Son of the Morning (73 page)

Edward fancied he could still taste the smoke of the humiliating defeat at Tournai. The army had run, not even been put to the sword. They had just melted away. There had been grumbles of mutiny there. One group of Welsh bowmen had openly made the Fork of Lucifer sign when they’d been informed they’d have to wait for pay. Did it hurt them to starve a little for their king? That’s what they did, the poor: they starved and they froze for the glory of greater men. That was their God-ordained duty.

Edward needed to pray. He wound down the stairs and through into St John’s Chapel, two bodyguards falling in beside him as he exited his private chamber. He told them to wait at the chapel door. He loved it in there – the close huddled pillars, the bright arches of light from behind and above the altar. It was not a public church but a little place to which he could escape to be alone with God – if He were there.

He prayed, as he had always prayed:

‘Dear God. I sincerely repent my sins. I have traded with darkness but only seeking the light. Grant me your light now. Grant me your aid and your direction.’

A thump at the door.

Edward ignored it.

Another thump.

‘Go away! I am at prayer!’

Edward tried to fight down his temper, aware it was not appropriate in such a holy place.

The door opened and young Tom Whitley, the squire, poked his head into the chapel, his face white as a priest’s surplice.

‘I said “get out!” I will not have my most private chapel violated! Get out before I put you out!’

The young man was ashen. ‘Majesty, there is a pressing visitor here to see you.’

‘I’m not seeing anyone for a week, now do as I say and get out of my sight! Tell them to wait, I don’t care if it’s the Pope himself!’

‘Lord, he is most insistent, he …’

There was a rumpus at the doors of the chapel, men shouting, a couple of loud bangs. Edward stood, picked up his sword. The pain in his thigh from the crossbow bolt at Sluys was still there and he was stiff as a board from walking awkwardly.

‘What impertinence is this?’

An enormous figure in a green hood had pushed its way past the guards, so hard that two of them fell flat unconscious on the flagstones. Three more men were attached to its neck, trying to pull it back, but it shook them off as a dog shakes off water. The men drew and came for the figure, but it threw back its head before letting out a roar like the fall of a city wall, sending all three to the floor.

Edward too drew.

The figure picked up each of the guards and threw them through the door. Then he closed the door of the chapel and put the wooden bar across. Edward crossed himself. As the figure walked forward it became apparent that it was a good head and shoulders taller than the king, who was himself a tall man. It threw back its hood. It was not a man at all but a huge lion, the colour of dull steel with a mane comprised of metal rods, straight as crossbow quarrels and, it appeared, a good deal sharper than most.

Edward again crossed himself. ‘Are you an assassin?’

‘I’m an ambassador. Assassination is just a sideline.’ Its voice was a metallic growl.

‘An ambassador for whom?’

‘We need to talk in private,’ said the lion. It bowed.

‘About what? You have to tell me, then
I
tell the king.’ It was Tom Whitley, who had been locked inside.

‘Private!’ roared the lion, right in Whitley’s face. The squire collapsed to the flagstones as Edward instinctively covered his ears.

‘You haven’t killed him, have you?’ enquired Edward.

‘Don’t know. Do you want me to?’

‘No, look, I still have another summer’s campaign to honour my debt. You’re here too soon.’

‘You haven’t got a debt to us,’ said the lion. ‘Let me rest my paws – I’ve had to swim from France.’ It hopped up onto the altar and sat facing Edward.

‘You are of Free Hell?’

‘I curse its name. I am Lord Sloth of Hell, plain and simple, the infernal pit, the lake of fire, Hades, Gehenna, a rough neighbourhood, no matter how you slice it.’

‘I will not deal with demons!’

‘Sounds like you already have. I’m a devil, anyway. Satan is my master, not Lucifer, he who enforces order for God.’

Edward glanced at Whitley. He owed his family £5,000. It would be convenient to have him eaten, but he couldn’t serve up all his debtors on a plate to devils. He doubted there were enough devils in Hell to eat so many. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Why are you here?’

