Son of the Morning (26 page)

She stepped inside the small room and Charles followed her.

‘Queen Joan,’ said the devil, his skin mask drooping on his face, another candle burning next to him. ‘Hell loves you and hears what is in your heart. Hell understands the suffering you have undergone. I have suffered too. Our enemy is near to success. In the name of God, in the name of Satan, I offer you my aid.’

Queen Joan closed the door, crossing herself. ‘He hasn’t harmed you, Charles?’

‘No mama, he has just talked.’

The lady was used to negotiating at a high level and something struck her about the devil. ‘You are desperate.’

‘My lady?’

‘You have come to us as a last resort. I know devils. One was trapped at my father’s court years ago and dispatched by the angel. You would not have known him from a normal man. Yet here you are, in this shabby guise, burned and torn, sir. You have been somewhere before here and it has not suited your temper at all.’

‘Indeed not, madam. Our enemies prosper. Free Hell is on the move, arming its servants, and the rightful lords of Hell can do little to stop it.’

‘What is Free Hell?’ said Charles.

‘The part the fallen angels took from the devil guardians appointed by God.’

‘I have heard this heresy before,’ said Joan. ‘But the devil I met was killed by an angel. Why did the angel kill him, if he was on the same side?’

‘Angels do kill devils. The angels fear us. We would take their place. They serve God in their way; we serve him in ours. Angels are jealous and can brook no rivalry. They tolerate us while we stay in Hell or serve them. If we venture to independence they kill us where they can.’

‘You account yourself a servant of God?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Then say: “I turn to God as Saviour”.’

‘I turn to God as Saviour.’

‘I submit to God as Lord.’

‘I submit to God as Lord.’

Joan sat back on the bed. ‘There will be no contract for our souls with you.’

‘I ask none.’

She nodded. ‘What are you offering?’

‘France in flames,’ said the devil.

‘Why should I believe you can do that? This is the greatest nation on earth, protected by seven angels and a host of powerful relics.’

‘Because,’ said the devil, ‘I know how to kill the angels. If we kill but one, the rest may withdraw all support for Philip. They will stay in their shrines and will not allow him the Oriflamme. Without them, France will fall, the English will burn and kill, and Hell will cast its dominion over this land. Free Hell is trying to break into this realm. We will make it a wasteland.’

‘Can God still smile on those who kill His angels?’

‘It depends,’ said the devil, ‘on how the angels are killed. We will not harm one ourselves – we will use an enemy of Heaven. That minimises the risk to us. It will not be our offence.’

‘But there
would
still be risk?’ said the boy.

Joan put her hand on her boy’s head. Charles was so forward, so precocious, that sometimes she forgot he was only a child.

‘To kill such a creature is always risky. They exist at all times and in all places, their attention may be anywhere. Philip’s may be here in the room with us.’

Joan looked around and crossed herself.

‘If it is, we are undone anyway, so better to proceed as if it knows nothing,’ said the devil. ‘If it can be drawn to the flesh then it might be killed. The man of perdition might do it.’

‘Who is that?’ said Joan.

‘The Antichrist,’ said the devil, ‘the one who would upset the order God placed upon the earth, turn kings into servants and make servants masterless. I was sent to kill him, but he’s a tricky customer. He’s got my knife. That’s a good knife, that. A good cutter. A good stabber.’ He illustrated by stabbing and swiping at the air.

‘How shall we find this person?’

‘He’s an English boy called Dowzabel. He could kill the angel, for I have seen what protects him.’

‘What is that?’

‘Another angel, though a fallen one. We can use her, and we can use him to kill the angel in the chapel. Then what relics you shall have – angel’s feathers, their teeth and their bones.’

‘What favours do they bring?’ said Charles.

‘Many. With a feather a man might walk through a wall, with a bone heal all maladies.’

‘Why haven’t you killed this boy if you were sent here to do it?’ said Joan.

‘Because of his angel protector. But if we can draw the angel of Sainte-Chapelle to rapture with her, then both will be enraptured. Then might we strike against the boy and the angel. If we kill the angel – or he manages to kill it, as I believe he could – then the fallen angel will go mad with grief for a while and be in no state to defend him. Then …’ He mimed swallowing a candle and breathing out flame, ‘we strike’.

