“Then make sure that your men also spread word that the queen, as ill as she is, will also attend this evening’s audience with the king. Make sure the people know that.”
“Oh, aye,” Whittington said, and then he was gone.
V
Wednesday 5th June 1381
—ii—
East Smithfield glittered in the dusk as the lights from a thousand torches glinted off hard steel and the angry, sceptical eyes of the crowd. People had moved from the streets and markets through the Tower gate into the meadows of East Smithfield. Normally filled with the sweet scent of cornflowers, columbines and dandelions at this time of the year, the fields were instead dust bowls, scarred with the recent excavations for death pits, as well as the more latter-day hooves and boots of Bolingbroke’s growing army.
Just as the sun finally set, the sound of horns burst from the battlements of the Tower, and then the faint shout of those people still about the Lion Gate as King Henry and his party issued forth to meet with his people.
The crowd in East Smithfield strained, then surged forward, each member desperate to catch a glimpse of their king. A shout spread through their ranks: “The king draws near! The king draws near!”
And then, as Bolingbroke did indeed draw near, the crowd murmured, swelled, then sank back.
Bolingbroke rode in all the majesty he could muster, and that was great indeed. His party numbered perhaps some twenty, or twenty-five—small, considering what Bolingbroke could have chosen to accompany him. But what his party lacked in numbers, it more than made up with display. All were arrayed in the most sumptuous of garments: flowing silken robes of the richest jewel-like hues, embroidered in costly gold and silver threads; many of the greater nobles among them wore the crowns of their titles, as well their heraldic devices embroidered on their horses’ hangings; gems glittered at throat and wrist and chest; chains of gold ran across shoulders; banners fluttered; great destriers snorted and snapped at any who pressed too close; and faces, stamped with the nobility and importance of the owner’s rank, nevertheless managed to avoid haughtiness to radiate instead assurance and care.
At the head of this cavalcade rode Queen Mary, dressed in a long, flowing robe of silvered satin over the finest lawn gown. Under her crown, her dark honey-blonde hair was left free to flow down her back and flutter in the wind of her passing. About her throat sat a wide collar of emeralds set in gold, and similar bands of gold and emeralds bound her wrists. She nodded gravely to the crowds as she passed, not making the error of smiling amid their doubts.
A half pace behind her rode Lord Thomas Neville, as resplendently gowned and bejewelled as any other in the king’s escort. He wore a scarlet surcoat over white armour about his chest and arms, and a golden sword in a scabbard that matched his surcoat bobbed at his left thigh. A great chain of gold and diamonds enclosed his neck and draped over his surcoat. His head was bare, his black hair and beard carefully trimmed, and his dark eyes never strayed from the queen’s form, as if he rode ready to spring forward the instant she showed any weakness.
Bolingbroke rode three paces ahead, and at counterpoint to everyone else in his party. For, unlike their beautifully gowned and richly adorned figures, Bolingbroke rode completely un-jewelled save for a simple crown about his silver gilt hair, and he wore, not resplendent robes, but plain leather armour over which was draped a sleeveless tunic of chainmail. A war sword in a leather scabbard hung at his hip. His black destrier, similarly, wore nothing but the accoutrements of war: chainmail about its chest and flanks, armour and thick leather covering the vulnerable points of its neck.
This was a king under siege, yet prepared to meet that siege head on, and Bolingbroke wanted all to know it.
He rode deep into the crowd, stopping only when the press grew too thick to ride further.
“Good people,” he called, standing in his stirrups and looking about at the crowd. “I beg you stand back a little. My queen is ill, and needs air with which to breathe.”
He swivelled in the saddle, and smiled lovingly at Mary. “My lady, are you well?”
Mary, remembering well her duty not to speak, merely inclined her head, arranging about her face a loving smile to match her husband’s.
The crowd murmured, then cheered a little.
“Good people!” Bolingbroke cried again, turning back to face the crowd. “You have carried such burdens of late. The pestilence, rumours—and worse—of rebellion and uprising, false rumours and whispers. Your lives have been disrupted and made capricious by the whims of fate and traitor alike. You want certainty and sunlight back in your lives, and I, of all among you, can understand that need.
“Good people! I know that there is little I can say to allay your misgivings. I know that only my actions can ease your minds and hearts. And I know also that you remember the plagues and uncertainties of recent weeks, and wonder if somehow this is a reflection on my right to reign over you.”
Bolingbroke dropped his voice, although it still carried easily across the assembled masses. “I also wonder. I also am consumed with doubt. And I also know that this doubt must be laid to rest soon, or all my legitimacy will vanish, both in your eyes, and in God’s.
“My fellow Englishmen, hear now my vow to you. Tomorrow I ride to meet with Hotspur, who leads the rebellion in the north. Let God be the judge. Let the battlefield be the trial of my right to reign as your monarch. And let you be the guardians of the crown until either I, or Hotspur, return to claim it.”
Bolingbroke stood tall in his stirrups, his balance easy on the shifting, nervous horse beneath him. He let go the reins, and, raising both his hands, grasped the crown about his head.
“My brothers and sisters,” he shouted. “May you guard the crown and majesty of England until God has made His decision!”
