The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  “I do not ask that you condemn them for that,” the archangel said, “only for what they are.”

  He stopped, turning about to face Neville. “You know them for what they are. Trouble-makers at best—need I mention Wat Tyler’s name?—and cruel, manipulative murderers at worst. Hal. Margaret.”

  “They are not—”

  “What? Not cruel, manipulative murderers? How did Margaret and Bolingbroke trap you into loving her? Not through reason, Thomas, but through the cruellest of manipulations. How did Bolingbroke gain the throne of England? Through a series of well-timed and oh-so-well-planned murders. There was nothing haphazard about the blood Bolingbroke spilt on the way to his crowning achievement.”

  The archangel’s mouth curled a little at his pun, then he went on: “Thomas, nothing about your task is pretty or tasteful. If left to their own devices, Bolingbroke and his kind will destroy the peace of the current order. Mankind will be thrust into chaos. You can stop that. Choose between them or the angels. Choose one way, and the demons will overrun earth and turn it to their will. Choose another, and heaven will triumph.”

  Neville moved a little, then flinched as he felt the cold caress of the false flowers against his body.

  If he moved too quickly, if he made the wrong move, would they slice into his flesh?

  “The demons speak of love,” he said. “The freedom for individual men and women to choose their own destiny, the freedom to love. They say that mankind’s salvation is not your way, but theirs.”

  The archangel’s fists clenched at his side, and about them several other angels moved from their crouches to stand watchful by their tree stumps. “Love? Love is weakness.”

  Love does not damn, it only saves. Neville clung to Christ’s words, trying desperately to keep his face neutral. Everything about this horrible, cold, oppressive place made him think only of escape.

  “For the mighty, perhaps,” Neville said, and this seemed to appease the archangel, for he relaxed.

  “For all,” Michael said. Then he laughed, and its sound was as brittle and dangerous as the flowers that surrounded them. “And yet the demons have chosen the most easy of tests for you!”

  Easy for you, perhaps, Neville thought, and then he jumped, for suddenly a patch of flowers to his right vanished, and in their place crouched the beautiful young whore of Rome, who Thomas had thrown to the ground in a fit of temper.

  She stared at him with hate-filled eyes. “I curse you, Friar Thomas!” she cried. “One day one of my sisters will seize your soul and condemn you to hell for eternity. A whore will steal your soul. Nay, I pray to the Virgin Mary, that you will offer her your soul on a platter. You will offer her your eternal damnation in return for her love.”

  The apparition vanished; in its place was Archangel Michael’s ice-sharp voice. “And on your choice rests the fate of mankind. If you condemn yourself for love, then you condemn mankind.”

  And then the archangel’s voice changed, becoming infused with triumph. “But how can you ever choose for Margaret? How? You might love her…but the test, the choice, demands unconditional love. There can be no place for hesitancy, even for an instant, for then all would be lost. Do you love Margaret unconditionally, Thomas? Do you? Do you? Do you?”

  Neville was aware that all about the entire assembly of angels had risen from their stumps and were now crowding about him. He could hardly breathe, the air was so thick with angels…

  “No,” he whispered. “She tricked me into loving her. I do nonetheless love her, but she tricked me. I was the one raped, not her. There is and will always be that single hesitancy. It is not…” Oh sweet Jesu, he did not want to say these words, but they were the truth, and the combined will of the angels was forcing the truth out from the very pit of his soul “…it is not an unconditional love.”

  Archangel Michael screamed with laughter. “And when it comes to the test, will you hand her your soul on a platter, Beloved? Will you? Will you? Will you?”

  And all about, Neville heard the whispers: Will you? Will you? Will you?

  “No,” he said, his words now barely audible. “I want to, but I cannot.”

  Archangel Michael’s face contorted in a horrible grimace of ecstasy, and about them in the field the angels erupted in exultation.

  Margaret loses! Margaret loses!

  “You see,” said Michael, now speaking in a warm and reasonable tone, “you are unable to do anything but tell the truth. That is your blood speaking. You have been well bred indeed.”

  Bred to our standards, came the whisper of the angelic assembly about Neville. Bred to be one among us.

  Unmindful of the pain caused by the shattering of the cold, brittle flowers with his movement, Neville sank to his knees, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

  “Let me show you our prize,” Archangel Michael said, “for I think you deserve some cheer.” He and Neville, now back on his feet, were still within the field of false flowers. The other angels had retreated to crouch on their tree stumps, their backs now to Michael and Neville.

  Neville felt very cold, as if his very soul had been reduced to a state near to that of the flowers. He knew now what he wanted to do—free mankind from the grip of the angels—but he also knew (No. No! He only feared it. He still had a choice, he still had a choice. Please, sweet Jesu, please let me still have a choice!) that he could not do it. He could not hand his soul to Margaret.

  Not with that single dark irksome doubt contained within their love.

  That single hesitancy.

  Archangel Michael began to walk forward very slowly, and Neville followed, as if he had no control over his muscles.

  “We had no thought for our issue,” the archangel said, “until he was born.”

  Neville had to think a moment, trying to work out what the archangel referred to. “Jesus,” he said finally, remembering what Hal and Margaret had told him.

