Paris now seemed a trap—the cursed Bolingbroke was within a few days‘ march. Why on earth
had he come here of all places? Why hadn‘t he fled south? Sweet Lord Christ. Who was it
persuaded him to Paris in the first instance?
It must have been Philip, dark-browed, dark-hearted Philip. He couldn‘t have possibly
thought of this all by himself.
Had he done the right thing in giving Philip control of the military? Could he be trusted?
No.
Could he wrest control away from Philip and give it to someone else?
No. Philip would never stand for it. Even now the snake was likely sending assassination
squads to his chamber.
Charles whimpered, then jerked into full wakefulness. He pulled the sheet to his chin, his
eyes jerking fearfully about the dark room.
Was that chest there when he‘d gone to bed?
Yes, he supposed so.
Was that table slightly out of place, as if someone had pushed against it while moving
softly about in the dark?
Yes, almost certainly so.
Charles whimpered again, squirming further down beneath his covers.
A draught of air slid softly, almost apologetically, over his face.
For an instant Charles did not react. Everyone expected draughts in something as leaky
and cold as the Louvre.
Save that his chamber was closed tight against the night ( and assassins) and there should
be no draught.
Charles drew in a terrified breath, breaking out into a sweat.
―Who‘s there?‖ he said. ―Who? I command you, stand forth!‖
What was he saying? What was he saying? Perhaps he should pretend to go back to
asleep, and then whoever was in the room might leave. Might…
―It is only me, your grace,‖ said a soft voice, and Charles managed a sigh of relief.
Which instantly turned into imperious anger. ―What are you doing here, Joan? What, I
say? My private chamber is no place for you.‖
―There was a time you would not have said so,‖ Joan said, emerging from the shadows
clinging to the tightly shuttered windows. ―There was a time when you would have drawn
comfort from my presence.‖
―You dare not speak to me like that,‖ Charles said, emerging from under his covers to
stare at the girl. She‘d stopped a foot or so from his bed, and now had the extraordinarily bad
manners to sink down onto her knees, leaning her elbows on the bed and clasping her hands in an
attitude of prayer.
―What are you doing? Go away.‖
―Charles,‖ she said, giving him the benefit of no title nor flatteries, ―my time is almost
nigh. Soon I will be betrayed—‖
―Go away!‖
―—and you will be left by yourself. Charles, you must not despair—‖
―Have you led assassins here?‖ he asked as her opening statements finally sank through
into his consciousness. ―Have you?‖
Joan finally rose. ―They will come for me tonight, I expect, but—‖
Charles gave a wail of fear. ― Get out of this chamber. Guard! Guard! ‖
Joan‘s right hand snaked out and delivered a hearty slap to Charles‘ cheek. ―Be quiet and
listen to me.‖
Charles was shocked into silence. She had hit him. Her! The Maid! Was she an assassin?
Lord Jesus Christ, save me now! Lord Jesus Christ, save me now!
― Listen to me, Charles! By the morning you will be on your own. Paris is dangerous, too
dangerous for you.‖
She finally had his complete attention.
―Flee south, somewhere safe, somewhere surrounded by loyal French counts and vassals.
Wait for word.‖
―Wait for word? What do you mean?‖
She smiled very sadly, even though she knew he could not see it. ―Wait for word,
Charles. You will know it when it comes for you.‖
Charles did not like the sound of that at all. ―Joan,‖ he began, then wailed in terror as the
door to his chamber burst open.
Five men, all darkly cloaked and masked, leaped into the room.
Steel glinted in the faint light.
Charles gave another shriek, trying to clamber over to the other side of the bed, but
hampered by the suddenly wet, urine-soaked sheets that clung about his lap and upper legs.
―Be still,‖ Joan whispered. ―They have not come for you.‖
She faced her abductors calmly. ―With whose authority do you come for me?‖ she asked
as the first of the men reached her.
―With this authority, lady,‖ said the first of the men, and he clubbed her over her head
with the hilt of his sword.
