The crippled angel. Book by Sara Douglass

pressed lightly. ―How long have we shared a bed, Catherine? Almost two years, give or take a

few months. And yet not once have you bred to me. Not once. You said that—‖

―I would give you any child of my body, Philip. Yes. That was part of the bargain

between us.‖

―We are both young and healthy, and surely lusty enough to have filled half a village

with our get by this stage. Tell me, Catherine, have you—‖

―No! Philip, believe me, I have hungered for a child of ours more than you could possibly

know. I have neither ended a pregnancy, nor acted to prevent one. To have seen other women

swell and breed at the slightest glance from a man has been…has been…‖

―Hush. Hush now.‖ Philip drew Catherine against him once more, cuddling her close.

―God surely has his reasons.‖

And then he almost jumped, stunned by the sudden intensity of her weeping.

―If I had the courage,‖ she eventually whispered, ―then I would wed you. If I had the

courage.‖

And if I thought that Bolingbroke would honour my choice, and the bargain between you.

She slept, and Philip continued to hold her, his dark handsome face hard in the lamplight.

Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked her back.

Despite his gentle words to Catherine earlier, Philip simply didn‘t know what to think.

Why hadn‘t Catherine fallen pregnant to him by now? Jesu! Almost two years. Did she still hold

true to this ancient bargain with Bolingbroke, even after Bolingbroke had married Mary Bohun?

Why wouldn‘t Catherine marry him?

And if all those questions weren‘t enough, then why Catherine‘s sudden about-face to

Joan in these past weeks? Catherine had hated Joan from the instant she‘d first seen her…so why

now this strange empathy with her?

Was Catherine still the one to partner him in his ambitions? She‘d told him to wait, that

their time would come…but what if Catherine was wrong?

Slowly, slowly, his hand stroked.

And then stopped.

Perhaps it would be best to watch for his own chance.

III

Sunday 2nd June 1381

―Tom?‖

Neville turned from the stallion he‘d been brushing.

He looked about, making sure no one else was present. ―Good morning to you, Hal.‖

Bolingbroke walked into the dim horse stall. The entire stable complex was quiet; most

grooms and horsemen were in the Tower‘s chapel hearing Sunday mass. He ran a hand down the

stallion‘s smooth coat, admiring the sheen that the grey hairs picked up, even in this dimness.

―Not at mass, Tom?‖

Neville resumed his long, slow strokes. Mary had asked him to accompany her to mass,

but he‘d demurred, saying he needed time alone to rid his head of his buzzing thoughts. Besides,

Mary had a bevy of women, including Margaret, to attend her in chapel.

And perhaps it was best not to feed Margaret‘s jealousy and unease any more than he had

to.

Neville had come to the stables to find some peace, to lose himself in the rhythmical

grooming of his favourite horse. It had worked, because during his grooming, Neville had come

to a decision within himself.

Trust Christ. Trust his own heart. And all would be well.

Having made his decision, Neville had felt a peace envelop him. The way forward was as

yet dark, and his eventual decision full of unknowables, but if he could free Christ, then all

would be well.

As Bolingbroke walked over to him, Neville slowed his stroking, then stopped altogether,

resting his arm across the back of the horse as he looked at Bolingbroke. ―I did not wish to go to

mass,‖ he said.

Bolingbroke took the horse‘s halter in one hand, and softly rubbed the stallion‘s nose.

The horse snorted, and snuffled its nose across Bolingbroke‘s chest.

Bolingbroke waited.

Neville sighed. He supposed he ought to tell Bolingbroke something of what was going

on. ―The Archangel Michael spoke to me.‖

Bolingbroke straightened, and pushed the horse‘s nose away. ―When?‖

―About ten days ago. That final day of the pestilence.‖

―And?‖

―He took me to the Field of Angels, Hal. Heaven, he called it.‖

Again Bolingbroke waited.

―It was foul,‖ Neville said. ―Foul.‖

―In what way?‖

―In every way, and yet in only one way. It was cold and barren and full of falseness,

reflecting the coldness and barrenness and falseness of the angels‘ souls.‖

You could have told me earlier, Bolingbroke thought. Once I would have been the first

one you would have rushed to.

Then he realised how unfair that was. It was gift enough that Tom should be telling him

now.

