The Crippled Angel (32 page)

Thursday 22nd August 1381

(Evening)

“     y lady,” said Tudor, “I am sorry, but I have orders to take you directly to the king.” “Of course,” Catherine said, trying to pull her gown and cloak straight as Tudor helped her out of the cart. They’d travelled non-stop through the night and most of this day, and now Catherine was tired, grimy and grumpy and her attire creased, stained and ill-fitting.

But of course Bolingbroke would brook no delay in inspecting his prize.

Catherine looked up at Tudor. The weariness on his face had increased dramatically. His skin was now almost as grey as his irises, and there were deep pouches under his eyes, and lines in his forehead and about his mouth.

“Will you escort me?” she asked softly.

“Gladly,” he said, holding out his arm for her to take.

Catherine paused briefly to talk with Norbury and the men-at-arms who’d attended her on the cart, thanking them for their care and courtesy, then she nodded to Tudor and took his arm.

He led her into Bolingbroke’s castle.

“I am surprised Bolingbroke has not yet ridden out to meet my husband,” she said, slightly stressing the word “husband”.

She had her reward as Tudor’s arm jerked slightly. “The news of your marriage has only just reached us, my lady.”

“I look forward to receiving the congratulations of Bolingbroke.”

Tudor paused a moment, obviously considering whether or not to reply to her remark, then moved back to the safer territory of Catherine’s original comment. “The king will move out tonight, madam. He has waited only to see you.”

They were climbing the staircase now towards the royal apartments, and suddenly Catherine halted, her face white.

“Tudor,” she said, “something has happened here. Something…”

“Something terrible, madam. Our beloved queen, Mary, fell down these steps almost two days ago. She was…” his voice caught, and Catherine studied his face carefully. This man loved Mary,
adored
her as a woman and a queen. There was no lust in his face—he had not thought of her as he might a paramour—but only grief, respect and devotion.

“She was hurt most grievously,” Tudor finally continued in a low voice. “She is near death. She…she cannot last for much longer.”

Catherine’s hand tightened very slightly about Tudor’s arm, and he gave her a small nod, acknowledging the comfort.

“Once I have seen Bolingbroke,” Catherine said, “I would be most grateful if you could take me to see Mary. I have met her once before, and I honour her.”

Tudor nodded again, not speaking, then continued to lead Catherine up the stairs.

Bolingbroke waited for Catherine in an antechamber, knowing the fact of her arrival a few minutes earlier. He was dressed in a leather jerkin over a warm shirt and above wellfitted leather breeches. A cloak, gloves and a sword lay to one side, ready to be donned.

There was a step outside, a low voice, and then the door opened.

Bolingbroke straightened, staring at the door.

Tudor entered, bowed slightly, then gestured to Catherine to enter.

Bolingbroke took a deep breath. It seemed decades since he had last seen Catherine, although in reality it had only been some twelve months since Philip brought her to Gravensteen.

She’d changed since then—grown a little thinner, her face a little wearier, her blue eyes a little harder.

She also looked exhausted and crumpled, but she still entered the room like a queen, her chin tilted up, her eyes flashing, her shoulders square.

Lord Christ, she would make him such a wondrous mate.

“Tudor,” Bolingbroke said softly, his eyes not leaving Catherine who had halted a few paces inside the door, “leave us.”

Tudor bowed again, and turned for the door.

“My Lord Tudor,” said Catherine, her eyes as steady on Bolingbroke as his were on her. “I would have you stay. I am a married woman, and I would not like evil rumours of solitary meetings with another man to reach my husband.”

Tudor halted, hesitant. He looked at Bolingbroke, who shot him a cold look.
Go.

Tudor hesitated a heartbeat longer, then quietly closed the door, standing to one side of it. “I must respect the lady’s wishes, your grace,” he said.

Catherine’s lips threatened to curve into a smile, but she managed to keep them under control. “I have heard of your wife Mary’s tragedy, your grace,” she said. “You must be heartbroken.”

Bolingbroke was still staring furiously at Tudor, but at mention of Mary he looked back to Catherine. “Do not pretend grief,” he said.

“I pretend nothing, your grace. I am sure that you are as grief-stricken at Mary’s fate, as,” her voice hardened, and
she stressed the next phrase very particularly, “I would be should my husband meet an ill end.”

“What did you think to do,” Bolingbroke shouted suddenly, taking an aggressive step forward, “in marrying Philip?”

