The crippled angel. Book by Sara Douglass

bow, and waved at him with her hand to join her in the royal box.

―We are all actors in this great drama,‖ she said, and then she turned her head to Margaret

and looked her full in the eye. ―But sometimes I think there is more to this plot than my ladies

will tell me.‖

Before a startled Margaret could think of a response, Mary had turned back to

Bolingbroke, now dismounting from his stallion, composing her face into a smile of proper

wifely love and respect.

―Best give me your vial of Culpeper‘s liquor now, Margaret,‖ Mary murmured, ―so that I

may the better play my part.‖

IV

Saturday 4th May 1381

—ii—

The tournament began immediately Bolingbroke had taken his place beside Mary and

nodded his readiness to the officials.

Within ten minutes the grinding, bloody, sweaty, bonebreaking, heart-stopping action had

begun. Having agreed to the tournament itself, Bolingbroke had nevertheless drawn the line at

allowing the traditional melee of several hundred knights drawn up into two opposing forces that

charged down the field to engage in several hours of hacking, clouting and cursing until only a

few men (and horses) were left standing. Instead, the action began with something only a little

less spectacular.

The tourney field had been divided into twenty-five jousting lanes, and at the drop of the

official‘s flag, fifty knights lowered their lances and kicked their stallions into action. The

thunder of the great horses‘ hooves as they crashed down the lanes was outdone only by the

screams of the crowd and the eventual grinding and screeching as lances struck or glanced off

the breastplates and shields of opponents. Some knights managed to hold their seats, others were

unhorsed on their first pass and left to flounder on the turf hoping the momentum of their fall and

the weight of their armour wouldn‘t roll them into the path of an oncoming destrier.

Destriers were bred for their density and thickness of muscle, their strength and their

weight: they were not renowned for their ability to jump anything larger than a mouse or dodge anything in less than a gentle quarter-mile curve.

One man died and two were crippled when the huge, sharpened hooves of galloping

destriers cut right through their armour and the bones and flesh beneath.

The horses trampled on, almost unaware of the men they had cut to ribbons beneath their

hooves.

The unhorsed knights who managed to roll to their feet rather than under the oncoming

death of destriers, steadied themselves and drew their swords. Those knights who made it to the

other end of the jousting lanes still on their horses now dismounted and drew their own swords,

striding as best they could in their enveloping armour back down the jousting lanes to meet their

opponents in true chivalric fashion, one on one, sword to sword. Blades clattered against heads

and necks, trying to find that sweet opening between helmet and shoulder and breast armour.

Opponents rested after each swing, gathering their strength to once again raise the

massive blades with arms made heavy by their encasing armour and strike again.

Blood seeped out from joints in armour, and trailed in apologetic rivu lets down breast

and thigh plates. Breathing became harsh, and was intermixed with curses and shouted entreaties

for aid to sundry saints. Some men pissed or shat themselves, either with fear or exertion, and the

stink of urine and faeces added itself to the other manly odours of battle.

The crowd went wild. Men surged against barriers, each individual shouting

encouragement to the knights of his choice, and curses against their opponents. Some spectators

threw rocks and other missiles into the arena. Some turned against their neighbours and sent fists

crashing into cheekbones and chins in the excitement of the moment.

The behaviour of the noble families and wives in the stands was scarcely better. Women

leaped to their feet, waving streamers of their household colours, urging their menfolk on to

greater efforts with voices shrill with battle lust. Young pages and valets, beside themselves with

sorrow that they should not be on the field themselves, punched fists into the air, and shouted

wagers into the din, sure that their lord would be the one to prevail.

And amid all this, the valets and pages of the fallen darted among the warriors on the

field, litters dragging and bumping behind them, searching out their masters that they might

attempt to roll them onto the litters and get them to the dubious safety of the surgeons‘ tents.

Bolingbroke leaned forward eagerly, one fist clenched, his eyes straining to take in all the

action.

―Surely this death and maiming is not so exciting?‖ Mary murmured, sickened at the

sight before her.

