Christ‘s head and face twisted up and towards her, and he was smiling. Gently. Lovingly.
―Do not fear, Mary,‖ he said again.
Mary vacillated between her continuing shock and an intense emotion she could not
immediately identify. She thought she should be frightened, fearful, but she was not. She was
beyond movement, beyond speech. All she could do was stare into the gently smiling face of
Christ.
Then the face winced, and cried out in pain, and Mary heard the screech as the final nail
popped free.
Christ pushed the crown of thorns from his brow, then rolled over, away from the cross,
revealing deep lash welts on his back. He curled his arms about his body briefly, holding his
wrists tight against his chest as if to ease the throbbing pain within them, then very slowly
managed to get to his feet, stumbling a little as he did so.
Neither Mary nor Neville, now standing as well, moved to help him.
Christ took a deep breath, then straightened his body. The wounds in his flesh—in his
wrists, his feet, his side and across his brow and back—abruptly vanished, and as they faded so
did the lines of pain in his face fade with them.
He looked to Neville. ―I do thank you, brother,‖ he said, ―for you have ended my agony,
and gone some way to ending another‘s. Please, tell no one what you have done here today, for it
would serve no purpose.‖
Then he looked to Mary and, if possible, his face softened even more. ―Mary,‖ he said in
a voice that was so full of longing that Neville‘s eyes filled with unbidden tears. ―Mary…‖
And then he was gone, and Neville and Mary were left staring at the space which he had
inhabited.
Before either could move, or speak, there came a soft unidentifiable sound, and the empty
cross at their feet vanished.
Neville turned to look at the altar: it was whole again, the cross and its carved figure once
more attached to the stone pillar as if nothing had happened.
And yet, the carving of Christ seemed somehow empty, as if it no longer held what once
it had.
Margaret somehow managed to drag her eyes away from Rosalind still staring at her from
her lap, to Agnes who sat similarly shocked a pace away from her. Patently, Agnes had caught
the mind thought as well.
But how could this be? Rosalind was more mortal than angel-child. She had none of the
abilities of her mother. Only angel children had those…only angel children had those…
―Who fathered that child, Margaret?‖ Agnes said in a strange, rasping voice.
―Tom, Tom, Tom only.‖
―But—‖
―Wait!‖ Margaret looked to where Bohun sat on the grass, tugging playfully at one of the
lapdog‘s ears.
Bohun, she called.
The boy twisted about, looking at her inquiringly.
―Sweet Jesu,‖ Agnes muttered. She stared at Margaret, eyes wide with fear.
―Who is Tom, Margaret? What is Tom?‖
Margaret began slowly to shake her head back and forth. Not in answer, but in denial.
No wonder the angels were so confident of him! Sweet Jesu in heaven, Hal, what are we
going to do?
Still utterly unable to speak, Mary very slowly turned her head to look at Neville. After a
minute he met her eyes. He sheathed his dagger, needing three tries to do it, and made as if to
speak, but whatever he wanted to say was stopped by a choral shriek of fury.
What have you done? What have you done?
Angels, a score of them, crowding the lower end of the chapel. They throbbed with light,
a furious, vengeful light, and as Mary shrank in terror towards Neville, they advanced up the
chapel towards the altar.
Neville put an arm about Mary, holding her trembling form close to his. ―I set him free,‖
he said in an even tone.
Why? Why? He is the Master Trickster. Have you been tricked, Thomas? Is that why you
did this?
―You say you know beyond a shadow of a doubt,‖ Neville said, ―that I will not give
Margaret my soul. That your children, the demons, will not win. That being so, why are you so
afraid?‖ He paused, long and meaningfully. ―Surely you can trap him again?‖
The Archangel Michael stepped forward from the clutch of angels. You tread a
dangerous path, Thomas. Be sure you know what you do.
Then he turned very slowly, and regarded Mary. Bitch whore. I should have known that
you would have been here. I suppose you imagine that the circle is complete now. And then,
horrifically, the archangel spat at Mary.