“I loved him,” she spat back. “And still do.”

Tudor had also taken a half step forward, watching both Bolingbroke and Catherine carefully, but stopped as Bolingbroke shot him yet another furious glance.

“You have a better future before you,” he said, “than Philip.”

“And I think,” she said, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes glittering with tears, “that I could have no better future than Philip.”

There was a long silence, both staring at each other.

Finally, Tudor cleared his throat. “My lady has asked if she could see the queen,” he said, expecting Bolingbroke to lash out at him, “in order to pay her respects.”

“
Someone
should pay Mary respect,” said Catherine, holding Bolingbroke’s stare.

“The entire
world
pays Mary its respects,” Bolingbroke said in a hard, ugly voice. “And I, for one, am right sick of it.”

He turned abruptly away, striding to the table where rested his cloak, gloves and sword. “Tudor,” he said, putting on his sword belt, “I hold you responsible for the Princess Catherine’s safety while—”

“I am a queen,” Catherine said. “Queen of Navarre.”
Sweet Jesu,
she thought.
He has never loved me. He has only wanted me as a desire, as a triumph. He has never even
understood
the meaning of love.

“Then I hold you damn well responsible for the
Queen of Navarre’s
safety while I am gone.”

Tudor bowed, wishing only that he could walk out of this room. “My lady queen,” he said, opening the door. “May I escort you to Queen Mary?”

“Gladly, my lord,” she said, then, as she was in the act of turning, paused and looked back at Bolingbroke, now fully
cloaked and gloved. “Will you come with us, your grace? To bid your wife farewell?”

“I have spent months bidding my wife farewell,” Bolingbroke said. “I doubt she cares overmuch to hear another one from me.”

“Your grace—” said Tudor, shocked.

“There is a
war
to be won,” Bolingbroke said, “and I do not have time to waste on the trivialities of women.”

And with that he pushed past both Catherine and Tudor, and vanished through the door.

Catherine looked to Tudor, his face visibly showing his distress at Bolingbroke’s last remark. She tried to find something to say, to comfort him, then realised there was nothing.

So she merely walked over, took his arm in a gentle hand, and together they went to see Mary.

The chamber was still, stuffy, warm. Candles burned in sconces and on many-branched stands.

Catherine, her hand still on Tudor’s arm, stopped just inside the door and stared.

“Sweet Jesu,” she said, her face appalled.

Several ladies on a bench against a distant wall started and rose up, as did Margaret and Neville, who had taken stools close to Mary’s bed. Culpeper, too, hovering about the foot of the bed, Jocelyn hiding behind him, made a movement, and a noise of protest.

“Catherine,” said Margaret. Her face, like all those about her, was lined and haggard, grey with anxiety and grief.

“I have been stolen,” Catherine said by way of brief explanation. It was enough, for both Neville and Margaret nodded dully, as though they had expected this.

Catherine moved slowly across the room, coming to stand by Mary’s bed.

What she saw shocked and horrified her. Mary, lying so broken it seemed a miracle that she could still draw breath.

Mary, her visible flesh chalky white save for four or five unnatural red streaks.

Mary, her eyes closed, sunken, not moving.

“Is she…” Catherine could not finish.

“She is as close to dead as it is possible to be while still drawing breath,” Neville said, and the grief and anger in his voice made Catherine raise her eyes to him.

He was sitting on a stool by Margaret, leaning forward, arms on knees, his hands dangling between his legs, uselessly wringing.

Everything about him—his slumping posture, his shadowed eyes, his wringing hands, his clammy skin—suggested a deep, agonising impotence, almost as if he thought he should be able to rectify the situation with a mere movement, or word.

Catherine’s eyes returned to Mary. “Does she wake?’

“No,” came Neville’s harsh voice. “When…when we moved her from the foot of the stairs she lost her senses, and they have not returned. I pray they do not, for her agony would be too great to bear.”

Catherine sighed, blinking back tears, then turned very slightly to where Tudor still stood by the doorway. “Will you bring me a stool, my lord? I would sit and keep watch as well.”

Saturday 31st August 1381

B
olingbroke’s face, like everyone else’s within the English army, showed his exhaustion. They’d marched north for eight days, always adjusting both their pace and, to a mild degree, their direction as news came through of Philip’s force. The men were tired, desperate for rest, but at least they’d reached Agincourt before Philip.

Just.