Joan slumped to the floor, clinging to the last vestiges of a consciousness riven by
Charles‘ shrieks: Take her! Take her! Leave me alone!
You poor fool, she thought, sliding deeper into unconsciousness. One day you will look
back to this moment and think it the most cowardly of your life.
And with that thought she blacked out completely.
IX
Thursday 15th August 1381
—i—
Nicholas Culpeper wiped his forehead with his forearm; its sleeve was stained a light
brown with two days‘ worth of his sweat. He slowly sat on the bed of the soldier, cursing his stiff
back, and hoping that it was stiff only because of his two days of work without rest, and not as a
harbinger of disease.
This bloody flux which now consumed the English army was almost as bad as the
pestilence which had gripped London.
It was not killing so fast, nor so horribly, but kill it did, and increasing numbers of men
died each day. They‘d moved from Harfleur, where the flux had first struck, to Rouen two days
ago, the passage of the English army marked by a trail of blood-stained shit.
Thank sweet Jesu that the French had not the forethought—or the ability—to attack while
they were on the march. Christ, the archers were too doubled over to be able to draw their bows,
and few knights dared put on a single piece of armour, let alone mount a horse, for fear they‘d
have to squat in the roadside dust the instant they did so.
―Fetch me a bowl and water, and a cup of the opium and primrose infusion,‖ Culpeper
said to the nearest of his assistants, Will Cooper. As Cooper went to do his master‘s bidding,
Culpeper sighed, sponging the face of the man on the bed. He wished he had a better stock of
herbs, and more variety, than those he‘d brought with him. Apart from his duties to the queen
( who, praise Jesu, had not been struck with the flux…yet), Culpeper had expected his duties, as those of every other physician travelling with the English army, to encompass battlefield
wounds…not the squirting misery that now confronted him.
Cooper returned with a cup of the infusion, and Culpeper gently raised the man‘s head
and dribbled the liquid between his lips. The opium would relieve the agony in the man‘s gut,
while both it and the primrose would go some way towards calming the almost continual spasms
that gripped his bowel.
The man gulped, his face sheened with grey sweat, then collapsed back onto his pillow.
He moaned and rolled over, curving himself about his belly, his eyes staring, his hands
clawing at the mattress.
Culpeper rose hurriedly, taking a step back as the man‘s bowels voided themselves in a
violent spasm, his face screwing up in distaste at the foul stench that rose from the bed.
―Find someone to clean him up,‖ he said to Cooper.
Will Cooper, a young man of twenty-two or -three years and with a remarkable stoicism
of expression given the circumstances of the moment, silently said a quick prayer of gratefulness
that at least Culpeper hadn‘t asked him to clean the soldier up. But finding someone else to do it wasn‘t going to be easy. The sick numbered three hundred in this market hall alone, stretched out
in rows on thin pallets, and there were only some ten or twelve assorted servants and as yet
unaffected soldiers available to aid them.
And every one of the sick squirted at least five or six times an hour. The problem was not
only in the lack of helpers, but also in the ever-increasing number of rags, linens and herbal
preparations needed to clean and treat the sick.
―First the pestilence, and now this,‖ Cooper said.
Culpeper looked at him sharply. ―And what do you mean by that?‖
Cooper gave a small shrug. ―Many mutter between their spasms that King Hal is a
singularly unlucky man,‖ he said. ―Rebellion, pestilence, and now this bloody flux. It is like the
seven plagues that God rained down on the Pharaoh for daring to keep Moses and the Israelites
enslaved. What else shall we endure?‖
Culpeper blew his breath out in exasperation, fighting the urge to slap Cooper‘s face.
―This bloody flux was caused by the men gorging themselves on unripe apples,‖ he said.
―But so many men, and not all of them apple eaters,‖ Cooper murmured.
― And caused by the unhealthy air of the salt marshes about Harfleur,‖ Culpeper said.