“Oh, I know this. She is strong and determined, and I think that under other circumstances I would like her very much. She is also the woman who should have been Hal’s wife. Nay, do not deny it. I can see it, Margaret, and it has ceased to upset me.”
“Do you remember, my most dear lady, on the day after we escaped that hellish ship from London, when I said you were the perfect wife for Bolingbroke?”
Mary nodded.
“Well, then I spoke only to comfort you. Now, I can see it is the truth. You have a greatness and a nobleness about you that I do not think Bolingbroke will ever appreciate.”
In the distance Bolingbroke, together with Neville and Roger Salisbury, had supervised the loading of the last of the horses, and now the final few bundles of supplies were being swung aboard.
“He is being kind to me now,” Mary said in a soft voice, “because he thinks I shall soon die.
He thinks he will have Catherine soon enough.”
“Mary!”
“Do not seek to mollycoddle me.” Mary slid one of her hands over her belly. “Something grievously heavy lies in my womb, and it drains my strength day by day. At night, sometimes, I can hardly bear the pain that nibbles inside me.”
Margaret did not speak, but shifted close so that their bodies touched.
Mary leaned against her, smiling. “You are my greatest strength, Margaret, and knowing that I shall see your child born brings me the happiness that I should otherwise have had in the birth of my own children. But,” she straightened, seeing Bolingbroke and Neville turn and walk toward them, “do not think that I shall lie down and breathe my last to the dictates of my husband’s ambitions and needs!”
“Bolingbroke has been a fool,” Margaret said, but could say no more, for now their husbands were upon them, each one bending to kiss his wife farewell.
Neville kissed Margaret warmly, hungrily; Bolingbroke touched his mouth to Mary’s with more dutifulness than warmth.
“Be careful,” Margaret said to Neville.
Neville had the air about him of a small boy engaged in some exciting adventure. His cheeks were ruddy and glowing from helping with the loading, his dark eyes bright, his mouth unable to repress a grin. Even his black hair curled and snapped in the cold sea air as if it were impatient to be off.
“It will not be long,” he said, and kissed Margaret again. He laid a hand on her belly. “You shall be home in time for the birth.”
At that Bolingbroke turned to look Margaret in the eye. “We will send for you before Michaelmas approaches,” he said. “None of us wants your child to be born outside England.”
Then Bolingbroke looked again at Mary, and his eyes softened somewhat.
“Mary,” he said, “once I am sure it is safe, I will send for you.”
He bent down, and this time kissed her on the mouth with far more warmth than he’d done previously.
When he straightened, he was looking at Margaret.
“Richard and de Vere will suffer for what they did to you,” he said.
And then he was gone, striding toward the ship.
Neville lingered, kissing Margaret one more time. “Take care,” he said.
“And you,” Margaret whispered.
“Tom!” Bolingbroke shouted from the edge of the wharf. “England awaits!”
“You are loved,” Neville said, kissing Margaret hard on her mouth. He bowed to Mary, and kissed her hand, and then he too was gone in a swirl of cloak and a thud of boots as he jogged over to join Bolingbroke.
Mary and Margaret watched for some minutes as the gangplank was pulled aboard and the ship slowly leaned away from the wharf and into the waves to join the five others at anchor in the channel.
Neville gave one last wave, and then he and Bolingbroke disappeared below decks.
For a long time, the women stood and watched as first Bolingbroke’s ship joined the others and then as all six, their sails cracking and billowing in the wind, tacked northeast into the rolling gray waters of treason.
THE NIGHT was cold and dark when, weeping, Marie came to her. She said nothing, merely taking Joan’s hand and laying it on her belly.
Joan tensed—the small hard swelling was clear enough to touch if not yet to sight.
“But you said…” Joan began, unable to complete the sentence.
“I have lain with no man!”
“Then this child is the get of demons,” Joan said.
“Do they have golden hands?” Marie whispered.
Joan flinched, and drew back from Marie. “You must get you gone from here,” she said, her tone flat. “Retire from my company.”
“Please, no!”
“I cannot have you about me,” Joan said, trying to keep her voice calm. “You must be pone.”
And so, still weeping, Marie turned and left. Joan did not sleep again that night.
CHAPTER X
The Thursday within the Octave of the
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(16th August 1380)
THE MAGNIFICENT CATHEDRAL NOTRE-DAME dominated the northeastern city of Rheims and the nearby River Vesle. All the kings of France had been crowned here since the late Dark Ages, so it was no surprise to Philip that Joan—or one of her angelic companions—
had insisted Charles be crowned here as well.
But, in its own way, thought Philip of Navarre, sitting bored and uncomfortable in his chair, the Cathedral Notre-Dame could not have been a worse choice for the poor, dithering incompetent that Joan apparently thought was the best choice for the next French king. The cathedral had been built over a hundred years ago, replacing an earlier cathedral. It stood on the legendary site where the Prankish King Clovis accepted the Christian faith in the fifth century.
Poor Charles, looking lonely and nervous on the throne, was never going to be able to emulate Clovis, nor any one of the scores of warrior-kings who had followed him.
There was a ceremony going on behind the altar screens—Philip had no idea what— and so for the moment he had nothing to do but allow his eyes to flicker about the cathedral. It was a dull day (for a dull king, Philip thought) and there was not enough daylight to set the great, stained glass rose window ablaze with color.
A movement beside him made Philip smile. Catherine. She returned his smile, and then glanced pointedly at Charles. For the moment Joan and her clerical assistants had left Charles marooned on the throne before the altar, and the simpleton had no idea what to do.
His eyes were jerking nervously to left and right, his hands clutched about the armrests of the throne one moment, the next clasped nervously in his lap, and yet next pulling at the neckline of his heavy, jewel-encrusted robe.
Catherine rolled her eyes, and Philip grinned.
There was a movement, and the Archbishop of Rheims, Regnault de Chartres, emerged from the screens behind the altar carrying the crown of France. Following de Chartres came a double line of various clerics, murmuring prayers, and after them came Joan herself, arrayed in shining white armor, a chain mail hood covering her short, dark hair.
Philip supposed it was the closest the Maid could come to a womanly veil.
Then his eyes narrowed in surprise, and his hand clasped Catherine’s arm.
Joan was looking wan and almost as nervous as Charles.
What was wrong?
JOAN TOOK a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
She must not fail now!
But, oh sweet God, the armor she bore about her body weighed her down as it never before had, and her muscles trembled with weakness. Her heart thudded, her brain ached, and it was only through the most extraordinary effort that Joan managed to keep the expression on her face even vaguely neutral.
Try as she might, Joan could no longer convince herself that Marie’s sensual dreams—and now the reality of her child—were the result of Catherine’s demonic machinations. Nor could she convince herself that Marie had been secretly whoring with one or two of the soldiers.
Whatever else, Joan knew that Marie had been telling the truth when she’d claimed to have slept with no man.
But Joan could not admit to herself the truth of who or what had put the child in Marie’s body.
To do that would bring her entire world, her beliefs, clattering down in ruins about her.
Joan blinked, and tried to concentrate, knowing that her duty today was one of the most important she had been entrusted with… knowing that she could not let her doubts about Marie’s child deflect her from her purpose.
Then she saw Catherine’s eyes upon her.
CATHERINE GASPED, suddenly realizing the enormity of the emotion and confusion that was consuming Joan. Had the archangel finally exposed himself?
“Catrine?” whispered Philip.
“Saint Michael has betrayed himself,” Catherine murmured, “and in so doing, betrayed his Maid.”