with considerable effort.
This was heaven?
They walked forward, and as Neville stepped into the field of flowers he brushed against
some of the gaudy blooms.
They were cold, and brittle, as if made of ice, and they shattered as he touched them.
Neville jumped, then walked more carefully, trying his best not to touch these strange,
counterfeit flowers.
Or were they perfection, and the soft, gentle blooms of earth the lie?
The archangel led Neville further into the Field of Angels, and as they walked angels in
the hundreds rose from their hiding places among the brittle flowers. They were all made as
Archangel Michael: the white-marbled bodies, impossibly beautiful, with chiselled features
dominated by their black eyes and crisp white curls.
None of them was winged.
―Wings are but a figment of the mortal imagination,‖ said the archangel, now walking at
Neville‘s side. ―We are not so flawed that we need wings to fly.‖ The archangel‘s voice was
thick with sarcasm.
Neville nodded, but did not respond, working to keep both his thoughts and his face
bland although every nerve in his body was at screaming point, every muscle knotted and fearful,
and every thought jumbled and confused.
This is heaven? This?
The other angels, their black eyes fixed on Neville‘s every movement, sat down on the
tree stumps, one angel to each stump. There they crouched, legs drawn up, arms locked about
their knees, only their eyes moving as Michael and Neville walked through the field.
Neville thought they looked a little like the gargoyles he‘d seen so many times crouching
at the top of cathedrals and churches.
As the gargoyles crouched on churches, so the angels crouched in heaven, looking down,
watching, watching, watching…
Desperate to keep his mind away from the imagery that flooded it, Neville addressed the
archangel some two paces ahead of him. ―You told me the demons were from hell,‖ he said.
―Foul creatures that needed to be destroyed. But I find that instead they are the by-products of
your lust, begotten on the bodies of unsuspecting women. They are not minions of Satan at all,
they are heaven‘s children! How can I condemn them for that?‖
―I do not ask that you condemn them for that,‖ the archangel said, ―only for what they
are.‖
He stopped, turning about to face Neville. ―You know them for what they are.
Trouble-makers at best—need I mention Wat Tyler‘s name?—and cruel, manipulative murderers
at worst. Hal. Margaret.‖
―They are not—‖
―What? Not cruel, manipulative murderers? How did Margaret and Bolingbroke trap you
into loving her? Not through reason, Thomas, but through the cruellest of manipulations. How did Bolingbroke gain the throne of England? Through a series of well-timed and
oh-so-well-planned murders. There was nothing haphazard about the blood Bolingbroke spilt on
the way to his crowning achievement.‖
The archangel‘s mouth curled a little at his pun, then he went on: ―Thomas, nothing about
your task is pretty or tasteful. If left to their own devices, Bolingbroke and his kind will destroy
the peace of the current order. Mankind will be thrust into chaos. You can stop that. Choose
between them or the angels. Choose one way, and the demons will overrun earth and turn it to
their will. Choose another, and heaven will triumph.‖
Neville moved a little, then flinched as he felt the cold caress of the false flowers against
his body.
If he moved too quickly, if he made the wrong move, would they slice into his flesh?
―The demons speak of love,‖ he said. ―The freedom for individual men and women to
choose their own destiny, the freedom to love. They say that mankind‘s salvation is not your
way, but theirs.‖
The archangel‘s fists clenched at his side, and about them several other angels moved
from their crouches to stand watchful by their tree stumps. ―Love? Love is weakness.‖
Love does not damn, it only saves. Neville clung to Christ‘s words, trying desperately to
keep his face neutral. Everything about this horrible, cold, oppressive place made him think only
of escape.
―For the mighty, perhaps,‖ Neville said, and this seemed to appease the archangel, for he
relaxed.
