his reverie. “All England is with you, Hal. You know that.”

Bolingbroke strode down the narrow corridors that joined the White Tower with the royal apartment buildings, his stride bouncy and jaunty. He greeted every guard he passed along the way by name, smiling and nodding at their returned greetings.

Everything was going far better than he’d expected. To be frank, he’d thought he might have to wait until the following year to launch his campaign into France, but Hotspur’s rebellion had inadvertently played into his hands. Now England was secured,
and
he had the force at hand with which to deal with France.

And with Joan. And, finally, with Catherine.

His face lost some of its ebullience as he crossed under the archway that marked the outer wall of the royal apartments.

Catherine…how many years had he waited for her? Longed for her?

And to see her throw herself at Philip. Catherine well knew why he’d been forced to marry Mary—Christ alone knew how much he’d needed Mary’s lands and wealth to launch his own bid for the English throne. And Catherine also knew that Mary was ill, destined not to live long.

Why could she not have waited?

Bolingbroke’s face now shadowed with jealousy and anger, the emotions directed both at Catherine and at Mary. Damn Mary, how much longer was she going to take to die?
Why cling so desperately to life when she knew her
duty
was to die?

What would happen if he won both France and Catherine and Mary was still clinging grimly to life?

What truly irked Bolingbroke was the place Mary had in the hearts of the English people. To the English, Mary was the Beloved Lady, almost a reincarnation of the Virgin Mary herself.

To Bolingbroke, she was becoming more of an irritation every day she continued to draw breath. He’d done his best for her, he’d been kind to her, he’d elevated her beyond anything she could have dreamed possible. And yet she refused to fulfil her part of the bargain.

Her place was to die, and yet she would not do so.

And so, angered and irritable, Bolingbroke banged through the door into Mary’s chamber for his obligatory daily visit to her sickbed.

At least he’d be able to escape her in France.

As usual, Mary was lying in her bed already, even though it was barely late afternoon. Outside the sunlight still lay golden over the roofs and orchards of London. In this chamber, the curtains had been drawn and the lamps lit, as if Mary wanted to will forward the night.

Bolingbroke nodded to several of Mary’s ladies, Margaret among them, who drew back from the bed as he approached, then sat himself down on the edge of his wife’s bed.

“My dear,” he said, then floundered into a silence as he fought for, yet could not find, words to continue.

She looked ill, grey and wasted, but then she always did. It was hardly anything new.

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “You look excited about something, husband. Will you tell me?”

“I have decided to mount a campaign into France this summer, my dear. The time has never been better.”

Her face lost any trace of humour. “Ah,” she whispered. “Catherine. You must be happy that you will go to her finally.”

Bolingbroke’s expression darkened. He looked down, as if searching for something to distract him, and saw one of Mary’s skeletal hands lying on the coverlet.

He reached out and picked it up, both marvelling at, and loathing, its thinness. “On the contrary, beloved,” he said, his voice hard in its expressionlessness, “my thoughts shall be with you every moment that we are separated.”

Mary started to say something, then stopped, her brow creasing. “My lord,” she finally said, “I see no need for us to be separated at all. A queen’s place is with her husband the king. I shall travel with you.”

“What?” Bolingbroke dropped Mary’s hand, ignoring her wince of pain. “You cannot come with me. An army encampment is no place for a woman, let alone one as ill as you.”

“Philippa travelled with her husband Edward, your grandfather, on many of his campaigns,” she said.

“Philippa was not sick unto death when she did so.”

“I am well enough to travel,” Mary said, her face now set into resolute stubbornness. “I
will
travel with you, and with England’s hopes.”

Bolingbroke stood up, his own face set and hard. “Then blame me not if your want finally kills you,” he snapped, ignoring the gasps from the ladies standing a respectful distance from the bed. “War is no place for a woman sliding slowly into death. If you die in France, Mary, I will bear no responsibility, for it shall be as a result of your foolishness alone.”

“It shall be my responsibility alone,” Mary murmured in agreement, and then smiled a little, as if at an inward thought.

When Neville left Bolingbroke’s chamber, he wandered through the Tower complex, and out into London. He wasn’t altogether sure why, only that a strange curiosity pulled him forward. It was Saturday, a major market day, and the crowds thronging Cheapside, the main thoroughfare through London, were dense and chaotic, and so Neville
eventually ducked down a narrow side street where the close overhanging of the buildings rendered the air cool and dim. Here were the workshops and homes of craftsmen, mostly closed, but some open. Neville’s pace slowed a little as he spied the glow of lamplight coming from a workshop several houses down on his left.