He raised the crown with both hands, holding it above his head, then, in a sudden, stunning movement, he tossed the crown into the crowd.
“Take it, and guard it,” he shouted, his voice ringing over all of East Smithfield and into the city beyond, “and may God prove the final arbiter on my right to rule!”
He sank down into his saddle, holding the crowd captive with the intensity of his eyes.
“And, whoever comes back to reclaim that crown, may you never again question his right to rule. For what God has joined, may no man put asunder.”
VI
Thursday 6th June 1381
Philip draped a comradely arm around Charles’ shoulders, and flashed his charming grin into the man’s face. “Charles, may I speak plainly, king to king?”
About them servants were taking down hangings and tapestries and folding them into great wooden chests, then piling pewter plate on top before carefully lowering and locking the lids. Others were rolling the heavy rugs from the floor, and pushing them to one side for labourers to lug outside to the awaiting carts.
Philip and Charles had to move smartly to one side to avoid the particularly energetic rug rolling of two servants, and Philip’s arm tightened a little around Charles’ shoulders as he led him towards a window seat that, being built into the wall, couldn’t be packed and moved.
“About what?” said Charles, his eyes sliding in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner as he scanned the chamber for possible assassins.
“About your situation, my friend. It seems to me to be most hideous.”
Charles sat down on the seat with a thump, and tried to move away from Philip’s arm. But the King of Navarre was apparently most desirous of Charles’ close physical companionship, for as Charles shuffled a few inches down the seat, so did Philip shuffle against him, tightening his arm as he did so.
“In what manner?” Charles said, hating the slight shrillness in his voice. His eyes darted about once more, this time looking to see if perhaps his mother was going to emerge from one of the chests to accuse him of unseemly weakness.
“Well…” Philip finally lifted his arm from Charles’ shoulders, and leaned back in the seat, puffin
g his cheeks out on a breath as if his thoughts disturbed him greatly. “Firstly, my friend, there are the English.”
Charles wriggled uncomfortably, and began studying a ragged nail on his left hand.
“I cannot but think that the rumours are correct—dear Hal is surely thinking of invading this summer.”
Philip paused, damping down the amusement in his eyes at Charles’ obvious discomfiture, and leaned forward, assuming an earnest expression. “So, how are your war preparations coming along?”
The ragged nail suddenly became of such extreme interest, and Charles bent his head over it so acutely, he managed to hide his face from Philip.
He chewed the nail enthusiastically, and mumbled something around his mouthful.
Philip grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfiture, not so much out of mean-spiritedness, but because it would play directly into his own hands.
“You do have your war preparations well in hand…do you not?”
Again Charles mumbled something unintelligible. He shifted slightly on the seat so that his shoulder and back were half-facing Philip.
“Hmmm,” Philip said thoughtfully. He screwed his eyes up against the light streaming in the windows and pretended an interest in the servants still scurrying about the almost completely de-furnished chamber. “May I make a suggestion?”
Charles made no sound, but his nail biting came to a sudden end.
“Paris would be the perfect place to set in motion your plans for Bolingbroke’s, and England’s, complete humiliation, my friend,” Philip said. “The city is so easily secured, yet so strategically positioned as to make it the perfect location to sally forth against any invading English army. Don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” Charles managed. His shoulder shifted slightly, and Philip caught a glimpse of an eye slanting in his direction.
“But you are king, and of such a mighty kingdom,” Philip continued. “You have many burdens to bear. I cannot think how you manage to find the time to direct army preparations against the English as well.”
Charles shifted a little more towards Philip. “Perhaps.”
“Of course! Now…” Philip leaned forward. “I might be able to lift some of the care and burden of kingship from your hands.”
“In what manner?”
“You are as yet young, and I have spent many more years in the battlefield than yourself. Perhaps I might be able to assist you in overseeing your war preparations?”
Charles thought about it. He knew it was dangerous to give Philip control like this. Very dangerous. Philip had attempted to double-cross his grandfather on numerous occasions…the years of experience Philip had on the battlefield were on the battlefield against France.
And who wanted Philip of Navarre commanding one’s own army? That army was sure to be turned against one’s own person the instant it served Philip’s ambition.
Charles frowned. “No. I think not. I have the Maid of France. She will command my forces against whatever enemy arrays itself against me. I trust her. She speaks for God.”
“Hmmm,” said Philip, then fell silent, keeping his eyes on four beefy labourers who were pushing and shoving a massive chest towards the doorway.
“Well,” said Charles, “she does speak for God.”
Philip lifted one of his own hands and began to study his own nails with an expression of intense concentration.
“And she will command my army. Successfully! I am perfectly safe with Joan about.”
Philip glanced over his hand towards Charles, arching one of his black eyebrows.
“Joan…” Charles’ voice drifted off. “She can help. Remember Orleans!”
Philip sighed, and put his hand down. “My friend,” he said in the most sorrowful of tones. “We both know that Joan is no longer the woman…well, the saint she used to be. For months she moped about, and now in the past weeks she has done nothing but smile and enjoy the comforts of your hospitality. What talk has she made of crusades, and winning back France from the English? Why—none.” His eyes darted around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I have even heard, my friend, that she has spoken of her desire to go home and tend her father’s sheep once more…although, personally, I think she’s simply decided to enjoy the luxury you wrap her in. Has she shown any interest in cladding herself in armour and riding out to war these days? No! Of course not. All she wants to do is live off you, my friend. She has you wrapped about her little finger.”