Charles hopped on the spot, his eyes streaming slightly from the smoke that had issued from Nergal’s mouth during his demonstration of the Antichrist’s death.

‘It would be sweet to take the Valois angels, would it not, mama?’

‘It would indeed,’ said Joan. ‘What do we need to do, devil?’

‘First, you must bring me to a room which I can seal, so as to be free of the spirits of the air. Free Hell has demons on the earth, and they torment me and prevent my finding my skin in a way they would not dare, were I whole. And you must fetch me a man to eat, his skin to wear. One that will allow me influence. Then I might regain my former strength.’

‘That,’ said Joan, ‘we can do. I’ll send for the cardinal in the morning. Will his face do?’

‘It will. And write to the banker Bardi. We thought to use him in our stratagems before, yet he proved a slippery sort of pawn. He can send the boy to you,’ said the devil.

‘The Antichrist? It would be exciting to see such a person, mama!’

‘Yes, it would, Charles,’ said Joan. ‘I will summon the banker tomorrow. But for now, I will pray.’

14

St Castor’s at Coblenz teemed with colour – knights and princes in their best outfits, splendid as statues in a shrine, decked in gold, in blue, in purple and in red. The air was hazy with the smoke of hundreds of candles, their light drawing glitters and sparkles from the crowned heads of the prince-electors in attendance. There must have been fifty of them, thought Edward, each come to witness this grand alliance.

Edward stood outside the open doors in a light mizzle, waiting for his processional entrance to begin. At his side was Grand Prior Alan York of the English tongue of the Knights Hospitaller, dressed in his plain black surcoat and white cross. He was a small, wiry man with a lean, tough face. A hell of a fighter, Edward knew. The Knights were highly favoured by Louis too. Edward fairly itched inside his robes when he thought of the secrets they could pass on to the Emperor if they so wished.
Put it from your mind. It is as it is.
Behind Edward stood Henry Burghesh in his bishop’s robes, Montgomery and a host of nobles too, laughing away at some joke of his. Montgomery wasn’t particularly high born but he had a marvellous touch for getting money out of people, so Edward introduced him to whoever he could. Edward spoke to the Grand Prior in a low voice, anxious the Bishop should not hear.

‘I had thought to send for you once the arse kissing was done,’ Edward said. ‘The Emperor invited you, did he?’

‘
You
did not.’

‘Indeed not. What have you done for him?’

‘Less than we’ve done for you.’

Edward laughed without much mirth. ‘How fares my mother?

‘Well.’

‘The man of Wales?’ He meant his father.

The Grand Prior’s eyes were neutral. He said nothing and Edward had the great urge to punch him. As a king he was unused to restraining his urges, and the necessity of so doing made him more angry still.

‘It will be good to see an angel in Westminster Abbey again,’ said the Grand Prior.

‘I’ve banned you from the capital. You’ve got a bloody great pile in Norfolk for your order, be happy with that.’

Edward rocked on his feet. The Hospitallers made him uncomfortable. How many of these bastards knew his secrets? He imagined the Grand Prior swinging from a gibbet at Tyburn. An attractive notion. Impossible, of course. They were too useful in containing his sorcerous mother.

‘The English warriors must feel they do God’s work. An angel on our side shows them that they do,’ said Edward.

‘I hear there are men in your kingdom who want no such backing.’

‘What?’

‘There are mutterings of blasphemy – men holding Lucifer as creator and cursing the name of God. Lebonne’s heresy. Genoa’s too. Our Italian tongue says the people are ready to overthrow the Guelf faction.’

Edward thought of that demon, burning in his room. ‘Could be good for us if the Genoese take their galleys back from Philip for good.’

‘But not if revolution is preached in England.’

‘If I hear such talk it will be punished.’

‘It would still be more practical if we shut off as many avenues of revolution as possible.’

Edward turned to face him, drawing him close and whispering. ‘If you harm one hair on my mother’s head I will drop the war against France, destroy you in England and sail east against the rest of you, Prior. Whatever you have over me will be as nothing. You know me to be reckless, and you know I can wreck.’

