―Then I hold you damn well responsible for the Queen of Navarre”s safety while I am
gone.‖
Tudor bowed, wishing only that he could walk out of this room. ―My lady queen,‖ he
said, opening the door. ―May I escort you to Queen Mary?‖
―Gladly, my lord,‖ she said, then, as she was in the act of turning, paused and looked
back at Bolingbroke, now fully cloaked and gloved. ―Will you come with us, your grace? To bid
your wife farewell?‖
―I have spent months bidding my wife farewell,‖ Bolingbroke said. ―I doubt she cares
overmuch to hear another one from me.‖
―Your grace—‖ said Tudor, shocked.
―There is a war to be won,‖ Bolingbroke said, ―and I do not have time to waste on the
trivialities of women.‖
And with that he pushed past both Catherine and Tudor, and vanished through the door.
Catherine looked to Tudor, his face visibly showing his distress at Bolingbroke‘s last
remark. She tried to find something to say, to comfort him, then realised there was nothing.
So she merely walked over, took his arm in a gentle hand, and together they went to see
Mary.
The chamber was still, stuffy, warm. Candles burned in sconces and on many-branched
stands.
Catherine, her hand still on Tudor‘s arm, stopped just inside the door and stared.
―Sweet Jesu,‖ she said, her face appalled.
Several ladies on a bench against a distant wall started and rose up, as did Margaret and
Neville, who had taken stools close to Mary‘s bed. Culpeper, too, hovering about the foot of the
bed, Jocelyn hiding behind him, made a movement, and a noise of protest.
―Catherine,‖ said Margaret. Her face, like all those about her, was lined and haggard,
grey with anxiety and grief.
―I have been stolen,‖ Catherine said by way of brief explanation. It was enough, for both
Neville and Margaret nodded dully, as though they had expected this.
Catherine moved slowly across the room, coming to stand by Mary‘s bed.
What she saw shocked and horrified her. Mary, lying so broken it seemed a miracle that
she could still draw breath.
Mary, her visible flesh chalky white save for four or five unnatural red streaks.
Mary, her eyes closed, sunken, not moving.
―Is she…‖ Catherine could not finish.
―She is as close to dead as it is possible to be while still drawing breath,‖ Neville said,
and the grief and anger in his voice made Catherine raise her eyes to him.
He was sitting on a stool by Margaret, leaning forward, arms on knees, his hands
dangling between his legs, uselessly wringing.
Everything about him—his slumping posture, his shadowed eyes, his wringing hands, his
clammy skin—suggested a deep, agonising impotence, almost as if he thought he should be able
to rectify the situation with a mere movement, or word.
Catherine‘s eyes returned to Mary. ―Does she wake?‘
―No,‖ came Neville‘s harsh voice. ―When…when we moved her from the foot of the
stairs she lost her senses, and they have not returned. I pray they do not, for her agony would be
too great to bear.‖
Catherine sighed, blinking back tears, then turned very slightly to where Tudor still stood
by the doorway. ―Will you bring me a stool, my lord? I would sit and keep watch as well.‖
XII
Saturday 31st August 1381
Bolingbroke‘s face, like everyone else‘s within the English army, showed his exhaustion.
They‘d marched north for eight days, always adjusting both their pace and, to a mild degree,
their direction as news came through of Philip‘s force. The men were tired, desperate for rest, but
at least they‘d reached Agincourt before Philip.
Just.
Bolingbroke sat his horse, his commanders and a score of mounted men-at-arms about
him, on a small hill that overlooked the eastern approaches to the village and its surrounding
fields. Some miles distant a dusty haze rose, obscuring whatever had caused it. But Bolingbroke
did not need intelligence to tell him what rode beneath it.
Philip, and his twenty-five thousand.
