The crippled angel. Book by Sara Douglass

d‘Albret, barely managed a smile.

―The English longbowmen are famed throughout Christendom,‖ he said.

―But to have only a thousand horsemen,‖ Philip said. ―Is he mad? You can‘t win battles

with archers!‖

―My lord,‖ said d‘Albret very cautiously, ―a single arrow from one of those longbows can

penetrate the strongest armour.‖

―Yes, yes,‖ Philip said, as he sat down in a campaign chair, gesturing to his commanders

to also take seats. The scout he waved away. ―So our first line will be vulnerable. But we have

men and horses enough for three lines. We will override and overwhelm those archers within

minutes of a cavalry charge. Archers are useless when trod into the dust by the heavy hooves of

destriers.‖

A breath of foetid air filtered through the dim, silent chamber.

Neville jerked his head up from his half doze.

Mary‘s eyes were open, and her mouth worked, as if she tried to utter something.

―Mary,‖ he croaked, his mouth and throat dry from hour upon hour of breathing in the

decaying air of this chamber. ―Mary?‖

Beside him Margaret jerked into full awareness, as did Catherine on her stool on the other

side of the bed. Owen Tudor, who‘d been slumped on a bench a little further away, awoke so

suddenly he rolled off the bench and hit the floor with a thump and a muffled curse.

Neville, Margaret and Catherine leaned as close as they dared over Mary, wanting to

touch her, knowing they couldn‘t.

―Mary,‖ Neville said again, his voice full of grief and gentleness.

Mary‘s eyes slowly moved to each of the faces hanging above her. She blinked, her brow

creasing in the slightest of frowns as if the faces confused her.

Margaret had dampened a towel, and now she wiped Mary‘s brow and lips with it. Mary

sucked eagerly at its dampness, and so Margaret put the towel aside and picked up a beaker of

lemon water, and spooned a few drops into Mary‘s mouth.

Mary‘s tongue, swollen and blackened, licked at her lips, and she sighed in pleasure, as if

those lemon water drops had been a draught of the sweetest nectar on earth.

―Where is Joan?‖ she said in a voice so hoarse that the others barely understood her.

―Where is Joan?‖

Owen Tudor, standing very slightly behind Catherine, looked to Neville, his eyebrows

raised.

Neville nodded, and Tudor turned silently and left the room.

Margaret continued to spoon lemon water into Mary‘s mouth until Mary moaned slightly,

and Margaret pulled back. She put the beaker of water down, jumping when it slipped and rattled

against a bowl.

―I have been dreaming,‖ Mary said, almost inaudibly, ―and yet I do not know if this is the

dream, or if I am awake. My husband was here. Talking. Laughing softly. Where is my husband?

Why has he gone away from me?‖

―He has gone to war, many days ago,‖ Margaret said, touching Mary‘s brow gently,

stroking, giving what comfort she could. ―There is a great war to be fought, and he must lead our

army.‖

Mary moaned, stronger now, as if in the grip of agony. ―No, no, he was here, with me,

and he would never go to war. Never! Why are you lying to me—?‖

―Mary,‖ Neville said, ―Bolingbroke went to war eight days ago. We know not what has

happened to him.‖ He hoped that would be enough for her.

Mary relaxed. ―Oh, so this is the dream. Thank you, Tom. Thank you.‖

And then she drifted back into unconsciousness.

Back to where her husband waited to talk to her, and to ease her pain.

She laughed, but only in dream.

XIII

Saturday 31st August 1381

(Night)

Joan‘s conditions had improved immeasurably in the past week. She‘d been released

from her cage, given clean and well made (but not ostentatious or rich) clothing to don, and

allowed the pleasant company of the wife of the castle dungeon keeper. She remained confined

to her underground chamber, but her keepers had provided her with a good pallet, warm

blankets, and light during the day.

All this had been accomplished because, Joan assumed, Bolingbroke had ridden off to

war and Mary had subsequently ensured some alleviation of her distress. Joan was extremely

thankful—simply to have her dignity restored was a gift of priceless value.

Yet the strange, wondrous Mary had not reappeared. Joan was sorrowful at that, but not

surprised. The queen had been so patently ill, that time she had visited, that Joan supposed her

condition had worsened in some manner in the past week.