―For all,‖ Michael said. Then he laughed, and its sound was as brittle and dangerous as
the flowers that surrounded them. ―And yet the demons have chosen the most easy of tests for
you!‖
Easy for you, perhaps, Neville thought, and then he jumped, for suddenly a patch of
flowers to his right vanished, and in their place crouched the beautiful young whore of Rome,
who Thomas had thrown to the ground in a fit of temper.
She stared at him with hate-filled eyes. ―I curse you, Friar Thomas!‖ she cried. ―One day
one of my sisters will seize your soul and condemn you to hell for eternity. A whore will steal
your soul. Nay, I pray to the Virgin Mary, that you will offer her your soul on a platter. You will offer her your eternal damnation in return for her love.‖
The apparition vanished; in its place was Archangel Michael‘s ice-sharp voice. ―And on
your choice rests the fate of mankind. If you condemn yourself for love, then you condemn
mankind.‖
And then the archangel‘s voice changed, becoming infused with triumph. ―But how can
you ever choose for Margaret? How? You might love her…but the test, the choice, demands
unconditional love. There can be no place for hesitancy, even for an instant, for then all would be
lost. Do you love Margaret unconditionally, Thomas? Do you? Do you? Do you? ‖
Neville was aware that all about the entire assembly of angels had risen from their stumps
and were now crowding about him. He could hardly breathe, the air was so thick with ange ls…
―No,‖ he whispered. ―She tricked me into loving her. I do nonetheless love her, but she
tricked me. I was the one raped, not her. There is and will always be that single hesitancy. It is
not…‖ Oh sweet Jesu, he did not want to say these words, but they were the truth, and the
combined will of the angels was forcing the truth out from the very pit of his soul ―…it is not an unconditional love.‖
Archangel Michael screamed with laughter. ―And when it comes to the test, will you
hand her your soul on a platter, Beloved? Will you? Will you? Will you?‖
And all about, Neville heard the whispers: Will you? Will you? Will you?
―No,‖ he said, his words now barely audible. ―I want to, but I cannot.‖
Archangel Michael‘s face contorted in a horrible grimace of ecstasy, and about them in
the field the angels erupted in exultation.
Margaret loses! Margaret loses!
―You see,‖ said Michael, now speaking in a warm and reasonable tone, ―you are unable
to do anything but tell the truth. That is your blood speaking. You have been well bred indeed.‖
Bred to our standards, came the whisper of the angelic assembly about Neville. Bred to
be one among us.
Unmindful of the pain caused by the shattering of the cold, brittle flowers with his
movement, Neville sank to his knees, covered his face with his hands, and wept.
―Let me show you our prize,‖ Archangel Michael said, ―for I think you deserve some
cheer.‖ He and Neville, now back on his feet, were still within the field of false flowers. The
other angels had retreated to crouch on their tree stumps, their backs now to Michael and Neville.
Neville felt very cold, as if his very soul had been reduced to a state near to that of the
flowers. He knew now what he wanted to do—free mankind from the grip of the angels—but he
also knew ( No. No! He only feared it. He still had a choice, he still had a choice. Please, sweet Jesu, please let me still have a choice! ) that he could not do it. He could not hand his soul to Margaret.
Not with that single dark irksome doubt contained within their love.
That single hesitancy.
Archangel Michael began to walk forward very slowly, and Neville followed, as if he had
no control over his muscles.
―We had no thought for our issue,‖ the archangel said, ―until he was born.‖
Neville had to think a moment, trying to work out what the archangel referred to. ―Jesus,‖
he said finally, remembering what Hal and Margaret had told him.
―We had not realised how dangerous, how malicious, how destructive the imps could be
until he began his depraved campaign to win mankind‘s soul over to his cause.‖
Neville did not respond, keeping his eyes ahead. There was a smudge on the horizon
now, and he realised they walked towards a small hill. He concentrated on that hill, trying not to
think about what the angels had forced him to confront.
He had no choice. None. His love for Margaret was not unconditional enough.
―He was frightful,‖ said the archangel. His speed had picked up a little now. ―We had to