―He knows we‘re here,‖ Warwick said softly, his eyes fixed on the distant dust. ―We saw
several of his scouts not an hour ago.‖
―Good,‖ said Bolingbroke. He studied the distance a while longer. ―He will be here by
this evening. We will battle tomorrow. I will not give him time to rest.‖
―And our men?‖
―They have the rest of the day,‖ Bolingbroke said, checking the sun—it was a little
before noon. ―And tonight. Rest this afternoon, eat well at dusk, prepare this evening. Pray
tonight.‖
―What do you intend to do?‖ asked Suffolk. ―How are we to position?‖
Bolingbroke pointed to the meadows directly before them. There was a stretch of land
running roughly north–south for about twelve hundred yards. Some nine hundred yards wide at
the northern perimeter, the stretch of land narrowed slightly to seven hundred yards at its centre,
then ran an equal width of seven hundred yards to its southern border.
Dense woodland dropped away sharply to either side of the land‘s western and eastern
borders. There was no escape in either of those two directions.
Essentially, the strip of land formed a funnel, widest at its northern end.
―We form our positions at the south,‖ said Bolingbroke. He stood in his saddle, shielding
his eyes against the sun, then pointed to a small meadowland a few hundred yards further to the
south of his chosen battle position. ―We‘ll establish our camp there, forcing Philip to the north.‖
Warwick, the old and experienced campaigner, grinned as he realised what Bolingbroke
was going to do. ―And tonight, your grace, would you like us to pray for rain?‖
―That would be very helpful,‖ Bolingbroke said, returning Warwick‘s smile. Then he
looked at his other commanders. ―Keep your scouts in the field, report to me as soon as you
know where Philip has encamped. Then, this evening, we‘ll hold a final war council in my tent.‖
He looked at each man, his eyes steady, his voice confident. ―The day will be ours tomorrow, my lords. This land belongs to England, not Philip.‖
And with that he wheeled his horse‘s head about and rode back to his army.
Mary lay abed, her flesh suppurating from the wounds sustained eleven days ago.
The stink was dreadful.
About her sat, as they had for those eleven dreadful days, Catherine, Neville and
Margaret. At one time or another, one of them would stumble to one of the makeshift cots that
sat in a far corner of the room and snatch three or four hours sleep, but most of each day and
night, they sat, staring, weeping silently, keeping watch.
Apart from keeping Mary as clean as they could, and dripping fluids through her cracked
and gaping lips, it was all they could do.
From time to time other members of the household joined in the watch. Sir Richard
Sturry, who had not ridden with Bolingbroke. Lord Owen Tudor, who spent much of the day
fetching and carrying food for the watchers, or quietly begging one or another of them to try to rest for an hour or so. Sir John Norbury came for a few minutes each day, as did the mayor of
Rouen, Alain Montgies. Physicians shook their heads over Mary, while apothecaries left bundles
of herbs and powders at the gates of the castle. Priests and friars, representatives of both papal
camps amassing for the expected trial of the Maid of France, also tried to gain entrance to
Mary‘s agonisingly slow death watch, but Neville asked that only one or two be admitted so that
they might bless Mary‘s still, stinking form.
He wasn‘t sure if Mary wanted them or not, but he thought that she‘d be hurt if he turned
them all down.
The carpenter did not appear, and in his bleakest moments Neville thought he might hate
him for that. Surely he could have done something?
But perhaps there was nothing to be done save watch and wait for Mary to let go her life.
Perhaps the carpenter was sitting, waiting by the casket he had crafted, himself waiting for Mary
to die.
Neville wondered why she hung on so tenaciously when it would be so easy to slip away.
He did not know that Mary dreamed.
Philip was tired, sweaty and not in a mood to jest. His scouts had heard rumours of the
English army moving north, but hadn‘t been able to confirm it until today…and that
confirmation came the worst possible way, with an actual sighting of the English army, moving
slowly into an encampment to the east of the village of Agincourt.
―How many?‖ he snapped to the scout standing before him in his war tent.
―Not many,‖ said the scout. ―About a thousand horsemen, knights and men-at-arms, and
some five or six thousand archers.‖
Philip‘s face twisted in disbelief. ―He has archers only? What is he thinking of doing?
Shooting rabbits for his supper?‖
Philip‘s war commanders dutifully laughed, although the senior of them, Constable