‘To offer you a deal. The way it is, is this. Your angels have deserted you and will not come to your aid, we can see that. It seems you’ve done some sort of deal with the other side, Free Hell. Boo hoo, a pity, you hurt our feelings. Never mind, we’ll get over it but spare us the details so we don’t have to worry too much about it. The fact is that Free Hell is breaking through into this world. We can’t have that and we need to oppose it. I’m offering you help with putting down your rebellion. We’ll lick the poor into shape, get your armies behind you again, put God’s holy order back in place.’

‘Who knows about my dealings?’

‘Well, Satan, that’s rather his job – keeping score and all that. But the point is, we’re offering you a deal. You are a king. It would be quite right for you to command me.’

If Satan did know that Edward’s father was alive, it seemed he had not yet told his minions.

‘And what do I deliver?’

‘A say in the running of your armies.’

‘Can you oppose the French angels?’

‘I am a senior devil. I can control a fallen angel, with effort. And certain fallen angels can expose weaknesses in the real angels.’

‘But the angels do God’s work too.’

‘God likes us to vie for his love. Who is more deadly to the ambition of kings: their enemies or their brothers? So it is with us.’

‘But the angels would just destroy you.’

‘Not necessarily so,’ said Sloth, ‘for a start, I hear that the French have their own problems with their angels. Beyond the one that died.’

‘I heard that. Its body went missing too.’

‘Don’t count on it staying missing for long. For now, know that God is with you. Sort of. Well, we’re with God and we’re offering to be with you. I don’t know what God would think about that but he is notoriously hard to second guess.’

‘If God is with us, why did the angel defect at Tournai? Why did it leave us in such trouble?’

‘The angel didn’t defect at Tournai. It was a simple lack of paying a bill, according to our spies. The Holy Roman Emperor despaired of getting any more money from you and withdrew your vicarship. Now Philip is making some interesting deals with his own factions of Hell. That’s why you need us.’

‘Which factions?’

‘Ambitious devils. Devils who would rather live here on earth than in Hell.’

‘And what do you want?’

‘What you want – the conquest of France. God’s holy order maintained under devil order, not angel, so we might show him how this world would look if ruled by devils, not angels. To beat the other side, of course. I want my devils up here, not some jumped down fallen angels.’

‘You would put yourself above angels?’

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of ambition, is there? You’d put yourself above the French king.’

‘If I renege on my deal I will lose more children.’

‘Not with devils on your side. Batting off demons is our speciality.’

‘I need time to think about this.’

‘Of course, of course. But let me offer you a bone, so to speak. God, I’d love a bone. Have you got any bones, meaty ones? Don’t look so pale, man, I’m not talking about yours. Half a cow will do.’

‘You can be fed.’ Edward thought of how the creature had thrown his men down, how much more formidable it seemed than any human fighter. If Philip had sinned so, if he had risen up against God’s order, if these creatures truly were on God’s side then perhaps …’

‘I’ll offer you a little something,’ said Sloth. ‘You have a rebellion going on in your streets.’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me and my boys sort out the ringleaders. We’ll find ’em, drag ’em in and you can make some sort of example of them. I’ll tear out their vital bits in front of a crowd myself if you like, that should give a few of them pause for thought. Hand this over to us – suppression of demons and the forces of Lucifer is our stock in trade. Let us sort out the domestic situation while you ponder what might be done in France when your truce ends.’

Edward thought. ‘Without obligation on my part?’

‘Call it a sample,’ said Sloth, ‘a neb of pepper to whet the goodwife’s appetite.’

‘I am no one’s goodwife,’ said Edward.

‘An expression, majesty!’ The lion took an extravagant bow.

‘Fetch the ringleaders, then,’ said Edward, ‘and let me consult my counsellors. In the meantime let me get some doctors to these men.’

‘They’ll recover soon enough,’ assured Sloth. ‘Now might I request the cow, majesty? I am very hungry and would eat before more of my troops arrive. I have a foul temper while hungry.’

‘Very well,’ said Edward, ‘you will be my guest. You may eat in the Great Hall while the ambassadorial rooms are prepared. How many of your troops are you expecting?’

‘Oh,’ said the lion, ‘hundreds, eventually.’

Edward looked at the bodies on the floor. The sooner he got this devil into a formal agreement the better, he thought. He didn’t want hundreds of these creatures roaming around under no obligation to the crown.

