The Crippled Angel (25 page)

Monday 5th August 1381

“     here is he do you think, Tom?”

Neville did not have to ask of whom Mary spoke.

“Somewhere close, I am sure.”

“I dreamed of him last night.”

Neville’s first reaction to this statement was one of utter gratefulness—at least Mary had managed some sleep. Her condition was now pitiful, and Neville did not think she was long for this world.

Was she the reason the carpenter carried the casket?

The voyage itself had almost killed her. Neville remembered how ill Mary had been after their voyage into exile in Flanders; now she looked tenfold worse than she had then. She had lost so much weight she was skeletal. Her bones showed through her flesh, and her skin had collapsed so greatly about her face she looked more like breathing skull than living woman. Her skin was papery and grey, her eyes dull, her lips cracked.

Two of her bones in her left arm had broken in the effort to lift her out of the
Grace Dieu
, and the arm rested encased in a sling and cushioned splints. Mary was now so fragile that every movement threatened to break her apart.

Normally Neville would have held her hand, now all he did was stroke the back of her right hand very gently with his forefinger, careful not to break the papery skin.

“Did Culpeper give you a dose of his liquor?” he asked, wondering if this was what had aided her to sleep.

“Nay.” Her tongue, grey and swollen, licked at her lips. “I refused his liquor last night.”

Neville wondered at her strength, not only in enduring the agony that must now be coursing through her, but at resisting the entreaties of her ladies, no doubt distraught that she would refuse the numbing liquor.

“I wanted to see,” Mary continued, “if my dreams were caused by the liquor…or by something else.”

Neville smiled very softly, glad for her, knowing that Christ in truth must have come to her.

“I dreamed of a carpenter’s shop,” she said. “It was full of the sweet scent of shavings, and soft, gentle light. I saw our Lord there, working. He turned, as if knowing my presence, and smiled at me, loving, comforting, and said my name. I woke then, and for several hours I had no pain.”

“It is a shame we cannot bottle dreams,” Neville said, “for methinks they do you much more good than Culpeper’s liquor.”

Mary laughed, a little breathlessly, and when she spoke again it was to talk of other things.

Later that evening a delegation of Englishmen rode deep into the orchards four miles to the northwest of their encampment, gathering fruit for the army. They’d grown tired of the dull fare of army provisions, and the apples on these trees looked as tempting as any they’d ever seen.

Wednesday 7th August 1381

M
aster Giles, Bolingbroke’s chief engineer, flinched as yet another dull thunder rolled over his head. He was crouched deep in a tunnel, somewhere in the noman’s-land between the hills of the English encampment and the western walls of Harfleur.

The thunder of
London
was followed a half second later by an enormous rumble, and Giles crouched even further, his arms laced protectively over his head. Clods of dirt crumbled over him, but nothing worse, and after a moment he dared peek out from under his arms.

The tunnel was low enough that everyone within it had to crouch, but reasonably wide, so that they could pass each other with ease. Wood, carried all the way from England, for Bolingbroke had long anticipated his need of tunnelling, shored up the hanging wall, or roof, of the tunnel. Dull light glowed from oil lamps placed regularly the length of the tunnel, enough light to show that Giles was as filthy as every other man sorry enough to have to work down here.

“How close are we?” muttered Jack Williamson, apprentice to Giles.

“Too close for comfort,” Giles replied. I don’t want any of us in this tunnel once it gets too much further. Hear that rumble after
London
fired?”

Williamson nodded.

“That was masonry falling from Harfleur’s wall,” Giles said. “If we’re close enough to hear that…”

Williamson took a deep breath, unconsciously looking over his shoulder towards their escape route. “How much longer then?”

“A day. Then we set the explosives.”

A day
, thought Williamson.
A day…why didn’t I take up potting, like my father wished?

Giles moved cautiously forward, murmuring to the miners before him, then shouldering past them to inspect the face of the tunnel. “Dig down now,” he said. “About three yards. The foundations of the wall will not be far ahead of us. Then dig the pit north. Within twenty yards you should connect up with your neighbouring tunnel.”

