The Crippled Angel Read online

  After all, they surely sensed his hesitancy towards Margaret. Perhaps they knew they now needed to pull out all stops in their effort to win him utterly to their cause.

  Neville slowly shook his head, his eyes unfocused, the ships in the distance only shimmering shapes in the rapidly strengthening sun. Did they not yet realise how he hated to be manipulated? And did they not realise how much he wanted to be able to hand Margaret his soul? To deny the angels.

  “Ah!” Neville said softly, blinking as he suddenly became aware of the time. Mary would be awake by now, and hopefully washed and tended and gowned by Margaret and her other ladies. Neville moved towards the hatchway, thinking to spend breakfast with Mary. He had found himself spending almost all day with her recently, more time than usual. Partly this was because of Bolingbroke’s and Margaret’s coolness towards him, but it was also because of their shared experience in the Chapel of St John’s. Neville had told Mary of the carpenter he’d met in the workshop off Cheapside (although he had not told her of what James the carpenter was making), and every day they spoke of it, marvelling. Neville still had no idea how he would manage to navigate the angels’ test, but he trusted in Christ that he would find a way to free mankind through giving his soul unhesitatingly to Margaret.

  If only she wasn’t treating him so badly…

  Hungerford and Umfraville were back by midday, having concluded safely their scouting and observation of Harfleur. After listening to their reports, Bolingbroke gave the order to disembark. Three by three the ships took their turn in approaching a sandy spit a few miles to the west of Harfleur, somewhat protected from the rolling waves and winds of the Narrow Seas. There the ships disgorged their cargo of war.

  The process was agonisingly slow. Only a few ships could approach the spit at any given time, and then it took them a good few hours each to unload. Three days passed, three days of Bolingbroke and his commanders anxiously pressing for everyone to hurry, before the process was complete.

  Neville happened to be on the spit as the last ship disembarked its cargo. These were mostly workmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, armourers, grooms and cooks—and just as Neville was about to turn away a familiar figure caught his eye.

  James the carpenter, bowed and stooped under what was unmistakably an intricately carved casket, slowly made his way down the gangplank.

  He saw Neville staring at him, nodded and smiled, then made his way towards the English camp with the rest of the tradesmen.

  III

  Tuesday 30th July 1381

  Bolingbroke established his camp only a mile distant from Harfleur in the gently rolling hills to its northwest. On the Saturday, while still waiting for the majority of his force to disembark, Bolingbroke had sent north the Earl of Suffolk and a force of some two thousand men to circle Harfleur in an effort to secure the three roadways that led into the town.

  They were only partially successful, as Bolingbroke now heard.

  The Earl of Warwick was leaning over a map on a trestle table that had been set up in front of Bolingbroke’s pavilion. A shade had been erected over the table and the men grouped about under it to protect themselves from the hot sun. Before them the ground slowly sank towards Harfleur, its walls and twenty-six towers aflutter with pennants.

  “The French knew we were coming,” Warwick said, and Bolingbroke hitched a shoulder up.

  “Of course. Our preparations could not have gone unnoticed.”

  “Yes…well,” Warwick replied. “They knew enough in advance, and had enough forethought, to protect Harfleur with everything they could. See.” His finger jabbed down at the river valley to the north of the town. “They’ve dammed the River Lézande, and now the valley is nothing but a lake a hundred yards wide. Suffolk had to detour above it, and it took him a day longer than expected.”

  Now Warwick’s finger fell on the salt marshes to the east of the town. They were bisected by a single road. “Harfleur managed to get in a convoy of food and other supplies on Sunday afternoon and evening, before Suffolk could complete his encirclement. Three hundred carts and some five score pack mules crossed the road.”

  Bolingbroke muttered a curse. “But Suffolk has now managed to encircle the town?”

  “Aye, as best he can.” Warwick’s finger drew a wide arc on the map from their position in the west, across the northern flooded river valley and then down to the east of Harfleur to the coastline. “We have them surrounded on land on three sides, and, of course—”

  “Our ships cover the south in the bay,” Bolingbroke completed for him. He raised his head from the map once more and stared at the vista before him. Harfleur was encircled by the English, true, but it was also very, very well defended. Assaulting this town would be difficult in the extreme. Harfleur sat on the bay formed by the expansive mouth of the River Seine. To the north was the river valley of the Lézande, now dammed, although water from the river still flowed through the town. To the east were salt marshes. To the south the bay, entrance into the port of Harfleur being via a small harbour. This was now crisscrossed with heavy chains below the surface of the water, and Bolingbroke knew there was no way he could sail his ships into the harbour itself.

  Harfleur was surrounded by a perimeter wall of some two miles. It was well constructed, protected by its twenty-six towers—some with cannon—and a moat. Only three gates broached the wall. One to the northeast (leading to the now flooded river valley), one to the southeast (leading to the salt marsh road) and one to the southwest (leading to the hills upon which the English were now encamped). All three gates were heavily protected by wooden barbicans, earthworks and an extra moat dug about all three.

