―And who knows how it continues to spread among the soldiers. All these men, living in such
close, unsanitary quarters…Now, get moving, Cooper, or I‘ll set you to washing the rags the
servants use to wipe the men‘s arses. Move!‖
Cooper scurried off.
Bolingbroke stood at the window of his main day chamber of Rouen‘s castle, staring at
the city spread out before him. Rouen was a particularly beautiful city, with majestic spires and
towers, gilded roofs, marbled balconies and intricatelycarved wooden fretwork on most
buildings. Beautiful it remained after the English had occupied it two days ago, but only
superficially, for now those gilded roofs and intricate fretwork hid requisitioned halls and the
larger houses, all filled with the cries and the stench of the sick and dying.
Bolingbroke‘s army was already decimated by thirty percent, and only the Lord Christ
knew how many more would die before this sickness had passed.
To lose his chance at the French crown because his men were squirting their lives down
the sewers. He hit the window frame in sheer frustration, turning back into the room.
As usual, most of his commanders were present (although three, including Hungerford,
were themselves so ill with the flux they looked like being able to leave their beds only in
caskets), as also was Neville, standing in a corner, his arms folded, watching Bolingbroke
intently.
Bolingbroke sent him a hard, suspicious look, then addressed the Earl of Suffolk, newly
returned from his mission to Paris.
―Twenty thousand gold pieces! Where shall I get that from? I should send him twenty
thousand carts laden with the effluent my men have voided. That should be his due.‖
―Your grace—‖ Suffolk began.
―There was never mention of monetary payment in the bargain he and I made,‖
Bolingbroke continued, picking up an empty goblet from a table, then throwing it across the
room in frustration and anger. Damn the angels for the affliction they”d sent!
Bolingbroke shot Neville another foul look.
Suffolk shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trading looks with several of the other
commanders. He wished Raby was here, rather than in England keeping watch over the realm,
for Ralph Neville always had a calming effect on Bolingbroke.
And more than a damn shame that Lancaster himself was dead, for more than anyone he
could have prevailed upon Bolingbroke to keep a cool head.
―Philip is playing games,‖ Warwick said. No one present made the mistake of believing
they were dealing with Charles in this matter. ―This morning‘s intelligence reports that he‘s
jumping up and down, crying foul; that the English have stolen away his beloved Maid of
France, and that all good Frenchmen must come to their nation‘s aid.‖
Bolingbroke, now fiddling with a tassel on a wall hanging, snorted in disgust. ―At least
we know he‘s taken her,‖ he said. ―And has her hidden away somewhere.‖ He turned away from
the tassel and regarded the roomful of men once more. ―He will give her to us, never fear.‖
―That may work against us, much as we might want to get our hands on the heretic
whore,‖ Suffolk said, again trading looks with Warwick and the other commander in the room,
the Earl of Nottingham.
―And in what manner might that be?‖ Bolingbroke snapped.
―It is sometimes better not to give one‘s enemy a martyr to inspire them,‖ Nottingham
said softly, moving forward. For a young man, he was unusually perceptive. ―Better, perhaps,
that we allow this Joan to lead France to defeat in battle. Her power over her people will then be
lost.‖
―Better,‖ Bolingbroke all but shouted, ―to burn her and show them she is normal flesh
and blood than to risk her winning the damn battle.‖
There was an utter silence in the room as eyes dropped away from Bolingbroke. Never
before had he spoken of defeat.
―Our men are dying,‖ Bolingbroke continued in a far more reasonable tone. ―We had a
moderately sized but fine army when we left England. Now we have a tiny army racked with
disease. If you don‘t think that leaves us vulnerable to defeat on the battlefield…then think
again.
―Joan is our bitter enemy,‖ he continued, now even more softly. ―Perhaps even the witch
who has sent this plague upon us. She needs to die.‖
―Your grace,‖ said Neville, unfolding his arms and standing off the wall on which he‘d
been leaning. ―My Lord of Nottingham has spoken sense. The Maid‘s power is fading
anyway…how many battles has she won recently? Better, perhaps, to—‖
―Better that I should burn you instead, traitor,‖ Bolingbroke yelled, striding forward and
poking Neville in the chest with a stabbing forefinger. ―Better that you die before the last of my men empties his bowels out in the gutters of France.‖
Bolingbroke‘s outburst caused a commotion within the chamber.
