The Crippled Angel

by Sara Douglass

  The fool was in a flutter of fear. He’d managed to dress himself in at least three outfits, all crammed one on top of the other, and was now so confined by the stiff robes and tight seams that his arms stuck out stiffly at his sides and his face had gone a dusky pink in his efforts to breath through a throat enclosed by several layers of tightly laced high collars.

  “What are you doing?” Catherine hissed.

  “Getting myself to safety,” Charles said, his voice squeaking in a most unmanly manner. Catherine could not be sure if this was due to fear, or the constriction of so many collars.

  “By trying to disguise yourself as…as…as…” words failed her, and Catherine contented herself with throwing her hands up in a gesture of utter disgust.

  “The English dog bastards want to kill me,” Charles said, and Catherine found herself unable to contradict that statement, at least.

  “They’ll torture me! Tear me limb from limb! Disembowel me!”

  “And let’s not forget slice off your balls and feed them to the gutter dogs,” said Isabeau de Bavière, who had just entered the room.

  Catherine shot their mother a contemptuous look. Isabeau was not going to help anyone at the moment if she descended into her habitual sarcasm.

  Charles whimpered, then turned around (almost overbalancing in his tight attire) and wobbled towards a chamberlain who was supervising the packing of several trunks. “Hurry! Hurry!” Charles cried. “The English are almost here.”

  “Well,” said Isabeau, now speaking to her daughter, “I cannot but admit that Charles has good reason to fear for his safety. Paris shall become, I fear, a most unhealthy place for him once Bolingbroke sets Philip to one side.”

  “If Bolingbroke sets Philip to one side, madam,” Catherine murmured.

  Isabeau gave her a short, cynical smile. “When, my dear. As you know in your heart.”

  Catherine drew in a deep breath. “Are you sure you won’t flee with my brother, madam? Paris is likely to become as unhealthy for you as it is for him.”

  “Oh, nay to both, I think. I am sure I can come to some accommodation with whoever wins in this battle for the French crown.” Isabeau studied her daughter’s face carefully. “I will wait for the outcome with you, Catherine. Here. In Paris.”

  “You think you can seduce the victor into granting your wishes?”

  “No, Catherine. That I leave to you.”

  It was only when she returned to her apartments that Catherine allowed herself the weakness and vulnerability of tears. Philip was never coming back. She knew that. Hal would win…by whatever means, he would emerge the victor against Philip. Philip was lost, France was lost…and Catherine was lost.

  “Oh, sweet Jesu, help me,” she sobbed, collapsing on the floor by hers and Philip’s bed and leaning her head into her arms where they rested on the coverlet. She wondered how it would be…would Hal stride into this very bedchamber, and force her to the bed and to his will? Or would he send for her…force her to come to him, enduring the cold stares of the English ranks through which she rode?

  And what would he do when he discovered she was carrying Philip’s child?

  The thought that Hal might—would—force that child from her body caused Catherine to wail out loud. Should she flee as well? To save Philip’s child?

  “Oh, sweet Jesu, aid me now, aid me now,” she sobbed.

  “Madam?” came a hesitant voice behind her.

  Startled, and angered that someone should have seen her in this state, Catherine sprang to her feet, whipping around to the door from where the voice had come.

  A workman stood there, a length of wood over his shoulder, his face red with embarrassment that he should have disturbed such a fine lady.

  “Who are you?” Catherine said, trying desperately to bring her tears under control.

  “I was sent with this wood,” said the man, a carpenter from the tools that hung at his belt, “to build a crib.”

  “What?” Catherine whispered.

  The carpenter smiled at Catherine, adjusting the length of wood on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. “Madam, do not fret for your child.”

  “How…?”

  “I need you to do something, something for both yourself and for France. Will you do this?”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you? What are you doing here?” Catherine stared at the man, wondering why she was standing here having this bizarre conversation with a craftsman. How had he managed entrance into the palace in the first instance? Should she shout for aid?

  “Make sure your brother takes his crown with him when he leaves,” the carpenter said.

  “What?”

  “Charles must have the crown, for he will be bereft without it.”

  And with that the carpenter ducked his head, as if apologising for his rude presence, and walked past the door out of sight.

  Catherine stared for an instant, then ran to the door. She peered up and down the corridor beyond, but there was no one there.

  “Charles must take the crown…?” she whispered. “Why? Why?”

  But then she thought that if Charles had the crown, then Hal would have the harder time of it trying to establish himself as the King of France (as she had no doubt he would soon do).

  Without another thought, Catherine dashed the tears from her eyes and walked purposefully down the corridor, taking the turn that would eventually lead her to the jewel tower.

  VI

  Tuesday 20th August 1381

  —iii—

  For days, Neville had existed in a state so melancholic, so despondent, so appalled, that he found it a wonder he could still draw breath.

  He started fully awake from his vision of the Field of Angels, almost falling out of the bed he shared with Margaret.

  He’d stared at her, wondering why she did not wake when it was so obvious that mankind only had a few more days, perhaps a few more weeks, of any measure of free will left.