  “We had not realised how dangerous, how malicious, how destructive the imps could be until he began his depraved campaign to win mankind’s soul over to his cause.”

  Neville did not respond, keeping his eyes ahead. There was a smudge on the horizon now, and he realised they walked towards a small hill. He concentrated on that hill, trying not to think about what the angels had forced him to confront.

  He had no choice. None. His love for Margaret was not unconditional enough.

  “He was frightful,” said the archangel. His speed had picked up a little now. “We had to do something. We created hell—such a wonder! And we enlisted the talents of special men, true men, to aid us.”

  Neville nodded, not needing to answer. The Select with their book of incantations, thrusting down the angels’ issue into hell each year on the Nameless Day.

  “We keep him trapped up here, though.”

  “Why?”

  “He is a Master Trickster. Too dangerous to allow contact with others of his kind.”

  “And then you constructed the Church,” Neville said. “To further limit the damage.” They were very close to the small hill now. The hill was barren of flowers, apparently nothing more than a heap of dirt and gravel, and Neville could see that there was a cross atop it. He concentrated on the cross, and on the figure of the man fixed to it, and it gave him back some of his strength.

  He no longer felt naked, and he moved more confidently.

  “Yes,” said Archangel Michael. “His word had spread too far. It was too seductive, winning men and women away from their duty to us. Frightful. Dangerous. So we took his word and made it our own.” The archangel laughed. “We took his offer of freedom and made of it a prison.”

  Michael stopped suddenly and swung about to face Neville. “You have learned a great deal in the past two years,” he said. “You know why mankind cannot be allowed his freedom, don’t you?’

  “He would destroy himself.” Neville was now concentrating so hard on the figure on the cross that he found conversation with the devil at his side much easier. He knew
what to say, for he knew what Michael wanted to hear.

  After all, had he not been a good and devoted student of the Church?

  “Yes.” The archangel’s voice was relieved. “Mankind cannot handle its own destiny. Too dangerous a toy. We must do it for them. Guide them as children need to be guided. Now, you see what we approach?”

  “Yes.” Neville could see very well. They were climbing the hill now, approaching the cross at its summit. Neville slipped a little here and there on the loose gravel, but Michael moved effortlessly, as if he glided over cold marble.

  They reached the top, halting.

  “Behold the Master Trickster,” Archangel Michael said.

  Hesitantly, almost too scared to dare to look into Christ’s face, Thomas Neville lifted his head.

  The cross itself was of twisted, blackened wood, as though the tree it had been cut from had died in a forest fire. It was rough, splintery, desolate, and marked in places by dark stains: sweat, perhaps, or blood.

  Finally, Neville allowed himself to look at Christ.

  In this cold, barren, malicious landscape of heaven, there was only one warm, living thing, and that was Christ on his cross.

  Christ had been nailed to his torment through his wrists and his feet, and Neville could see that, in order to breathe, Christ had to constantly use the muscles of his shoulders and chest to lift himself up so his lungs could draw breath. His muscles were trembling with the exertion of continually supporting himself against suffocation, his chest shuddering with the effort of drawing breath into lungs torn and bleeding.

  Yet even so, even despite the trails of blood and sweat that ran down flesh grimy and stained, Christ’s body was as beautiful—far more so—than those of the angels. He was well- but finely-muscled, his shoulders broad, his hips lean, his arms and legs shapely. Where not covered with either grime or blood, his skin was pale, marked in places with traces of fine dark body hair.

  It was a beautiful body, the body both of the warrior and of the lover.

  But nothing caught at Neville’s heart and mind and soul so much as Christ’s face. His hair was black, like Neville’s own, and his light beard was stiff with the sweat and blood that trickled down from where the crown of thorns pierced his forehead. His face was composed of hard angles and planes with a hooked nose over a well-shaped mouth, yet despite its angularity, his face radiated nothing but warmth and compassion. It was as knowing as that of the angels, yet its knowing consisted of generosity, not judgement.

  His eyes were black, like the angels’, but loving, so very much unlike the angels’.

  He was in physical torment, but Neville could see that Christ cared for only one thing, and that thing was Neville.

  “How does God allow His Son to suffer so?” whispered Neville.

  “God?” said Archangel Michael, then laughed uproariously.

  Christ turned his head, flinching with the pain of the effort, and looked at Michael. His expression was sad.

  Then he looked back at Neville, intensely, curiously, as if wondering what the man would make of what Michael said next.

  “There is no God,” said Michael, and laughed even further at the shock on Neville’s face. “God is nothing more than the collective will and endeavour of the angels.”

  “No God?” whispered Neville. He’d sunk to his knees, staring unbelievingly at Michael.

  “No God,” agreed Michael. “God as a single entity is a phantasm. It is easier for the simple souls of mankind to worship a single entity than a collective grouping.”

  “So Christ is the son of…” Neville now looked up at Christ, drawing all the comfort he could from the sympathy in the man’s eyes.

  “All of us,” said Michael. “A collective effort. We thought he was to be one of us, the one to finally consolidate our grip on mankind. But,” his voice hardened into absolute hatred, “he betrayed us, seeking instead to free mankind from our will.”

