Catherine smiled, and reached out for the shears that the soldier lifted from his belt. She hefted them, then lifted a tress of Joan’s hair. If you trust in your frightful God, she spoke into Joan’s mind, then you are ours. Her hand tightened, and the shears sliced viciously through Joan’s hair.
A lock fell free, and Catherine tossed it skyward, letting the hair scatter on the wind.
Then, none-too-gently, she grasped yet more of Joan’s hair, and cut it close to the girl’s scalp.
When she had finished, she tossed the shears to the grassy field, turned her back, and walked off.
She had no need to see the outcome of this tilt.
MANY HOURS later Philip joined her in their chamber.
Catherine rose from the stool where she had been working a tapestry. “The only question is, did Joan allow her opponent to live, or did she strike him through the heart?”
Philip gave her a hard look, and walked over to a table where he poured himself a cup of wine. “She is God’s maid indeed, Catrine, for not only did Joan mount and ride her stallion as if she had been trained from childhood in the skills of horsemanship, she tilted her opponent out of his saddle at their first pass.”
Catherine waited as Philip gulped down the wine.
“She rode over to where he lay,” he finally continued, “and threw her lance to the grass, saying that she would never take the life of any man.”
Catherine nodded. “I heard the roar of acclaim from here.”
“Yet you seem to be of good cheer, Catrine. Why? I thought you loathed the maid.”
“Oh, I do, and we shall be rid of her yet.” Catherine had spent her hours alone reassuring herself with the certainty that, sooner or later, St. Michael’s weakness would cripple Joan’s faith.
Sin would always out.
Catherine smiled, and walked over to Philip, laying a hand on his chest. “But not just yet. She
can be of great benefit to us, and to our goals.”
“How so?”
“Were it not better that she do all the hard work in restoring France to French hands?”
Catherine said. “Once she is done …”
“She is of God, Catherine. I am not happy at the thought of doing her wrong.” Catherine paused, her face reflective. “Sooner or later,” she said, “I think that Joan will condemn herself, and once she does that, then the world will not hesitate to condemn her.” She paused, her eyes distant. “I do not think that day very far away.”
CHAPTER XII
The Vigil of the Conception of the Virgin
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Wednesday 7th December 1379)
PRIOR GENERAL RICHARD THORSEBY approached Rome in much the same way as Thomas Neville had done so long ago: on mule, and with his face twisted in discomfort at the cold, poking icy fingers between his sandalled toes. Also, as Neville had, Thorseby stopped at the northern gate of Rome, the Porta del Popolo, to ask of the gatekeeper Gerardo how best to find St. Angelo’s friary.
Unlike Neville, Thorseby neither thanked nor paid Gerardo.
Thorseby received a much warmer welcome from Prior Bertrand than had Neville. Bertrand had met Thorseby many years earlier, and while he thought Thorseby a humorless man, also admired his sanctity and devotion to the Order. That evening, once the meal in the refectory was over and Thorseby and Bertrand retired to converse privately in Bertrand’s cell, they turned to the subject that most concerned their thoughts—Thomas Neville.
Thorseby had already informed Bertrand by letter of Neville’s activities in England since he’d returned from his unauthorized travels through Europe, but now the Prior General expanded on the details.
When he’d finished, Bertrand sat pale-faced on his stool, slowly twisting his hands about in his lap. “Neville’s behavior has proved monstrous!” he said.
Thorseby inclined his head in silent agreement.
“I always knew he was trouble,” Bertrand continued, “but this …”
Thorseby shook his head slowly, further agreeing.
“To fornicate so blatantly… and then to discard his robes and act as a secular lord … to embrace such disobedience to the Rule!”
Thorseby sighed, and cast his eyes down.
“And now the Duke of Lancaster protects him?”
Thorseby nodded, sighing once more. “And Lancaster’s son, the Duke of Hereford. Neville is surrounded by powerful friends.”
