Son of the Morning (22 page)

‘Has my family not suffered enough? I traded with demons, yes, but to be the true king that you made me! They took my son! They took my son! Favour me, Lord, favour me! Give me angels.’

He could never erase the memory of the deal he had made. The Mortimer was defended by forces divine or diabolical, he could not tell. So Edward had gone to the banker Bardi, that useful man, and asked him for help.

Bardi had never known that the angels were more than simply reluctant to appear, Philip neither. Bardi got him help, at terrible cost. He’d approached the French king of all people – relations had been friendly then. Philip had sent an intermediary, not knowing that Edward’s difficulty was more than the customary reluctance of angels to appear. Besides, he was keen to help Edward. It had been convenient for him to remove the old English king but he could not allow a successful rebellion against an appointed king to be seen to succeed.

Edward had gone by arrangement to a tavern, dressed as a common man. It was May and the fire, cajoled from green wood, filled the place with a hazy smoke in which the former Templar had appeared to him like a devil. Good Jacques was a tough, brown little man, hair shaved like a friar, wearing the livery of the Order of St John Hospitaller. He looked a fair bet for a magician. The Grand Master of The Hospitallers was with him, disguised as a common monk.

‘I know your problem,’ he’d said.

‘Which is?’

‘The continuing health of your father.’

‘Does Philip know?’

‘No one knows,’ said the Grand Master. ‘Outside of me and Good Jacques here. We came to your father’s aid, at his request.’

‘And Mortimer knew you got him away?’

‘Yes.’

The sweet smell of the fire smoke drifted over Edward. He tried to remain calm.

‘And where is my father now?’

The Grand Master shrugged. ‘He has no wish to be found.’

‘This is powerful information,’ said Edward. ‘You could use it to your great advantage.’

‘We intend to. But as practical men we see we have
you
where we want you. Not Mortimer. We will prosper if you come to true power.’

‘You will that,’ said Edward. ‘I will see to it.’

‘You will swear so?’

‘I will swear.’

‘Then I leave the details to our friend here,’ said the Grand Master. ‘I have no taste for consorting with demons.’

‘I can get you in front of The Mortimer,’ said the Good Jacques. ‘I can put him in your power. But can you dispatch him?’

‘Get me within arm’s length of him when he is undefended. I can do the rest.’

The Templar had tricked him, tricked the Grand Prior. He’d made Edward swear in front of the demon, summoning it in the wilds of the Welsh borders, well away from the prying eyes of the Hospitallers. It had taken fleshly form as a mud man, a thing of the clay of the soil, sucking and squelching into life. Edward, the dupe, had offered what Free Hell demanded, not The Hospitallers of God.

‘It has come from Hell?’ he asked Good Jacques.

‘It seeped through a crack in the outer wall. This demon will give you The Mortimer,’ said the Templar. ‘What will you give it?’

‘I will give your order power and influence in England.’

‘Not my order,’ the Templar had said. ‘I work for Free Hell. These demons would be free of Hell, to live on earth. Give him a place on earth so that when the gates of Hell are opened by the man of perdition the demons may rebuild Eden.’

‘I will not do it.’

‘Then remain in The Mortimer’s power.’

It is as it is.
No point going that far and faltering.

‘Gascony in Aquitaine,’ said Edward. It was his to give.

‘Swear that if Gascony is not delivered in seven years, you will let Free Hell take one of your children. Five years after that, another, and three after that yet one more.’

‘You will not kill my children.’

‘We will take them. Free Hell does not murder.’

‘It won’t come to that, you will keep this secret, even from the other demons of Hell?’

‘Secret forever, just provide the land, free of angels and kings.’

‘I will do it, and so I swear.’ Edward had been so desperate to be rid of the tyrant Mortimer, he would have agreed to anything. He was young and he was confident. A distant French dominion – however valuable – were outweighed by the reward of being his own man.

Only much later did he realise the Grand Prior had not sanctioned the deal that had been done. Good Jacques had gone missing, back to his work with the poor. Edward let The Hospitallers think his bargain had been with them, not with Free Hell. He gave them their lands and the care of his mother. They were useful for that.

