Within a heartbeat the two men had stepped through and the opening had closed.
“Where have they gone?” said Neville, unable to keep quiet.
“To love,” said Bolingbroke.
“Home,” said Margaret.
And then the door of the chamber—the real door, the door of this vile, contemptible world—
opened, and Richard strode through.
His face was terrible with vengeful anger.
He looked to the bed—when Neville turned to follow his eyes he was amazed to see Lancaster’s corpse still lying there—then strode up to Bolingbroke and thrust a finger in his face.
“Your time has come, traitor,” Richard said. “Your lands and titles, as those of your fathers, are confiscated into my keeping, and you and yours”—his hand swept about the room, but took in all Bolingbroke’s extended household wherever they were—”are exiled from this great realm never to return on pain of death.”
Richard drew breath, the resolve on his face slipping slightly as he saw that Bolingbroke had not even flinched.
“Never to return!” Richard suddenly screamed. “On pain of death! Do you hear me?”
Bolingbroke smiled, slightly, contemptuously, then held out his hand for Margaret and nodded to Neville. “Come,” he said.
As they left the chamber Richard stared after them, then looked again to Lancaster’s corpse.
He began to laugh in triumph.
PART FIVE
The Maid and the Hawk
You, men of England, you have no right in this Kingdom of France. I, Joan the Maid, bear word from the King of Heaven commanding you to abandon your forts and to depart back into your own country. If you do not, then I shall raise such a war-cry against you as shall be remembered forever. I would have sent you word more decently, but [you have imprisoned my heralds].
—Joan of Arc’s letter to the English commander at Orleans,
shot into the English lines on the shaft of an arrow
CHAPTER I
The Feast of St Barnabas
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 11th June 1380)
THEY DEPARTED la Roche-Guyon in a great twisting, glinting convoy of horse flesh, steel and religious fervor. At the convoy’s head rode Joan on a roan stallion which she controlled merely with the softness of her voice. She was clad in an ivory tunic, embroidered with a golden cross, over chain mail. Her short-cropped head was unhelmeted so that all might see her face. Behind her rode a squire carrying the banner of SS. Michael and Gabriel.
Orleans lay some four or five days to the south.
The majority of the men m the column behind Joan followed her without question. God had sent them a saint to lead them to victory against the despised English, and this fine summer’s morning they were to make a start.
Philip and Charles, riding several paces behind Joan and her immediate escort, shared mixed feelings about the adventure.
Charles was regretting that he’d allowed the Maid to persuade him on this dangerous escapade. Surely no one really needed him there? Surely he didn’t need to engage in such rigorous pursuits?
Such dangerous pursuits He sulked and pouted, not willing to say to Joan, or any others close about him, that he would vastly prefer to spend his days as a well-fed and entertained noble, safe in a cultivated and comfortable court. (Perhaps in Avignon, for who ever waged war there?) So much more civilized.
Who wanted to lead armies into war?
Why had God decided that he should be the one to wear the crown? Why, why didn’t anyone listen to his whore-mother?
But almost no one did. That cursed Joan with her pious eyes and the Hand of God hovering constantly over her had persuaded every one of these damned nobles and soldiers who’d come to la Roche-Guyon that Charles’ was the just and right cause. Worth fighting for.
Charles’ shoulders slumped even further as he heard trumpets sound behind him.
Somewhere far back in the column a faint voice raised in a triumphal song of praise, and within a heartbeat scores, hundreds, of others had joined in.
God was with the French, and they were marching to victory.
Philip, glancing occasionally at the sullen expression on Charles’ face, thought he knew very well what the idiot-sired man was thinking. Philip and Catherine had talked long into the night, discussing the possibilities this campaign might bring. They were endless.
Philip smiled to himself as he relaxed on his destrier and let the sun wash over his head and shoulders. Joan’s greatest weakness was the cause she espoused: Charles. And, in its turn, her weakness was Philip’s greatest strength. No matter what Joan did, no matter how heaven-inspired she was, Charles would eventually prove her downfall.
Eventually, Charles would be her downfall… and Philip was just now beginning to see the manner in which he could twist the situation to his favor. But it would be a long time before Philip could take advantage of Joan’s weakness, a long time before he could twist the simple-minded Charles to his will. A long time before he could safely move against the Maid of France.
Meanwhile, there was no harm in allowing Joan to win him a kingdom. A sudden movement to his right roused Philip from his reverie: Charles, clinging grimly to his destrier, which had shied at the sudden bolting of a rabbit in the undergrowth.
Philip’s grin widened.
Then there was a movement to his left, and he turned to look.
Catherine and Isabeau had ridden their palfreys to join him. Neither woman had wanted to be left behind when the men rode off to war, and Philip, in lighter moments, wondered if this was because both intended to slip into the forthcoming battle dressed as men, the better to slide their slim women’s blades between the ribs of whichever enemy they chose—and the enemy might not necessarily be fighting under the English banner. He wouldn’t put it past either of them.
Isabeau glanced past Philip to where Charles had managed to regain control of his destrier (albeit with the help of a squire, who had ridden forward to take the bridle of Charles’ mount to prevent it bolting across the fields that stretched away to the west).
“It was such a shame,” Isabeau said to her son without any pretense of sweetness, “that I did not bed the Master of the Horse instead. He might have bequeathed you some skill in the art of managing horseflesh.”
Charles flushed a mottled red and he sent his mother a glance seething with hatred and resentment.
“Whore,” he said.
“At every opportunity,” she said, and laughed.
Philip shared a grin with Catherine, who looked stunning in a deep blue cloak and riding dress. “It would be better,” he said to both women, “if you rode further back in the column. If we were attacked—”
“I pray that we are attacked,” Charles put in, “and that my whoring mother and sister are the first to feel the kiss of brigand blades.”
“Have more care for what you say,” Philip said to Charles.
“No matter,” Isabeau said, waving a hand dismissively. “If we were to be attacked by brigands then I’m sure our saintly damsel would see them off in short order.”
“God will have your tongue,” Charles snapped, his flush growing deeper by the minute.
Isabeau laughed yet again. “I shall offer Him a more tender part of me,” she said, winking at Philip, “and see if He accepts.”
“Catherine,” Philip said, “it would be better if you took your mother further back in the column.”
“What?” said Catherine. “And miss the miracle that Joan has promised us for this day?”
Philip sighed and gave up. If he’d thought there was any true danger of the column being attacked then he would have insisted they return to a safer spot, but no band of brigands would attack a force this size, and there were no English within fifty miles.
Besides, it would be good to have Catherine and Isabeau on one side so that their merriment and caustic wit could counteract the depressing moodiness of Charles at his other side.
THEY RODE for some five hours until they approached the castle town of Montlhéry which straddled the mam road south from Paris to Orleans. Charles brightened somewhat as they approached the ancient castle sitting atop the hill that commanded views of the surrounding countryside. The town which had sprung up around the skirts of the castie walls contained one of France’s major markets, but the prospect of purchasing some cut-price silks was not what cheered Charles. The castle had been in royal hands for many generations, and both Charles and Catherine had spent long summers here.
Perhaps, Charles thought, if I speak the right words, Joan will allow me to wait out the conflict within its walls. Surely she doesn’t intend to risk me too close to Orleans. I shall he safe here, and___
“I’ve heard,” Philip said, screwing up his eyes against the sun as he stared at the hilltop castle rising some two miles ahead of them, “that the English have pledged to raze Montlhéry to the ground if ever they manage to take it.”