The Crippled Angel (24 page)

Friday 26th July 1381

H
aving ordered England’s affairs as best he could, and leaving behind Ralph Raby, Earl of Westmorland, as Justiciar to govern England, Bolingbroke embarked for France a little shy of a month after his announcement to invade. Three score ships set sail from the Cinque Ports, fat with archers, men-at-arms, knights, valets, horses and all the weapons, armour, gear, and as much of their sustenance as they could manage. Ships glistening not only with the spray of the Narrow Seas and the hot sun above, but with the jewel-like banners, pennants and sails that strained at every masthead and pole and rope, and with the shimmer of light from the helmets and weapons of those men-at-arms on top of the decks.

Three score ships, carrying an army of thirty-five thousand: England’s chance at France.

The preparations for this invasion force had not gone unnoticed by France. Philip of Navarre, now in control of Charles’ military force, was almost certain of Bolingbroke’s destination: Harfleur, the garrison that guarded the mouth of the Seine. Bolingbroke would come straight for Paris—no use dawdling sightseeing about the provinces when the crown both literally and metaphorically rested in Paris—

and if he wanted to secure his approach to Paris, he would need to subdue Harfleur.

Philip had every intention of ensuring that Bolingbroke got bogged down in the salt marshes surrounding Harfleur.

He and Bolingbroke may have made a bargain regarding France—once both Joan and Charles were disposed of, whoever Catherine gave her hand to in marriage received the throne—but Philip trusted Bolingbroke not an inch.

He trusted Catherine even less. She refused to marry him, and thus her heart must be set on Bolingbroke. Philip knew he was going to have to fight to finally wrest the crown away from Joan, Charles
and
Bolingbroke and his Englishmen.

Harfleur had for generations been a well-defended town and garrison. By the time the English fleet hove into view at the head of the wide bay leading to the mouth of the Seine on the dawn of the 26th of July it was virtually unassailable.

Bolingbroke stood on the deck of his flagship, the
Grace Dieu
, staring at the coastline fifty yards away. The ship swayed vigorously beneath his feet, tugging impatiently at its anchor, but he did not notice his movement. The coastline, and the geography of the landscape surrounding Harfleur, occupied his entire attention.

“There,” he said, pointing. “Land there and climb to the top of the hill. It will be the best spot from which to observe, and too far from Harfleur’s walls for arrow flight. Get back as soon as you can…I want to begin disembarkation today.”

The two men who stood beside him, Lord Hungerford and Sir Gilbert Umfraville, nodded, then turned and led a party of some thirty-six men down rope ladders to two small boats bobbing at the
Grace Dieu
’s side.

Bolingbroke waited until he saw them land, scurrying for cover and the path to the top of the rolling hills to the northwest of Harfleur, then he went below to oversee the final preparations for landing.

As he was about to duck down into the hatchway he saw Neville standing at the stern of the ship.

They stared at each other, locking eyes, then Bolingbroke disappeared below.

Neville continued watching the now empty hatchway for some time before returning his gaze to the choppy seas and the row after row of ships at anchor behind the
Grace Dieu.

For the past few weeks, ever since that day he had talked with James the carpenter in his workshop in London, both Bolingbroke and Margaret had been assiduously avoiding him. This was an easy matter on Bolingbroke’s part, for he was a king, not only governing one realm, but preparing an invasion of another, and he had many things to occupy him. On those few occasions Bolingbroke could not manage to avoid Neville, he spoke with Neville stiffly and coolly, as if he were the most treasonous piece of filth in the realm.

What friendship they had reforged before Shrewsbury was patently torn asunder.

Margaret had a more difficult time of avoidance, for Neville was her husband, and she must share his bed at night. Nevertheless, Neville felt such a vast distance between them within that bed that she might as well have been inhabiting the mythical Cathay. She would hardly speak to him, replying only in monosyllables whenever he tried to engage her in conversation, and refusing to meet his eyes. He saw more of her back than any other side of her.

It was, in many respects, a return to the Margaret who had so rejected him after her rape at Richard’s and de Vere’s hands.

So, Margaret and Bolingbroke avoided him, and turned their backs to him. What had he done? Did they somehow know of what he did in St John’s Chapel within the Tower complex? Were they somehow angry that Christ was freed from his torment?

Or had he committed some other sin?

