army, Hotspur‘s staring, lifeless head on a pike in his hand.
The London crowds had seethed about them, screaming their adulation. They‘d ridden
into London via Ludgate and, in the square before St Paul‘s, Dick Whittington himself had met
Bolingbroke. In his hands he‘d held Bolingbroke‘s crown.
Bolingbroke‘s throne was finally safe, from English hands, at least.
Neville rose to his feet, his legs and hands trembling with the remaining emotions of his
vision.
Go to Mary? She prays before the answer?
Neville took a deep breath, striding through the gardens to the gate in the wall
surrounding the palace complex.
Go to Mary? She prays before the answer?
He went first to her chambers, thinking that Mary might be praying before the small altar
she‘d had erected in the corner of her bedroom. But she was not there, and, hearing that, Neville
had no need to ask further of her ladies where she might be.
He made his way to the Tower‘s church, the Chapel of St John, situated against the
eastern wall of the White Tower, where it sat sandwiched between it and the Wardrobe Tower.
Neville reached the outer door, then hesitated. Margaret sat in the gardens to one side of
the chapel, together with her maid Agnes, and her and Neville‘s two children, Rosalind and
Bohun. Jocelyn, daughter of the prostitute Emma, had also joined the group. It was almost
midday, and the group sat in the shade of a small pear tree, tossing woollen balls for the younger
children to play with, and scratching behind the ears and across the stomachs of two grey and
white lapdogs, lolling on the lawns in delight at the caresses.
―Tom,‖ Margaret said, half rising, then sinking down again at Neville‘s gesture. ―What
do you here?‖
―I look for Mary. Is she within?‖ He nodded at the closed door of the chapel.
Margaret and Agnes shared a glance. ―Aye,‖ Margaret replied. ―She is praying. Tom, she
asked not to be disturbed.‖
―I—‖
―She most particularly asked me to—‖
―Keep me away?‖ Neville said softly, incredulously, and Margaret lowered her eyes.
―Nay. She did not mention your name specifically.‖
―Then I shall go in,‖ Neville said. ―Margaret, do not fret. I will not disturb Mary
overlong.‖
He laid a hand to the old iron door handle, turned it, then slipped quietly into the chapel,
closing the door behind him soundlessly.
―Would that he sought me out so assiduously,‖ Margaret murmured.
Why talk so much, and so often, with Mary, when he could so easily share with her?
Rosalind looked up from her play with her woollen ball, and frowned at her mother. She
scrambled the foot or two distance between them, and clambered into Margaret‘s lap.
Mama, said Rosalind‘s childish voice in her mother‘s mind, do not fret. I am sure that
papa loves you.
Margaret stared incredulously at her child, and breathed in a draught of pure panic.
Ohsweetjesuohsweetjesuohsweetjesu!
St John‘s Chapel had been built some three hundred years previously, during the reigns
of the early Norman kings. Its builders had constructed it in the usual heavy Norman
style—small windows, heavy arches, thick walls—but had somehow nonetheless managed to
give the chapel both warmth and intimacy. It was constructed in the round: an outer thick wall
with narrow but tall stained glass windows, and an inner wall, pierced with two tiers of similarly
narrow but tall stone arches. Light flooded in through the outer windows, through the arches and
into the small space of the circular chapel within.
Mary was on her knees on a cushion before a simple altar of stone. A linen had been
thrown over the stone, and candles and incense placed upon it. Behind the altar, hanging from
one of the stone columns supporting the arches, hung a life-sized statue of Jesus, attached, as
always, to the cross.
Free me. I am nailed.
Neville trembled, and the slight noise his movement made aroused Mary from her
devotions. She looked over her shoulder.
―Tom?‖ Her voice was cross. ―What do you here?‖
Free me! I am nailed here, as I am nailed to ten thousand score crucifixes about
Christendom.
―Mary…‖ His voice had dried up, and he could go no further. All Neville could do was
stare at the statue of Jesus on its cross.