And so Joan continued. She prayed to Jesus Christ and his exalted mother, the Blessed

Virgin Mary, and that comforted her, and passed the hours.

On the final day in August, guards unlocked and opened her door late in the night. Joan

was asleep, and woke suddenly, fearful, thinking that somehow Bolingbroke had returned and

that her terror had begun.

She sat up from her pallet, pushing the blankets aside, blinking groggily.

A man she had not seen before came into the chamber. Tall, well proportioned, a tired,

kindly face framed by greying reddish hair. He gave a small bow of acknowledgement, and

spoke quietly.

―Mademoiselle, forgive me for disturbing you so impolitely. My name is Owen Tudor,

and I am attached to Queen Mary and King Henry‘s household here in Rouen. May I ask you to

accompany me? Queen Mary has asked for you.‖

―Is she not well?‖

At that Owen Tudor paused. Is she not well? How could he answer that? ―She is dying,‖

he said. ―She suffered terribly in a fall after she left here, and has been lying broken and

insensible since. Just now she woke, and asked for you.‖

Joan nodded, slipping on her clothing as Tudor politely turned his back. She was ready in

moments, and he led her out of the cell and upwards towards Mary‘s death chamber.

Neville looked up as the door opened and Tudor ushered Joan inside.

He rose, then walked over to greet Joan.

Feeling a deep guilt at the way he had once spoken to her, and thought of her, he took her

hand, and kissed it as if she were the noblest of ladies.

―Thomas Neville,‖ Joan said, not so much surprised to see him (she had known he was

close), but affected deeply by the sight of him after so long. When had they last spoken?

―In your father‘s hay store,‖ Neville said, managing a small smile even though Joan could

see he was beset by grief. ―Where Archangel Michael came to us, and set us forward on

our— his—mission. Joan, we should talk, but first pay your respects to our beloved Lady Mary,

who lies a-dying.‖

Joan nodded, returning Neville‘s smile, then allowed him to escort her across the

chamber towards Mary‘s bed.

Behind them Tudor closed the door, then sat on a stool by the wall. Keeping watch, as he

so often had through these long days and nights.

As Neville and Joan crossed the chamber, two women rose from stools either side of

Mary‘s bed. Joan was not particularly surprised to see either of them: the beautiful demon

Margaret, who had attended Mary on her visit to Joan‘s dungeon, and Catherine, no doubt here at

Bolingbroke‘s will. Joan did not think she would have come of her own accord.

―She woke, and asked for you,‖ said Neville softly as they drew to a halt by Mary‘s bed,

―then slipped back into insensibility. We hope that she will wake again.‖

Joan stared at Mary, almost unable to comprehend the destruction that had been visited

on this wondrous woman.

―Every bone in her body has been shattered,‖ Catherine said, lifting her eyes from Mary

to Joan.

―How?‖ Joan whispered, almost overcome by her pity and sorrow.

There was a silence. Then Margaret spoke.

―Archangel Michael pushed her,‖ she said, and Joan‘s eyes flew up from their

contemplation of Mary to stare at Margaret.

― Why?‖ she said. But somehow Joan knew why. Michael would have pushed Mary for

the same reason he‘d thrown her from the tower at Beaurevoir: somehow Mary threatened the

angels‘ will. Mary?

Margaret‘s eyes filled with tears, and she spread her hands helplessly. ―Why? Who can

know the twisted reasoning within the archangel‘s mind. He said, ‗Whore-bitch! Do not think

that this time you will thwart our will!‘ And then he pushed her, and destroyed her in the most cruel way imaginable.‖

Neville watched Joan carefully, not knowing how she regarded the Archangels. ―Joan,‖

he said, ―in the past months I have come to realise that—‖

―The angels are cruel and capricious creatures,‖ Joan finished for him. ―I know that,

Thomas. I am no longer their creature. I am for France, and for Christ.‖

―For Christ?‖ he said, staring at her.

―Aye,‖ she said, and something in her eyes made Neville realise that James had, at some

point, graced Joan with his presence.

He nodded, acknowledging her understanding. ―But even Christ may not be able to help,‖

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