The crippled angel. Book by Sara Douglass

normal, fretful whine.

It is not what you have done that matters, Joan replied, her lips again barely moving, but what you will do. Gather your sheep, your grace, and make your meadow strong and safe.

And then she was gone, in less than the blink of an eye. One second she was there, the

next Charles was once more alone in the chamber, the only reminder of Joan‘s spectral visit the

crown on his head.

―No,‖ Isabeau said, her knees buckling, her chest and shoulders afire with the agony

coursing through her, and she did not hear her daughter‘s anxious voice behind her, nor feel

Catherine‘s hand on her arm.

―No,‖ Isabeau said again, still staring before her at a scene that no one among her

companions could see. ―You are a peasant-born bastard…a bastard. You have no right to that

crown. Take it off! Take it off!‖

Charles suddenly stopped just as he reached the door of the chamber. He stared back into

the apparently empty room, and his face was terrifying in its might and purpose and utter contempt.

―I am the son of my father, Louis,‖ he said. ―But even were I the son of some peasantish

fellow, I would still do what I shall do now, and win back this kingdom from the foul grip of the

English. Madam, your day is done, and I have done with your lies and curses. Begone.‖

And he turned and, striding from the chamber, slammed the door shut behind him.

Isabeau jerked in one last, dying breath, and twisted about on the steps to stare into

Catherine‘s and Bolingbroke‘s faces directly behind her.

―Do you think to have killed her?‖ she gasped, and, crumpling into an untidy pile of grey

silk and pale, bitter flesh, died.

II

Monday 16th September 1381

― oly Father,‖ the secretary said, bowing deeply, ―a man claiming to be the King of

France awaits in the antechamber. He demands to see you. I have told him that—‖

―The King of France?‖ Clement said. ―John? No, no, John was murdered by England‘s

boy-king, was he not? The one then murdered himself?‖ He sighed. ―One finds it so tiresome to

keep up with all these regicides.‖

Clement paused, affecting a frown as he glanced about the sumptuously appointed

chamber within the papal palace at Avignon. So much more civilised than that mosquito-infested

hall the peasant-pretender Urban inhabited in Rome…

―Ah, so this must be Charles, yes? The whore‘s son?‖ Clement gave a short laugh. ―What

is he here for? Protection from an imagined shadow? The last I heard of him the idiot had fled

Paris and was seeking asylum in the south of France. And now he is here? I suppose he wants to

beg a corner in which to cower.‖

―I am here to beg nothing,‖ a voice said, and Clement jerked upright in his chair.

A man had pushed past the guards at the door (How? They had instructions to skewer

anyone who tried to gain admittance without permission), and now strode towards the papal dais.

He did not look like the Charles that Clement remembered meeting some three or four

years ago.

That boy had been a quivering mess of uncertainty and fear; this travel-stained man now

approaching moved with the confidence, the courage and chilling murderousness of a warrior.

This was a man who not only knew what he wanted, but who knew he was going to get it.

And, now that he‘d halted only two paces from Clement‘s chair, the Avignonese pope

could see quite plainly why the guards had allowed this man entrance: there shone a cold light

from his dark eyes as if supernatural power burned within him.

Clement hastily crossed himself. ―Charles—‖

―I have no time for courtly politenesses,‖ Charles said, stepping forward one pace.

Clement slid his shoulders up his throne, almost as if he thought to escape over the back

of it. Around the chamber he could feel the breathless stillness that had gripped the score or so of attendants and clerics who stood about, and Clement was suddenly very well aware that

whatever Charles chose to do in this chamber, not a hand would be lifted to halt him.

Sweet Virgin Mary, what had happened to change him?

―I have come,‖ Charles continued, ―to seal a bargain between us.‖

Words of a bargain reassured Clement. ―How dare you enter my chamber in such a

disrespectful manner? How dare you—?‖

―I dare,‖ Charles hissed, and took the final step between himself and Clement, leaning

forward so that both his hands rested on the arms of Clement‘s throne, and his face hovered not a

hand‘s span from the pope‘s, ―because I have spent too much of my life playing the fool to have

any time now to waste on fools. Clement, we could be good for each other. We can guarantee

each other‘s safety and success and prosperity. Does this appear a bargain you could summon

some interest in?‖

Clement‘s eyes narrowed. ―Indeed, your grace. But perhaps you would care to sit

somewhere other than in my lap while we discuss it?‖

Charles‘ mouth twitched, and he gave a brief nod, stepping back to sit in the chair that

one of the attendants had scurried to place behind him.

―I need money to wage war,‖ Charles said as soon as he had seated himself.

―Against?‖

―Who else? The godforsaken English. I want my kingdom back, and I want to make it

strong.‖

―And so you require me to make available the funds to allow you to do this. What

assurance have I that you can—‖

The coldness in Charles‘ eyes intensified, and Clement fought to keep himself from again

sliding back in his throne. Sweet Virgin, this man has the power within him to accomplish his

purpose by himself—he hardly has need of an army.

―And when I have won back France,‖ Charles continued, his voice low, his eyes not

wavering from Clement‘s, ―not if, when, then I will use France‘s power and wealth and influence to bolster your claim to the papal throne, and to extend your power throughout Christendom.‖

Even had not Clement so implicitly believed in Charles‘ ability to do just what he

claimed, it would be worth backing a three-legged donkey if it stood half a chance of bringing

the power of France behind the Avignonese claim to full papal authority.

Especially when the enemy threatened with destruction was the English king…and the

English throne had always backed the Roman Urban‘s claim to the papacy.

―Would you not like to see the hope of England drown in the mud of France?‖ Charles

said. ―And would you not like to see your hopes take root and flower in that same soil?‖

Clement smiled, the expression every bit as cold as that in Charles‘ eyes. ―I think we can

come to a ready arrangement,‖ he said.

In twelve hours Charles had his funds, in ten days he had a basic force behind him, in

four weeks he had overrun Aquitaine and was advancing on Normandy. Before him Charles

carried a banner of the Maid of France, depicting her in full armour before the gates of Orleans,

while behind him rode an army that swelled every day with thousands of Frenchmen who

flocked to both Charles and the banner of the Maid.

Suddenly, France had found hope in the one man least likely to provide it.

Suddenly, France had found its soul and its heart and its courage.

Joan‘s work was done.

III

Thursday 17th October 1381

Bolingbroke took a breath, gasped, choked, then hacked a glob of black mucus—he

refused to name it mud—into a cloth before bundling the stained material out of sight under the

table where he sat with his commanders.

―The autumn is chill,‖ he said by way of explanation, ―and uncommonly damp.‖

The men grouped about the table—Warwick, Northumberland, Suffolk, Norbury and

Tudor—all looked away: at their hands, at the maps and reports scattered before them on the

table or at some distant anonymous point on a wall or through a window. None wanted to look at

Bolingbroke.

In the past six weeks nothing had gone well, and much had gone decidedly ill.

Bolingbroke had regrouped his forces in Rouen, but awaited reinforcements to arrive from

England before he marched on Paris—which city had announced its loyalty to the ever-damned

Charles and its intention to repel the English with everything they had. Bolingbroke hoped to be

crowned king of France in Notre Dame by Christmastide, but this was now looking increasingly

unlikely.

Not only was Paris loudly proclaiming its intention to be as difficult as possible, and the

reinforcing troops taking an inordinate time to arrive from England, but Bolingbroke‘s health had

deteriorated alarmingly in the past weeks. His strange, hacking cough was taking such a hold

within his lungs that scarcely a moment passed without him spitting or otherwise expelling the

horrifying black substance from his lungs. His breath rattled and bubbled—anyone within ten

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