Whatever it was, Neville found he did not care overmuch. Bolingbroke and he had been drifting apart for a very long time. A brief reunion of their friendship during the campaign against Hotspur was apparently not enough to bridge
permanently the divide between them. Margaret and he…well…he loved her, and wanted whatever had come between them to be resolved, but he was not going to moon after her, or chase after her, or beg her forgiveness as he had after her rape. If she did not want to come to him and broach whatever troubled her, then it must needs continue to trouble her.

Neville had other things on his mind.

The decision. It would be made here, in France. Bolingbroke had long ago told him this, and now Neville could
feel
it, tugging at his blood. Here, in France, and within weeks at the most. Everyone who needed to be a part of that decision was present: Margaret, as part of Mary’s entourage; Bolingbroke; Joan—presumably still with Charles, but Neville had no doubt that sooner or later fate would see her in Bolingbroke’s camp; and Neville himself. At least his children were well out of it, sent back home to Halstow Hall in the company of Agnes and a grumbling Robert Courtenay, who would have vastly preferred to be participating in the glory of a final French defeat than minding two small children.

Of all the thoughts that eased Neville’s mind, the knowledge that if all went well he could return to the love of his children comforted him the most.

If all went well.

Neville assumed that Bolingbroke and Margaret were as much aware of the closeness of the decision as he was himself, and he wondered that they so damaged their cause in turning their backs and hearts against him. What ploy was this on their part? Did they not need him to so love Margaret that he would hand her his soul? Neville wondered if their coldness
was
a conscious ploy. After all, these tactics had worked perfectly once before, bringing him to love’s heel, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that they would try it again.

After all, they surely sensed his hesitancy towards Margaret. Perhaps they knew they now needed to pull out all stops in their effort to win him utterly to their cause.

Neville slowly shook his head, his eyes unfocused, the ships in the distance only shimmering shapes in the rapidly strengthening sun.
Did they not yet realise how he hated to be manipulated? And did they not realise how much he wanted to be able to hand Margaret his soul? To deny the angels.

“Ah!” Neville said softly, blinking as he suddenly became aware of the time. Mary would be awake by now, and hopefully washed and tended and gowned by Margaret and her other ladies. Neville moved towards the hatchway, thinking to spend breakfast with Mary. He had found himself spending almost all day with her recently, more time than usual. Partly this was because of Bolingbroke’s and Margaret’s coolness towards him, but it was also because of their shared experience in the Chapel of St John’s. Neville had told Mary of the carpenter he’d met in the workshop off Cheapside (although he had not told her of what James the carpenter was making), and every day they spoke of it, marvelling. Neville still had no idea how he would manage to navigate the angels’ test, but he trusted in Christ that he would find a way to free mankind through giving his soul unhesitatingly to Margaret.

If only she wasn’t treating him so badly…

Hungerford and Umfraville were back by midday, having concluded safely their scouting and observation of Harfleur. After listening to their reports, Bolingbroke gave the order to disembark. Three by three the ships took their turn in approaching a sandy spit a few miles to the west of Harfleur, somewhat protected from the rolling waves and winds of the Narrow Seas. There the ships disgorged their cargo of war.

The process was agonisingly slow. Only a few ships could approach the spit at any given time, and then it took them a good few hours each to unload. Three days passed, three days of Bolingbroke and his commanders anxiously pressing for everyone to hurry, before the process was complete.

Neville happened to be on the spit as the last ship disembarked its cargo. These were mostly workmen—blacksmiths,
carpenters, armourers, grooms and cooks—and just as Neville was about to turn away a familiar figure caught his eye.

James the carpenter, bowed and stooped under what was unmistakably an intricately carved casket, slowly made his way down the gangplank.

He saw Neville staring at him, nodded and smiled, then made his way towards the English camp with the rest of the tradesmen.

Tuesday 30th July 1381

B
olingbroke established his camp only a mile distant from Harfleur in the gently rolling hills to its northwest. On the Saturday, while still waiting for the majority of his force to disembark, Bolingbroke had sent north the Earl of Suffolk and a force of some two thousand men to circle Harfleur in an effort to secure the three roadways that led into the town.

They were only partially successful, as Bolingbroke now heard.

The Earl of Warwick was leaning over a map on a trestle table that had been set up in front of Bolingbroke’s pavilion. A shade had been erected over the table and the men grouped about under it to protect themselves from the hot sun. Before them the ground slowly sank towards Harfleur, its walls and twenty-six towers aflutter with pennants.

