moved among the rows, doing what they could for the desperate souls writhing and tossing in
agony. Mary, with Jocelyn almost constantly at her side, and Margaret, Neville and Culpeper
helped as best they could. Even Culpeper forgot his airs and distaste as he pierced buboes, lanced
arms and legs, and trickled potions down throats swollen with pustules and fever.
Neville did his best when he saw the opportunity, offering comfort to the dying and
aiding here and there by feeding fluids to those who could take them, but mostly he was
concerned with Mary. He made sure she slept and rested regularly, encouraged her to eat broths
and morsels to keep up her strength, and fed her small sips of Culpeper‘s liquor whenever he
thought the shadows of pain behind her eyes grew too dense. Faced with so much suffering,
Mary was disinclined to pamper her own pain, and so Neville often had to fight to make her sip
some of the liquor. Those times when he managed to get her to take enough of it that she slipped
into a sleep were occasions he counted as small victories.
Sunday evening was one such victory. Mary had been on her feet for hours, moving from
bed to bed, and in the end Neville almost had to hold her down and force the liquor down her
throat. But eventually she took it, and consented to lie down on the bed that Neville and
Margaret had caused to be made up for her in a small alcove.
Margaret and Jocelyn, exhausted, lay down on pallets beside her, and within minutes all
three had slipped into a deep sleep.
Satisfied, Neville sank down to the floor himself. He leaned against the wall, relishing the
coolness of the stone as it seeped through his clothes, and rested his head back. He did not mean
to sleep, for the women needed to be watched, but within heartbeats his eyes slowly closed, and
moments after that his chin sank down to his chest, and a low snore rumbled from his throat.
Neville jerked awake. What had happened? Something was different…something
wrong…he turned his head. Mary, Margaret and Jocelyn still slept. He looked back to what he
could see of the hall.
No one moved.
Neville blinked, coming to his senses.
No one moved? Someone was always moving…the nuns, a monk, a physician, or the
porters come to drag away yet another victim.
But now no one moved.
Neville rose to his feet as silently as he could, again glancing at the sleeping women to
satisfy himself that they were alive.
Then he looked back to the hall, taking the few steps to the edge of the alcove and
looking up and down the hall‘s length.
Rows upon rows of beds, filled with the writhing, tossing ill.
But no one moved among the beds. No nuns, no monks, no porters, no weeping, wailing
family members come to farewell their loved ones.
An eerie silence hung over the hall. The people on the beds moved, but they made no
sound.
Strange, for normally their moaning and weeping filled every hour of the day.
And the light was different. The guildhall was lit from windows high in the walls, and
this natural light was augmented with torches and lamps. Now the windows were dark, for
evening had fallen, but the torches still guttered in their sconces, and the lamps still glowed.
Over and above this, though, shone a silvery light.
A most unearthly light.
Neville moved forward a few paces, coming to a stop in one of the aisles.
The sick twisted to either side of him, their eyes staring, their mouths gaping in agony,
their hands clutching at bed covers.
Neville paid them no heed. He looked over his shoulder, again satisfying himself that
Mary, Margaret and Jocelyn remained safe.
When he turned his head back, there was a man standing in the now open doorway at the
far end of the hall. A bright, silvery light shone from behind him, so Neville could make out no
features, but he knew instantly who it was.
Archangel Michael.
The archangel slowly stepped forward. He was different from how Neville had ever seen
him previously. Normally the archangel hid the majority of his features inside a great golden
light. Now that light was gone, and the archangel strode forth in what Neville instinctively knew
was his natural form.
He was incredibly beautiful. Heavenly, as only an angel could be.
His naked body was slim but well-muscled, and glimmered with a faint silvery air. The
hair on his head, in his armpits and at his groin was glittering white and tightly curled. His skin
glowed with the faintest undertone of pink. His face…his face was both majestic and sensual at
the same moment. Beautifully proportioned angles and planes framed a well-shaped, full-lipped
mouth, straight nose, and deep, black eyes.
He was wingless.
The archangel strode close to Neville, then stopped. A smile played about his lips.
―I have come to take you into the Field of Angels,‖ he said. ―What mortals call the
Kingdom of Heaven.‖
IX
Sunday 26th May 1381
—ii—
―How long has it been, archangel?‖ Neville said. ―I thought you had forgot me.‖
The archangel smiled, but it was a cold, hard thing. ―Forget you? Never, Thomas. You
have always been at the forefront of my thoughts.‖ His voice was strong, and strangely
melodious, as if it were underscored with the music of bells.
―And yet—‖
―And yet I have left you to the lies and manipulations of the demons? Yes, that I have.
And you know why, Thomas…don‘t you?‖
―So I could see the lies and manipulations for what they were.‖
―Yes. Margaret and her ever-damned brother have shown themselves for what they are.
Cursed manipulators, destroyers, murderers.‖
―Your children.‖
The archangel smiled. ―Yes. My children. But this place of stench and suffering is not the
right place to discuss this, Thomas. Will you come with me now? Into the Field of Angels?‖
Neville hesitated, not willing to leave what remained of the earthly realm, even if it were
a place of stench and suffering. ―Am I dead?‖
―No. You cannot—‖ the archangel broke off, and a sly expression slithered over his
features. ―But I go too fast. Thomas, you are not dead, and you will not die this day. I invite you
into the Field of Angels as a guest only. You may leave when you wish.‖
If you wish. The qualifier hung in the air between them.
Neville hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
―Then discard your clothing,‖ Archangel Michael said, ―for it will corrupt Heaven with
its mortal stench.‖
Neville did as he was commanded, unbuckling his sword belt and letting it slide to the
floor, drawing his tunic and undershirt over his head and dropping them at the foot of the nearest
bed, then stepping out of his boots, hose and under-drawers. He turned away as he disrobed,
strangely uncomfortable that the archangel demand he be naked.
When Neville turned back to face the angel, slowly letting the final article of clothing slip
to the floor, Archangel Michael allowed his black eyes to travel infinitely slowly up and down
Neville‘s naked body, as if assessing. ―You have no scars,‖ he remarked. ―Your body is very
beautiful, indeed. Strange, perhaps, for a man so committed to war.‖
―I have always healed well,‖ Neville said.
And yet again the sly expression slithered over the archangel‘s face. ―Of course you
have,‖ he said, turning to walk towards the doorway. ―Follow me.‖
Neville followed the archangel, the silvery light beyond the door growing stronger with
every step closer they took. As he walked he allowed himself to study the archangel‘s body as
the archangel had so recently studied his. It was almost impossibly beautiful: muscles strong and
rippling beneath unflawed skin, sinuous movement that combined both masculine and feminine
qualities, limbs so well-shaped that they seemed as perfect as marble carvings.
I am very lovely, said the archangel in Neville‘s mind, and Neville found it impossible to disagree with him.
Then, abruptly, they were through the door, and Neville left the mortal world behind him.
Archangel Michael had led him into what appeared to be an infinite gently undulating
field of multi-coloured flowers. The flowers were such as Neville had never seen before. They
were massive, almost grossly so, reaching upwards on leafless thick stems to thigh height. Their colours were over-rich—tawdry—and their texture was heavy and fleshy. They gave off a scent
which hung so intense and cloying in the humid air that Neville felt slightly nauseated by it.
The field was dotted with hundreds of stumps of long-dead trees, the wood grey and split.
Above all hung, not a sky, but a heaviness of silvery light.
Everything about the Field of the Angels seemed to Neville to be false and oppressive.
He had an almost panicky urge to cover his genitals, only managing to keep his hands at his side