―I need to know on whom I can rely on the battlefield,‖ Bolingbroke replied, not lifting

his eyes from the action. Then he relaxed a little, and leaned back. ―There? See? It is all but

done. Some knights have conceded, while others have won outright.‖

He stood and clapped his approval of the actions of the men below, and the crowds

roared with him. The fighting was done now, and some knights strutted off the field, having

triumphed against their opponents; later they would receive tokens from the king to mark their

victory. Others slumped wearily, shamed. And others twisted, moaning, or, worse, lay still on the

grass waiting for the final scurrying pages to come by with their litters.

And when all was finally cleared, men darted out with baskets of sawdust to dry out the

patches of clotting red so that the next two lines of jousters would not slip and fall on the blood

of their predecessors.

The day proceeded.

Neville wandered through the barely-controlled chaos amid the tents and horse lines of

the nobles. Several rounds of jousting had now taken place, and soon the tournament would

move into its most exciting stage: the great nobles, men who had fought and lived through a

score of battles, would joust one on one.

No doubt there shall be a few scores settled this day, thought Neville as he pushed his

way through the crowds, seeking his uncle Ralph Neville‘s tent. Ah, there, the standard of

Westmorland. He nodded to the guards outside the tent‘s entrance, then ducked inside.

His uncle was standing in the centre of the space, almost fully armoured, his face a mask

of impatience as two of his squires tugged at buckle straps, and twisted plates into place. The earl

grimaced at Neville‘s entrance, and Neville was not sure if that was because one of the squires

had tugged too tightly, or because his uncle was not happy to see him.

―You‘re not going to fight?‖ Raby asked. ―You have decided to play the part of the

spectator?‖

Ah, no wonder his uncle had grimaced at him. Raby had never been the one to pass a

fight without adding his sword to it.

―There will be battle enough in the coming months,‖ Neville said. ―Today I will wander

the encampment, the better to understand the strength of various houses.‖

―Humph,‖ Raby grunted. ―First a warrior, then a priest, now a courtier. Will there never

be an end to your incarnations, Tom?‖

―I am just Tom,‖ Neville said, ―choosing to reveal myself in different ways.‖ He walked

closer to his uncle, and the squires, their task done, melted away. ―Will you have some wine

before you enter the lists, uncle?‖

―Aye. It will steady my hand.‖

Neville walked to a small table, poured out two goblets of wine from a ewer, and handed

one of them to his uncle. ―And who is your opponent?‖

Raby hesitated. Then…―Exeter.‖

Neville halted with his goblet halfway to his mouth, stunned. ―Exeter? John Holland?‖

Richard”s half-brother against his uncle, the man responsible for garnering support for

Bolingbroke, who then supplanted and then murdered Exeter”s brother?

―The very same.‖

―And who arranged this?‖

―Exeter himself, I believe,‖ Raby said, and drained his goblet. ―I heard he specifically

asked to be set against me.‖

Neville took the empty goblet from his uncle‘s hand and set it, together with his

untouched one, to one side.

―Uncle…be careful. Exeter is dangerous.‖

―And I‘m not?‖

―I didn‘t mean dangerous as in skilled with a weapon, uncle. I meant dangerous in the use

of treachery. Do you think he will allow his brother‘s death to go unchallenged? Unrevenged?‖

―If he knows what is best for him…yes.‖

Neville turned away, fingering Raby‘s mail gloves which lay on the table. ―The Hollands

are a powerful family,‖ he said.

Raby walked up beside Neville and took the mail gloves, pulling them on. ―They

wouldn‘t dare. They are not that powerful. No doubt Exeter grumbles in private, as do most of

the Holland family. But to take on Hal? No. They wouldn‘t dare. Tom, they wouldn”t. ‖

That”s what Richard and de Vere believed about Bolingbroke, Neville thought, and that

mistake killed them.

He forced a smile to his face. ―Then I wish you good luck in your joust, uncle. I hope

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