―How foolish,‖ said another Archangel, Sariel, stepping forth into the circle. With him
walked the Archangels Raguel and Raphael. Neville was now hemmed in by two circles: the
outer one of angels, and the smaller inner core of Archangels.
―You see, dear corrupted brother of ours,‖ Michael said, ―where you think is choice, is
none at all. You have no choice.‖
―I will always have choice,‖ hissed Neville, now truly frightened. He‘d finally given up
trying to keep his arms at his sides, and now he wrapped them about himself, trying to keep some
of the cold of heaven at bay.
―No, no, no,‖ said Michael. ―In your darkest moments you admit to yourself that you
cannot hand your soul to Margaret. There is that slight hesitancy, that slight doubt. She used you,
tricked you once—‖
―Like all women,‖ hissed Gabriel and Uriel as one.
―And that single instance,‖ said Michael, ―that single trickery—‖
―That single, dark irk!‖ said Raguel.
―—means you cannot choose for her,‖ finished Michael.
―Then there are good women, true women, who I can—‖
―Whom you love without reservation, Thomas?‖ Sariel said. ―And who are whores?‖
―Remember the prophecy as spoken by that whore in the street of Rome, Thomas?‖ said
Michael. ―Remember? One day one of my sisters will seize your soul and condemn you to hell
for eternity! A whore will steal your soul! Nay, I pray to the Virgin Mary, that you will offer her your soul on a platter! You will offer her your eternal damnation in return for her love!”
―A whore, Thomas,‖ said Uriel. ―Not a good woman, nor a true woman. Not even a
slightly wanton woman. A whore. A harlot who prostitutes her flesh for coin to any man who can pay. A whore whom you love so unreservedly that you would beg her to take your soul.‖
―And that whore,‖ whispered the congregation of angels, ―is not Margaret. Not Margaret
twice over—you do not love her unreservedly, and she is no whore. She may not be truly
virtuous, but she is no whore. Not Margaret… not Margaret.‖
Not Margaret…not Margaret… never Margaret…
―Then who, Thomas?‖ said Michael. ―How many filthy purveyors of carnality, who you
love unreservedly and unhesitatingly, do you have in reserve?‖
―Christ tells me to trust him,‖ Neville said, his voice panicked. ― Christ tells me to trust
him. He is my brother, and—‖
Michael laughed. ―How many whores does he have in reserve, Thomas? Freeing him
from our prison has, in the end, done you no good at all. This choice will not be set before you in
six years, or ten, but in a matter of weeks. Love, the kind of love that you need to be able to hand
a woman your soul, takes months if not years to develop. Thomas,‖ and suddenly his voice
became a roar, and the entire assembly of angels stopped, and turned into the circle, their mouths
opened in silent screams. ―Thomas! You have no choice at all. You will choose in our favour,
because you have no choice in it. ‖
The angels shrieked in hideous mirth, and Neville, terrified and hopeless, cowered on the
ground of the field, his arms wrapped about his head.
You will choose in our favour because there is no choice at all.
―There is no choice,‖ Michael whispered through the screaming laughter. ― There has
never been one. This time we have made sure. If you cannot hand your soul to your bitch-whore, do you know what happens then, Thomas? Do you? Your soul reverts to our care, back to the
angels, where it originated and where it belongs. Mankind is ensnared forever, and you get to
spend eternity with us. ‖
A scream sounded, and Neville only dimly realised that it was his voice.
―Welcome back to the brotherhood, Thomas.‖
PART FIVE
Agincourt
Now shrinketh rose & lilye-flowre
That whilen ber that swete savoure, In somer, that swete tide.
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no levedy so bright in bour,
That ded ne shall byglid.
Now shrinketh rose and lily flower,
That once bore such sweet fragrance,
In summer, that sweet time.
There is no queen so mighty or strong,
Nor lady so bright in her bower,
That death shall not pass by.