“Monstrous!” Bertrand muttered, regretting that he’d so much as lifted a finger to help Thomas Neville. What had he nurtured here within the friary? Had Neville’s appalling behavior left some subtle taint within these walls that might yet reach out to infect the vulnerable minds of novices?
“You can understand why I must find a means to discipline him,” Thorseby said.
“Of course! Of course! Such behavior as his cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”
“Once this convocation is over,” Thorseby said, “I had thought to travel north, perhaps to Nuremberg—”
“Ah!” Bertrand’s face brightened. “I have done as you asked, my friend, and I think you shall be more than pleased at the results.”
Thorseby raised his eyebrows, almost not daring to allow himself the hope.
Bertrand reached over to a small document pouch on his desk and retrieved from it a letter.
“Prior Guillaume in Nuremberg is as anxious as we are that Neville must be forced to account for his actions. He has spared no effort in making inquiries. See?” Bertrand handed Thorseby the letter. “Guillaume has discovered two men who will be of great use to you, and he can arrange to have them meet with you in Nuremberg after the Christmas celebrations are past;
a cook, from a tavern in Carlsberg, and a mercenary, who traveled with Neville from Florence to Nuremberg. They have, apparently, some most intriguing information. Guillaume thought it might be best if you spoke to them yourself.”
Thorseby scanned Guillaume’s letter, his heart beating faster with each line read. Guillaume did not say a great deal, but what he did say…
Thorseby looked back to Bertrand with shining eyes. “My friend,” he said, “I think I owe you many thanks.”
PART THREE
“Well Ought I to Love
Take weapon away, of what force is a man?
Take housewife from husband, and what is he then?
—Thomas Tusser, Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie
CHAPTER I
The Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Wednesday 21st December 1379)
— I —
KENILWORTH WAS an ancient castle with a somewhat regrettable history. Not only had it served as a base for the thirteenth-century rebel, Simon de Montfort, who had ousted Henry III from his throne, but in more recent times Edward Ill’s father had been imprisoned—and deposed—in the castle by his wife, Isabella, and her paramour, Roger Mortimer. For their temerity, Edward III subsequently executed Mortimer and exiled his mother Isabella, granting the castle and its lands to his fourth son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.
The duke had done all in his power to liberate the castle from its ghosts. An impregnable, cold and forbidding fortress when first it had come into his hands, Lancaster had spent vast sums of money and a great deal of effort to turn the castle into a comfortable home—
although still an impregnable fortress. Builders had expanded and enlarged the private apartments, adding chimneys and windows so that the duke and his family could enjoy the view in fresh and smokeless air. Along with the private apartments, the duke had caused to be built a great hall, and it was here on the evening of the Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle, in late December, that the household gathered for a quiet celebration of Neville’s name-day.
The trestle tables on which the company had supped were now cleared and folded away, and the duke and his family relaxed in informal groups in front of a roaring fire in the enormous hearth. Virtually all of Lancaster’s extended family was here. The duke and Katherine’s two children, Joan and Henry, were present. Henry was relaxing in a rare visit to Kenilworth and the warmth of his parents’ love. Normally his duties as Bishop of Winchester kept him far from their side, but tonight he was laughing with his sister over a game of chess, teasing her at her lack of concentration which had allowed him to checkmate her in less than eight moves.
Joan ruefully rubbed her big belly, laying the blame on it. She was but a few weeks distant from childbed, and Lancaster and Katherine had insisted that Raby allow her to birth their child at Kenilworth, where she would have the love and support of Katherine and her ladies.
Raby, sitting just to Joan’s side, had not minded. Indeed, he was more than pleased that, firstly, Joan had bred so quickly after their marriage and, two, Lancaster continued to take such a loving interest in her. Raby’s fortunes had risen considerably since he had so closely allied himself with Lancaster (even if they had dulled slightly in past months as both Lancaster and Bolingbroke had fallen into disfavor with Richard), and he was well content with his current domestic arrangements.