The crippled angel. Book by Sara Douglass

Brother, he had called me.

Bolingbroke‘s mouth opened, twisting with the full measure of his rage and hate, and he

reached for Neville with hands hooked into claws.

X

Thursday 15th August 1381

—ii—

Neville sidestepped, and began to laugh. It was weak at first, but then it turned into the

full-blown hilarity of true humour.

―An angel!‖ he said, now laughing so hard he had to rest his hands on his thighs. ―An

angel! An angel!‖

Bolingbroke had stopped, his hands slowly lowering to his sides, his face wreathed in

confusion at Neville‘s reaction. ―You did not know?‖

Neville lifted one hand to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes. ―No, I did not know,

although I think the signs had been there for me to see for months, if not years. An angel. Oh,

Lord Jesus Christ…an angel!‘

He went off into another gale of laughter, then abruptly sank down into a chair that,

fortuitously, sat right behind him. ―An angel, an angel…‖ he muttered, trying to bring his

laughter under control.

He finally managed to regain some measure of sobriety, and looked up at Bolingbroke,

still standing, regarding him with absolute bewilderment.

―It changes nothing,‖ Neville said. ―Nothing.‖

―But…‖

―I am not your enemy, Hal. I have never been. And if I am an angel…well, then I am a

most crippled one.‖

―Crippled?‖

―Crippled by love, Hal, as Jesus is.‖

Bolingbroke‘s face creased even more. ―Jesus is…‖

―Sweet Jesu is an angel as well. Engendered by the combined will of the angels.‖ Neville

paused. ―Sweet Lord,‖ he murmured, ―what my poor mother must have gone through, to have

been visited by the combined will of the angels.‖

Then he stood up. ―You must excuse me, Hal. I have some words to pass with my wife, I

think.‖

And then he was gone, leaving Bolingbroke still standing, still bewildered, staring after

him.

Margaret stood in a trancelike fugue, staring at her hands as they dipped in and out of the

soapy water in the large basin on the table before her…in and out…in and out. All she had been

doing this morning was wash out linens dirtied during the care of Mary. Bedgowns, flannels,

small linen squares to drape dampened over Mary‘s brow, pillow covers, sheets, undergarments,

towels…

In and out…in and out…wring and drape over the drying rack. Pick up next piece to

wash. In and out…in and out…

Mary, she hoped, was asleep in her bed. Margaret had given her an extra dose of

Culpeper‘s liquor an hour ago when she‘d heard Mary wake moaning from a nap. Margaret had

followed up Culpeper‘s herbal with a little of her own power, rubbed gently into Margaret‘s

hands.

She hoped it helped…but little seemed to help Mary now. The growth in her womb had

clearly spread so deep into the woman‘s bones that every movement threatened to break her

apart. Already her left arm was broken, the bones refusing to heal, and every time Margaret

aided Mary‘s other ladies to turn her over, or to wash her, or to lift her, she feared they might

snap Mary‘s spine, or neck.

Mary weighed less than the eight-year-old Jocelyn now. Her body was virtually fleshless,

her skin alternately yellow or grey, depending on whether it was morning light or evening light

which bathed her. Her hair was dank and lifeless, falling out in great chunks.

The sweat that poured out of her during her night fevers stank of death.

Yet through all this, through all her pain and suffering, Mary‘s temper was invariably

sweet, her thankfulness for what Margaret and her other ladies did for her genuine.

Margaret picked up another piece of soiled linen, glancing at Mary as she did so. The

queen‘s bed was set against the window on the far wall of the chamber from where Mary could

see into the gardens whenever she felt well enough to do so.

Right now, however, she appeared deeply asleep. Her head lolled to one side on the

pillow, her hands rested open and relaxed on the light coverlet.

A small speck of dribble had dried and crusted in one corner of her mouth, and Margaret

supposed she ought to wipe it away, but to do so would be to waken Mary, and that Margaret did

not want.