―Your grace!‖ Suffolk said, coming to stand beside an obviously shocked Neville. ―My
Lord Neville is hardly a traitor. What has he done that you so accuse him?‖
Bolingbroke‘s eyes shifted about the murmuring group, and he abruptly backed down.
―You must excuse me,‖ he said. ―I‘ve had so little sleep, and am riven with concern for my
wife.‖ He waved his hand, hinting at other vague problems.
―Perhaps you need to rest, your grace,‖ said Sir John Norbury, who‘d been standing silent
with Owen Tudor to this point.
―Yes, you‘re right, I do need to rest,‖ Bolingbroke said, stretching his face in an
unconvincing attempt at a smile. ―If perhaps you could excuse me for the moment.‖
The group bowed, murmuring their farewells, but just as they started to move away,
Bolingbroke spoke again. ―Tom, stay, if you will. I should apologise for my unfortunate words.‖
―I am a traitor?‖ Neville said quietly when the last man to leave the room had closed the
door behind him. ―In what manner am I ‗traitor‘?‖ Neville knew that Bolingbroke had no
intention at all of apologising for his attack…he‘d just wanted to be able to continue it in private.
―In what manner ‗traitor‘, Tom? Oh, what pretty words!‖ Bolingbroke‘s voice was heavy
with sarcasm.
―What is this?‖ Neville said, walking to within a pace of Bolingbroke and staring
belligerently into his face. ―You and Margaret have these past weeks treated me as if I were a
pariah. For what reason? Do you think to manipulate my guilt again as once you did? Think you
to force me into tossing my soul into Margaret‘s manipulative care? Christ, Hal, how better to turn me against you?‖
―You have never had any intention of choosing in my, Margaret‘s, or mankind‘s favour.‖
―I have every intention of doing so, but you make it too difficult for me. Damn you, Hal!
Damn you!”
―Damning me has always been your intention, hasn‘t it, Tom?‖ Bolingbroke said very
quietly, his eyes unflinching as they stared into Neville‘s furious brown ones. ―You have ever
pretended to be my friend while always remaining my secret enemy.‖
―Ah!‖ Frustrated, Neville turned away. ―For the sweet Lord‘s sake, Hal, what do you
mean?‖
―Rosalind,‖ Bolingbroke said, watching Neville‘s back carefully. ―Bohun.‖
Neville turned around again, his face creased in puzzlement. ― What? ‖
―Your children have betrayed you, Tom.‖
― Of what do you speak, Hal? ‖
―Seven weeks ago, Tom, seven weeks ago, Rosalind spoke into Margaret‘s mind. When
Margaret tested Bohun, she found that he, too, had the same ability. No mortal has that power.
None.‖
―But Rosalind and Bohun have as their mother an angel-child, Hal. Surely…‖ Neville‘s
voice drifted off as he remembered what Margaret had once told him…that the children of the
angel-children, if one parent was a mere mortal, were as all mortal children. They had no powers
at all: no shape-shifting, no mind-reading, no witchery of any sort.
Neville suddenly realised his mouth was hanging open, and he snapped it shut.
―Yes.‖ Bolingbroke was walking ( stalking) very slowly closer to him. ―Rosalind and
Bohun should be as mortals, shouldn‘t they? But they have the full range of abilities as do all angel-children, Tom. As do all angel-children! ‖
―You cannot mean…‖ Again Neville drifted into a silence as he remembered what the
Archangel Michael had said to him when they were standing before Christ‘s cross in the Field of
Angels. There was no God save the combined will of the angels…Jesus was the child of the
combined will of the angels…Jesus had proved himself a frightful burden to the angels, trying to
free mankind from their grip, therefore the angels had imprisoned him on the cross…but he was
“Not like our next effort. He works our will as if an extension of our own thoughts. There will be no mistake this time…Beloved.”
―Beloved?‖ Neville whispered, staring at the whorls in the grain of the floor planking.
Rosalind and Bohun were fullbred angel-children?
He looked up at Bolingbroke, now so very close, his eyes the piercing murder of the
plunging hawk.
―I am an angel?‖ Neville whispered. Jesus was an angel, too?