  I almost succeeded. Christ spoke into Neville’s mind, and somehow Neville understood that Michael was not aware of Christ’s words. I almost succeeded…Now it is up to you. You are mankind’s final chance. You alone.

  But how? Neville thought. How? There is but the one test, and I cannot choose the way I want.

  Christ’s face suffused with love and comfort. You will choose the way your heart directs you, Thomas. Trust me. Trust me. Trust your own heart.

  “And now we have him trapped,” Michael continued, his eyes on Christ. “Trapped, where he can no longer wreak his havoc.”

  Then the archangel lowered his head and looked Neville straight in the eye. “Not like our next effort. He works our will as if an extension of our own thoughts. There will be no mistake this time.” His mouth twisted, frightful and unloving. “Beloved.”

  Neville stumbled through the guildhall, its occupants still under the thrall of the archangel. He almost fell over in his dash to his clothes, feeling the cold of heaven penetrating to his bones. He grabbed at his clothes and boots, pulling them on as fast as his shaking muscles would allow, then rebuckled his sword belt about his hips.

  His hands were trembling so badly he cut two fingers on the buckle, and when he tried to put his boots on he dropped one of them three times before it finally consented to slide on his foot.

  Clothed, he felt only very slightly more in control—how could clothes comfort the turmoil in his mind?

  He turned, looking back to the door. Silvery light still shone through, and Neville could see the faint outline of Archangel Michael, standing watching him.

  Then the archangel turned, and walked into the light, and the doors slammed behind him, and the hall woke.

  Hands grabbed at Neville: the dying, seeking some last hope of succour. He pulled away, and walked as steadily as he could back to the alcove where Mary, Margaret and Jocelyn still slept.

  There he sank to the floor, his back against the wall, staring at the sleeping forms of the two women and the girl.

  There was no God save the collective will of the angels? God was nothing but the ultimate sum of those cold, heartless creatures? And if Jesus was the product of their collective effort, what had Archangel Michael meant when he said that their latest effort acted only as an extension of their will?

  Neville wrapped his arms about himself, shivering, driving away that last thought, concentrating instead on what he had seen in the Field of the Angels.

  Desolate, malicious. Heaven!

  If nothing else, Neville now knew exactly what choice he wanted to take when the time came for him to choose. Freedom for mankind, freedom from the chains of the angels. The mission that Christ had started but had failed to accomplish.

  But to do that, Neville would have to hand his soul to Margaret, and that he knew he could not do, however much he wanted to do it.

  Just that single niggle. That single doubt. That single piece of knowledge that she had abused his trust, and if she had done that once, then she might do it again—even if unwillingly or unknowingly.

  Just one single hesitancy, but one that would damn mankind forever.

  “Damn you, Margaret,” he whispered, then winced, wishing he could take back the words. Her actions had allowed him to love, to see that love saved, not damned.

  Yet in the doing, Margaret had sabotaged her own cause.

  “Please, sweet Jesu,” Neville whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

  But there was no answer, and Neville felt very alone and very unsure.

  For a long time he sat, staring at the wall, loathing the angels and what they were going to force him to do.

  X

  Sunday 26th May 1381

  —iii—

  “Did I not say the Lord our God would send an omen?” said Thorseby. “What further sign do you need than this pestilence? If you do not move, and soon, then the pestilence shall envelop all England.”

  Sign of God or not, Hotspur well knew the advantages the sudden eruption of the pestilence had given him. First Exeter’s revolt. Nasty, but no
t deadly enough to Bolingbroke’s reputation for Hotspur to be sure of any chance of success if he then moved.

  But now this. A clear sign of God’s ill will. The rumours of what had happened in St Paul’s with the supernatural appearance of the black Dog of Pestilence while Bolingbroke had been viewing Richard’s murdered corpse would almost certainly ensure England would rise up against Bolingbroke should an alternative present itself.

  And Hotspur meant that alternative to be himself. The golden hero from the north, untainted by any association with Bolingbroke—Hotspur had not kept himself apart from Bolingbroke since his landing at Ravenspur for nothing—who could restore England to godly rule and a golden age.

  Lord God, what that would mean in terms of power for the Percy family! Both the Lancasters and the Nevilles would lose all—there would be no one and no thing left to challenge Hotspur’s claim to the throne.

  “Good King Harry! Good King Harry!”

  Aye, Hotspur could hear it now.

  “I am going to need your help,” Hotspur said to Thorseby.

  “You have it, my lord.”

  “Good.” Hotspur paused, thinking. Thorseby was good for much of the Church…but he would need more than whispering friars and monks to aid his cause. Hotspur needed swords, and many of them.

  And allies…men that Bolingbroke would never suspect to throw in their lot with Hotspur.

  “Thorseby,” Hotspur said, all doubt now gone from his mind. “I will need some of your friars, well horsed and able to move swiftly down the roads of England, to carry messages for me.” Great black crows, nurturing murderous intents.

  “You have them, my lord.”

  Hotspur nodded, then smiled. The crown would feel good on his brow. “Then you are my man, Thorseby.”

  XI

  Monday 27th May 1381