he said, hating himself for the sudden flare of pain and fear he saw in Joan‘s eyes. He knew what
she faced at Bolingbroke‘s hands, and knew also that the only hope she had was that Christ
would, somehow, aid her.
―What do you know?‖ said Joan, her voice flat.
Neville looked from her to Catherine, then Margaret. ―We shall need to sit,‖ he said, ―for
I have a long tale to tell.‖
He fetched a short bench from a shadowy corner of the room, and indicated that he and
Joan should sit upon it. Then, as Margaret and Catherine sat, glancing apprehensively at each
other, Neville began to talk.
He told them of everything that had happened to him over the past few weeks, of the
discovery of his true self, of his experiences in the Field of Angels, and of what he had learned
there. He told them of the choice, the decision ( Hand his soul to Margaret, and save mankind?
Or find himself unable to do that, and allow his soul to revert into the care of the angels,
ensuring mankind”s eternal enslavement to the will of the angels? ) that the angels would shortly force upon him, and of the manner in which they had ensured his eventual decision must be in
their favour.
He did not tell them of how he‘d freed Christ from the cross, or of the strange presence of
James the carpenter within his life. That knowledge was for only James to impart.
―Margaret,‖ Neville finished, looking at her across Mary‘s broken body, ―believe me that
I would give anything to choose you, that I love you with all my heart, but that…‖
Margaret‘s shoulders shuddered, and she raised a shaking hand to her mouth. Her face
was horrified, her eyes shimmering with tears.
She stood, stumbling a little, and walked about the bed to fall to her knees before her
husband. ―Tom,‖ she whispered, ―you cannot choose me because of something that I did. I know
that. Oh, sweet Jesu, forgive me…forgive me…‖
―Sweet Meg, you are not to blame.‖ Neville stroked her face tenderly. ―Even without that
hesitancy I cannot choose you. Remember the curse? I must hand my soul to a whore, a
prostitute, who I love unreservedly. You may be many things, my dear, but you are no whore.‖
He dropped his hand from Margaret‘s hand, and sighed. ―Dear Christ, what am I to do?
What? ‖
There was a very long silence as the three women contemplated the unthinkable.
Thomas‘ soul would revert to the angels, and mankind would be doomed.
Joan lowered her head, fighting off bleak despair. All she‘d gone through would be for
nothing. France would be lost along with mankind‘s freedom.
Neville looked at their faces, then took a deep breath, hating that he was now about to
give them unsubstantiated hope. ―But…there may be a third way. A wise man once told me that
in every seemingly two-way-only decision, there is always a shadowy third path. A third choice.
If I can find that third choice, then perhaps I can keep mankind from an eternal enslavement to
the angels.‖
―And that third path…?‖ Catherine said.
―I do not know,‖ Neville said softly. ―I cannot see it, nor even comprehend it.‖
Everyone fell quiet again, lost in their own thoughts. Mary‘s breath continued to draw in
and out, rasping in her dry throat. Eventually Catherine looked at her.
―Why did Archangel Michael hate Mary so much he had to try to kill her?‖ she said.
―How could she thwart his will?‖
Now everyone looked at Mary.
―Is she…‖ Margaret said, almost afraid to say the words. ―Is she the third path? The third
choice?‖
Neville blinked, frowning. ―Mary? Nay, for I cannot see how. I must give my soul, with
unhesitating love, to a prostitute. Mary? Nay, never Mary.‖
Margaret‘s head sank back to its resting place on Neville‘s lap. ―Not Mary,‖ she
whispered, and could not find the jealousy within her to be secretly glad.
Everyone had forgotten Owen Tudor‘s presence. He sat on his stool by the door, staring
incredulously at the group of people across the chamber from him.
XIV
Sunday 1st September 1381
The men of both armies rested, but they hardly slept. Partly this was due to the need to
prepare armour, horses and weapons for the morrow, partly it was due to pre-battle tension, and
partly it was due to the heavy rain which fell during the middle part of the night.