“The French knew we were coming,” Warwick said, and Bolingbroke hitched a shoulder up.

“Of course. Our preparations could not have gone unnoticed.”

“Yes…well,” Warwick replied. “They knew enough in advance, and had enough forethought, to protect Harfleur with everything they could. See.” His finger jabbed down at
the river valley to the north of the town. “They’ve dammed the River Lézande, and now the valley is nothing but a lake a hundred yards wide. Suffolk had to detour above it, and it took him a day longer than expected.”

Now Warwick’s finger fell on the salt marshes to the east of the town. They were bisected by a single road. “Harfleur managed to get in a convoy of food and other supplies on Sunday afternoon and evening, before Suffolk could complete his encirclement. Three hundred carts and some five score pack mules crossed the road.”

Bolingbroke muttered a curse. “But Suffolk has now managed to encircle the town?”

“Aye, as best he can.” Warwick’s finger drew a wide arc on the map from their position in the west, across the northern flooded river valley and then down to the east of Harfleur to the coastline. “We have them surrounded on land on three sides, and, of course—”

“Our ships cover the south in the bay,” Bolingbroke completed for him. He raised his head from the map once more and stared at the vista before him. Harfleur was encircled by the English, true, but it was also very, very well defended. Assaulting this town would be difficult in the extreme. Harfleur sat on the bay formed by the expansive mouth of the River Seine. To the north was the river valley of the Lézande, now dammed, although water from the river still flowed through the town. To the east were salt marshes. To the south the bay, entrance into the port of Harfleur being via a small harbour. This was now crisscrossed with heavy chains below the surface of the water, and Bolingbroke knew there was no way he could sail his ships into the harbour itself.

Harfleur was surrounded by a perimeter wall of some two miles. It was well constructed, protected by its twenty-six towers—some with cannon—and a moat. Only three gates broached the wall. One to the northeast (leading to the now flooded river valley), one to the southeast (leading to the salt marsh road) and one to the southwest (leading to the hills upon which the English were now encamped). All three
gates were heavily protected by wooden barbicans, earthworks and an extra moat dug about all three.

And each would be a bastard to approach, let alone broach. Bolingbroke’s preferred method, to bombard the wall and towers about all three gates and then ram them once the defences were in disarray, was not going to work here. Both the placement of the wood and earthworks and the wide moats made that impossible.

That left an all-out attack on the walls—an option not to be considered until the town had been starved and bombarded through a lengthy siege—or…

“Tunnelling,” Bolingbroke said. “It is our only option. I can’t afford to waste months here starving Harfleur into submission while Philip and Charles manage to deploy their army to their best advantage.”

Warwick and the other commanders present all nodded. They’d reached the same conclusion themselves. Tunnelling under a town’s walls until they collapsed was a tried and proven tactic, and Bolingbroke had among his engineers some of the most experienced tunnellers in Christendom. With luck and effort, Harfleur’s defeat could be accomplished within two weeks.

With luck, and the grace of God.

“Meanwhile,” said Bolingbroke, “we can set the artillery on these hills, spanning the entire west and northwest section of the walls.” He pointed to three spots, one to the south of him, and two to the north. “There, there and there. Bombard the walls by day and night. The French will be so consumed with trying to negate the effects of the bombardment they will hopefully neglect to set aside men to observe for tunnelling.”

He paused, returning his gaze to study the town itself. “Target the walls, but also the steeple of the church of Saint Martin. It will no doubt cause much distress if we manage to demolish their beloved church.”

And with that he turned away.

By that evening the artillery had moved their three massive cannon into position. The cannon were new, commissioned
by Bolingbroke at the start of his reign, and the biggest Christendom had yet seen. Cumbersome, bulky, difficult and always with the potential to blow up in everyone’s faces, the cannon could nevertheless hurl two hundred pound missiles well over a mile in distance. The entire army seemed to have adopted them as mascots, and had given all three names.

London
sat atop a hill nearest to the coast from where it could bombard the harbour and southwestern portions of Harfleur’s walls. The grimly- but aptly-named
England’s Messenger
sat in the central portion of the western hills, from where it could send its message of hate and ill will deep into the town. And, finally, the
Beloved Mary
was positioned further to the north, from where she could spit her missiles into the northern defences of Harfleur. (Mary, when she’d heard the men had named one of the cannon for her, was said to have shuddered and to have turned aside her head.)

That night began the bombardment of Harfleur.