‘I’ll summon my counsellors and then we’ll discuss terms,’ said Edward.

‘Spoken like a lion!’ said Sloth.

Edward put his head into his hands. He was fighting
for
demons abroad – trying to fulfil his deal and give them their Eden, allying with devils at home to prevent a rebellion. He was fighting the disciples of demons at home, trying to prevent them establishing their own Eden there. He was fighting God’s king in France, invoking His name and hoping to please him, whilst knowing full well the Almighty regarded him as a usurper. He was hoping his father, the true king of England would die, wherever he was, in time to bring the angels to his side and solve his problems. What it is to be a king, to stand balancing on a web of intrigues and alliances that could snare one as easily as one’s enemy.

Edward drew his sword Clarent and looked at the blade. ‘Arthur pulled you forth in simpler times,’ he said. ‘What I would give for a clear enemy, a clear friend. Montagu, where are you?’

He drove the sword into the side of a bench, embedding it a hand’s span into the wood. Then he wrenched the sword out.

‘Strike anyway,’ he said. ‘Strike and fight. That is what it is to be a king.’

39

Montagu told the pardoner to make as small a hole in the base of Caesar’s Tower as he could. The pardoner waved the feather and a hole appeared but nothing behind it. The tower was solid at the base.

‘Keep going.’

The pardoner did as he was bid but it became clear the feather was opening a way through solid rock. Montagu didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to go around to the front of the tower where he risked being seen. But that was where Good Jacques had tried to get in. He could keep burrowing as the tunnel had been burrowed at Nottingham but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t go straight through the tower – bring it down on top of him even.

There was nothing for it: they had to go around to the front. Close to the wall, he prodded the pardoner ahead of him with his sword. Osbert slunk round. They were at a doorway, or rather what should have been a doorway. It was entirely bricked in. Fortunately the courtyard and grounds were deserted.

Montagu gestured to the doorway and the pardoner waved the feather. A gap opened leading onto a staircase. They would have to be quick now, the breach might very quickly be discovered. Osbert went through first, Montagu swiftly following.

As soon as they were inside, Montagu began urging the pardoner on.

‘I’m doing my best,’ said Osbert. ‘Ahh!’

He had clattered into another wall – the feather’s scant light not enough to warn him it was there.

A wave and there was a hole in it, small enough that anyone following would be very vulnerable when climbing through.

‘Go on,’ said Montagu.

In the moony light of the feather, Osbert looked as though he might hesitate but seeing Montagu’s sword, available for use even in the man’s left hand – he did as he was bid. Montagu slid through right behind him, his hand on the pardoner’s ankle to prevent any attack, his injured right shoulder agony against the stone.

Montagu needn’t have worried. Osbert was not a brave man. Before he took on an English military hero he would want better odds than his opponent already beaten up, his arm a wreck, on his knees, one-eyed, in a space so tight that a couple of stamps to the head could hardly fail to kill him. Montagu would have needed to have been unconscious for a week before Osbert would have summoned the courage to take him on.

‘Do you know what you’re looking for is here?’ whispered Osbert.

‘Whatever is here, they don’t want people getting to it easily, do they?’ returned Montagu.

They pressed on, and on. Another wall, this one sealed with a magic circle containing a drawing of the head of a devil, just visible in the dim light.

‘Can the feather get through this?

‘Find out,’ said Montagu. He hoped Good Jacques had not got there before him, but he didn’t see how he could have. The courtyard had been swarming with men when the Templar had jumped. No, he was gone and should stay gone if he valued his life.

The pardoner waved the feather and the head of the devil disappeared, a gap opening up in the wall. Inside it was light. The pardoner crossed himself.

‘This is as far as I go, threat or no threat,’ he said.

‘Look in there or die now,’ said Montagu.

‘Actually, it turns out it’s only as far as I go, no threat,’ said pardoner. ‘With threat, I’m happy to proceed.’

He stuck his head inside. ‘It stinks in here.’ He gave a low whistle.

‘What is it?’

‘The boy Navarre!’ said the pardoner. He crawled inside a very small room. There, curled up in the tiny space was, Charles. He was sweating and shivering, a strong light coming from a cloak of angel feathers wrapped around him.