Culpeper. ―Thank you, Master Culpeper. Without you and your brigade of physicians I would
not have an army left.‖
He waited until the physician had gone, then looked about at his three senior war
commanders. ―And exactly how many men do we have left?‖
Warwick, Suffolk and Nottingham shared a quick glance, trying to decide who should
speak the poor news. Finally, Warwick, the eldest, spoke.
―Less than eight thousand, your grace. But if you take into account the nine hundred you
left at Harfleur to garrison the town and secure our retreat, and the similar number you‘ll need to leave here at Rouen…‖
―I have an army of six thousand men only,‖ Bolingbroke said. His face was bland,
showing none of the emotion he must have been feeling. He waited a silent moment, then said,
―And Philip?‖
―The best intelligence we have,‖ said Nottingham, ―puts the total number at some
twenty-five thousand. Almost all mounted men-at-arms and knights, and only perhaps some
thousand archers.‖
―And our force?‖ Bolingbroke said.
―Of the six thousand you‘ll take to meet Philip, nine hundred are mounted men-at-arms
and knights, and just over five thousand are archers.‖
Bolingbroke managed a smile. Stunningly, it looked genuine. ―Then if we find a mud
hole for Philip‘s heavy armoured cavalry to sink into, our archers will win the day, my friends.
What say you?‖
Suffolk laughed. ―Shall I have a scout find us a suitable mud hole, your grace, then send
them on to Philip requesting that he meet us there?‖
Now all the men in the room laughed, glad to find a jest with which to relieve the tension.
Bolingbroke moved back to the map table, beckoning his war commanders over. ―So,
where will Philip go? Will he attack us direct…or…?‖
―He‘ll try to cut off our retreat and attack us from behind,‖ said Warwick. ―Lay siege to
Rouen, if he has to. But he will make every effort to cut our retreat line back to Harfleur.‖
Bolingbroke nodded. ―I agree. And his best route?‖
Warwick hesitated, then let his finger trace a shallow arc through the country north of
Paris. ―He‘ll head far enough north in the hope that we might not realise his movements. Then,
once he has moved west far enough, he‘ll swing south.‖
Suffolk had been watching Bolingbroke‘s face carefully. ―Are you thinking of attacking
him on his march, your grace?‖
―Aye.‖ Bolingbroke looked up from the map, and caught the uneasiness in Suffolk‘s
eyes. ―And you are thinking, my lord, that six thousand against twenty-five thousand are not
good odds?‖
―Your grace, I did not mean to imply that—‖
―You only spoke the truth, Suffolk. Six thousand against twenty-five is not good odds.
But,‖ Bolingbroke flashed his boyish grin, ―of those six thousand, we have five thousand of
England‘s best longbowmen, hand-picked, battle-hardened. What does Philip have? A motley
collection of shiny-armoured knights whose only battle experience in recent years has been of
monumental failure. Suffolk…my friends…when those men ride into battle all they will be
thinking of is Poitiers. They will be remembering their rout there. They will quaver and shake,
and they shall be ours.‖
―Are you sure they won‘t be remembering Orleans?‖ Nottingham said softly.
Now Bolingbroke did look annoyed. ―They no longer have their precious Maid,
Nottingham. They have lost her. She will not be able to aid them this time.‖
None of the three other men present thought it prudent to remind Bolingbroke that Philip
was using Joan‘s kidnap as a means by which to drive French nationalistic feeling to fever point.
Whether with the French or not, the Maid was going to be a factor.
―We will march within forty-eight hours, or sooner if we have word of Philip‘s
movements. We travel light, we take no cannon. The men carry eight days worth of provisions
only. We march…‖ Bolingbroke studied the map, his finger tracing a route north from Rouen,
―here, to this village. I travelled through there some years ago. There is an open space just to the
west of the village where, if I get there in time and position my six thousand, we will stand a
good chance against Philip‘s twenty-five thousand.‖
Bolingbroke paused, his eyes on the map. Again, his finger tapped. ―Here. Agincourt.‖
Then, before anyone could comment, the door burst open and a valet, wide-eyed with
horror, ran in.
