paces could hear the mud of Agincourt welling within his lungs—and his entire face had sunken in upon itself. Bolingbroke‘s skin had turned ashen, his nose and eyebrows were gaunt ridges, his
cheeks hollowed caricatures of health, his mouth a thin humourless line, and his eyes red-veined
and swollen with both a constant fever and the effort of coughing.
In the past week his hands had taken to shaking ceaselessly.
Philip the Bad‘s curse had taken a fatal hold. Bolingbroke was a king dying, not a king
about to insist on his right to take the French throne.
And on top of all this were the reports that had landed on the table this morning.
Disaster.
―I think we need not concern ourselves overmuch about these,‖ Bolingbroke said, one
trembling hand touching the parchments that lay before him.
―I think,‖ Northumberland said, staring at the table, his own youthful, robust cheeks
flushing, ―that we need to concern ourselves very much about them.‖
―Charles is a walking jest,‖ Bolingbroke shouted, shifting his chair backwards as if he
meant to stand, and then subsiding, as if thinking better of it.
―If Charles is a walking jest,‖ Warwick said, staring at Bolingbroke, ―then he is a strange
jest indeed. He heads an army of over thirty thousand men—‖
―Where?‖ said Bolingbroke, thumping the table with a fist. ―Where has he got these
men?‖
Warwick shrugged. ―He‘s sold jewels, castles and lands, or promised them to those who
aid him. He‘s managed to arrange a massive loan from Pope Clement in Avignon on the
guarantee he‘ll push us out of France and then support Clement against Urban in Rome. He‘s
called in favours and sent out threats. And with all this he has hired ten thousand of the best
Swiss pikemen, five thousand of the best German mercenaries, and rounded up every knight and
man-at-arms skulking about in central and southern France.‖
―As well,‖ Norbury put in, ―every city in France, every one, has promised him archers or
the money to buy archers. By the time Charles draws near to us he will have close to fifty
thousand behind him.‖
There was a silence.
―Fifty thousand,‖ Suffolk whispered, ―all led by a king who claims to have the support of
the martyred Joan of Arc, returned from the dead with an army of ghosts to aid him.‖ He
hesitated, then made the sign against evil. ―He carries before him a banner with her face and
name on it, and it is said that her ghost rides a spectral horse in the clouds above him. With every
murmur that ripples through Rouen, more of our men desert—none want to stand against such an
ethereal army. We have barely two thousand men left, your grace. We hardly have an escort left to see us home, let alone an army.‖
―Charles is a jest,‖ Bolingbroke said again. ―A jest, I say. He cannot piss in a straight
line, let alone lead an army into battle. You know this.‖
Every man who stood watching Bolingbroke thought the same thing. If he cannot even
piss in a straight line, then how is it he has overrun Aquitaine?
Eventually Owen Tudor spoke into the long embarrassed silence. ―Some say that this is
not the same man,‖ he said. ―Some say that when Joan burned, her last action was to infuse his
soul—and spine—with her courage and determination.‖
―These are the words of a fool,‖ Bolingbroke said, finally managing to push back his
chair and stand. He swayed, grabbing at the back of the chair to steady himself.
The eyes of all the other men in the room turned away, and Bolingbroke‘s temper finally
snapped. ―I am the King of France, and none can gainsay it.‖
―France gainsays it,‖ Tudor said softly. ―Philip cursed you, and now Joan‘s ghost haunts
you. I think you will never be King of France.‖
―Get out of my presence,‖ Bolingbroke shouted, his face mottling a dark red.
Tudor stood, but he did not immediately move off. ―Let me repeat my Lord of Suffolk‘s
words,‖ he said, his eyes holding steady on Bolingbroke‘s furious glare. ―We have two thousand
men only, scattered in a line from Rouen to Harfleur, and every night more and more of those
men desert, thinking it better to end their days before home fires and hearths than spitted on a
saintly lance. You have an army of some fifty thousand marching towards you through a land
that loathes you and which has cursed you. If you do not retreat to England, you will surely die,
either on the point of the sword of France, or coughing your lungs out in your sickbed.‖
And with that he turned and left the room.
