human mothers.‖ Margaret swung towards Mary, pulling herself half free from Neville‘s hold.
― You knew? ‖
―Not of this last, no. But of many things.‖
Margaret looked between Mary and Neville. ―She knew?‖ she said to her husband.
―I told Mary during the time of the pestilence in London of the nature of the battle that
consumes the angels and their children,‖ Neville said. ―Mary has been my confidante in many
things.‖
―And I not?‖ Margaret said softly.
Neville led her stiff and unyielding towards Mary, where he sat down carefully on
Mary‘s bed, pulling Margaret against him.
―Mary has no stake in this matter,‖ he said. ―She has not tried to pull me one way or the
other. And,‖ he looked to Mary as if silently seeking her permission for what he was about to say
next. He seemed to receive it, for he went on, ―Mary‘s mind and soul have the clarity of near
death. I can say to her what I can say to no other. But,‖ his hands about Margaret‘s waist pulled her tense body down to his lap, ―I cannot say to her what I now say to you. That you are my love,
and my wife, and the mother of my children, and that you come before all others in my life. I
love Mary, but not as a man loves a woman. Although,‖ now he turned and winked
mischievously at Mary, ―had I not been so tied by love to my wife I might have been tempted to
battle Hal to death in the tourneying field for her hand in marriage.‖
To his relief both women laughed. Margaret, particularly, relaxed, finally allowing some
of her jealousy for Mary to slip away. He had told her he loved her in front of Mary, confirmed
their bonds before Mary…But he confided in Mary when he has not confided in me.
―Margaret,‖ Neville said softly, ―when it comes to the choice, and Christ knows it will be
soon, I swear before you and on the lives of our children that I will allow love to make the
decision for me, angel blood or no angel blood. My loyalty and desires are with mankind, not the
deformed, loveless beasts that inhabit heaven. I can give you no more assurance than that.‖
―So you will choose in my favour?‖ Margaret asked.
Neville suppressed an irritated sigh. ―I will allow love to make the decision for me, Meg.
Love alone.‖
And may Jesus aid me to rid myself of that dark irk which still clutters my conscience.
Because if it does not go, Margaret, then I know not what I will do…
Margaret nodded, smiled a little, and rose. ―I will fetch a damp cloth to wash your face,
madam,‖ she said to Mary, and walked over to the drying rack.
Mary watched her go, then, once she was far enough away, whispered to Neville: ―You
have not told her Christ walks again on earth. That you freed him from the cross in the Chapel of
St John.‖
Neville shook his head. ―He does not want her to know, Mary. You know that.‖
She nodded, but said nothing, for then Margaret returned.
XI
Thursday 15th August 1381
—iii—
Neville lay, curled about Margaret, more asleep than awake. They‘d made love this night,
and it had gone well, even if Neville had sensed (and sensed that Margaret did, also) a distance
between them. They‘d embraced, and done what was needed to achieve their sexual union, and
had then talked softly and tenderly, speaking words of love.
But still that distance.
Neville remembered the last time he and Margaret had attempted to make love, when
Margaret had said bitterly that he would not have pulled away from her had she been Mary. He
wondered if what she had said had any truth in it, and then dismissed the thought. He‘d never
thought of, nor regarded, Mary in sexual terms. He could not imagine making love to her, even if
she had been healthy. Margaret was wrong to be so jealous of her. Mary had done no harm, and
could not possibly do any.
Neville drifted further into sleep, only barely conscious of the darkened chamber about
them. Then, just as he was about to tip over into the dark cup of unconsciousness, his nose
twitched, as if irritated by some cloying scent.
He murmured, and shifted, rubbing at his nose briefly with the back of his hand.
He drifted back into sleep.
Again, the heavy, syrupy scent, and this time Neville had to stifle a sneeze.
He blinked, rubbing his nose again, and finally opened his eyes.
As he did so, the room exploded in golden light.
He stood, shuddering, naked, amid the brittle, false flowers of the Field of the Angels.
About him circled the entire fraternity of the angels. Their bodies glowed a marbled silver, their
eyes a hard obsidian black. They moved slowly, their circle some four or five angels deep, their
eyes still on him, never leaving him, trapping him.
About their feet they had shattered the fragile multi-coloured flowers into a hard-trodden
track of crystallised fragments.
―Hail, brother,‖ said one, stepping forward out of his circling comrades. It was Michael,
the angels‘ emissary to Neville.
Neville did not reply. He watched Michael carefully, his eyes occasionally flickering to
the thick circle of angels moving about them.
―You have discovered the truth about your heritage,‖ Michael said. He shrugged slightly.
―We thought you‘d realise it sooner.‖
Still Neville did not answer. He was freezing, his flesh dimpling, and he had to fight to
keep his arms relaxed at his side rather than wrapping them about himself in an attempt to get
warm.
Michael smiled, and as he did so the entire assembly of angels smiled: cold, malicious,
and very, very certain.
―We have always been sure of you,‖ Michael said. ―We did not make the same mistake
with you as we did with Christ.‖
―And what was that?‖ Neville said softly. He was shivering now, and feeling nauseated.
―We have always wanted to ensure the complete enslavement of mankind to our will,‖
said another archangel who stepped out of the ring of circling angels to stand at Michael‘s
shoulder, and Neville knew that it was Gabriel.
―We have been working towards this since the dawn of time itself,‖ Gabriel continued.
He saw the question forming on Neville‘s face, and answered it before he had a chance to voice
it. ―We have always been,‖ Gabriel said. ―Always a part of creation, always gaining our
sustenance from the adoration of lesser beings. But relying on adoration from such capricious
creatures as mortal men has ever been a chancy thing. We need to enslave them completely. But
completing the process of enslavement necessitated one of our kind physically being present on
earth. It meant one of our number physically becoming a man.‖
As one, the circling angels screwed their faces into expressions of utter disgust.
―Even had one of us wanted to do that,‖ and the expression on Gabriel‘s face left no
doubt that none of the angels had stepped forward to volunteer, ―it would have been impossible.
We cannot appear in physical form within the mortal sphere.‖
―So we took the next best step of creating another of our kind within the womb of a
woman,‖ said Michael. ―Not an angel- child, of which horrors there were plenty enough, but a
fully formed angel. He would then work his will— our will—and lead mankind into a complete
enslavement to our wishes.‖
―But it all went wrong,‖ Gabriel said, and as one, all the angels snarled, then hissed, and
Neville had to use every measure of self-control he possessed to stop himself from trying to
break through the circle and escape.
How could he be one such as these? One such as these horrors?
―Christ went berserk.‖ Yet another archangel stepped forth from the circle. Uriel, this
time. ―He tried to free mankind instead of enslaving them.‖
―He was corrupted,‖ Gabriel said.
―Precisely,‖ said Uriel.
―Because he had a human mother,‖ Neville said softly, remembering what Mary had said.
For a moment the angels did not reply. The only sound was that of the circling horde‘s
shuffling feet through the shards of the flowers, the only existence the corral of their flat, black
eyes.
―Because he had a human mother,‖ Michael repeated.
― A bitch mother! ‖ the assembly of angels hissed as one.
―I have had a human mother,‖ Neville said softly. ―I must be corrupted, too. Why so
confident that I will choose in your favour?‖
Michael smiled, and all the angels smiled with him.
The depth of cold suddenly increased two-fold, and now Neville could not stop himself
from shivering.
―We know what you think and what you want,‖ Michael said. ―You want to hand your
soul to the bitch-whore Margaret, to free mankind from our chains forever.‖
Total silence, save for the shuffling of feet.
―How sweet,‖ whispered Uriel.