know with more certainty what is happening in England. And then, my dear boy, you will have
to make a decision about what to do. You can‘t delay any longer. Either pick someone to
command your forces…or make it easy for Bolingbroke and simply flee south to whatever
whorehouse in the sun you have picked out for yourself.‖
And then he was off, striding across the floor without a backward glance.
Charles watched him go, trembling slightly at the harshness of Philip‘s tone.
Annoyed with Charles, but not overly angry, for he knew it would take several overtures
to win the faint-hearted idiot over to his plan, Philip ran nimbly down the main staircase of the
palace. All about him he heard the noise of the move: the shrill voices of the cooks, rising out of
the kitchens as they tried to both cook and pack at the same moment; the shuffle and snorting of
horses in the courtyard; the curses of men as packs slipped and dislodged in the chaos. Catherine
was elsewhere in the palace, closeted with her mother Isabeau, and Philip thought he might as
well take the opportunity of a few free minutes to check that his war stallions were being loaded
properly into their transport.
Just as he reached the foot of the staircase, however, he came to an abrupt halt.
Standing some ten paces in front of him in the great hall of the palace were Regnault de
Chartres, the Archbishop of Rheims, and Joan herself. De Chartres had remained within Charles‘
household ever since he‘d examined Joan at La Roche-Guyon. Although he‘d not found
sufficient reason then to discredit her, Philip knew he‘d been looking for an opportunity to do so
ever since. Particularly since Joan had usurped his rightful role in crowning Charles in the
cathedral of Rheims.
Now de Chartres was leaning over Joan, who was returning his stare without apparent
effort. The archbishop‘s face was red-veined and incredulous, his pale blue eyes almost starting
out of his head.
―May I ask you the question again?‖ he said, just as Philip sauntered up. ―I cannot believe
I heard you aright the first time you answered.‖
―If you wish,‖ Joan said, and sighed. She glanced at Philip.
―The clerical brotherhood of Christendom,‖ de Chartres said, ―are greatly divided over
which pope should be obeyed: our revered papal father Clement in Avignon, or the rude pig of
an impostor, Urban, in Rome? As you have the ear of God,‖ his lips curled in a faint sneer, ―and
seem on such intimate terms with the Archangels themselves—‖
Joan‘s cheeks flushed, as if the archbishop‘s words angered her, but she kept her eyes
steady on his.
Intrigued, Philip moved closer.
―—I ask you again, Joan of France, which pope do you say should be obeyed? Which one
speaks on behalf of God?‖
―And I say once more to you,‖ Joan snapped, ―that I do not care overmuch. I concern
myself only with France, not with the dubious arguments of men. Or of Archangels.‖
And with a defiant look, first at de Chartres, then at Philip, she turned on her heel and
marched off.
―One can almost sense her confusion,‖ Philip said softly, edging closer to de Chartres.
―Perhaps…perhaps she has lost the ear of God? Perhaps the Archangels no longer visit her as
once they did?‖
De Chartres turned and studied Philip. Like everyone else, he didn‘t trust the man…but
that didn‘t mean he might not make a useful ally. ―Continue,‖ he said.
Philip gave a slight shrug. ―She may prove more dangerous than beneficial to both you
and to me, my lord. To both the Church and to France.‖
―Yet who can touch her? France adores their miraculous Maid!‖
―Well…‖ Philip said. He almost put his arm around the archbishop‘s shoulders as he had
with Charles, then thought better of it. ―I have a plan, my lord archbishop. Perchance you might
care to hear of it?‖
VII
Sunday 16th June 1381
―Hotspur is still some twenty miles north of the town, sire. And neither
Northumberland‘s nor Glyndwr‘s forces appear to have yet joined with him.‖
Bolingbroke‘s shoulders visibly slumped in relief. His face looked grey in this late
afternoon light, deep lines of exhaustion and care creasing his forehead and running down from
nose to mouth. His beautiful silver-gilt hair was plastered to his skull by days of sweat, and the
neckline of the undershirt peeking from his leather armour was stained and rank.