The idea was to dig great trenches, perhaps some thirty yards in length, under the foundations of the wall. These would then be packed with explosives and, when set off, the section of wall should, in theory, come tumbling down.

Giles murmured encouragement to the miners, clapped one of them on the shoulder, then rejoined Williamson. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Williamson nodded eagerly.

Thursday 9th August 1381

“     s all in readiness?” Bolingbroke asked Master Giles.

The engineer glanced at the king. The man’s face was tense, and the skin about his eyes and mouth so tight that the engineer thought the king was likely suffering a pounding headache.

“Yes, sire,” he said, returning his gaze to Harfleur a mile distant. Both he and the king, plus a score of commanders, messengers and assorted valets stood before Bolingbroke’s pavilion on the hill overlooking the town and harbour. “I need only to give the signal.”

And that everything
was
in readiness was, to Master Giles’ mind, a profound miracle. He’d spent the entire night in the tunnel, a quavering Williamson at his side, setting most of the explosives himself. Yesterday afternoon many of the miners had begun to complain of griping in the guts. Within an hour or so, their griping had turned to such massive diarrhoea that they’d had to return to their spots within the encampment to rest. Giles was forced to find replacements for them—and that was not the easiest of tasks. Few ordinary soldiers wanted to go down, or had the ability or skills to work within, the tunnels, and so those left had to perform herculean tasks in order to get both pits and explosives ready.

This morning Williamson reported to Giles that five of the miners struck with the griping had died during the night.

Rumour had it that several score men had died among the entire encampment, and that the French had resorted to poisoning in order to thwart the English attempts to broach the walls.

“The bombardment went well last night,” Bolingbroke said reflectively. His right hand rubbed at a spot on his temple, and Master Giles’ sympathy went out to him. He would not like to be responsible for twenty thousand men and a nation’s hopes in this dog of a country whose natives resorted to unchivalric poisoning to repel their enemies. No wonder he had a headache.

“Aye, your grace,” Giles said, then continued to answer the question he knew was lurking behind Bolingbroke’s statement. “
London, England’s Messenger
and the
Beloved Mary
, as well as fifteen of the smaller cannon, are primed, ready to fire. If it please God that these explosives work, then their bombardment will complete Harfleur’s doom.”

“You are a good man,” Bolingbroke said, his fingers still working at his temple. “I am well served in you.”

Giles ducked his head, both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. He had only done his job, and he would lay down his life for this king if it were required.

Bolingbroke’s eyes slid Giles’ way, and he smiled. “Perhaps a bombardment might shake this headache loose, Giles?”

“I pray it be so, your grace.”

Bolingbroke smiled. “I think only an English victory shall cure this throbbing, Giles. I shall not rest until the mayor and council of Harfleur are bent on their knees before me.”

He gestured at Hungerford and Suffolk, both standing close. “All is in readiness?”

“Aye, your grace,” both replied simultaneously.

Bolingbroke took a deep breath. “Good, then let us begin. Giles, the signal, if you please.”

Giles inclined his head. “Your grace.” He stepped over to a man-at-arms and took from him his pike. About its
sharpened end Giles fastened a length of crimson cloth, then he hefted the pike, and waved it slowly from side to side above his head.

Behind them, in the dip of the hills hidden from French eyes, miners scurried into the openings of mines, eager to light the fuses and then retreat back into daylight.

“Pray to sweet Jesu,” Bolingbroke muttered, “that we blow up the French and not us!”

There ensued long, tense moments of waiting. Deep beneath his feet Bolingbroke knew that sparks were blazing along almost a mile of fuse lines, running towards six pits with their bellyfuls of explosives.

If this did not work he did not know what else he could do. A lengthy siege was, well, too lengthy, and he could not afford to leave Harfleur intact at his back. Sweet Jesu, hear me now, let this succeed…let this succeed…

The earth lurched under Bolingbroke’s feet, and he grabbed at Giles for support. There came a low rumble, more felt than heard, and then, for just a moment, there was both silence and stillness.