He stopped, staring at it.

There was no particular reason why he should be so curious about this single workshop. The lamplight in the dim alley certainly wasn’t out of place, for Neville doubted full sunlight would ever penetrate the narrow street. Even the fact that the craftsman within was working—the noise of hammers emanated distinctly from the window—should not have been too much of a surprise. Craftsmen took much joy in their work, and this particular man might simply be celebrating London’s release by returning to his craft…or trying to forget the loss of a loved one in the sweat of his labour.

The hammering stopped, and a shadow moved behind the window.

Neville walked slowly forward.

The shadow moved again, and Neville realised the man was standing, watching him.

Neville walked to the open door, then stopped on the doorstep, looking in.

The workshop was the domain of a carpenter. The lathe, work table and tools of the carpenter filled the larger portion of the work space, while wood shavings littered the floor. A broom stood to one side, together with a pan—the carpenter was just about to clean up then.

Neville took a deep breath, and looked at the man standing in the half shadows. “May I enter, good sir?”

“Certainly,” said the carpenter, and stepped forward so that Neville could see him clearly.

He was a man in his mid-thirties, lean yet strong, with curly black hair tied back into the nape of his neck with a leather thong, and a well-clipped beard. His face was lined, as if he’d suffered loss, or pain, but his dark eyes were kindly, and full of humour.

“You are new hereabouts,” said Neville.

The carpenter grinned. “And how would you know?” he said. “You are a fine lord, and your usual haunt the gaudy palaces of royalty. You cannot tell me you know the carpenter workshops of London so well that a gain or a loss among us comes immediately to your attention. So, if I may, what do you here, my fine lord?”

“May I enter a little further?” Neville said, and the carpenter nodded.

“So long as you don’t get in the way of my broom,” he said, picking the implement up and beginning to use it to sweep up the shavings.

“I was walking,” said Neville, “and saw the light in your window, and thought to speak with you.”

“Ah,” said the carpenter, working furiously with the broom.

Neville opened his mouth, closed it, and wondered how he could say what he needed to ask. “Carpenter,” he managed eventually, “what shall I call you?”

The carpenter looked up briefly from his broom. “James,” he said, and Neville nodded.

“James, what will I do? How can I make the decision that I know is best?”

James the carpenter did not look up from his sweeping. “You know what to do.”

“Trust you,” Neville whispered.

James looked up briefly, smiled, then resumed his sweeping. All was well in his world, so it seemed.

Neville walked over to the work table, wondering how best to move his thoughts into words. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet no way he knew to say it. Helpless, he studied the table. There were several pieces of beautifully turned and polished wood on its top, inlaid in a decorative pattern with a darker and redder wood, and Neville ran his hand slowly down one of the pieces.

“This work is wondrous,” he said. “What are you making?”

James stopped his sweeping, leaned on the broom, and looked at the pieces of wood on the table.

“That is a casket,” he said. “My marriage bed.”

Startled, Neville looked at the carpenter.
His marriage bed was to be a casket?
“I think your betrothed must be an extraordinary lady. Is she here with you now? Cooking a meal in the kitchen, perhaps?”

James grinned. “No, good sir. My lady has yet to die.”

Then he picked up the broom, and waved it at Neville, and as he wielded it the workshop and carpenter vanished, and Neville was left standing once more on Cheapside, jostled by the crowds.

“Sire? May I have a brief word?”

Bolingbroke stopped in his stride, midway to the door of Mary’s chamber. “My Lady Neville, what can I do for you?”

Margaret glanced around.

We need only a moment, Hal. But I must talk with you. Please, bear with my subterfuge.

“I was hoping, sire, that you will permit Doctor Culpeper to travel with the lady your wife to France?”

“Who my lady wife includes in her entourage is of no matter to me, so long as they do not harry or inconvenience my army.”
What is it? Be brief, Meg. We cannot stand here gabbling on about nonsense for much longer.
“I suppose Culpeper’s skills will no doubt be needed.”

“Then I thank you, sire, for your reassurance. Doctor Culpeper’s liquor brings your lady wife much relief.”
Hal, I know why the angels are so confident of Tom.

Bolingbroke glanced around, wondering what further he could say to keep their inane conversation going. Several other women were passing close by them on their way to prepare Mary for the night and were glancing curiously at Lady Neville and the king.