“She hasn’t! She hasn’t!”
“Shush,” Philip said urgently, laying a cautionary hand on Charles’ arm. “Never let the servants see your panic, man. All I mean to point out,” he continued in a more moderate voice, “is that Joan simply can’t be relied on any more. I mean to say, how many miracles has she popped out for you since you’ve been in Rheims? And who was it dropped your crown at your coronation? My sweet Lord Christ, man! If I hadn’t caught that crown and handed it back…you might still be grubbing for it under the pews of the cathedral.
“Charles—” Philip dropped all the banter and foppishness out of his voice, leaning forward to stare directly into Charles’ nervously shifting eyes “—Joan cannot save France. She doesn’t have the will any more. Neither, to be blunt, can you. Give me the command of the armed forces and I damn well will!”
“I don’t trust you,” Charles said.
“You don’t have a choice,” Philip said. He rose, dusting down his tunic over his hip where some dirt had smudged. “We have a week or so before we arrive in Paris. By then we will know with more certainty what is happening in England. And then, my dear boy, you will have to make a decision about what to do. You can’t delay any longer. Either pick someone to command your forces…or make it easy for Bolingbroke and simply flee south to whatever whorehouse in the sun you have picked out for yourself.”
And then he was off, striding across the floor without a backward glance.
Charles watched him go, trembling slightly at the harshness of Philip’s tone.
Annoyed with Charles, but not overly angry, for he knew it would take several overtures to win the faint-hearted idiot over to his plan, Philip ran nimbly down the main staircase of the palace. All about him he heard the noise of the move: the shrill voices of the cooks, rising out of the kitchens as they tried to both cook and pack at the same moment; the shuffle and snorting of horses in the courtyard; the curses of men as packs slipped and dislodged in the chaos. Catherine was elsewhere in the palace, closeted with her mother Isabeau, and Philip thought he might as well take the opportunity of a few free minutes to check that his war stallions were being loaded properly into their transport.
Just as he reached the foot of the staircase, however, he came to an abrupt halt.
Standing some ten paces in front of him in the great hall of the palace were Regnault de Chartres, the Archbishop of Rheims, and Joan herself. De Chartres had remained within Charles’ household ever since he’d examined Joan at La Roche-Guyon. Although he’d not found sufficient reason then to discredit her, Philip knew he’d been looking for an opportunity to do so ever since. Particularly since Joan had usurped his rightful role in crowning Charles in the cathedral of Rheims.
Now de Chartres was leaning over Joan, who was returning his stare without apparent effort. The archbishop’s face was red-veined and incredulous, his pale blue eyes almost starting out of his head.
“May I ask you the question again?” he said, just as Philip sauntered up. “I cannot believe I heard you aright the first time you answered.”
“If you wish,” Joan said, and sighed. She glanced at Philip.
“The clerical brotherhood of Christendom,” de Chartres said, “are greatly divided over which pope should be obeyed: our revered papal father Clement in Avignon, or the rude pig of an impostor, Urban, in Rome? As you have the ear of God,” his lips curled in a faint sneer, “and seem on such intimate terms with the Archangels themselves—”
Joan’s cheeks flushed, as if the archbishop’s words angered
her, but she kept her eyes steady on his.
Intrigued, Philip moved closer.
“—I ask you again, Joan of France, which pope do you say should be obeyed? Which one speaks on behalf of God?”
“And I say once more to you,” Joan snapped, “that I do not care overmuch. I concern myself only with France, not with the dubious arguments of men. Or of Archangels.”
And with a defiant look, first at de Chartres, then at Philip, she turned on her heel and marched off.
“One can almost sense her confusion,” Philip said softly, edging closer to de Chartres. “Perhaps…perhaps she has lost the ear of God? Perhaps the Archangels no longer visit her as once they did?”
De Chartres turned and studied Philip. Like everyone else, he didn’t trust the man…but that didn’t mean he might not make a useful ally. “Continue,” he said.
Philip gave a slight shrug. “She may prove more dangerous than beneficial to both you and to me, my lord. To both the Church and to France.”
“Yet who can touch her? France adores their miraculous Maid!”
“Well…” Philip said. He almost put his arm around the archbishop’s shoulders as he had with Charles, then thought better of it. “I have a plan, my lord archbishop. Perchance you might care to hear of it?”
VII
Sunday 16th June 1381
“Hotspur is still some twenty miles north of the town, sire. And neither Northumberland’s nor Glyndwr’s forces appear to have yet joined with him.”
Bolingbroke’s shoulders visibly slumped in relief. His face looked grey in this late afternoon light, deep lines of exhaustion and care creasing his forehead and running down from nose to mouth. His beautiful silver-gilt hair was plastered to his skull by days of sweat, and the neckline of the undershirt peeking from his leather armour was stained and rank.
The Crippled Angel Page 18