  And each would be a bastard to approach, let alone broach. Bolingbroke’s preferred method, to bombard the wall and towers about all three gates and then ram them once the defences were in disarray, was not going to work here. Both the placement of the wood and earthworks and the wide moats made that impossible.

  That left an all-out attack on the walls—an option not to be considered until the town had been starved and bombarded through a lengthy siege—or…

  “Tunnelling,” Bolingbroke said. “It is our only option. I can’t afford to waste months here starving Harfleur into submission while Philip and Charles manage to deploy their army to their best advantage.”

  Warwick and the other commanders present all nodded. They’d reached the same conclusion themselves. Tunnelling under a town’s walls until they collapsed was a tried and proven tactic, and Bolingbroke had among his engineers some of the most experienced tunnellers in Christendom. With luck and effort, Harfleur’s defeat could be accomplished within two weeks.

  With luck, and the grace of God.

  “Meanwhile,” said Bolingbroke, “we can set the artillery on these hills, spanning the entire west and northwest section of the walls.” He pointed to three spots, one to the south of him, and two to the north. “There, there and there. Bombard the walls by day and night. The French will be so consumed with trying to negate the effects of the bombardment they will hopefully neglect to set aside men to observe for tunnelling.”

  He paused, returning his gaze to study the town itself. “Target the walls, but also the steeple of the church of Saint Martin. It will no doubt cause much distress if we manage to demolish their beloved church.”

  And with that he turned away.

  By that evening the artillery had moved their three massive cannon into position. The cannon were new, commissioned by Bolingbroke at the start of his reign, and the biggest Christendom had yet seen. Cumbersome, bulky, difficult and always with the potential to blow up in everyone’s faces, the cannon could nevertheless hurl two hundred pound missiles well over a mile in distance. The entire army seemed to have adopted them as mascots, and had given all three names.

  London sat atop a hill nearest to the coast from where it could bombard the harbour and southwestern portions of Harfleur’s walls. The grimly- but aptly-named England’s Messenger sat in the central portion of the
western hills, from where it could send its message of hate and ill will deep into the town. And, finally, the Beloved Mary was positioned further to the north, from where she could spit her missiles into the northern defences of Harfleur. (Mary, when she’d heard the men had named one of the cannon for her, was said to have shuddered and to have turned aside her head.)

  That night began the bombardment of Harfleur.

  IV

  Monday 5th August 1381

  “ here is he do you think, Tom?”

  Neville did not have to ask of whom Mary spoke.

  “Somewhere close, I am sure.”

  “I dreamed of him last night.”

  Neville’s first reaction to this statement was one of utter gratefulness—at least Mary had managed some sleep. Her condition was now pitiful, and Neville did not think she was long for this world.

  Was she the reason the carpenter carried the casket?

  The voyage itself had almost killed her. Neville remembered how ill Mary had been after their voyage into exile in Flanders; now she looked tenfold worse than she had then. She had lost so much weight she was skeletal. Her bones showed through her flesh, and her skin had collapsed so greatly about her face she looked more like breathing skull than living woman. Her skin was papery and grey, her eyes dull, her lips cracked.

  Two of her bones in her left arm had broken in the effort to lift her out of the Grace Dieu, and the arm rested encased in a sling and cushioned splints. Mary was now so fragile that every movement threatened to break her apart.

  Normally Neville would have held her hand, now all he did was stroke the back of her right hand very gently with his forefinger, careful not to break the papery skin.

  “Did Culpeper give you a dose of his liquor?” he asked, wondering if this was what had aided her to sleep.

  “Nay.” Her tongue, grey and swollen, licked at her lips. “I refused his liquor last night.”

  Neville wondered at her strength, not only in enduring the agony that must now be coursing through her, but at resisting the entreaties of her ladies, no doubt distraught that she would refuse the numbing liquor.

  “I wanted to see,” Mary continued, “if my dreams were caused by the liquor…or by something else.”

  Neville smiled very softly, glad for her, knowing that Christ in truth must have come to her.

  “I dreamed of a carpenter’s shop,” she said. “It was full of the sweet scent of shavings, and soft, gentle light. I saw our Lord there, working. He turned, as if knowing my presence, and smiled at me, loving, comforting, and said my name. I woke then, and for several hours I had no pain.”

  “It is a shame we cannot bottle dreams,” Neville said, “for methinks they do you much more good than Culpeper’s liquor.”

  Mary laughed, a little breathlessly, and when she spoke again it was to talk of other things.

  Later that evening a delegation of Englishmen rode deep into the orchards four miles to the northwest of their encampment, gathering fruit for the army. They’d grown tired of the dull fare of army provisions, and the apples on these trees looked as tempting as any they’d ever seen.

  V

  Wednesday 7th August 1381

  Master Giles, Bolingbroke’s chief engineer, flinched as yet another dull thunder rolled over his head. He was crouched deep in a tunnel, somewhere in the noman’s-land between the hills of the English encampment and the western walls of Harfleur.

  The thunder of London was followed a half second later by an enormous rumble, and Giles crouched even further, his arms laced protectively over his head. Clods of dirt crumbled over him, but nothing worse, and after a moment he dared peek out from under his arms.