―He—‖ Bolingbroke began.
―Speaks nothing but sense,‖ Warwick said. ―We need to go home, your grace. You are
too ill, and your army too small, to stay. And your queen, you tell us, is newly pregnant. You
cannot risk either yourself or her or any one of your precious few remaining men in this hell hole
of a country any longer. For Christ‘s sake, sire, think with your head, not your pride or your
ambition.‖
―For Christ‘s sake?‖ Bolingbroke whispered, his face now white. ―For Christ”s sake? I
think Christ has abandoned me.‖
He stared at his commanders a moment longer, then suddenly his shoulders slumped, and
he sat down in the chair again.
―We will go home for the winter,‖ he said. ―Allow Charles his petty moment of triumph.
But we will be back. Next summer.‖ He looked up, his eyes bright with fever. ―We will finish
the job next summer.‖
If France has not eaten you first, Warwick thought, but he nodded agreeably enough,
relieved that Bolingbroke had seen sense at last.
IV
Friday 18th October 1381
― adam?‖ Catherine turned, smiling gently at Owen Tudor as he walked to join her at
the window. Then she returned her gaze to the hustle and bustle of the courtyard. ―Will you be
happy to be going home, my lord?‖ she said.
―I will be happy to see you safer,‖ he said, looking not at the preparations below them but
at her face. It was pale and thin, her eyes strained, her mouth humourless. Her black hair, so
lustrous when Owen Tudor had brought her from Paris to Rouen, was now dull and lifeless,
scraped back from her face without care to adornment.
―But,‖ he added, dropping his voice lower so that the chamberlain directing the packing
of Catherine and Bolingbroke‘s belongings in the chamber behind them could not hear, ―that
happiness will be tempered with sadness…knowing your sadness. England is a strange place to
you. It is not your home.‖
―I have no home,‖ she whispered, without self-pity. ―The new man who rides at the head
of a French army, and who once was my brother, will not want me—not pregnant. My mother
has never wanted me. My husband…‖
―Catherine, I—‖
―You address me too familiarly, my lord. I am your king‘s wife.‖
―My king is dying,‖ Tudor said, ―and soon his wife will be widowed.‖
There was a long silence as Catherine stared unseeing through the window. Her mind
pondered the fact that so much could be said with so few words. Eventually, she turned her eyes,
and studied Tudor standing watching her.
He had such a kindly face. Gentle, but also strong. He was a courageous man. She
remembered how he had chosen to stay and support her when, on her arrival in Rouen,
Bolingbroke had ordered him from their chamber.
―Where is your home estate, my lord?‖
―In eastern Wales, Catherine. It is a gentle and mild place. Peaceful.‖
As are you, she thought.
―Once I have given birth to my son,‖ her hand strayed to cover her still-flat abdomen,
―and once my husband is dead, I shall be more homeless than ever. My son shall be surrounded
with regents, and I shall be a mere relic of glory now dead. Who shall want me?‖
Tudor smiled, very slightly, his eyes warm.
Her own mouth curved in response, and she felt easier within herself than she had
for…well, for years. Tudor might not be the great love of her life, but Catherine was tired of
great loves.
―I think I should like to see this gentle and mild home of yours, my lord.‖
V
Saturday 31st May 1381
(8 months later)
Eord Thomas Neville stood in the prow of the boat as it sailed up the Thames, his eyes
half closed against both the sun and the breeze. He thought of the last time he and Margaret had
come this way to London—then, Archangel Michael had appeared to them, spitting out his
hatred.
Now? Now there was nothing but the sun and the lap of the waves and the scented
breeze. Nothing but Margaret sitting further back in the boat, five months pregnant with what
were apparently twins, and playing with Rosalind and Bohun, as Agnes, Robert Courtenay and