and weapons of those men-at-arms on top of the decks.
Three score ships, carrying an army of thirty-five thousand: England‘s chance at France.
The preparations for this invasion force had not gone unnoticed by France. Philip of
Navarre, now in control of Charles‘ military force, was almost certain of Bolingbroke‘s
destination: Harfleur, the garrison that guarded the mouth of the Seine. Bolingbroke would come
straight for Paris—no use dawdling sightseeing about the provinces when the crown both
literally and metaphorically rested in Paris—
and if he wanted to secure his approach to Paris, he would need to subdue Harfleur.
Philip had every intention of ensuring that Bolingbroke got bogged down in the salt
marshes surrounding Harfleur.
He and Bolingbroke may have made a bargain regarding France—once both Joan and
Charles were disposed of, whoever Catherine gave her hand to in marriage received the
throne—but Philip trusted Bolingbroke not an inch.
He trusted Catherine even less. She refused to marry him, and thus her heart must be set
on Bolingbroke. Philip knew he was going to have to fight to finally wrest the crown away from
Joan, Charles and Bolingbroke and his Englishmen.
Harfleur had for generations been a well-defended town and garrison. By the time the
English fleet hove into view at the head of the wide bay leading to the mouth of the Seine on the
dawn of the 26th of July it was virtually unassailable.
Bolingbroke stood on the deck of his flagship, the Grace Dieu, staring at the coastline
fifty yards away. The ship swayed vigorously beneath his feet, tugging impatiently at its anchor,
but he did not notice his movement. The coastline, and the geography of the landscape
surrounding Harfleur, occupied his entire attention.
―There,‖ he said, pointing. ―Land there and climb to the top of the hill. It will be the best
spot from which to observe, and too far from Harfleur‘s walls for arrow flight. Get back as soon
as you can…I want to begin disembarkation today.‖
The two men who stood beside him, Lord Hungerford and Sir Gilbert Umfraville,
nodded, then turned and led a party of some thirty-six men down rope ladders to two small boats
bobbing at the Grace Dieu‘s side.
Bolingbroke waited until he saw them land, scurrying for cover and the path to the top of
the rolling hills to the northwest of Harfleur, then he went below to oversee the final preparations
for landing.
As he was about to duck down into the hatchway he saw Neville standing at the stern of
the ship.
They stared at each other, locking eyes, then Bolingbroke disappeared below.
Neville continued watching the now empty hatchway for some time before returning his
gaze to the choppy seas and the row after row of ships at anchor behind the Grace Dieu.
For the past few weeks, ever since that day he had talked with James the carpenter in his
workshop in London, both Bolingbroke and Margaret had been assiduously avoiding him. This was an easy matter on Bolingbroke‘s part, for he was a king, not only governing one realm, but
preparing an invasion of another, and he had many things to occupy him. On those few occasions
Bolingbroke could not manage to avoid Neville, he spoke with Neville stiffly and coolly, as if he
were the most treasonous piece of filth in the realm.
What friendship they had reforged before Shrewsbury was patently torn asunder.
Margaret had a more difficult time of avoidance, for Neville was her husband, and she
must share his bed at night. Nevertheless, Neville felt such a vast distance between them within
that bed that she might as well have been inhabiting the mythical Cathay. She would hardly
speak to him, replying only in monosyllables whenever he tried to engage her in conversation,
and refusing to meet his eyes. He saw more of her back than any other side of her.
It was, in many respects, a return to the Margaret who had so rejected him after her rape
at Richard‘s and de Vere‘s hands.
So, Margaret and Bolingbroke avoided him, and turned their backs to him. What had he
done? Did they somehow know of what he did in St John‘s Chapel within the Tower complex?
Were they somehow angry that Christ was freed from his torment?
Or had he committed some other sin?
Whatever it was, Neville found he did not care overmuch. Bolingbroke and he had been
drifting apart for a very long time. A brief reunion of their friendship during the campaign
against Hotspur was apparently not enough to bridge permanently the divide between them.
Margaret and he…well…he loved her, and wanted whatever had come between them to be
resolved, but he was not going to moon after her, or chase after her, or beg her forgiveness as he
had after her rape. If she did not want to come to him and broach whatever troubled her, then it
must needs continue to trouble her.
Neville had other things on his mind.
The decision. It would be made here, in France. Bolingbroke had long ago told him this,
and now Neville could feel it, tugging at his blood. Here, in France, and within weeks at the most. Everyone who needed to be a part of that decision was present: Margaret, as part of Mary‘s
entourage; Bolingbroke; Joan—presumably still with Charles, but Neville had no doubt that
sooner or later fate would see her in Bolingbroke‘s camp; and Neville himself. At least his
children were well out of it, sent back home to Halstow Hall in the company of Agnes and a
grumbling Robert Courtenay, who would have vastly preferred to be participating in the glory of
a final French defeat than minding two small children.
Of all the thoughts that eased Neville‘s mind, the knowledge that if all went well he could
return to the love of his children comforted him the most.
If all went well.
Neville assumed that Bolingbroke and Margaret were as much aware of the closeness of
the decision as he was himself, and he wondered that they so damaged their cause in turning their
backs and hearts against him. What ploy was this on their part? Did they not need him to so love
Margaret that he would hand her his soul? Neville wondered if their coldness was a conscious
ploy. After all, these tactics had worked perfectly once before, bringing him to love‘s heel, and it
was not beyond the realms of possibility that they would try it again.
After all, they surely sensed his hesitancy towards Margaret. Perhaps they knew they now
needed to pull out all stops in their effort to win him utterly to their cause.
Neville slowly shook his head, his eyes unfocused, the ships in the distance only
shimmering shapes in the rapidly strengthening sun. Did they not yet realise how he hated to be
manipulated? And did they not realise how much he wanted to be able to hand Margaret his soul? To deny the angels.
―Ah!‖ Neville said softly, blinking as he suddenly became aware of the time. Mary would
be awake by now, and hopefully washed and tended and gowned by Margaret and her other
ladies. Neville moved towards the hatchway, thinking to spend breakfast with Mary. He had
found himself spending almost all day with her recently, more time than usual. Partly this was
because of Bolingbroke‘s and Margaret‘s coolness towards him, but it was also because of their
shared experience in the Chapel of St John‘s. Neville had told Mary of the carpenter he‘d met in
the workshop off Cheapside (although he had not told her of what James the carpenter was
making), and every day they spoke of it, marvelling. Neville still had no idea how he would
manage to navigate the angels‘ test, but he trusted in Christ that he would find a way to free
mankind through giving his soul unhesitatingly to Margaret.
If only she wasn‘t treating him so badly…
Hungerford and Umfraville were back by midday, having concluded safely their scouting
and observation of Harfleur. After listening to their reports, Bolingbroke gave the order to
disembark. Three by three the ships took their turn in approaching a sandy spit a few miles to the
west of Harfleur, somewhat protected from the rolling waves and winds of the Narrow Seas.
There the ships disgorged their cargo of war.
The process was agonisingly slow. Only a few ships could approach the spit at any given
time, and then it took them a good few hours each to unload. Three days passed, three days of
Bolingbroke and his commanders anxiously pressing for everyone to hurry, before the process
was complete.
Neville happened to be on the spit as the last ship disembarked its cargo. These were
mostly workmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, armourers, grooms and cooks—and just as Neville
was about to turn away a familiar figure caught his eye.
James the carpenter, bowed and stooped under what was unmistakably an intricately