Bolingbroke sat his horse, his commanders and a score of mounted men-at-arms about him, on a small hill that overlooked the eastern approaches to the village and its surrounding fields. Some miles distant a dusty haze rose, obscuring whatever had caused it. But Bolingbroke did not need intelligence to tell him what rode beneath it.

Philip, and his twenty-five thousand.

“He knows we’re here,” Warwick said softly, his eyes fixed on the distant dust. “We saw several of his scouts not an hour ago.”

“Good,” said Bolingbroke. He studied the distance a while longer. “He will be here by this evening. We will battle tomorrow. I will not give him time to rest.”

“And our men?”

“They have the rest of the day,” Bolingbroke said, checking the sun—it was a little before noon. “And tonight. Rest this afternoon, eat well at dusk, prepare this evening. Pray tonight.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Suffolk. “How are we to position?”

Bolingbroke pointed to the meadows directly before them. There was a stretch of land running roughly north–south for about twelve hundred yards. Some nine hundred yards wide at the northern perimeter, the stretch of land narrowed slightly to seven hundred yards at its centre, then ran an equal width of seven hundred yards to its southern border.

Dense woodland dropped away sharply to either side of the land’s western and eastern borders. There was no escape in either of those two directions.

Essentially, the strip of land formed a funnel, widest at its northern end.

“We form our positions at the south,” said Bolingbroke. He stood in his saddle, shielding his eyes against the sun, then pointed to a small meadowland a few hundred yards further to the south of his chosen battle position. “We’ll establish our camp there, forcing Philip to the north.”

Warwick, the old and experienced campaigner, grinned as he realised what Bolingbroke was going to do. “And tonight, your grace, would you like us to pray for rain?”

“That would be very helpful,” Bolingbroke said, returning Warwick’s smile. Then he looked at his other commanders. “Keep your scouts in the field, report to me as soon as you know where Philip has encamped. Then, this evening, we’ll hold a final war council in my tent.” He looked at each man, his eyes steady, his voice confident. “The day
will
be ours tomorrow, my lords. This land belongs to England, not Philip.”

And with that he wheeled his horse’s head about and rode back to his army.

Mary lay abed, her flesh suppurating from the wounds sustained eleven days ago.

The stink was dreadful.

About her sat, as they had for those eleven dreadful days, Catherine, Neville and Margaret. At one time or another, one of them would stumble to one of the makeshift cots that sat in a far corner of the room and snatch three or four hours sleep, but most of each day and night, they sat, staring, weeping silently, keeping watch.

Apart from keeping Mary as clean as they could, and dripping fluids through her cracked and gaping lips, it was all they could do.

From time to time other members of the household joined in the watch. Sir Richard Sturry, who had not ridden with Bolingbroke. Lord Owen Tudor, who spent much of the day fetching and carrying food for the watchers, or quietly begging one or another of them to try to rest for an hour or so. Sir John Norbury came for a few minutes each day, as did the mayor of Rouen, Alain Montgies. Physicians shook their heads over Mary, while apothecaries left bundles of herbs and powders at the gates of the castle. Priests and friars, representatives of both papal camps amassing for the expected trial of the Maid of France, also tried to gain entrance to Mary’s agonisingly slow death watch, but Neville asked that only one or two be admitted so that they might bless Mary’s still, stinking form.

He wasn’t sure if Mary wanted them or not, but he thought that she’d be hurt if he turned them all down.

The carpenter did not appear, and in his bleakest moments Neville thought he might hate him for that.
Surely
he
could have done something?

But perhaps there
was
nothing to be done save watch and wait for Mary to let go her life. Perhaps the carpenter was sitting, waiting by the casket he had crafted, himself waiting for Mary to die.

Neville wondered why she hung on so tenaciously when it would be so easy to slip away.

He did not know that Mary dreamed.

Philip was tired, sweaty and not in a mood to jest. His scouts had heard rumours of the English army moving north, but hadn’t been able to confirm it until today…and that confirmation came the worst possible way, with an actual sighting of the English army, moving slowly into an encampment to the east of the village of Agincourt.

“How many?” he snapped to the scout standing before him in his war tent.

“Not many,” said the scout. “About a thousand horsemen, knights and men-at-arms, and some five or six thousand archers.”

Philip’s face twisted in disbelief. “He has archers only? What is he thinking of doing? Shooting rabbits for his supper?”

Philip’s war commanders dutifully laughed, although the senior of them, Constable 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.