  Nearer and nearer draws the time, the time that shall surely be…

  How foolish he had been, how proudful, to ever think that there would be a choice. The angels had come close to stumbling once before with Christ; they were not going to make the same mistake with him. They had allowed both the demons and Thomas himself to think that Margaret was the woman to whom he could gift his soul.

  They had allowed both the demons and Thomas to trap themselves into a hopelessness.

  That was all the events of the past few years had been—an opportunity to fall into a trap.

  And Thomas had fallen…

  From Margaret’s bed, and then from their quarters in the castle, Neville had run into the night. His fear and his horror darkened his vision, and even where the way was well lit he crashed into pillars and corners and door frames until bruises matted the surface of his body and blood ran from a dozen cuts on his face and hands. The dawn still found him stumbling through narrow, dim alleys in the back quarters of Rouen, where small boys out collecting donkey dung at dawn laughed at him, and pinched at his flesh, and wondered whether this strange, naked man was crazed by drink, or women, or perhaps the moon, hanging so low and heavy in the sky.

  Neville eventually found shelter of a kind in the low overhang of a stable roof. Damp, mouldy hay had been piled up under the eaves and, as morning finally dawned, he crawled deep inside the stinking mass, burying himself as deep as he could, wondering if the angels would ever find him here.

  But he could not escape the words of the archangel: There is no choice. There has never been one. This time we have made sure. Welcome to the brotherhood, Thomas.

  Those words never left Thomas’ thoughts. The knowledge that he would be the one to damn mankind into eternal enslavement and that, having performed such an appalling task, he would then spend eternity locked in brotherhood with the foul creatures that inhabited heaven drove him so deep into despair that for hours that turned into days he was unable to leave his nasty burrow within the rotting hay. He sucked moisture fro
m the loathsome mess whenever thirst drove him to the very edge of insanity (not that he was far from it in any case), scrabbled about hunting and squashing between his fingers the biting fleas and other insects that attacked his vulnerable flesh, and relieved himself into his bedding as needed, but nothing intruded on his sensibilities so much as to even come close to suggesting that it might be a good thing to escape this composting hideaway and find himself something a little more comfortable.

  During the day the sounds of the city moving about him washed over him without making any impression on his misery. At night roaming dogs and pigs nuzzled and scraped at his covering layers of muck, trying to dig him out, but their efforts went ignored.

  Thomas Neville just wanted to hide—hide from what the angels were going to force him to do.

  There was no choice. There never had been. Everything that had gone before had been a jest, a jest on him and a jest on mankind.

  There was no choice. The angels screamed in joy, capering about heaven. This time was their time.

  There was no choice.

  There never had been.

  On the fifth night, trapped in his misery, a sound very gradually trespassed upon Neville’s despair. It sounded for hours before Neville became aware of it, and then he listened to it for another hour or two more before he managed to emerge from his despair long enough to become even mildly curious about it.

  It was the sound of a plane being drawn back and forth over a piece of wood. Back and forth, back and forth: an ever-patient carpenter in his workshop somewhere close to Neville’s hideaway.

  Neville grew to hate the sound. It angered him. It intruded upon his grief, his solitary despair, his selfish sorrow. Who was this Christ to so disturb him? Who was this Christ to set up shop so close to Neville’s misery? Didn’t he know that all was lost? Would the man never give up? Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

  Neville howled, so furious that he flung hay in every direction as he struggled out of his self-imposed imprisonment. Didn’t Christ know that all was lost?

  “I’ll tell him,” Neville mumbled, spitting out a bit of mouldy horse shit that had wedged itself between his front teeth. “I’ll tell him, damn him. Why so cheerful? Why so cursed hopeful? Doesn’t he realise?”

  He fell out of the muck heap onto the damp cobbles of the street, rolling some seven or eight paces down the slight slope until he managed to stop himself and rise to legs shaking from days of no food or use.

  Neville stumbled a few paces down the alley. It was deep night, perhaps two or three in the morning, and the city was quiet.

  Save for that cursed carpenter, still planing his wood somewhere close by.

  Neville managed to walk further, ignoring the cramps that beset his calves and thighs. His face and body ran with sweat, his hands clenched at his sides.

  The carpenter planed on, slowly, methodically, every stroke an obvious joy.

  Why work wood, when there was no hope left? Didn’t he know that within days, weeks at the most, he’d be back on his cross, hanging in agony?

  Neville came to the end of the alley, leaning on the stone wall of a house for support as he heaved air in and out of his lungs.

  There! There he was, the fool!

  A faint light filtered from behind the shutters of a ground floor workshop three houses down the street. Neville, furious without being able to put a meaning to his fury, staggered towards the door of the workshop.

  It was ajar, just very slightly, but enough for the hateful noise of the carpenter’s efforts to seep out into the night air and wake Neville.

  He reached the door and, without any of the hesitation that had characterised his visit to Christ’s London workshop, burst in.

  And tumbled down the three steep steps to the floor. Neville hit the stone flagging heavily, his breath grunting out in a curse. He rolled over several times, his arms flailing, before he managed to stop himself.

  He scrambled to his knees, then, awkwardly, to his feet, his hands held out to steady himself.