IX
Tuesday 20th August 1381
—v—
Danting heavily, filled with dread, Neville crashed through the twin doors of the hall.
There was a group of people huddled at the far end of the hall, gathered at the foot of the
stairwell, and he sped towards them.
As he did so a scream of pure agony tore through the hall.
―Mary,‖ Neville shouted, doubling his efforts to reach the group. Some ten paces away
both his exhaustion and his apprehension caused one of his feet to slip out from under him, and
he slid the last few paces on his hip, only managing to stop himself before he crashed into the
group with the mightiest of efforts.
―Mary,‖ he cried again, and the outer ring of people parted, and let him see what lay on
the floor.
―Mary,‖ he whispered, and rose to his knees, shuffling forward until he was at her side.
On Mary‘s other side, a pale and distraught Margaret stared at him. ―What can we do?‖
she said. ―What can we do?‖
Neville leaned down to take one of Mary‘s hands…then saw how it was disfigured. It
seemed as though her skin contained, not a hand, but a shapeless mess of broken bone and tissue.
Lord Christ, every one of her bones must be shattered.
―What…how…?‖ he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from Mary, who had now
swivelled her eyes to stare at him.
―The archangel,‖ Margaret whispered, and those two words contained all that Neville
needed to know.
For a moment he remained silent, then he tipped back his head and roared, the sound
filled both with anger and with an agony of sorrow.
He took a deep breath, and it appeared as though he would roar again, but Neville
contained himself with a mighty effort, the muscles in his neck visibly tightening. Then, after
another breath, he looked down at Mary, and smiled.
―May I help you?‖ he said. ―Will you accept my aid?‖
Mary was now clearly incapable of speech, but her lips moved, and she lowered her
eyelids slowly at him.
Neville reached out a hand and gently stroked her forehead—the only part of her that he
could see was not broken.
I am an angel, he thought, and if I am ever going to use my heritage then it must be now.
But when he tried to summon his heritage, nothing came. He strained, seeking within
himself for the power that must be there…
He was an angel for Christ”s sake! An angel!
…but the only thing he managed was to continue to stroke Mary‘s forehead, hopelessly,
trying to keep that hopelessness out of his face.
―Mary,‖ he said again, his voice infused with the utmost gentleness, ―I am going to lift
you, and carry you to your chamber.‖
Her eyes widened in horror. Let me die here. Don”t touch me. Let me die here.
Neville flinched. ―Mary, I must. You cannot lie here.‖
A small mewling sound escaped her lips, and her eyes rounded in sheer terror.
Neville looked about. ―Does anyone have a cloak, or a blanket, we could lie Mary on?‖
What happened next was a nightmare that Neville knew he would remember all the days
he would be permitted to live. Someone fetched a thin blanket, and as gently as possible they
edged Mary on to it.
Nothing could have prepared them for the agony she endured, nor for the shrieks of sheer
torment that escaped her mouth. Her bones crackled, shifting every which way within her body,
spearing into flesh that had thus far escaped major hurt, poking even further from the rents
they‘d already made in other parts of her body. She convulsed, just as they had managed to slide
her to the blanket, her body arching off the floor. Then, to the thankfulness of everyone about
her, she lost consciousness, her body sagging in a dead weight.
By that time, though, all about her were sobbing.
―I can do nothing more for her beyond what I have done already,‖ said Culpeper, his
ashen face staring down at the form lying on the bed. He had reached Mary‘s chamber at the
same time that Neville, a mercifully unconscious Mary in his arms, had been carefully laying her
down atop her bed.
―There must be more you can do,‖ Neville said, sitting to one side of the bed. His face
was haggard, his eyes almost terrifying in their intensity. He‘d thought he would be able to do
more himself— had not Christ routinely managed miracles of regeneration? —but he‘d been able
to do nothing more for Mary than torture her into a coma, and then physically lift her broken