‘It was not my suggestion to harm your mother. Your mother is a remarkable woman, but she does not follow Lucifer. She follows God, though she has communed more directly with his servant Satan.’

‘Are you trying to goad me, Prior? Any other man in England would be on the floor spitting teeth after saying that. My mother can bring none of her powers to bear while she is locked in Castle Rising under your holy wards. I wish her to live out her days there, is that clear?’

‘It’s an expensive operation to contain her like that.’

‘A sight more expensive if I expose your tricks or start burning your monasteries. It’s a compromise, Grand Prior, life’s full of ’em. Get used to it.’

‘I did that many years ago.’ The Grand Prior leaned back, perhaps sensing Edward’s great desire to strike him.

Bugles sounded and Edward strode forward into the church, glad to get out of the rain and the company of the monk. God, he hated the Hospitallers for how they’d compromised him, useful as they were.

A huge white vault stretched above him, its beams studded with stars, the windows lighting the candle smoke like the rays of the sun from behind a cloud.

On a great throne before the altar, a sceptre in his lap, an orb in his left hand and a naked sword in his right sat Louis, king of the Romans, king of the Germans, Holy Roman Emperor – a severe, lean man with a full beard. He wore a massive golden crown and a robe of rich scarlet. Edward, who had persuaded the Margrave of Juliers to lend him his crown, was not quite so splendid but splendid enough. He too wore scarlet and also indigo. He strode on, bowed to the Emperor and knelt before him. Edward’s head swam. So much effort, so near to his reward. He half expected the ceiling to fall in, given the luck he’d had.

Trumpets sounded and Louis stood.

‘Edward, beloved cousin, most noble king of England whose birthright in France has been denied by the usurper Charles of Valois, I invest you with all my authority to use as you see fit in furthering your noble cause. Your wars are our wars and you fight in defence of the empire, put on earth by Holy God. Disobedience to you is equivalent to disobedience to me, and a treasonous assault on God’s holy order that He has imposed upon this earth. You are vicar of the Holy Roman Empire, commander in the Emperor’s absence, our right hand against the French.’

He handed Edward his sword and Edward gripped it as if he thought the emperor might take it back.

‘I call the angel,’ said Louis, ‘light from light. Honour us with you presence. Shine on the tips of the English spears so all men may know their bond with the empire.’

The light swam and the assembled princes drew in their breath. Was it the smoke that swirled and took shape or was it the light from the high windows? Edward could not tell. The light of the jewels on the crowns, the light of the windows, the golden hearts of the candle flames seemed to be leaking, the colour to smudge out of the shape that held it, flowing into the vault of the cathedral, ruby dancing around emerald, gold dancing around silver. Music was in the air – trumpets, but none that had sounded in the church. These played a high melodious music, not a tune but a series of sweet chords, a perfect fanfare.

A golden wheel of light spun above the altar, drawing streams of light from the windows, from the candles, from the jewels. Another wheel turned within it and around its rim eyes began to form, the gem reds, the jewel greens sparkling in their pupils. There were hundreds of eyes spinning around the great wheel of light and a voice like a child’s rang forth.

‘Great Emperor, God’s appointed, I come to answer your call.’

‘Angel, will you work for us? Angel, will you leave the light and sparkle on the tips of the English spears?’

The wheel spun and the eyes flashed and shone. ‘You have honoured me with great chapels, you have woven the light in glass and gold. Will the English king do the same?’

‘Our English artists will take the light of the sea and catch it in glass, we will build a chapel at Windsor and give you sunsets and dawns in its windows, starlight in the diamonds of its vault. Westminster Abbey would welcome you. Appear before our army, lay waste the usurping French and set the order God intended upon the earth,’ said Edward.

‘Where are the English angels?’ A voice – Prince Stephen, shouting up at the angel from among the ranks of nobles.

‘With the king,’ said the angel, ‘doing God’s work.’

Edward swallowed down his anger and dismay. No, there were many meanings to what the angel had said and Stephen would have to take the most obvious.

It changed nothing. Course unaltered, sails set as they were. He felt a knot in his stomach, a yearning for this half life to end and that he should step into his true kingship. One day his father would die and he would be the true king, invested with angels. He just had to hold it all together until then. He felt hot and cold all at once.