die a natural death. The Church court has handed her to my care and for my judgement.‖ He choked a little on his last words, then coughed, short and harsh.
―Sire?‖ said Culpeper. ―What ails you?‖
―Nothing ails me,‖ Bolingbroke snapped. ―I—‖ He stopped suddenly, his eyes staring,
then he gagged, then retched.
Black mud, perhaps several handfuls‘ worth, spewed forth from his mouth. He coughed,
coughed again, then managed to control his retching.
Bolingbroke slowly straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of one trembling hand.
―Witch,‖ he whispered, staring at Joan.
―This is not of my doing,‖ she said. ―I am finished. Weak. Powerless. France eats you of
its own accord.‖
Margaret, for her part, stared at Bolingbroke with horrified eyes. ―Hal? What is
happening?‖
―I have been ensorcelled,‖ he yelled, then cleared his throat and spat a globule of mud
into a corner of the chamber.
Margaret blinked at him, remembering the words that Mary had spoken in her final
hours: France shall have you, and everything you hold dear.
―Get her well,‖ Bolingbroke said to Margaret. ―For once she is in the pink of health I
would have her burned.‖
Then he turned on his heel and left the chamber. ―I am well enough now to burn mightily
well,‖ Joan said to the closed door. ―Burn me soon, I beg you.‖
―Why do you yearn for death so much?‖ Margaret whispered when Culpeper had left.
―Because I will succeed in death where I have failed in life.‖ Joan closed her eyes briefly.
―I pray it will be soon. France will eat Bolingbroke, and it needs my death to do so.‖
Then she rolled her head towards Margaret. ―I have no one on this earth to live for. You
have a husband and children. Do not mourn me, for so long as Thomas chooses a-right, then I
shall be happy in death.‖
Margaret‘s eyes filled with tears, and she took Joan‘s hand. ―In the end,‖ she eventually
said, ―all of our fates rest with Tom, and his choice.‖
Joan tried to smile. ―He will choose rightly, for he is a man who loves.‖
―But who is he to choose?‖ Her head bent, and a tear rolled down her cheek. ―We were so
foolish to think we could best the angels. We have all been but puppets in their hands. Fate had
us in its grasp from the moment we drew breath.‖
―Margaret has entirely missed her calling as a prophetess of doom,‖ said a voice from the
doorway.
Both Joan and Margaret turned their heads, surprised, for they had not heard the door
open.
Neville stood just inside the door, and now he closed it, nodding thanks for his entry to
the guard stationed outside.
Joan sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bench on which lay her pallet.
Neville walked over and sat beside Joan. He smiled at both the women, but his eyes were
too strained and tired to carry it off well. He let it fade, and reached out and took Margaret‘s
hand.
―There is always choice left,‖ he said, ―even if it seems that all alternatives have been
destroyed. I have to believe that.‖
Joan nodded, happy that Neville still believed.
―But you cannot choose me,‖ Margaret said softly.
He looked her straight in the eye. ―No, Margaret, I cannot choose you.‖
She turned away from him, her hands brushing the tears from her cheeks. ―I wish my
children were here with me,‖ she said. ―I wish I could hold them one last time. I wish—‖
―Margaret…‖ Neville raised his hand to Margaret, then dropped it. He did not know what
to say or do. James had told him there was a third option, a third choice, but what was it? Neville had spent every waking moment and much of his nightmarish sleeping time seeking the answer.
And yet there was no answer. There was no conveniently handy prostitute to whom
Neville could unhesitatingly hand his soul… beg the woman to take his soul.
He was trapped by that damned curse, trapped by the Roman prostitute‘s prophecy.
Trapped by her hatred of him.
Trapped by his own hatred of all women that he nurtured for so long. Trapped by his
uncaring soul.
―I have spent my life as a foolish man,‖ he whispered.
―You have spent your life as any angel would,‖ said Margaret, still not looking at him,
and to that Neville could only laugh briefly, humourlessly.