Bolingbroke, awake and standing under the overhang of his tent when the downpour
began, smiled with deep satisfaction. Prayers were well and good, but they‘d had nothing to do
with this unseasonal deluge. Then he sighed, his shoulders sagging, exhaustion hitting home. The
fatigue caused through the use of his powers, combined with the efforts of the eight-day march,
was too great to allow him to stay awake any longer to savour his pre-battle triumph.
For the moment, Bolingbroke must to bed.
Both armies had risen, eaten, and armoured and weaponed themselves by dawn. A half
hour after dawn, they had moved into their respective positions at each end of the strip of land.
To the north, the wider end, Philip had ordered his twenty-five thousand in three lines. In a
last-minute addition to his original plan for a mounted charge, Philip had ordered most of his
armoured knights and men-at-arms to dismount. The field was mud—the weight of horse and
rider would bog everyone down. So need necessitated that the proud French walk rather than ride
into battle.
But Philip was not unduly worried. The same conditions existed for the English as
well—their mounted men would be worse than useless. So all the French had to contend with
were the English longbowmen…and once Philip‘s twenty-five thousand reached them they could
be easily dispatched.
To the south Bolingbroke had arranged his six thousand in a single line—he had no men
for any succeeding lines, nor for a rear-guard to prevent any attack from the south.
It was a risk-all situation, but he‘d no choice. With only six thousand, Bolingbroke
couldn‘t afford a single luxury.
In this single line Bolingbroke had alternated units of men-at-arms and archers, the units
of archers each being formed into wedges, their narrow ends at the front of the line. In that
manner, Bolingbroke hoped to negate the worst of the onslaught of the French army‘s superior
numbers.
If ever they reached the English…
By six the two armies were in position.
By seven no one had moved.
By eight no one had moved.
Nine and ten of the clock passed without any movement save for the fluttering of banners
and the occasional catcalls across the twelve hundred yards that separated the two armies.
By eleven Bolingbroke had endured enough. He gave the signal for the English army to
advance.
They had slept a little, one by one, and at dawn ate the breakfast sent in by the cooks.
Then Margaret, Catherine and Joan, gently refusing the offers of aid from some of Mary‘s other
ladies who had come with the dawn, washed Mary‘s unconscious form as best they could
without doing her more damage, and gently changed the linens beneath her.
Then they sat, unspeaking, their eyes on Mary. Waiting.
Just before noon both Margaret and Catherine gasped, staring at each other.
―It has begun,‖ Catherine said.
From his place by the door, Owen Tudor rose and walked quietly up behind Catherine.
Hesitant, he lifted his hands, then placed them on her shoulders, offering what support he could.
He‘d had time to do a great deal of thinking through the night.
Slowly, for they had to lift their feet high through the thick, clinging mud, the English
line advanced. Every fifty yards or so Bolingbroke ordered a rest, so that his heavily armoured
men-at-arms could catch their breath. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable march
through the mud towards the jeering French, Bolingbroke called a final halt some six hundred
yards shy of the French lines…just short of the French army‘s arrow range.
But just within the range needed for the English longbowmen.
The archers positioned stakes in the ground before them and then put arrow to bow,
waiting.
Bolingbroke waited, his eyes searching out Philip‘s personal standard, then he gave the
signal to shoot.
Instantly some five thousand arrows were in the air. Ten seconds later, while the first
volley was still in the air, the archers loosed a second volley.
And so on, every ten seconds, for these men had been trained for years, and they could
loose six arrows a minute.
Philip had no choice but to order his men forward. Needing to stop the archers as quickly
as he could, he risked sending some four hundred horsemen forward with the front ranks of his
dismounted men.
And so the French army attacked, straight into the narrowing funnel of the field.
Mary woke, gasping as if in pain. Her eyes stared wide and terrified. ―What am I doing