―Damn you, Margaret,‖ he whispered, then winced, wishing he could take back the
words. Her actions had allowed him to love, to see that love saved, not damned.
Yet in the doing, Margaret had sabotaged her own cause.
―Please, sweet Jesu,‖ Neville whispered. ―Tell me what to do.‖
But there was no answer, and Neville felt very alone and very unsure.
For a long time he sat, staring at the wall, loathing the angels and what they were going to
force him to do.
X
Sunday 26th May 1381
—iii—
―Did I not say the Lord our God would send an omen?‖ said Thorseby. ―What further
sign do you need than this pestilence? If you do not move, and soon, then the pestilence shall
envelop all England.‖
Sign of God or not, Hotspur well knew the advantages the sudden eruption of the
pestilence had given him. First Exeter‘s revolt. Nasty, but not deadly enough to Bolingbroke‘s
reputation for Hotspur to be sure of any chance of success if he then moved.
But now this. A clear sign of God‘s ill will. The rumours of what had happened in St
Paul‘s with the supernatural appearance of the black Dog of Pestilence while Bolingbroke had
been viewing Richard‘s murdered corpse would almost certainly ensure England would rise up
against Bolingbroke should an alternative present itself.
And Hotspur meant that alternative to be himself. The golden hero from the north,
untainted by any association with Bolingbroke—Hotspur had not kept himself apart from
Bolingbroke since his landing at Ravenspur for nothing—who could restore England to godly
rule and a golden age.
Lord God, what that would mean in terms of power for the Percy family! Both the
Lancasters and the Nevilles would lose all— there would be no one and no thing left to challenge Hotspur”s claim to the throne.
― Good King Harry! Good King Harry! ‖
Aye, Hotspur could hear it now.
―I am going to need your help,‖ Hotspur said to Thorseby.
―You have it, my lord.‖
―Good.‖ Hotspur paused, thinking. Thorseby was good for much of the Church…but he
would need more than whispering friars and monks to aid his cause. Hotspur needed swords, and
many of them.
And allies…men that Bolingbroke would never suspect to throw in their lot with Hotspur.
―Thorseby,‖ Hotspur said, all doubt now gone from his mind. ―I will need some of your
friars, well horsed and able to move swiftly down the roads of England, to carry messages for
me.‖ Great black crows, nurturing murderous intents.
―You have them, my lord.‖
Hotspur nodded, then smiled. The crown would feel good on his brow. ―Then you are my
man, Thorseby.‖
XI
Monday 27th May 1381
—i—
The cold eventually grew unbearable, so bad that not only was Neville‘s shaking verging
on the painful, but his hopeless thoughts had grown disordered and uncontrolled. He could see
nuns, monks and physicians moving about the guildhall, could see the sick writhing about their
beds, and yet none of them appeared beset by such cold. Mary, Margaret and Jocelyn slept close
to him with nothing but thin blankets about them, and yet neither did they shiver.
Perhaps the cold was heaven sent to remind him of his purpose. To control him, perhaps.
Neville tried to concentrate his thoughts, but they were scattering all over the place. No
God but the collective will of the angels…the cries and screams of the dying…Mary, trying not
to cry in pain as she tended those only marginally sicker than her…the black Dog of Pestilence, stalking through London…the cold, cold hell of heaven…Margaret nursing their son…Jesus
Christ in agony on his cross for fourteen hundred years…himself, forced into a decision that he
loathed beyond anything he could imagine…
Neville lowered his head into his arms and concentrated on the memory of the suffering
Christ, driving away all other thoughts. He remembered Jesus‘ dark eyes settling on him, their
compassion, their love…and all the time he struggled to raise his shoulders and torso so that he
could draw great, painful bubbling breaths into his tortured body.
Dangerous, malicious, destructive, Archangel Michael had said.
Christ, who died for love so that mankind could be saved, freed from the chains of the
angels.
―Dangerous? Malicious? Destructive?‖ Neville whispered. ―I cannot believe that to be so.