She flinched, and Neville‘s hold about her tightened.
―Michael—‖ he began, but the archangel turned on him in fury.
What do you with your arm about her? Has she not caused enough pain?
For a long moment Neville and the archangel stared at each other, then, suddenly, all the
angels were gone, and Mary and Neville were left alone in the chapel.
Mary opened her mouth to speak, but her initial word came out a sob, and Neville turned
to her, concerned. ―Mary?‖
―How could he have said that to me?‖ she eventually managed. ―Bitch whore?‖ She half
laughed, half sobbed. ―What did he mean? What have I done to deserve that?‖
―The angels thrive on vileness and distress, Mary,‖ Neville said as gently as he could.
―And ‗bitch whore‘ is but their normal term of endearment as far as women are concerned.‖
She shuddered. ―I feel unwell, Tom. Will you escort me back to my apartments?‖
That night, when Neville turned to Margaret in their bed, she wriggled away, saying only
that she felt nauseated—brought on by the heat perhaps—and that she preferred to sleep.
In truth she slept not a wink that night. She lay awake, staring at the night shadows that
chased themselves across the walls of their chamber.
When would she be able to find time to see Hal? Alone?
XII
Saturday 29th June 1381
Bolingbroke stood at the window of the White Tower, gazing out over London. ―Ah, my
friends,‖ he said softly, ―for the first time in months I feel safe!‖
―Glyndwr? Northumberland?‖ Neville said, speaking for all of Bolingbroke‘s councillors
in the chamber that morning.
Bolingbroke turned to face them. His right cheek was still swollen and mottled purple
and brown about the angry red tissue, but it was healing well, and the physicians had told him he
would likely have only a small scar to show for his battle injury.
―Glyndwr is vanished into the mountains of Wales,‖ he said, ―and without a strong
English ally then that is where he will stay, spending his ambition warring with local Welsh lords
and petty princes. Northumberland…well, Northumberland has gone into exile, taking what
remains of his family with him.‖
―Is that wise?‖ Dick Whittington sat in a huge chair underneath another of the chamber‘s
many windows. In his lap he held a remarkably plump cat, which he stroked absently.
―Wise? Do you mean ‗Should I not have had him executed?‘. Well, maybe so, but in this
instance I thought mercy best called for. Northumberland will not trouble me again. I have
confiscated all his lands, and without that wealth to back him, his power is gone.‖ Bolingbroke
paused. ―His ambition, of course, died with Hotspur.‖
He walked slowly into the centre of the chamber, briefly meeting every man‘s eyes as he
did so. ―Internal ferment is at an end. True, there may be still some minor lords muttering in their
dark castles, but there will be no more serious threat of rebellion. Not now that Exeter, Northumberland and Hotspur have been negated.‖
―And so, sire?‖ Neville asked.
―And so?‖ Bolingbroke laughed. ―How well you know me, Tom. And now…France!‖
―France?‖ Sir Richard Sturry, one of Bolingbroke‘s closest and most respected advisers,
shared a concerned glance with several of the other men present. ―But surely…‖
―Surely what, Sturry? When would be a better time? England is at peace, and rebels
disposed of. Better, the rebels‘ wealth and lands have found their way into the royal purse.‖
Bolingbroke smiled. ―I shall not even have to ask Parliament for the funds for this campaign. I
want France and I shall pay for it.‖
Neville thought those words had a particularly ominous ring, but he paid them little heed.
For the past few days his mind had been consumed with curiosity and wonder in equal amounts.
Wonder that he‘d managed to free Christ, curiosity as to where he‘d gone. Neville had somehow
thought that there would be rumour of a new prophet gathering crowds in the marketplaces and
fields of London, or strange word of miracles being wrought amid the poor and hopeless. But
there‘d been nothing. It was as if, once freed, Christ had vanished.
Perhaps he thought his work was done.
―And the bonus,‖ Bolingbroke continued, ―is that after the troubles of the past few weeks,
I have a force almost completely assembled. Once Westmorland comes back from the north, with