“Giles?” Bolingbroke said finally. “What—”

He stopped, mouth agape. The entire western section of Harfleur’s walls suddenly sagged. Then, slowly, slowly, slowly, seven of the towers along the length of that section began to topple backwards, into the town itself. Most of the wall itself toppled into the moat, completely filling it.

“Now!” Bolingbroke shouted. “Now!”

Giles turned about and began to wave his hands frantically. Moments later the bellies and mouths of
London, England’s Messenger
and the
Beloved Mary
boomed and belched, sending incendiary shells hurtling towards the town. Another pause, another few heartbeats, then the shells hit, all on the now-tumbled-down southwest gate.

Bolingbroke stared, taking one tense step forward, waiting for the smoke to clear.

Then he breathed out in relief: the incendiary shells had set both gate and the wooden barbicans about it on fire.
The entire western section, walls, towers, moat barbicans and gate, were now destroyed.

Harfleur’s defences were broached.

Within the hour Bolingbroke sent a message with Lord Hungerford to the mayor and aldermen of Harfleur. It was a simple message, and honest, for Bolingbroke was well aware that if he won this country, he would also need to win its citizens’ love.
Fear not, for I am not come to waste either your land or your lives. Surrender now, peacefully, and all will be well.

By that evening, Hungerford returned with the news Bolingbroke wanted. An hour behind Hungerford would follow the mayor and twelve aldermen of Harfleur, delivering to the English king the first conquest of his French campaign.

Monday 12th August 1381

—i—

P
hilip folded the letter, then tapped it reflectively against his teeth once or twice as he regarded the Earl of Suffolk and his five-man escort.

Then he glanced at Charles, sitting nervous and fidgety in the chair at his side. Charles looked at him, perhaps hoping for a glance at the letter, but Philip had absolutely no intention of allowing the man to see it at all. No, this was between himself and Bolingbroke only.

“You may rest here this night,” Philip finally said to Suffolk, “and enjoy his grace’s hospitality.”

At that Charles’ eyes widened, as if he thought Philip meant that he should himself keep the English delegation amused through the night.

Philip sighed. “And in the morning you shall have safe escort back to the English lines.”

“And the answer, your grace?” Suffolk said with a slight bow of acknowledgment of Philip’s assurance of safety.

“You may tell Bolingbroke that I am not one to forget my obligations,” Philip said. “He will know to what I refer.”

Again Suffolk bowed and, taking his leave, turned to withdraw himself and his delegation from the presence of the two kings.

“Wait,” Philip called, rising from his chair. He walked over to Suffolk. “Also tell your King Bolingbroke,” he said to the earl in a low voice, “that his gift shall not come without a price. Twenty thousand gold pieces, I think.”

“Your grace, I do not think that—”

“Bolingbroke asks for too much for free,” Philip hissed, “including my goodwill. Tell him that his gift comes for a price, and that price is twenty thousand gold pieces.”

Suffolk’s face froze. He glanced behind Philip to Charles, slouched in his chair and chewing on a fingernail as he watched what was going on in the centre of the hall. “Perhaps his grace the King Charles ought to be—”

“This is a contract between
me
and
Bolingbroke
, you rateyed wart. Just do as you are told.”

For a long moment Suffolk held Philip’s furious stare, then he capitulated. He took a long step backwards, bowed yet once more, then turned and exited the hall, his delegation at his back.

“Philip?” Charles called. “What was all that about? Let me see Bolingbroke’s letter.”

“Do you want to lead France’s army yourself?” Philip said, pivoting on a heel to face Charles. “Would
you
like to be the one facing England’s cannon on the dawn that is surely coming?”

Charles flushed, as much at Philip’s anger as at the idea that he should personally lead France’s army. “No, no, of course not, Philip. But I was just curious. What can Bolingbroke have wanted?”

You simpleton,
Philip thought, but he moderated his voice as he replied. “He wants victory, as always,” he said. “This,” he waved the letter about, “was merely an opening ploy in the great game which is about to commence.”

“But you have agreed to do what he asked?”

“I do not dance to his tune. I only intend to manipulate Bolingbroke’s ambition to France’s advantage. Now, if you
will excuse me, I have a war to win…as you are so patently loath to do yourself.”