Philip had got what he wanted – the English king held to an impossible bargain and he hadn’t been long making sure he couldn’t fulfil it by attacking Edward’s possessions in France.

In the merchant’s house in Antwerp, the wind blew again, more sparks, flashing out into the room. The smell of burning. The stuffed chair nearest the fire was smouldering. It had been a gift from his wife! He leapt up and threw a pitcher of water over it. But it was too late, the cover – his arms and those of the lion of Hainault quartered – were badly burned.

Edward’s temper sprang up. ‘If you will not help me, God, then I curse your name!’

There was another light in the room, a furnace light, deeper and more constant than the fire. ‘You prayed so once before.’

Edward looked up. The streaming sparks of the fire were flashing into the room. But instead of blinking away to nothing, they were swarming, taking shape.

In the air in front of him, the figure of a man, or something like a man, took form, its body made up of a shimmering field of sparks, the heat of it buckling and warping the air.

‘Your debt is not forgotten.’ The sparks seemed to crawl over the surface of the creature, little insects of flame.

‘Are you of Hell?’

‘Free Hell. I bring word from the liberated city of Dis.’

‘You spirits are various in your forms.’

‘As are the creatures of the earth.’

Edward stood up and looked directly at the demon. The heat coming from its body was intense.

‘Do you think I forgot who took William? Do you think I forget my wife, drowning in tears? The lengths I went to convince people he had died? To cast away my own heir. Because of you!’

‘You did not honour your debt. Seven years you were given from the day the Templars guided your way. Seven years to bring us Eden in France. You promised us Gascony.’

‘And you would have had it if Philip hadn’t invaded. I’m trying to honour my promise, you monster. Why do you think I am here?’

‘Free Hell won’t wait forever for its kingdom. Eden on earth, a refuge from flame and fire.’

‘You will have it! France will fall or we’ll carve a big enough chunk out of it to satisfy you. Then it will be yours and you can pour in all the demons you like.’

‘You can deal with the angels?’

‘France has no angels or they’d be in the field against us.’

‘When Hell comes to earth, they will stir.’

‘I’ll burn every church and every cathedral for one hundred miles. They will not come.’

‘They will come, and you must be protected. Know your allies. You will march for Lucifer or you will perish by the hand of God. See how He forsakes you. We will bring you a gift that will put the angels to flight. The man of perdition is here. He will find a banner of great power and bring it to you. Welcome Lucifer. Your father did; did he not break bread with the ordinary people? Labour with them until the fallen angel Despenser seduced him?’

Edward fell to his knees, crossing himself and uttering Hail Marys. ‘Equality is against God’s plan. A poor man is not equal to a king, as a rat is not equal to a lion. I have atoned. I have built great churches and shrines, and I have gone on my knees before the statue of the Virgin and begged forgiveness.’

‘Do you feel forgiven, Edward? Do the angels come?’

The king’s mind boiled with anger.

He took up his sword – the sword that King Arthur had pulled from the stone – holy and blessed, which, in Mordred’s hand, had killed the old king and become etched with his divine blood. The stain could still be seen, ruby red in the light of the demon’s fiery skin. Edward jabbed the sword towards the demon. ‘My father may be dead naturally by now.’

‘Where are your angels? Usurper!’

It was all Edward could do not to strike the thing.

‘He must be dead, God would not have let me sit on the throne for so long, nor delivered The Mortimer to me. Tell me, then, if my father lives, where is he?
Where is he
?’

‘We cannot tell. It is hidden.’

‘By angelic power?’

‘Or greater. Welcome Lucifer as friend, champion the poor as your father would have done if devils had not beset him. Lucifer forgives the man who forgives himself. Give us England and let us share it with its people. You would keep your children. We would restore the one we have taken to you.’

‘Get away. You will have what I promised you and no more! I will atone for my offence to God.’

‘There is no atonement for the theft of a throne.’

Edward’s mind was white with rage. He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. ‘A deal with demons is my only error! I will atone! I will atone!’

