breath through a throat enclosed by several layers of tightly laced high collars.
―What are you doing?‖ Catherine hissed.
―Getting myself to safety,‖ Charles said, his voice squeaking in a most unmanly manner.
Catherine could not be sure if this was due to fear, or the constriction of so many collars.
―By trying to disguise yourself as…as…as…‖ words failed her, and Catherine contented
herself with throwing her hands up in a gesture of utter disgust.
―The English dog bastards want to kill me,‖ Charles said, and Catherine found herself
unable to contradict that statement, at least.
―They‘ll torture me! Tear me limb from limb! Disembowel me!‖
―And let‘s not forget slice off your balls and feed them to the gutter dogs,‖ said Isabeau
de Bavière, who had just entered the room.
Catherine shot their mother a contemptuous look. Isabeau was not going to help anyone
at the moment if she descended into her habitual sarcasm.
Charles whimpered, then turned around (almost overbalancing in his tight attire) and
wobbled towards a chamberlain who was supervising the packing of several trunks. ―Hurry!
Hurry!‖ Charles cried. ―The English are almost here.‖
―Well,‖ said Isabeau, now speaking to her daughter, ―I cannot but admit that Charles has
good reason to fear for his safety. Paris shall become, I fear, a most unhealthy place for him once
Bolingbroke sets Philip to one side.‖
― If Bolingbroke sets Philip to one side, madam,‖ Catherine murmured.
Isabeau gave her a short, cynical smile. ― When, my dear. As you know in your heart.‖
Catherine drew in a deep breath. ―Are you sure you won‘t flee with my brother, madam?
Paris is likely to become as unhealthy for you as it is for him.‖
―Oh, nay to both, I think. I am sure I can come to some accommodation with whoever
wins in this battle for the French crown.‖ Isabeau studied her daughter‘s face carefully. ―I will
wait for the outcome with you, Catherine. Here. In Paris.‖
―You think you can seduce the victor into granting your wishes?‖
―No, Catherine. That I leave to you.‖
It was only when she returned to her apartments that Catherine allowed herself the
weakness and vulnerability of tears. Philip was never coming back. She knew that. Hal would
win…by whatever means, he would emerge the victor against Philip. Philip was lost, France was
lost…and Catherine was lost.
―Oh, sweet Jesu, help me,‖ she sobbed, collapsing on the floor by hers and Philip‘s bed
and leaning her head into her arms where they rested on the coverlet. She wondered how it
would be…would Hal stride into this very bedchamber, and force her to the bed and to his will?
Or would he send for her…force her to come to him, enduring the cold stares of the English
ranks through which she rode?
And what would he do when he discovered she was carrying Philip‘s child?
The thought that Hal might— would—force that child from her body caused Catherine to
wail out loud. Should she flee as well? To save Philip”s child?
―Oh, sweet Jesu, aid me now, aid me now,‖ she sobbed.
―Madam?‖ came a hesitant voice behind her.
Startled, and angered that someone should have seen her in this state, Catherine sprang to
her feet, whipping around to the door from where the voice had come.
A workman stood there, a length of wood over his shoulder, his face red with
embarrassment that he should have disturbed such a fine lady.
―Who are you?‖ Catherine said, trying desperately to bring her tears under control.
―I was sent with this wood,‖ said the man, a carpenter from the tools that hung at his belt,
―to build a crib.‖
―What?‖ Catherine whispered.
The carpenter smiled at Catherine, adjusting the length of wood on his shoulder to a more
comfortable position. ―Madam, do not fret for your child.‖
―How…?‖
―I need you to do something, something for both yourself and for France. Will you do
this?‖
―What are you talking about? Who are you? What are you doing here?‖ Catherine stared
at the man, wondering why she was standing here having this bizarre conversation with a
craftsman. How had he managed entrance into the palace in the first instance? Should she shout for aid?
―Make sure your brother takes his crown with him when he leaves,‖ the carpenter said.
― What?”
―Charles must have the crown, for he will be bereft without it.‖
And with that the carpenter ducked his head, as if apologising for his rude presence, and
walked past the door out of sight.
Catherine stared for an instant, then ran to the door. She peered up and down the corridor
beyond, but there was no one there.
―Charles must take the crown…?‖ she whispered. ―Why? Why?‖
But then she thought that if Charles had the crown, then Hal would have the harder time
of it trying to establish himself as the King of France (as she had no doubt he would soon do).
Without another thought, Catherine dashed the tears from her eyes and walked
purposefully down the corridor, taking the turn that would eventually lead her to the jewel tower.
VI
Tuesday 20th August 1381
—iii—
For days, Neville had existed in a state so melancholic, so despondent, so appalled, that
he found it a wonder he could still draw breath.
He started fully awake from his vision of the Field of Angels, almost falling out of the
bed he shared with Margaret.
He‘d stared at her, wondering why she did not wake when it was so obvious that mankind
only had a few more days, perhaps a few more weeks, of any measure of free will left.
Nearer and nearer draws the time, the time that shall surely be…
How foolish he had been, how proudful, to ever think that there would be a choice. The
angels had come close to stumbling once before with Christ; they were not going to make the
same mistake with him. They had allowed both the demons and Thomas himself to think that
Margaret was the woman to whom he could gift his soul.
They had allowed both the demons and Thomas to trap themselves into a hopelessness.
That was all the events of the past few years had been—an opportunity to fall into a trap.
And Thomas had fallen…
From Margaret‘s bed, and then from their quarters in the castle, Neville had run into the
night. His fear and his horror darkened his vision, and even where the way was well lit he
crashed into pillars and corners and door frames until bruises matted the surface of his body and
blood ran from a dozen cuts on his face and hands. The dawn still found him stumbling through
narrow, dim alleys in the back quarters of Rouen, where small boys out collecting donkey dung
at dawn laughed at him, and pinched at his flesh, and wondered whether this strange, naked man
was crazed by drink, or women, or perhaps the moon, hanging so low and heavy in the sky.
Neville eventually found shelter of a kind in the low overhang of a stable roof. Damp,
mouldy hay had been piled up under the eaves and, as morning finally dawned, he crawled deep
inside the stinking mass, burying himself as deep as he could, wondering if the angels would
ever find him here.
But he could not escape the words of the archangel: There is no choice. There has never
been one. This time we have made sure. Welcome to the brotherhood, Thomas.
Those words never left Thomas‘ thoughts. The knowledge that he would be the one to
damn mankind into eternal enslavement and that, having performed such an appalling task, he
would then spend eternity locked in brotherhood with the foul creatures that inhabited heaven
drove him so deep into despair that for hours that turned into days he was unable to leave his
nasty burrow within the rotting hay. He sucked moisture from the loathsome mess whenever
thirst drove him to the very edge of insanity (not that he was far from it in any case), scrabbled
about hunting and squashing between his fingers the biting fleas and other insects that attacked
his vulnerable flesh, and relieved himself into his bedding as needed, but nothing intruded on his sensibilities so much as to even come close to suggesting that it might be a good thing to escape
this composting hideaway and find himself something a little more comfortable.
During the day the sounds of the city moving about him washed over him without
making any impression on his misery. At night roaming dogs and pigs nuzzled and scraped at his
covering layers of muck, trying to dig him out, but their efforts went ignored.
Thomas Neville just wanted to hide—hide from what the angels were going to force him
to do.
There was no choice. There never had been. Everything that had gone before had been a
jest, a jest on him and a jest on mankind.