―I have known since…well, since you gave me the casket, just how heartless the angels

are. But to see them in their own world…‖

Bolingbroke almost asked what the angels wanted, then bit his tongue. He knew what

they wanted well enough.

Neville suddenly threw the brush into a corner of the stall, making the horse jump and

snort. ―He made me feel like a puppet.‖

Bolingbroke had caught the horse‘s head, and was now stroking its cheek, soothing away

its fright. ―The angels have ever been loathsome creatures.‖

As he said that, Bolingbroke thought again about the strange, horrifying confidence that

the Archangel Michael had in Neville. What was it? Why did the angels believe so implicitly in

Thomas?

He opened his mouth to ask the question that consumed his nights and days, Which way

will you choose, Tom? , but before he could speak there was a sudden rattle of hooves in the

courtyard beyond, and both men‘s heads jerked towards the door. Voices shouted, and

Bolingbroke pushed past Neville and strode into the courtyard.

Neville entered the courtyard a moment or two after Bolingbroke. Some two score men

had ridden in on horses close to dropping from exhaustion. Their captain was even now speaking

urgently to Bolingbroke, so forgetting himself that he had rested his hand on the king‘s shoulder.

Bolingbroke took no notice. He heard the man out, then nodded, thanked him, and sent

him scurrying on his way.

Then he looked to where Neville was standing.

His eyes were wide with something that Neville thought looked surprisingly like loss.

The chamber which Bolingbroke had taken as his working chamber was alive with

activity: shouted words, hands flung about, papers shuffled, men pacing back and forth,

messengers running in and out. Most of Bolingbroke‘s advisers were there, including Ralph

Neville—Baron Raby and Earl of Westmorland; Thomas Beauchamp—Earl of Warwick; the

youthful Thomas Mowbray—Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Norfolk; Michael de la

Pole—Earl of Suffolk; and Sir Richard Sturry. All of them had been supporters during

Bolingbroke‘s rebellion against Richard, and all had been richly rewarded since.

Of course, the Earl of Northumberland had also been more than instrumental in

supporting Bolingbroke, and had been richly rewarded as well.

But he was not here now, had not been at Bolingbroke‘s court in many weeks, and this

morning had brought the news that all of them had been dreading.

Horribly, the news was far, far worse than anyone could possibly have supposed.

―Well, it is no surprise, perhaps, that the Percys have proved so disloyal,‖ Suffolk was

now saying. ―Northumberland has ever been the turncoat, and Hotspur has ever been the

ambitious one.‖

Neville was standing behind a table covered with hastily unrolled maps, as well as the

written reports of everyone from sheriffs to millers who had seen armies move this way or that.

As Suffolk spoke, he happened to catch a glimpse of Bolingbroke‘s face, and saw again that

fleeting expression of sorrow in his eyes.

Hotspur, his childhood friend, and now his betrayer.

―We must move fast,‖ Mowbray said. ―These reports are some days old. Sire…‖

Bolingbroke grimaced, and looked about. Whatever pain had been in his eyes was now

gone. ―Of course we must move fast…but in which direction? Northumberland is moving in

Yorkshire and Northumberland. Hotspur and his damned Scots alliance are on the move in

Cumberland—no doubt in Lancashire by now—and Owain Glyndwr, by sweet Jesu‘s sake, in

the northern reaches of Wales.‖

―They are all heading in one direction,‖ Raby said, moving to the table. He ruffled about

a little, found the map he was after, and stabbed his finger down. ―Shropshire. The city of

Shrewsbury.‖

―If they meet up, sire,‖ Neville said, feeling the weight of Bolingbroke‘s eyes fall upon

him, ―then your task will be more than difficult.‖

Everyone could see Bolingbroke struggle with himself, trying to deny it, but he couldn‘t.

Again he grimaced, and this time his pain was clear for all to see. ―Scotland, Wales and the

damned north of England, all arrayed against me. You are right, Tom. Raby, Nottingham,

Warwick, Suffolk, Sturry…what numbers would Hotspur command?‖

―If they all meet up,‖ Warwick said slowly, not wanting to say the words, ―then he could

well have over sixty thousand.‖

―And currently? What does he command currently with just his men and the Scots?‖

Raby again fidgeted among the reports. ―Twenty thousand,‖ he said eventually.

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