She dipped the linen into the soapy water and began washing it. Mary‘s other ladies were

in the chamber next door, sleeping away some of their exhaustion, garnered while tending Mary

through a sleepless night. Jocelyn lay with them. She‘d sat by Mary‘s bedside during the long

night, singing sweet ballads in her youthful voice, keeping Mary‘s mind blessedly detached from

the agony of her flesh.

Jocelyn was a gift from whatever benign benevolency thought occasionally to watch over

Mary, for her sunny temperament and honeyed voice kept Mary at peace through many a long

hour.

Margaret sighed, slipping deeper into her fugue. She was tired, but these linens needed to

be done, and their doing kept her from tossing restlessly on her pallet in the chamber with the

other ladies.

Thoughts of Tom, and of what he was, had kept her awake for many a long night.

Those nights when Mary dismissed her from her service to lie beside Tom were agony,

for she wondered at what point Tom would turn on her, and strike her down with angelic fury.

Christ Lord, they had thought they could turn Tom to their way of seeing and

understanding. How foolish of them. How blind.

―Sweet Jesu,‖ she whispered, ―I had loved him so much.‖

―Then why cease?‖ whispered Neville‘s voice, and strong arms wrapped themselves

about her waist, pulling her back against his body.

Margaret stifled a shriek, but could not stop herself going rigid with fright.

―I have just come from Hal,‖ Neville continued in a low voice, his lips against her right

ear. ―Hal made me see myself for what I am.‖

He stopped, and Margaret knew he expected her to say something. She tried to glance

towards Mary to see if Tom‘s entrance had wakened her, but Neville swung her to the right a

fraction, towards the drying rack festooned with damp laundry, just enough that Margaret could

not see Mary at all.

―An angel,‖ she said, her voice laced with venom.

―An angel,‖ he repeated, and she was stunned to hear the suppressed amusement in his

voice. ―Ah, Margaret, my love. I did not suddenly ‗become‘ an angel, but have been one all my

life. Unknowing—I only understood it just now when Hal, brimming with fury, told me—but an

angel nevertheless.‖

His arms tightened about her, pulling her very tight against his body. She could feel him,

feel his warmth and strength through his clothes, feel him move against her.

―No wonder I was such a bigoted crusader as a Dominican friar.‖ Now he could not help

a small laugh escaping—it felt like a soft brush against her ear and cheek. ―No wonder

Archangel Michael kept calling me ‗Beloved‘. No wonder he believed in me so much, even

when it seemed as though I strayed into the path of the demons. But he should have been more

concerned, because I strayed too far. You crippled me, Margaret. You corrupted me beyond

knowing, when you made me love you.‖

He began to move from leg to leg, slowly, gently, as if rocking to some silent tune. As he

moved, he forced her to move with him until they both rocked from side to side, slowly, gently.

―I still don‘t think that the angels have any idea. They think I remain pure. Untouched.

Unloved.‖

―But—‖ Margaret managed.

―But what? Margaret, do you remember what I said to you that night in Kenilworth? That

night when I confessed my love to you.‖

―You said many things to me that night.‖

―Aye, that I did. Well, do you remember what I said when you taxed me with the

contention that I could not afford to love you, because when the time came for the choice, I

would choose mankind‘s salvation before you.‖

―I remember,‖ she said in a low voice.

―And what did I reply to that?‖

―That when the time came, you would allow love to make the choice for you.‖

―Aye,‖ he whispered, so softly that she had to strain to hear him, even though he was

close. ―Love killed the cold pious man I had been…that had been the angel within me.‖

His arms about her waist relaxed, and he turned her about to face him. ―Jesus is an angel,

too, Margaret. But do you fear him? Nay, of course not. He has loved also, and that broke apart

the angel within him.‖ Neville grinned, the expression on his face reminding Margaret very

much of that sweet long ago night at Kenilworth. ―We were both most vilely crippled. Perhaps

because we were tainted from birth.‖

―What do you mean?‖

―He means,‖ came Mary‘s weak voice from her bed, ―that both Jesus and he were born of

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