It was different, vastly different, to most representations of Christ on the cross. Generally,
crucifixes were carved out of a single block of wood or stone, but this one was not. The
craftsman had taken two pieces of wood and carved them separately: one piece formed the cross,
one the body of Christ.
Mary prays before the answer. Free me.
And the craftsman had affixed the body of Christ to the cross by nailing it at wrists and
through the crossed feet.
Un-nail me, Tom.
―Tom?‖ Mary was struggling to rise, and Neville moved forward to aid her, although he
did not take his eyes from the cross.
―Tom, what are you doing here?‖
―I have come to free Christ, Mary,‖ he whispered, and she gasped, and turned her head to
follow his gaze.
The eyes of Christ were open, staring at them, great pools of black agony.
As they stared, a tear trickled down one cheek.
Free me, Tom. Now.
XII
Thursday 27th June 1381
—ii—
The carved crucifix had been fastened into the stone wall with bolts behind the two arms
of the cross, but Neville was lucky—
Is this “luck”, Tom?
—that the weight of the statuary rested almost entirely on a small stone shelf under the
base of the cross, and not on the bolts. These were loose, and rusted, and when Neville climbed
onto the base of the statue, grabbing onto Christ‘s shoulder for support with one hand, he found
that he could use his dagger to prise the bolts loose with little effort.
One bolt fell free, and the entire crucifix shuddered, and shifted on the wall.
Neville almost lost his grip. He hesitated, regained his balance, then turned his attention
to the bolt holding the other arm of the cross. As he did so his gaze glanced across the face of the
Christ figure, so close to his own.
The eyes were still wide open, black with pain, staring into Neville‘s.
Alive.
―Tom?‖
Neville dragged his eyes away from Christ‘s, and looked behind him. ―Mary! Stand back.
This is going to fall at any moment.‖
―But, Tom—‖
―Do as I say!‖
Mary hesitated, then took several shuffling steps back, staring at Neville who was now
working on the remaining bolt. The statue shuddered, and shifted again, far more violently this
time, and Neville leaped clear just as the massive wooden cross and statue fell off the wall.
It hit the altar, almost crushing it, then somersaulted forward, landing with a ringing
crash…right at Mary‘s feet.
Christ‘s head lay only some six inches from the tip of her soft leather shoe, and Mary
moaned softly, for Christ‘s eyes were open, full of life and agony, and staring right at her.
She drew in a slow deep breath, hearing it rattle in her throat.
Christ was alive, and looking at her as though…as though…
―Are you hurt?‖
Mary looked up, blinking, feeling half frozen with shock.
Christ”s eyes were alive, and staring at her.
―No…no. I am unhurt. Tom…‖
―Wait, Mary. Wait.‖
Neville knelt at the base of the statue, using the hilt of his dagger to lever out the iron nail
that had been used to fasten Christ‘s feet to the lower portion of the cross.
With a scream of protest, the nail came free.
Mary wavered on her feet, then caught her balance, her mouth slightly open, her eyes
wide above them.
Neville shuffled forward to the top of the cross, bending over the nail driven into Christ‘s
right wrist.
He slid the hilt of the dagger under the head of the nail and grunted as he leaned his
shoulders into the effort of tearing out the nail.
Mary heard a distant scream, of anger rather than of fright, and she looked about, but
could see nothing.
She looked back down.
The nail was almost free, and with a final grunt of effort from Neville, it popped out.
Neville stood, and stepped over Christ‘s body to the left wrist and the last nail.
Now several screams sounded, and the fury and threat within them made Mary cry out in
fear. She half turned, expecting armed knights, perhaps, to come charging into the chapel to do
her to death with their swords.
But there was no one there. The chapel lay quiet and empty behind her.
―Lady, do not fear,‖ said a soft voice, and Mary whipped about and looked down to
where the voice had come from.
She gasped, and stepped back.
The wooden statue of Christ was now no longer quite wooden. Apart from the single limb
still nailed to the left arm of the cross, the statue was living, breathing flesh. Pale flesh, wretched with pain and streaked with blood and sweat, but, nevertheless, flesh.