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 demons alike … that the fate of Christendom will hang on whether or not I hand my soul on a platter to a woman?”
She turned back to face him so that he could clearly see her face. “Yes.”
“And are you that woman?”
“Yes.” She paused, frowning a little. “Who else?”
“If you are of the angels, then how is it that Saint Michael has not told me of you?”
“Tom, hush, you will set Rosalind to a-crying all over again, even through these walls.”
“Answer me!”
“You cannot understand until you have the contents of the casket laid out before you.”
“You said to me earlier this afternoon that there was truth outside the casket as well … can you not tell me of that, at least?”
Margaret shook her head. “Tom, I am sorry, but there is further for you to travel, and more for you to understand before I can—”
“Then I can never love you.”
“I know that, and it is of no matter.”
Angry now because he had wanted to hurt her with those words and had not succeeded, Neville strode over to a pile of linens which sat on a flat-lidded chest, fiddled with them for a moment, then looked back at Margaret.
“How is it, when you say that you are of the angels, that Saint Michael so reviles you?”
“As there is dissension within God’s Church on earth, then so also there is dissension within the ranks of heaven.”
“The angels are divided? But that means that …”
“Evil has worked its vile way everywhere, Tom. Saint Michael has also said this to you. Now, this time, this age, will be the final battleground.”
“And your role in this?”
“You know my role, Tom. We spoke of it only moments past. My role is to tempt you. To test you.”
He stared, and then walked slowly over to her, holding her eyes the entire way. When he reached Margaret, he gently cupped her chin in his hand, then bent down and kissed her.
“Then you play your role well,” he said finally, shocked to find himself, as her also, shaking with the desire unleashed by that one kiss.
“It is what I am here for,” she whispered.
Neville momentarily closed his eyes, then drew away from her. He sat down in the chair, suddenly remembering that his head had been aching horribly for hours; now the pain in his temples flared beyond his ability to deal with it.
Margaret saw him drop his head into his hands. Silently she walked behind the chair, and placed her hands about his head.
He jumped, but allowed her to draw his head and shoulders back until they rested against the high back of the chair. Her fingers rubbed at his temples, and he drew in a breath of amazement and gratefulness as the pain ebbed away.
She lifted her hands away, and sat down on the carpet before him.
“Thank you,” he said, and she inclined her head, but remained silent.
Neville hesitated, but could not put out of his mind the way Margaret