  The tunnel was low enough that everyone within it had to crouch, but reasonably wide, so that they could pass each other with ease. Wood, carried all the way from England, for Bolingbroke had long anticipated his need of tunnelling, shored up the hanging wall, or roof, of the tunnel. Dull light glowed from oil lamps placed regularly the length of the tunnel, enough light to show that Giles was as filthy as every other man sorry enough to have to work down here.

  “How close are we?” muttered Jack Williamson, apprentice to Giles.

  “Too close for comfort,” Giles replied. I don’t want any of us in this tunnel once it gets too much further. Hear that rumble after London fired?”

  Williamson nodded.

  “That was masonry falling from Harfleur’s wall,” Giles said. “If we’re close enough to hear that…”

  Williamson took a deep breath, unconsciously looking over his shoulder towards their escape route. “How much longer then?”

  “A day. Then we set the explosives.”

  A day, thought Williamson. A day…why didn’t I take up potting, like my father wished?

  Giles moved cautiously forward, murmuring to the miners before him, then shouldering past them to inspect the face of the tunnel. “Dig down now,” he said. “About three yards. The foundations of the wall will not be far ahead of us. Then dig the pit north. Within twenty yards you should connect up with your neighbouring tunnel.”

  The idea was to dig great trenches, perhaps some thirty yards in length, under the foundations of the wall. These would then be packed with explosives and, when set off, the section of wall should, in theory, come tumbling down.

  Giles murmured encouragement to the miners, clapped one of them on the shoulder, then rejoined Williamson. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Williamson nodded eagerly.

  VI

  Thursday 9th August 1381

  “ s all in readiness?” Bolingbroke asked Master Giles.

  The engineer glanced at the king. The man’s face was tense, and the skin about his eyes and mouth so tight that the engineer thought the king was likely suffering a pounding headache.

  “Yes, sire,” he said, returning his gaze to Harfleur a mile distant. Both he and the king, plus a score of commanders, messengers and assorted valets stood before Bolingbroke’s pavilion on the hill overlooking the town and harbour. “I need only to give the signal.”

  And that everything was in readiness was, to Master Giles’ mind, a profound miracle. He’d spent the entire night in the tunnel, a quavering Williamson at his side, setting most of the explosives himself. Yesterday afternoon many of the miners had begun to complain of griping in the guts. Within an hour or so, their griping had turned to such massive diarrhoea that they’d had to return to their spots within the encampment to rest. Giles was forced to find replacements for them—and that was not the easiest of tasks. Few ordinary soldiers wanted to go down, or had the ability or skills to work within, the tunnels, and so those left had to perform herculean tasks in order to get both pits and explosives ready.

  This morning Williamson reported to Giles that five of the miners struck with the griping had died during the night.

  Rumour had it that several score men had died among the entire encampment, and that the French had resorted to poisoning in order to thwart the English attempts to broach the walls.

  “The bombardment went well last night,” Bolingbroke said reflectively. His right hand rubbed at a spot on his temple, and Master Giles’ sympathy went out to him. He would not like to be responsible for twenty thousand men and a nation’s hopes in this dog of a country whose natives resorted to unchivalric poisoning to repel their enemies. No wonder he had a headache.

  “Aye, your grace,” Giles said, then continued to answer the question he knew was lurking behind Bolingbroke’s statement. “London, England’s Messenger and the Beloved Mary, as well as fifteen of the smaller cannon, are primed, ready to fire. If it please God that these explosives work, then their bombardment will complete Harfleur’s doom.”

  “You are a good man,” Bolingbroke said, his fingers still working at his temple. “I am well served in you.”

  Giles ducked his head, both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. He had only done his job, and he would lay down his life for this king if it were required.
r />   Bolingbroke’s eyes slid Giles’ way, and he smiled. “Perhaps a bombardment might shake this headache loose, Giles?”

  “I pray it be so, your grace.”

  Bolingbroke smiled. “I think only an English victory shall cure this throbbing, Giles. I shall not rest until the mayor and council of Harfleur are bent on their knees before me.”

  He gestured at Hungerford and Suffolk, both standing close. “All is in readiness?”

  “Aye, your grace,” both replied simultaneously.

  Bolingbroke took a deep breath. “Good, then let us begin. Giles, the signal, if you please.”

  Giles inclined his head. “Your grace.” He stepped over to a man-at-arms and took from him his pike. About its sharpened end Giles fastened a length of crimson cloth, then he hefted the pike, and waved it slowly from side to side above his head.

  Behind them, in the dip of the hills hidden from French eyes, miners scurried into the openings of mines, eager to light the fuses and then retreat back into daylight.

  “Pray to sweet Jesu,” Bolingbroke muttered, “that we blow up the French and not us!”

  There ensued long, tense moments of waiting. Deep beneath his feet Bolingbroke knew that sparks were blazing along almost a mile of fuse lines, running towards six pits with their bellyfuls of explosives.

  If this did not work he did not know what else he could do. A lengthy siege was, well, too lengthy, and he could not afford to leave Harfleur intact at his back. Sweet Jesu, hear me now, let this succeed…let this succeed…