No, no. You are the dangerous and malicious one, Michael!‖
He raised his head, intending to meditate on the small crucifix that hung on the wall of
the alcove. Hoping to drive away the more painful of his thoughts.
But instead of meditating or praying, Neville found himself staring at it with wide,
disbelieving eyes.
The crucifix was small, no taller than the length of Neville‘s forearm, and carved from a
block of solid wood. It was good English workmanship, for despite its smallness the form of
Christ was lifelike in the extreme.
Too lifelike perhaps, for, as Neville watched, the body of Jesus Christ contorted in agony
on the cross. His head turned, and seemed to stare directly at Neville.
Do not despair, Thomas.
―Why not?‖ he whispered. ―Sweet Lord Christ, I want to free mankind from the grip of
the angels, but I cannot. I cannot! I cannot freely hand my soul to Margaret—‖
Thomas, do you not remember what I said to you as you stood beneath my dying body?
Neville fought to remember. ―You told me to trust you. But what can you do, what can
anyone do? How will trust help me?‖
Trust me, Thomas. That is all that I ask.
Neville laughed bitterly. Trust. It was a terrible thing to ask when he knew the angels had
him trapped. He could never give Margaret his soul. Not freely. Not completely.
Free me. Trust me.
―Free you? How?‖
Free me.
―How?‖
The figure of Christ twisted and writhed in agony. I am nailed to the cross—
―How? How do I free you?‖
I am nailed to the cross…
Neville sobbed, inching forward on his hands and knees towards the crucifix. Christ‘s
body now twisted in such agony that rivulets of blood seeped down the wall. ―How?‖ he
whispered. ―Sweet Jesu, tell me how to free you!‖
I am nailed…
―Sweet Jesu!‖
I am nailed…
I am nailed…
…nailed…
And then Neville blinked, and the blood had gone, and the body nailed to the crucifix was
gone, and Neville was left crying softly, his hand still outstretched in silent supplication.
How? How could he free the Lord Jesus Christ?
He slowly lowered his hand, resting his head on the cold stone floor, and wept.
XII
Monday 27th May 1381
—ii—
―Tom?‖
Startled, Neville raised his head. Mary had risen and was sitting on the edge of her bed.
She put a finger to her lips, indicating Margaret and Jocelyn, then gestured for Neville to aid her.
Nothing in her expression indicated she had seen or heard any of the exchange between
Christ and Neville.
He rose, walked over to her—hobbling slightly with his cold, stiff muscles—and took her
arm.
―The chapel,‖ she whispered. ―I would like to pray a while, I think, and perhaps talk with
you.‖
Neville felt her tremble slightly, and she leaned more heavily upon him.
―You need to eat something,‖ he said, ―before we can talk.‖
He led her first to the area where a nun was ladling broth into bowls, where he sat her
down and forced her to drink a half bowl of broth and several pieces of milk-soaked bread, then
into the cool dimness of the guildhall‘s chapel. Flickering red light lit the chapel, a combination
both of the continually burning fires and of the dawn.
―Madam, may we speak?‖ Neville said, sitting down beside Mary on a bench.
If she was irritated at his forgetfulness of her wish to pray first, she did not show it. ―Only
if you call me Mary, Tom. I am too tired and weary to cope with the continual ‗madams‘.‖
He hesitated, and, seeing his uncertainty, Mary reached to him and took his hand between
hers.
Neville looked down at her hands, and saw that they were so thin that the bones appeared
ready to break through her fragile skin.
―Mary,‖ he said, ―you are so ill…‖
―Aye,‖ she said, ―and you have known that for so long now there is no reason to remark
further upon it.‖
He smiled a little at the tartness in her tone, and she coloured at the expression in his
eyes. Her entire body stiffened, and Neville‘s smile grew wider.
―And you have known for so long now how greatly I adore you,‖ he said with a light
teasing tone, grateful that, unknowingly, she was giving him a reason to jest away some of his troubles, ―that you should not now be acting the coy virgin with me.‖
Mary relaxed, and laughed softly. ―Aye. We have both seen too much to hide behind coy
exteriors. Tom, what is on your mind? Your eyes are clouded with such pain that I can hardly