The Crippled Angel. Sara Douglass

      “I had wondered,” Catherine said carefully, “if you might need someone to talk to.”

      “That was kind of you,” said Joan, knowing that was not quite the reason Catherine had come to her.

      Catherine hesitated, not sure what to say next. This was not the Joan she had expected to find.

      Joan spoke again, filling the uncomfortable silence. “How is Marie, and her daughter?”

      “They are well,” Catherine said.

      “For the moment,” said Joan, “but how will Marie venture forth into the world, an unmarried woman with a bastard child? I worry for her, and feel guilt, knowing how I deserted her when she needed me most.”

      “I have arranged for her a place as housekeeper in a small convent in Amiens. The sisters will be pleased to receive her, and both Marie and her daughter will be nurtured.”

      Joan’s mouth twitched. “If only they knew what they nurture,” she said, and then the amusement died from her face. “Tell me of the angels, Catherine, and of the misery they have visited on you, and on mankind.”

      And so Catherine took a deep breath and, as Hal Bolingbroke and Margaret had once talked to Thomas Neville, told Joan all she knew.

      When she had finished Joan looked sorrowful, but still composed. “We have all been grossly misused and abused,” she said.

      Catherine nodded, satisfied. “What will you do now?”

      Joan smiled, beatifically, as if at an inner vision, and Catherine wondered if she’d slipped back into her previous blind and obsessive piety.

      But the expression passed, and Joan spoke calmly and reasonably. “I had thought to return to my parents’ home,” she said. “I thought to devote myself to the tending of my father’s sheep.”

      “That’s a wonderful—”

      “But I have changed my mind,” Joan said, grinning slightly at the expression on Catherine’s face. “Oh, do not worry, Catherine. I have no doubt that I shall end my days watching over my father’s sheep in some blessed meadow, but there is still one small task left for me to do here first.”

      “And that is?”

      “To fit Charles for his rightful place, as King of France.”

      “You cannot still mean to accomplish that! Charles is a hopeless imbecile who—”

      “He will not always be so,” Joan said. “He merely needs an infusion of strength. I am that strength.”

      “Then we are still at odds.”

      Joan took Catherine’s hand. “Yes. We are. Indeed, our positions have hardly changed. You fight to replace Charles with… well, with whomever. And I fight to give him France. What has changed is that I now understand you, and in understanding you, I have come to a realisation.”

      “And that is… ?”

      “I think that one day we will be friends. Even, I dare to venture, that we will fight for the same end.”

      Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but Joan continued quickly. “Am I not a prophetess? Then hear me out. In the end, I think we will both do what is right for France, and I think that we will both take the path that love demands of us, not those paths that previous blind allegiances have shown us.”

      Catherine chewed her lip, then nodded. “Should we still spat in public, Joan? Should I pull your hair every time you pass?”

      “Oh, indeed! Otherwise your mother will think the world has come to an end!”

      They both laughed, then Catherine rose, aiding Joan to rise at the same time. She kissed Joan’s cheek.

      “Be well, Joan.”

      “Aye,” Joan said. “I think I will be, now.”

       PART ONE

       WINDSOR

      In the meane time… certain malicious and

      cruel persons enuiyng and malignyng in their

      heartes… blased abrode and noised dayly

      amongest the vulgare people that kyng

      Richard… was yet liuyng and desired aide of

      the common people to repossesse his realme

      and roiall dignitie. And to the furtheraunce of

      this fantastical inuencion partely moued with

      indignacion, partely incensed with furious

      malencolie, set vpon postes and caste aboute

      the stretes railyng rimes, malicious meters and

      tauntyng verses against king Henry… He

      being netteled with these uncurteous ye

      unuertuous prickes & thornes, serched out the

      authors…

      Edward Hall, Chronicle, 1548

       I Tuesday 30th April 1381

      Lord Thomas Neville walked slowly through the gardens of Windsor Castle, heading for the entrance to the King’s Cloister. He narrowed his eyes slightly against the mid-morning brightness of the sun, enjoying its welcome warmth even though its glare made his eyes ache.

      Windsor Castle had long been favoured by the English kings, but since his coronation seven months ago Bolingbroke had made it his main residence. He’d not wanted to reside in Westminster, which he thought cold and uncomfortable; the Savoy was still in ruins; Lambeth Palace was unavailable now that the new Archbishop of Canterbury had moved in; and the only other truly regal palace in London was the Tower, which needed another few months’ worth of renovations before it could be suitable to use as Bolingbroke’s royal residence. So Bolingbroke had moved his court to Windsor, a solid day’s ride west from London.

      Neville raised his face slightly, staring towards the silvery stone walls of the castle, looking for the tall, graceful, second level windows of the Great Chamber. Ah… there they were, so afire with the glare of the sun that no outsider would be able to peer through and intrude upon the privacy of the chamber’s occupants. Neville had no doubt that by this time of the day Bolingbroke would be settled with his advisers and secretaries and counsellors.

      And here Neville was in the gardens.

      “My Lord Neville! Morning’s greetings to you!”

      Neville jumped, silently cursing the sudden thudding of his heart. He squinted against the sun, then relaxed, nodding to the man striding down the garden path towards him.

      “My Lord Mayor,” he said, extending a hand. “My congratulations on your recent election.”

      Dick Whittington took Neville’s hand in a firm grasp, then indicated a nearby bench. “If you’re in no hurry, my lord?”

      Neville sat with Whittington on the bench, wondering what the Lord Mayor could want to say to him.

      “I am pleased to have this chance to speak with you, my lord, that I might ask after your lovely wife and children.”

      “Margaret? Why, she is well, as are Rosalind and Bohun,” Neville responded, surprised at the enquiry. Whittington hardly knew Margaret…

      “I