only my actions can ease your minds and hearts. And I know also that you remember the plagues and uncertainties of recent weeks, and wonder if somehow this is a reflection on my right to
reign over you.‖
Bolingbroke dropped his voice, although it still carried easily across the assembled
masses. ―I also wonder. I also am consumed with doubt. And I also know that this doubt must be
laid to rest soon, or all my legitimacy will vanish, both in your eyes, and in God‘s.
―My fellow Englishmen, hear now my vow to you. Tomorrow I ride to meet with
Hotspur, who leads the rebellion in the north. Let God be the judge. Let the battlefield be the trial of my right to reign as your monarch. And let you be the guardians of the crown until either I, or Hotspur, return to claim it.‖
Bolingbroke stood tall in his stirrups, his balance easy on the shifting, nervous horse
beneath him. He let go the reins, and, raising both his hands, grasped the crown about his head.
―My brothers and sisters,‖ he shouted. ―May you guard the crown and majesty of
England until God has made His decision!‖
He raised the crown with both hands, holding it above his head, then, in a sudden,
stunning movement, he tossed the crown into the crowd.
―Take it, and guard it,‖ he shouted, his voice ringing over all of East Smithfield and into
the city beyond, ―and may God prove the final arbiter on my right to rule!‖
He sank down into his saddle, holding the crowd captive with the intensity of his eyes.
―And, whoever comes back to reclaim that crown, may you never again question his right
to rule. For what God has joined, may no man put asunder.‖
VI
Thursday 6th June 1381
Philip draped a comradely arm around Charles‘ shoulders, and flashed his charming grin
into the man‘s face. ―Charles, may I speak plainly, king to king?‖
About them servants were taking down hangings and tapestries and folding them into
great wooden chests, then piling pewter plate on top before carefully lowering and locking the
lids. Others were rolling the heavy rugs from the floor, and pushing them to one side for
labourers to lug outside to the awaiting carts.
Philip and Charles had to move smartly to one side to avoid the particularly energetic rug
rolling of two servants, and Philip‘s arm tightened a little around Charles‘ shoulders as he led
him towards a window seat that, being built into the wall, couldn‘t be packed and moved.
―About what?‖ said Charles, his eyes sliding in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner
as he scanned the chamber for possible assassins.
―About your situation, my friend. It seems to me to be most hideous.‖
Charles sat down on the seat with a thump, and tried to move away from Philip‘s arm.
But the King of Navarre was apparently most desirous of Charles‘ close physical companionship,
for as Charles shuffled a few inches down the seat, so did Philip shuffle against him, tightening
his arm as he did so.
―In what manner?‖ Charles said, hating the slight shrillness in his voice. His eyes darted
about once more, this time looking to see if perhaps his mother was going to emerge from one of
the chests to accuse him of unseemly weakness.
―Well…‖ Philip finally lifted his arm from Charles‘ shoulders, and leaned back in the
seat, puffing his cheeks out on a breath as if his thoughts disturbed him greatly. ―Firstly, my
friend, there are the English.‖
Charles wriggled uncomfortably, and began studying a ragged nail on his left hand.
―I cannot but think that the rumours are correct—dear Hal is surely thinking of invading
this summer.‖
Philip paused, damping down the amusement in his eyes at Charles‘ obvious
discomfiture, and leaned forward, assuming an earnest expression. ―So, how are your war
preparations coming along?‖
The ragged nail suddenly became of such extreme interest, and Charles bent his head
over it so acutely, he managed to hide his face from Philip.
He chewed the nail enthusiastically, and mumbled something around his mouthful.
Philip grinned, enjoying the man‘s discomfiture, not so much out of mean-spiritedness,
but because it would play directly into his own hands.
―You do have your war preparations well in hand…do you not?‖
Again Charles mumbled something unintelligible. He shifted slightly on the seat so that
his shoulder and back were half-facing Philip.
