The carpenter looked up briefly from his broom. ―James,‖ he said, and Neville nodded.
―James, what will I do? How can I make the decision that I know is best?‖
James the carpenter did not look up from his sweeping. ―You know what to do.‖
―Trust you,‖ Neville whispered.
James looked up briefly, smiled, then resumed his sweeping. All was well in his world,
so it seemed.
Neville walked over to the work table, wondering how best to move his thoughts into
words. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet no way he knew to say it. Helpless, he
studied the table. There were several pieces of beautifully turned and polished wood on its top,
inlaid in a decorative pattern with a darker and redder wood, and Neville ran his hand slowly
down one of the pieces.
―This work is wondrous,‖ he said. ―What are you making?‖
James stopped his sweeping, leaned on the broom, and looked at the pieces of wood on
the table.
―That is a casket,‖ he said. ―My marriage bed.‖
Startled, Neville looked at the carpenter. His marriage bed was to be a casket? ―I think
your betrothed must be an extraordinary lady. Is she here with you now? Cooking a meal in the
kitchen, perhaps?‖
James grinned. ―No, good sir. My lady has yet to die.‖
Then he picked up the broom, and waved it at Neville, and as he wielded it the workshop
and carpenter vanished, and Neville was left standing once more on Cheapside, jostled by the
crowds.
―Sire? May I have a brief word?‖
Bolingbroke stopped in his stride, midway to the door of Mary‘s chamber. ―My Lady
Neville, what can I do for you?‖
Margaret glanced around.
We need only a moment, Hal. But I must talk with you. Please, bear with my subterfuge.
―I was hoping, sire, that you will permit Doctor Culpeper to travel with the lady your
wife to France?‖
―Who my lady wife includes in her entourage is of no matter to me, so long as they do
not harry or inconvenience my army.‖ What is it? Be brief, Meg. We cannot stand here gabbling
on about nonsense for much longer. ―I suppose Culpeper‘s skills will no doubt be needed.‖
―Then I thank you, sire, for your reassurance. Doctor Culpeper‘s liquor brings your lady
wife much relief.‖ Hal, I know why the angels are so confident of Tom.
Bolingbroke glanced around, wondering what further he could say to keep their inane
conversation going. Several other women were passing close by them on their way to prepare
Mary for the night and were glancing curiously at Lady Neville and the king.
―Perhaps Culpeper has an apprentice or two who might also prove useful.‖ Why?
―I am certain of it, sire.‖ Hal…this afternoon I realised that Rosalind, and Bohun, can
speak as you and I do now. They are full-blooded angel children.
But how is that possible? Tom is not—Bolingbroke suddenly stopped, staring horrified at
Margaret.
Tom is not quite what we thought he was, Hal, she whispered into his mind. No wonder
the angels are so confident. Tom—
No!
Tom is an angel himself.
PART FOUR
The Crippled Angel
An army great our King prepared,
that was both good & strong;
& from Sowhampton is our King
with all his Nauy gone.
he landed in France both safe and sound
with all his warlike traine;
vnto a towne called Harffleete first
he marched vp amaine.
and when he had beseeged the same,
against these fensed walls
to batter down their statlye towers
he sent his English balls.
and he bad them yeeld up to him
themselves & eke their towne,
or else he sware vnto the earth
with cannon to beate them downe.
Excerpts from Agincourte Battell,
late medieval ballad
I
Sunday 30th June 1381
Paris roared: ―Joan! Joan! Joan!‖
Charles and his entourage entered Paris from the northern gate, but people had been
lining the approach road for several miles before the walls of Paris had even been visible. The
roar of the crowd, the throwing of flowers, and the sudden leaning forward and touching of the
saintly Maid‘s armour was all very well, but Charles had not forgotten that in the past the
Parisians had risen in revolt, determined to do away with their king and to effect some kind of
democracy, by all the saints in heaven. He hoped that their devotion to Joan would keep him safe
this time.
He glanced nervously at the crowds—those he could see through the ranks of mounted
men-at-arms he had stationed about his person—wondering if he might see a surly glance thrown
his way, a hint of subterfuge, perhaps, even the glint of steel as a dagger was surreptitiously
drawn. But all Charles saw was joy and relief and pride, mostly directed towards Joan, true, but
that was all to the good, for Joan would keep the masses away from him. Keep them loyal, and
remind them of their place in the greater scheme of things.
Charles was not happy at the reports that continued to come out of England. There had
been a revolt, a serious one, but Bolingbroke had managed to put it down in a battle that, rumour
had it, claimed over fifteen thousand lives. After his success, however, Bolingbroke had not
disbanded the army he had needed to quell the rebels. Instead, intelligence had it that men,
horses, equipment and supplies were moving inexorably towards the Cinque Ports from where a
French invasion would surely be launched.
Potential site of rebellion or not, Paris was looking ever better to Charles. Its walls were
difficult to breach, and the city was well prepared for a siege. Bolingbroke might hope to starve
Charles into submission, but if he managed to ignore what was going on outside the walls, and
perhaps ask the troubadours to lift the volume of their entertainment, then he would surely
survive any attack. Bolingbroke would get bored and go home eventually.
All would be well if he just ignored everything that was worrisome and irritating.
All would be well…so long as he could trust those who promised to protect him.
Suddenly nervous, Charles slid his eyes before him to where Joan rode her roan stallion.
She was some four or five paces ahead, her horse‘s pace slowed now to a walk as the citizens of
Paris surged about her.
Contrariwise, Charles and his immediate escort rode without any serious impediment at
all, save the road blockage about Joan ahead of them.
Joan was leaning down and touching as many hands and faces as she could. Her face
seemed both grave and happy all at the same moment. Her mouth smiled, and spoke cheerful
words, but her eyes were sorrowful, as if heavy thoughts consumed her.
Why so grave? thought Charles, screwing his face as he tried to think it through. Should she not be joyous at this reception, at this public adoration? If not, then why not? What did she know? What secret did she not tell him? Did she know of a traitor? A treachery? Was she the treachery?
Charles swallowed, and wondered if trapping himself within Paris was such a good idea,
after all.
He glanced behind him to where Philip of Navarre rode.
Philip was staring straight at him with his intense black eyes.
Charles almost slipped out of his saddle in his haste to turn back to the front again.
Philip?
No, no. Not Philip. He had to trust Philip. Who else could save him? Philip was right,
Joan and Bolingbroke were the true thorns in his side. Joan had grown useless and unsure (the
gravity in her eyes when they should have been joyous was truth enough of that), and
Bolingbroke was a repellent Plantagenet born and bred…all of them were determined to have
France at any cost.
And the nastily efficient manner in which Bolingbroke had put down Hotspur‘s rebellion
was indication enough of his martial ability.
Charles had not yet given Philip total control of his army—for which the man was
constantly pressing him—although in the previous week he‘d allowed him to begin preparations for war. But Charles was now thinking it might be the time to delegate military control to Philip.
It would be best that way. He could keep both the Parisians and the English at a safe distance.
Cheered by his decision, Charles smiled and began waving at the crowds. Most ignored
him, preferring to mob Joan, but the Maid herself saw Charles‘ attempts to be gracious.
She turned in the saddle, throwing back one arm to indicate Charles.
―There rides your king!‖ she shouted. ―Charles, saviour of the French!‖
Charles‘ heart lurched nastily within his chest, and his face paled.
―Charles is France! Charles is France!‖ she shouted.
Eyes swivelled in Charles‘ direction, stayed long enough to see the king‘s nervous
attempts to moisten his lips, and the manner in which his hands trembled as they fumbled about
his reins, then turned once more to Joan.