The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass

sprang from the chair and snatched the child away.

      Rosalind shrieked, but Neville took no notice. “Unless you convince me, now, that Rosalind does not bear the blood of demons in her, then yes, I will so murder her! And you after her!”

      Margaret tried to take Rosalind back from Neville, but could not force his arms away from the child. “You love your daughter! You cannot do her to death!”

      “Did you not say yourself this afternoon,” Neville whispered with such malevolence that all the blood drained from Margaret’s face, and she ceased, for the moment, her efforts to rescue her daughter, “that I could not think you a demon, for what would that make Rosalind? Demon you are, Margaret, I know that now, and demon-spawn I would rather kill than allow myself to love!”

      “No! Stop!” Desperate, Margaret tried another argument. “Bolingbroke would not allow you—”

      “Hal will believe whatever I tell him!”

      Rosalind was now screaming and twisting in Neville’s arms and Margaret, standing frantic before them, realised that Neville meant—and believed—every word he said. Oh, why had she spoken so rashly this afternoon?

      And Hal. Hal would murder Thomas if he laid a hand to either Rosalind or herself, but Thomas did not know that, and would never believe it until the moment he saw Hal’s sword coming for its revenge.

      “My lord? My lady?” Agnes had come from the inner chamber at the sound of Rosalind’s screams, and now stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands helplessly.

      “Get out!” Neville snarled at her, and Agnes fled.

      “Please …” Margaret tried yet again to take Rosalind from Neville’s arms, but he had the girl tighter than ever. “Please, Thomas, you fought so hard for Rosalind’s life the night she was born—”

      “And how would you know that, witch, for I thought you unconscious?”

      “Thomas—”

      “I want the truth, for I am tired of living wondering if your lies will kill me.”

      “And will you recognise the truth if I say it?” Margaret said, frightened and desperate for Rosalind’s life well before her own.

      “Aye,” Neville said, staring steadily at Margaret. “I will.”

      Margaret fought to calm herself. “Well, then, I will speak of truth to you, but only if you give Rosalind into Agnes’s care. I will not speak to you until she is safe.”

      Neville hesitated, then nodded. “Agnes!” he called, and the woman walked hesitantly through the doorway.

      Margaret tried to smile reassuringly at her, although she knew that her face must still be frozen in a rictus of fear, then reached for the child.

      Neville let Rosalind go, although he kept his eyes intent on Margaret as she took the girl, soothed her for a moment, then handed her to Agnes.

      “Our thoughtless cross words have disturbed her, as they have you,” Margaret said to her maid, “and for that I apologise to you both. Please, take her, and keep her safe.”

       And, please Jesus, keep her safe from her father should he come storming into that room!

      Agnes, hesitant and still afraid, took Rosalind, now considerably quieter after Margaret’s soothing, and walked as quickly as she dared into her own chamber.

      The door closed with a bang behind her, and Margaret allowed herself some measure of hope.

      She would tell Tom as much truth as she dared, but would that be enough? Would he believe it?

      If he did not, and carried through his threat, then all would be lost.

      If he did believe her, then she and hers would be almost certain of victory.

      But why did victory always come at such cost? What was so “victorious” about the suffering that must necessarily be expended along the way?

      Then she gasped in pain, for Neville had taken her wrist in a tight grip. He pulled her closer to him, and twisted her arm again until she cried a little louder.

      “The truth,” he said.

      “And what truth does pain buy you, Thomas?” she said, her face contorted with the agony now shooting up her arm. “Truth is only of value when it is given freely.”

      “Ah!” He let her go and Margaret lurched away, tears in her eyes as she massaged her bruised wrist.

      She stopped before the fire, gathering her courage, then turned back to Neville. “Ask what you will.”

      “Are you a demon?”

      “No,” she said in a clear tone, holding his stare without falter.

      He narrowed his eyes. “Are you a mere woman, as all other women?”

      “No,” she said.

      “Then if you are not demon, and you are not mere woman, then what are you?”

      “I am of the angels.”

      “What?” Neville took a step backward, his mind almost unable to recognise the meaning of the words she had spoken. “What do you mean?”

      “I can explain no more—”

      Neville’s shocked look dissolved instantly into one of murderous anger, and he turned and strode towards the door to Agnes’ chamber.

      “No!” Margaret ran after him, grabbed his arms with both her hands and twisted him about. “You want the truth? Then listen to it!”

      Now she was angry, and more than anything else that persuaded Neville she might indeed be speaking truth: fear would have only mouthed desperate lies.

      “Saint Michael said that the only truth that matters lies locked in Wynkyn de Worde’s casket, and in that the angel himself spoke truth. The truth of what I am telling you lies in that casket! But, Thomas, the truth within the casket also encompasses such a vast horror that for me to boldly throw the words of it in your face now would be to destroy you. Saint Michael once told you that you had to experience for yourself, rather than be told, did he not?”

      “Aye,” Neville said, “he did.” He could not now take his eyes from Margaret’s face even had he wanted to, for in her rage at him he could truly see the rage of the angels shining from her eyes.

      “And thus,” her voice was quieter now, and her grip not so painful about his arms, “whatever answers I give to your questions will be ‘proved’ only when you read for yourself the contents of the casket. But you,” she lifted her right hand and laid it flat against his chest, “can freely choose whether or not to believe me here, tonight, in this chamber.”

      “Then I place not only my life in your hands, but also the fate of Christendom.”

       Yes, Thomas, you do.

      “Yes, Tom, that you do. Into the hands of … what was it you have called me? Ah yes, into the hands of a whore.”

      She walked back to the fire, and stood with her back to him as she stared into its flames.

      “Margaret, those were the words of a foolish man.” All he could see, even though her face was now averted, was the rage of the angels in her eyes. He could not deny that angel rage, nor disbelieve it. It was not only Neville’s awe of the angels that made him give credence to her words, but something buried deep within him, so deep he could not see it or admit it, made him desperate to believe that she was anything but a demon.

      “Oh, aye, they were that.” Still she did not turn about.

      Neville remembered how the Roman prostitute had cursed him.

      “Margaret, is it true what I have been told, by angels and