Late thirteenth-century English lyric
I
Friday 16th August 1381
—i—
Astrong premonition of danger wakened Joan from her sleep. Why the arrival of such a
premonition at this particular point she did not know, because it had been four days since she‘d
been abducted, bundled into a chest, and moved two days north of Paris on the tray of a jolting
cart. Not even in those two days, when she‘d been trapped in the dark chest, did Joan sense so
much danger lurking about her.
But today, on this fine morning, and with no apparent reason, Joan woke with the sense
that today would be one of extreme danger.
Her captors—Philip‘s men, naturally—had brought her to the small and somewhat
tumbledown castle of Beaurevoir some eighty miles north of Paris. Here they placed her into the
care of several well-dressed and mannered ladies of the minor nobility, a goodly contingent of
stern-faced men-at-arms, and several priests, who examined her twice daily for an hour to see if
they could detect any heretical leanings.
Joan stirred on her comfortable bed, hearing the noise of her ladies rising when they
realised she was awake. One of the women drew back the shutters, illuminating the chamber
with the early morning sun. The chamber which formed her prison was very comfortably
appointed, almost luxurious: the furniture was well made, tapestries hung from the walls, and
Joan ate her meals from fine silver plates and drank well-seasoned wine from solid gold cups.
―Mademoiselle?‖ said one of the ladies, bending over Joan.
―I am awake,‖ said Joan, and sat up.
The woman offered Joan a bowl and flannel with which to wash the sleep from her eyes,
which Joan accepted gratefully. But Joan‘s face darkened as another lady approached carrying a
richly-wrought and embroidered crimson gown.
―I will not wear that abomination,‖ Joan said.
―But you will look so beautiful in it,‖ said the woman.
Joan sent her a scathing look, then reached for her usual garb, a man‘s tunic and leggings,
even though they were soiled and stained from their continual wear for some five days.
The women, all three of them, tried again to persuade Joan to accept the gown, but Joan
steadfastly refused. Every morning that she had been at Beaurevoir the four of them had engaged
in the same ritual: the women begged Joan to wear the rich gown, and Joan refused.
Having finally managed to garb herself in her tunic and leggings, Joan then sat at the
table and allowed the women to serve her some bread and fruit, accompanied by watered wine.
She waved her companions away as she ate, preferring to breakfast in some measure of
loneliness.
As she ate (or, rather, pushed the bread about the plate and chewed with effort upon a
single apple), Joan sank into thought, trying to discover the reason for her sudden sense of
danger.
That she was going to die, she knew, but she felt very much as if today she would be
forced into a premature death that would not in any measure serve to aid France or Charles.
Joan momentarily closed her eyes and shuddered. Dying she had accepted, but only
because she knew it would serve France so well. To die purposeless? Nay, that she could not
accept.
―Mademoiselle?‖ came the concerned voice of one of the women, who had left her stool
in the corner of the chamber and now approached Joan.
―Nothing,‖ said Joan, waving the woman back. ―Leave me.‖
As the woman retreated, Joan took another mouthful of apple. Where could the danger
come from? Was one of her female companions hiding a dagger with which she thought to
assassinate Joan? Was one of the priests even now building a premature pile of faggots in the
courtyard outside? Was Bolingbroke riding here as she sat eating her futile breakfast, thinking to run her through with his sword?
―Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle? ‖
Joan looked up, knowing that there was no use trying to decipher her premonition.
Whatever happened, the Lord Jesus Christ would protect her. ―I think I would like to take my
morning walk now, my lady. If it pleases you.‖
Each of the two mornings past, Joan‘s minders had escorted her up the narrow stone
staircase to the flat roof of the southeastern tower of Beaurevoir castle. Here they had allowed
her an hour of gentle pacing about the perimeter of the roof in the fresh air.
Today Joan walked up as usual, encased by her women, and murmured her thanks as they
led her into the sunshine. Not only was the sun and fresh air welcome, but the view was
spectacular. Rolling fields, not yet browned by months of summer heat, spread in every