The Crippled Angel. Sara Douglass

and clocks?”

      Neville nodded. Over the past months Hal had instructed that science and the new humanities were to receive a greater weight in schools at the expense of religion, while clock hours were to replace church hours of prayer in people’s daily lives.

      It was all, Neville knew, part of Hal’s not-so-subtle turning of his subjects' hearts and minds away from the religious to the secular.

      “Aye, well,” Whittington continued, “I needed to consult with his grace over some of the details of the new school curricula, and the appropriate fees the clockmaker’s guild can charge for the installation of clocks in all London’s gates and major steeples.”

      Neville shifted impatiently, wondering why Whittington was subjecting him to this pointless conversation.

      “My lord,” Whittington said, his eyes narrowing in what might have been amusement, “I am keeping you from your duties, and for that I apologise, but—”

      Ah, Neville thought, now we reach the heart of the matter.

      “—I admit to some curiosity, even some concern, over the fact that his grace now conducts his morning’s counsel… and you are not there to advise him. I remember those dark days when the peasant rebels set London afire, and murdered the great Lancaster. Then you and his grace were close confidants, brothers almost.”

      Then I did not know who, and what, Hal truly was, Neville thought, keeping the expression on his face a mixture of the vaguely pleasant and the vaguely impatient. Demon-King.

      “Hal is now king,” Neville said. “He has great lords and Privy Councillors, and even,” he allowed himself a small smile, “Lord Mayors to advise him. He does not need me so much.”

      “And the friendship has died along with Hal’s elevation to the throne? I ask,” Whittington hurried on, noting the surprise in Neville’s face, “because I care deeply for Hal, and I cannot think that he is the better man for the loss of your friendship.”

      “He has not lost my friendship,” Neville said, noting Whittington’s easy use of Bolingbroke’s Christian name. “We have merely grown distant with circumstances.” He did not say that what Bolingbroke had lost was Neville’s complete trust once he’d realised the depth of Bolingbroke’s lies and manipulations.

      “Hal did what he needed to gain the throne,” Whittington said very quietly. “England is the better land for his actions.”

      Now Neville stared outright at Whittington. What did he allude to? Bolingbroke’s rebellion against Richard, or the series of well-planned murders that ensured Bolingbroke was the only Plantagenet left to succeed to the throne?

      And if Whittington alluded to the murders… then what did that make the Lord Mayor? Man, or demon?

      “Who are you?” Whittington said, his voice still quiet. “Hal’s man, or the angels’?”

      Neville’s own question answered, he abruptly stood. “I am my own man, my Lord Mayor,” he said, knowing that would be the answer Bolingbroke most feared, and knowing Whittington would certainly report it back to the king. “And now, I will detain you no longer. I am sure London needs its Lord Mayor more than I do.”

      And with that he turned and strode away.

      As Neville disappeared into the building, Whittington looked to the windows of the Great Chamber, and shook his head slightly.

      Bolingbroke looked down from the window of the Great Chamber, catching the shake of Whittington’s head.

      His face hardened, his suspicions confirmed.

      Behind him droned on the voices of his advisers, debating the merits of raising the passport application fee yet again, but Bolingbroke heard none of it.

      Instead, his thoughts were full of Neville.

      Why was Archangel Michael so confident of Neville? How could he be so sure of him?

      “What is your secret, Tom?” Bolingbroke murmured. “What is your secret?”

      Neville blinked as he walked under the stone arch into the shaded walks of the King’s Cloister. There were a few people about enjoying the early spring air, but it was still relatively quiet.

      Neville nodded to two young lords whom he knew, then ducked into the stairwell that led to the royal apartments on the second level.

      He emerged in the upper gallery, but turned away from the door leading to the Great Chamber and to Bolingbroke. Neither did Neville so much as glance at the open door of the beautiful chapel that ran along the upper gallery at right angles to the Great Chamber.

      Instead, Neville walked purposefully towards the Queen’s apartments and the loveliest chamber in the entire castle complex—the Rose Tower.

      He paused at the door, nodding to the two guards standing outside, then walked through without any announcement… apart from Bolingbroke, Neville was the only person in the royal court (in the entire kingdom) permitted so to do by the lady within.

      Neville paused just inside the door, hearing it close softly behind him, and looked about.

      There were several ladies in the chamber, all grouped about the hearth, spinning and gossiping softly.

      Margaret was not among them, and Neville supposed his wife was still in their apartment with their two children.

      Mary lay on a couch set by the windows so that the morning light could fall upon her, and so that her gaze could in turn fall upon the awakening springtime outside.

      Neville smiled, knowing Mary regarded him from under her downcast eyelashes, and walked towards her. As he did so, he once more admired the beauty of this chamber, as he did every time he entered it.

      Bolingbroke’s grandfather, Edward III, had redeveloped and redecorated much of Windsor Castle, and the pride of his refurbishing was the Rose Tower chamber, which Edward had made his inner sanctum. The walls and domed ceiling were painted deep crimson, and covered with scattered stars. At regular intervals across this bloodied, starry night were brilliant green enamelled cartouches, each holding within its gilded border a single delicate rose. Now Edward was dead, as was his successor Richard, and Bolingbroke was king, but it was Bolingbroke’s wife Mary who had taken this most beautiful of chambers as her inner sanctum, and that, Neville thought as he knelt on one knee beside her couch, was only as it should be.

      “My lady queen,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “How do you this fine morning?”

      “The better for your presence, Lord Neville,” Mary replied, and smiled.

      Neville’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “My lady queen,” he said, continuing their playful formality, “may I beg your indulgence to rise from my poor knee, and perchance—”

      “Sit at the end of my couch,” Mary said, laughing now, “where, Jesu willing, you might cease your groaning.”

      Neville did as she bid, careful not to disturb the silken wrap about her, or to place any pressure near the delicate bones of her ankles and feet. For a minute he did not speak, studying her face.

      Mary watched him unquestioningly, for this moment of silent regard was a normal part of their morning greeting ritual.

      “You have slept well,” Neville said finally.

      “Aye. My physician, Culpeper, has formulated a new liquor which allows me to forget my aches and moans for an hour more each night.”

      Neville’s merriment faded at Mary’s mention of her illness. Ever since her marriage to Bolingbroke, Mary had been wasting away from a growth in her womb. Sometimes she had a period of wellness that lasted as long as three or four weeks; more often she lay as she did this day, pale-skinned with dark pouches under eyes shadowed with pain.

      And yet never did she complain, or moan about the injustice of life.

      Silently,