―Hmmm,‖ Philip said thoughtfully. He screwed his eyes up against the light streaming in
the windows and pretended an interest in the servants still scurrying about the almost completely
de-furnished chamber. ―May I make a suggestion?‖
Charles made no sound, but his nail biting came to a sudden end.
―Paris would be the perfect place to set in motion your plans for Bolingbroke‘s, and
England‘s, complete humiliation, my friend,‖ Philip said. ―The city is so easily secured, yet so
strategically positioned as to make it the perfect location to sally forth against any invading
English army. Don‘t you agree?‖
―Perhaps,‖ Charles managed. His shoulder shifted slightly, and Philip caught a glimpse of
an eye slanting in his direction.
―But you are king, and of such a mighty kingdom,‖ Philip continued. ―You have many
burdens to bear. I cannot think how you manage to find the time to direct army preparations
against the English as well.‖
Charles shifted a little more towards Philip. ―Perhaps.‖
―Of course! Now…‖ Philip leaned forward. ―I might be able to lift some of the care and
burden of kingship from your hands.‖
―In what manner?‖
―You are as yet young, and I have spent many more years in the battlefield than yourself.
Perhaps I might be able to assist you in overseeing your war preparations?‖
Charles thought about it. He knew it was dangerous to give Philip control like this. Very
dangerous. Philip had attempted to double-cross his grandfather on numerous occasions…the
years of experience Philip had on the battlefield were on the battlefield against France.
And who wanted Philip of Navarre commanding one‘s own army? That army was sure to
be turned against one‘s own person the instant it served Philip‘s ambition.
Charles frowned. ―No. I think not. I have the Maid of France. She will command my
forces against whatever enemy arrays itself against me. I trust her. She speaks for God.‖
―Hmmm,‖ said Philip, then fell silent, keeping his eyes on four beefy labourers who were
pushing and shoving a massive chest towards the doorway.
―Well,‖ said Charles, ―she does speak for God.‖
Philip lifted one of his own hands and began to study his own nails with an expression of
intense concentration.
―And she will command my army. Successfully! I am perfectly safe with Joan about.‖
Philip glanced over his hand towards Charles, arching one of his black eyebrows.
―Joan…‖ Charles‘ voice drifted off. ―She can help. Remember Orleans!‖
Philip sighed, and put his hand down. ―My friend,‖ he said in the most sorrowful of
tones. ―We both know that Joan is no longer the woman…well, the saint she used to be. For
months she moped about, and now in the past weeks she has done nothing but smile and enjoy
the comforts of your hospitality. What talk has she made of crusades, and winning back France
from the English? Why—none.‖ His eyes darted around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ―I
have even heard, my friend, that she has spoken of her desire to go home and tend her father‘s
sheep once more…although, personally, I think she‘s simply decided to enjoy the luxury you
wrap her in. Has she shown any interest in cladding herself in armour and riding out to war these
days? No! Of course not. All she wants to do is live off you, my friend. She has you wrapped
about her little finger.‖
―She hasn‘t! She hasn‘t!‖
―Shush,‖ Philip said urgently, laying a cautionary hand on Charles‘ arm. ―Never let the
servants see your panic, man. All I mean to point out,‖ he continued in a more moderate voice,
―is that Joan simply can‘t be relied on any more. I mean to say, how many miracles has she
popped out for you since you‘ve been in Rheims? And who was it dropped your crown at your
coronation? My sweet Lord Christ, man! If I hadn‘t caught that crown and handed it back…you
might still be grubbing for it under the pews of the cathedral.
―Charles—‖ Philip dropped all the banter and foppishness out of his voice, leaning
forward to stare directly into Charles‘ nervously shifting eyes ―—Joan cannot save France. She
doesn‘t have the will any more. Neither, to be blunt, can you. Give me the command of the
armed forces and I damn well will!‖
―I don‘t trust you,‖ Charles said.
―You don‘t have a choice,‖ Philip said. He rose, dusting down his tunic over his hip
where some dirt had smudged. ―We have a week or so before we arrive in Paris. By then we will