  James the carpenter continued to steadily plane the large piece of wood on his work table.

  “What is it this time?” snarled Neville. “A casket? A breakfast table? Perhaps the axle of a cart?”

  “A stake,” said James, then nodded towards the far corner of the workshop. “I’ve set out a tub for you. Its water is warm, and comforting. There are some clothes on the stool to the side. I think you will find they will fit you well.”

  Then James’ hands abruptly fell still, and he turned his face so he could stare at Neville, standing hostile and rigid in the centre of the workshop space. “We are brothers, you and I. What fits me, fits you.”

  Neville raised a hand, his face twisting with the strength of the emotion inside of him.

  “I do not want to hear it,” James said, turning back to his woodwork. “Not until you have washed, and clothed yourself.”

  “I do not—”

  “What think you?” James yelled, now stepping away from his work table altogether. “What think you, Thomas Neville, to so wallow in such self-absorbed misery?”

  Neville blinked, unable to speak, completely stunned by James’ sudden anger.

  “I—”

  “Are there no others in pain?” James continued, now standing directly before Neville. “Did you not think that your selfish despair might deepen their pain? Do you think yourself alone in this matter, isolated in your grandeur?”

  James folded his arms, looking up and down Neville’s naked body. “You are filthy,” he said, both his eyes and tone flat. “The filthiness of your flesh reflects the state of your mind. You disgust me, Thomas. Wash yourself, for until then I cannot speak with you.”

  And with that he turned his back, and returned to his work table where he ran one hand softly up and down the length of wood he’d been smoothing. “Wash yourself,” he whispered.

  Neville stared at James’ back, then his head dropped, and his shoulders slumped. He looked to the side, and saw the tub.

  Steam rose from the water within.

  Silently, abjectly, hating what his pride had brought him to, Neville walked over to the tub and lowered himself in.

  “They brought me again to the Field of Angels,” Neville said. He had washed, and dressed in the clothes James had set out for him, and now sat with James at a small table under the still-shuttered window.

  He smelled sweet, and for no other reason that lifted his spirits.

  “And?” James said, biting into a hunk of bread and cheese he had taken from the platter he had laid on the table between them. Ale stood in a jug to one side, and Neville sighed, and poured himself a beaker-full of the rich, foaming liquid.

  “The decision is soon,” he said, sipping the ale.

  “Of course,” said James. “Else I would not be here. And? What did they say or do to drive you into such self-absorbed—”

  “Yes, yes, I know…such self-absorbed misery. James,” Neville put the beaker down with a thump, spilling a little of the ale, “you told me to trust you, and I have tried to do that. But what the angels showed me…”

  “What?” James snapped, then smiled at the look in Neville’s eyes. “I am allowed to have a temper,” he said. He reached out a hand and poked Neville in the centre of his chest. “It is one of the many things we share.”

  Neville half smiled, but his dejection would not allow it to flower fully. “The Archangels, all of them, ringed about me, trapped me, showed me that I have no choice but to choose in their favour when it comes to the decision.”

  “Ah,” said James. “And what exactly did they say?”

  Neville told James that the only way he could save mankind from an eternal enslavement to the angels was to hand his soul on a platter to a whore, to beg her to love him, to accept his soul.

  “I had thought Margaret, but even if I could overcome my hesitancy in loving her I still could not hand her my soul because she is no whore. She may not be the epitome of saintly virtue, but Margaret is
no whore, no street harlot. James, I thought I had a choice, but there is none. None. We have all been trapped, and we are all struggling useless in that trap.”

  James lowered his head, staring at his tanned forearms where they crossed on the table before him. Finally, he looked up with eyes gone very strange.

  “In any apparent two-way fork in the path ahead,” he said very quietly, his eyes locking into Neville’s, “there is always a third way, a third path, a third potential choice that those who seek to control you do not want you to see, or to understand. Do not allow the angels to blind you, Thomas. Do not let your own anger and despair blind you. There is a third path, beyond Margaret, beyond the angels. Make sure that when the time comes, you are able to see it.”

  “But the angels said…the whore on the street of Rome said, that I must give my soul to a whore. A prostitute who I love and trust before all others. Who else but—”

  “You are blind, Thomas. I pray that the shutters shall be lifted from your eyes before it is too late. Now…”

  James’ voice stopped abruptly. He sat, his head cocked as if listening, then suddenly his entire body jerked and went rigid. His brown eyes widened, appalled.

  “Mary. Oh, in the name of all love…Mary!” James leapt to his feet, leaned across the table and dragged Neville up as well. “I have said too much. Thomas, you must get to Mary now. She needs you. She needs you! Go. Go!”

  Neville took one more look at James’ face, then ran for the door.

  VII

  Tuesday 20th August 1381

  —iii—

  Mary and Margaret stayed many hours with Joan, sometimes talking, sometimes just sharing a companionable silence. By dawn, Mary was exhausted, and her pain too difficult to control, even for Margaret’s use of her powers, and so she and Margaret called for the guards and said their farewells to Joan, promising more aid once Hal had gone to his war.