Then Philip turned smartly on his heel and left the hall.

He walked into the palace gardens, wincing a little at the smell of the raw sewage and rotting animal corpses that clogged the Seine.
Sweet Lord. The stench of this city!
Then he put the odour from his mind as he once more read the contents of Bolingbroke’s letter.

Philip,

I come to conclude the bargain we made in Gravensteen one year past precisely. Hand to me Joan, the Maid of France, that I may dispose of her as I will. Then we will bow both our wills before Catherine, so that she may decide which of us she takes as husband…and thus which of us takes France to wife.

Philip. You will by now have heard that Harfleur is fallen. No town, no city, no man can withstand me. You do
not
wish to take this to the battlefield. Hand me Joan, then we allow Catherine to make the choice.

Send me your agreeance by Suffolk, and I shall expect the Maid within the week.

Philip snorted in derision then slowly tore the letter into tiny pieces before dunking them into a fish pond where trout eagerly ate them.
Allow Catherine to make the choice, indeed.
Once he’d been sure of her—certainly he’d been sure of her when he’d made that stupid pact with Bolingbroke!—but now? No, not now. She refused to wed him, she refused to give him a child.

All this she must be reserving for Bolingbroke.

Philip no longer believed either her loving caresses or her protestations of love.

So…what to do?

Philip considered his options.

Giving Joan to Bolingbroke could only work to Philip’s advantage. One, it would mean that Bolingbroke would believe that Philip was still going to adhere to the bargain
they’d made in Gravensteen. Two, it would get Joan out of Philip’s way once and for all (Philip had no doubts that Bolingbroke meant to put her to death…he certainly couldn’t afford to keep her alive). Joan was too damned determined to ensure Charles’ place on France’s throne. She definitely needed to go…and giving her, anonymously as it were, to the English would be the best way to do it. The French would blame the English, and Philip could wail with the best of them. That led to the third and best reason to hand Joan over to Bolingbroke. The girl was France’s mascot, its saint, its star of fortune. The French people would go berserk with rage the instant the English got their horrid hands on their Maid. It would rouse them as nothing else would.

Frankly, Philip no longer liked Bolingbroke’s chances once he faced an infuriated and obsessively vengeful French army and nation. Making sure that Joan found her way into the hands of the English could only ever work in his favour.

In this instance, Philip fully intended keeping his part of the bargain between himself and Bolingbroke. Of course, to do it successfully, he’d need to involve Regnault de Chartres, for if Philip handed the girl in body to Bolingbroke, then de Chartres would need to hand him the ammunition to try her. There would be no need to share the twenty thousand gold pieces with the archbishop, for Philip did not expect Bolingbroke to pay it; if Philip had acquiesced to Bolingbroke’s demand without demurring in some manner then Bolingbroke would have been instantly suspicious.

But to keep the second part of the bargain? Allow Catherine to make the choice? No. That Philip could never allow to happen.

Philip meant to hand Joan over to the English and then, while they were consumed with rigging a trial and then a death, he would swing his army north, preparing to attack the English from behind. Even now, he’d heard, Bolingbroke was leading his army into Rouen (which had capitulated without a struggle). The city was a third of the way along
the Seine towards Paris, and it would give Philip ample room to swing north and then behind the English lines.

Philip sat down on a bench, stretching his legs out in the hot sun, and grinned.

He’d heard that Bolingbroke was having some troubles. In the days after his capture of Harfleur, almost half of his army had fallen ill with such desperate griping in the guts that many of them were unable to move. Ten thousand, Philip had heard from his spies, had either succumbed to the griping, or were so ill they’d been shipped back to England.

Worse, at least for Bolingbroke, was that the disease showed no sign of abating. No one knew precisely what had caused it—many cited the unripened apples that the English had eaten in the cartload from orchards to the northwest of Harfleur—but it was decimating England’s finest.

Philip closed his eyes and tilted his face back in order to enjoy the full caress of the sun, sending a quick prayer of gratefulness to God and his angels for their timely aid.

Soon Bolingbroke would have twin evils to counter: the spreading sickness within his army, and the wrath of the French people for murdering their beloved Maid.