It had been a hard ride from London, collecting over six thousand soldiers and knights in
Oxfordshire, and another five thousand each in Worcestershire and Warwickshire to combine
with the force Bolingbroke had assembled in East Smithfield. Now Bolingbroke commanded an
army some twenty thousand strong—a good size, and made up of experienced knights, foot
solders and archers, but next to useless if Hotspur had managed to assemble his entire alliance.
They‘d ridden into Shrewsbury two hours ago. The town mayor, well aware of the two
armies moving towards Shrewsbury, had hastened to greet Bolingbroke, assuring him of
Shrewsbury‘s continued loyalty and pledging the town‘s every resource to aid his king in
repelling the rebels. Exhausted, irritable and impatient, Bolingbroke had wondered if the mayor
would have said the same thing to Hotspur if he‘d arrived first. But he thanked the man as
graciously as he could manage, then waved him off, saying that he needed to confer with his
lieutenants.
While the bulk of Bolingbroke‘s army was encamped outside the town walls, just to the
south of the River Severn which all but enclosed Shrewsbury, within the town the mayor had
made available several adjoining townhouses for Bolingbroke and his commanders. They were
comfortable and well appointed, and offered the men the first decent accommodation they‘d had
for over a week.
But before anyone could eat, or wash, or sleep, they needed to know the latest
intelligence regarding Hotspur, Northumberland and Glyndwr. Bolingbroke had heard very little
since he‘d left London. He knew that Raby had reached the north…but did not know if he‘d been
in time to cut off Northumberland‘s march towards Hotspur‘s forces in the west. He knew that
Warwick and Suffolk had reached the northern marches of Wales, but had they managed to turn
aside Glyndwr‘s push north? For all Bolingbroke knew he could have just ridden his army into
the nightmarish situation of being caught in the pincers of three hostile armies.
The initial news from a scout waiting for Bolingbroke within his assigned townhouse had
therefore been greeted with relief. At least Northumberland and Glyndwr had not yet joined with
Hotspur.
But if not with Hotspur, then where were they?
Bolingbroke was in the main chamber of his townhouse with Thomas Neville, the Earls
of Nottingham and Clarence, several of his leading commanders, John Norbury and Lord Owen
Tudor, and an ever-shifting, whispering collection of squires and valets hovering about doorways
and windows.
He was pacing back and forth before the unlit hearth, waving off any attempts by his
valet to unstrap him from his armour and snapping at any remark or observation from any of his
commanders, when footsteps sounded at the door, and a messenger entered. Bolingbroke halted,
staring at the man, who was even sweatier and more exhausted than he felt.
―Sire,‖ said the man, ducking his head, ―I bring news from Ralph Neville, Baron of Raby
and Earl of Westmorland. He sends his greetings, and—‖
―For Christ‘s sweet sake,‖ Bolingbroke snapped, stepping forward until he was within a
pace of the now pale man, ―just tell me your intelligence!‖
―My Lord of Westmorland begs me to inform you that Northumberland‘s push westward
is stopped, and that Hotspur may expect no aid from that quarter.‖
If the earlier news that Northumberland and Glyndwr had not yet joined with Hotspur
brought relief, then this brought the kind of emotional release normally only associated with the
unexpected lifting of a death order.
―Thank the sweet Lord Jesu!‖ Bolingbroke said, literally sinking down to his knees
before the startled messenger. Bolingbroke leaned forward, grasped the messenger‘s hand, and
kissed it, before standing and grinning at the expression on the man‘s face. ―Norbury,‖
Bolingbroke said, ―see to it that this man has suitable reward for the sweetness of his
intelligence.‖
Norbury, as relieved as any other in the chamber, smiled and beckoned the messenger
away.
―Tom,‖ Bolingbroke said, turning to Neville, ―your uncle has saved me once again. I do
not think there are enough rewards in this kingdom to honour him. What can I do?‖
―Good service to you is all the reward my uncle needs,‖ Neville said, too physically and
emotionally exhausted to return Bolingbroke‘s grin. ―Sire, please. You must rest, eat, and
perhaps wash away some of the sweat of your travel and worries.‖
―Glyndwr…‖ Bolingbroke said.
―The Welsh bastard prince is the least of our worries,‖ Nottingham said.
―Northumberland and the tens of thousands he could have called up behind him was the greater