‘Atone for your rage. Atone for killing just men to hide your secrets! Where are those who went with your father? You killed them!’

‘And I’d kill them again to protect my right! I am king! You will not have my children! You will not take another!’

‘Seven, five and three. Eden in France or you pay what you owe.’

‘I’ll kill you!’

Edward swiped at the creature with his sword. The demon lost shape for an instant as the holy sword struck, the sparks just shimmering in a glittering sheet before the king. And then they seemed to explode, flying to every corner of the room, to the tapestries on the walls, the rugs on the floor, the cloth on the table, Edward’s clothes even. In a breath the room was on fire, smoke falling like a black waterfall from a wall hanging. Edward, oblivious to the flames spreading on his own shirt and hose, grabbed it from the wall and threw it down, but it was no good. The room had caught fire, the heat was overwhelming. He staggered back through the door, calling for his men, his squires, telling them to bring water as quick as they could. Men were on him then, beating at the fire on his body, leaping past into the room and then recoiling, overwhelmed by smoke.

He found himself in the street, men all around him, asking if he was all right, offering him water, blankets, ale, wine. His father,
still alive
? He had tried to ignore it for so long. It was as if, by believing it to be untrue, it would
be
untrue. And what of it, if he were? There was nothing he could do. He could not find him.

He had thought Mortimer lied, telling him his father lived just to control him by threatening to expose him as a usurper – but Edward bowed to no man. Either his father was dead, in which case he was king and could do as he pleased, or he was alive, in which case Edward was compromised and must act. Either way, the solution had been plain. Death of all those who might have sniffed the secret and, where blackmail kept him from murder, as in the case of Berkeley, bribery and advancement for his children. No bribe for The Mortimer. Edward had known he would never reveal where his father was, even on the scaffold, and he could not risk him saying the old king lived, lie or not. Better to gag him and restrain him in silence, as he had done.

Did anyone else know the secret? His uncle Edmund was in the grave, painted a fool for believing the story of old Edward’s survival and executed for rebellion in trying to ‘rescue’ him from Corfe. Foolish Edmund – sentenced to death by The Mortimer, but expecting young Edward to protect and pardon him. But his silence could not be bought, so he had died. Edward had killed so many to hold on to his secret. He had no regrets. He would do it again in an instant.

‘I’m perfectly well! Let me be!’ He pushed his men away from him.

The throng stood off him. ‘A candle, knocked over by a servant, no doubt,’ he said.

‘My lord!’ It was Montagu in a travelling cloak, standing beside him.
There
was the man he needed, to save England and to keep the promise that had won him his throne.

‘William,’ he said, ‘we need to speak.’

10

Joan comforted the little boy as he lay on the rich bed in his solar at the palace.

The nurses and other ladies had been dismissed and the queen of Navarre tended to her son alone.

The room was on the top floor of the palace with a good large window in clear glass. The sunset lit the room with a beautiful warm glow, though the boy had complained about the light and Joan had closed the shutters to shade him.

‘There, little Charles,’ she said, ‘you have had a shock. The presence of angels isn’t easy for anyone, least of all a child of your age. But you did well, very well. Tell me, darling, what did the angel really say?’

The little boy turned away from her in a silent fury.

‘Very well. There will be time enough for all that when you’ve recovered. Would you like some sugar? I have a few crystals.’

Charles still said nothing, his back to his mother. She took some of the sugar from a wrap of cloth and reached over to put it to his lips. He could not resist it and his tongue popped out to take it into his mouth.

‘There, that’s better, I think,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon be back in a good temper. Don’t cry, remember your status. Be in the habit of disguising your emotions and then they cannot be your master in front of lesser people.’

‘But mama.’

‘Yes, baby?’

‘The angel
did
say that. King of Navarre, king of France never.’

Joan tapped her tongue against her teeth in thought. ‘You could not have mistaken its words?’

‘No!’ The boy’s face was puce and swollen, his tears flowing freely.

Joan put her head into her hands and massaged her temples. She got up and went to the window. The day was dying now and Paris lay out before her, the smoke of its fires hazing the last rays of the sun.