―Then I swear before both of you,‖ he said, ―that I will not choose as an angel would.‖
Joan opened her mouth to speak, but just then the door opened, and there stood William
Hawkins, captain of Bolingbroke‘s castle guard.
―Mademoiselle,‖ he said, his face flushing with the horror of the news he bore, ―I am
here to inform you that His Grace the King has just signed your execution order.‖
―When?‖ Joan said.
―Tomorrow noon,‖ replied Hawkins. He hesitated, then left the chamber.
―Tomorrow,‖ whispered Margaret. ―We have less than a day.‖
―Trust in Christ,‖ Joan said, staring at Neville. ―If he said there was a third path, then he
will make it plain to you.‖
―Would that I had your faith, Joan,‖ Neville said. Then he stood, and kissed Margaret‘s
forehead. ―I will see you in the morning,‖ he said. ―There is something I must do tonight.‖
He went straight to Bolingbroke, and was granted direct admittance.
―Why do you push this?‖ said Neville, striding up to Bolingbroke. ―Do you not realise
that the stake you build for Joan could just as easily hold all of mankind? You have forced the
decision, damn you. All will be lost or won tomorrow… how can you stand there so confident? ‖
And even as he spoke the words, Neville remembered. He had not talked with
Bolingbroke in weeks…and he had never told him what the angels had shown him.
The decision was already made. He would not give his soul to Margaret. He could not
possibly give it to some unknown whore.
He must hand it to the angels.
But would telling Bolingbroke make any difference?
A slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught Neville‘s attention.
Catherine. Sitting in a shadowy corner. She shook her head very slightly, her face a mask
of sadness. It is of no use.
―I have waited enough time,‖ Bolingbroke said. If Neville was agitated, and Catherine
dispirited, then Bolingbroke was a study in calm confidence. He turned away from Neville, and
walked about his chamber a little, as if inspecting its rich appointments.
He stopped, and looked back to Neville. ―It is time the decision was made, Tom. Time for
the angels to be rejected, time for us to take command.‖
―Time for you to take command,‖ Neville whispered, appalled. ―Time for hatred to reign
supreme. Look at Catherine, Hal. Does she look the loving and loved wife? Think of Mary,
dying broken and unloved, eaten by your contempt of her. You have ever lectured me about the
power of love, the damn need for love…but you are a man so consumed by hatred and ambition
that you have become every inch your father”s son! ‖
Bolingbroke‘s face darkened in fury. ―How dare you—‖
―How, why, should I choose in your favour, Hal? Why? Would I not condemn mankind to
an even greater hell than that of the angels‘?‖
And suddenly, catastrophically, Neville slid into an even incomparably more vile
damnation than that he‘d been experiencing. He had thought he wanted to choose in the demons‘
favour, choose for mankind, choose Margaret, but now he realised that choosing Margaret would condemn mankind to an even greater disaster at Hal‘s hands than the one they would experience
enslaved to the angels.
Choosing for the demons would not be choosing for mankind at all. They‘d merely be
passed from one enslavement to another.
Neville‘s face was a mask of horror, his eyes wide and, staring, he took a step backwards.
Then another. Then one more.
He dimly realised that Bolingbroke was raging at him, that Catherine had stood up from
her chair, a hand held to her horrified face, but none of this mattered.
None of this mattered, because he now realised he was triply trapped into choosing for
the angels. He could never choose Margaret: firstly, because of that single hesitancy in his love
for her, and, secondly, because she was no whore. And finally he could never choose Margaret
because she represented the demons‘ path, and that path would condemn mankind to Hal‘s
ambition.
There was laughter ringing about them, ringing through the chamber, and it was the
laughter of the angels.
Neville turned and fled.
III
Tuesday 10th September 1381
The crowd started to gather in the square just outside the castle from dawn. News of the
Maid‘s trial by the Church and the subsequent death sentence by the English king sat uneasily
with them. Joan was the Maid of France— surely not a witch, surely not a sorceress—but their